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selfignitingimagines · 3 years

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Stiles- Gone (Obsessed Part 2)

TW: Stalking

A/N- As I said in my last post, I wrote Obsessed almost two years ago. I always wanted to finish the story, but I never got around to it and fell off from posting for a long time. I decided to split this next part into two, because it was getting pretty long. Part 3 should be out soon. Part 1 is linked here.

“Where is everyone?”

Your quiet whisper caused your brother and Stiles to glance over at you. They seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Lydia’s birthday party was the event of the year. Actually, all of her parties were popular enough that she usually had to turn someone away. Now, as you stared out at her deserted back patio, the opposite seemed to be true. No one had even shown up, save for a couple people who had disappeared into the house a few minutes ago.

The deck surrounding Lydia’s pool had been artfully decorated with string lights. Several tables nearby were stacked with snacks and drinks, and she had even ordered a silver fountain that contained some kind of bright pink punch.

It was a shame that the only people out there to appreciate the hard work were you, Stiles, and Scott. You knew Allison was coming because you had gotten ready at her house with Lydia, but you had left separately and she had yet to show up.

Suddenly the sliding glass door opened behind you, and Allison stepped out onto the patio. Her dark hair was done up in an intricate braid, similar to the one Lydia had threaded your own hair into. She smiled at you as she walked over, but it didn’t meet her eyes.

“Jackson’s not here,” she informed the three of you.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “No one’s here.”

“Maybe it’s just early,” Scott suggested.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Or maybe nobody’s coming because Lydia’s turned into the town whackjob.”

“Well we have to do something,” Allison insisted. “Because we’ve completely ignored her for the past two weeks.”

“She’s completely ignored Stiles for the past ten years.”

“I prefer to think of it as me not being on her radar,” Stiles told Scott.

Scott sighed. “We don’t owe her a party.”

“What about the chance to get back to normal?” you asked. “I mean, she wouldn’t be the town whackjob if it wasn’t for us.”

Scott’s face softened. “I guess I could use my co-captain status to get the lacrosse team here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Me and Y/n also know some people who can get this thing going. Like, really going.”

You grinned at him, knowing exactly what he was thinking, and Allison stared at the two of you in confusion. “Who?”

“We met them the other night,” you explained. “Let’s just say they know how to party.”

About half an hour later, Lydia’s house was filled to the brim with people. The entire lacrosse team arrived fashionably late, along with half the school. Even the drag queens you and Stiles met at Jungle had shown up.

As it turned out, no one cared if Lydia had run naked through the woods for several days. She still knew how to throw one hell of a party.

You were currently helping her hand out drinks near the back door as people continued to flow in. Stiles watched you longingly from across the pool. He thought you were beautiful all the time, but with your hair done up and the party lights shining down on you, he felt the undeniable urge to walk over and kiss you.

“What are you looking at?” Scott asked, following his gaze over to you.

“Uh, n-nothing,” Stiles sputtered. “Are you going to apologize to Allison?”

Scott frowned. “Why should I apologize?”

“Because you’re the guy,” Stiles reminded him. “It’s, like, what we do.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then you should definitely apologize. See, anytime a dude thinks he hasn’t done anything wrong, it means he’s definitely done something wrong.”

“I’m not apologizing.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Is that the full moon talking, buddy?”

“Probably,” Scott grumbled. “Why do you care anyway?”

Stiles threw up his hands in exasperation. “Because, Scott, something’s gotta go right here! I mean, we’re getting our asses royally kicked here, if you haven’t noticed. People are dying, I got my dad fired, you’re gonna be held back in school, I’m in love with your sister-”

Stiles suddenly let out a choking sound, realizing what he had just said. Scott stared at him with raised eyebrows, and then he let out a soft laugh. “I know, dude.”

“You...you do?”

Scott was looking at Stiles like he was stupid. “It’s pretty obvious. Plus, I heard you talking together in her room last night. You do remember I have super hearing, right?”

Stiles scratched the back of his neck. “Oh...right. Why didn’t you call us out on it?”

Scott shrugged. “I could tell something was wrong. I’m just glad she has you to talk to about it.”

Stiles nodded. “Everything’s so crazy right now. I don’t even know how we’d make it work, but if I don’t get the chance to find out, I’m going to stab myself in the face.”

“Don’t stab yourself in the face,” Scott said suddenly.

“Why not?”

“Because Jackson’s here,” Scott told him.

Stiles glanced over to the door. Sure enough, Jackson was walking into the party. Lydia smiled at him and placed a glass of punch in his hand.

“Glad you could make it,” she told him.

He simply nodded at her and walked over toward the pool, closer to Stiles and Scott. You watched as Lydia’s lips turned into an ugly frown, but she quickly plastered a smile back on her face.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” you suggested quietly.

Lydia let out a short laugh. “Please. He’s going to come talk to me by the end of the night. I refuse to chase after him...but I know he’ll probably be chasing after me later.”

You nervously glanced over at Jackson. If he was here, the person controlling him probably was too. Lydia had no idea how right she was.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that this party was going to end in disaster. The last thing you and the boys wanted was another dead body, but that seemed inevitable at this point.

“I’m going to bring some punch to Scott,” Lydia told you, scooping another cup off the clothed table. “I wanna figure out what’s going on with him and Allison.”

You nodded, and as she walked away, you saw the back door open once more. You put down the glass of punch you had been sipping on. It was almost finished anyway, and you had to take over giving them out now that Lydia was gone.

That was when you realized the figure walking through the door was Matt. You froze when his eyes landed on you. He stepped closer, and you wanted to turn away, but you were rooted to the spot.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

He looked sheepish, and you felt a twinge of sympathy. Matt didn’t look threatening. He had his hands nervously stuffed into his pockets, and he was rocking back on his heels.

Besides, you were in a house full of people. What could he possibly do to you?

You nodded, and walked into the house, gesturing for him to follow. “You get two minutes.”

You headed toward one of Lydia’s spare bedrooms in the packed hallway, weaving through the crowded house. When you stepped into the room, Matt reached out to close the doors. When he saw you eyeing him, he stopped.

“Right,” he muttered, propping the door back open. “So I know I took some pictures of you that I probably should have told you about...but is it really bad that I think you’re beautiful? And that I think you should be the subject of a perfect photograph?”

“Matt...I don’t even know how you got some of those pictures.”

“ A telephoto lens,” he informed you. “I mean, come on, Y/n. Photographers call them candids.”

“Well Stiles’ dad would call it stalking.”

Matt scoffed. “Stalking? So I’m a stalker now, is that it? You think my bedroom is wallpapered with your photos? You think I’m the type of guy that’s gonna say something like ‘If I can’t have her, no one can.’?”

A flash of bright red hair caught your attention as you looked past Matt. Lydia was weaving through the halls, pulling Stiles behind her as he grasped one of her hands. You felt your stomach flip.

You looked back to Matt, who was still talking. “Well you know what? Get over yourself, because there’s another pretty girl walking through the room every five minutes.”

You held up your hands. “Well then all you have to do is wait another three.”

“Y/n, wait!”

You strode past him, but he grabbed your arm, yanking you back to face him. The hair on the back of your neck stood up when you met Matt’s eyes. They were cold and angry, and they didn’t leave your face once.

Suddenly, he let you go. “Hey, I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. You must think I’m such a freak.”

He was back to being sheepish, self-deprecating Matt, but you weren’t sticking around to fall for the act any longer. You had to find Stiles and tell him what happened. The first chance you got, you were going to take his advice and go to the police.

You rushed out of the spare room and headed in the direction of Lydia and Stiles. They had disappeared down a deserted hall, and when you turned down it, you saw the two of them tucked into a corner.

Lydia had her hands resting on Stiles’ chest. He was leaning down and kissing her as his hands tangled in her strawberry blonde curls. You swallowed, and started to back up, but then he looked up at you.

His lips curled into a cruel smirk, and Lydia glanced over her shoulder at you.

“What?” he asked with a sharp laugh. “You actually thought I’d choose you instead of Lydia?”

Your throat went dry. You wanted to say something, to tell him that you thought he had cared about you the other night, but you couldn’t speak.

“Come on, Y/n,” Lydia chimed in. “You really think you could compete with me?”

“You’re Scott’s little sister,” Stiles continued. “Your little crush was never going to turn into anything.”

Stiles turned back to Lydia, and the two of them began to make out again. You stumbled back, bumping right into someone else.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” A blonde girl in a tube top snapped.

You blinked, suddenly realizing that there were other people flowing through the hallway. When you looked back into the corner Stiles and Lydia had been in, it was empty, as if they had never been there at all.

You shook your head, trying to shake off what you had just seen. It wasn’t real, but it definitely felt like it. You stumbled back toward the pool, wanting to find the others. You had only had one full cup of that punch, but there was definitely something wrong with it.

You had only been drunk a few times before, but you had never hallucinated an entire conversation with two people. This had to be something else.

You tried to make your way back toward the living room, but you only made it as far as the kitchen. Lydia’s house seemed to blur before your eyes, and you realized that the punch had hit you harder than you thought.

You leaned back against the counter, but you ended up slowly sinking down to sit on the kitchen floor, too dizzy to stand up. You were probably only sitting there for a few minutes, but it felt like hours until you heard a familiar voice say your name.

“Y/n?”

It was Lydia. She was kneeling in front of you, clearly concerned. You felt a twinge of jealousy as you thought back to that scene in the hallway. You wanted to tell her to leave you alone, but you knew you had no real reason to be mad at her. Lydia didn’t actually have feelings for Stiles.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Should I get Scott?” “No,” you said quickly. “He’ll be upset at me. What did you put in that punch?”

Lydia’s lips quirked up. “It’s a secret recipe. You should really be more careful, Y/n.”

“Is she okay?” you heard someone else ask.

You glanced up, but the other figure blurred as your head began to spin.

“I think I can handle this on my own, Jackson.”

“Do you want me to get her a bottle of water?”

“Uh, yeah, that would be great.”

A couple minutes later, a blurry hand was holding a water bottle in your face.

“Can you stay with her for a second? I actually have something I need to take care of.”

He must have said yes, because Jackson sat down next to you and opened the bottle. “You need to drink as much of this as you can.”

You eyed him carefully, and even in your drunken state, you managed to be suspicious.

“What?” he asked. “I can’t do something nice?”

You were silent, and he rolled his eyes. “Fine. Have a killer hangover in the morning. See if I care.”

The more you thought about it though, the more you realized Scott would be disappointed if you couldn’t sober up. So you took the bottle from Jackson’s hand and began to drink.

You didn’t know how long you were sitting there, but Lydia never came back, and Jackson eventually got up and left. Even after drinking the water, you felt terrible. In fact, you might have even felt worse.

The room was blurring around you, and you were getting sleepier by the second. When a pair of legs came into your view and stopped, you weren’t even concerned that you didn’t recognize them. You didn’t protest as arms came around your waist to steady you and pull you to your feet.

You felt something wet soaking into your dress, and you flinched away.

“It’s just water. I fell in the pool.”

“Stiles?” you mumbled, as you were led out of Lydia’s house.

“It’s okay,” a voice was telling you, but you were too out of it to realize who was talking. “We’re going to the jeep.”

Your head lolled onto the figure’s wet sleeve, and you caught sight of the stars, blurring above your head in the night sky.

“It’s pretty,” you mumbled.

“It is,” the voice agreed.

Stiles laid you in the passenger seat. He clicked the seatbelt across your chest and shut the doors. You ran your fingers along the seat and the door, feeling the smooth leather interior.

“This isn’t the jeep,” you realized sleepily.

The car was too sleek. It was too nice to be Stiles’.

“It’s okay, we’re just going home.”

Steady fingers tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. You felt sicker by the second, and it wasn’t just because of the alcohol. “Where’s Stiles?”

When you heard the driver’s side door shut, you looked over to see who had rescued you. You felt your stomach drop.

“Matt,” you choked.

He looked over at you and smiled. You reached up, weakly fumbling with the door handle, but your fingers kept slipping. Everything was too blurry, and Matt wasn’t offering any help either.

“No,” you whispered. “Please let me out.”

He laughed softly and hushed you, reaching out to grab your hand. He squeezed your trembling fingers and smiled. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“No,” you kept mumbling, but as Matt started the car, you began to fade.

You watched as the streetlights passed through the window, blurring into gold and white blobs. With your eyes slowly drifting shut, you wondered where your brother was. How long would it take Scott and Stiles to realize you were gone? Would they be able to find you? And if they weren’t, what would Matt do to you?

-----

“The cops are here!”

All of Lydia’s guests scattered from around the pool. Scott grabbed Stiles by the arm and tugged him back from the panicking crowd.

“Where’s Matt?” he demanded. “Where did he go?”

They scanned the crowd, but Matt, along with Jackson, was gone.

“Wait, Scott, have you seen your sister?” Stiles asked.

“Not for a while.”

Stiles went pale. “We need to find her.”

“Why?” Scott demanded, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder before he could turn away. “What do you know that I don’t?” The horrified look in his friend’s eyes sent an uneasy chill through Scott. “Stiles?”

“Matt was watching her,” Stiles admitted. “She told me last night that he was taking pictures, stalking her. She saw them when he left his camera in the car. I wanted to tell you, but there wasn’t time…”

Scott felt the air leave his lungs. If Matt was controlling the Kanima and he got his hands on you, there was nothing you could do to protect yourself.

Together, he and Stiles searched through Lydia’s house, narrowly avoiding the cops outside. His attempts to catch a scent failed, and they had no idea where Matt would have taken you.

Allison had left a few minutes before the cops showed up with no explanation. Scott never got the chance to ask her about it, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with her family. His texts to her had gone unanswered, so he had to assume she hadn’t seen you.

Lydia was nowhere to be found either, but Scott was able to track her scent to the treeline at the edge of her property. It was strange, though she could have just been taking a walk to clear her head. You were his biggest priority right now, and neither he or Stiles could find any trace of you.

“We have to call the police,” Scott told him after they finished. “She’s gone.”

Stiles nodded, running a nervous hand through his hair. They were standing in Lydia’s driveway, gazing out into the dark neighborhood. The cops were long gone by now, but Stiles had a feeling they wouldn’t take your disappearance seriously. It was a party, you had been drinking, and everyone had scattered.

Stiles had grown up with most of the police officers at the station. He knew the way they thought. He knew how plausible it was for them to assume you were just laying low for a while, trying to avoid getting busted for underage drinking.

“No,” Stiles told Scott. “We have to call my dad.”

“Isn’t he still mad at you?”

“It doesn’t matter. If Matt’s willing to kill the people who piss him off, what do you think he’s gonna do to Y/n when she rejects him?”

Scott didn’t answer. All he could think about was the way Matt’s victims had been ripped apart by the Kanima. If he was really obsessed with you, maybe he wouldn’t hurt you, but they had no way of knowing for sure. They could only hope that you were clever enough to stay alive as they raced to find you.

#tw stalking #teen wolf #selfignitingimagines #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagines #Teen Wolf Ships #teen wolf imagines

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dancing-the-hellfire-rumba · 4 years

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Seen ✓ - 3

Pairing: Sam x Reader Warnings: cursing, a bit of self depreciation Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. Beta: None

Part 1 - Part 2 Masterlist

Chapter 3: for the love of god, explain this

Sam Winchester lies awake at three in the morning, under foreign, scratchy sheets, stubbornly not tearing his eyes from the cracked, ugly wallpaper on the ceiling. A lot of things are happening and his brain is going about a million miles an hour, spinning endlessly, Castiel, Dean returning from hell, the stress of the hunting life, the current case and… Y/n. Wonderful, smart, talented, funny Y/n.

It’s been a while since someone has made him excited. He keeps bumping into her in his mind, keeps finding thoughts of her lying around, eager to distract him. He catches himself wanting to text her about every stupid thing that happens in his day, much like she sometimes does. She’s been the only thing that makes his heart a little lighter, and it’s such a strange feeling, someone’s presence being this uplifting.

