#To me they’re the Everything Everywhere All at Once thing where doing taxes together is the most romantic thing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jamaiskookie · 3 years

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meet me in your memories (knj)

✂︎ pairing: memory traveller namjoon x gender neutral reader

✂︎ wc: 11.8k

✂︎ TW// car crash, mentions of death, crying, mental health, mental breakdowns, spoilers for frozen 1?? um, vomiting, mentions of PTSD, three seconds of family drama, memory loss

✂︎ notes: a little gift from me for being away so long <3 luv yall also ignore how short and shitty this is!!! ignore it!!!!!

✂︎ synopsis: namjoon is a memory traveller - he is thrusted back and forth into his world and the world of his memories, forced to re-enact his past experiences. but he doesn’t recognise you, who keeps showing up in his memories. why doesn’t he remember you? why can’t he recall any of these scenes if they’re supposed to be his memories? and why does it always feel like he’s forgetting something?

he comes to find out that he would choose you over and over again, in whatever lifetime or world he’s in. because he always returns to you.

✂︎ fic tunes: "eight"- iu (prod. & feat. suga) but you're at your favorite secret spot after a long day by neptjoon

masterlist asks

The road is slippery and Namjoon cranes his head out to look at the window. Rain splattering everywhere, he notes worriedly. He hopes that nobody crashes. The bus driver sitting about three meters in front of him is humming a melody to a song he doesn’t know nor recognise. While listening to the poor man hum the off beat tune, Namjoon sits in silence, wondering how sad it must be to drive a bus with no passengers but himself.

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head spins, and this time Namjoon is certain it’s not from the rain or the driver’s subpar driving. He lurches forward, watching as the rain knocks against the window and falls in thick ribbons.

Click.

In an instant, Namjoon’s world collapses around him and he is thrown into his mind.

Seoul is sweltering hot - hot like he’s never felt before. Namjoon reaches up to clutch his head, which is still spinning, and finds himself standing in a pair of light washed baggy jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, unlike the padding coat and thick boots he had on just a moment ago.

“Namjoon!” Someone squeals behind him and his heart jumps. He jumps around, facing you and the view of hot street food stalls and tall buildings behind you. Suddenly, his hand is reaching out to grab onto yours and you smile softly.

He hears his own voice ring out, clear as day: “Don’t run. I was looking for you.”

“Psh.�� You wave off his concern, handing him a shiny golden hotteok. You hold an identical one in your fist, so he accepts it and murmurs his thanks, tearing apart the pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. Sweet, hot honey and small pieces of walnut flood into his mouth, and Namjoon is momentarily surprised. Science states that you cannot taste or physically feel anything in your dreams.

But Namjoon already proved that wrong long ago.

He takes you by hand and drags you over to a shelter, for some rest, apparently uninterested in your cries of wanting more tteokbokki or some Chinese food. He flings you over to his side and places his hand over your shoulder, while you both silently devour your hotteoks.

“This was a nice date.” You mumble tentatively, and oh. That’s what this is? A date? He wants to turn around and ask you for your name. Where are you from? Why am I here again? He wants to scream it out until his lungs hurt and he gets an answer that makes sense, but no matter how much he tries, his throat will not allow those words to tumble out of his lips.

Why don’t I remember you?

Instead, he replies: “Yeah, it was. This was fun.” He tilts his head down to smile at you and Namjoon finds himself nervous. Nervous enough that his hands are shaking against his will, but he tells himself that the sweat and the nervousness are all side effects of the swampy heat this summer.

You beam at him and Namjoon thinks you’re an angel. You lean up onto his chest to place a soft kiss onto his lips and Namjoon thinks about when he’s going to be thrown back out of his head.

“Wanna go home?” He asks, nudging at the sky, which is already filled up with first streaks of the sunset. Purple hues and pinks and blues that all blend together nicely. You watch the sky for a moment.

“Never.” You offer no explanation after that and Namjoon doesn’t pry. He feels like he understands you, which is scarier than any other encounter he’s faced, in real life and in here. You stare up at him more intensely, and a shudder of fear runs down Namjoon’s back. “I just want to stay here forever,” You enunciate, like you want him to remember this. “Just Y/N and Namjoon.”

Something tugs in his chest and Namjoon screams in his head, no. Longer. Not now. He slips away, gone, disappeared from the world before he can even tell you how pretty your name is. And he awakens back at the bus, where the driver is shaking him and yelling at him to get out.

Namjoon walks home in the rain, yelling out your name in happiness until his neighbours come over politely asking him to shut the fuck up.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N… Y/N?” He keeps repeating the name over and over again, enough to make Seokjin annoyed, who has moved away from Namjoon’s desk to the sofa in his office just to escape the random spiel that Namjoon is hurriedly rushing through.

“I can’t find a single Y/N in here!” Namjoon cries frustratingly, and the corners of Seokjin’s eyes soften in something that is either pity or empathy. He discards his non-fiction novel about drag queens and wigs to come over and clap a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“My friend, my crazy, idiotic, slightly insane friend.” Seokjin bends down. “You’ve checked all your yearbooks, social media, archives, newspapers… Have you perhaps considered that this person wasn’t that important? Just a passing stranger?”

“No.” Namjoon shoots down stubbornly. “They appear far too often for them not to be important.” So Seokjin shrugs, leaving Namjoon to, once again, search through the Facebook friends of a friend of a friend of a friend.

But no Y/N’s pop up, and he’s wondering if Y/N was just a nickname. Was it even your real name? With a sigh and one single (rather impressive) agitated brow wave, he lets go and spills. He tells Seokjin about how he finally learned your name, about the places you’ve been together and how much you adore street food.

He appreciates Seokjin for being a good friend, for sitting there and not interrupting to call him a crazy person, even if he is most certainly thinking about it in his head. Because Seokjin, at least, knows about a miniscule part of Namjoon’s tragic life. He doesn’t understand, but he gets it, and that’s all Namjoon needs in a friend.

He doesn’t tell Seokjin about how soft and pillowy your lips feel against his, he doesn’t tell you how much he longs to do unspeakable things to you when you show up in those blue short shorts. He definitely doesn’t tell him how much he loves your name.

Seokjin suggests a number of things. That perhaps you are a character from long ago, or maybe a passing stranger Namjoon once had a summer fling with. You may be someone long forgotten like a mutual friend in high school or college. He also suggests a psychiatric hospital to screw his head back on (as a joke, Namjoon’s pretty sure.)

But none of those seem right. Namjoon does his best to explain, he really does. For an award winning journalist and aspiring writer, he does just about a terrible job of trying to string his words together. Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose and falls back onto the sofa, already spacing out. Namjoon weakly cries out that he knows you. He really does - he just doesn’t remember how, or why.

Like a puzzle with a few missing pieces.

He wonders when and if the missing pieces will ever make their way over to him.

Namjoon gives up and flops down onto the sofa next to Jin, who squeaks out various protests about how heavy he is and how stupidly huge his arms have gotten after he started working out, along the lines of comparing him to Jungkook and calling him a gym rat.

As usual, Namjoon doesn’t listen.

It’s difficult to explain the feeling of falling to someone who hasn’t experienced it. The cursed Click echoes out and suddenly, the world spins around, the axis breaks and he’s physically thrown into another time, another place… another memory that he can’t seem to recall. His stomach lurches, his head hurts and there’s a small breeze flowing in.

For a short moment, the loops of space and time are completely open to him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. It flips his mind completely upside down and boom. He’s in a specific, random time and place. His body feels light, and every step he takes, he can physically feel it: He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t supposed to be here. Everything feels different. Even the air is more smoky, because something in this world is suddenly wrong, and it’s him.

The next time he meets you, he is in just about the worst place to fall. Sitting in a press conference, his stomach drops and he’s dreading the fall. Namjoon can already hear his boss screaming at him, and he desperately tries to root himself to his seat, typing whatever the assemblyman is yapping on and on about. About farming and agriculture and tax cuts…

Click.

He can distantly hear the assemblyman candidate talk about corrupt government workers as he’s thrusted out of his world and into another.

The memory he has the pleasure to be in this time is something not too unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks if this is just a normal day of him in his cramped, tiny city apartment. Until he turns around and realises you’re lying right next to him, sound asleep and nuzzling into the side of his neck.

The air is crisp. It’s spring, not winter anymore, and he can hear the flower petals outside his apartment complex falling lightly on the ground. This, Namjoon thinks, may just be the best memory he’s been in. The press conference and his life and his boss slips his mind and he cradles you in his chest, holding you closer and closing his eyes shut.

“Mm?” You mumble, half asleep. “You’re suffocating me.” You hoarsely call out, and Namjoon releases you with an insincere apology. He brushes the hair out of your hair and grins, framing you in his head. He reaches to his alarm clock, which is right next to his bed as it always is to check the time.

April 1st, 2017.

Oh god, Namjoon winces. This means he still has that god awful haircut right now. He reaches up to feel his head, and sure enough, the horrible slicked back bleached hair is still there, an unfortunate result of his friend Hoseok daring him to drunk dye his hair.

“You’re awake?” He asks you, and you nod slowly.

He wonders if this memory precedes or follows the one he had with you last time, and he desperately hopes things are going in chronological order. He wants to know you just as much as you know him. Namjoon naively prays to whatever deity that controls his dreamworld: Please follow things step by step, follow the clock.

You roll around, saying something he can’t really catch. He asks you what you said and for the first time today, you peel open your eyes directly facing him. Namjoon’s heart almost falls out of his ass, seeing your eyes bore into his own.

“Where’s my morning kiss?” You ask cutely, nudging his nose with your own button nose.

“Right here.” He finds himself saying, leaning in to close the inches in between your two faces. You taste like hotteok, even early in the morning. You taste like a spring day and a never ending forever. As your lips capture his and his everything is consumed by thoughts of you, Namjoon begs himself to kiss you harder.

His past self declines politely, and Namjoon thinks about whether this counts as himself being controlled if he himself is still controlling what he says and does.

In that moment, listening to your slow breathing and someone across the street playing simple, melodic piano chords, Namjoon tells himself: Do not ever forget April 1st, 2017. You rise from the bed and some form of protest bubbles up from Namjoon’s mouth, to which you just laugh and drag him out of bed with the excuse of wanting breakfast.

You push him into the bathroom, where he expects to meet his sad single grey towel and foggy mirror. You push him in front, and he cringes at the sight of his hair in the mirror. You sigh.

“Calm down. The blonde looks sexy. You can dye it back black later.” He laughs, because it’s clearly not very sexy. For once, his past self is doing exactly what the current Namjoon is pleading him to do. Does it count as reliving your memories if someone else was living through them originally? But, he reminds himself while you hand him a green toothbrush and squeeze a dollop of toothpaste on both your toothbrushes, this is him. He lived through this once and he is just taking a trip down memory lane.

The person who lived through this before was him.

He has to remind himself many more times before it sinks in.

You brush your teeth next to him, fluffing your hair and squinting in the mirror to wake yourself up. Without a second of hesitation, Namjoon brings the toothbrush up and starts to brush his teeth. Nothing has ever felt more domestic or right than this, despite the tentative steps and heavy lead feeling in his throat telling him he still isn’t supposed to be here.

You spit out toothpaste in the sink to gargle your mouth and Namjoon mimics you exactly. Somehow, you find yourselves in the kitchen, giggling while making some sort of french toast with an abundance of cinnamon floating through the air. Which makes Namjoon cough and makes you laugh even harder.

“This is a perfect morning.” You say, peering out the window to watch the city life slowly bustling to life. People scrambling out their doors, ushering their children or pets with them. People you don’t recognise going on walks or runs. Mailmen and delivery people dropping off packages and people yelling into their phones as they hurriedly walk along the sidewalk.

And you and Namjoon, calmly staying in your pajamas while frying toast on the pan.

“Is something burning?” You ask, sniffing the air, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold.

“Oh, shit!”

You smile and shake your head while Namjoon attempts to save the blackened piece of bread to no avail. He catches sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, even as you chastise him about watching the stove and ranting on about how you’re never going to trust him in the kitchen again. Namjoon watches your pink lips, stained with a brown mudge of cinnamon french toast mixture, which lifts up and your head falls back, hair flowing around your head like a halo.

Your laugh plays out in front of him in slow motion, and absentmindedly, he thanks that deity he prayed to for slowing this moment down. Because if there’s anything he yearns most to remember, it’s the way you laugh. A chuckle makes its way out of his own throat as well, and he’s not sure who’s in control at the moment.

Himself or himself in the past?

Either way, they both did the right thing. Namjoon forgets. He forgets the life he has back home, he forgets Seokjin’s warnings, he forgets that he has at least a hundred articles waiting for him at work to be written. He forgets that this world is nothing but a chance for him to follow the footsteps of what he once did, with no control to say or do anything he wishes to do himself.

But, oh, he really can’t bring himself to care.

Those piano chords from before blend together beautifully, and you scrape the black toast into the garbage can, still teasing him relentlessly, and oh. Oh, this is what it means to have a home. You made this junk of a house into a home, and he feels like he has to return here. This is where he’s meant to return to, everyday. Each time.

You turn around after discarding the toast and with a bright smile, you ask him to kiss you again. Namjoon thinks that he doesn’t ever have the capability to deny you when you smile like that, so he complies and crashes his lips onto yours.

The lead, heavy feeling in his throat is still weighing him down. Except Namjoon isn’t sure whether it’s weighing him down to this world or the real world.

The cursed deity pulls him back, pulling him through the time and space back to his own responsibilities and life. His heart is wrenched out and he reaches out, trying to grasp your hand for the last time. He falls back to his own world in a hospital bed and an IV attached to his arm with half a piece of french toast dangling in his mouth and another promise he makes with himself to meet you again with a smile on his face.

Memories… memories that he’s lived through but can’t remember. Memories he slips into to live momentarily through the actions and words of his old self.

Somewhere along the line of diving back and forth his own life and this past one, he has forgotten which is which.

“Most likely due to exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of rest. It’s quite common with working young adults, workaholics. I’m putting him on medical leave for the rest of the week. He needs a rest - He needed it yesterday. Don’t worry too much, Mrs. Kim. A long nap and a meal or two will fix him right back up.” Namjoon groggily registers the white walls and beeping noises, the chatter of doctors and nurses rushing around.

He’s in a hospital, and a rush of fear runs straight through his blood. He sits up to eye his mother, sitting next to him and holding his hand. She shushes him, laying him back down on the bed, but all he can do is panic.

“No, not here. Not here again.” He mumbles incoherently. His mother puts a hand over his eyes, shushing him again and telling him softly to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, he wants to get out of here. But his eyelids are already feeling heavy and he weakly fights against his body, but before he can even process it, his eyes are shut and he is asleep.

Seeing her son close his eyes and drift off to sleep, Mrs. Kim turns back to the doctor.

“I’m not surprised,” She starts. “He’s always worked himself to the bone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about his brain.” The doctor cocks his head and looks through the papers which are clipped to a clipboard in his arms.

“Ah, yes. I see he was in a car accident a few years ago.” Doctors are some of the most heartless people, and you can always tell how experienced a doctor is by how much sympathy they show. This doctor shows none at all, which must mean he’s been working for a long time.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Kim.” The doctor continues, peering over Namjoon’s sleeping body. “I see he suffered light effects after the accident. Selective amnesia, no external damages to the skull. He didn’t suffer as much. In fact, I believe the doctor in charge believed that the amnesia was mostly due to the shock of the event. But he’s received treatment for PTSD since then, right?”

Mrs. Kim nods.

“Good. Doctor Park also noted at the time that his amnesia actually didn’t affect much of his memory. He couldn’t remember distant relatives or kindergarten friends, but that seemed to be the extent of his amnesia. Oh,” The doctor slipped through the clipboard. “He also couldn’t remember certain knowledge about philosophers such as Freud, which he was, quote, ‘devastated over’ un-quote.”

Mrs. Kim stays silent.

“So, you don’t have to worry too much. Best thing your son could do for his well being is rest. And a therapist if he has a relapse or shows some symptoms such as sleep difficulties or nightmares, or physical signs like fatigue and nausea.”

Mrs. Kim nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

That’s it, and she turns back to her son, with her hand in his. She stays there, unmoving until he opens his eyes, mumbling incoherent questions and asking his mother why he is in the hospital again, demanding to be discharged immediately. Her heart breaks a little, small cracks form for her beloved son and she kisses him on the forehead, telling him he’d be out of here in no time.

“What did you see?” She asks quietly, and Namjoon is surprised. She never asks him about his memory walks. It’s taboo to mention it in his household. Not even his sister is comfortable talking about it. “Anything? At all? You passed out at a rather unfortunate time, I heard.” She continues.

“Nothing much.” Namjoon replies, lying through his teeth and trying to justify it with the sight of your laugh. He leans back and closes his eyes once more, bringing up his memories of you and your bedhead. He tries to fill the gap inside of him with thoughts of you, as if that can make up for the empty feeling that he’s forgetting something.

In the hospital, staring at a white ceiling and glaring lights, Namjoon is left to think about what’s happening to his head. During the end of his rather short stay, he comes up with a terrifying conclusion. One that scares him more than he could imagine, but it’s the only one that makes sense. He’s falling in love with you.

He voices out this concern to Seokjin when he visits after his mother leaves. Seokjin stays silent, mumbling out an apology that feels like the wrong thing to say. The elder boy can only look at his friend with sadness in his eyes, telling him that someone as great as Namjoon shouldn’t be suffering so much pain. Namjoon jokes that a witch must have cursed him when he was born.

None of the two friends laugh.

This routine continues on and on, without Namjoon dwelling too much on it. Which is so much unlike Namjoon, whose main personality trait is overthinking about the smallest things. He lets the flow of time and space take him wherever they wish to plop him down. He lets the evil deity toy with his heart and wrench him away whenever you smile the largest.

It hurts right after he is torn away from you, but he’s filled with so much joy in the moment that he can’t bring himself to do anything else about it. Even if he wanted to do something without it, he has no idea where on earth he might start.

Sometimes he questions the validity of his memories. What is real, what is fake? He still can’t answer, and this is what he spends most of his time wondering about. The memories he has with you don’t make sense. Those are large gaps in his life that he seems to have no recollection of.

He goes everywhere with you.

One day he showed up on November 5th, 2015.

The next day he jumped to August 23rd, 2017.

Another time, he was thrown into March 15th, 2016.

None of it makes sense. Are they not memories? He thinks. There’s no possible way he’s spent this much of his life with you and can’t recall any of it. What is real - the world he spends with you, or the world where he always returns to by default?

And yet, nothing else can explain these short periods of blackouts. Ever since one day in some horrible hospital, he’s gone under and pulled and thrusted into some land where he has no control over his own hands. Everything else makes sense. This world, everything else is accurate from the settings to the props, with one anomaly in his memory.

A character who goes by the name of Y/N.

He could go the science-y logic route that he so often frequents, come up with theories that can somewhat explain these periods of time. Theories that include explanations such as hallucinations, or that Seokjin’s right and he’s finally gone crazy. You’re just a figment of his imagination, that this is all in his head and he’s out of his mind.

But he rejects all those theories when he’s clicked into another memory. Somehow, he just understands. These are memories. These are memories he’s had with you, whether that was in a past life or in some sort of messed up alternate timeline where he’s actually happy.

Is this a gift or another curse from this stupid deity?

He has too many questions.

He cannot explain these memories using science, logic, common sense, or even using his own words. But in the moment, while you’re in his arms, he can feel it. He can explain it by describing the way you smell, like pancakes and fresh mint. He can explain it by describing the way you feel, like a warm marshmallow filling up his insides and consuming him.

It’s cheesy, cringier than Seokjin’s dad jokes, but only he gets it.

Namjoon is in his living room, switching channels on the TV and thinking about this when his stomach sinks again. He braces himself, and disappears.

Click.

Seoul is freezing cold. The air is light and he is sitting on a bench on his college campus, rubbing his hands together and zipping up his huge jacket over his sweater. Namjoon shudders, his body not yet used to the bite of the cold compared to the warm breeze he was just enjoying.

He sniffles, nose slightly red like some knockoff Rudolph and wanders around. His body pulls him to go to the right, despite the warm coffee shop being on the left. He shudders again and tries to protest, but his body won’t listen, standing up and walking over to the right with no particular destination in mind. Students are rushing around, complaining about the cold and talking about their next party or study session.

Namjoon pulls himself forwards, and thank god this version of himself still has terrible tolerance for the cold, because he reaches up and pulls his beanie down over his ears, still wandering around aimlessly. Where are you going? Namjoon wants to scream out frustratingly.

His brain doesn’t reply and Namjoon sulks.

Eventually, he is pulled over to another bench, outside in the cold, and he sits down, deeply resenting himself and wondering why on earth he just stood up from one bench to walk to another one. If anything, it’s colder here. He watches the students that pass by for a minute or two, thinking that this is the most boring memory he’s ever been in.

There is no snow falling, but almost everything on campus is lined with a sheet of ice or cold steam. Namjoon nuzzles deeper into his own clothes, cursing himself for not being able to go buy another sweater or something to fight the extreme cold.

Suddenly, you appear in front of him and Namjoon perks up. There you are. He thinks. Finally. You come over and sit down, holding something in your hands. He smiles, waiting for you to speak up and greet him with a kiss that will surely warm him up, but you silently sit next to him, ignoring him. Namjoon urges himself to say something, but instead, he continues to watch the students bustling through campus grounds without looking at you.

Are we fighting? Is Y/N mad at me?

This is excruciatingly frustrating, Namjoon bites his tongue and thinks. Why can’t he just say something? Abruptly, something lands on his jacket with a splat and he straightens up, snapping his neck towards you, who is looking at the yogurt splat on his jacket with a look of terror.

“Oh my gosh!” You squeak out, quickly setting your yogurt aside and reaching for some tissues in your purse. “Oh, god, oh god, I’m so sorry. Please, let me-” Namjoon frowns, taking his hands out of his pockets to thumb at his jacket, debating whether he wants to take it off or not.

You lean over, pawing at his jacket and wiping the yogurt off of his jacket. “I’m so sorry!”

“No, don’t worry.” Namjoon says, chuckling. He reaches for another tissue, helping you get the yogurt off of him. “It’s no big deal.” The yogurt is mostly wiped off and you side eye him with the unmistakable look of guilt filling your eyes. Namjoon laughs again.

“It’s fine, really! No, don’t worry about it.”

“I’m literally so sorry. Do you want me to pay for dry cleaning? Laundry? I can, um, wash it for you! I’m not the best at laundry, but it’s the least I could do?”

Namjoon briefly wonders why you’re being so polite.

“No, it’s fine.” The words tumble out his mouth again before he can process it. “Really, this jacket is old, anyway.” Not really, Namjoon thinks. It feels really new. “But who the hell eats cold yogurt in this kind of weather?” He jokes. “You sure you’re not a demon?”

You freeze, terrified before realising he was cracking a joke. “Oh. Hah! Yeah, no, I guess I just really like yogurt.” You offer lamely, and you break out into a small giggle. “Yeah, I guess I kind of am a psycho for eating it right now. It’s freezing today.”

“God, tell me about it.” Namjoon says, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

“Thanks for not going bonkers on me. This jacket looks insanely expensive.”

“Not really.”

“I’m Y/N.” You greet, holding a hand out for him to shake. I know, Namjoon thinks with a secret smile, but everything makes sense now. You don’t know him yet. To you in this moment in time, he’s just a random stranger who didn’t blow up on you after spraying some yogurt onto you. To him, you’re… you’re…

“Oh, um, I’m Namjoon.” He says, hurriedly taking a hand out of his pocket to shake your outstretched hand. Your fingers meet and Namjoon swears a small zap just went through his hand.

“Namjoon. Nice to meet you, Namjoon.” You say with a small smile, yogurt already long forgotten on the bench beside you two.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He says in return, even though he doesn’t mean it. He already knows you, he knows you better than everyone. He knows your favourite food is Korean street food, and you always wake him up with kisses and your favourite colour is periwinkle and you absolutely hate abalone with more passion than he’s ever seen in his entire life.

But this is your first time seeing him, ever, he reminds himself. This is your meet cute. This single moment set off the events in the next god knows how many years. This is the first time he ever had your name grace his tongue. This is the first time you’ve seen him.

Another moment to treasure. You let go of his hand, after realising you two have been shaking hands for much longer than the socially acceptable rate of hand shaking. Blushing, either from the cold or humiliation, you sit, turn back around, grabbing a hold of your yogurt once more.

Suddenly, Namjoon finds himself blurting out: “Hey, you wanna go get some coffee?” You look over curiously, pointing to yourself like you can’t believe he’s asking you out, because you don’t know that you’re all he ever thinks about at any given moment in any given day. “You’ll probably freeze your ass off if you keep eating that yogurt.” He jokes, pretending like this is all because he’s caring about how cold you are and not how cute or incredible or kind you are.

“Sure.” You say, nodding shyly. He stands up, leading you to walk over to the left where the campus coffee shop is. Along the way, you throw the yogurt cup in the trash.

“You can’t bring food brought from outside into a shop, right?” You ask.

Namjoon smiles. “Yeah.” He stays there until night takes over the sky and one single twinkling star in the sky is signalling that it’s time to go home. Possibly the longest time he’s ever spent in a memory. He keeps glancing at the clock, praying that he gets one more minute with you, one more second, one more moment.

At any time, he could be pulled out of this world, and he needs to make the most of it. You tell him about your childhood bedroom and your major. You tell him about the love you have for pancakes, and how much you want a puppy even though it’s prohibited in the on campus dorms. He nods, pretending like this is all new information even though it’s not, and he’s known all of this for the longest time. He knows you better than you know yourself, which he keeps to himself.

In return, he tells you about his own childhood bedroom, which was adorned with posters of western hip hop rappers. He tells you about his passions for writing and music, that if he didn’t major in journalism, he’d be studying music production in school. He tells you that he’s obsessed with philosophy, and in all honesty, is a bit of a nerd.

Instead of laughing or pulling a face, you nod and smile, saying that you think he should tell you more about philosophy on a second date.

You leave the coffee shop with a small goodbye, and even though he desperately wants to, Namjoon can’t kiss you.

He gets pulled back after you disappear pass the corner of the street, and the world morphes into a huge motion blur. When he gets pulled back into his living room, the TV is playing late night TV shows already. Namjoon checks the time. He was pulled in for five hours, the longest he’s ever been in that world.

After that, no matter how much more he prays and begs, he never stays any longer than that.

Three days later, Namjoon suddenly pops into Hong Kong, which is hotter than anything he’s ever felt. The streets are heavy with people, squabbling in cantonese while selling raw meats in a wet market. The sun is glaringly bright, and Namjoon starts to sweat almost instantaneously. Taxis and huge buses drive past, Namjoon jumps to a side only to find a vast ocean. He’s at the harbour front.

The smell of food, of egg tarts and pineapple buns and meat dumplings along with other Hong Kong delicacies waft through the air, combined with the salty air of the sea. It makes for a strange combination that confuses his senses but works nonetheless.

He thought he knew a city like Seoul, but this is a true city. This is busy and fast paced like he’s never even seen before. People shove each other aside to catch the bus, dogs are yapping everywhere and he soaks it all in before the thought enters his head.

What the hell is he doing in Hong Kong?

It’s like every time he wonders aloud, you pop up. “I’ve been looking for you.” You say, echoing the words he said to you that day in the streets of Seoul.

“I was exploring!“ He says defensively, and you roll your eyes.

“Come on.” You say, walking along the harbour front.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Namjoon asks, the words spilling out and surprising himself. Are you mad at him? You’ve never been mad at him before, not in the memories he’s seen. He hasn’t ever seen you fight with him, and immediately, he wants to apologise, fix things before he’s pulled back out and he has to live with the guilt and overthinking of whether you’re still mad at him for the next week.

“Can’t believe you’re mad at me during our vacation.” Namjoon says, and that’s why he’s in Hong Kong, he realises. He’s on vacation. How strange. Namjoon thinks back to when the last time he took a break from work and the only thing he can think of is when that doctor put him on medical leave not too long ago. Oh no, you’re mad at him on holiday?

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You retort back, and Namjoon has never heard your voice this curt. “Just sit around pretending like everything's okay?”

“What do you want me to do?” Namjoon replies. “You act like this is my fault!”

“It is your fault!” You cry out indignantly, and Namjoon knows that, but why? What did he do? What did you do? “Is this even a vacation?”

“Yes!” Namjoon cries out again in response, and you shake your head.

“You promised, Namjoon.” You say like it’s a warning.

“Yes, I know,” Namjoon says, even though he doesn’t and really, what on earth did he do? “But this is out of my hands! I can’t just say no, you’re not looking at this from my point of view.”

“You’re not looking at this from my point of view!” You argue back, and Namjoon looks around, realising that this squabble is attracting a small crowd of chinese people, gathering around to watch the free entertainment along the sidewalk of Victoria harbour. He awkwardly laughs, raising his hand and bows, a universal sign of apology, grabbing your hand and walking to the other direction.

“Come on, I’d rather not have the whole city witness our fight.”

“Oh, so this is a fight now?”

“What? Yes!” Namjoon says exasperatedly. “How else would you classify this argument?”

Once he makes it to somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, he turns around with his brows furrowed and a glare etched on his features. Why do you look so angry? Namjoon chastises himself. Just relax, relax, relax. As usual, his body doesn’t listen.

“Why are you so mad at this?” Namjoon asks, and feels a flow of relief go down his spine. Finally.

“It’s not just this instance, Joon. I know work is important, but sometimes it feels like you put literally anything else above me! Like last time? You bailed on our date, like, at least twice. You keep saying you can’t say no, but you can. You have that right, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s heart softens a little bit. His workaholic tendencies ended up biting him in the ass after all. Sighing he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not prioritising work over you, baby.” He tries to explain, and tries to ignore how his heart sinks when your eyes turn stony at the sound of the pet name he often uses to address you.

“It’s just important to me as well, okay? It’s not my fault my boss heard I was going to Hong Kong and insisted I come to interview some investors about Hong Kong’s economy.” He explains slowly. “It couldn’t take more than a single day to get everything organised and tidied up.”

“But-!” You huff angrily, spitting out your words. “You don’t understand! You keep doing this, Namjoon. You keep working, working, working. It’s been this way since college. It’s like you’ll die if you just take a break to come talk to me. I even went over to your office to have lunch with you last week and they told me you were in a meeting.”

“It was important!” Namjoon insists and he can feel things sinking and getting worse and worse with every word he says. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? You can’t expect me to put you in front of all of my responsibilities. I’m sure you have things you can’t give up for me too.”

Hearing that felt like a slap to the face to both you and Namjoon, and he’s screaming at himself internally, why would you say something so, so, stupid?

“Excuse me?” Your broken voice rings out and Namjoon’s accusatory finger falls.

“Wait.” He mumbles, fumbling with his hands. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. Wait, I-”

“Fine!” You yell angrily. “You think nothing’s more important than work? You think I haven’t given up anything for you, Kim Namjoon? Because I’d quit and give up anything for you, you asshole.” You bite out, tears desperately trying not to fall. “You fucking asshole.” You say, before turning back around to weave through the crowd.

“No, wait, baby!” He calls out, and even he knows that he’s messed up. Messed up big time. That was more hurtful than any cuss word or insult he could’ve ever said. “Kim fucking Namjoon, you idiot.” He mumbles to himself. Seeing you cry is more painful than anything else in the world, Namjoon thinks. He’s not ever going to see that sight again if he can help it.

He walks forward, trying to find you. Maybe you went back to the hotel, or went to look at the sea to clear your head. He thinks he sees the back of your head for a second, and he reaches forward, clutching at air. He’s about to cry, and Namjoon has never seen himself be more pathetic.

“Oh no, where are you?” He murmurs to himself like a crazed man. What if you were hurt somewhere? He needs to know you’re safe, he needs to know you’re okay, he needs to make everything better. With each step, the lead feeling in his throat grows heavier and heavier until he feels like it’s sunk to his chest. He wants to kneel down, he wants it to stop hurting, but he can’t.

He must aimlessly follow his shell to do whatever he is doing now.

The lead feeling continues to grow, and Namjoon feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not supposed to be here, he reminds himself. But he has to find you first, then he can leave. Then he can go, but where are you? He wants to cry, he wants to breathe.

Namjoon tells himself to gasp for air, but he cannot. He tells himself if this is the last time he ever sees you, he needs to see you smile. He needs to see you laugh.

Like the pattern in the rest of his meaningless life, an evil deity always pulls him away from the ones he loves when he needs them most. He feels the lead feeling being lifted and pure panic races to Namjoon’s head. He tries to croak out no. He tries to resist, he shoves people aside and calls out your name. But no one answers him, and the cruel deity laughs at his demise.

He is too weak, too weak to control himself.

Namjoon is plucked out of the world and transported back to his bedroom with the threads of time slowly ravelling and tangling themselves around his neck, all while he reaches forward, only to grasp at air and pretend in his head that everything’s alright.

When he reaches his bedroom and wakes up, he stumbles into the bathroom and vomits, all while longing for the warmth of your lips.

Walking around dazedly, Namjoon somehow manages to make his way to Seokjin and Jimin’s apartment, knocking and hoarsely asking them to open, open up please. Because he’s not sure he can hold on to another night alone. Jimin opens the door instantly and catches Namjoon in his arms, frantically calling for Seokjin to come fast.

They lay him on the couch, hearts slowly breaking and trying to convince themselves their friend will be fine as they watch Namjoon whimper in his sleep.

Namjoon wakes to the smell of breakfast, of bacon on the stove and Jimin chattering around while watering his plants. He gets up, headache pounding and throat sore. Seokjin wordlessly hands him a few pills and a glass of water, while Jimin plates up breakfast, placing the sausage, eggs and toast separately on the plate because Namjoon can’t stand it when food on his plate touches.

Silently, the three friends eat. Nobody speaks until Namjoon clears his throat and looks up.

“Thank you.“ He whispers.

“What are friends for?” Jimin says.

Namjoon wonders why he’s got such amazing friends. Jin replies that he was born perfect and God created him like this, so Namjoon shouldn’t dwell too much on it. Jimin and Namjoon both throw a spoon of scrambled eggs in his direction simultaneously, high fiving without missing a beat when Jin lets out a protest of unjust behaviour.

As the three friends sit quietly, Namjoon says: “I think I’m going mad.”

“I’m glad you’ve realised.” Seokjin replies offhandedly.

“I don’t think I can keep going between these worlds. I think it’s making me lose my mind.”

Jimin stills. Seokjin stops washing the dishes and turns off the faucet.

“Do… do you know how to stop it?” Jimin asks hesitantly. Namjoon shakes his head, and Seokjin sighs, in deep thought, which is a strange and rare sight to see itself.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to figure this out together.” Seokjin says casually. Jimin agrees and the faucet comes back on, Seokjin going straight back to washing the pan he used to fry up the scrambled eggs. Jimin unplugs the toaster and Namjoon sits, smiling at his beloved friends.

“You can borrow some of my shirts.” Jimin calls from the bathroom. “You know, if you want to stay over a couple more nights. Feel free.”

“Make yourself at home and shit.” Seokjin mutters, waving his hand around sarcastically. Namjoon almost bursts out into tears of happiness, but he decides to hold it in until Seokjin doesn’t have access to his phone and won’t put Namjoon’s breakdown on instagram live.

The next day, the entire gang comes over, all with varying degrees of understanding what the hell is going on with Namjoon. For example, Yoongi pretty much knows as much as Seokjin does, who still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Taehyung was just told Namjoon’s been feeling down because God knows that boy has a big mouth and definitely can’t keep a secret to save his life.

Seokjin supplies homemade snacks and burgers fresh off the grill, Yoongi brings over his unlimited Netflix and HBO account passwords he probably stole off of some innocent family member to watch Disney movies, Taehyung comes over with Yeontan clutched to his side because that’s the group's emotional support dog. Jungkook and Hoseok offer up their extensive alcohol collection and bring over some quality wines. Jimin, after a long three hours of consideration, gives up his lucky plushies and fluffy blankets to build a fort.

For one night, the seven boys crowds around the television, watching everything from The Lorax to Tangled to Frozen and bawling their eyes out when Anna turned to ice (spoiler alert!!!) For one night, the fully grown men all turn back into their 8 year old selves, playing video games and staying up as late as they wanted even though they all had responsibilities to tend to the next day.

When they all awake from their mega-sleepover the next morning, the remaining six friends all insist they just felt like watching Disney movies and drinking wine suddenly. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Namjoon’s been feeling a little off in the past few days.

Absolutely not.

Namjoon’s eyes brim with tears and he tackles all the boys to the ground in one incredibly coordinated group hug, ignoring Yoongi’s complaints of being anti-social and that his love language is not physical touch.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jungkook mutters. “Now could you please get the fuck off?”

“Never.” Namjoon says, muffled because he says it while his head is buried in Hoseok’s chest.

“Love you.”

“... Love you too.”

The next time he falls, Namjoon thinks he’s prepared. Ready, not to get attached, ready to make clear of what belongs in his world and what doesn’t, after lots of pep talks and therapy sessions with Seokjin and Jimin and Yoongi, who is surprisingly helpful with shooting down ideals of toxic masculinity and talking about mental health.

He’s wrong- he’s not ready, but he doesn’t know that yet.

Click.

He’s come to resent that stupid sound. In an instant, he’s dropped into a car, which is strangely familiar. You are next to him, driving, and thank goodness, because everyone knows Namjoon cannot drive. If he were dropped in the driver’s seat, things may have taken a turn for the worse.

“You want to play some music?” You ask, and Namjoon nods.

“Yeah sure, turn up the radio.” You reach over to flip a switch and a pretty tune fills the car, echoing and bouncing off the walls of the small vessel. You bring your hand down and interlace it with Namjoon’s, who is suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings.

“You’re driving, baby.” He says, and a great sense of relief floods back into his system when he sees you smile at the pet name. He hopes this moment is after the Hong Kong trip. He hopes he did the right thing and made up with you afterwards.

“We always do this. When there’s not many cars around, anyway.” You hum along with the music. “Nobody’s on the road tonight.” Sure enough, there are no cars in sight and Namjoon sighs, curling his hand tight against yours. He looks out the window.

“No stars tonight, either.”

You snort. “There are never any stars around the city, babe.”

“Ahh.” He huffs playfully. “Fuck global warming.”

“Fuck capatalism.” You add on, and he nods, wholeheartedly agreeing.

“I love you.” He murmurs.

“I love you too.” You reply with a sweet smile and Namjoon just realises that no, he’s not ready to let go of you, because his heart still flips like crazy when he hears you say that. He’s so unbearably, horribly, absolutely in love with you. Not in a creepy or obsessive way like he was probably in love with you a few months ago, but so in love with you.

He wonders why on earth he’s so drawn to you, but as usual, there’s no definite answers to his questions. Namjoon thinks about how he likes the way you cook pancakes, and how he likes the way you always reach down to pet a puppy no matter where you are or where you need to be. He loves the way you’d give up anything to defend the people you love. He admires your bravery and your courage. He admires the way you present yourself to the world.

He loves you simply because you are who you are, unapologetically and unashamed, which is something he never had the guts to do. But he gets pretty damn near to being fully and truly himself when he’s around you, so maybe that’s why he’s so in love with you.

Namjoon feels bad for a moment because he realises his love isn’t selfless or humble like the ones he sees on dramas and TV. His love for you is shamefully selfish, because he needs you more than anything else. He voices this out to you in a long speech while you keep your eyes on the road.

“I need you more than you think I do, Joon.” You say, while laughing, and Namjoon doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved.

“You think your love for me can trump my love for you?” He asks with his eyebrows raised.

“One hundred percent.” You drawl out, and this time, Namjoon’s offended.

“Excuse me? Who the fuck?” He asks, sitting up. You laugh bashfully, enamoured but mostly just entertained by your needy boyfriend who is very willing to prove how much more he loves you right now. “I love you way more than you love me!”

You laugh, your eyes still fixed on the road. “Oh no, please, we’re not arguing about this.”

“Yes we are!” Namjoon demands with a huge smile on his face. “How could you possibly think you love me more than I love you?” Your laugh only grows louder.

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or just joking around anymore.” You say through bit back laughter.

“I’m being dead serious.” Namjoon softens for a bit, laying a hand on your thigh. “You’re my everything. You’re my future, you’re my present, you’re my past.” A part of you wants to tell him he’s being cheesy again, but the romantic in you who doesn’t want to hurt your boyfriend immediately shuts the realist in you up.

“That was sweet.”

“I try my best.”

You turn your head back to the road and he keeps his eyes on you. On the hoodie you’re wearing, which definitely doesn’t belong to you and he now has a certain inkling of where his missing hoodie went. He likes how it swallows you up. He likes that you have something of his on you.

Not as a weird mark of possession, but he likes that you’re comfortable with wearing something that essentially brands you as his. But you are his as much as he is yours and wow, Namjoon thinks in his head, is this the real Namjoon or the past Namjoon speaking? And his brain replies that it’s both.

“I love you.” He repeats, because as much as he seems to say it, he can’t seem to express how much he loves you (hint: it’s a large amount).

“I love you too.” You say right back.

He wants to say it more. He wants to say it better. He wants to repeat it until you get annoyed and tell him to shut up, he wants to let you know how much he loves you. But his lips are sealed, and he can’t say another word. Instead of what he wants to say, the words that come out his mouth are, admittedly, just as true.

“You’re pretty.”

You giggle. “Did you just realise?”

Namjoon shakes his head. “You’ve always been pretty. You were pretty on the day we met. You were pretty the day we fought in Hong Kong. You were pretty the first time you stayed over. You’re pretty when you cry, you’re pretty when you… I wanted to think of something that rhymes with cry, but it slipped my mind and now everything’s ruined.”

You laugh, a real, huge one this time. He can always tell when your laugh is real or not.

“Thank you.” You say. “For the record, you’ve always been pretty too.”

Namjoon leans back into his seat. “Damn straight.”

“When d’you think you first fell in love with me?” You ask, genuinely curious, and Namjoon thinks for a moment. He thinks about what the Namjoon in this moment would say, and he thinks about what the present Namjoon would say.

If he had verbal control, what would he say? That he fell in love with you during the very first memory he was thrusted in? But that wouldn’t be true, and that wouldn’t be honest. He fell in love with you during the memory of when you met? But that wouldn’t be true either. He fell in love with you in between memories, when all he could think about was the next time you could be in his arms, or how much he longed for your touch.

He tries to say that, he really does.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is:

“I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s a specific moment. Maybe it was that time we went to the movies and watched Coco while crying over popcorn, or maybe it was that time we went to Disneyland.” Namjoon’s heart slouches, because he doesn’t know any of those moments. He hasn’t been in any of those memories.

“But I don’t think falling in love is a one moment, time stops kinda thing. I was always falling in love with you. From the time you spilled yogurt on my jacket to right now, where you’re asking me when I fell in love with you. I’m going to be falling in love with you tomorrow and the day after that, until the day where we shrivel up and die from old age.”

Oh, good answer, Namjoon thinks.

“Good answer.” You say. “I think I’d say the same thing.”

“Great minds think alike.” Namjoon sighs out.

Something strikes Namjoon’s heart. It’s not the lead feeling or the heavy weight he’s grown used to. It’s strange, like a wave of deja vu. And suddenly, Namjoon stops thinking. He glances over to the control board to look at the time, which proudly reads: December 3rd, 2018.

So that’s why he’s always had the feeling that these were memories. Why he was so adamant to believe these things really had happened to him. Even more strangely, what feelings strike him then is not panic, nor fear. It’s a strange flow of calmness that rushes through his veins. He looks over at you again, driving now with both hands on the steering wheel.

He wonders why the deity would make him witness something as cruel and horrible as this, and he gets the weird feeling that this will be one of his last memories to enter. Namjoon looks at the dark blanket covering the sky and sadly thinks that the deity could have at least placed a few stars in the sky on this night. As consolation, or perhaps an apology.

Something is ticking in the background, and Namjoon has no idea if it’s coming from the car or if he’s imagining it. Flashing memories go through his mind, so fast he can barely register them as images or moving pictures before they are gone again. Your smile, your laugh, your first date, your second date. The day he asked you to move in, the day you told him ‘I love you’ for the first time and he literally fainted.

The day he came to pick you up from work for the first time, the night where he first laid his hands on you and kissed all your worries away.

It comes fast and hurtles towards the two of you, but Namjoon doesn’t even see it coming because all he is looking at is you. Your face, your lips, your eyes, trying to engrave it all in his memory. You yelp out something to him, which he doesn’t hear. Floating images spin around both your heads and a high pitched screech rings out, a spark of orange lighting up like a stack of fireworks. The dark van shoots forward and collides into the driver’s seat.

The world collapses. It goes sideways, rotates then flips completely upside down, and the dark fog starts to eat up Namjoon’s eyesight. Oddly, nothing hurts. Perhaps because of the shock, or panic, but nothing on Namjoon’s body is in pain. Everything crashes, Namjoon’s head hits the window with force. Something breaks, glass cracks, people scream and he cannot tell which is which. Red and white flashes are all he can see before everything fades to grey and he can only reach around in the darkness, to find your hand.

He clutches onto your unmoving, still hand desperately, trying to calm his jumping heartbeat. Are those sirens in the background he hears or is that his imagination? Is that your voice he hears or is that a hallucination?

In the end, his final thought before leaving the world once again is a wish. A wish that he prays the deity will grant him. He hopes that in your final moments, you were not scared.

He falls.

When Namjoon arrives home, his entire body is numb. He doesn’t know where he is, nor what he was doing before he was clicked in. He opens his mouth and screams for a full minute without stopping.

It feels good in a fucked up way.

Namjoon has never been one for confrontation. Just ask his middle school bullies, who tormented him all they wanted because he wouldn’t do anything but put up with it. Just ask Mingyu from work, who keeps piling his unwanted projects and articles onto Namjoon because he never protests or complains to the higher-ups.

But while walking towards his childhood home with the birds chirping and his hands placed casually in his pockets, confrontation is all he can think about. He lets himself in the door; his mother never locks it and walks in calmly.

His mother is sitting on the couch, stitching up a sock which has a hole in it.

“Mom. I’m home.” He says softly, and his mother greets him normally. Namjoon leans on the wall and his mother stares at him strangely, calling him over to sit and have some fruit. He declines, telling her he won’t be staying very long. “That car crash that happened two years ago.”

The needle in his mother’s hand stills.

“They said I had selective amnesia, right?”

The needle picks up speed, stitching faster and faster, his mother’s hand moving faster than light.

“What did I forget again?”

“What did you remember?” His mother asks, never one to beat around the bush.

“Mom.” He says, firmly this time. “What did you do to me.”

The sock is torn apart in his mother’s hands. “Namjoon,” She starts and Namjoon already has a growing urge to shake the truth out of her. “When you got into that crash two years ago, you came out of it with very little injuries. We were all so relieved. When you woke up, you didn’t remember Y/N.” All that fills the air for another moment or two is the spongy sound of silence.

The gap in this family became clearer than ever to Namjoon. He thinks about how everyone must have been in on the secret, even his sister. And he was left to suffer, wondering why his life seemed so empty after forgetting something he couldn’t clutch onto.

“And what?” He demands, screaming and throwing his hands out of his pockets. “Do you think you can just keep something like that from me? The love of my life, and you just decide to erase them from my memory?” His mother stills and looks up at her son.

“You didn’t remember Y/N. You lost contact with all your college friends, and then when I asked the doctor how selective amnesia worked,” His mother cleared her throat. “Sufferers often forget some parts of their memory. Relationships, talents, skills, certain areas or certain people.” His mother looks up directly in his eyes. “Sometimes, especially after going through a traumatic event, people forget certain parts of their memory as a coping mechanism. To erase bits of pain and regret.”

“I thought,” Her voice breaks and her face twists in regret and bad memories. “I thought maybe by forgetting her, I’d be saving you from more pain and hurt. I just wanted you to stop hurting”

Namjoon held eye contact with his mother for three full seconds before collapsing and gasping for air, lying with his head on her lap. All words of scolding, anger. All the confrontational tactics and all the accusations he’d thought of shooting towards her had gone.

“Hurts.” He let out through large gasps of breaths. “Hurts, mom.” He lied there, with tears threatening to spill out his eyes for the rest of the night, with his mother caressing his hair and apologising to him with tears in her eyes.

“Miss Y/N. I miss Y/N.” He hiccups out, and his mother wipes away his tears, but it feels different from when you used to do it.

“I know, I know.” The woman looking down at her son wonders why she put him in so much pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” The night carries on like that, with the lights eventually dimming and the night covers up the light in the sky. The mother son pair repeat their grievances and apologies to each other until the sun comes back up, peeking through the curtains and extending out their warm embrace as if it wants to comfort the hurting humans.

It doesn’t take long for Seokjin and co to come knocking on his door, sent by his mother who must have filled him in on everything, judging from the looks on their faces. It only takes one single glance at his friends, tilting their heads and all asking to come in for him to burst into tears. Ugly crying, with snot coming out of his nose and eyes bloodshot red from the nightmares.