He was suspicious of her at first. A strange woman (at least she claims to be one, he forgets he’s never actually… seen her) asking about him, his profession, and then about… ghosts? A bit random, too specific, Sam recognizes he got defensive. But the way she spoke afterwards… he doesn’t know. His instinct tells him to trust her.

Amidst his thoughts, he doesn’t remember picking up his phone, but it’s just one of those nights, he needs someone to talk to- or rather, wants Y/n specifically. A thought he chooses not to dwell on.

are you awake? I can’t sleep.

I actually am. Lucky you.

Sam smiles. Lucky me, he thinks.

isn’t it like 4 am for you?

Tell me about it. No luck sleeping either.

happen to you a lot?

Yeah.

I happen to have anxiety induced insomnia.

Working at a bar also helps fuck up your sleeping schedule as well.

You?

i’m sorry :/

i don’t get much sleep either. something always keeps me up.

Yeah, I get that.

Where in the Great Unites States of America are you today?

hahah it’s Oregon today.

it’s the ugliest motel room i’ve ever been in.

Ooh

Do I ask about your case or is it confidential?

it’s confidential but i’ll tell you that i am investigating a bunch of strange murders.

You’re investigating serial killers?? That’s so fucking dope.

something like that yeah.

how was your day?

Oh, you know. The usual.

College assignments, a shift at the bar. I went out with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

I need to clean my house desperately.

I also nearly burned my kitchen down trying to cook lunch. Emmy and I ended up eating some lazy-ass spaghetti, because pasta is the only thing I can cook, apparently.

hahahah what were you making?

You’re gonna laugh if I tell you.

well now you must.

Ugh, do I?

come onnn

It was eggs, okay? I was just trying to make eggs.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

I TOLD YOU YOU’D LAUGH AT ME

HOW DID YOU BURN EGGS?!

LISTEN, OKAY

I NEVER SAID I WAS A GOOD COOK

HAHAHAHAH

Sam laughs over his phone, as silently as he can, so as to not wake Dean up. He turns on his other side and realizes his cheeks hurt from smiling, and it’s a feeling he’s missed.

Yeah, yeah, laugh, culinary genius. Not all of us can be perfect.

i never said i was a culinary genius

but at least i don’t go near stoves if i don’t have to.

Well, it’s not like I can afford every-day takeout (or like that shit is healthy, even if I could) and someone has to cook for my sister while she’s in school

you have siblings?

and yeah you’re right i didn’t think like that sorry.

It’s okay.

And yeah, my sister, Emily.” Emmy”

oooh i thought emmy was your friend.

Nono, it’s my sister. She’s 17.

can i ask you a personal question?

Shoot

why do you have to take care of her? are your guys’ parents not around?

you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable with that.

Well, it’s a bit complicated.

My parents’ marriage kind of fell apart when I was around 10. They tried to fix things by adopting a kid- Emily. For a while that worked.

When I was 16 my mom took off and dad took care of us for 2 years almost. He really dedicated himself to us.

He worked his antique shop and supported us. For two years, I didn’t see him spend a penny on himself.

But I ended up having to take care of Em when he passed. I was freshly 18, so I could take care of her as a guardian.

shit i’m so sorry.

It’s okay, honestly.

I mean, it didn’t use to be, and it was hell for a while.

But we made it.

i admire your positivity.

I try :)

i also love that you put smiley faces in your text messages.

Shouldn’t have said that, now I’ll always think about it before I do it

hahah

Sam bites his lip. What the hell is happening? They’re… flirting. Sorta. And it’s nice- better than nice. Fuck.

What about you?

you mean what’s my relationship with my parents?

Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid. It wasn’t what I was asking either.

What I meant was, how’s your life right now. How’s the family business. You can pick which you wanna answer.

i don’t mind either honestly.

as for my parents my mom died when I was 6 months old. my dad passed away about a year and a half ago.

Jesus, I’m so sorry Sam

I don’t know what to say. It can’t have been easy. Losing a parent never is.

it wasn’t but as you said we’re trying to sort of find our footing with Dean. we’ve had our ups and downs.

Yeah I understand that.

Do you wanna talk about it?

right now not really. I mean there’s not much to say about it.

i kinda wanna forget about it. thanks though.

Alright.

So how’s the family business?

Does it feel good to be paid to be Sherlock Holmes?

crap. but we’re doing our best.

for the record i don’t get paid nearly enough for the shit i have to do.

Hahaha, hang in there.

Dean still refuses to come get his phone?

yeah. he says you can keep it.

Tell him to take care of his devices from now on, this one was battered beyond recognition.

duly noted.

The conversation continued until well after the sun rose. Sam had officially accepted this night to be sleepless, and Y/n was good company. Somehow she took his mind off of everything that was bugging him, made him, if momentarily, forget about it, and he truly loved that about her. The back and forth tended to flow easily between them, and he couldn’t get enough of the chemistry he had with this practical stranger.

Sleepless or not, this night was a good one, after she entered the picture.

The glow on her skin is blue-ish and soft, combatting the one from the fairy lights above them. Laptop absolutely not low in volume, couch dipping under two bodies, slumped together, legs leaning against one another, soft flannel pants and droopy eyes. Emily’s hair is out of its usual half-up hairstyle, exploding with volume and bright, firey color, flowing onto the back of the couch.

Jon Snow is yelling on the screen, and Y/n is completely ignoring him, constantly checking her inactive phone and the way the screen doesn’t light up with Sam’s name. Every time she feels disappointed, she tries to quell the relentless thoughts of the possibility of him being completely over her.

Damn it.

“Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend I’m not aware of or something?” Emily mutters dryly, half-hearted but gentle teasing. Y/n sputters.

“Huh?”

“’Cause you keep checking your phone, and as far as I know you don’t have any friends.”

“HEY,” deeply offended, Y/n places her hand over her heart, glaring at her sister. “Excuse you!” she exclaims, “Connor? Ashley? Lydia?”

“Yeah, a neighbor and two college students that you haven’t talked to in like, what, two weeks? What a social butterfly.”

“Okay first off,” Y/n ignores the screaming and fighting on the screen and shifts to look at her sister. “Stop tracking my socializing.” Em scoffs.

“C’mon, bear, spill.” Bottom lip pouted. She pauses the episode, turning to face her older sister. “Who are they and when can I meet them?” A devilish smile, teasing like only a younger sister can, curling the right corner of her lip.

“He’s not my boyf-“

“AHA! So there is someone! I knew it!”

“I’ve known him for like- what, three weeks? Nothing is going on! I barely know the guy!” Y/n fiddles with her hair and huffs, holding back a smile.

“Where’d you meet him? Is he hot? What’s he like?!” Poking her sister’s thigh continuously, she grins wide, excited. “C’mon, you’re like, no fun.”

“The thing is… I didn’t. Meet him, I mean.” Eyebrows furrow.

“Uh…” Emily purses her lips. “I’m … not following.”

It takes all of five minutes for Y/n to explain to her sister all about her crazy adventure, the lost phone, the brother, Sam. The girls munch on leftover garlic spaghetti, talking about the stranger on the other side of Y/n’s screen.

“He’s just… different? I don’t know- I just, I’m intrigued I guess. He’s mysterious and hilarious. The type of guy we’d hang out with. Why pass it up?”

“Just hang out?” Emily wiggles her eyebrows. Y/n shoves her.

“It’s really not like that.”

“I don’t know, Y/n, he doesn’t necessarily sound just friendly to me.” Y/n won’t lie and say she hasn’t thought about it. She’s a romantic after all, and what a wonderful, movie-like love story would it be for them to fall in love and march into the sunset?

But she recognizes this is the romantic side of her picking up speed on a subject that definitely isn’t for her to decide alone. There’s a second participant in all of this, and he needs to do more than half the work by liking her. She knows it’s no easy feat. A bitter dab of paint dissolves in her chest, because why would he like her? She’s nothing quite special. She’s just a bartender, a college student, a boring, normal girl, painfully mundane, painfully boring. He’s brilliant, kind and sweet, a private investigator, he travels all the time, he’s the most interesting guy she’s ever met for crying out loud. Why would he ever give her a chance?

“I doubt it, Em,” is what Y/n decides to say, because there’s no way she can explain exactly what she’s thinking.

“No, no, you’re doing that thing again.” A hum in question falls from the older Andrews’ lips. “The thing where you put yourself down for bullshit reasons. He’d be lucky to have you.” Y/n wants to roll her eyes. “Hey,” a snap of Emily’s fingers in front of Y/n’s face to catch her attention. “I will literally slap you. You’re smart, funny, kind. He’d be fucking lucky to have you, and if you don’t believe it, I’m gonna beat some sense into you. Stop putting my sister down.” Y/n doesn’t have anything good to say to that, so instead she lets out a huffed breath of a laugh and sits back on the couch.

“Now,” Emily leans over her own crossed legs and grabs her phone from the rickety coffee table. “Did you Google him?”

“Why the heck would I Google him?”

“It’s the 21st century, Y/n, gosh. Are you at all familiar with internet stalking?” Y/n watched pebbled coffee brown eyes get illuminated by the phone screen, freckles nowhere near as bright as they can be, because she hasn’t gone out into the sunlight today. Emily is gorgeous. Y/n is sometimes jealous, but also genuinely admires her younger sister. “What’s his name?”

“Sam Winchester.”

There’s typing, and then silence.

“Y/n…” And the warning tone on the younger one’s voice completely throws her off.

“What? What is it?” A phone screen is thrust in her face.

Mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecration, armed robbery, kidnapping, three counts of first-degree murder, and breaking and entering, she reads. Winchester brothers Sam and Dean, disappeared, considered dead.

“What the fuck,” she mutters under her breath, completely horrified at the chance that this is real and the universe isn’t playing some comic joke on her, creating another pair of Winchester brothers called Sam and Dean who, instead of chasing murderers, are the murderers.

She scrolls lower and sure enough, there they are. Mug shots, but more specifically, the guy from the dating app, smouldering cheekily into the camera –a real blue steel-, holding a police station name on a black plaque, sitting at close to six feet and two. Then the younger one, less joyful and sassy, more serious and puppy-eyed. Sam. Close to what was described to her, it’s all there. Pointy nose, sharp jawline, curly brown hair with a growing, swoopy fringe, pulled behind his ears. It’s him. There’s no way, the coincidences are too many.

“Bear…” Emily stares at Y/n’s shocked face, gaze empty and out of it. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Immediately, Y/n grabs her phone.

Sam

His reply is instantaneous.

hey y/n

i was just thinking about you

what’s up?

Please for the love of God.

Explain this.

She sends him the mugshot, photographed from the screen of her sister’s phone.

shit.

Part 4

A/N: Tell me what you thought? How the hell does he even explain this?

I realized I haven’t been tagging my forever taglist like a MORON, so just, sorry, I’ll start now.

Forevers: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @deanssweetheart23 @nostalgic-uncertainty @mogaruke @superseejay721517 @lady-hawkguy @thosefeelsarereal @superwholockmarauder @justiceiswater @petra-arkanian-1497 @heyitscam99 @danijimenezv @aj-reuth @unicornblood4ever @mystriee @sadist-fangirl23 @asguardiansoftheavengers @superrandomnatural @altosaxplayer098 @winter-moons @hunterswearingplaid @novaddictx @choosemyname @live-like-a-girl @thisismysecrethappyplace @bowtomytenderaddiction @elara98azalea @lemondropirwin @emmagolden4118 @glitchcypher @calaofnoldor @paradoxical-sleep @narynechan @canwenotdothis @suicidepanda07

Sam Taglist

@kymberlytorres @theboykingsamwinchester @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain

Seen Taglist @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream @burningforsam @aiofheavenandhell

#sam x reader #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam #spn fanfiction #supernatural #spn #sam x reader fluff #sam fluff #sam x reader angst #sam angst #spn fluff #spn angst #sam winchester fluff #seen #seen 3

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jimlingss · 5 years

Text

Black & White

➜ Words: 9.5k

➜ Genres: 100% Light Angst, Implied Smut, A rather SFW version of an FWB relationship, and a journey of self-exploration and what it means to follow your dreams.

➜ Summary: Min Yoongi is trying to follow his dreams of being a pianist. The only issue that he's the very definition of average. His headaches only get worse when you come along — the worst guitarist he's ever had the fucking displeasure of listening to.

➜ Warnings: implied smut, smoking, lots of swearing

cr.

Wrong. Wrong, all wrong. Everything’s wrong. Yoongi’s hands dance along the keys, fluid and smooth, but the sonata is jumbled. False notes litter what would otherwise be a magnificent melody. It destroys the song and with his jaw clenched, his hands hit against the piano harder. They don’t stretch wide enough. His fingers are uncalculated, smashing against sharps and flats without meaning to. He doesn’t play with enough passion, with enough vigor, with enough precision. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s not ENOUGH! Yoongi bangs his coarse hands against the black and white keys. The notes echo, hammers ringing against the string inside, haunting. Sweat drips down his face and his breath heaves. He momentarily considers slamming the lid down on his knuckles — putting himself out of his misery once and for all, but he can’t do it. He can’t let go of this anchor that weighs him down.