Jimin is the first to reach forwards and bring Namjoon into a hug. Soon after that, the six friends surrounded Namjoon, comforting him with the warmth of their arms and soft spoken words of encouragement.

“You did well.” Someone mumbles into his hair.

“We’re all proud of you.” Someone else says.

Namjoon’s sweater sleeves are sopping wet with tears when he asks the boys to help him get into therapy.

Things went on like that for another while.

Therapy isn’t as bad as Namjoon had thought it might’ve been. He wasn’t forced to be vulnerable or open up or confront his worst fears. He certainly didn’t want to tell the truth about the world he’s thrusted in, for fear of getting thrown out of the building and into a mental institution.

Even his mother didn’t believe him the first time he told her about it. She urged him to visit a doctor. How could a therapist who doesn’t even know him believe the nonsense he spouts? Even he himself wouldn’t believe himself if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand. Slowly, but surely, he began to open up, and to his surprise, there was no calling of hospitals or kicking him out. His therapist sat there and listened like everything he was saying was valid.

He started eating again, mostly because of Seokjin, stuffing his creations down everyone’s throats every two seconds, claiming he needs opinions on his new recipes even though Namjoon’s fairly certain that the past three dishes of spaghetti were the exact same recipe.

Namjoon started to workout again with Jungkook, much to the younger boy’s surprise and happiness. They talked about their own struggles while panting on the treadmill and spinner. Jungkook eventually tells him that he also has a secret he keeps from the rest of the guys, which is his high school sweetheart who broke his heart so horribly that he still feels hurt from it.

Jungkook told him to cheer up though, because most of the pain fades away with time. It’s still there, ever as present, but other things will become more important to you and cover up a scar or a wound with blooming flowers.

“Like us,” He said cheekily. “Your friends.”

He talked to Yoongi most days of the week about nothing in particular. He enjoys the time with Yoongi because he’s the only one who never walks on eggshells around him. He still pelts him with pillows and roasts the outfits on Rupaul’s Drag Race with him. Taehyung and Jimin even helped him adopt a dog, an furry white Eskimo named Rap Mon which is literally now Namjoon’s entire life.

Would likely kill all of his friends if one of them hurt his precious baby.

Life is good, Namjoon learns. He gets better at his job. He never forgets you, but things seem to hurt less. But he gets relapses sometimes. Some days he wakes up screaming about the stupid lead filling up his throat. Sometimes he gets nightmares so intense he has to take medicine.

Therapy isn’t as bad as he painted it out to be, but recovery is ten times harder than he thought it would be. Some days all he can do is lie in bed or do nothing, thinking of you.

His therapist tells him that his life is more than his past memories. Both Yoongi and Hoseok agree, when he pulled up a random conversation about it late at night. Hoseok says that there’s never going to be a time where he won’t think of you, or still love you. Perhaps not as much as he once did, but he’ll never forget about you. Yoongi tells him he’s healing, and that they’re all proud of him.

Namjoon meets his friends, for the first time in the two years he’s known them. Taehyung has an extraordinary and (slightly strange) obsession over art museums. He’s been to almost every single one in Korea, and he dragged Namjoon over to one an hour away in Gangnam in the summer. Jimin is an amazing dancer, which Namjoon never knew.

Until Jimin brought it up casually, looking through old footage of his dance competitions. “Nothing big,” He said. “I used to dabble.” Namjoon’s eyes bulged out of his head and he told Jimin if that was ‘dabbling’, then he was wasting away his talent. He asked Jimin why he never made a career out of dance, and Jimin replied casually:

“I feel like if I start to make money off of it, and I’ll lose my love for it. Now that I haven’t really has time for it... I dunno. I feel like I’ve lost the talent a little bit.“

Namjoon told his friend that talent is nothing but a bunch of practice and time dedicated to a certain skill. Nobody loses talent, people just get a little unfamiliar with it. Jimin turned around in deep thought and told him he may just have a point.

Still, some days, he can do nothing but sulk around, feeling like a waste of space. Take today for an example. He walks down the street and out of the corner of his eye, he thinks, and he might be wrong, he thinks he sees you. The back of your head, anyways, but you’re wearing a red sweater with headphones over your ears and you turn around the corner.

Namjoon panics. He drops his coffee, which splashes all over his leather shoes and runs. He runs past the corner and he doesn’t know what on earth he’s doing but all he can do is run, and the wind dries his tears faster and faster, and he forgets all over again, that you aren’t here, that there’s no way he can go back and see you unless it’s in his memories, which he doesn’t even know how to control.

Somewhere deep in the depths of his mind, he knows something about this doesn’t seem right. That it couldn’t possibly be you, because he watched you go right in front of his eyes. He knows that in order to heal, he can’t chase after you or center his world around you. He knows all of that. But in that moment, he forgets that he still doesn’t remember everything about you.

He forgets that you’re dead.

And one day he’ll be free from this constant spinning. One day he won’t ever have to think twice when he cooks pancakes but that day and all that work he’s put in is the last thing on Namjoon’s mind and all he can think about is if that’s really you.

He sprints faster and reaches out, misses your wrist by an inch and ends up clutching at nothing but air. He heaves a huge breath, about to clap his hand over your shoulder-

Click.

tags; @jksbbyfacebunny @extremeobsessions101 @dwcljh @bishuthot @s0seo @stonyiscanon @cecedrake2217

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pride-moth · 3 years

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If you were church, I'd get on my knees [Stolitz Week Day 4 - Wedding]

Ao3 Link

Event Info Link

The paparazzi are everywhere. They sit in the trees, in the windows of neighboring buildings, in the cars on the adjacent streets, some have even made their way onto the premises. They’ve been taking pictures of everything all morning. Of the seating area, the flower arrangements, the early guests, even the waiters. They’re prepared to fill the tabloids with the most scandalous wedding in hell. A Prince and an imp. The highest and the lowest. It’s gossip pages simply filling themselves.

They’re prepared for everything. Except for the ceremony not happening in the elaborately-staged venue. They will sit there for hours until dawn comes and there’s still nobody there, except the guests and waiters who have been roaming the place since the morning. “We’ve been duped,” someone will say eventually but nobody will have any idea what to do next.

Sometime in the afternoon, the real wedding congregation is happening in the I.M.P headquarters, with only a handful of people and a private wedding photographer. Everything is decorated in the crispiest shade of white they could find. It’s smaller and simpler than the fake venue they’ve coordinated, but it’s still stunning and gorgeous and perfect, and Stolas is slowly losing his mind in his little pre-room where Millie and Octavia are doing their best to keep him together. He picks at his white suit, wrings his hands and runs to the mirror every single minute to check himself.

“You need to calm down,” Via says, slightly exasperated considering Stolas hasn’t exactly been calm in hours, “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“What if it isn’t? What if the paparazzi come here? What if they find out? What if Blitz decides he doesn’t want to marry me after all?”

“Blitz is…” Millie says while fine-tuning her own hair, “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think he’d ever marry. Didn’t seem like the type. But he’s decided to marry you and that’s something, right. Plus, you’ve gotten married before, you know how it works.”

“That was so long ago, I scarcely remember.”

“The point is there’s no reason to be nervous, everything is going to run smoothly.” Millie gives him a hearty pat on the back.

“Weren’t you nervous when you and Moxxie married?”

“Oh, I wasn’t, Moxxie almost lost it, though. But do you know what I told him?”

“What?”

“That marriage isn’t that big a deal. We love each other before the big party and we’ll love each other after the big party, just with more tax benefits.”

“That’s not very romantic…” Via remarks from across the room.

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Millie shrugs. “You’re just having a big party to celebrate how much you love each other. And to get tax benefits.”

“Maybe.”

“So, don’t worry about it! Also, there’s no paparazzi, they’re still swarming the fake venue, Moxxie has CCTV on them.”

“Thank you, for organizing this whole thing, I just… Didn’t want to do this with the press present. It’s… I don’t know, it feels less special when everyone gets to watch, you know?”

“No problem, and now get out there and marry my boss!”

Stolas takes a deep breath and his daughter by his hand and walks out of the room.

He walks in with Blitz already waiting in bated breath, wearing a matching white suit that makes him look just obscenely handsome and when their eyes finally meet, it’s as though all worries fall off him in an instant. It’s going to be fine, Stolas thinks, maybe all of it is going to be fine. Forever.

“You look great,” he says shyly and takes both of Blitz’ hands.

“You are absolutely smoking hot,” Blitz responds. Stolas chuckles.

Next to them, Loona, their impromptu officiator, clears her throat to get their attention. “So, uhm, again, can someone explain to me why we’re doing this all proper and pseudo-Christian??”

“Because I like to spite the establishment which I’m marrying into. Also, Christian weddings have a very good aesthetic, we’ve been over this, now ask us for our vows, Loonie,” Blitz replies sharply.

“Okay, sure, uhm, vows please?”

Stolas breathes in deeply. “Blitz, when you came into my life, I never could have imagined standing here with you now. You were loud, abrasive, vulgar and… Well, you still are all of these things, but now I love you for it. Now I want to listen to talk about nothing and rant about your least favorite fruit all day. I want to hear your voice from morning to evening and I won’t tire of it. When I met you… I thought you would be nothing but a tiny speck on my night sky. Seen once, but quickly forgotten. But now I know you’re the brightest star of them all, always leading my way. I love you and I wish to always find my way to you.”

There is some sniffling in the room, though someone is probably also throwing up.

“Wow, okay. Dad, would you like to go next?” Loona says, then, her voice shaking just the tiniest bit.

Blitz looks around and takes a deep breath. “I’ve never been lucky with relationships before, they were… Yeah, they were all pretty terrible. And I didn’t even plan on having one with you for a long time, frankly. But… You know, sometimes you don’t really have a choice. You don’t want to fall in love with the weird bird prince. You just want to get his book and you have sex with him to do, but… It becomes more than that and that’s why we’re here now. Because I love you, even though it took me a long time to accept that. And I can’t wait to be married to you and rail you in the Hellton Hotel honeymoon suite.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment. A silent, disturbed “What?” comes from Octavia.

“What?! Do you think I’m not gonna fuck my husband harder than ever before in our wedding night? Fucking prudes.”

Loona clears her throat again. “So, uhm, right. Stolas, do you wish to take Blitz over here as your husband?”

“Yes, of course I do!”

“Great. Dad. Blitz. whatever. Do you wish to take Stolas here as your husband?”

“Hell yeah, let’s go!”

“Good, then blah blah something something by the power of whatever is going on here, I pronounce you two married. But please wait until after the party with whatever you two want to do to each other…”

“And…?” Blitz says.

“Oh, right, yeah. You may now kiss. As if you need my permission for that. ...Wait, we didn’t even do the thing with the rings yet!”

But they’re already kissing. And so they share this, their first kiss as husbands, it feels exactly the same as always in the best way possible. They’ve kissed before, hundreds upon thousands of times, and this time is no different, it’s an intuitive motion, a well-practiced one, carried out with pure trust and comfort.

And yet, it absolutely is different because that kiss now carries a promise. A promise for many, many years of more kisses, years of just them, together.

The party goes into the dead of night, people dancing and drinking all in celebration of their love, it’s an almost surreal concept. Octavia gets drunk for the first time and that’s a whole piece of work, but Loona is there for her, them being sisters now and all.

But in the Hellton Hotel honeymoon suite they’ve booked for the night, nothing much actually happens because they’re drunk and tired and exhausted, so all they do is cuddle up against each other in the gratuitous pink bed and fall asleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that there’s more than enough time for everything else during the rest of their lives.

The next day, the tabloids will be filled with only one picture, the one their own wedding photographer made, the one they actually want the world to see on their own terms. It shows them, in their matching white suits, Stolas with one hand on Blitz’ hips and a content smile on his face while Blitz has his tongue out and gives the camera the middle finger.

#helluva boss #stolas x blitz #stolas x blitzo #stolitz #stolitz week #fanfiction #my writing #wedding fic

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undertakermybeloved · 3 years

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As a person who experiences OSDD 1b, I've always headcanoned the Undertaker to have the same disorder. The way he so quickly switches between personas reminded me of how I experience my own disorder, and I decided to write this on it. Please note that is is not reflective of all disassociative disorders, and is based off of my own experiences!

Rating: Mature, 14+

Warnings: Mentions of death and murder, minor mentions of necromancy, necrophilia and sex

I wasn’t always like this. At first I didn’t even know. It seemed to happen so quickly, when really it was a slower process than trying to get your scythe registered with dispatch.

Dispatch.

That's what caused this. It's all dispatches fault, of course. It's always their fault.

I am the Undertaker. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. If that doesn’t ring a bell, maybe the name Legendary Death does. The most famous reaper to ever exist, loved by all and hunted by his own admiriers. Once a stoic man, unsympathetic, unloving, unattached. Wherever did he go? There is no possible way me, the kooky old mortician with a necrophelia problem, could ever be the same person who reaped Marie Antoinette and judged the soul of Robin Hood. Well, that would be because I’m not.. Partially.

My body was indeed the vessel that completed those tasks, but I was not the one orchestrating them. I was in the back seat, an observer of my own life. I lived like that for so long, I didn’t even realize it was out of the ordinary. It was like sleepwalking. I did not control my own movements, did not hear my own thoughts, and did not speak my own words. Because they weren’t mine. They were Adriens.

At least, that is what I have come to call him. I know what you’re thinking, and it is indeed ‘my’ old name, but I cannot seem to associate myself with it. My name is the Undertaker, that is who I am. Adrien is no longer me. A part of me, yes, just as much as I am a part of him.

We are split. Two pieces of a whole being, separated into two seperate conciousnesses, to complete two separate jobs.

Being a reaper is a horribly taxing occupation. You commit suicide and are now forced to live forever for your horrible crime against the universe, against the very God all humans revere so. Your punishment is an immortal soul, and a job where you are forced to watch others finally achieve the peace you never good. It truly is the most clever and sinister punishment.

Being one of these criminals for over a thousand years, (I don’t care enough to keep track of the exact number,) I may be one of the oldest reapers who has not yet been forced into a medical coma to keep them out of the way, despite my frequent infringements against Shinigami rule.

Anyhow, I’m getting side tracked. Back to the point.

Adrien. While that used to be my name, it is no longer me. I had to train myself as a reaper, not only physically but emotionally as well. Do not be sympathetic, do not become attached. Simply do your job and move on. But it takes a toll on one to, every day, watch the sick and the healthy, the old and the young, the rich and the poor, all laying upon their deathbeds. Especially the children. The poor, crying children. One cannot simply watch them sob as you take their soul and not feel some sort of remorse for the action. So, I put up an act. Played the part of an emotionless, stoic man long enough for my conscious to split. There was the reaper, the one who could handle seeing the dead and the dying, the one who didn’t experience the gut wrenching emotional grief.

And then there was me. The weak one.

Weak.

Too weak to do my own damn job, to the point I managed to split myself in two. A mirror image of myself, the same but better, better at his job, better at interacting, simply better.

I sat in the back for hundreds of years, stuffed away and watching my body be puppetted by one who was not me. I watched myself murder, I watched myself make love, but I was never there. I wondered sometimes, why did I feel like I was no longer in control? Well, it is simply because I wasn’t.

It was like watching a movie where you play the main character. You see them, and it looks like you, but it isn’t. The way they act, talk, and even just carry themself is so drastically different from your own mannerisms that you can scarcely believe it is you who you are seeing.

When I was finally in control again, it felt like I had just been saved from drowning. It was just a second, such a minor slip up of my counterpart, but it was long enough for me to realize I wasn’t alone, and had not been for longer than I’d ever known.

That was when I left. I forced myself into control, and I had to make sure everyone knew I was no longer me.

One extravagant show of mass genocide later, I was free. I was free. Free from my own alter ego, free from the association, free from my punishment. Despite being part of the undead, I had never felt so alive.

I traveled everywhere, released everything that had been hidden away in my own body for so long. Finally, I was the one to murder, I was the one to make love, I was the one to simply experience. It was me.

Eventually, I became weary of traveling the world. I was free enough. Free to control my own body, and that was all I needed.

I settled down, found a little shop on the market for cheap and took up mortuary studies.

After my life as a reaper, most would think I’d prefer to stay away from death, but rather it brought me comfort, and continues to bring me comfort to this day. No longer having to watch people as they die, I am able to deal with them while already dead. And that is the difference between me, the Undertaker, and my own frgament, Adrien.

Being split like this for so long, the line between myself and Adrien is distinct and rather hard to miss. However, there are times where the line blurs, where we mix and entertwine into some sort of amalgamation pretending to be what we once were. The time on the Campania was where the line was blurred the most, to the point where there was hardly any line anymore. It felt like our subconscious was desperately trying to force us back together, despite being separated for much too long for such a thing to be even considered as a simple possibility.

Raising the dead was a combined effort between the both of us. Both of our anguish and grief, anger and despair, and sheer desperation to be one again came out in the form of necromancy. That is why we are better apart. The two of us are simply too different, too separate, by now to be able to merge without only causing problems.

Being together again- or, as together as we could be- felt odd. I was both in and out of control at the same time. I could instruct our body to move, but I was only half there, and it was the same for Adrien as well. We were in control, but only partially. Our movements and speech wound together and created new movements and sentences, a new method of fighting, a new way of speaking. I’m surprised we weren't both a mess, being in control at the same time, but I suppose the half-assed merge was either to thank or to blame for that. We split again afterwards, which did not come as a surprise, and it was far from as dramatic as the first time. Trying to put us back together again is like cutting an apple in half, then carmelizing half of it and putting the other half in a pie, and trying to put the pieces back together once it's done. It simply doesn’t work, and it's much easier, more pleasant and more convenient to enjoy the two separately.

I don’t have much recollection of what it felt like to be whole, but it doesn’t bother me too much any more. Like I’ve said many times, and like I’ve come to realize after many years, is that we are simply better separate.

Dispatch most likely already has a theory about my split personality. They always seem to know more about their reapers than the reapers know about themselves, and despite being retired, that rule remains the same for me. While I consistently refuse their ‘offers’ of a psych evaluation, (their offers being closer to not so gentle insisting and persuasion simply to have me in captivity,) they’re probably going to take me in by force eventually. I am old, after all. About a thousand something, I don’t care to remember. I can’t fight of these young, energetic reapers forever. They’ll reign me in, most likely sooner rather than later, and quite frankly I’m not particularly inclined to care what they do with me once they have me. Torture, questioning, what have you, I don’t much mind. They’re going to do what they please with me, whether I like it or not. If there's just one think I know about dispatch, it's that they always get their way.

Oh well. If they somehow find a way to kill me, they’ll be doing me a favor. Maybe I’ll have my own body in the afterlife.

#kuroshitsuji #black butler #undertakermybeloved writing #undertakermybeloved #undertaker black butler #undertaker #undertaker kuroshitsuji

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 3 years

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Sweet Pea//my greatest adventure is you

Request: Can you do a dad (newborn-ish) sweet pea imagine

hey! title is kind of stolen from a quote i saw on pinterest and part from my own brain so its okay! how are you all? i hope you’re good! i also hope you like this! its cute and sweet and just very nice! byeeee

Two weeks ago your life changed completely.

And for two weeks you and Sweet Pea have been living in a post baby, sleep deprived, bliss.

Days of the week have long been forgotten, neither of you know the time. It’s either light or dark and that’s good enough for you. Both of you have only been outside a handful of times and they’re only for two hours at the most.

You’ve worn nothing but pyjama’s, washed your hair enough times to count on just one hand and smell like baby puke and milk.

But it’s perfect.

Everything and everyone revolves around the perfect bundle of joy that you’ve brought into the world, and that is how it was supposed to be. You’ve had visitors from just about everybody you know.

Family, friends, neighbours, as well as their family and friend. You’ve had everyone wanting to come and see your daughter, all of which bring toys, clothes, keepsakes, balloons, flowers and everything in-between.

Which is of course lovely and very helpful. Especially when you’re dealing with the fullest nappy and think you’ve run out of wipes but Sweet Pea finds three packs of them under a pile of clothes that are yet to be worn.

Plus, they also bring you presents to which you definitely aren’t complaining about. You’ve got so many pairs of pajama’s you’re not gonna need any for years.

But it also brings problems.

Because you and Sweet Pea may have read every baby/parenting book, blog and magazine known to man. But what they don’t prepare you for is how you’re supposed to fit everything into a tiny two bedroom house.

“How does a tiny baby need all of this equipment?” You ask, staring at the black hole of boxes that is your living room. Even sat on the couch there’s boxes and bags stacked around you and the two of you honestly have no idea where to start. “I mean, what the hell even is this?” You add, picking up some sort of weird looking piece of plastic.

Sweet Pea looks at it, a frown on his face before it lights up and he searches through some papers on the small table beside him. He holds a booklet up, a triumphant smile stretching across his lips before he starts reading.

The smile slowly starts to fade the more he reads to himself and you sit in silence, an eyebrow raised while you wait for him to tell you.

“Oo, erm. Apparently it tells you why the baby is crying.” He says, looking between you and the what you now realize is the instructions.

The only way you can describe his expression is puzzled, as he takes the baby crying machine from you, placing it beside the instructions and just staring at the two.

“Who the hell bought this?” He asks, resting his chin in his hands. You run your fingers through his hair, trying to calm the curls down a little and he lets out a content sigh, giving you a tired smile as he does so.

You mirror it and nudge his leg with your own. You lean your head on his shoulder, and he places his head on top. The two of you look over the paper and plastic again, reading and re-reading the instructions as it takes a while to actually understand what they are trying to say. Its seems both you and Sweet Pea have ended up developing baby-brain.

“I think it was your Auntie Agnes.”

“Of course it was.” He chuckles and kisses the top of your head.

“What are the options?” You ask.

“Hungry, tired, changing, attention, stressed.” He says and you send him a look.

“Stressed? What an earth could a baby be stressed about? They don’t pay taxes, they don’t have to work.” You reply grumpily making him laugh and kiss you again.

“Technically we don’t have to pay taxes.”

“Technically we do if we don’t want to go to jail.” You reply.

“Who says I’d get caught.” He replies proudly.

“Me.” You reply bluntly and he stares at you offended.

“Rude.”

“True though.” You tease and grab the strange device from him, looking it over a few times before looking back at him. “So, where’s this going?”

“Back of the cupboard normally. Proudly on display when Auntie Agnes actually comes to visit?”

“Deal.” You agree. “I’ll find a place for it and you start on that box there.”

“Which one?”

“The huge red one right in front of your face.” You huff and he flips you off.

You send him a sarcastic smile in return before disappearing into the kitchen to find a space for the stupid bit of plastic.

“Why this one specifically?” He calls after you.

“Its from Toni and Cheryl and I’m excited to see what ridiculous things Cheryl has spent a fuck-ton of money on.” You reply, your voice giddy but muffled by the cupboard you’ve currently got your head in.

Sweet Pea shakes his head, a small giggle escaping his lips as he listens to you excitedly ramble about what it could be.

He pulls on the end of the bow and it falls off the wooden box and onto the carpeted floor. A bemused smile takes over his appearance as he carefully picks the lid up and places it beside him.

“Holy shit.” His eyes widen. “Y/n? Y/n get in here!”

“Wha-ow! Shit.”

“Did you hit your head?” He asks, sending you a sympathetic smile when he notices you standing in the doorway, rubbing your head.

“Yeah.” You nod and flop down beside him again. “So, what is it?” You ask excitedly.

“You’re not going to believe it.” He replies and moves further towards the box. You follow him until your sat on the edge of the sofa and your eyes widen when you look at what it is.

“Is that?” You ask, looking at him and then back at the present.

“Yep.”

Staring back at the two of you is a giant rocking horse. Like it’s massive, like Toni could definitely fit on it and it would look normal, massive even. Hanging around its neck is what looks like a diamond encrusted dummy and you and Sweet Pea just stare at each other in disbelief.

A red, handwritten card sits on top of it and you grab it, turning it around and reading aloud.

‘Y/n and Sweet Pea,

Congratulations on your new arrival! We can’t wait to meet her properly. You’re going to be amazing parents, and we’re always here if you need us. Hopefully we’ll be able to organize a play date between her and JJ soon, but until then enjoy new parenthood.

Love Cheryl, Toni and JJ.

ps: I told Cheryl you didn’t need a giant horse or diamond encrusted dummy or the other 5, very expensive gifts that are currently being shipped from Italy, but she didn’t listen, so sorry in advance. And again, congratulations!! We’re so proud of both of you!!’

“Another 5 gifts from Italy?” Sweet Pea repeats.

“Another 5, expensive gifts from Italy.” You correct.

“They have far too much money for their own good.”