Yoongi walks outside with his hands dug into his pockets, eyes downcast, and left shoulder weighed down by his heavy bag — a bag filled with sheet music, bars of notes that he can’t play. Stuffed to the brim, songs scrambled together, black and white that haunt his existence. He makes it to the corner street, watching cars pass at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn. He momentarily wonders if he should just step out onto the road and let nature take its course. But then he considers that it would be inconvenient to the driver if they ended up thinking that they took a life of someone who was a valued member of society...and he can’t have that. So he merely sighs. And his arm accidentally catches on the wire of his earphones. It yanks out and the slow classical music he can’t replicate is instead replaced by light strings of a guitar. He looks over to the humming sound to find someone busking, microphone pointed towards the hollow part of the instrument where nimble fingers are plucking. It’s a terribly basic pattern. But the person playing is concentrated, brows furrowed, looking down to what they’re doing — their lack of skill is obvious. The performance also gathers little attention from those who pass by. Yet, a merciful stranger still walks by and throws loose change into the rather empty guitar case. And the performer’s eyes seem to light up, sparkling, and the song ends. She jumps off her stool. Yoongi doesn’t notice that the light turns — he stays and watches. “A dime?” Your neck cranes stiffly, eyes narrowing into the stranger’s backside that’s disappearing. “Bitch.” You huff out with a roll of your eyes, picking up the remaining single dollar bills littering the case into a thin pile. Yoongi doesn’t mean to. But his thoughts are verbalized like butter on his tongue, easy and smooth, without warrant or reservation. “Well maybe if you played better, you’d get more than a dime.” “Excuse me?” Your head bolts up. The glare is now directed at him. While Yoongi isn’t scared, he clears his throat, trying to act like he meant to say it out loud. “Well, you know you’ve been playing three chords over and over again, right? It’s really not that impressive.” “I’d like to see you try to do better, asshat.” “I could,” he challenges, bluffing. Yoongi steps forward, glancing at your guitar. “Fuck off.” Your ministrations hasten, quickly gathering your belongings. Yoongi shrugs and like an idiot with a broken filter, blurts, “It’s not my fault you’re bad.” You stick your middle finger up. Proudly, walking away while facing him. The guitar case is slung on your shoulder and it’s only once you’ve made it half a block that you turn on your heel, marching down the street. He watches and scoffs, putting his earphones back in before making his own way in the opposite direction. He considers that it’s kind of nice to know he’s not the only one around that’s bad at music. // The restaurant is empty, but in a few minutes the doors will open to patrons who will regard his hard efforts as noise to fill the background. There’s no need to glance at the sheet music anymore — it’s the same old songs, the cliché ones that are easy and simple, and that many will recognize. Yoongi’s hands dance on the keys, warming up, brain dead. He hates doing this, feels like he’s selling his talents, using his body in such a cheap way. But there’s not much else to do, no other option that’ll pay the bills and give him the means to survive, so he resorts to giving away his soul with a sigh, even when the manager of the restaurant and his watchful eye are gone. Yoongi sits in the corner stage of the large room, dim spotlight barely on him. His coarse hands stop the music he knows from muscle memory, the cliché and easy songs of Für Elise. He allows it to fade off. And with a deep breath, eyes closed, he begins another piece. A melody deeper with emotion, that’s complex, challenging, that actually stirs something from within. He’s played it enough to memorize it in his head, but not in his hands. He makes it to the end of the first page before his pinky hits the wrong key. Then his thumb doesn’t quite make it to the right sharp. He ignores it with another inhale. His hands stretch across the black and white keys to play the same notes of different octaves — but they don’t make it. His fingers flail. The music becomes coarse. Discordant. Jarring to the ears. It clashes, never in harmony or rhythm. What should be beautiful is instead ugly, and it’s his fault. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s not enough. Yoongi mashes the keys in frustration. He gives up. His brows are furrowed deep enough that it hurts and the music jumbles, horrific and morphing into a mess. He’s three seconds away from slamming the key cover onto his knuckles when— “Wow, and you called me bad.” The dark-haired male is interrupted by a voice that isn’t so familiar. And when he opens his eyes, notes fading off, he finds you. Your brow is quirked in amusement and you weave around the tucked in chairs and set tables. “Calm down before you break the piano, will you? I doubt you’d be able to pay for it.” “What are you doing here?” “I should be asking you that.” You set your guitar case down before scanning the premise. “I got this gig yesterday, thought I should check it out first and see what it’s all about. I play from nine to eleven.” Huh. “I play from seven to nine.” Surprise is an understatement. Whether it was karma kicking him in his ass or a mere coincidence, he hasn’t decided yet. Yoongi just doesn’t know why someone like you got hired to play at an up-class restaurant like this. You’re bad. But maybe he shouldn’t be the one to judge. It’s not like he’s particularly good either. “Looks like we’ll fucking see each other a lot then.” You roll your eyes, making yourself comfortable while your voice drips with sarcasm, “Hope it won’t fucking make your ears bleed.” “That’s if they don’t kick you out beforehand,” he replies, snarky. Yoongi doesn’t know why he’s acting like this when he’s never been one to aggravate people, much less strangers. He’s the kind to keep quiet to himself and fade into the back, a wallflower so to speak. But with you, he keeps blurting out things without fear of repercussions. Maybe it’s because he feels a sense of familiarity in your terrible music playing skills. Though he must admit, it is kind of funny to see you get worked up so much. “That is if they don’t kick you out first. Play like that again and customers are gonna throw their free bread at you. That shit hurts.” “You must know from firsthand experience.” “Aren’t you gonna keep warming up? Sounds like you need it.” “I really don’t,” he retorts back and you shrug nonchalantly. Yoongi turns away from the piano and he realizes he doesn’t even know who you really are. At this point, you’re more than the poor guitarist on the street that’s somehow playing at his restaurant. “What’s your name?” “Fuck you.” “Nice to meet you, fuck you.” The corners of his mouth curl. “I’m Yoongi. Min Yoongi.” “Cool. I really don’t care.” There’s a lot of attitude that he doesn’t appreciate, but it’s understandable considering the first impression he made. The tension is only broken by an interruption made by the restaurant manager who’s positioned himself to be seen. He barges in and makes demands of what to play, in what style as if he’s knowledgeable about the classical world. But he ends up sprouting all the old cliché things that Yoongi despises. And you leave before he has a chance to speak to you again, fading into the wallpaper as patrons fill out the spaces. It’s not too bustling, just enough that the place won’t go out of business. You watch him play and he notices out of the corner of his eye. Yoongi’s hands move on pure muscle memory after all. It doesn’t matter if his mind is preoccupied, if he’s having an out-of-body experience, if his brain ceases to work. And he finishes his session that way too, without realizing it, bored out of his mind, dead man walking. The manager speaks to him while his ears stay muffled. He nods along without a single word. Every day it’s the same pattern, the same routine, yesterday into today, today into tomorrow. But the difference of today isn’t just that you’ve shown up, introduced yourself rudely, heard him actually try and fail. It’s that Yoongi decides to exit through the back door instead of the front like usual. A call of his intuition. One that makes him find you. One that causes him to steal the moment. The steel doors shut, noise drowning out. His ears are clear again. And you’re leaning against the brick, taking a long drag of your cigarette. “You’re up in ten.” “Uh-huh.” “First night playing?” “Here.” “You’ve done other places?” “Something like that.” Your chin lifts, watching the smoke curl. “You ask a lot of questions.” “It’s a part of making conversation.” “It’s a part of being nosy.” The pair of you are standing outside in the alley, underneath the sky polluted by the city lights. Yoongi doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing — standing here and not going home, pursuing something he’s so terrible at...but still, he stays and watches you. Even when it’s cold outside and his exhales leave a small cloud, even when the scent of nicotine stains the crisp air. “Smoking’s bad for you.” “Thanks, Sherlock.” You finish, throwing it on the ground and snubbing it under the toe of your shoe. “It’s not like I play woodwind or brass. And what’s the point of living a fucking long life? So I can be bedridden and die alone in some shitty retirement home?” The edge of his lip pulls, amused. “You’re just Miss Optimistic, aren’t you?” “Why the fuck are you even here trying to make conversation with me?” Your head turns with a glare — you’re pretty under the faraway lights, pretty in a kind of nasty way. He doesn’t mind. Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly, lingering. “Am I not allowed to?” There’s suspicion ridden in your features, and you’re about to spin around, grab the handle of the door...only to be disrupted by a girl staggering down the alleyway with her friend hugging her arm. “‘Cuse me, sorry! I know you from somewhere? You look real familiar!” “Sohye, stop it!” Her friend hushes her quickly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, she’s drunk.” “No, no. Swear I seen her somewhere before.” The intoxicated female points, insistent, feet stopping on the ground. Yoongi follows her line of sight and comes to observe your expression. He notices how you’ve frozen as well. “Oh my god! You’re Y/N. Aren’t you? Dad’s a music teacher and I—” “Wrong person,” you spit out quickly, opening the door before shutting it a second later. “That was rude, wow,” she mumbles while her friend mutters numerous apologies, dragging her away. Yoongi hums, interest piqued. And the sound of horrible guitar begins to leak out from the bottom of the door frame. // At first, he thinks nothing of it. But it still lingers on his mind, especially when he’s trying to sleep and for once isn’t plagued by the instrument with black and white keys. So he grabs for his phone on the nightstand, googling the name he heard. Nothing comes up. It’s empty pages and irrelevant results. Until he types the word ‘music’ next to your name. He scrolls towards the bottom and that’s when he finds something. Yoongi makes another search, adjusts what he puts in, and thousands of results show. It’s your own page that’s bare with description and information, but endless videos and articles. He recognizes it as you, pictures and candid shots to professionally done shoots. Yoongi skims briefly in interest and clicks on a video. The music begins to play, the sound or a sonorous cello, clear and brilliant, a sweet melody. You’re seen with your eyes shut tight, bow pulling over the strings as your fingers dance, feeling the music. It fades away. “Y/N, what is it like to do your first performance with the Philharmonic Orchestra?” “Well, I’ll admit, I was a bit nervous. But it’s an absolute honour, especially considering that the hall we performed at this time was a big venue. I definitely couldn’t have done it myself, so I owe a lot to the other musicians.” You give a timid smile, sheepish. It’s shocking to see such a stark difference from the person he spoke to earlier, and he eyes your attire of long skirt and chiffon blouse, your hair neat and polished, timbre soft-spoken and not at all biting or venomous. You carry yourself in a shy and reserved manner. “Now you’ve been playing cello since you were four years old and gained much recognition from the music community. How does it feel to be labeled as a resounding genius since you were young? Is it a lot of pressure?” “I think it’s a bit much to be called a genius. I have been playing for a long time and I think with enough practice anyone could play like me.” You offer a modest nod and the interviewer refutes your points. There’s a light sigh and small smile before you opt for another answer. “With all titles, comes with its burdens, but I try my best to—” Yoongi swipes to the left, moving onto a video of the actual performance. At once, the silk sound fills the small expanse of his dark bedroom. You’ve taken the center stage, spotlight cascaded down onto your figure. The melody is calm and sustaining. You hug the instrument, playing like it’s as easy as breathing. Yoongi is stunned. Shocked. At how amazing you are, at how breathtaking it is. He shouldn’t care, not when he doesn’t really know you or your story, why and how you’ve switched over to playing guitar. You’re not even an acquaintance to him, less than a stranger. But Yoongi’s curious. He’s perplexed. Jealous. How could you give up something you’re so good at?

Yoongi’s life repeats in cycles. It’s either white — boring, plain, mundane. Or it’s black — filled with anger, sweating, frustration, of mashing his coarse hands that never seem big enough against the keys of the instrument he’s poured his life into. And it seems like these days, it’s been black the most. The hotel lobby drowns the noise of his playing. The notes aren’t crisp when the walls are far away, when the ceilings are high, when the doors and windows are open, never to contain the sound. But he supposed it’s better this way that no one can hear it, that it echoes beyond audible cohesion. Better that he’s regarded as the fancy decor, a symbol of the luxuriousness of this place. His playing isn’t good enough to have people stop and watch, for it to be an actual performance. And once the gig is over and he’s paid a lump of cash that seems too little, he moves to the restaurant for the next appearance. Yoongi’s life moves in cycles of black and white, either boring or full of discontentment. But there’s been something different in his life lately, tilting his world on an axis— “The manager’s a real fucking asshole, isn’t he?” A chuckle falls out of him before he can notice. You slide up next to him at the bar and he doesn’t necessarily protest against it. “You don’t even know.” “Dickhead tried to dupe me, said I wasn’t playing consistently for two hours, so he tried to pay me for one.” “The oldest trick in the book. Wait till he starts cutting down your breaks and complains when you try to go take a leak.” “God.” You roll your eyes, moving your guitar case to lean against the stool you’re sitting on. “You look like you need a drink.” He makes a move, signaling to the bartender who’s a known acquaintance and sends a sympathizing look. Yoongi orders something easy for you and another one of his whiskey on the rocks. It’s not like he particularly likes whiskey — it just seems like the sort of thing you drink at a place like this. Once the drink arrives, you seem to lean into it, hanging onto every sip. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true. Should try moving somewhere else like Park’s.” Your head turns, eyes boring into the side of his head impassively. Yoongi only knows you’re talking to him because you’re bored and it’s nice to bond over shitty managers and shit talk, not because you particularly enjoy making small talk or want to provoke deep discussions with him. “If it’s as shitty as you say it is, why don’t you move? How long have you even been here for?” “Six months,” he answers after a sip of his drink that seems to take the heaviness out of his limbs and make his mind hazy instead. “And it’s not like Park’s got a piano. They don't play music like that. You might have a better chance with your guitar.” You hum a low note, looking straight ahead. “Who knows if they’d take me. I’m a shitty player, aren’t I?” Seems like you’ll never be able to let it down. But he stands by his fact that you’re bad — terribly basic at the instrument of your choosing. He just won’t say it out loud anymore. Not because he’s sparing you. It’s more for tact. And he’s too tired to argue. “It’s too much work to move around,” he says, evading your jab. “It’s either this shithole or another shithole.” You nod solemnly, nursing the drink close, fingers itching for a cigarette. “Touché.” It seems like tonight you’re more inviting to talk, the exhaustion putting down the defensive barriers and attitude for a mere moment. Yoongi finds that it’s easy. To talk trash the manager and throw insults without the man in question hearing, too busy nagging waiters half across the restaurant. And Yoongi finds that you’re similar to him, his kind of person. The two of you are jagged. Cynical. Any hope and life has been smothered out of the pair of you. And it’s almost funny to chat like this, almost a mirror-like version of himself. “We’re all gonna die anyways. What’s the fucking point?” “You tell me.” You shrug before falling into a fit of laughter. It’s infectious and makes him grin. “Fuck, why is everything so difficult in life? There’s literally nothing you can’t do without effort. Even sleeping takes goddamn work,” you sigh and he knows exactly what you mean. “I had an aunt die like four years back and christ, you wouldn’t believe how expensive it is to die. The funeral and the fucking coffin and gravestone and land and shit. Can’t even rest in peace.” The corners of his mouth curl. “Everything’s a business I guess. That’s capitalism for you.” “Fuck that shit.” You finish off your drink, bottom of the glass hitting the counter in a firm noise. Your head turns and you regard Yoongi with less of a glare. “Your piano’s decent.” He makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat, not really wanting to think about the instrument of black and white keys. So he goes to what he does best and evades again. “Can you play?” “Not really. I can. Some basic shit. Like Für Elise. But I don’t like it very much. It’s boring. No offence.” “None taken.” He wants to ask about cello, but he feels like it’s too invasive for a stranger like him, like he’ll scare you off with just a single word. It��s too personal to ask and prod. So like the idiot that Yoongi is, he reverts to his next thought before the silence can settle and make it awkward. He doesn’t think and blurts, “You wanna get out of here?” You stare. He maintains his impassiveness, trying to act like he meant to say it and isn’t damning himself in his head, that his grip on his glass isn’t tightening from nervousness. Your head quirks to the side and finally— “Sure.” It’s messy when it happens. One moment you’re both stumbling into his mess of an apartment while he makes some poor excuse at not organizing, and the next he’s eagerly kissing against your neck. He really didn’t mean for things to happen this way, but it’s nice to feel someone this close to him, to feel this amount of warmth, to momentarily forget about the troubles that plague him. He pulls your panties down with your pants, kissing his way down and down while you hold his head. He thinks about how pleasant your soft skin feels against his coarse hands, thinks about how smooth your own palms and fingers are, except for the calloused tips. It’s different and it turns his life into a hue of gray instead of simply black and white.

The second time happens after another gig at the restaurant, when he feels particularly frustrated and you’re willing to entertain yourself for a few hours in his company. The manager never finds out why the bathroom was preoccupied for so long.

After the third time a few weeks later, you light a cigarette while sitting on his floor, leaning against the bed. You offer it to Yoongi and while it’s tempting, he declines. He watches as you pull out your guitar with the cigarette still held between your lips. You’re apparently trying to learn two more chords, a new strumming pattern too. It sounds rough and ragged. Yoongi tells you so and he gets the middle finger for it. But while he won’t say it out loud, he notes that it’s better than it was before.

Sleeping with one another quickly turns into a habit, maybe a bad one. But it’s a way to comfort each other when words can’t heal hardships, which often seem to be the case. Slowly, his relationship with you morphs from enemies and acquaintances to something of colleagues or rather, a mutually beneficial friendship. You nod to each other when passing by at the restaurant, in between breaks when you’re waiting for your shift to start. Sometimes stopping at the end of the night to share a drink or for him to watch you smoke at the back alley while the tired dishwasher takes out the kitchen’s garbage to the dumpsters. It’s nice, he thinks. To have someone understand him on a level that no one’s understood before, to have something without any unnecessary strings attached, something without consequences for once. “Hey.” “What?” Your head turns against the pillow. It’s one of those nights where you’re too exhausted to get up and get the fuck out. Yoongi tried kicking you out once — he ended up getting a kick to the shin instead. That’s when he stopped telling you what to do. “What’s with you and cello?” He feels your breathing still. He didn’t want to bring it up, but he realized there was never going to be a perfect moment for it. “I used to play,” you say simply. “That’s it?” “I had no passion for it.” You’re laying on your stomach, moving your head to face the wall. He’s left staring at the ceiling, still underneath the soiled sheets. “So I left.” He hums a note. Yoongi had read about your musically-inclined family, famous in the industry and influential people at that. He wonders what leaving was like. Then again, he supposes he left his own family and friends to pursue his own passion too. “You liked guitar better?” “Yeah, I guess. I always wanted to play.” You sigh. “Are we seriously having fucking pillow talk?” “Yeah. Unless you don’t want to talk about it.” “There’s nothing to talk about,” you retort and shift again to look at him. A scoff pulls from your lips still swollen. “I didn’t have a childhood or a life. They put me under rigorous training starting when I was three or four. Enough to kill someone and then they labeled me a genius or whatever. I fucking hated it, so I left when I got the chance. End of story.” Yoongi fills in the rest by himself — imagining you packing your bags, learning guitar, busking on the streets. He admires your courage to follow after what you want, abandon what you were good at, what you were obviously talented in to go after your real passion. He’s jealous that you even got the opportunity. He wonders what it’s like to be good at something you hate — all he knows is being bad at what he’s always loved. The silence settles and he supposes you’re asleep, that this is the end of the conversation, but then you pipe up again. “My turn. What’s your deal, huh?” “What?” “With piano.” “I don’t have a problem with piano.” You scoff again, this time rolling on your back. “Are you kidding me? I just told you what was fucked up about me. The least you can do is play it fair and tell me what’s fucked with you. So spill. What’s with you and that fucking smashing all the time. You play like you want to kill someone.” “You wanna know what my issue is?” he spits through gritted teeth, not wanting to bear the reminders of what plagues him in his monochrome life. “I fucking suck.” “No kidding,” you quip. “No, really. I fucking suck at piano.” He doesn’t mean to sound so pained. Kicked. For his voice to have that crack, that pitch to it. And he hates it that you begin to trace back your words, trying to alleviate his burdens, speaking with more care than before. It doesn’t suit you to be sympathetic. “I wouldn’t say you suck. You’re just….average. You aren’t bad.” “That’s the problem. Average.” Mediocre. Simply ‘not bad’. His peers have accelerated in their careers. He’s watched the geniuses, the talented, gifted, seven year olds play better than him. And what hurts most is Yoongi knows he’ll never catch up to them. He can’t keep up. He’ll never be good enough. He’ll never be able to make the impact that he wants when he’s a drop in the ocean. “There’s only so much practice you can do. Being great goes beyond that. At some point, everyone’s practicing as much as you do and what counts is talent. Talent I don’t have.” Yoongi spreads his hands in front of him, staring at his coarse skin, his thin fingers. They’re not large enough, big enough, good enough. His movements can never catch up to his mind. His body permanently lags behind. It’s frustrating. “There’s nothing wrong with being mediocre,” you say after a moment, more honest than before. “Who cares if you are? You love what you do, don’t you? So you don’t need to be fucking perfect or try to even play flawlessly.” “Easier said than done.” “Well, there’s no best,” you tell. “There will always be people who are worse than you and people who are better than you.” “You can’t accept mediocrity in the music world,” he mutters, and you know that too. Yoongi shifts away, his back towards you. You don’t get to see the way his hands curl into a fist, how his nails dig into the skin of his palm, hard enough to draw blood. “We competed in a competition together.” “Who?” “My best friend and I. Kim Taehyung. Heard of him?” Yoongi despises the way he’s ridden with jealousy and envy, how his memories have turned bitter. He hates himself for it. “He was scouted and now he’s traveling around the world playing in theaters and auditoriums. I lost. I decided that if I lost I’d go back to school, but I didn’t. I lost the competition, and now I’m playing for chump change like an idiot and I can’t even go back home because it’s embarrassing as fuck.” It’s silent. It draws out enough to suffocate him. But finally, you say— “I’m sorry, Yoongi.” “Yeah? I am too.” He feels ugly, doesn’t want to be looked at, so he turns his back to you. But Yoongi never hears rustling or footsteps on floorboards, the sound of you getting up to leave, the sound of silence that would drown him whole. Instead, he hears soft breathing, the quiet noise of you sleeping on the other side of the bed. You stay and it’s less painful than it would be than if he was alone.

Time passes, and Yoongi never improves — his abilities have been stagnant for years anyways. No amount of teachers or lessons or practice can tremendously improve his technique, dexterity, artistry. And as new musical sensations are brought into the world, he’s stuck in the same spot. Things fall into monochrome shades of black and white again, except for you, a streak of gray. Yoongi enjoys this friendship. At least he can watch you progress, even if he’s not. You become less and less shitty with guitar as the weeks go by. You pluck more smoothly, hands switching chords more swiftly. The rhythms and plucking patterns improve, making it even pleasant to listen to... “Hey, have you ever thought of singing while you play?” “I don’t sing.” “It would make your performance better.” It’s silent for a beat too long. “So it can drown out my guitar playing and make it less noticeable? Yeah, thanks, but fuck off, Min.” Yoongi chortles, noise pulling from his chest. “It’s just a suggestion.” Your foot kicks his shin lightly in protest. “You should sing while you play piano.” “I don’t sing.” “Then we have something else in common.” He smiles, listening to you strum some basic chords that are now mastered under your movements. “I hear you humming sometimes, you know.” “And?” “It’s nice.” It goes quiet again and he’s not surprised — you’ve never been good at taking compliments, either being too skeptical of the person’s intentions or finding it too strange to respond in a way that isn’t a sharp jab. Yoongi wonders if you’ve ever thought about giving up, and you tell him that you do all the time, but you wanted to give it a solid shot before changing the course of your life again. He makes a disgruntled sound in agreement.

He won’t give up. He’s got no choice. So he tries and tries again, ignoring the frustration building up to his throat. When his thumb hits the wrong key — he starts over. When he misses a note — he starts over. When he plays at the wrong tempo, the wrong rhythm — he starts over. When his hands can’t stretch far enough, fingers aren’t fast and nimble enough — he starts over. He never finishes playing to the end. Again and again, just the beginning until he begins to smash his hands against the keys, jumbling the music. He mashes it like he’s throwing a tantrum, brows furrowed deep enough that it hurts, bones straining with how he tries to pull them apart, false notes littering what would otherwise be a magnificent melody. Yoongi destroys the song, turning it into the mess he feels, hands hitting against the piano keys harder— “Stop it.” Warm arms come from behind, wrapping around his shoulder, pulling his back flush against their chest. It’s you, kissing at his neck, trying to calm down his racing heartbeat and get him to surrender the tension he’s keeping in his muscles. He halts, but your efforts don’t do much to help. “My hands won’t hit the keys,” he mutters and crumples them into a tight fist. “They’re not big enough.” You close the piano, letting the cover drop down, before he can destroy it too. And you sit down beside him on the bench. He glances at your hands, smooth and soft skin with only the tips calloused — it shows your effort, practicing the strings day and night. He wonders what it’s like to have hands of natural talent— “Isn’t it tiring to always be comparing yourself to others?” Your voice is soft, gentle, without the usual bite to it. Your head leans on his shoulder, and he notices that you’re wearing his white dress shirt. “It looks fucking exhausting.” He remains silent, offering his ragged breathing as an answer. You continue, “You know, I don’t think anyone should have any role models. It’s better to model your own life after yourself.” “Easy for you to say.” “Just cause you think I have it easy doesn’t mean I do.” “Sorry,” he mumbles and drags a hand over his face. Yoongi doesn’t mean for this to spiral into a fight. “Uh-huh. If you weren’t trying to be an asshole, you’d get what I’m trying to say.” You pull yourself away from him. “Who the fuck gives a shit on if you’re the next Beethoven or not?” A small smile graces his features. “For the record, I’m not trying to be the next Beethoven. And it’s hard to not give a shit when your entire livelihood and shit ass dreams depends on your skills—” “—and the talent you don’t have.” Your eyes soften again and it forms a hard lump inside his throat. It only thickens when you suddenly say, “Stop blaming your hands.” You’re looking at them and he tears his eyes away from his fingers to meet your own. “Stop blaming that they aren’t big enough, that they’re too thin, that they hit the wrong keys. It’s not your hands’ fault. It’s because you have no talent.” He hates this part about you. When you’re brutal, straightforward. He doesn’t want pity or buttered words, but not this either. This is a kind of honesty he doesn’t need, so he merely scoffs, knees too weak to stand up and walk away. “Don’t talk to me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re trying to comfort a child. I don’t need your sympathy. I don’t need you to feel bad for me, alright?” “I’m trying to help you, Yoongi,” you argue, angered. “Well you aren’t helping,” he stresses. “You don’t know anything.” “I don’t know anything?” You laugh sarcastically, mockingly like he’s the ignorant one. “I’ve known you for six months.” You read his expression. “Yeah, it’s been six months, Yoongi. Did you forget? I know you well enough to know that I’m the only one in your fucking miserable life. You don’t have anyone else. You don’t talk to anyone else. So I need to be the one to tell you that you’re destroying yourself. You’re trying so goddamn hard and it’s admirable, it’s fucking impressive, but you’re losing yourself to your average craft. So yeah, fuck you, you’re welcome.” “Why do you even care?” “I don’t.” You shrug, at a loss and no longer making attempts to comfort him. “It’s your life, so do whatever the hell you want with it. It’s not my problem. You’re not my problem. But you’re still my colleague and I consider you a friend, so I’m trying to do my part by telling you that you can’t keep this up. I know that. You know that.” “I can. I’ve been doing it for years—!” “And look at what you’ve lost!” You get to your feet when he does. This is not the way he wanted the conversation to go. He didn’t want to fight with you. “You have no one. You told me Taehyung was your best friend, but when was the last time you even spoke to him—” “That doesn’t matter—” “But it does! Look, you’re not even happy pursuing this dream of yours. You’re not happy, Yoongi. You’re fucking not.” “So are you telling me to give up?!” he yells. It’s not like him to lose composure, but the frustration has boiled over. His ugliness is presenting itself to the light, a place where he can’t hide and be left alone. “Are you telling me I should pack my bags and go home and give up on piano?!” “Well how long do you plan to spend here?! Agonizing like this? Over playing at shitty restaurants and stupid fucking hotel lobbies where people don’t even give a shit about you?! Do you want to die like this?” “I don’t know!” “You deserve better! Better than this fucking shithole!” “What should I do then? What do you want me to do?! I can’t do anything! And yeah I’m not happy. I’m not. It’s fucking hard to be happy when I’m a failure.” “No one thinks of you as a failure, but yourself.” “You just told me I played as shitholes—” “You’re supposed to be happy pursuing what you love, Yoongi,” you say and it sounds easier than what it actually is. “You don’t have talent — you don’t. But you have the passion, and that’s what you need to accept. You need to cope with that fact. That not everyone can be great people. That you might not be someone who radically changes the world or become famous or even remotely recognized, but if you can be happy and proud of what you do, that’s all that matters.” You’re too idealistic, too hopeful that it’s sickening. He never thought those words could possibly come out of your mouth, but he figures this is how you left, how you walked away from what you knew. “Reality doesn’t work that way. I can’t just be happy…” Not when he’s horrible at what he does, when he can barely afford to eat and sleep, when it’s hard to get up in the morning. “But you’re miserable, aren’t you?” You’re blunt even when he’ll hate you for it. “Not everything is black and white. It’s not like you can play or can’t play. You keep telling yourself that you can’t, but you’re doing fine, Yoongi. It’s okay to be average or to be mediocre. No one gives a shit. But you’re destroying yourself trying to achieve this fucking conjured...image of yours of what you think is right, and it’s difficult to watch. It’s not like you either succeed or you fail, life isn’t that fucking black and white.” It sinks in. The conversation, the fight, everything you’ve said. Yoongi is lost. “What am I supposed to do then?” “I don’t know,” you admit, unable to help even when he’s begging for an answer. You can’t tell him what to do with his life anyways. It’s his to have and live through, and that fact drills itself inside of him when he’s left alone and in his own thoughts. Yoongi’s left standing next to the piano — a dream that’s ruined him, that’s made him hate himself, that’s made him lose his family and friends. He wishes it would just end.