“God knows where this is going to go.” You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you tuck the card back into the box and place the lid back on top. “Which one should we do ne-” Your interrupted by a small cry and the two of you stop what you’re doing to listen, waiting to see if she’ll settle back down. The crying only grows louder and you and Pea share a look.

“I’ll get her.” He says and you expression softens.

“You sure?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He replies, fighting his way through the boxes and bags trapping the two of you. “I just googled how much that rocking horse is so I’m gonna go cry with her.” He says making you laugh. “You keep going down here.”

“Wait, how did that happen? You get to cuddle a cute baby and I have to figure out where to put bottles and diapers and...horses?”

“Unlucky.” He shrugs and gives you a sarcastic smile before running up the stairs.

Two minutes later and she’s stopped crying. A relieved smile takes over your face as you fold what seems like the millionth baby grow. But twenty minutes after that, Sweet Pea hasn’t come back down yet, and that makes you suspicious.

Because he’s either fallen asleep, or he’s just pretending to still be busy so he doesn’t have to help with this. If he’s asleep, you’re joining him, whether he’s on the bed or under it, you don’t care. But if not, you bet his ass you are dragging him back down the stairs.

You slowly make your way up the stairs, balancing a few pieces of clothing in your hands to put away. The door to your bedroom is cracked open slightly and instead of going straight into the nursery, you hold back and watch as Sweet Pea rocks her gently.

His back is to you so he hasn’t noticed your presence, and he’s pulling the funniest faces at her, the sight making your heart melt. Your entire universe in one room, within two people, one tall and the other tiny.

It makes all the chaos worth it.

“There once was a shoe, who’s best friend was a lace.” Sweet Pea starts, balancing a baby book in his hands as he keeps tight hold of your daughter. “They went everywhere together. But one day, the shoe stepped in a puddle and the lace got dirty so-what kind of story is this?” He complains, shaking his head as he puts it down.

“Okay, Daisy. I’ve got a much better story to tell you anyway.” He whispers into the dark room and carefully sits down in the rocking chair. “So, me and your mom have known each other for so long. Longer than you can even comprehend, not that you can comprehend much at the minute. But one day when your bigger you’ll understand. We’ve known each other since we were younger than you, thats right, we were best friends before we were born. And there hasn’t been a day that she hasn’t been around. And they’ll never be a day where she isn’t here for you either. Both of us are always going to be here.” He says, his voice gentle.

His tone is full of so much love that it makes you tear up...stupid hormones. You can’t wait to spend the rest of your life loving your little family, and you’re so happy that its Sweet Pea that you’re doing it with. You can’t imagine a life without him, you never want to.

“You have your entire life ahead of you and we’re going to make sure you live the best one you can. Because you can do anything. There’s a whole world of possibilities out there. Sometimes it feels like there isn’t, but you’ve only been here two weeks and you’ve brought so much wonder and magic to mine and your mom’s world, so who knows what you’re going to do to the rest of it.” He continues and you hug the clothes your holding tighter to your chest, despite the fact that you’re crying all over them.

“We’re going to love you no matter what. No matter who you are or who you love or what you do. As long as you’re safe and happy, thats good enough for us.” He says, a sweet smile on his lips as he stares down at her in awe. “Now, go to sleep and have the sweetest dreams you can think of and when you wake up, your mom and me will both be here for you. Thats a promise.” He whispers, pressing a soft kiss to her head before placing her gently back in her crib.

You take that as you cue to walk in, avoiding the creaky floorboard that you and Sweet Pea have already memorized the position of. He hears the door open and his smile grows when he notices you. You return it, your eyes tired and your hair messy and your clothes the same as they were two days ago. But to him you look the most beautiful you ever have.

He has never loved anyone more, well, apart from Daisy. But you’re the reason she’s here and he’s never ever going to be able to thank you enough for that.

You quietly place the pile of clothes on top of the drawers, vowing to put them away tomorrow. Them, the presents downstairs and the the rest of the world can wait, you want to enjoy this for as long as you can.

Sweet Pea grabs your hand and pulls you gently towards him. The two of you lean over the crib, watching Daisy sleep peacefully. His hands rest gently on your shoulders and you give them a squeeze, your fingers intertwining.

“Do you think babies can dream?” You wonder, looking up at Pea.

“I really do hope so.”

#sweet pea #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #riverdale #riverdale imagine

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monaownsmyass · 4 years

Text

Going Out Of My Mind In My Mind

Requested fic by anon. (If you have any fic ideas or requests you'd like me to write, you can leave me an ask!)

Book: My First Two Loves

Pairing: Ava Lawrence x MC (Emma Price)

Genre: Fluff but make it angsty

Rating: PG13

Warning: Mild homophobic comments

Word Count: 3,611

A/N: Ava is in love with her best friend. She gets lost in her own thoughts while contemplating if she should reach out to MC. Firstly, I wanna say I’m so sorry to the anon that requested this if they wanted a more light-hearted fluff fic lmfao. If you did, please send me another ask lol. Secondly, I wanna apologise to my fellow wlw for including a little homophobia. It’s not that harsh or mean, but it’s there. I thought including it would better portray a realistic encounter of what it’s like to be a wlw accepting her sexuality and exploring her feelings.

Tag list: @ineedskyecrandall @kamilahsayeet2063 @avalawrencefl @lovekamilahsayeed @thequeenkamilahsayeed @heygmicheelle @djtjsmith14 @jjlover01 @soft-for-drake @dopeyouth @alexroyard @satrinadia @toalltheboysididntlove @mypegasifly @queen-arabella-of-cordonia (lmk if anyone would like to be included or removed in my next fics and if you only want to be tagged for certain pairings.)

The first time I realised I was in love with my best friend was... well, I'm not sure if I'm being honest.

But damn, if that's not the most generic, cliché plot ever for every sapphic film and story ever, I'm not sure what is. However, there was always some truth to fiction and I was no exception.

That was my life. Generic and cliché. Popular high school captain of the cheerleaders who lived in the suburbs and came from a middle-class family that has dated the school's famous golden-boy quarterback.

For far too long, everything was normal. Too normal. Painfully normal.

That is, of course, until I started realising I had feelings for my best friend that was very much into guys. As I've mentioned, I couldn't pint-point an exact date or incident but like a hurricane, it was sudden even though there were warnings signs and it was just as destructive, uprooting and destroying everything I thought I once knew, a force to be reckoned with.

It was utter chaos in a seeming perfect picture but for the first time in my life, I felt alive.

Emma Price was my hurricane. Whether that was a good or bad thing, that was up for debate. All I knew was that I wanted her in my life and didn't care if it wasn't the best idea or if it would hurt me. I just wanted her to be with me.

I think that's the funniest thing about finally having a genuine, heart-wrenching, crush on someone. Even the smartest people get dumb, the most cautious are reckless and the logical becomes irrational. Everything that made sense doesn't anymore because why the hell are you doing things you normally wouldn't do for someone that doesn't even like you back?

I learnt that first-hand and I wished someone would've warned me before that. Not like I would've believed it but at least it would be playing at the back of my mind. An echo in the distance, a nagging voice.

I did the stupidest stuff once I was certain I was in love with Emma. I knew I was in love with her but I was in denial and did things I regretted. Dating other people, trying to make her jealous, downplaying my feelings when I saw her with Mason or Noah. Pushing her away and avoiding her instead of talking to her...

It's different, falling for your best friend. Feelings and signals are mixed, emotions are at a high and everything is just one confusing mess of a relationship that was once simple and innocent.

And now, here I was, laying on my bed, staring at my phone as if it would magically tell me the right thing to do if I looked long enough. It didn't, of course. I sighed, wondering if I should shoot Emma a text. It's been some time since we just talked for fun and I missed her sorely.

Procrastinating, I swiped through my home page. My eyes caught sight of a certain app that I opened ever so often whenever I was missing my best friend.

~*~*~

"Come on! Just download it!"

I scrunched my nose up. "Give me one good reason why."

"Because you’re the best friend in the whole world and you'll do anything I say because you love me?" she said jokingly while batting her eyelashes at me but my heart started racing.

I was acutely aware of her hand on my thigh and the way she leaned into me. My breath hitched at her nearness even though we've been closer before.

That was something else about having a crush on your best friend. Suddenly, everything felt like too much. Every word, every touch, every damn single thing was overwhelming and honestly? It was exhausting. Not only is it emotionally tiring, you go into this weird phase of wanting to savour everything they do and you can't help but wonder why you didn't appreciate these small moments before. You can't help but feel as if you've wasted them all.

If she could sense me stiffen, she didn't show it 'cuz she just went on. "Also, it's about a cartoon cat that eats to save the world! What's not to love?"

"That sounds ridiculous, Em," I laughed. "What's the game called?"

"Dopey Cat!"

"Oh god," I groaned. "That makes it sounds much worse."

"Or much better!" She nudged me and I felt a jolt go up my arm. I always wondered if these simple touches felt the same to her. "Do it"

"Alright, alright!" I giggled and surrendered. "Only 'cuz I'm such a great friend."

"Yes! And like I said," Emma leaned in and my heart dropped to my stomach. "The best."

She gave me a slow, soft peck on my cheek and rested her head on my shoulder, clinging onto my arm and leaving me a flustered mess.

~*~*~

I thought about that moment often. More often then I'd like to admit. Every time I did, the same thoughts would always come to mind.

What would've happened if I kiss her? What if I just turned my head right before her lips touched my skin? Would she have kissed me back? Would she push me away? Maybe she'd say she felt the same way about me.

But that didn't happen, so all I could do was wonder.

And wonder I did.

Being in my room like this, doing nothing, it really did make my mind go everywhere. I've dreamed and cried and laughed and screamed and doing nothing was suddenly the most taxing thing I've ever done. Doing nothing when you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back was the most dangerous thing 'cuz they’re already always on your mind but when you're doing nothing, your thoughts just spirals down an endless pit of possibilities that'll never happen and ultimately, you get hurt.

But knowing this, I still let my thoughts spiral anyway. How could I not when the joy and peace I got from imaging a world where her and I were together was worth the pain and heartbreak?

'Cuz figment of my imagination or reality, it didn't matter, she was worth it.

I've imagine us on dates, having picnics, watching movies, going on road trips, sleeping over, laughing over nothing, at the park, at the beach, in a field, in our rooms.

I've thought about us dancing in the living room at 12 a.m., huddled in bundles of blankets on a cold night, singing along to our song while making breakfast, staying up under the night sky and talking about everything and nothing until sunrise, being able to introduce her as my girlfriend and kissing her whenever I felt like.

I've dreamt about us so much as a couple that I've accidentally mistaken reality for fiction but like I've said, there's always some truth to fiction.

~*~*~

"Congrats on being co-captains, guys!" Iris wished us enthusiastically, practically jumping up and down.

"Seriously, you guys totally deserve it," Toni agreed.

"Thank you!" Emma said.

"You two are the best duo! Our cheer squad is gonna rule with you both leading us!"

"Thanks," I said and pulled Emma in for a side hug, feeling goosebumps from the contact. "We do make a pretty great couple."

I immediately froze when I realised what I said and mentally kicked myself.

God, that was so stupid! Why was I so careless? I should watch what I say!

That wasn't the first time I've done it and I was sure it wasn't the last, but just like how Emma was always the only one to mess up my constant, she was the one difference between all the other times and this time.

She had never heard me refer to ourselves as a couple but while I was beating myself up, Emma handled the situation coolly. She slid her hand in mine and squeezed which did nothing to calm my wrecked nerves.

"We definitely sure would! She the sweetest, more caring person in the world and I'd be so lucky to call her mine." She leaned into me and gave me a nudge but all I could do was stare at her, eyes wide and brows raised.

Her deep brown eyes locked onto mine and I swear I could feel the spark between our gaze. And what was that I saw in her eyes? Longing? A hint? I wasn't sure but I could've sworn there was something else I couldn't quite decipher. Then again, I didn't really trust my thoughts. If it could make me believe we were actually a couple, why would I ever trust it in this situation? How could I?

I'm not sure how long we were staring at each other 'cuz to me, it felt timeless. We only broke apart when we heard someone making a retching sound.

"Gross! Go get a room," Lauren said as she walked towards us. "No one wants to see two lesbos in action."

I felt her hand fall out of mine and suddenly, I felt very vulnerable.

"You don't have to be rude!" Iris defended.

"Yeah, Lauren, no one asked," Toni agreed.

Emma spoke up. "Go away, Lauren. No one wants you here." She said it in an almost tired manner. She was done with putting up with her and it showed.

"Aw, protecting your lesbian lover? Cute," Lauren rolled her eyes and walked away. "Whatever, later, losers!"

"Don't listen to her," Toni said after Lauren left.

But how could I not?

"Hey, Ava?"

I could hear the sweet voice of best friend calling out to me but it was distant.

Everything was. I didn't feel like I was in my body. All my senses were numb and I felt nothing. Nothing except the raging white heat within me. I was having an out of body experience in the worst way possible and for a moment, I didn't feel human.

~*~*~

Then Ava was definitely different from Now Ava. Then Ava wanted to cry and run as far as she could. But she couldn't. She was paralysed with fear and embarrassment. Now Ava would've just laughed and called Lauren pathetic. Maybe even give her a nice slap across the face if she felt like it. But Now Ava wasn't Then Ava, so why dwell on the past?

The thing is, I didn't want to. But like that dull throb at the back of your skull after a concussion, I just couldn't ignore it. You tell everyone you're fine, and for the most part, you are. But that annoying sensation, constantly reminding you aren't, that you just couldn't forget. That was that moment with Lauren.

Her words played in my mind on repeat for the first week after hearing it. Months later that voice was softer and less frequent, but it was still there.

A lot happened in those months. The biggest of all? I finally accepted that I was gay. No, not gay, a lesbian.

That word Lauren had spoken with a jeer, the word she used to insult me, the word that was meant to humiliate me, I was that word.

That wasn't the only time I heard it used that way but it was the first time it was used against me. Lauren's words was a constant reminder in my mind that being a lesbian was an embarrassment, that I was an embarrassment.

Then Ava would feel a chill run up her spine when she heard that word even though it wasn't directed to her. And when it finally was, her soul left her body but of course, that would've been too easy. Her soul leaving her body would've been the easy way out. So instead, she was forced back into reality and had to find a way to deal with it.

Now Ava knew it wasn't a bad thing. Of course she did, she was one, after all. So why did Lauren's words still haunt her?

I still had to remind myself that it was okay. It wasn't gross or immoral or whatever nonsense they put into my mind about girls liking other girls. And every time I did, the madder I got. At everyone that has ever said anything about it and at myself.

Because how dare they tell me how to feel?

And how dare I listen to them when I knew it wasn't true?

I was at peace with it now. I was at peace with being a lesbian. But being at peace wasn't the same as embracing it, owning it. And I'm not sure if I ever will, but I hope I do.

I wasn't out to anyone, and god, I've never felt so suffocated in my life. I couldn't even tell Emma 'cuz I was afraid of how she'd react. Or worse, that she'd assume I have a crush on her. And the worst part, that it was true. That I couldn't even deny it.

Not being able to tell your best friend whom you've always told everything to made me feel like shit. It ate away at me every time I was near her and whenever we were talking. I always wanted to bring it up but I never found out how. Maybe I will soon, but not now.

Emma had always been understanding. Even when she didn't get it, she would try. She wasn't quick to judge nor did she so easily jump to conclusions but I couldn't help but think that maybe, she wouldn't be so understanding. 'Cuz that's what you do when you overthink. You worry about things that you shouldn't and you create false scenarios and you just, can't, stop.

Which was exactly what I was doing right now.

I sighed, catching myself before I could spiral any further and rolled onto my side, staring out of the window with my phone abandoned on the bed.

It started drizzling and it was getting pretty cold. I moved to get under my comforter and wrapped the sheets around me.

And once again, I closed my eyes as my mind began to wander.

If only Emma was by my side...

~*~*~

"Oh my god! Ava! Stop!" she would giggle as I showered her in kisses.

"Nu-uh!" I'd respond and wrap her up in my arms, still kissing her wherever I could reach as we rolled around on my bed, playing.

She'd try to escape but since I'm stronger than her, it's useless. She's trapped in my embrace and eventually, she'd give in and hug me back.

We'd laughed about silly inside jokes as we let our hands linger over each other's bodies, not wanting to let go.

I'd pull her tight and she'd rest her head against my chest as the rain outside got heavier.

I'd shower her in compliments and she'd blush. We'd talk about life, our hopes and dreams and ambitions. Our plans and future together.

"Would you still be with me?" I'd ask her.

"Forever and always, baby," she'd reply and give me a reassuring kiss.

We'd waste away the rest of the day together and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

~*~*~

But that was just fantasy. She's not here and I'm not ready. Not ready to come out to Emma, let alone confront her about my feelings for her.

I took a deep breath before opening my eyes, as if I were physically preparing myself to come back to reality. I glanced at my phone screen that was opened at her chat. I picked my phone up and got ready to type but I hesitated.

Should I do this?

I didn't have much of a choice though, 'cuz my phone rang and lo and behold, my best friend, my crush, the girl I fell in love with, appeared as the caller ID.

My heart sank but my stomach filled with butterflies. This conflicting emotion wasn't a rare occurrence ever since I fell for my best friend but that didn't mean I was used to it. Fear and excitement coexisted where it shouldn't which only left me with a familiar uneasy feeling.

I only stopped for a moment before hitting the 'accept call' button.

"Hi!" I heard that cheery voice of hers ring from the other side of the phone and I could feel my insides warm.

Hey, yourself." I smiled. "What's up, Em?"

"Nothing much, I just feel like we haven't talked that much." She paused for a while before adding shyly, "And I miss you."

The warmth spread to my cheeks. "I really missed you too."

I heard her giggle and god, was it the most adorable sound ever. "Good to know. What have you been up to?"

Figuring out my sexuality and pining over you.

"Nothing much, just the usual." Liar. "What about you?"

"Just been thinking about you," she said casually and my heart fluttered.

I cleared my throat. "Any interesting stories lately?"

I heard another heavenly laugh. "Too many!"

She jumped right into it, not stopping once and honestly, I never wanted her to. Her voice in my ear was a comfort and I held onto it for as long as I could.

We talked and laughed for hours and I didn't even notice until I glanced at the clock on my wall. Time passed too quickly whenever I was with her, I always felt like it wasn't enough. It never was.

But then again, an infinite lifetime with her would still feel too short.

"And then, Mack ran out of the house with our dad chasing her in only his towel and shower cap with his back scrubber!" she laughed unrestrained, not holding it back and lighting up the entire world with it.

"Oh my god!" I laughed along with her. "How did she even pull that off? I can't believe I missed that!"

"See? This is why you should come over more often!"

I didn't know how to respond but it was fine because she started speaking again.

"Wow, I didn't realise the time! I should probably head to bed."

"Yeah, me too," feeling disappointed that she was gonna hang up soon even though I let out a yawn. "But I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"For sure! Good night, Ava."

"Night, Em."

"..."

"Are you still there?" she asked me.

"Uh, yeah?" I replied. "Put down the phone."

"No, you!" She giggled.

I smiled from hearing it. "You!"

"Ugh, fine! Bye."

"Okay, bye bye."

"..."

"Hello?"

"Emma," I breath out in a light chuckle. "Go sleep."

"Okay! Okay, for good this time, bye."

"Bye," I laughed and before I could stop myself, I added, "I love you."

And I shot up, frozen in place. It wasn't what I say, it was the way I did. Soft and vulnerable and definitely not just a friend proclaiming her platonic love to her best friend.

I heard Emma suck in a sharp breath as if she caught onto it too, and the line went dead silent.

"Ava-"

I heard her whisper but I pulled my phone away from me as if it was poison eating away at my flesh and hit the 'end call' button, tossing it beside me. I didn't hear her finish her sentence and I wasn't sure if I could handle it if I did.

Shit!

I hit my palm against my face and slid it down, groaning. How was I gonna face her tomorrow?

Just then, I heard my phone go off. The ringtone I had set just for Emma played and I swear I felt my heart stop.

Nervously, I glanced down at my phone to see the notification that popped up.

'I love you too <3'

Warmth spread through my body and I let out an involuntary grin. I fell back onto the bed with my arm covering across my face.

I glanced back at the message and made a high-pitched squeal that I never in a million years thought would come out of my mouth. Leave it to Emma to make me do things I normally wouldn't.

My heart raced in my chest.

She may not have meant it the way I have but it didn't matter because hearing her tell me she loved me was all I needed.

That was another thing about having a crush on your best friend; the I love you's were up for interpretation.

I placed the phone on my chest and let my arms sprawl out on the bed. Whatever sleepiness I had left my body, there was no way I could go to bed now.

So instead, I let my mind roam but this time, willingly. I let my thoughts free fall through a million different possibilities as the night turned to day.

I watched the sun rise.

And I smiled.

Because falling in love with my best friend was messy and complicated and heart-shattering. But it was also full of excitement and exhilaration and anticipation.

It was rollercoaster of emotions, full of ups and downs and twist and turns and even loops, but that's what made it thrilling. And for the first time in my normal life, I had something to keep me on my toes.

And I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Was my best friend also in love with me? I didn't know. Would I ever know? Maybe, maybe not. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little curious to know how she feels, be it good or bad. Maybe someday I'll ask her. Maybe I'll get to hold her. Maybe she'll never speak to me again.

But until then, all I had were the stories I've made up in my mind.

(More fics!)

#ava lawrence #ava x mc #ava mtfl #mtfl #my two first loves #mtfl choices #choices #choices: stories you play #pb #pixelberry #playchoices #mtfl fanfiction #choices fanfiction #thanks for reading!

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lostinfic · 3 years

Text

Art for Hearts’ Sake

Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates

Rated E | 4400 words

Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.

Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)

Ao3

Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell. As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”

“Let’s go.”

Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.

Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.

Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.

“We did it, ma chère.”

“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”

“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”

“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.

The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.

Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.

Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.

“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.

And thus had begun their weekly escapades.

Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.

Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.

Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.

“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.

“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”

She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.

“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”

“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Oh... Maybe?”

“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.

Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.

“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.

“Who?”

“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.

She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.

Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time. Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.

He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.

He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.

“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.

Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.

“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.

They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.

They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.

“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.

“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”

She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“But first, I have a painting to steal.”

“What?”

He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.

Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.

“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”

“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.

Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.

On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.

They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.

“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.

Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?

She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.

“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.

She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.

By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.” He winked.

She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.

“Told you,” he said.

Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.

“Good evening, Betty.”

“What— what are you doing here?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.

“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.

In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.

“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.

“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.

He closed back the case and checked his watch.

“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”

Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.

“Where would we go?”

“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”

Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”

Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.

She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.

Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.

The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.

In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.

“Ready?” he asked her.

Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.

“Where are we going?”

“Like I said, to my home, first.”

She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.

Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.

They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.

The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.

“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”

“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”

“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”

She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.

A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.

“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”

“Don’t worry, Marie.”

He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.

“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”

“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”

Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head. “She… she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought— well, I’m sorry.”

He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.

“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“Is that why you came with me?”

“No.”

He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.

He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.

“Another very good fake?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.

“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”

“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”

He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.

“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”

“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”

“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”

“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”

Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.

“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.

“How so?”

“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”

“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.

She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.

“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”

“Not a soul, I swear.”

Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.

Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.

He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.

An escape.

The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.

He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.

“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”

“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”

“Is it still sizzling now?”

“Yes.”

He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.

“Mine too,” she said.

She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.

Oh boy.

Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.

“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.

Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”

“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”

“As you wish.”

In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.

He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.

She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.

She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.

This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.

She came embarrassingly fast.

He licked his fingers and grinned.

“Showoff,” she said again.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.

She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.

He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack. She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.

He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.

She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.

“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you hurt?”

“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.

“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.

Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.

Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.

He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.

Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.

Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.

Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.

Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.

They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.

“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”

“Goodness no.”

“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”

“Vienna?”

“How is that for a second date?”

#Mercier x Betty #spies of warsaw #a passionate woman #teninch fic #lostinfic writes stuff

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gayenerd · 3 years

Text

This interview was the cover story for the 17th issue of Jaded In Chicago. It was conducted in September of 2004, several weeks prior to the release of American Idiot. It was a fitting end to the fanzine that was named after the band, as “Jaded In Chicago” references Green Day’s 1994 MTV concert special. To come full circle by interviewing the band that inspired the zine’s moniker was somewhat surreal.