He sits by his lonesome on the bench after days of not touching it. How could he when he couldn’t even think about the instrument. But finally he gathers his courage, fighting against the urge to run away, and he pushes the cover up to reveal the black and white keys. He plays Für Elise, and it comes easy, all ingrained in his muscle memory. Then he switches to Swan Lake theme, something anyone would recognize regardless of their musical background. Yoongi plays Clair de Lune, Canon in D, Moonlight Sonata, and Nocturnes Op.9. As he plays, his mind wanders. They’re a classic for a reason — songs that people have loved, pieces that made impressions in the music world. But after years of playing the same melodies, Yoongi is exhausted. He is sick of them, so he tries something different. Something harder and more challenging that won’t make him brain dead, that’ll show he’s more than someone who sat down and tried learning for an afternoon. Something complex and interesting, that’ll prove himself. He tries to play Chopin’s Etude in G sharp minor, Op.25 No. 6. And Yoongi fails by the tenth bar. His hands can’t keep up. He stops voluntarily with a sigh, letting the remaining noise echo off. There was a time, he remembers, when it was fun to sit at a piano. He remembers laughing, even giggling, loving each and every second. His entire life was consumed by this instrument and he didn’t mind in the least bit. It wasn’t full of suffering or frustration. He remembers a time when he didn’t know much. A time when he thought his music sounded beautiful. Yoongi also recalls a blonde mop of hair sitting across from him at a different piano, someone who somehow consistently managed to play with emotion, their songs bright and vivacious while his was always criticized as too somber. Taehyung was fun to play with, always glancing up from his hands to grin at Yoongi, too carefree and untroubled than others around him. Music seemed to dance from his fingertips like magic, and he was the one who would constantly draw in crowds, to make people stop and listen. They’d crowd at the door of the practice room or clap along when the two of them found a piano at some public setting. It’s no wonder he was chosen. Yoongi reaches for his phone, drunk on the emotion of sad nostalgia. What are the chances that the number still works after these many years? That he hasn’t changed it? It’s slim, but he still dials with a single click of a button. It wasn’t as hard as Yoongi thought it would be. Frankly, it was easy and it makes him feel even more guilty that he purposely left this much time and distance between the pair of them… “Hello?” But Yoongi doesn’t know what he’s doing. “Uh, hello?” This is a mistake — what would he even want to tell him? Would he apologize? Would he ask about what the tour was like? It would be awkward after all this time, and frankly, Taehyung’s better off without him. Yoongi’s a bad person, a bad friend, someone who’s ridden with insecurities and jealousy. He’s ashamed, and there’s no way he can muster up enough audacity to speak to an old friend when he’s like this. “Hello? Yoongi?” It’s only when his name is called that he realizes it actually picked up. And it hits Yoongi at the speed of a freight train. He fumbles with his phone, pressing it closer to his ear, sitting up straight at the piano bench, stuttering. “T-Taehyung?” “It’s really you, isn’t it?” The man on the other line laughs, noise tinkering. It’s familiar and warm, still inviting. “God, how long has it been?” “Too long,” he admits and smiles to himself, exhaling gently. “How are you? Are you busy right now?” “No, I’m not doing anything. You?” “Nothing much either.” He’s practicing, but doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to. Taehyung’s probably doing the same too — with a job like his, there’s not a moment to spare. And the thought is amusing, that they’re doing the same thing at the same time, simply on different sides of the country. But regardless, they make the time to talk, pushing aside any responsibility or excuse of one. It’s not awkward, not like Yoongi thought it would be. It’s as if no time had passed whatsoever, a kind of friendship that lasts in spite of time and distance. When he’s asked about what he’s been doing, he tells his old friend that he’s been around the city, playing here and there, nothing serious, downplaying his achievements that feels like failures. On the other hand, Taehyung talks about the tour, how tiring and exhausting it is, how he feels like his hands are gonna fall off on most days. Then he makes mention to how he’s going back to their hometown soon for a show. “I can get you tickets. If you want to come. I know you might be busy—” “No. I mean, not really. I’m not really that busy.” “So you’ll come then?” There’s a lingering pause. “I think we should catch up if we get the chance. I still owe you a drink at the bar.” “Really? From what?” “You seriously don’t remember?” He laughs and teases, “I shouldn’t remind you then. Won’t have to pay for you.” Yoongi scoffs and racks his brain. “Did you steal my sheet music?” “No. Fine, I’ll be merciful and tell you. I fucked up your chances with Jennie during that one recital before I left, remember? Might’ve told her you and I were in a long term committed relationship jokingly, but she actually believed it and told me you were cheating on me and then it was too late to reverse everything.” “God, I remember that. That was so long ago.” He groans from sheer embarrassment and there’s more laughter on the other side of the phone. “You really do owe me a drink.” “Consider it a done deal. Your email still is dick_boy69, right? I can forward you the best seats in the house. Not many get a chance like this. Consider yourself lucky to have connections.” He makes a noise, half between a laugh and the other is another scoff. Yoongi was always too stubborn and arrogant to entertain the idea of returning home. He didn’t want to feel the shame that would bring when he still hasn’t made a name for himself. He left with nothing — to come back with nothing was humiliating. But now that the opportunity has presented itself, if he could be honest with himself for a moment, the proposition didn’t sound so bad. He misses it. The place that he grew up in, where his friends and family are. “If you suck, you know I’ll boo you till you get off the stage, right? I’m not like those prestigious bullshitters who’s into high culture. I know what I’m listening to when I hear it.” Yoongi can practically hear the grin in Taehyung’s voice. “I’ll make sure to practice hard then.” There’s more silence and it’s comfortable. He shuts his eyes, savouring the moment that took so long to come, that he was so fearful of reaching out to get. The serenity is only broken by his old friend, a deep timbre that comes vibrating and rumbling over the other line, a soft whisper spoken from the heart. “Hey. Yoongi?” “Hmm?” “I missed you.” “Me too.” Yoongi closes the lid of the piano himself. // The next time he sees you is not at the restaurant playing for folks who hear but don’t listen, or on the street corner where he stops with sharp senses and shakes his head at your playing. It’s not where the piano is and he’s mashing his hands to jumble the music he can’t play. It’s at his apartment that’s emptier than usual and he’s busy packing his suitcase. You flop down on the mattress without a word, propping one arm and resting your head in your palm, observing the way he folds his clothes and sets them inside. He doesn’t need to say it — he doesn’t need to announce that he’s leaving. You already know. “So this is it?” you ask, not particularly caring where he goes. It’s what he does that matters. “I don’t know.” “When are you going then?” “The day after tomorrow.” “That’s fast.” “I know. I just figured that there’s not really a reason I should stay here for longer.” A noncommittal noise is made at the back of your throat and you slump down. The mattress dips with the curves of your back, molding against your body. “Are you really give up on your dream?” Yoongi’s movements halt and he looks up at where you’re laying. “I’m not giving up on my dreams. I’m just changing them.” He’s had tunnel vision, set on just one dream, one ambition while neglecting all other aspects of his life. You were right — he’s not happy like this. He leans against the wall, toying with a loose thread coming from where his jeans are purposely ripped at the knees. “Do you know what I hate?” “You hate a lot of things.” “True.” The corner of his mouth pulls. “But I really hate the saying ‘follow your dreams’.” “It’s cliché.” “That too, but not everyone has the capacity to follow their dreams. You give it your best shot, and if it doesn’t work out then you have to know when to stop,” Yoongi murmurs. “It’s not that you’re giving up, you’re just switching gears...changing what you want into something else..” “That’s philosophical. Looks like you’ve been putting your brain to good use.” A small chuckle sounds from his throat and he stands, getting onto the bed and looming over you. He wonders if you hate him for doing this, for leaving, for coming to this conclusion on his own. “Do you want me to stay?” You seem to consider it for a second. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should.” “.....you should come with me.” “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I need to.” The silence lingers in the small space of his bedroom and you breathe out, releasing what you’ve been holding inside. You ask, “What are you planning to change your dream into?” “I don’t know yet. That’s something for me to figure out when I get back.” “Min Yoongi…” Your fingers lift to comb through his bangs that shag over his forehead. This is the most affection you’ve given him and he guesses this is what goodbyes are like. “I’m never gonna see you again, am I? You’re gonna go home and you’re gonna end up marrying some sweet town girl you used to go to school with, huh?” “Probably,” he laughs out and grins. “Live that whole white picket fenced life.” “How boring.” Your arm drops to your side. “You’re gonna live a mediocre life and have kids who are only cute for a while till they start acting up and giving you headaches. You’ll also realize you haven’t been treating your wife right ever since you guys had kids and you’ll try to spark up the romance again. Things’ll be okay, not great, but not bad. Then one day you’re gonna wake up when you’re fifty and have a midlife crisis that you’re gonna die one day and there’s still a lot of shit you want to do left.” And as he mulls over it, he doesn’t find much wrong with that. “Sounds fulfilling enough.” “Yeah, you’d die happy and I guess that’s all that matters.” He smiles and rolls off of you. He stares up at the ceiling, recalling all the times the two of you were in a similar position. It feels so long ago, but also yesterday. Funny how time works sometimes. “We’re going to keep in contact. I’ll try my best to message you, to call, to communicate. Every day.” “But we’ll eventually lose contact.” You shrug, all too casual. “One of us will start giving up, or maybe the both of us. It’ll be hard to talk about things when the other person isn’t there. And soon enough, we’ll have nothing to say to each other. Small talk never suite you well anyways. But when it happens, don’t blame yourself. People just grow apart when they walk on different paths.” “So this is it?” Yoongi turns his head, brow quirked as he wonders how you can be so aloof. “You’re going to give up without trying?” “No.” Your lips are pursed, considering this all too realistically. Yoongi still hasn’t decided if he hates how blunt you are or not. “When you come back, if you ever do, I’ll be here. And if we run into each other again, we’ll still be friends.” “Friends.” “We’ll always be close no matter the time or distance, Min.” You shift your own head, gaze locking together. “You’ll always be important to me, even if you move continents away and we lose communication.” He scoffs with a smile. “How poetic.” “I’m gonna miss you. Even if you’re an asshole, you’re one of a kind.” “Thanks.” He laughs a note, and when you get up to leave, guitar case slung over your shoulder, there’s no last time for the sake of remembering. There are no kisses, no tender or warm touches, no grand gestures. You don’t even turn around to look one last time, but he also knows you’re doing it for his sake more than your own. Yoongi realizes passingly he doesn’t know a lot about you, not the details at least. But it’s enough. The distance between you and him is enough. You’ve already made a mark on his black and white life anyways, a streak of gray that seems to bleed all over. It’s a timeless shade that suits bright colours — colours he’s ready to bring back into his world.

[Epilogue] It takes years of figuring himself out, of finding what else he loves to do, who else he used to love. And Yoongi ends up in a place in his life where things are more peaceful than they’ve ever been. There’s no more fighting with himself, no more conflict or struggle where he feels the need to curl his hands together in a fist and leave marks into his palms. It’s when things get better and plateau off that he comes back to a place that is familiar. It’s easier than he thought it would be and it makes him feel even more guilty that he purposely left this much time. He became scared of the memories that seemed to turn sour as the months passed, the memories of hardships and suffering. Old habits die hard and it seems like he still has the one where he’s afraid and runs away from places where he’s afraid to remember. But it’s not so bad when he’s actually here. When his feet are rooted in the ground. When the noise and city life are all around him, people passing by without knowing his experience here. Yoongi walks outside with his hands dug into his pockets, eyes looking up to scan the surroundings. His shoulders are light, not weighed down by anything. He makes it to the corner street, watching cars pass at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn. But he stops and shifts, something familiar pricking at the corner of his ears. It’s the light strings of a guitar. He looks over to the humming sound to find someone busking, microphone pointed towards the hollow part of the instrument where fingers are plucking. Another is directed towards their mouth. The person playing is relaxed, smile gracing their lips — their dedication to practice is obvious. The performance also gathers lots of attention from those who pass by. And the performer’s eyes seem to light up, sparking as the song continues. You’re still busking on the streets after all this time and you’ve gotten good. Yoongi doesn’t notice that the light turns — he stays and watches. After a moment, you see him too amidst the crowds of strangers swaying to the melody and your eyes lock together. A grin spreads across your face and he matches it, mirth igniting in his expression, unabashed. There are unspoken words lingering in the air, but they’re unnecessary. Music fills the in-between and he listens to you, an old friend, sing.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi angst #yoongi scenario #BTS Yoongi as a miserable human being #and OC as a person who's very similar but in many ways different from Yoongi #promise the story isn't terribly boring hahaha #I know the exploration of dreams sounds fucking lame #but I wanted to offer a new perspective that kind of contrasts my Starlet and Moonstruck series #also this was inspired by my cousin who really loves piano but gave up #also I wanted to try writing an SFW version of an FWB relationship lol

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jae-bummer · 4 years

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Ugly Christmas Sweaters

Request: If there's still space, can I request #1 with jongdae please? Thanks!!

Prompt:

1) ”Here’s a concept…me and you…married.”

Pairing: EXO’s Jongdae x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Looking to your reflection in the mirror, you let out a quiet groan. The dancing, holiday cats on your sweater were some of the most awful things you had ever seen (and that was ignoring the fact that they also lit up if you flipped a covert switch hidden within the knit.) You turned to the side, furrowing your brows as you further examined your outfit.

Whoever came up with the idea of Ugly Holiday Sweater parties should be sat in a pile of ants on a hot summer day with honey dripping from their earlobes.

But that was just your personal opinion.

“Ugh, how can someone who styles celebrities professionally...show up in an outfit like this?” you clucked, spinning one last time.

SM entertainment was known publicly for their Halloween party, but what few knew was that they also hosted a party in December every year as well. Disregarding holiday preferences, most all employees attended if for nothing more than free food. You had been dragged along every year since you had landed the position as a stylist, and didn’t intend on missing it now. Not even when they changed the theme to an “ugly sweater” party.

“Are you ready?” your friend and fellow stylist asked as she waltzed into the room. Your eyes grew in size as you took her in, her tight sweater leaving little to the imagination.

“You are aware that this is an UGLY sweater event, right?” you croaked, looking down to the sack-like jumper you were wearing.

“Ugly,” she clucked. “Does not mean ill-fitting.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed your bag before you had the chance to talk yourself out of going. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Where’s the antler headband I bought you?” she hummed, her hands on her hips. Her heels didn’t budge as she began to survey your apartment. “They complete the look.”

“Isn’t the sweater enough?” you sighed, already exhausted.

“Fine, grumpy,” she said, sticking her tongue out at you. “Try to save the fun for the rest of us.”

You moodily gnawed on your candy cane as you surveyed the party bustling around you. Food was being served, drinks were being poured, but you still felt pouty,

“Isn’t this fun?” your coworker gasped, scraping the icing from her holiday cookie.

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” you grumbled. You would rather blend in with the wallpaper than stand out with your brightly flashing cat sweater.

“Did you see Baekhyun over there? Oh, and Key? They’re looking so scrumptious,” she hummed, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Good tidings aren’t the only things I would be giving them-”

“Aye!” you gasped, your eyes wide. “Calm down. You see idols every day!”

“I style for NCT Dream,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I can’t fantasize about babies.”

“As you shouldn’t!” you said sternly, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly attracted to these whole ass men wandering around,” she growled, narrowing her eyes at a guy you recognized to be in Marketing. “Who is that?”

“He’s in a different department,” you murmured, sending a silent wish of luck his way. For as much as you enjoyed being around your friend, she was a bit...difficult sometimes.

“Interesting,” she said, lifting her brows. “I may have to introduce myself.”

“Don’t make me stand awkwardly alone!” you gasped, already dreading the idea of having to make small talk.

“Live a little,” she grinned, looking down to her cookie before taking a bite. “Make friends.”

“With who?” you groaned.

“Why not an idol?” she asked, tilting her head. “What about Chen?”

“Chen?” you asked, lifting your brows. The name sounded familiar, but you couldn’t entirely place it.

“Yeah, the guy who’s been hogging the karaoke mic. He also happens to have on the same horrifying sweater as you,” she sighed, more interested in her cookie than she was in the conversation at this point.

“You said it was cute!” you gasped.

“It is,” she chuckled. “In a grandma-type way.”

“Why him?” you sighed.

“Because he’s hot,” she said thoughtfully. “And he’s a celebrity. And the matching sweaters are a good talking point.”

“Since when did you become such a social butterfly?” you murmured.

“Doesn’t take a butterfly to know how to interact with people,” she grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring him over your way. Maybe he can introduce me to-”

You missed the name of whatever miscellaneous celebrity she mentioned because she was already shuffling out of sight.

Grimacing you took a few steps to follow her, but stopped yourself. Sure, you knew you should probably be networking and talking with your coworkers, but you weren’t exactly the most confident.

Working with the dreamies had preconditioned you to deal with idols who were more like little brothers. You never worried about how you looked in front of them, or how silly you sounded. They always laughed at your jokes and treated you kindly. The older groups were what intimidated you. The men closer to your age, who were in general the more adultier-adults at the label, scared you to no end.

Of course you knew they were probably just as kind as their younger label mates, but you never allowed yourself to figure that out. You were happy being unseen.

Obscurity was where you had decided you belonged. Things were calmer that way.

Safer.

Stirred from your thoughts, you looked up just in time to see a new face in your field of vision.

“Well, call me Rudolph because i have been sleigh-ed,” he grinned. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Chen.”

“I’m Y/N,” you nodded with a polite bow. “Nice sweater.”

Chen looked down with a wide grin and shimmied his torso a bit. Your friend wasn’t incorrect. It was exactly the same one that you were wearing.

“I didn’t think anyone else would possibly pick this one out,” he laughed. “You must have wonderful taste.”

You lifted your brows and attempted to stifle your laugh. “Is that it?”

“Duh,” he grinned, careful to make sure you were smiling as well. “When people were asking me about coming here with my partner earlier, I was totally confused...but now I get it! We are wearing couples items after all...

...So, you may or may not have noticed that I was doing a bit of karaoke earlier before your friend insisted I come over. Won’t you sing a duet with me? Pretty please?”

“That’s a nice offer,” you sighed, glancing to your feet. “But there’s a reason why I’m a stylist.”

“Is it because you’re so pretty?” he gasped, his eyes wide with innocence.

You felt the heat of embarrassment begin to creep up your neck. He...thought...YOU...were pretty?

“Because i can’t sing,” you corrected, refusing to look up at him.

“Everyone can sing,” he hummed. You didn’t have to make eye contact to know he was still watching you. “It’s just an opinion if people like it or not.”

You shook your head quickly before allowing yourself to lock eyes with him and let out a nervous chuckle.

“Come on, wouldn’t it be cute if two people, wearing matching sweaters, sang a song together?” He begged, reaching forward and grabbing your hand.

Your face was an unmanageable amount of hot as you willed yourself not to look at the place where your skin was now touching his. He apparently had no issue with being forward.

“What about a dance?” he coaxed. “We can rock around the Christmas tree all night long if you’d like.”

“Dance,” you choked out, more of an acknowledgement of the word. How were you going to keep up with an idol’s dancing skills?

Lucky for you, Chen’s skill seemed to nearly evaporate. If it wasn’t part of a choreographed production, he wasn’t going to be the most talented dancer you had ever seen.

“What are you doing?” you said quietly, trying to hide your amusement. After he had taken your stupid utterance of “dance” as an agreement to actually follow him onto the floor, he proceeded to break into his “best” moves.

Which were thoroughly entertaining, but not for the reason you would have guessed.

“I’m free-styling.”

“You look like your pelvis is caught up in a spasm,” you laughed, shaking your head. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw his fellow idols beginning to laugh at his antics as well.

He really was sweet, but the attention was beginning to make you sweat.

“You say tomato, i say tomahto,” he grinned, eyes closed as he was lost in the beat.