With the release of American Idiot, Green Day has transcended punk rock. By crafting the first punk rock opera and fashioning what is likely the first tasteful concept album of the new millennium, they’ve provided pop punk bands everywhere with a blueprint for how to mature gracefully. Additionally, as much as American Idiot is about innovation, it’s also a return to the fundamentals of punk rock. The album sears with dissent, takes aim between the eyes of the Bush administration and contains a dangerous sense of unpredictability. It’s been ten years since Green Day was the most popular band in the world and with any luck American Idiot will allow them to recapture that title in no time. (Interview with drummer Tré Cool).

Bill – Before we talk about American Idiot, I wanted to discuss the infamous “lost” album first. About a year and a half ago, you guys recorded what was to be the follow-up to Warning, but reportedly the master tapes were stolen. What can you tell me about what happened?

Tré – We just knew that if it ever came out, we couldn’t do any of those same songs on the actual record. If somebody puts it out, like crappier versions of the songs, it’s going to totally ruin it. Plus, it happened right around the same time that Billie wrote the song “American Idiot” and most of “Holiday.” We were in the middle of working on those songs, so we just decided not to look back and we kept going forward.

Bill – I’ve read that you feel American Idiot is “maximum Green Day.” Why exactly do you feel this way?

Tré – Well, because we’re firing on all cylinders, ya know? Everything about even just being in the band now feels so right. Everything from the recording process to the live shows to our ambitions. This might sound kind of dumb, but even the clothes we’re wearing during photo shoots. It’s more together like a band.

Bill – People are certainly expecting this record to be political, but I think they’re going to be surprised when they hear how you really go for the throat with some of the lyrics. Examples of this would of course be the title track and also the breakdown section of “Holiday.” What are some of the main reasons why you’re so pissed off with this country?

Tré – It’s more like confused and jaded, if you will, (laughs). The bombardment of bullshit, fake news, like Fox News and CNN. All the reality-based shit that’s on television, stuff like Fear Factor that the government is using to keep everybody like good little sheep and not asking too many questions. It’s like how if a cop hears you use the word “terror” it basically means he can take any normal American citizen’s rights away from them. A cop can do that at his or her discretion if they think you might be a terrorist or whatnot. The whole Patriot Act. It’s like do we actually have any rights after all? We don’t have the right to a proper election, we already found that out. The fabric of our government right now is basically just made out of one hundred dollar bills that are drenched in oil. As far as this upcoming election goes, I know that John Kerry is extremely conservative and he’s nowhere near the liberal we need in the White House to clean up the mess. However, he’s not George Bush. Kerry’s money is in ketchup. Bush’s money is in oil and blood. I’d choose ketchup over that, (laughs).

Bill – How do you hope people react to these songs?

Tré – I hope they can look past the strong language and go into the meaning of it. I hope they realize there’s a bit of sarcasm. I hope they don’t feel that we’re telling them what to do. We’re just sort of pointing the fingers at ourselves, saying like “I don’t want to be an American idiot or I don’t want to be a part of this bullshit.”

Bill – Talk about the character called “Jesus of Suburbia.” What sort of journey does he embark on throughout these songs and what made you choose this type of format for your songwriting?

Tré – The album is sort of like a timeline of his life. Depending on where you’re at with your life, you probably fit somewhere on that timeline yourself. Whether it’s the “Holiday” party stage, or the “Give Me Novacaine” drug stage or the “Extraordinary Girl” being in love stage; all these different stages in life show that what paths you choose will inevitably lead you somewhere. It’s not necessarily the happiest ending in the world, but it’s pretty realistic.

Bill – Are you at all worried about some of your fans possibly being alienated by the two nine-minute rock operas found on the album?

Tré – I don’t think they’ll even notice they’re nine-minute songs. They’ll think they’re a bunch of short songs put together. It’s definitely short attention span theater. It’s not like Wilco, where they have a ten-minute song with the same drumbeat and the same chord progression. Not saying anything bad about Wilco, they’re a fine band. They’re great to relax to and drink iced tea to, (laughs). I think we’d get bored doing that. We just sort of get to the point, say what we want to say and move on to the next part of the song. The way the energy flows in the songs is sort of like the way America is now too, just so scattered. There’s a big misrepresentation of how we feel in this bullshit climate right now.

Bill – One of the most important topics you address on this record is the American media. Specifically, how it perpetuates fear amongst the public and does little to question the President’s follow-through on his promises. Do you think the average American is aware of how the wool is being pulled over their eyes?

Tré – No, not at all. Say you see some guy driving down the street with a Bush/Cheney sticker on his Chevy S-10, beat-up truck with a pair of flip-flops hanging off the back. I want to ask him, “Why the fuck are you a Republican? What’s in it for you, dude?” Bush isn’t doing a thing for those people. He’s not helping them get a better truck or put food on the table. He’s not going to give them a tax break. Republicans don’t care about you. They’re not going to try and help you in any way. They just want to use you and get your dead peasants insurance once you’re gone.

Bill – Tell me about the upcoming club dates that you have scheduled where you plan to perform American Idiot in its entirety. Who came up with the idea and what are you looking forward to most about it?

Tré – I’d credit Pete Townshend with the idea. We’ve always admired The Who and their lack of inhibition as far as going for whatever crazy idea they had. As crazy as something like Tommy was when it was just a small idea, compared to what it’s become now, it’s pretty insane. They did A Quick One, where they played that live. That was a quick one, but ours is an hour. Basically, we just want to kick The Who’s ass. I listened to Who’s Next yesterday, which a lot of people are comparing American Idiot to. We totally got them beat. I’ve always aspired to be as good of a drummer as Keith Moon and I think I’ve fuckin’ passed by him on this record.

Bill – Roughly ten years ago, Dookie was released and went on to sell over ten million copies and become one of the most notable albums of the ‘90s. A decade later, I think you’ve constructed in American Idiot what is arguably your strongest record yet. Is there anything specific that you hope American Idiot accomplishes?

Tré – Yeah, I think it’s about time that people think of Green Day in a different light. We’re not snot-nosed kids anymore, we’re men now. I want people to think of us more as one of the mainstay supergroups of today. I’m not asking for too much, (laughs). We’re superheroes in our own minds. We think we’re really cool, why doesn’t everybody else?

Bill – What was the weirdest thing about being the biggest band in America in 1994?

Tré – I don’t think we really had time to enjoy it when it was happening. We were just trying to pay our rent and be able to make records for the rest of our lives. We didn’t know anything like that was ever going to happen. It sort of freaked us out a bit, but at the same time I was kind of busy just moving and doing it. We didn’t have time to look back since we were doing so much. By the time we had taken a break to make Insomniac it was like, “Do you guys know what you just did?” We were like, “Oh…shit.”

Bill – Earlier this year, Thick Records released the Out of Focus DVD, which featured live Green Day footage circa 1992. What are some of your favorite memories from playing at McGregor’s in Elmhurst, Illinois?

Tré – Demetri. Demetri was this male stripper that came onstage for some girl’s birthday at McGregor’s one night. They had her sit in this chair and the stripper did his thing for her. It was fuckin’ hilarious. In the middle of our show too. We took a timeout and let her get her strip on. I think that was the last time we played McGregor’s actually. I remember seeing State Street and I remember taking acid in Chicago. I remember going to the lake and wondering why all the fish were dead. I was inside Buckingham Fountain too. It was real hot out and I got in there during the Blues Fest. There were like a million people down there, but just one in the fountain. Of course this cop was like, “Get the fuck out of there! What are you thinking?” I was like, “I don’t know. I’m fried, dude.”

Bill – Do you have any comments regarding the rumors connecting members of Green Day to the mysterious band known as The Network?

Tré – The only connection is that their record was on Adeline, which is a label run by Billie Joe’s wife. That’s a few degrees of separation if you ask me. I think they’re getting a lot of mileage out of telling people they’re Green Day or pretending to be Green Day. The Network is not Green Day. Bastards.

Bill – Growing up I know that bands like the Ramones and The Who were very influential for you. What’s it like to now be one of the biggest influences on an entire generation of punk bands?

Tré – It’s kind of wild. Especially when younger bands meet you and they’re all nervous and stuff. You sort of get a little paternal with it, like “Ah…my children.” I feel like Michael Landon from Little House on the Prairie.

Bill – What has been the hardest part about achieving all the success you’ve attained?

Tré – I think you can pretty much choose what you want to deal with. You can choose for it to be difficult or you can enjoy it. It’s kind of up to the person.

Bill – After seven albums, what aspects of punk rock are still fresh and exciting to you?

Tré – I like seeing new bands. Bands that aren’t carbon-copied pop punk bands. Bands like Dillinger Four fuckin’ excite me. I think the Rock Against Bush compilation is a pretty damn good CD. There are some older bands on there that are still going strong and some younger bands that are real fresh and exciting too.

Bill – What does the future hold for Green Day?

Tré – I think whatever we put out next has got to be really fuckin’ good. After American Idiot we set the bar so high. It’s kind of like, “Now what are we going to do?”

#i've never heard of this zine before but i guess it ended in 2004 #article #articles #interview #tre cool

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5oclockcoffees · 3 years

Text

Fahrenheit 451

With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. "When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule-book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its own. Then motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass. And because they had mass, they became simpler. Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me? Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending. Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more. Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic? Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought! School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts? Empty the theatres save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, don't you, Montag? More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refuge. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before. Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat-lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic-books survive. And the three-dimensional sex-magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these. Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean. [There was a girl next door. She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How? How did she happen?] Here or there, that's bound to occur. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely `brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the Theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment." We always talk about 1984 and Brave New World as the dystopias we are living in today, but Ray Bradbury´s book, written in the early 50s, is scarily accurate, describing perfectly and especially the last three/four years.

#Fahrenheit 451 #Ray Bradbury #1984 #Brave New World

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miafic · 4 years

Text

Fall AU (Part 14)

first ~ prev

// trigger warning for detailed suicidal behavior // it might be fun to go back and read part one of this before you start! just a little memory refresher :)

---

Lucas spends the next few days lying on the floor in the garage with the car parked in the driveway. The man leaves it there after a while, because Lucas asks him multiple times a day to move it, and it’s easier for both of them to let it sit it outside.

Whenever Lucas is in the house, he grabs a pen and draws the garage door track. He thinks about it, talks about it, and dreams about it, but most of all, he draws it. Small and alone, but still somehow thick and dark. He scribbles it on page after page of his notebook, not straight, not always the right distance over, but close enough, the black ink rubbed so hard into the paper that it curves the page.

Sometimes he mutters to himself, a stream of words that don’t really make sense. “Step, stool, spagehtti, stove. Step, stool, spaghetti, stove.”

“You’re scaring me,” the man confesses quietly to him on the second evening, but Lucas doesn’t stop drawing, doesn’t stop whispering under his breath. It’s the only thing that makes any sense to him. And now, the answers are on the tip of his tongue.

He sees the line everywhere. He sees it in the door when he’s standing in the shower and in the leash when he’s on a walk with Baby. He sees it in the fork he’s holding while he’s eating stuffed Alfredo shells for dinner at a restaurant.

Lucas’ dad insists on paying and then leaves after the meal, headed for the airport in an Uber. Lucas kisses him on the cheek what must be a hundred times. The man kisses him on the cheek, too, but only once, and although the man cries, Lucas doesn’t feel much of anything. They hold hands in the car. As soon as they get home, Lucas lies down on the ground.

“I'm going back to work,” the man says when he comes into the garage a few hours later. “Please don’t fall asleep out here. You need to go inside soon so you can take care of Baby, okay?”

“Kay.”

“Okay.”

Lucas leans up and kisses the man’s jaw before he can be stopped. He lays back down and looks at the line again.

The man smoothes Lucas’ messy hair down. “Don’t stay up all night,” he whispers.

“Kay.”

“Oh, I’m worried about this,” the man hums. “Maybe I should cancel-”

“I’ll be fine,” Lucas promises. “Step, stool, spaghetti, stove.”

“You call me. For anything, okay? And I’m gonna call you or text you, and I’m nervous, so I want you to answer as soon as you can.” He waits a beat while Lucas keeps talking to himself. “Lucas.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Um…”

“When I text you or call you, I need you to answer, okay?”

“Yeah.”

The man stays crouched beside him for a little bit and then says, “If I get you a blanket, will you fall asleep out here?”

Lucas nods.

“Okay, then I won’t.” He brushes his hand over Lucas’ hair again. “I love you.”

Lucas lights up. “I love you, too!”

The man kisses his own fingertips and then uses them to lightly tap Lucas’ cheek, and Lucas presses them closer. They’re warm and full of love, just like Lucas’ heart.

---

Lucas wakes in the dark, his left hand clenched into a loose fist. With his right foot, he kicks to find the thing that was there before, but he’s met only with air.

Baby lets out a sigh next to him, and he’s thankful for her warmth. The garage is freezing.

“Where is it?” he asks her, sitting up and squinting into the darkness for whatever it is that’s supposed to be there but isn’t. She makes a crying sound, and it kicks him into gear. “Are you cold? Let’s go.” Together, they walk into the house. “The door was wide open,” he tells her. “You could have just come back if you were cold.” The warmth hits him, and it feels thick and heavy around him. He can feel it pressing down on his arms.

His phone is sitting on the counter displaying six text messages from Zakk (That’s the man’s name, Lucas reminds himself), their tone increasingly worried. I’m ok, he writes back.

Did you fall asleep out there???? comes the reply, and Lucas realizes that it’s past 2 AM.

Lucas isn’t sure how to respond, so he just says, I’m going to bed now. And he does. He goes up the stairs, muttering, “Step, stool, spaghetti, stove. Step, stool, spaghetti, stove,” and gets right into bed without brushing his teeth. Baby curls up against him, and he wraps an arm around her. He closes his eyes.

---

Lucas dreams that he’s back in the garage, sitting on the floor. Baby is at his feet, chewing on a thick, tan rope. He allows it for a bit but then realizes something. “No!” he says sharply. “That’s mine.” He yanks it away from her, drapes it over his shoulders.

She whines, and he tells her, “You can’t play with this; I need it.”

She whines louder, and Lucas opens his eyes. Baby is standing at the door, begging for something with her eyes.

Oh. He hadn’t let her out before they went to bed.

He forces himself out from beneath the covers and over to the door. He lets her lead him downstairs and to the back door, which he opens for her.

“Step, stool, spaghetti, stove. Step, stool, spaghetti, stove. Step, stool, spaghetti, stove.”

He wonders if the man has a step stool. Maybe in the garage. He wanders back out to look for one. He gets distracted and stares up at the garage door track until Baby barks to be let in, and Lucas goes to get her. He pours food in a bowl, following the illustrated directions that the man has left for him, and then heads back out to the garage in search of a stepladder.

They don’t have a lot of things stored, so it only takes Lucas a second to locate it. The rope from his dream is hanging over it, and Lucas suddenly gasps for air, feeling as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He stumbles back a step as memories assault him.

---

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

He’s climbing onto the stepladder.

---

“I’m pouring from an empty cup!” he yells hoarsely at the wall. “What am I supposed to do?! I don’t have anything left! Is this what you want?! Is this what-?” He breaks off, hot tears spilling over. He surprises himself by sobbing once, twice, again and again and again, loud and open-mouthed, the noise coming straight from his chest. He is a broken man. When he became this way, he doesn’t know. It happened so slowly.

“I’m done with this shit!” he shouts, bitter and spitting. The words feel good as they leave his lips. He smears the tears on his cheeks with his sleeves. “I’m done! I have nothing left! I don’t care anymore!”

He laughs a little and repeats quietly to himself in surprise, “I’m done.” For the first time in what feels like forever, he smiles. The curve of his mouth feels foreign on his face, and he reaches up to touch it.

Smiling. Wow.

“I’m done,” he decides in a whisper, and the sentence is followed by another laugh. He crashes back against the bed, laughing and laughing. The relief is unlike anything he’s ever felt.

It only lasts a few moments, though. Now that he’s made up his mind, there are preparations that need to be made.

---

He’s looking up, up, up. It makes him a little dizzy.

---

Bags of belongings thrown away in dumpsters. Clothes donated. Papers sorted. Books sold online - if anyone knows that every penny counts, it’s Lucas, and although they’re living fairly comfortably, Zakk could use the money.

Lists are written: how and when to pay the bills, passwords for accounts, what information is in which folders (tax info, passports, the deed to the house, the wills, etc.).

He decides not to leave a personal note to anyone, and that relieves some of the pressure.

Lucas finishes off the white grape juice from the fridge one morning and doesn’t add it to the grocery list. Zakk doesn’t like it, so if they buy more, there will be no one there to drink it. He goes shopping anyway, though, and stocks up on everything Zakk could need - as many non-perishable and long-lasting food and ingredients as he can find, multiple containers of toothpaste and laundry detergent and dishwasher tabs, mega-packs of toilet paper and napkins and paper towels. It takes him more than ten minutes to unload the car and put everything away when he gets home, but he doesn’t mind; this is his last act of service, providing Zakk with daily necessities that he can use in case he doesn’t have the strength to go out and get them himself.

Then, satisfied, he takes Baby to the dog park, where he spends the whole afternoon in a coat and a hat, watching her happily run around and dig some holes. Before they leave, they jog the trail not once but twice. Lucas doesn’t really feel up to it, but it makes her happy. He can’t bear to tell her in words that he’s leaving, so this is his goodbye.

---

He leans back, tugs hard. A test.

---

Lucas drops Baby off at home and goes back out to pick up some flowers, which he drops into Zakk’s favorite vase in the kitchen. Zakk will be home soon. Lucas is simultaneously excited to see him and dreading it.

Their last night.

The love of Lucas’ life, the sun to his moon, all he ever wanted. And he’s throwing it away.

Lucas hesitates… and then reminds himself that it’s better for both of them this way.

He goes out to the garage, looks up at the reinforced steel track, and then glances over where the stepladder is wedged. The rope is draped over it, and just seeing it makes him instantly feel better.

Zakk gets home a few minutes later. He loves the flowers, and he gives Lucas a long and much-needed hug. Lucas orders a pizza. They watch an episode of Game of Thrones and then the first several minutes of Dirty Dancing, which plays in the background while Lucas slowly fucks Zakk on the couch, focused on giving him the best orgasm of his entire life. Zakk cries out as he hits his climax, fingers digging hard into Lucas’ tan skin. Lucas cums seconds after him and lies down right there on his chest. Zakk rubs his back and kisses his head. Lucas holds onto Zakk’s middle, praying that Zakk won’t be too upset when, in less than twenty-four hours, he finds out that they’ll never see each other again.

They fall asleep in the usual way, with Lucas curled around Zakk’s body, and in a blink, the night is over. Lucas wakes in the morning with Zakk’s alarm like he often does to make Zakk a cup of coffee while Zakk gets ready for work. By the time Zakk comes downstairs, the coffee is piping hot and ready to go, and Lucas spends a few minutes asking about the plan for the day and telling him he loves him and wishing him a nice time at Peace and Purpose.

“You doing okay?” Zakk asks him, the same question he asked the night before.

“Yeah.”

Zakk nods and then smiles a little. Hesitantly, he offers, “I can tell you’re getting better.”

Lucas has to stop himself from laughing. He’s less than an hour away from death, but to someone who’s not privy to his darkest thoughts, yeah, Lucas looks a hell of a lot better than he did a week or so ago.

They share one last, sweet kiss, and Zakk is out the door.

Lucas feels empty.

Lucas wants to scream and sob.

Lucas feels relief.

He uses the restroom in hopes of making things better for the people who will inevitably come deal with his corpse, and then he fills Baby’s water bowl to the brim. He calls for her and forces a smile as she comes rushing up to him, tail wagging. He scoops her up, all fifty pounds of her, and holds her for a long time, just breathing in her smell and petting her soft hair. Trying to memorize the feeling of how content she is to be with him.

At least she won’t understand what happened. She’ll forget him soon enough, and so will everyone else. The world doesn’t stop for anyone.

“I love you, Baby. Take care of Zakk for me. And… find me when it’s your turn,” Lucas whispers to her, the same words he’d had to restrain himself from whispering to Zakk that morning. He kisses her head, sets her back down, and slips into the garage, trying to ignore her pouty face when he closes the door so that she can’t follow.

On autopilot, he backs his car into the driveway and gets the stepladder, which he opens and secures but doesn’t climb onto.

Baby scratches at the door for a bit but then gives up.

Lucas still just stands there, thinking. He grows dizzy, and his body feels hot.

“What am I doing?” he finally whispers. All he can think of is some cop showing up at Peace and Purpose and asking for Zakk and telling him what happened-

“What the hell am I doing?” he asks again, a little louder.

He goes back inside, heart pounding. Baby stays beside him as he walks to the couch, and when he sits down, she climbs up next to him. Uncharacteristically, she walks onto his lap and takes a seat on top of him. He presses his face into her chest, loosely hugging her.

“Get me through til Zakk comes home,” he pleads.

She is silent, but she doesn’t budge. He doesn’t think that she knows what was going to happen, but he can tell that she knows something is wrong.

And something is wrong.

---

It’s not right. Further…

---

Zakk texts in the afternoon asking if Lucas wouldn’t mind making a pasta casserole for dinner. Lucas is glad to have a task to complete, something to offer Zakk as an apology for what he’d almost done to himself, to both of them. He makes the casserole, and he’s so fucked up from that morning that he completely forgets the salt, which he only realizes after the thing’s been baking in the oven for several minutes with cheese melting on top. He has time and ingredients, though, so he just scrapes the noodles out and rinses the dishes he’d used and makes the whole thing over again.

When Zakk gets home, he throws together a little salad for them to split and tells him that the pasta casserole is delicious. Lucas can tell that he means it. He feels a little better.

---

Lucas leans.

---

They have sex that night in a way that Lucas could only describe as making love. He does the thing that Zakk adores where he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” in time with their movements right before it ends, and when they’re done, Zakk lies on Lucas’ chest and listens to his heartbeat until he falls asleep. Lucas stays up, staring at the ceiling and thinking hard until he decides to go through with his original plan. He gave himself the extra day that he needed to come to terms with things, and now he’s ready.

Lucas makes Zakk a big cup of coffee again in the morning and bids him a good day, telling him twice that he loves him. It doesn’t feel final the way it had the day before. It doesn’t feel real at all.

Zakk leaves, and Lucas goes out to the garage, where he moves his car and positions the stepladder back beneath the track.

The door to the house is open, and Baby stands anxiously in the archway, staring. Lucas doesn’t mind; he’s not doing anything violent right now. There are a few more things he needs to take care of first, like using the bathroom and changing into the clothes he picked out and filling Baby’s water bowl and making sure that all the doors are locked.

He climbs onto the first platform of the stepladder and swings the rope up over the track, uses both hands to give it a tug. It seems fine.

Lucas shifts his weight forward, climbing up to the next step. He swiftly fashions the rope into the right knot - the one he’s looked at on and off online for years - and slips his arm through it to test it. He puts some pressure on the rope, and it holds. More pressure… it holds, but the track creaks.

“Hm,” Lucas mutters, and he undoes the rope and leans back on the stepladder, wanting to center it more. He can reach the middle if he just leans back a bit… Okay, a little more… He should probably move the stepladder, but it’s fine, it’s close enough. He just needs to reach another inch or two-

---

Lucas falls.

---

Lucas wakes on the floor in a world of pain. He came out here at seven AM, but now the sun is sinking, and he wonders confusedly what’s going on, how he got here. He stares, for what feels like hours, straight up at the garage door track until the image of the vertical line it makes on the ceiling is burned into his brain.

After a while, he becomes aware that Baby is on his left with one of her paws resting on his stomach. He sits up slightly and groans from the intense ache in his head. The world is spinning, and Lucas wonders briefly if he might vomit, but he doesn’t.

The rope is still clenched in his left hand. Baby has the other end of the rope between her teeth.

Lucas gets to his feet, accidentally kicking the stepladder in the process. The rattling it makes as it slides a few inches across the floor hurts his head, which makes him grit his teeth, which hurts his head more, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the cycle of pain. He pushes it away, though, and mindlessly puts the rope and stepladder back where they’d been, drives the car back into the garage, goes inside the house, and takes four Advil at once. Zakk gets home not too long after.

Lucas takes a nap and wakes up not knowing his name.

---

PRESENT

With a gasp, Lucas pulls back to himself.

“Oh, my god,” he breathes. He looks down at Baby with wide eyes. “What the hell have I done?”

#lucas #zakk #fall au #baby #tw

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spaceybot · 4 years

Text

The Lunar Sanctuary: Part II

Following the Operator’s small confession, Simaris flaunts the Sanctuary. But it's not like he cares about the Operator's well-being.

It doesn't matter: the Operator has a field day with it.