Looking from one side of the crowd to the other, you took a deep breath. Catching eye contact with several people you would prefer to be invisible around, you found yourself beginning to step to the side. “I’m going to get some punch.”

“I’ll come with you,” Chen perked up, opening his eyes.

“That’s really not necessary,” you croaked, keeping your face to the ground.

“I’m thirsty too!” he gasped, instantly taking your hand. Chen smiled brightly at you before offering an obnoxious wink. “We’re pretty similar, don’t you think? I mean...we showed up in couples outfits without even having met before! I don’t want to sound too crazy here, but how about this concept...me and you...married. It’s obvious that we were meant to be.”

You attempted to keep from choking on your saliva. The two of you couldn’t be more different.

“No offense, I’m sure you’re incredibly sweet, but if i take off this matching sweater, will you leave me alone?” you whispered.

“Probably not,” he grinned.

“Well...at least your honest.”

“Honesty is the best policy...and honestly, i would love it if you’d agree to a date with me,” he nodded, not even skipping a beat as the two of you arrived at the snack table. “I’d love to get to know you more.”

You blinked in surprise. “Backtracking after you already suggested we get married?”

“I mean, we could work backwards if you wanted,” he smirked. “Marriage, then dating, and then...well, what would come after that?”

You still had to wrap your brain around it. You had quickly established that Chen was very similar to a puppy. Not long after meeting you, he had decided he had liked you.

He had chosen you, in essence, and you wouldn’t be getting rid of him easily.

“So?” he prodded. “Don’t leave me waiting in suspense!”

“Uh, sure,” you managed with a wince. You didn’t want to sound unenthusiastic, but the night has changed rapidly. Especially since Chen had introduced himself.

“if you wake up in a box tomorrow,” he cooed. “Just know it’s because I’ve asked Santa for you this year.”

“That is actually horrifying and mildly adorable at the same time,” you laughed, shaking your head. You had nearly forgotten that he had been holding your hand all of this time.

“Sounds like me!”

“Comforting. Something to look forward to i guess,” you shook your head and attempted not to giggle. For as silly as he was, he really was starting to grow on you.

Glancing up from your interlocked fingers, your breath caught in your throat as you noticed the holiday lights reflected in Chen’s dark eyes. He really was quite handsome.

He watched you closely, silent for the first time since you had met him.

“What?” you croaked

“Nothing,” he smirked, continuing to stare at you without shame.

“Then what are you looking at?” you whispered, furrowing your brows.

“An angel, i think,” he hummed, his smile growing wider. “You just aren’t on top of a tree.”

You felt your heart flutter and heat begin to climb up your neck again.

Maybe being different from Chen wasn’t a bad thing.

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fanficshiddles · 5 years

Text

More than friends, One shot

Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it.

brokenthelovely submitted:

So I had this idea of reader being friends with Loki but she also has a thing for him. She gets the courage to tell him she wants more than friendship and he misinterprets what she means and he thinks she wants to be friends with benefits and he’s all for it. She thinks he’s making a joke of what she meant and they have a fight. Obviously they both have feelings and it ends with them realizing that and then of course smutty smut

I emptied the crisps into a bowl then carried it through to the living room with the dips. Loki was lounging on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, drinking a beer.

‘Can’t have a movie night without dip and crisps!’ I said with a smile, I placed everything down on the table and joined him on the sofa.

‘These are the best nights.’ He chuckled, leaning forward to munch on the food.

When he leaned back, I snuggled up under his arm and placed my head on his chest. His hand came around me and he stroked my bare arm softly, causing goosebumps to rise up on my skin.

I tried to ignore it, like I did every time we met up. Which was pretty much every week. But it seemed to get more difficult as time went on, he was just getting more and more handsome. And as our friendship blossomed, we became closer. And we became more comfortable with one another, which included sharing a bed to sleep on occasions when he stayed over at mine. To save him from sleeping on the sofa, which was far too small for him.

Being so close to him in bed was torture. His smell, the warmth of his body next to me. And to make it all worse, he was in general a cuddly guy once he trusted someone, but when he was asleep he was ten times worse. Super clingy, I always woke up to his arms around me, holding me tightly to his lean, strong, super-hot body. And on occasion, I could feel his morning wood pressing into my back. Being the gentleman that he is, he always rushed to the bathroom as soon as he woke up to sort himself out, thinking I was still asleep. When I was very much awake.

While we watched the movie, his fingers kept trailing up and down my arm. It was highly distracting, though I knew he wasn’t doing it purposely. I didn’t even think he knew the effect he had on me.

‘You’re awfully quiet tonight, is everything alright?’ He asked once the movie was over and he turned his full attention on me, I could feel his eyes on me even though I was trying to pretend to watch the credits.

‘Mmm, hmm. Why wouldn’t it be?’ I asked, still not looking at him.

But he grabbed the remote and turned the TV off, then hooked my chin and turned my face towards him so I had to look him in the eye.

‘You’re forgetting who I am, sweet pea. You can’t lie to me.’ He said gently. ‘Now tell me, what’s on your mind?’

‘You sound like a shrink.’ I grinned.

He raised an eyebrow at me and tapped my nose. ‘Stop stalling.’

‘Ugh.’ I groaned and shuffled back on the sofa, to get a bit of distance from him. By the frown on his face I could tell he wasn’t best pleased at my move. But I couldn’t think straight with him touching me in some way.

‘I uh… Well… I was kind of… thinking… hoping… that maybe we could, erm… Be more than just friends.’ I looked down at my hands in my lap, twirling my fingers round nervously, scared to look up at him in fear of his rejection. I mean, why would he want me in that kind of way? He was a God. Even if he did lounge around my flat most weekends in nothing but ridiculous looking pyjama bottoms. I swear they got worse every week.

When there was no sound from Loki, I had to look at him. He was smiling broadly. I just gave him a puzzling look.

‘Of course. That would be great. What would be better? All the fun and pleasure without the hassle of commitment. Why wouldn’t I want that?’ He said quickly, his tone slightly high, but I never really picked up on that.

‘Wait… what? Hassle? Is that what you think I am?’ I asked, confused. Shocked.

‘You know what I mean.’ He chuckled.

I looked at him, completely dumbfounded. Then I stood up and shook my head. ‘You can be such an ass sometimes, you know that?’ I snapped at him and glanced over my shoulder, to see him looking confused now.

‘What did I do? You’re the one that asked!’

‘Do you not realise how hard that was for me to say? That I want more than a friendship. And you just… take the piss?’ I screeched, trying to keep my voice calm but it wasn’t really working.

I couldn’t take it. I stormed off towards my room, but I heard his footsteps coming behind me, so I ran and slammed the door shut.

‘Sweet pea, wait!’ He called and tried opening the door, but I locked it.

But I’d forgotten about his certain powers. When I turned around, he was there, in my room. Looking concerned.

He approached me and gripped my upper arms to stop me from going anywhere.

‘Did I pick this up wrong? You didn’t mean, friends with benefits… did you?’ He asked calmly.

I was struggling to keep the tears from spilling over, I could feel that horrible prickling sensation that your eyes did when you were about to cry, but trying so hard to hold it in.

‘No… But clearly that is all you would want, with me being a hassle.’ I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked back the tears that were starting to fall.

I tried pulling away, but his grip was too strong and he wouldn’t let me move. He dipped his head down, so he was looking into my eyes.

‘Oh, sweet pea. I didn’t mean that. It was a defensive mode I went into… I swear, I thought you meant friends with benefits. I… I love you, not just in a friend way. I’ve been in love with you since I first met you. But you’ve told me for the last year or so how much you love having me as a friend. When you said about wanting more, I assumed you meant friends with benefits. I said what I said, because I felt so disappointed but didn’t want it to show.’

‘Wh… What?’ I gasped, my eyes widening at his words. ‘You mean… you actually don’t want to be friends with benefits… you want… more?’

‘Yes. I want more. So much more. I want you. All of you. I adore being with you, spending as much time as possible with you. But I want to be with you all the time. To wake you up with breakfast in bed, to take you on dates, to bathe with you, to laugh and cry together, to pick out wallpaper for our home together. I want to share my life with you. I don’t trust anyone else like I do you. And you are never a hassle.’ He pressed his forehead against mine.

And then I started crying, but for a completely different reason.

His thumbs wiped away my tears from my cheeks and his nose touched mine. Then his lips brushed across my lips, making me gasp.

‘I’m sorry…’ I whispered just when his lips were hovering over mine.

‘What for?’ He asked, not moving away.

‘For jumping to conclusions… And for ugly crying.’

He laughed against my lips, then kissed me so softly I could’ve sworn I’d died and gone to heaven. His lips moved against mine slowly, then he smirked against me.

‘You couldn’t ugly cry even if you tried.’ He purred.

His hands slid around me and he pulled me flush against his body, kissing me again. It became a bit of a blur, but we ended up heading towards the bed, pulling each other’s clothes off on the way there. My heart was pounding against my chest, I’d never felt so nervous before. I wasn’t even sure why.

When he lay me on the bed and moved over the top of me one of his large, but gentle, hands cupped my breast and his thumb rubbed over my nipple, making me moan and arch up against him. But I couldn’t stop trembling.

He nuzzled against my neck and kissed me there. ‘Shhh, sweet pea. You’re shaking… It’s me. It’s just me.’ He whispered.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, sliding my fingers through his hair. ‘I know… That’s why.’ I whispered back, not trusting my voice to be any louder.

He leaned up slightly to look at me, and cupped my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch. But when I felt one of his hands move down between my legs, his fingers pressing against my core, my eyes flew open again.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his while he explored and prepared me with his fingers. Taking his time. Making sure I was truly wet and ready to take him. I knew he was large, I’d seen a few glimpses before. Once when we were drunk with some other friends and playing strip poker, and another time when we went skinny dipping.

He spent a long time stroking my clit and pushing his long, devious, fingers into me, twisting and wiggling, finding all of my sweet spots, learning what made me moan and also what I didn’t like so much. It didn’t take him long to map out my body. Like he already knew me entirely.

Then, at last. After longing after him for so long, he finally slipped his cock into me.

We both moaned together, then kissed feverishly, swallowing one another’s moans. He moved his hips straight away in a slow, but deep, rhythm.

I would love to say we lasted all night, never stopping. But the two of us had years of longing and wanting for one another built up, but never telling. Never knowing that the other had the same feelings, both too scared to take the first step. Worried about ruining what we had already… So we both came quickly, like teenagers losing their virginity together and only lasting a matter of minutes, if even that. I wasn’t counting.

We were both panting and trembling. Loki collapsed on top of me, then went to move but I clamped my arms around him, not wanting him to move.

‘I don’t want to crush you, sweet pea.’ He said between taking deep breaths.

‘I like it.’ I said quietly.

He kissed my forehead, then my nose, my cheeks and finally my lips again.

‘We’ve been such fools… waiting so long for this.’ He said with a hint of regret in his voice.

‘We’re there now… that’s all that matters.’ I smiled.

#Tom Hiddleston #fan fiction #one shot #more than friends #loki #brokenthelovely #prompt

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kindalinesims · 5 years

Text

21 questions tag ; tagged by the lovely @squeamishsims (woop woop got tagged 😆)

rules ; answer 21 questions, then tag 21 people you want to get to know better.

nickname ; okie so idk if i have shared my name on my simblr yet, but my nickname is from my actual name, so like i get called that on a regular and it's like my actual name so give me some nicknames y'all!

zodiac ; emotionally unstable human being aka cancer

height ; 163 cm or 5'4

last thing i searched ; android wallpaper fix app, yep i was tired of the nonsense android does with wallpapers and found an app to save my perfectionist ass finally (after doing this tag it'll be cm to feet converter thats for sure 😂)

favourite musicians ; oh boi well, some of y'all that follow my main account might know that i luv k-pop, and taking a look at that blog you'll figure out which groups. other than that, troye sivan, billie eilish, kehlani and so on...

if you had a time machine, would you back back in time or visit the future? good question, i would be interested to see my future thats for sure, but since im the type to regret my whole existence, i would most likely go back in time and fix my "mistakes"

do i get asks ; no, my inbox is very very vErY DrY, i have wcifs open, would like some questions about my sims maybe too, just anything fam bc its like a desert rn!

following ; 110, but some are inactive or just on a hiatus sooooo-

would you rather be rich or famous? famous i think, my little head would most likely not be able to wrap around being either, but achieving some fame would maybe boost my non existent self-esteem...

amount of sleep ; im kinda an early bird, or more like when its not school time i am, but i get some fair amount of sleep since my mother is a light sleeper and notices the moment im awake from across our house 😂

what im wearing ; some leggings, grey long sleeve and a soft & fuzzy ugly ass green/blue jumper bc im one sick bean rn and also couldn't care less as per usual

dream job ; something artsy, although i get frustrated with art it has been a dream of mine for a while

dream trip ; oof another good one, lets see i had a phase when i wanted to go to paris real bad, but rn i would be good with going any location that has a bts concert bc my european ass can only dream 😂

if you were an animal what would you be? a cat, aka lazy purring soft creature that is CuTe AF. (so i could be cute for once lol)

what are some of your favourite books/films/shows/games/etc? films, okay well i had an adam sandler film phase, rn i stand by that kinda, for shows i loved glee while it was a thing, games well sims obviously, life is strange, simple games like papers please etc.

play any instruments ; nope, im an untalented noodle so ofc i cannot

languages ; english is my second language, and hungarian is my first (heyooo now y'all know lol, that also explains why im desperate for a bts concert 😂)

describe your aesthetics ; wannabe art hoe, that doesn't try hard enough and also just loves gothic, badass, dark aeshtetics too much but doesn't show it, aka my simblr represents it pretty well 😆

tagging ; well oof who should i tag (if you have been already tagged then ignore it, and if you wanna do it but didn't get tagged also do it!) @lunrlakes @jeje313 @tapiocai @alxandergoth @shytownie

#tag game #kindalinesims #kindalinesims randoms #tags #tagged #squeamishsims #tag

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 5 years

Text

Wan High Weeping (Part 18)

About a week since she had brought TyLee over and her mother was still refusing to talk to her. “You decided to leave your brother home all. Alone. To talk to your friend!” The dramatic way she had tossed her hands into the air did little to ease the tension. “I know you don’t think far beyond yourself, young lady, but this is unacceptable. You knew how important that dinner was to your father. We were almost late because of you. We ended up having to leave Tom-Tom…” Mai ended up tuning her out entirely from there. The woman had been lecturing her on selfishness and in that same spiel, admitted her own self-interest. If Tom-Tom’s well-being had matter that much, they would have skipped the dinner.

But no. Because they were the parents and she was the daughter, the blame lie with her. And TyLee hasn’t talked to her since. She couldn’t blame TyLee. Her mother had the audacity to phone TyLee’s parents and so the girl was also in trouble.

And that was her fault too.

She had put all of her soul into not taking things out on Tom-Tom, but the more her mom spoke and chastised. The more Mai wished that the boy had never been born at all. She was a burden to her parents and Tom-Tom was a burden to her.

And he was still a burden because Mai had to watch him after school that day. She had to watch him the day after that as well and, for her crime, she wasn’t allowed company either. She was barred from Chan’s Halloween party too. This particularly vexed her; Halloween was the one time of the year she actually rather enjoyed. It was prime shopping season for her wardrobe, and she hadn’t even had the chance to do so once that season.