[PART I]

No sooner had Cephalon Simaris finished speaking did the misty sky tear itself open before their eyes to reveal a starscape of violet and magenta. They can barely even register the rapidly shifting datascape. Not waiting for their senses to catch up, the new world extinguishes the brightness of the old. The Operator rises to their feet in fear of falling blindly. There is no ground anymore. It’s dark save for the two pitchers and the sky with its glowing stars hanging overhead. But it doesn’t stay dark much longer.

One by one clusters of flowers burst from the ground, all glowing the same blue-white of the Lunar Pitchers. Despite their uniform color, the flowers and leaves are all different lengths and shapes and sizes. Soon the original two Lunar Pitches are completely lost in a thick field of endless digital blooms.

They’re standing in a flower field of light. A garden without border.

The Operator looks in every direction, pivoting on their feet in disbelief. This place. It almost seems too much for the computational limits of Sanctuary: the tips of the digital flowers occasionally glitch and then chip off, ascending into the fake sky like a microscopic lantern until the light dies. They reach down in curiosity to pluck a flower from the ground by its stem, and to their surprise the ground yields, granting them a blossom with open petals and a hair-like stem.

“You’ve...outdone yourself.” They say, their voice incredulous beyond control. “Why?”

“Is it not obvious, Hunter?” Simaris says, taking care to sound extra inconvenienced. Though he is physically nowhere to be found, his words seem to come from everywhere at once. It makes sense: this is his realm. “It is you I now study and must preserve. Allowing you to fall from top efficiency ratings does not fall within my interests!”

The Operator makes a face at that. A very Simaris answer, but they’ll take what they can get. Besides. This place is beautiful. Unreal. Not too cold. And to think Simaris, hater of music and fun, had created it. They’re grateful for this. Before they know it, the Cephalon’s voice is starting up again, a touch quieter but just as grating.

“You have served Sanctuary well...recent performances withstanding. Now let it aid you, so that you may return to our shared endeavor!” He lectures. “This is a privilege.”

They sigh. Cephalon Simaris is many things, most of them negative, but even the Operator can’t deny that he is no slouch in the gratitude department. Compensation, reward, pay. All of it was a must for Simaris.

When they sense that he is done speaking, they begin to explore. It takes everything to not just dart off in a random direction like an insect. Instead they walk, constantly looking around them at the lunar field.

Soon they find a dense cluster of wildly diverse flowers with long, thin stems. They inspect the patch with wonder, and then with barely, barely contained excitement, the Operator lowers themselves to pick more and more flowers with long stems, until they have a bundle. It's an entire quest. Bringing the bouquet up closer to their warframe’s face they find that it has no scent. Instead, they placate themselves by imagining a sweet perfume, one that grows stronger with every flower they add to their growing bunch. Gather them all, their brain commands.

This flower picking task takes them several meters in different stretches across the gently glowing field. When they have enough, they flop down on their back. They know Simaris is watching, or rather irritatedly supervising. It doesn't matter. Here they are exposed to everything, everyone, not least of all Cephalon Simaris, and they don’t particularly care. With great determination, they get to work weaving the stems together.

“I lied, you know.” They tell him, flat on the ground with their hands raised to their eye level. They are too focused on their job. “Fighting’s not the only thing I know how to do. I can also do this!”

After a few seconds of silence to tie off the loop, the Operator triumphantly lifts their creation high into the air: a shoddily-made circlet comprised of of digital flowers, the stems woven together. It might fit a wrist. They slip it through their warframe’s arm and hold their hand out, exaggeratedly inspecting their new accessory at every angle.

It’s quiet here. They can easily pretend that there’s nothing wrong with the world. If they had a choice, they’d stay here forever: force the Sanctuary to live up to its name. The Operator brings their hand back down to rest on their stomach, and settles for stargazing, surrounded entirely by data flowers. They nearly lose track of time, until they suddenly remember something. They paw at the ground in search of it. Here.

“I made an extra one.” The Operator calls, shooting their hand up from the ground where they lay with a matching circlet in their fist (their first failed attempt). To anyone standing up it would like a hand coming off the floor out of nowhere. “Want it?”

Simaris actually grumbles at them, or at least as close to a grumble as he’s willing to go.

“What use do I have of such meaningless things?”

They assume that that’s the end of it. They don’t actually expect Simaris to manifest, contrary to his words. But in the corner of their eye they see a flash of orange light weaving itself together into a coherent form. The Operator scrambles to a sitting position in mild alarm.

It takes no more than three seconds for Simaris to take a humanoid shape. His proxy has no features. It is just a tall, orange ghost of a person. His face is a blank, empty visor. His body is made of threads of moving light. They watch as he inspects his own hands for a moment before folding them behind his back.

“A primitive form. It is a curse to exist in a frame so...limiting.”

Simaris approaches, rigidly, moving to meet them where they sit, though he stands six feet apart for some reason. When he’s as close as he wants to be, they scrutinize him from afar. They can register the ever so slight tip of his head, as if he were taking in their surprise and dare they say, smugly reveling in it.

“Do you see now, Tenno?” He asks, patronizing them. “This is the Sanctuary. It is capable of even more.”

“Really? Is that why you chose such a basic and ‘primitive’－” they punctuate the word with air quotes. “－form?”

The question seems to catch him off guard.

“No. It is only because I had a desire to experience the vantage point of my synthesis targets.”

They glance around once more at the impressive picture around them. Was the Sanctuary capable of more? The sky, the field of moving flowers, the simulated breeze and constantly moving particles. It takes up memory and space. And then there’s Simaris: standing in probably the simplest form he could render with what’s left of the Sanctuary's processing power. The scene he had set here was likely just as taxing on the systems as a full battle with a million projectiles and objects to track, collisions to monitor. He must be trying to maintain efficiency through conservation. That’s their theory, anyway.

“I dunno. I think I know by now that you have a flair for the dramatic. You could have chosen anything” They tease, regardless. “Look around. All I was hoping for was a few planter boxes.”

“How predictable of you, Tenno, to think within the confines of a box. ” The sneer comes from the mouthless Proxy now instead of from the unknown, diminishing the harshness of it all. They don’t take his words to heart: a box is all they’ll ever know.

Despite it all, the Operator chuckles, mockingly holding up their circlet as a peace offering; a thank you gift. The Cephalon gives no indication of acknowledgement of the truce until he reaches out with one hand, as if to accept it...despite still being several feet away. They bite down a remark and nearly jump out of their warframe when the circlet begins to leave their hands to levitate towards Simaris’. The silky petals brush against their fingertips on their way out, though they can hardly feel the texture. It floats to Simaris’ palm like a magnet, and once it is there he closes his fist around it, still looking at the Operator all the while.

He finally peers down at the circlet, already simulating a crumbling state due to the graceless force of Simaris’ hold. The Proxy opens its grip and lets the circlet rest around the base of its fingers.

“...Fascinating.”

The words come out betraying nothing. No sarcasm, but nothing genuine either. Just pure neutrality. The Operator sighs.

“This is all amazing but...I’m ready to leave now, Simaris.” It’s a lie, one they forced out only because they just didn't want to make him sustain this place for them any longer. A tiny frown slips onto their feature. In fact, this whole thing? Probably just a parlor trick to extol the “virtues” of Sanctuary, to restore his Hunter’s efficacy. He probably doesn’t care. Not Simaris－

The Proxy shifts its gaze to look at them.

“Heed my warning, Hunter: you are not to participate in Onslaught until a sufficient period of time has passed.”

They blink in their transference seat.

“What?” The Operator says. “Are you...forcing me to take a break? Are you serious? This is a joke.”

“A joke? Spare me this nonsense.” Simaris scoffs. “I have no humor precepts.”

Sure, maybe they could use a break, being burnt out and all, but work is how they relax! Right? In desperation, they push themselves up to their feet just to see Simaris’ shell still in the same position, not backing down whatsoever.

“But－”

“－Enough. Every other task remains open to you.”

The Operator raises one finger both in protest and to tell him to “wait just a moment.” They even open their mouth to strike a bargain, trudging closer to where he stands. But soon they slow down: their body is being pulled from the simulation, collapsing in on itself in order to reconstruct outside. Simaris is booting them from the Sanctuary! The nerve. His Proxy stands the same as before, but now somehow radiating an inexplicably smug aura.

The. Nerve.

Simaris tips his head in faint acknowledgement of their struggle. In horror, the Operator realizes that it had also been a parting gesture. He folds his hands behind his back.

“Hunter. Return to me when it is finished.”

With that, Cephalon Simaris ejects them from the datascape.

#warframe #cephalon simaris #simaris #warframe fanfic #warframe operator #heck yeah I wrote Simaris like an OOC tsundere

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choileon · 4 years

Photo

( ASTORIA TASK #3: ALTERNATE UNIVERSES )

sliding doors ( self-paras )

warnings: death, murder, abuse, blood, violence, imprisonment, pregnancy, bad writing

mentions: zakary prashad, moonji min, minamoto no osamu, aleyna greer

Has it ever crossed your mind? That perhaps, somewhere else, we all live a different life, with different relationships... in another world? --- Train, 2020.

--- ( universe #1: learn to hate ) ---

Open cell 58!

The clanking sound of the metal gates had always given him a skull-piercing headache. He blamed it on the heavy annulling spells that surrounded the prison. Within each brick on the walls, to the fences around it, lights, windows… everything in there, there was a spell to cancel out everyone’s powers. Vampires had their supernatural strength and speed canceled out. Same for werewolves and shapeshifters. Humans didn’t need spells in the first place, so they didn’t feel any difference.

His block was one designated to violent criminals, and he had to say, he was one of the quiet ones in there. The warlock looked up from the book he’d been reading all week when a guard stepped inside, wearing protective gear that had been magically made to cancel out the annulling spells, thus enabling their powers. It was a smart move, he reckoned. Less dangerous for everyone. Human rights activists were certainly thankful for that—well, human rights was a way of putting it.

The guard prompted him up from his bed with the stern attitude that was required from prison guards anywhere in the world. The warlock rolled his eyes at the demand as he adjusted his glasses and abided to the man’s request, standing up from his bed and stretching out his arms to have his hands cuffed to his ankles. His powers might have been cancelled, but physical assaults were still a thing, and dangerous criminals were usually violent. Many had hit the guards before, so, this was a simple precaution.

He was brought to the visitation room, where other prisoners, each sat on round tables and chat with their loved ones. His eyes landed on a table where a single person sat, staring out at the bars behind the window near him. The same person that stood up when the prisoner approached him.

“Mr. Locke.”

He said, drawing out his hand, to which, the warlock showed his own hands, cuffed together and with a chain tying them to his ankles, making it impossible for him to return the gesture and shake hands.

“Right. Um… my name is Zakary Prashad and I’m a journalist for the Astoria Times.” The journalist produced a business card and slid it across the table, before both him and the warlock sat down. “I’m writing a piece on violent crimes that have happened in Astoria in the last twenty years and was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”

The warlock glanced over at the card, before shifting his gaze up to the journalist and shrugged. “You’re already here, so it’s not like I have a choice, is it?” A smirk appeared on his lips, fingers lacing on the table as he leaned in.

Zakary asked if he could record their conversation, to which he received a positive answer to, and so, he pulled out the little note book he’d carry everywhere, where he’d written some questions and started reading from his own scribbles.

“So… Leon Locke… twelve years ago, you murdered your entire coven in cold blood. Including your parents and sibling. What led you to do it?”

His tongue traced his bottom lip. It was almost as if he could still remember having his face and name covering every newspaper and magazine in the district. The flashes were blinding, mixed with the amount of drugs he had in his bloodstream at the time, they made everything much worse. In a way, it was almost funny that someone had decided to write a piece on him, because, although he was considered himself to be a violent criminal, Leon had never been more at peace than behind those walls. The blood in his hands had been justified. He had the right to do it. They had taken everything from him, he was simply returning the favor.

“I felt like it.”

A short answer, followed by a shrug of his shoulders. That same smirk went back to his lips, as if to pester the journalist.

“Records show that you came to your coven meeting one day, bringing several knives with you and, in a fit of rage, used your powers to kill them all in cold blood. Is that true?” Zakary tried once again.

“If you already have the information, then why are you wasting your time, asking me to tell you what happened?” Leon fired back.

“I wanted to hear your version of it.”

Beside giving his own confession in court, Leon hadn’t had the media approaching him, wanting to know his version of the story. They were all quick to judge, to paint him as a heartless monster, and with all honesty, he couldn’t care less about the titles, but knowing that someone was willing to listen was actually—entertaining.

There was a long pause between Zakary’s words and until Leon decided to share his version of what happened. Enough time for him to think this through and if it was worth going back to that night and reliving all of that once again. He hadn’t thought about that night in a while, so, his memories could be a little hazy. Especially since it had been a drug-induced rage fit.

“People tend to think that my adoptive mother was a saint.” He began. “You know… stellar citizen, bright smile, paid her taxes… all that shit. I guess everyone becomes a saint if they’re murdered… But I don’t remember a single day where that woman didn’t abuse me. Mentally, physically, psychologically… take your pick. For 20 years she was the devil in disguise, offering smiles to others while making me suffer at home.”

He paused, his dark hues moving up to the clock on the wall. They didn’t have much time left, maybe Leon could take advantage of it. Maybe he could just refuse to see Zakary the next time. “I started using drugs to numb the pain. Not the usual legal shit like weed. The heavy stuff so I could pass out and not think about it. Ever tried anything?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

Prude. Leon thought to himself.

“This one day, I come home—I was 18, by the way. So, I come home from a late soccer practice and Althea’s talking to her ancestors about how murdering my real parents hadn’t done anything for her yet. How sacrificing them hadn’t given her the power she was promised.” His smirk turned into a thin-lipped, tainting smile to Zakary as Leon tilted his head to the side. “That’s not something one would like to hear, right? So, I started planning to leave that house. I stopped going to coven meetings and became more recluse. I relied more on drugs and less on people. I lost my scholarship to college because I didn’t past the drug test, so of course, they had to notify Althea and her husband. And of course, I was punished for it.”

Leaning over the table, the smirk was back on his lips.

“Would you like the details of how she hexed me?” Although he asked, Leon didn’t leave much room for an answer. “One day, two years later, I finally gave in. It was a full moon… one that messed up with the witches’ powers, so that, mixed with the drugs?” He whistled, in order to illustrate his feelings. “I finally exploded…”

He let out a dark chuckle as he stared at his hands, as if he could feel that same power emanating from his fingertips. Flashes of that night filled his mind. The glory and gore of that night and the relief he felt while energy was pulsating through his veins. He could feel their blood splatting on his skin, painting him red while he screamed in anger. In agony.

One of the guards pulled him up, also pulling Leon out of his trance while announcing that visitation time was over.

“Yeah, I killed them all…” Leon said while looking at Zakary, a teasing smirk toying on his fleshy lips. “And you know what—I don’t regret any of it.” He leaned in so that only the journalist would hear it, before the guard pulled him away.

“Come back next week!” He shouted, while being dragged out of the visitation room. “Don’t miss me too much!”

--- ( universe #2: wrong side of heaven ) ---

There were too many people crying around him. He needed a break.

That was what Leon told himself as he stepped out of the wake room and headed outside for a minute. At least, the sounds of a busy Seoul would help him keep his mind on track. The striped band on his right arm, indicating he had lost someone and was in mourning, made people bow in respect whenever they walked past him. Sure, Leon appreciated the gesture, but it wasn’t like he was sad. In so many ways, he was thankful for the loss of his mother. The old woman was becoming more of a nuisance in her old days, than anything else. His father, far too busy juggling between guiding a coven and taking care of his senile wife to care about how Leon led his life, nor how dark magic was still a constant in their lives. Despite all it had taken in order to restore the balance of nature.

Leon took a drag from his cigarette, then tugging on the sleeve of his perfectly tailored suit while his eyes observed the movement of the city. Fast-paced cars, people coming and going as the lights went from red to green, then red again. He had come a long way since his childhood in Busan. A time where feelings were still present in his life. Now, he walked around Seoul as an empty shell, all thanks to the years of dealing with dark magic. He had never intended to start meddling with it. Not really. But from watching his mother practice it, he became curious. When the darkness lured him in, the tempting claws making offers he couldn’t deny, Leon didn’t resist.

It had given him everything in this world: power, influence, more money, coven members that followed him blindly as if he was some sort of god instead of his own head priest… but it had stripped him naked from harboring any feelings or dealing with emotions, which, the way he saw it, was nothing in comparison to what he’d gained. At least it had kept his sanity and youth, which was more than he could say for his mother, who decayed in months what most people did in decades.

The future was going to present him with a coven that Leon wasn’t certain he wanted in the first place. Sure, Leon was a natural-born leader, but his ideals were far from what most witches in his father’s coven wanted to hear. Now, he thought more of himself as a one-man army, rather than anything else. Chances were, he would most likely end up dissolving his father’s coven. Like mentioned before, most witches didn’t exactly agree with his thoughts, and the ones he found that actually agreed on witches being superior beings, turned out to be as greedy as him, which—was something Leon didn’t have time to waste with. Not when it meant what it usually did: a childish fight to decide who was the most powerful witch. He had no quarrel with fellow witches and their agenda of who’s coven was the most powerful. His problem was with humans. The ones that had burned his ancestors at the stake and forced his kind to live in secrecy.

Evolution, like one of their humans had presented so magnificently, was about the survival of the fittest. Evolution had given witches powers for a reason, to place them above any puny human, so how dare they think of themselves as the ones who should be out there, enjoying their lives while the witches hid in fear for their lives and practiced their magic in secrecy? Yes, Leon had found it fair to take matters into his own hands, thus carrying a lot of blood in them, but, the way he presented his case to his coven members whenever the topic would surface, had painted him as their hero and not a murderer. Why should they be the ones suffering? Magic ran in their veins, it made them three steps above humans. Like they should have always been. Why should they be the ones fighting for their lives? Humans shoulder fear witches, not the other way around.

“Yeobo.”

A voice pierced through his thoughts and it made Leon clench his jaw as the woman wrapped her arms around his middle and searched for his eyes. His mother’s last wish, was for him to marry a nice woman in order to continue their family’s legacy, and despite having done what she had asked for, Leon felt nothing for this woman. She was nice. Beautiful, smart, very interested and invested in the coven… He could see she cared for him, loved him even, which almost made him wish he cared enough to want her to find someone more suitable, someone who would reciprocate her love, but said feeling was not there.

“Are you okay? Abeonim is asking about you.”

“I came out to smoke. I’ll be there soon.”

His wife planted a kiss on his cheek and returned to the funeral home. Leon stayed outside just long enough to take a last drag of his cigarette, before dropping it to the ground and smashing it with the sole of his shoe.

On his way back, he walked past another wake room. The commotion inside made him stop and look in. People were crying… louder than he wanted them to. Older people were always so loud, weren’t they? Death was an inevitable part of life. Plus, it wasn’t like the veil was thick enough that they had to scream like that.

Inside, a younger woman held onto an older one. The loud old lady.

The sign outside read Min Moon Bin. A name he’d never heard before, but then again, Leon couldn’t know everyone in Seoul. On one corner another young woman was curled up crying. She looked more exhausted than most in that room. A smiling face on that picture frame, was surrounded by flowers. The man had died young—he couldn’t have been older than Leon. Actually, he didn’t even look the warlock’s age. Leon, despite not being an empath, could feel the love filling the room. A mix of love and sadness.

The woman that had been holding onto someone that seemed to be her mother, acknowledged his presence by the entrance. She asked her father to come to her mother’s aid and approached Leon. Her eyes were red from crying, he noticed, but her face didn’t look wet. She had probably cried in secrecy, away from the crowd. For a brief second, he wondered if that made her feel better, before the thought dissipated in his mind.

“Thank you for coming.” She bowed, and Leon arched one brow. The fact that she was assuming he knew the deceased, was hilarious. Yet, he bowed as well, mostly out of respect. “Were you friends with my brother?”

“We worked together.”

He lied. Nobody ever really ask questions whenever work was involved. Especially family. One’s family almost always knew what they did for a living anyway. Plus, lying came so easy to him, that Leon almost believed himself.

“Oh…” The brunette paused. Leon was ready to give a random excuse and leave when she continued. “So… were you there when he had his accident?”

Work-related accident. Color him curious.

“No. I was traveling abroad.”

Another pause. Silence.

He needed to leave. This was too suffocating.

“I—”

“I’m Moonji.” They spoke at the same time and Leon decided to let her continue before he gave an excuse and left. She didn’t feel like a witch. Definitely supernatural, though. “I was his older sister.”

“Choi Lee Ahn.”

He offered one hand, the other touching his stomach from over his clothes, as a sign of respect. Once Moonji let go of his hand, Leon fished his phone from inside his pocket, thankful that it had started vibrating a couple of seconds ago and it provided him the perfect excuse to leave. The warlock waved the gadget at the brunette, pointing towards the exit before he stepped away to take the phone call.

It was his wife, once again looking for him.

Back in his own crowded wake room, Leon could definitely use a drink. He was about to head towards the eating area to open a bottle of soju when he felt someone touching his shoulder, prompting him to turn around.

“Excuse me.” Moonji said, as she pointed towards the band on his arm. “I just wanted to say... I’m sorry for your loss, too. You left before I could say anything.”

“Ah…” He replied, gaze going to his arm as well. “Thank you.”

Silence yet again. People were so exhausting to him. Strangers even more so. He just wanted his drink.

“You should go. I’m sure your family misses you.”

As rude as that might have been, Leon also knew that in times like these, people were far too inclined to offer a helping hand and well—he wasn’t in need. Death wasn’t as bad as people painted it out to be, and for someone like him, it was barely felt. Yet, Leon knew that for the world, he needed to keep on acting like he was affected by it. When he died, he knew many would miss him. Life in society had given him a wife, co-workers, a coven. Plus, he knew how to be charismatic enough to leave his mark in people’s life. Hopefully, none of these people would make a scene at his funeral, but he knew he would be missed. What difference that piece of knowledge had in his life? None whatsoever.

With that thought in mind, he popped open a bottle of soju, pouring himself a glass.

--- ( universe #3: beyond ) ---

It had been a busy day to Leon. From dealing with a minor crisis at the clinic first thing in the morning, to commuting all the way to Hull’s Island to pay his parents a visit, arriving home felt like a reward for such an eventful and emotionally charged day. It was his turn to buy dinner, but with his head about to explode, Leon figured they could just order something later that night.

The ring around his finger hung heavy that evening for some unknown reason and, as he made his way further inside his house, walking past several picture frames symbolizing his life achievements, that feeling slowly dissipated. From college graduations, to vacations with friends, coven meetings, witches’ celebrations, as well pictures from his wedding day, it was odd to think that Leon had everything he’d ever ask for and so much more. As respectable job, loyal friends, a loving wife who knew how to call him out when he was in the wrong, two adorable little cats who were probably hiding out somewhere in the house… all of it dawned upon him as some sort of gift. Maybe it was life’s way of paying him back for doing what he did all those years ago.

Upon calling out for his wife, the warlock was brought to the master suite, where her voice guided him to the bathroom. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her in the bathtub, extending an invitation to join her. Knowing himself, Leon was well aware that he could never say no to her, so, once he’d gotten rid of his clothes, he sat behind her, his arms immediately wrapping around her petite frame.

“How are they?”

She asked, resting her cheek against his arm, while Leon gently pushed her hair away in order to plant kisses along her shoulder.

“I’m not sure… I mean, as well as one would possibly be in prison, I guess.”

Most days, Leon still struggled to decide whether he still felt guilty about being the one to call the authorities on his parents or not. Ever since they had moved to Astoria, when he was still a child, Leon had witnessed both of his parents practicing dark magic. Much of it happened during his childhood, so it made sense that he wouldn’t remember it. He even thought they had stopped, that they wouldn’t be crazy enough to move to a country that treats practicing dark magic as a crime, and still practice it. However, when he realized that his parents had continued to consistently breaking the law, Leon was old enough to know right from wrong, thus, reporting his parents to the police and watching as they landed in jail this day, ten years ago.

His lips brushed softly against her skin, caressing her shoulders with their light touch. His hands traveled downward, resting on her growing bump, yet another shift in his reality, but one Leon welcomed happy. The baby she had been expecting hadn’t been at all planned. Knowing of his wife’s lack of desire to be a mother, Leon was just as surprised as she was when she mentioned being late. At first, there was confusion and desperation on both sides, but Leon figured that the burden was heavier for her. Communication was essential, and Leon was glad that he was able to make her know that no matter what, he would support any decision of hers. He’d never had strong wishes to become a parent either, but, in his mind, the difference between them was that unlike his wife, he wouldn’t say no if the chance presented itself.