She was beginning to think she should just stop trying to enjoy things at all. The less she liked, the less there was to lose. Halloween was a children’s holiday anyways. And it wasn’t the same now that she TyLee and Azula didn’t dress up together. Just to torture herself a little more, she opened her phone and browsed old pictures. The first was very, very old; her first Halloween with the two girls. She had been a ladybug, TyLee was a bee, and Azula was a praying mantis of all things. They each held their little pumpkin buckets staring at the camera with cubby baby faces and the kind of adorably wide smiles that only children could muster. She swiped a few times to something more recent. The Halloween party from two years ago; TyLee was a zombie cheerleader, flashing a peace sign at the camera, somehow managing to hold her pom poms at the same time. Azula’s costume was handcrafted and model after her zodiac sign; complete with full body paint and dashes of glitter and a pair of elaborate wings. She had gone all out that year and won the costume competition. Zuko was in this one too; his was also handmade—he had gone the vampire route but with a steampunk twist. And Mai. She was just Mai. Blah, Mai, with a generic vampire costume. Granted it suited her style well but she wished that she had the ambition to create something original.

It would seem that she wouldn’t be getting her chance.

She swiped again. God, they were so happy. There was always a touch of pain in Zuko’s eyes but at least he was there. And at least he was having a good time for the moment. Another swipe and she had to hold back tears, she wondered where it had gone wrong. How she had let both Azula and TyLee distance themselves.

Indeed, that was somehow her fault too.

.oOo.

Toph didn’t like the look of the place at all—not that she could see it very well through swollen, stinging eyes. But her condition was getting worse and her parents were getting desperate. And so she found herself in the waiting room of the shadiest looking eye doctor she had ever not heard of. She holds her focused on her phone as hard as possible and found the voice command button. Not bothering to keep her voice low she said, “Twinkle Toes, ya gotta help me, this is sketchier than Zhao telling us that our math tests only ask questions about what we learned in class.”

Lao hushed her. “You have to keep your voice down, this man is going to help fix your eyes and then you’ll be able to get back to school and soccer. And he’s doing it for a deal!”

“But he won’t help us if you keep saying things like that, dear.” Poppy added.

Toph folded her arms over her chest. “Stop calling me that!” She grumbled. She had a feeling that this doctor dude would see her regardless of her words, he just wanted to make a quick buck and she didn’t want to be his lab rat.

“Doctor Warui Kōkei, will see you now.”

“To bad I won’t see him.” Toph huffed. She had earned herself more hushing from both parents.

But the nurse chuckled, “well hopefully we can fix that, yes?”

The nurse seemed nice enough, but Toph was still skeptical. Maybe it was the crumbling and faded wallpaper or maybe it was the scuffed and creaking floorboards. It could have been the crying child or the broken clock. Whatever it was, Toph had the most foreboding feeling.

Not that her parents would take that opinion into account.

.oOo.

“Have you heard anything about BeiFong?” Mai asked Smellerbee. It had been a bitch to track the girl down in the after school rush, so she better have an answer.

“What do you care for?” The girl returned with a question of her own. “I have a bus to catch.”

“And I have a question that needs an answer. BeiFong is on your soccer team, have you heard any news.”

Smellerbee rolled her eyes. “Sure. Her parents are taking her to some eye doctor no one has ever heard of. If he does then I won’t have to worry about her taking my place as team captain.”

“I’m sure you will.” Mai stated plainly. She sure hoped that the surgery, or whatever the treatment was, would go well. She watched Smellerbee stop towards her bus, leaving her to wonder if literally everyone attending Wan High—save for Aang—were in endless states of sour moods.

She knew that she was and that it was about to get worse.

Years ago, Tom-Tom running up to her screaming, “Maaaaaaai!” And then jumping into a hug would have turned her day around. That day each syllable was a crescendo off annoyance and his body colliding with hers, was a detonator. It was a silent explosion, but an explosion no less. “Get off, Tom, I’ve got homework to do. Sit down and watch TV or something.”

He looked at her with innocent eyes, “I’m hungry though, Mai. Really, really hungry. We can go to the kitchen and play animal crackers!”

It was almost enough to break the resentment. Almost. But this time she wanted to hold onto and relish in her anger, even if she would only keep it within. On the outside she remained cold. “I don’t have time for animal crackers. Stop playing with your food and just eat it.” She found herself a seat on the sofa and watched him teeter off towards the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

She pulled out her phone, Azula’s number still remained in her contacts and for a moment she considered giving it a call. But she recalled the girl saying that she had other goth girls to talk to, the though left her bitter so she scrapped that idea, swapping it out for a worse one.

She dialed Zuko’s phone.

Again her message went to voice mail and she was furious. Of all the times he had called her during his slumps…she had always picked up, even if it was to yell and argue. And now he had the audacity to ignore her completely? She really had been nothing more than a person to weep to after his father whopped his druggy ass a good one.

She very nearly threw the phone, when a text appeared on her screen.

She dared to hope that it was TyLee or Zuko. Instead an ugly message scrawled itself across the screen, with an even uglier photo. It took a lot to invoke a physical response, but the phone fell from her hands which came to cover her mouth. The phone fell face up so a glance down could send chills down her spine all over again.

It was bloody, the image. She couldn’t tell exactly what had happened to Toph’s eyes, but they were bleeding. And she was screaming, her face twisted and contorted in pain. Her hands seemed to claw at her seat as her mother held her close.

She didn’t recognize the sender’s number, but the message was clear and cutting.

“I hope you’re happy.”

#Avatar #Mai #Toph #Azula #Tylee #Sokka #Aang #Katara #Suki #Zuko #Fanfiction

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xteenwolfwritingsx · 7 years

Text

You Know Better - Part 29 - The Target on Your Back

-gif source unknown-

Story Description: Peter and the reader develop a slow relationship.

Part Description: Someone ends up in the hospital.

Warnings/Labels: None

Approx. Word Count: 2,000

A/N: This is more of a Derek/Reader friendship chapter but it’s important and I like it.

Story Masterpost

It started with a strange dream, though looking back on it, you’re not entirely sure how much of it was actually a dream. You were walking down your hallway in the dead of the night, windows showing nothing but blackness outside. You were barefoot, the wooden floor beneath you unusually cold as you kept moving. The hallway seemed to keep going forever, no matter how many steps you took, you didn’t get closer to the end.

There was a breeze gently swishing around you, almost barely noticeable and yet it was the thing that drew your attention the most. Where was it coming from? Why was it so cold? Had you left a window open? Was it speaking?

If you concentrated hard enough, you swore you could hear a voice in the breeze. You stopped walking and tried to listen. The voice slowly got clearer and closer, until the breeze turned into the feeling of breath on the back of your neck.

“Oh, you should know better than that,” a woman’s soft voice tickles your ear. You tell yourself to turn around, but your body won’t move. “I’ll leave,” she says. “If you let me cut off his hand.” There’s a shadow in front of you; Peter. You don’t know how you know, the shape of a body is barely distinguishable, but you’re sure it’s Peter. You try to give out a protest, to open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The woman giggles.

And just like that, you’re awake in your bed. Your phone tells you it’s only five in the morning. You try not to think about the dream too hard, forcing yourself back to sleep. When you wake up again, you don’t give the dream a second thought.

---

It’s almost noon when you get Stiles’ text telling you to come to the hospital. You drive faster than you can remember driving before. You’re pretty sure a couple of the lights you went through were red, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on keeping your hands from shaking and keeping your foot down on the accelerator.

Stiles meets you outside of his room, putting his hands on your arms to calm your frenzy. You try to break free of his grip, but he holds you tightly until you look at him.

“He’s okay,” Stiles reassures you, his words only calming you slightly, tears prickling at your eyes. “He’s not in the greatest shape, but he’s okay.”

“What happened?” You had asked before, but he had promised to tell you when you arrived. “Why isn’t he healing?”

“He is healing, just slowly.” Stiles tells you, talking to you firmly but with compassion. “His place was laced with wolfsbane and then she showed up.” You move to break away from him again and this time he lets you go.

As much as you want to fling the door open, you make the effort to open it slowly, to enter the hospital room with composure and a fake calmness even though it wouldn’t fool him. Even injured, he’d probably be able to smell the fear and worry on you.

Derek lays on the bed, ugly beige blankets covering most of his body, an IV stuck into his right forearm and a heart rate monitor capped over his index finger. His eyes are open, sunken and tired. Weak. He gives you a small smile.

“I told them not to call you.” His voice cracks when he speaks.

“Good thing no one listens to you.” The humor doesn’t fully come through, but he laughs dryly anyways. You come to the side of the bed and take Derek’s free hand in yours, eyes lifting to the monitors. You can’t read them, don’t understand what most of the numbers mean, but nothing’s flashing or red so you assume it’s all good. “What happened, Derek?”

He gives you a more detailed description than Stiles, but it’s still brief. Talking looks to be painful for him so you stay silent, let him take his time telling you how he came home to his apartment covered in wolfsbane late last night. He was already weak when Kayla Slater walked in the door, when she stabbed him in the chest, ripped him open, and stuffed even more poison inside of him.

“They got it out in time,” Derek says. “I’ll be fine, just need some time to heal.”

“We have to do something.” You squeeze his hand, pushing back tears and keeping your voice steady. “This sitting around and waiting isn’t working.” Derek doesn’t say anything, but squeezes your hand back. “Do we have a plan?”

“Working on it.” You keep glancing up at the monitors, not satisfied with the mysterious numbers it keeps giving you. Derek keeps talking, partly to give you information and partly to keep you distracted. “Argent says she has something that’s amplifying her power. We need to get it away from her.”

“Like a talisman or something?”

“Or something,” Peter’s voice says from the door. You turn to look at him, standing in the doorway. “It’s a freaking one foot tall totem pole that looks like an overpriced knockoff.” He enters the room, eyes briefly looking down on yours and Derek’s interlocked hands. It’s such a small flick of his eyes that it would have been so simple to miss. “And she keeps it in a cave in the woods like an animal.” Peter holds up a brown paper bag you didn’t realize he’s holding. “I got you what you asked for,” he says to Derek.

“You knew he was here?” you ask, feeling the slightest bit of betrayal starting to eat away at you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peter casually shrugs.

“He told me not to.” Tension grows in the air and right now, if Derek had the ability, he’d probably leave the room. Instead, being stuck in that bed, he rolls his eyes and drops his head back.

“Since when do you listen to anyone?” There’s a bite in your tone that you don’t mean to use, but it just comes out. “He’s my friend, my best friend. I deserve to know when something happens to him.” You let go of Derek’s hand even though he tries to hold onto it, just to keep you grounded. “Both of you!” You turn on Derek and he looks surprised. “I’m sick of this woman coming after you guys and terrorizing us. What the hell is the plan?”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Peter brushes you off. “We’ve got it covered.” Derek cringes, being smart enough to realize that was the wrong thing to say to you.

“No,” you snap at Peter, walking up to him in the small room. “This is what you’ve been training me for. This is why I’m here. You guys are my friends, my family. I’m not just sitting by. Now what the hell is the plan?” you growl out at him. He stands his ground and just tilts his head. “Well?” you shout, frustrated by his lack of response.

“I’ll tell you,” Derek pipes in.

“No, you won’t.” Peter glares at his nephew. “She will have no part of this plan. She is going to go home and wait it out.” His cold eyes come back to yours and your blood boils.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You look back at Derek and he sighs, rolling his eyes again. You clench your fists, releasing your tension into curling your knuckles as tight as you can. “I’m going to get a coffee,” you say through clenched teeth. You turn back to Derek before leaving. “Talk to him.”

---

When you return, with no coffee – having just roamed the halls for a while instead, Peter isn’t anywhere to be found and Derek is sitting up in his bed. He still looks weak and pale, but it brings a relief to see him in a position other than laying down.

“Your uncle is an ass,” is what you greet him with. Derek gives out another sigh, but leaves out the eye roll. “You guys can’t hide things from me.” You make it a point to soften your voice, to leave the anger at the door when you come to sit beside his bed. “Peter’s been weird and distant ever since we were attacked and now I feel like you’re leaving things out.”

“You’ve gotten better at defending yourself,” he admits. “But you’ve also gotten reckless with that. I don’t want you jumping into this and getting hurt. Again.” He pauses and you don’t fill the gap, sensing there’s something else he’s reluctant to add. “You’re human.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it’s obviously the only thing he can think of instead.

“So is Stiles,” you counter without missing a beat. “You tell Stiles everything and he always jumps in a lot more recklessly than I do.” He groans.

“There’s a big difference between you and Stiles.” He absentmindedly scratches the skin around the IV in his vein. “For both of us,” he adds a little quieter. You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to keep going. “Look, it’s no secret that I don’t like the whole you and Peter… thing,” he cringes as he says it. “But… Peter cares about you.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, instead staring at the yellow wallpaper across the room. “Hales aren’t known for our emotional maturity or intelligence. We’re much better at pushing people away and hiding in our holes. You know that.”

“You don’t want me to get hurt, I get it.” You’re ignoring the little rush of butterflies you get at Derek telling you that Peter cares. The annoyance and frustration with the whole situation is overpowering. The fear is too if you stop to think about it.

“No, you don’t get it.” Derek looks pointedly at you. “Kayla is after us, the Hales. Like you said, you’re my friend. You’re the one person in this town I’ve always trusted and been closest to. And Peter…” he pauses again, not sure how to word it. “You’re the one person that means something to both of us.” It takes you a second to take his words in. “If Kayla wants to draw us in or hurt us, you’re the way to do it. You’re an easy target.”

“So, is your plan to lock me away?” It’s a lot less accusatory than before. It’s a genuine question. If you’re a target, keeping you in the dark wasn’t going to change that much.

“The plan is to end this,” he says. “As fast as we can.”

“You realize I’m not staying out of it, right?” You lean back in your chair and try to relax a little. “You mean something to me too and that means I can’t just turn away. I need to know when things happen.”

“I still don’t like whatever the hell is going on with you and Peter,” he throws in for good measure, as if you would have forgotten.

There’s a bit of silence where you both come to an easy understanding with each other. You disagree with each other, but there’s only one way this is going to go so you might as well deal with it. Or he might as well, seeing as how it’s going to be going your way.

“So what’s the plan?” you ask for what seems like the hundredth time today.

“We need a distraction, something to draw out both her and the Cerberus.”

“While someone goes in and gets the talisman,” you finish. Derek nods slowly.

“And since she wants a Hale and I’m not obviously not going to be up and moving for at least a little while...” he trails off and lets you put it together. A pit of dread starts to grow in your gut.

“We’re using Peter for bait?”

“We’re using Peter for bait.”

#peter hale story #peter hale imagine #teen wolf

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braincoins · 7 years

Photo

If you want to know about me, here’s what’s next to my laptop. (I think it’s also telling that I took the time to make this gif.)

Ignore the ugly-ass wallpaper; the woman who lived here before Mooms bought the house had strange tastes, and Mooms hasn’t gotten the chance to change it.

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rachello344 · 7 years

Text

I totally forgot I was going to post it, but if anyone is interested, here’s the short story I worked on last semester, called The House on Maple Drive. I’m still putting it through revision, but this was the final version my classmates read. If you like it at all, I’d like to know! ^_^ Lemme know what you think~

Madeline sighed, exasperated. Running a hand through her hair, she made a list of the places she or her brother would have packed the throw pillows for the couch. They should have been in the box with the other living room stuff, but of course that would have been too logical. It would just figure that their first time moving away from home (and not into a dorm) would involve multiple trips back home, even with her truck.

“Henry, where are the pillows for the couch?” she yelled into the kitchen. It was still weird having to yell to be heard from the living room, but then it was a lot bigger and older than their family’s house.

Her brother peeked around the corner, squinting at her. He had a smudge of dust on the bridge of his nose, extending under his eye. “You’re kidding, right? They’re in the box marked ‘Living Room.’ Or are you having trouble reading now?”

She scowled. “Look, smart ass, I checked all of those boxes, and they weren’t there. If you forgot them, just admit it already.”

“What? You packed that box!”

“Children, please,” their best friend, Victor, said from around a large box, walking in from the garage. “If you can’t get along, one of you is going to have to share a room with me instead.” He winked, his smile teasing and warm.

“You snore,” Madeline and Henry said, voices overlapping.