Well, in the end, she ended up getting cold feet on their drive to Planned Parenthood a few months ago, and they eventually decided to keep the baby. In the end, they both accepted their reality when parenthood presented itself. They were happy without a child, and they could be happy with one too… it wasn’t like they were bad people to begin with. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t give their best.

“Don’t be mad, but…”

Leon began, and his wife was quick to complete his sentence.

“…But you forgot to buy dinner.”

His wife turned her head in order to face him, rolling her eyes playfully when their gaze met. The small gesture causing his heart to skip a beat while he traced patterns over her bump.

“I’m sorry. I’ll order something once we leave here, okay? Any special requests? What are you in the mood for?”

“Hmm… definitely something cheesy.” Scrunching her nose at him, she continued, leaning up to press a kiss on his lips. “Like you.”

Leon couldn’t help but to chuckle at her joke. He was a little cheesy, there was no way of denying that… his wedding vows would know. But he didn’t think it was that bad to be this open about his feelings and about how much he loved this woman. He’d give her the world if that’s what she wanted. They’d been married for a couple of years, dated for even longer, so he would take it as a sign that she didn’t mind his cheesy ways either. In order to get revenge for the joke, however, Leon took advantage of his hand’s positions and started tickling her for a brief moment. He lived for moments like these, where her laugh would echo through a room and recharge his dying batteries. Or simply… whenever they got to spend a moment in each other’s company, just sharing ideas about which part of the house they should renovate next or talking nonsense together.

The clinic he worked at was doing some renovations, so Leon was often updating her on its progress, as well as on the progress of a little Boston Terrier’s recovery that had been rescued from a situation of abuse and was being treated by Osamu, one of his co-workers. Whenever he could, Leon sent her pictures of him (the dog, not Osamu) and if it wasn’t for the baby growing in her womb, he was sure that the puppy would end up being adopted by them once he was ready to be adopted. They were already so invested in him... Sadly, they had different priorities at the moment, but hey—they would survive. For now, they were fine just looking at pictures. Leon also let her in on what had happened at the clinic earlier that day because during his lunch break, he hadn’t been able to give her much details on it. But these three cats had been brought in after being rescued from a house fire, and Leon, being as soft for cats as he was, of course felt like his energy had been quickly drained.

His wife left the bathtub before Leon did. Choosing to stay back for a few minutes more, Leon tried to make sense out of how he felt after visiting his parents in prison. He had made a habit out of it, but not one that would make him feel bad. Every year, not necessarily on that same day, he’d pay them a visit to see how they were doing. Now, without the temptations of dark magic surrounding them, they could understand why Leon had done it. Apparently, there was some sort of group counselling in prison, too. It helped lessen his burden, but in all honesty, it would never be easy to carry the weight of knowing you had been responsible for the imprisonment of one’s parents. With a sigh and once he was ready, Leon dried himself and wrapped a towel around his middle and made his way to the master bedroom.

His arms went around her petite frame again, taking in the scent of her exposed skin. Leon knew he wouldn’t be able to be where he was without her. No big sacrifices had been made in order for them to work, but he knew not to take for granted her constant support, especially when it came to sharing his burdens with her. It was something he did with hers as well, but Leon could only speak for himself.

Turning her around to face him, Leon offered her a small smile as he brushed her dark strands behind her ear. The light pink in her cheeks making him wonder if she was blushing or if she was just feeling hot due to her body’s adjustments to the new life it was carrying.

“Have I told you how much I love you, Aleyna?”

“Hm. How much do you love me?”

She was trying to act casual. Unbothered, even. Rolling her eyes and trying not to laugh at his antics, having known this type of conversation for a while now. It was actually pretty common between them. Common enough for Aleyna to know how to respond to it already.

“Ah… to the moon and back.” He said and she nodded, waving her hand at him as if asking for more examples. “As much as the stars in the sky.”

Finally, Aleyna scrunched her nose, sticking her tongue out at his response. She did say she wanted something cheesy.

“I love you more than I love our cats.”

“Right. Now I believe you.”

Ally chuckled, patting lightly on his chest as she tried to get away from his grasp, but Leon kept her from doing so. Crouching down a little, his arms went behind her thighs and he picked her up. One arm adjusted around her back, while the other guided one leg around his waist, hoping the other would follow. The motion caused his towel to drop to the floor, but he paid no mind to it. The walk to their bed was too short for him to care. Laying her down, he hovered on top of her.

“Are you happy?” Aleyna questioned while Leon caressed her hair.

He didn’t answer it at first. For a long time, it was hard for Leon to understand what happiness truly meant. For a long time, he didn’t know if he would ever be. Maybe life would find a way of punishing him for doing what he did to his parents. Was he a bad son? And if he were, what kind of parent would that make him? Time showed that it was possible to be happy. That he had a good life. Time had given him friends, his pets, a family in Aleyna and now, a baby. But was he happy?

“I am.”

Leon nodded slowly, ducking his head to rest his forehead against hers.

“I am. I really am. Are you?”

With that, he pulled away so he could look into her eyes. Aleyna made a silly face, pressing her lips together and crinkling her nose as she held her index finger and thumb at a short distance from one another.

“A little?” He replied with humor filling his voice, moving up to his knees in the space between her thighs and leaning down to press a kiss on her lips. “Just a little?” Leon teased, mimicking the motion of her fingers, before stealing another kiss. “I guess I should work harder then, right?” With that, he tugged on her legs, pulling her downward on the mattress and closer to him. A chuckle left his lips and was muffled by hers as he deepened their kiss.

Dinner could wait a little more.

#astoriatask #death tw #murder tw #imprisonment tw #blood tw #abuse tw #violence tw #lmao sorry ;-;#pregnancy tw

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honeymoonjin · 5 years

Text

A/N: a sequel to Seven (read it here). The boys return backstage to a shocking surprise. Special shout-out to my best girl @jeonau for this gorgeous banner. Her services are always appreciated and she deserves the world xx

The dressing room was in chaos when Jimin and Taehyung finally returned backstage. The two of them had stayed out a little longer to watch the fireworks, with no idea of the drama they were missing. All the other boys were bunched up in the far end, and Jimin couldn’t see past them to work out what exactly had caught their attention.

“What’s going on?” he calls out to nobody in particular, receiving no answer over the several layers of entangled conversation. The two of them hover on the outskirts of the group, trying to discern snippets of rushed speech.

“…thing is that she’s safe now and…”

“I know, but why can’t she just…”

“…not up for discussion.” It’s not until Sejin, who’s the one saying this, pulls away and notices them that they’re finally filled in. “Boys, you’re here. We’ve had a slight mishap-”

“Mishap?” Yoongi interrupts incredulously, a passionate fury across his face that is rarely seen on the normally-calm man. “A mishap? I come off stage and bump into my girlfriend in the corridor, bawling her fucking eyes out because you wouldn’t let her see us and that’s a mishap?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Namjoon eases quickly, “I’m as upset as you are, but-”

“Y/n’s here?” Taehyung interrupts, so softly the leader almost misses it. He furrows his eyebrows and pushes his way inwards, past his other members, Jimin following quickly behind. Behind the mass of people is a sofa, on it is their Y/n, shaking like a leaf, knees up to her chest. It was immediately obvious that she had been crying like Yoongi said; with puffy cheeks and a running nose, she looked absolutely miserable.

Jimin felt his heart twist. How long had she been like this when he wasn’t here? “What happened?” he asks of Jin, who’s currently sat beside her, rubbing her back and burying his chin in her hair to keep her head pressed against his chest. He smiles sadly and speaks over her sniffling. “Y/n came all the way here to surprise us. Manager Sejin wanted to send her back home because we’re so busy,” he fixes the older man with a disappointed glare, “but that wasn’t such a good idea. But it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs into Y/n’s here, “we’re here now. We’re all here. Look, do you wanna say hi to Jimin and Tae?”

Jimin’s heart breaks again when his girl looks up at them balefully, before her face crumples and she starts sobbing again, hands reaching out to them. Instinctively, he links his fingers in with hers on her right hand as Taehyung gets down on his knees in front of the couch to look up at her, his hands almost the size of her face when he brings them up to cup her cheek, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs.

“Baby, you flew all the way here to visit us?” Taehyung waits patiently as she tries to speak, produces nothing but snuffles, and nods instead. “It’s okay, you don’t have to cry, pretty girl. We missed you so much, but you’re here now. Everything’s okay now.”

She raises one hand up to lay it over one of his, squeezing tightly to anchor herself. Before she speaks, she clears her throat, and everyone subconsciously shifts closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking as it barely carries far enough for them to hear, “I didn’t mean to disrupt anything. I wanted to be here early, but the flight got delayed, and then when I got here, I couldn’t get through to you and-” she breaks off before she gets too overwhelmed, and takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily as Jin pulls her into a tighter hold, resuming the soothing circles on her back. Her morose eyes flicker over to Sejin, before falling back down to Taehyung’s much warmer gaze. “I had some good news to tell you guys, and I wanted to tell you in person, that’s all. I guess I didn’t think it through.”

It’s Hoseok that realizes what she’s saying first. His eyes go wide and his voice soft. “Y/n, are you…”

Jimin feels the grip on his hand get tighter, and he looks down at Y/n in confusion as she nods. “I’m pregnant,” she utters weakly, and Jimin’s heart stops.

Feeling like the world has slowed down to two frames a second, Jimin takes in the reactions of those around him even as his eyes begin to sting. Hoseok’s eyes are sparkling with wonder, just like Jungkook, whose mouth has formed a tight ‘o’ in surprise. Sejin has a disappointed turn to his mouth but his eyes show nothing but sympathy. Yoongi has a disbelieving smile playing at his lips, slowly spreading into the gummy smile Jimin could never get enough of. One of Taehyung’s hands had left Y/n’s face to cover his mouth, blinking up at her like she held all the stars in the universe in her eyes. Namjoon, for the most part, looked scared.

Once Jimin opens his mouth to speak, he tastes salt on his lips. He’s crying. “Are you really? We’re gonna have a baby?” Upon saying it, he gasps wetly and falls to his knees besides Taehyung, leaning on his broad shoulder for support.

Jin, who for the most part looked like he hadn’t reacted at all, turns to gaze up at Sejin. “You were gonna send her home? Not tell us our pregnant girlfriend was roaming the halls of the venue bawling her fucking eyes out? You’re meant to take care of us. Us means her too.”

“I didn’t know,” the man says simply. “I apologize, Y/n. Had you told me, I would’ve-”

“Could you please give us some time with our girlfriend, manager-nim?” Namjoon questions flatly. “We can speak with you about this later. She’ll be staying with us for the rest of the tour as well, so you can take this chance to go update the accommodation and flight details.”

Sejin, knowing he’s no longer welcome, turns tail and leaves quietly. Y/n goes lax once the door shuts behind him. “I’m so sorry,” Namjoon says immediately, “everything shouldn’t have gone like this. Baby, if you told us that you were coming, we could’ve pre-” he cuts himself off with a rueful smile and shakes his head. “No, let’s not worry about that now. It’s done. I’m just so glad you’re safe, baby girl. Come on, chin up. Let’s go back to the hotel, yeah? Everyone must be hungry, it’s getting late.”

----------

If there was a perfect number, you thought it must be eight. It was an even number, so the eight of you would walk down the street in pairs; Hobi and Jin taking the lead, drinking in the sights. Jimin and Taehyung would go next, they went everywhere side-by-side. Namjoon and Jungkook would often bring up the rear, as JK loved practicing English with his hyung, but would often come to a halt in the middle of the footpath when he couldn’t think of a word. You and Yoongi walked together. You couldn’t remember the last time you went anywhere with them without holding Yoongi’s hand. The two of you would swing your joint hands idly between you, sending messages of comfort and love back and forth by the simple gesture of giving the other’s hand a squeeze every now and then. Eight was also, incidentally, a perfect amount when it came to sleeping. The dorms had been repurposed after you moved in, so that there were two rooms with two beds pushed together, and one with three. Most of the time, you split off into two groups of four. You wedged in the middle of the rap line, Namjoon at your back and the other two snuggling in front of you. Jin would spread out on his back in the other room, with three maknaes curled into his side under his arms like small children. But occasionally, often when it had been a while since you’d seen each other, or on nights where you didn’t just use the beds for sleeping, you’d pile into what used to be Jimin and Hoseok’s room, and you’d line up, different arrangements depending on how you collapsed into the bed when you were done.

Tonight was a night for the big bed. Since you were staying in a hotel, it took a while to stack three beds side by side, but you spent that time being coddled by seven caring men who were determined to cheer you up. Jin ordered some plain rice and steamed vegetables since you weren’t sure you could stomach anything heavier than that, and sat with you, even feeding you with his chopsticks when you felt too weak to even lift your arm. Jungkook had rushed down to the hotel’s laundromat with some coins taken from the staff, returning with a dryer-warm t-shirt for you to get changed into since you hadn’t thought to even bring a suitcase with you. Taehyung distracted you with photos he had taken on their travels so far, Jimin watching with his chin resting on your shoulder, hugging your back. Namjoon was on the phone with somebody, talking in a hush with his hand cupped around the receiver end, and you didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to even try and work out who he was speaking with or what he was saying, but you had faith it was something for you. Yoongi and Hobi were fluttering around you with water bottles, face wipes, and scented hand cream since you didn’t want to shower.

Finally, you’re carried into bed by Jungkook, who immediately turns you onto your side and wraps his arms around your middle. One by one, your other boys come and join you. Jin, Yoongi and Hoseok go behind Jungkook, Jimin is directly in front of you and Taehyung and Namjoon are behind him.

You bury your face in his chest, smelling the light perfume still lingering in his pajama top from the last time it was washed, and let the taxes of the day slip away. It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep with the collective harmony of their breathing mingling with yours, and the hand that has slipped under your shirt to rest on your belly, keeping the life inside of you safe.

(I’m just tagging everyone that explicitly expressed interest so that you don’t miss it! @prettybubblesintheair @ayyeaestheticgirl18 @hopetookmysoul @its-livemylife33 @honeyspillings @whitefeatheredwyvern)

#bts x reader #bts angst #ot7 x reader #ot7 fic #bts fluff #bts oneshot #jin #yoongi #hoseok #namjoon #jimin #taehyung #jungkook

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years

Text

IT Fandom Prompt Week - Day 7 - Famous / Band AU

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @tinyarmedtrex

Final Prompt for IT Prompt week 2019.

Read on AO3 HERE

Like many people, the first metal band that Eddie listened to was Metallica. He was 16, and had spent the day at Bev’s house, the balmy evening sun hanging heavy and bloated in the sky. They’d sat at the bottom of her garden, legs bare and grass between their toes. Bev’s old cassette tape player was balanced precariously on a rickety wooden chair, the tapes lay scattered around the grass, like plastic flowers. Eye’s half-closed, Eddie was listening to Bev tell him about the book she’d been reading, and how he should read it before they start their college degrees in the fall. Bev’s voice, pitchy and animated, fought with Morrissey’s crooning voice, and Eddie let himself swim in the noise. That was, until Bev changed the tape, and an unrelenting guitar riff came booming out of the tinny speakers. Eddie’s eyes snapped open.

“Who’s this?” Eddie asked, shifting so he was propped up against the fence.

“Huh? Oh, Metallica. They’re pretty good, right!”

“Yeah,” Eddie mused, bobbing his head slightly along with the rhythmic chugging of the guitar, “yeah they’re pretty good”

That night, Eddie had practically skipped home, fanny-pack stuffed with as many cassette tapes as Bev could wedge in there without breaking the zip. The bands are those he has never heard of before, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Nine Inch Nails. Bev promised that he’ll love them, and he trusted her.

A few days later, Eddie escaped the stifling confines of his mother’s house to join Bev on a trip to the local record store. Bev immediately tugged him over to the ‘rock and metal’ section, where they spent ages flicking through the tapes, Bev filling Eddie’s hands with tapes in a matter of minutes. Eddie, who had felt out of place in a dingy record store in his pressed khakis and pastel yellow polo shirt, had immediately struck up a conversation with the friendly guy behind the counter, who couldn’t have been any older than he was.

“First time?” The guy asked, picking through the tapes that Eddie had dumped on the counter, looking for the price stickers.

“Pardon?”

“First time somewhere like this? You have the first time kinda look, like you’re afraid the tapes will bite you or something”

“Oh,” Eddie replied, scuffing his feet on the floor, “Yeah, it’s my first time. Bev said she’d been in here loads and it’s cheaper than the store downtown, so…”

The guy laughed, a warm laugh that rang in the quiet store like a bell.

“Yeah, Bev’s in here a lot. Doesn’t spend much money, though !”

“Bite me, Hanlon”

“Ever the charmer, Miss Marsh,” The guy turned back to Eddie, “As rude as she is, Bev has good taste. You’re definitely in safe hands, but you can always come in here and I can help you, if you get sick of her forcing you to listen to Trent Reznor’s entire discography over and over and over again”

“I’m warning you, Michael!” Bev hollered, brandishing a vinyl record like a weapon.

– X –

Soon enough, Eddie fell into a routine. He’d wait until his mother fell into a deep, sleeping-pill induced sleep in front of her soap operas, and shut the lounge room door, painfully slowly to stop it creaking. Then, he’d charge upstairs as fast as his legs would carry him. Whilst Eddie looked everything the picture-perfect poster-boy for “good boys” everywhere, from his perfectly coiffed hair, his crisp, 100% cotton polo shirts, and even down to his sensible, chalk-white sketchers, he had a secret hiding under his bed.

Under his bed, behind the stacks of biology and chemistry textbooks and old shoes that don’t fit him anymore, lurks a small metal box, and a rusty cassette player. The metal box is home to his ever expanding collection of tapes, and he’d take great pleasure in passing his fingers over the spines of the cases, like he was choosing the biggest, most decadent chocolate in the box. His fingers almost always landed on Metallica first, his gate-way drug. He’d disrobe the tape, and place it into the cassette player, but not before he’d plugged his monstrously large headphones into the jack. Cranking up the volume, Eddie would place the cassette player next to him on the bed, and lie back, and drift.

Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams Blinded by me, you can't see a thing

Eddie would spend hours listening to Rob Halford’s demonic screaming if his mother had been particularly taxing that evening, or if his day had been slow and lazy, Ozzy Osborne would sing him to sleep, regaling him with tales of faeries dancing with dwarves. Soon enough, and without any real effort, Eddie became a secret, but die-hard, metal-head.

– X –

A note hit the back of Eddie’s head in chemistry.

Anthrax are playing at oil slick in Bangor! We gotta go. B x

Eddie tries to protest, he really does. He sits under the bleachers with Bev at lunch, and tries to convince her that he’d never be allowed to go to a show in Bangor, that his mother would never let him, that he can’t lie to her, really Bev, I’ve tried, I’m a terrible liar.

She doesn’t take no for an answer, and sure enough, when the night of the show arrives, Eddie is sat in his bedroom at half past six, practically vibrating with nerves. He knew that his mother would be dead to the world in a few minutes, passed out for a whole twelve hours. Eddie thanked the God of Nyquil and prescription medicine. When the familiar rumble of his mother’s snores starts to seep through his floorboards, Eddie throws open his window, takes a deep breath, and leaps like a frog onto the branch of the big tree that stands dormant outside his window.

He runs straight to Bev’s aunts house, and they both clamber in her rickety Sedan, Bev, who had recently turned 17 and was now trusted with her Aunt’s car, at the wheel. Eddie was wearing the black straight-leg jeans he’d begged his mother to buy him, and Beverly Marsh, his lord and saviour, had lent him one of her old leather jackets and her Iron Maiden tour shirt that fit him like a glove. Together with Bev clad in enough leather to upholster a couch, they drove to Bangor.

Eddie had the best night of his life, and crawled back in through his bedroom window at four am the next morning, sweaty and disgusting, but happier than he’d been in years.

– X –

When Bev’s aunt gets a PR job at Iron Horns, the best heavy metal festival this side of the Atlantic, Eddie almost squeezes the life out of Bev when she invites him to go with them. He was eighteen, and on the precipice of adulthood. He’s staring down the crevasse of responsibility, college degrees, mortgages and student loan repayments, and the void is staring straight back at him. He toyed with the idea of telling his mother that her little Eddie-Bear spends his weekends lurking in dive bars listening to boys with longer hair than most girls scream into the microphone, and he plans on getting dirty in a field for a weekend with his best friend.

He, of course, doesn’t do this, and instead told his mother that Bill and Ben have invited him to go camping with them, and he wanted to go. Predictably, she wasn’t happy, and bleated on at him about bears and poison ivy until she was blue in the face and panting, but she couldn’t catch Eddie as he sprinted down the path, backpack bulging on his back, pop-up tent in hand.

Iron Horn’s was huge. The site was a sprawling sea of grass, tents and stages, and as they drove down the make-shift drive-way to the staff car-park, Eddie could feel himself begin to panic. His hand instinctively tried to find the inhaler he has stashed in his fanny-pack, but Bev’s hand caught his hand in hers and squeezed. They held hands until they got out of the car.

Bev’s Aunt Lucy was ‘head of logistics’ for the entire festival, something that makes Eddie gawp with awe, and because she was such an important cog in the machine of the festival, they had arrived one day before the music started. Lucy was also able to throw her weight around a bit and swing them a camping plot in the staff and VIP section of the festival, something that calmed Eddie’s nervous jitters. The staff camping had a regular block of toilets, so he wouldn’t have to venture into alien territory … the dreaded porta-loo.

The staff camping ground is made up of plots of grass for people to pitch tents, but it also had porta-cabins for the musicians. Eddie scanned the names on the doors, finding that he recognises all but one of the bands.

“Bev, who are Crimson Nightmare?” Eddie asked Bev, trying to help her pitch their tent, but mostly just getting in her way.

“Huh. I have no idea, but they’re headlining the second day so I guess they’re probably pretty good” Bev huffed, trying to bash the tent-pegs into the firm ground with the heel of her boot.

Once they (or rather, Bev) had finished pitching their tent, they both clambered inside with their bags, and proceeded to get changed out of their travelling clothes. Most of the clothes that Eddie has brought with him are Bev’s hand-me-downs, or things that she’s bought him for Christmas, or just because. Eddie changes into one of Bev’s ripped Judas Priest shirts, and a pair of her tightest black skinny jeans that just about fit him if he doesn’t breathe too deeply. Luckily, because Bev’s feet are the size of common shrews, Eddie has his own boots that he’d saved up for with money from various birthday’s. Obviously he can’t keep the boots at home because his mother would find them and burn them in a sacrifice to the God’s of easy listening music, so they live in the trunk of Bev’s Aunt’s car for him to change into when they go to shows. They’re beaten up old black Docs that he bought in a thrift shop. He swapped out the characteristic yellow laces for rainbow ones, and he let Bill draw dancing skeletons on them in white sharpie. Eddie treasured those damn boots.

Once they’re changed, Eddie and Bev head over to the VIP tent where they grab some food. The VIP tent was home to a catering service, and a small bar for the staff and the musicians to wind down in the evening. Upon walking through the entrance flap, Eddie was immediately star-struck. There are people from his favourite bands milling around, talking to each other, laughing, shouting, existing. As he looked around, Eddie realised that no-one else looked quite as starstruck as he did, which made him feel all sorts of ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. He continued to stare at Layne Staley.

Once Eddie and Bev had finished their food, and Eddie was trying not to stare at the lead singer from Steel Martyr too much, he caught the eye of a tall guy with intense dark eyes and a wicked smile leaning nonchalantly against the bar. Eddie doesn’t recognise him, so he assumed that he must be a light tech, or an audio engineer, or maybe even a roadie. He also looks very young, perhaps no older than nineteen. This, accompanied with the fact that he’s wearing sweatpants with an old hoodie, suggested to Eddie that he couldn’t be a member of a metal band. The guy held Eddie’s gaze for a beat too long, and before he glanced back to the bartender, the stranger winked at Eddie.

Against his will, Eddie felt the all too familiar heat in his cheeks – an unfortunate indication that his face was blooming a violent scarlet red. Eddie snapped his head away, eliciting an loud bark of laughter from the stranger at the bar. Bev, who had been too busy trying to surreptitiously roll a joint under the table, looks up when she heard the laugh.

“Eddie, why is that guy over there staring at you?”

“…Wuh-What?,” Eddie stutters, fertilizing the glint in Bev’s eye, “What guy? There’s no guy”

“Uh… Yeah there is, that one” Bev snorts, and turned in her seat to point directly at the stranger, who waved at her.

“Him? What about him? I don’t even know him” Eddie mumbled, staring very intently at an interesting speck of dirt on the floor.

“Well, he’s been staring at you since we got here, he laughed at you about thirty seconds ago, and now he’s coming over here”

“WHAT!”