Victor gave an exaggerated shudder. “Twins,” he muttered under his breath. “Anyway, what are you guys fighting about this time? I came in at the end.” He sat the box down next to one of the antique end tables the house’s previous owner left behind.

“The couch pillows went missing.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn up,” he said, smiling at them both. Madeline wasn’t sure his smile was ever going to change. Going on fourteen years and it was the same goofy, lopsided grin as the day they met him in second grade. When his gaze settled on Henry, he laughed a little. “You have,” he gestured along his face.

Henry shot Madeline a dirty look, scrubbing viciously at his cheek. She smirked.

The little old lady from across the street stopped Madeline at her gate. She looked like she had been waiting there. The woman’s brow was furrowed, wrinkles upon wrinkles. “Miss, you don’t live here, do you?”

Madeline nodded. “I do, why?”

The woman crossed herself. “This house isn’t right,” she muttered, shaking her head again and again. “It’s unholy.” Message delivered, she hurried away. Madeline watched her go, tilting her head to one side.

Resettling the grocery bags in her arms, she opened the gate and continued up the front walk.

She glanced over her shoulder, watching the woman slam her door. Her foot caught on the step, and her heart caught in her throat as she flew forward, clutching the groceries as she stumbled several steps, hitting her head on the front door.

Head pounding, she set the groceries on the porch, gripping her head, and breathing through the throbbing pain of it. The door opened in front of her.

“What the hell happened to you?” Victor asked.

“The house is trying to kill me,” she complained, poking the tender spot until she saw stars. “We need to get some stuff from the hardware store so I can fix the steps. They’re loose or something.”

“Really?” Victor stepped around her, peering down at the old steps. “They look fine to me.”

“Not possible. What else tripped me?” She frowned down at the steps, but she couldn’t find anything wrong with them. Even when she checked under the porch, there was nothing that she could have tripped over. She felt a chill. “Maybe there is something wrong with the house…”

“What, just because we got it for cheap?” Victor rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Madeline rubbed her head, still searching for a loose nail or even a scuff mark from her shoe. Nothing looked out of place. “I think our neighbor thinks the house is haunted, too. She crossed herself when she found out I live here.”

“The woman across the street?” He laughed. “That woman definitely thinks it’s haunted. She told me and Henry that she heard all sorts of weird things from the house before we moved in. Plus, I guess lights were on when no one was living here?” He shrugged, still smiling. “I think she’s got a few loose floorboards, if you know what I mean.”

Madeline shivered. She glanced back across the street. The woman was in her kitchen window, watching them. When their eyes met, she closed the curtains. Madeline bit her lip, touching her forehead again.

“Come on, let’s get the groceries put away.” Victor scooped up the bags, leading the way inside. “Maybe if we’re lucky, Henry will make cookies tonight.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said, but she couldn’t seem to relax, eyes trailing over everything as she iced her forehead. Nothing was out of place, but something was off.

She felt like they were being watched.

Henry and Victor were yelling when Madeline got home from work. She couldn’t quite make out what they were yelling about, but she felt unsettled either way. Henry and Victor never fought.

“Guys?” She peeked around the corner warily.

“Did you take the couch blanket?” Victor asked her, eyes hard and arms crossed. “Henry insists I took it, and I told him I hadn’t seen it all day.”

“Well, I didn’t take it, so it must have been you!”

“Guys, guys, hang on. The blanket is missing?” Madeline walked around the couch—wincing as she banged her hip against it—to the little basket they held extra pillows and an extra blanket in. Sure enough, the blanket was missing, along with one of the pillows.

It didn’t seem to be anywhere else in the room either. She bit her lip. “Why would a pillow be missing, if it was one of us?”

They both glanced at her. “What?”

She gestured to the basket. “The blanket isn’t here, but we’re also missing a pillow.” She felt like she was being watched again, but tried to ignore it, walking back toward the hallway. She hip-checked an end table as she went. Weird. “Did one of you move the furniture?”

“No? Why would we?” Henry asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it feels like all the furniture in here moved an inch or two, doesn’t it?” She shivered, shaking her head again.

It was nothing. It was nothing.

Henry was staring at the wall in the upstairs hallway, lost in thought.

“I hope you’re thinking of a color to paint over that wallpaper,” Madeline said. “I hate that color.”

Henry jumped, glancing back at her in surprise. “Sorry, what?”

“I was saying we should paint over it. It’s such an ugly shade of yellow.”

He blanched, looking vaguely ill as he spun back around. “That’s it! The Yellow Wallpaper,” he hissed. Her shoulders drew up around her ears as she recoiled.

“No,” she moaned, “don’t say that. I’d actually managed to forget that horrible story. Do you remember when we visited Grandma? The wallpaper in her bathroom?”

He shuddered. “That’s what it is, though. This is exactly how I imagined that wallpaper looked. Inexplicable swirly but barred pattern, hideous yellow… This is the wallpaper that drove that woman crazy.”

The pattern did look like it could be trapping something, someone, behind it. Her eyes dropped to the floor. No sign that anyone had crawled back and forth and back and forth enough to leave a groove, thank God. As if the house didn’t scare her enough already.

“We definitely need to pick up paint later.”

The evening was quiet and peaceful. They didn’t have a TV yet—Emily was going to bring it when she moved in after she got back from vacation—so they were listening to the radio on Victor’s old stereo. Madeline was reading. Victor and Henry were playing a card game on the floor by the fireplace.

She jolted at a sharp beep interrupting whatever top-40 song had been playing. This is a child abduction emergency—Madeline sat up, frowning. The boys stopped their game. Eleven-year-old Cody Hawkins… Last seen riding his bike on Fourth and Maple… Suspect is a white man in his forties, brown hair, a little over six feet tall…

“We’ll have to keep an eye out,” Victor muttered. Henry and Madeline both mumbled their assent. The music returned, but the peaceful mood took longer to settle around them again. Madeline didn’t feel like she was being watched. She didn’t.

When the noises started, Madeline couldn’t find it in herself to be surprised. The house had been creaking since they moved in—the usual old house aches and pains—but this was new. Thumping behind the walls, noises that didn’t sound natural, the sound of creaking floorboards…

She squeezed her eyes closed. It was normal. It was perfectly normal.

“Maddy?” When she opened her eyes, Henry was watching her, blankets pulled up to his chin. “You’re hearing this, too, right?”

“Yeah.” Her brother only called her Maddy when he was scared.

“Do you think Victor’s hearing them, or just us?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s not just us.”

Someone knocked on their bedroom door. They both sat up, wide-eyes fixed on the knob. It didn’t turn. “Are you guys awake?” They both slumped against their headboards in unified relief.

Madeline got up and opened the door. “You hear it, too?”

“You may have a point about the house being haunted.” Victor glanced over his shoulder, shivering as if he felt a draft. “Do you think—I mean, I know we’re all adults, but—”

Henry got out of bed, grabbing his rabbit. “I thought you’d never ask. Your bed’s a King, right?”

Madeline doubled back for her cat and followed her brother out the door. “Plenty of room for three,” she agreed.

Victor laughed, but he sounded relieved, following them down the hall. “It’ll be just like old times.”

A loud thump sounded from within the wall. All three of them shrieked, ran to the bedroom, slammed the door, and buried themselves under the covers. Shaking, Madeline tucked herself in close to her brother’s back.

This wasn’t normal.

“Okay, so I’ve been researching all day—”

“Nerd,” Henry interjected.

“Yes, thank you, moving on.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “Are you home? We’re definitely dealing with something evil and malevolent.”

“Yeah, I’m home, but what makes you say malevolent? I mean, we’ve only been hearing noises and losing some things. That doesn’t seem that bad.” She could hear knocking through the phone and his muttered knock on wood.

“The previous owner, he moved because his wife was murdered. And it looks an awful lot like it was the ghost that did it.” Madeline shivered. “You need to get out of there, Henry. It’s not safe.”

“Yeah, hang on,” he said, voice distant, like he wasn’t listening.

“Henry,” she tried, but he just made a noncommittal noise. She closed her eyes, pausing on her walk home. He never listened.

“Okay, so I just noticed something about that ugly wallpaper, so I’m gonna have to call you back. Love you.”

“What—Henry,” but she was already talking to a dead line. She pressed her phone against her forehead. She didn’t want to go back to the house. She wanted to call their parents and move away immediately.

Madeline kept walking, faster than before. She just wanted to go home, but she couldn’t leave without Henry and Victor.

“Henry?” she called, voice shaking. Madeline couldn’t quite bring herself to go in, hesitating at the threshold. She clenched her fists at her side. She couldn’t just leave him there.

Biting her lip, she pulled out her phone.

“Hello?” Victor answered.

“Oh, thank God.” Madeline took a deep breath. “Henry is alone in the house, and it’s definitely haunted, so I’m going in after him. Please tell me you’re on your way home.”

“I’m leaving now.” Victor’s voice was low, more serious than she was used to. “Five minutes out, so be careful.”

“I will. I’ll see you soon.”

She took another deep breath, tucking her phone back in her pocket. Steeling herself, she took one step and then another, feigning confidence as she entered the house. She walked immediately to the stairs, not bothering to waste her time in any of the other rooms.

When she got to the second floor, she flinched back a step, nearly falling.

There were scratches in the wallpaper, long gouges like someone had been trying to peel it off with their bare hands, digging their nails in and dragging. She shivered, making an aborted motion to touch the marks. Her brother was here, but now… He might not even be in the house.

She bit her lip, frowning. The places where the wallpaper had been peeled away looked a little odd. It was like there was a seam of some kind. Maybe a door? He mentioned noticing something...

She rubbed her thumb along her lip. There was really only one way to find out, she decided.

Madeline stepped into their bedroom, plucking one of her favorite tools out of her belt. Returning to the hallway, she considered the best point of entry. She knocked on the wall a few times, listening for a difference in sound.

There was some kind of opening behind the scratches; the knock rang hollow.

Shifting her stance, with one clean blow, she knocked a hole in the wall, letting her mallet settle back at her side. There was definitely a small room behind the wall. Shivering, she raised her hammer again. And again. And again.

When the hole was big enough, she finally let herself look inside, keeping a careful distance from it. There were blankets on the ground. Pillows. A few magazines. A bag of chips. And all of them things that had gone missing in the last few days.

Cold dread rushed through her veins. There wasn’t a ghost.

There was someone living in their walls.

A hand landed on her shoulder. She screamed. She was about to hit the person behind her with the mallet when she finally registered who it was.

“Victor,” she gasped, tears pricking at her eyes. “Victor, call the police, it isn’t a ghost.”

He pulled out his phone, but frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

Unable to say anything, she pointed a shaking finger at the hole. When he glanced in, his face lost all color. His hand was shaking where it held the phone up.

If it wasn’t a ghost, where was Henry?

“Hello, I have an emergency.” Victor’s voice was shaking, too. “Someone has been living in the walls of our house.” After a pause, he rattled off their address, his eyes darting about. She watched over his shoulder. The mallet made her feel slightly more secure.

“Please hurry. My friend is missing, and he was in the house before we got home.” He nodded, murmuring a good bye before pocketing the phone. “Ten minutes.”

Madeline shook her head. “That’s too long. We don’t even know where he could be.” She shivered with the sudden feeling she was being watched and looked around, heart pounding behind her ribs. Her palms were sweating.

Madeline’s eyes slanted toward the hole. Eyes. There were dark eyes in a pale face, staring at them both. She lifted the mallet, her scream caught in her throat, but the man turned and disappeared into the walls.

She could hear him moving, steps falling, floor creaking, occasionally hitting the walls as he made sharp turns. Victor followed the noises, running down the hall, but Madeline couldn’t bring herself to move, her feet frozen with her fear. She gripped the mallet tighter.

“He’s outside,” Victor called. “He’s running.”

She jolted at the sound of approaching sirens. Victor gripped her shoulders; she wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d left her side. Henry was still missing. He was missing, and a madman had been living in their walls.

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be fine now.” He forced a smile. “All that’s left is finding Henry.”

“He could be anywhere,” she whispered. His grip on her shoulders tightened. He looked as scared as she felt. “We don’t know if there are any secret rooms, or more passages than this one… He could be anywhere.”

“He’s fine,” Victor said, forcefully. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Madeline wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

There was a loud thump from above them; she jolted. They both looked up as if expecting to see something there. “Does this house have an attic?”

Victor shrugged. “Why don’t we check the master closet?”

It was boarded over, but the entrance was there, easy to reach with a chair. With the back of one of her other hammers, she pried the nails loose one by one until the boards came off. With Victor’s help, they managed to get the entrance opened up and heaved themselves into it.

The first thing she saw was an impressive amount of weird-looking furniture. Tables, chairs, a bed frame. Among them, tied up and gagged, was her brother. He was crying. She dropped the hammer and rushed over to Henry, Victor hard on her heels. She pulled out the gag; Victor untied him.

As soon as his arms were free, she and Victor wrapped him up in a tight hug. Madeline’s chest clenched with her silent sobs.

“I was worried you wouldn’t—I didn’t know we had an attic—I thought—” Henry cut himself off, burying his face in Victor’s chest. Victor was stroking his hair. “Get me out of this horrible place.”

While Victor helped him to his feet, Madeline took another look around. There really was a lot of unfinished furniture, the wood carved into strange shapes and painted a ghastly white. They were well-constructed, clearly, although…

She gagged, her throat burning with bile. She clamped a hand over her mouth, doubling over. “It’s not wood,” Henry confirmed.

Bones, she thought. There are so many bones.

Madeline gripped Victor’s other arm, letting him lead the way out, her legs shaking with every step. She wasn’t sure how Victor could keep so calm. The door downstairs crashed open, and she stumbled in her alarm.

“This is the police!”

Madeline sat down hard, her brother following suit. “We’re up here!” they yelled together.

Victor knelt in front of Henry, looking him over for any signs of injury. His fingers lingered on the back of his head, on his shoulders, his wrists, his cheeks…

Madeline looked away, trying to give them what privacy she could.

She couldn’t help but hear Victor’s quiet, “I thought I’d lost you,” and, “Never do something like that again.” She couldn’t help but hear the way his voice cracked on, “I love you.”

Henry buried his face in Victor’s neck, clinging koala-tight. When the police found them, Henry was forced to let go; Victor wrapped an arm around his shoulders. The police officers guided them out of the room, leading them to the front porch, and draping blankets over their shoulders. One of them offered to call their parents for them.

“He ran north,” Victor said. “He was cutting through yards.” The officer nodded once, hurrying off and shouting orders.

Henry and Victor shared their blanket, arms around each other. Eyes focused on the bush in front of their house, Henry took Madeline’s hand in his, squeezing once. She scooted closer, knees against her chest.

While Henry and Victor whispered to each other, Madeline watched the cops filter in and out of the house. One of them saw her staring and came over. “You didn’t happen to see the man in question, did you?” the woman asked.

“Only once,” she said. The face was burned into her memory. “Dark eyes, pale skin, older than us, but not older than my dad—probably between 35 and 50. Sharp cheekbones, like he didn’t get much to eat.”

“He had brown hair,” Victor added.

“I think he was my height or a little shorter.” Henry looked unsure. “The angle he hit me at was a little low, I think.”

The woman wrote everything down, biting her lip. “How tall are you?”

“6’2.”

“Hernandez,” she called, “I think we just got a lead on our big case.” She smiled at them, trying to look reassuring. “You kids might just be our big break. This man has been killing for a long time. You’re lucky to all be sitting here.”

Madeline thought about the previous owner’s wife, about the little boy who’d gone missing, about the bones. She gripped Henry’s hand tighter, forcing herself to breathe, trying not to vomit. In, out. In, out.

“I have a Mrs. Monroe on the line,” one of the officers said. Madeline grabbed the phone, holding it between her ear and Henry’s.

“Mom,” they breathed in unison.

#my fic #original fiction #the house on maple drive #^_^#if you read it #i'd like to know what you guys think

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