“Yeah, he’s totally coming over here!” Bev squealed, looking positively gleeful.

Eddie snapped his head up, and sure enough, the stranger in the sweatpants was striding over purposefully, his eyes glued on Eddie.

Eddie stared back at him, eyes owlish and ridiculous.

“I guess I’m gonna have to make the first move, then?” was the first thing the sweatpants-stranger said, as he plonked himself down in the empty seat to Eddie’s right.

“Um” was all Eddie said in response.

Bev was thirty seconds away from howling with laughter judging by the look on her face, and Eddie prayed that embarrassment was a painless way to die.

“Hi! I’m Bev, and this beetroot looking thing here is Eddie”

“Nice to meetcha, Red. The name’s Richie. D’ya have a voice, short-stack?”

“I do as it happens” Eddie replied, snottily.

“Oof. I like ‘em spicy. Come here often?”

“Do you speak only in pick-up lines or are you capable of stringing a coherent sentence together?”

“Get yer coat love, you’ve pulled”

Eddie rolled his eyes, and angled his body away from Richie’s.

He knew what this game was, and he intended to play to win.

“Hey now, I’m just playing with you” Richie cooed, taking Eddie’s bait, “In all seriousness, whatcha doing here? You performing this weekend?”

“Naw, my Aunt is the head of logistics for the fest so we came along for the ride. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Tool for the fifth time!” Bev responded, speaking for Eddie, who raised his eyebrows at her gratefully.

“Ah, of course. Gotta admit, I’m pretty heartbroken I’m not gonna get to see little Eddie Spaghetti losing his shit on that big stage, though. I bet that’s a real pretty sight”

“And what are you doing here, then? Light tech, or something?” Eddie interjected, a feeble attempt to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Something like that. A bitta’ this, a bitta’ that. Jack of all trades, me”

Eddie wasn’t entirely satisfied with that answer, but he didn’t push it any further.

“Can I get you both a drink?” Richie asked, drawing Eddie out of his introspection.

“Are you over twenty-one?” Eddie affirmed, sceptical.

“Nah, but I’ve known Jonsey for a few years now. He’s not worried about silly little things like legal drinking ages”

“Uh ..,” Eddie looked at Bev for confirmation, and much to his chagrin Bev gave him the most ridiculous, and most unsubtle thumbs up ever.

“Okay, sure,” Eddie relents, “just get me whatever you’re having”

“Are you sure you can handle that?” Richard said with a wink. Eddie stared at the floor again, eyes wandering over Richie’s boots. The laces were not proper laces at all, and were instead blue string, frayed and threadbare.

“I’ll have a jack and coke, if you’d be so kind. Lotta Jack, not so much coke” Bev asks, smiling up at Richie.

“That’s a lot of booze for a young lady like yourself” Richie drawled in something Eddie supposed was supposed to be a southern accent.

“Bite me”

“If you’re sure”

Eddie sort of expected Bev to tell Richie to fuck off, but she doesn’t. She did something much more surprising.

“Hey Eddie, why don’t you go and help Richie carry the drinks? I’m just gonna –“ she gestures to the opening of the tent and waggles the spliff between her fingers.

“Aw, man. I’m hitting on the wrong person here. Any chance of a do-over, Red?”

“Not a fuckin’ chance, Trashmouth. I’ll be back in a few, Eddie, go help with the drinks!” Bev says again, a little bit more insistent this time.

“What a marvellous idea! Come on, Spaghetti” Richie announced, sending a look towards Bev that Eddie didn’t understand.

Eddie stood up, wordless, and followed Richie towards the bar, but not before sending a silent “what the fuck?!” Bev’s way. She just smiled at him, stuck her thumbs up, and disappeared out of the tent.

Eddie waited at the bar with Richie, who was drumming out the beat of a song that Eddie doesn’t recognise on the polished wood.

“Bev has a girlfriend, you know,” Eddie blurted out before he could stop himself, “just so you, y’know … know”

“Does she? That’s nice. Now, do you have a boytoy, Mr Eds?”

“but … aren’t you trying to hit on her?”

“Uh, I’m definitely trying to hit on someone, but it ain’t Red”

“Then … who …”

Richie looked at Eddie square in the face with epitome of are you shitting me written across his face.

“…oh”

“Yeah, Oh” Richie mocked, laughing. Eddie couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were glittering despite the low light of the tent.

Unsure of what to say, Eddie remained silent for a few beats too long, but he was saved when the bartender came over to take their order. Richie orders Bev’s drink, before also ordering two pints of hard cider, one of which he passes to Eddie.

“So, to return to our previous conversation, is there a Mrs Eddie Spaghetti waiting for you at home?”

“Okay, you gotta stop with all this spaghetti stuff. It’s just Eddie”

“Sure. Is there a Mrs Just-Eddie waiting for you at home?”

“Wait – hang on. How did you even know I like men?”

“Lucky guess” Richie boasted, waggling his eyebrows.

Eddie stared at him until Richie burst out laughing.

“No, Seriously! It was a lucky guess. I was fully prepared for you to tell me that Red was your girl and that I’d have to slink off with my tail in between my legs”

“Bev will find that hilarious when I tell her that”

“C’mon, S’getti you’re killing me,” Richie groaned, “should I persist in my pathetic attempts to woo you or am I wasting my time?”

Eddie pretended to think, and rubbed his chin with the hand that wasn’t holding his cider.

“I’m not sure I wanna tell you, yet. I’m quite enjoying watching you squirm”

“You sadist” Richie shot back immediately.

Eddie stood up on his tiptoes and whispered, “you don’t know the half of it” directly into the shell of Richie’s ear, before he swiftly turned on his heel and slinked back to the table.

“I’m taking that as a ‘Yes, Richie, please continue trying to get into my pants!’” Richie yelled after him.

Eddie threw his head back, and laughed.

– X –

When they got back to their tent that evening after staggering back across the field, Bev and Eddie collapsed onto the same tiny air mattress and curled around each other like inebriated kittens.

“Sooooo?” Bev drawled, as she tried to pull her boots off without unlacing them first.

“Whazzit? What?”

“Richie? D’ya like him? Because I’m pretty sure he’s gone all kissy-kissy-mushy-mushy over a certain little spaghetttiiiiii”

“oh m’god, shut’p,” Eddie slurred, and he tried to hit Bev on the arm but missed by a good six inches, “he’s just … uh … flirtatious”

“Naw, Eddie, he’s desperate to, y’know, get in there!” Bev laughed hysterically, as she pointed at Eddie’s crotch.

Eddie rolled his eyes, at least he thought he did, he’s definitely too drunk to tell.

“C’mere, tiny, I wanna spooooon” Bev moaned, grabbing Eddie.

They both fell asleep almost instantly after that, Bev’s arm wrapped snugly around Eddie’s waist.

– X –

The next morning Eddie woke up with a mouth that tasted like he’d gargled with white spirit, and, surprisingly, no headache and a stomach that only felt a tiny bit like a whirlpool.

Bev, on the other hand, wailed like a banshee when Eddie shifted on the air mattress to open the tent flap, letting a stream of cool air into the tent.

“Edward, I will cut off you bollocks if you let any more light in”

Eddie slipped out of the tent, leaving Bev to her hangover. The sun was already high in the sky, and Eddie guessed it couldn’t have been earlier than eleven or midday. His mother would definitely never have let him sleep in this late. The music started today, the first band taking to the main stage at 3pm. There seemed to be more people than Eddie had ever seen in his life charging around the staff camping grounds, carrying various bits of rigging, instruments and electrical equipment. Eddie sat on the grass outside his tent, trying to psyche himself up enough to make the long, arduous 500 metre walk to the bathrooms to brush his teeth, when a large hand clamped on his shoulder. Eddie barely managed to suppress his scream.

“Howdy, neighbour!”

“Oh my God, it’s you”

“That isn’t a very nice way to greet your beloved now is it, Eddie?”

“I thought I’d dreamt you up in an alcohol-induced fever dream” Eddie deadpanned as Richie all but threw himself down on the grass next to him.

“Naw,” was all Richie said, closing his eyes against the light of the sun. Eddie swore he could see the freckles scattered across the bridge of Richie’s nose multiply in front of his eyes.

They sat without talking for a while, listening to the hustle and bustle of the campsite. Richie looked exhausted, and Eddie wanted to let Richie rest his head in his lap while he stroked Richie’s wild hair until he was snoring.

“So … plan on seeing any good bands today?” Eddie asked awkwardly, consciously aware of the fact that the Dutch courage previously coursing through his veins had evaporated overnight.

“I dunno, yet. Who are you going to see?”

“Bev wants to see Def Leppard, who I’m not majorly fussed about, but I have to go see ‘em if she’ll even think about coming with me to see Kiss”

“Where is Red this morning, anyway? Is that … is that tent of yours empty?”

“She’s still asleep”

“Cockblock” Richie cursed under his breath, just loud enough for Eddie to hear it.

“You’re very presumptuous, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of this” Richie replied, with a serious edge to his voice.

Eddie blinked.

“Make a habit of what?” Eddie asked, dumbly.

“This,” Richie gestured to Eddie and then back to himself and repeated the action, “I’m not … I don’t do this stuff”

“Richie, I’m confused”

“Never mind, sugar. I’ll explain it to you when you’re older”

Before Eddie could protest that he wanted Richie to explain his cryptic message now and not later, a rather dishevelled and grumpy looking Bev poked her head out of the tent.

“Okay. One, Eddie, I love you but you are so dense that light bends around you. Two, can you guys go flirt somewhere else please, it’s making my stomach churn”

“Top o’the mornin’ to ya, lassie!” Richie bellowed in an awful Irish accent, shuffling closer to Eddie to allow Bev more space to clamber out of the tent.

Bev collapsed on the grass next to them, rubbing her head.

“Do you have any painkillers in that magic fanny-pack of yours?” She asked Eddie, a pitiful twang to her voice.

Eddie nodded, and climbed back into the tent to search for the fanny-pack. When he’d grabbed it and climbed back out of the tent, Bev and Richie were sitting close, heads together, whispering frantically about something that Eddie couldn’t hear. Bev’s face was stern, like she was scolding a small child who had broken her favourite mug, and Richie’s eyebrows looked very insistent, but also vaguely scared. They sprang apart when Eddie climbed back out of the tent, painkillers in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He passed both items to Bev, who hoovered up two painkillers quicker than Eddie could blink.

“I gotta skedaddle now, my love. Promise you’ll stay faithful as you wait for me,” Richie announced as he stood up, and brushed stray blades of grass off his jeans.

“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep, Rich,” Eddie tried to joke, but it fell flat as Richie’s smile, only for the briefest of seconds, was replaced by a mask of hurt.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” and with that, Richie sauntered off, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head hanging uncharacteristically low.

“Eddie, what I need you to do right now, is go after him and apologise for being a dick”

“What did I do?!”

“You know exactly what you did”

Eddie did know.

The truth was, Eddie was harbouring a crush on Richie that was growing exponentially. He’d spotted him immediately as they’d walked into the VIP tent the day before. His heart had thumped wildly the entire time they sat close together, drinking cider and laughing, and he’d almost vomited every time Richie’s arm brushed his. Eddie had it bad. He knew this. But, try as he might, something kept him from entirely letting go. Something about the fact they’d met at a festival, miles and miles away from Eddie’s home town, and they’d probably never see each other again. He’d never experimented with casual sex, a nice fuck and a see you never! arrangement. He’d never given it much thought. Maybe he should.

Without another word, Eddie sprung up and chased after Richie, who was now rounding the corner by the toilet block.

“Rich!” Eddie called out, panting.

Richie turned around, and beamed at Eddie.

Eddie felt lighter.

“I’m sorry I’m a dick”

“You’re not a dick”

“I am, and I’m sorry. Do you … I dunno, do you wanna come see Def Leppard with us later, maybe? I mean – you don’t have to, I just meant if you have nothing better to –”

“I’d love to”

– X –

“POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME!” Eddie screamed along with Joe Elliott, thousands of other people, and Richie.

Bev had disappeared a few songs ago, pushing her way to the front barrier, but Eddie had hung back. He was stood directly in front of Richie, who had been whispering (or, more accurately, shouting) into his ear occasionally, and even in one delicious, ridiculous moment, picked Eddie up and stuck him on his shoulders. That didn’t last long because Eddie was terrified he’d fall off, but having his thighs wrapped around Richie’s neck was exhilarating for the four minutes it lasted.

“Eds, this might be the best day of my life,” Richie shouted, hot, moist breath tickling Eddie’s ear.

“I think me too!” Eddie shouted back, and the Richie did something that made Eddie’s brain shortcircuit.

Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist, crossing them over his stomach, and placed a large, wet-sounding kiss on the top of Eddie’s head.

Eddie didn’t dare blink, breathe, move or think.

“Thank you for inviting me” Richie whispered, and it was a real whisper this time, spoken directly into Eddie’s heart.

“it’s uh – no problem”

The band ripped into a cover of The Who’s ‘My Generation’, and much to Eddie’s annoyance, Richie released Eddie from his cobra-hold and tugged him forward, forward, forward until they ran into Bev at the barrier. Bev’s long orange hair was piled on top of her head, her face was sweaty and pink, and she looked absolutely radiant.

“This is our fucking song now!” Richie bellowed, hoisting Bev up on his shoulders like he had done to Eddie a few songs earlier.

Eddie grabbed Bev’s ankle and squeezed it. She smiled down at him, all teeth and tongue and happy, happy, happy.

– X –

The sun had fully set behind the massive stage, and Def Leppard had just finished their encore. The mass of people that had been surrounding Eddie, a coagulated mass of shadows and sharp elbows, parted like red sea as people slowly started to trickle out of the main arena and back towards the campsites. As they walked, shoulders bumping together occasionally, Eddie noticed several people staring at Richie, or pointing at him and whispering. Eddie glanced up at Richie to see if he’d noticed, only to find Richie looking down at him with soft eyes and a small, but genuine, smile.

“You okay, Eds?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fucking great, Rich. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it as much as I did”

“Ah, that’s because I was there, obviously” Richie boasted.

Eddie could tell that he was joking, that he was just playing the game they’d been playing for the past twenty-four hours, but that didn’t stop Eddie from saying “yeah, it probably was”, as honest as the day is long.

Eddie’s honesty seemed to hit Richie in the stomach like a sucker punch, because he made this weird spluttering noise.

“Fucking hell, Sugar, you can’t just say stuff like that”

“Why?”

“Because – Never mind, I’m gonna walk you back to your tent, c’mon”

Eddie stopped walking, and tugged on Richie’s arm to get him to stop too. Richie swung around so he was facing Eddie, boot toe to boot toe.

“Richie, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Eddie”

“Do what?”

“I can’t just keep this up. I can’t keep fucking – fucking dancing with you, laughing with you, letting you smile at me like that, and then when you cuddled with me during the show I was like, ‘oh my God, this is it, he does feel the same’ but then … then you go all cold on me or you glare at me or …” Richie trailed off, his eyes flickered between Eddie’s eyes and mouth.

“Richie, I – ”

“Please don’t, please don’t pity me or say you’re sorry, or anything like that. God, I’ll drop down dead if you say you’re sorry, Eds. It isn’t your fault, it’s mine. I wasn’t joking about walking you back, though, c’mon, Bev will kill me if we’re back much later than – ”

Richie stopped talking because Eddie had kissed him.

Eddie curled his hand around Richie’s neck and dragged his face down, before he smashed his lips to Richie’s in a kiss that started off almost violent in its awkwardness but soon became soft and hesitant. Richie didn’t move at first, and Eddie almost pulled away, ready to sprint off to the campsite fuelled on nothing but mortal embarrassment, but just as Eddie had pulled his lips a millimetre away from Richie’s, Richie opened his mouth slightly, just barely, and kissed Eddie back.

They kissed, Richie’s hands cradling Eddie’s face, until someone came careening into Eddie’s back, sending him flying forwards into Richie’s chest, arms flailing wildly.

“Sorry, mate!”

“No problem, bro” Richie responded, voice low and gruff, and from his position squished up against Richie’s chest, Eddie laughed, poking at the soft flesh of Richie’s tummy with his index finger.

“Bro?” Eddie mocked.

“What?”

“You’re ridiculous”

“And yet, you kissed me”

“I did”

“So that makes you ridiculous as well”

“It does”

“Wanna do it again?”

“Yes”

This time, Richie kissed Eddie.

– X –

By the time they’d gotten back to the tent, Eddie wasn’t done with Richie. Not even close. They’d stopped a few times on the way back, mostly Richie cutting Eddie off with his tongue, or one time that Eddie got so frustrated with Richie doing that he shoved him up against a tree and kissed him until Richie couldn’t breathe. It still wasn’t enough. However, Eddie didn’t know how to ask for more, how to ask Richie to climb into his tent with him.

Bev wasn’t in the tent when Eddie poked his head in, but there was a note lying on the air mattress.

With my mom tonight, wanted to give you some space WINK WINK

Love you be safe I’ll kick his ass if he hurts you

Don’t show his this note

Or you can if you want

Richard I’ll kill you if you hurt him okay

Love you love you love you

Eddie loved Beverly so much he could scream.

“Uh… are you tired yet?” Eddie asked, trying to remain inconspicuous, but subtlety was never his strong point.

“Nope” Richie responded, popping the ‘P’.

“Do you wanna, come in? I can’t offer you coffee because … well, I don’t have any way of making any but I can offer you … lukewarm water?”

“Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Cut the shit”

Richie all but threw himself through the entrance of the tent, pouncing on Eddie with a loud ‘oof’. They both sprawled backwards, and Richie hovered over Eddie, his eyes dark.

“Are you sure?”

“More sure than I’ve been of anything for a very long time”

“Do you have … the necessarily equipment?”

“Are you talking about whether or not I have a dick? Because …” Eddie gestured to his crotch where, yes, it was very obvious that he was packing heat, thank you very much.

“No, you goof, I meant lube and stuff”

“Oh… yeah I do, hang on”

“You’re very … prepared”

“Jealous?”

“I would be if it wasn’t me in this tent with you right now”

“Well it is, so shut up and kiss me”

– X –

The next morning, Eddie had woken up with a crick in his neck. Richie had gone. What lay on the pillow where Richie’s head should have been, was Bev’s note. Or, rather, another note, scrawled on the back of Bev’s note.

Please get as close to the barrier as possible during Crimson Nightmare’s set

Please please please please

You fuckin’ rocked my world last night Eds

R x

– X –

Eddie looked behind him at the pulsing mass of people, blurring into one lacquered mass in the darkness of the night, random faces illuminated by the spotlights. Raucous chants surrounded him, a war cry, “CRIMSON NIGHTMARE! CRIMSON NIGHTMARE! CRIMSON NIGHTMARE!”. It was cultish, and Eddie could feel himself becoming indoctrinated.

Without warning, the huge fluttering black cloth that had been obscuring the stage was sucked through a gap in the ceiling, and revealed the stage. The entire set was decked out to look like an industrial hellscape, all juddering fans, sharp looking pieces of metal jutting every which way and large metal platforms. Several huge industrial fans were stood in the centre of the stage, acting as a podium for an obscenely large drumkit. Eddie hardly noticed the stage, though, as he was preoccupied with looking at the elaborate venetian masks the band were wearing. They obscured almost their entire faces, and looked like they were made of a buttery-soft leather with horns curling skywards. The bassist was stood on a large piece of scaffolding stage right, and the lead guitarist was standing on the floor surrounded by shards of metal poking out of the floor stage left. The screams and hollers of the crowd grew deafening, and the guitarist ripped straight into a blistering riff that sounded like it’d been spat from the mouth of the devil himself. A scream tore its way out of Eddie’s body, and he began jumping up and down with the crowd, coagulating until he had become One with the throbbing mass of people.

Like Richie’s note had said, Eddie was right at the barrier. His ribs were being crushed against the hard metal every time he leapt up and down, but he hardly noticed it once the vocalist walked out onto stage. The vocalist walked with a swagger that punched Eddie straight in the gut, and before they had even managed to spit out a single syllable, Eddie almost collapsed on the floor. He was held up by Bev, who shot him a questioning look. Eddie didn’t dare speak, move, breath, blink.

“Aw man, look at you see of sexy bitches come all this way to see little old me?” the vocalist brayed, stamping his feet in time with the rhythmic booming of the bass drum.

The crowd roared back in response. Eddie couldn’t breathe.

The vocalist was wearing the same mask as the rest of his bandmates, but that didn’t matter.

“All this noise for me? Too fuckin’ bad I’m gonna make your ears fucking bleeeeeed. This one’s called ‘You’ll Float Too’ and you’re gonna fucking love it” Richie yelled, before screaming like a banshee and launching into the first song.

It was Richie.

It was Richie’s voice.

It was Richie’s voice, Richie’s raspy growl, Richie’s beaten up old boots.

The frontman of the last headliner of Iron Horns was the guy that Eddie had ridden on his shitty little air mattress in his shitty little tent the night before.

Eddie tapped Bev on the shoulder, and soon the taps became almighty whacks when she wouldn’t turn around, but when she did, Eddie knew that she knew.

“IS THAT?!”

“IT IS!”

“FUCKING HELL”

“I KNOW”

Richie paraded up and down the stage, the big black coat he was wearing flapping in the breeze of the industrial fans. Eddie was mesmerised by the way Richie made screaming into the microphone with such tenacity look easy, and the way that Richie leapt around the stage effortlessly. The crowd were screaming, and a pit opened up directly behind Eddie, who clung to the barrier, knuckles bright white, to avoid getting sucked into its depths. Bev, as she always did, disappeared into the centre of the hurricane, and was spat out again several minutes later, eyes gleaming, hair tousled.

– X –

Half way through their last song, Richie locked eyes with Eddie.

Eddie hadn’t been sure that Richie had seen him there, a fleck of sand on the beach, faceless amongst the crowd. But, half way through ‘No Dread, No Desire’, Richie’s eyes locked with his. Of course, Eddie initially thought that Richie could have just so happened to have been staring in his general direction, but when Richie practically ran to the spot directly in front of where Eddie was standing, all doubts dissolved. Richie dropped to his knees and belted the rest of the song directly at Eddie, who needed Bev to hold him up once more.

– X –

Even after Richie had sung the last note of the encore, and bid the crowd farewell, Eddie couldn’t move. He was glued to the spot, practically growing roots. Bev stood next to him, saying nothing, just breathing, loud and heavy breaths curling into the black sky like smoke.

“So”

“Richie’s in a band”

“Richie’s in … a fucking good band”

“You slept with him”

“I did”

“You slept with a guy in a band”

“I did”

“Are you a groupie now?”

“Fuck off”

A figure appeared on stage, and shuffled towards them. A figure wearing sweatpants and boots with laces that weren’t real laces, but were instead blue, frayed string.

The figure crouched in front of them.

“Did you like the set?”

“You’re fucking famous” Eddie blurted out, tongue thick and fat in his mouth.

“M’not, not really. The vocalist of Crimson Nightmare is kinda famous, but he’s … he’s not really me. M’just Richie”

“But … Aren’t you the vocalist?”

“Well, yes, I mean technically, but I wear that mask n’ all so… It’s also sort of, not me?”

“Richie I have no idea what to say, I’m like … I’m fucking shaking”

“Good shaking? Bad shaking? Did you hate it? That growl in the third song came out so fucking janky, and I know that I sounded kinda flat in a few of the songs but –“

“You were … spectacular” Eddie breathed, and stared up at Richie with wide, earnest eyes.

“Aw, shit. You’re gonna make me blush, Eddie Spaghetti”

Richie hopped down off the stage, crowding into Eddie’s space. They were separated by a thin metal fence. It was too much distance.

“Beverly, if you don’t want to watch me shove my tongue down Eddie’s throat, I suggest that you avert your eyes, otherwise, enjoy the fuckin’ show”

Bev’s indignant squawk was drowned out by the all-consuming taste on Eddie’s tongue.

– X –

From: Sugar Daddy:

[youtube link]

From: Sugar Daddy:

Last night in Denver. I think you’ll like it <3

Eddie opened the link. It was a video of Crimson Nightmare headlining a spot at Denver arena. The camera was shaky, and the audio screechy, but it was clear enough so Eddie could hear everything Richie was saying.

“Alright, alright, now, I know this is gonna come as a fuckin’ surprise to some of you, or maybe it won’t, but I dedicate this next song to the boy who inspired it. Eddie Spaghetti, this one’s for you, my love, my one, my only”

Screeching guitar and guttural screams filtered out of the shitty speakers of Eddie’s phone. Eddie lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and drifted.

To: Sugar Daddy:

I love you

#reddie #itpromptweek #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #heavy metal festival AU #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak

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