#but a smoking habit’s too fucking expensive to keep up with anyways. this is a fucking luxury purchase. how did I buy these every week.
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God I can’t believe I have an influx of new followers (something that rarely happens) while I’m going through a major life change and am thus sentimental, nostalgic, and overall soft. Everyone has to look away. Even my mutuals. No wait never mind everyone has to give me attention now at 3 AM.
#I took up smoking cigarettes again the past week under the acknowledgment that like. after this I’m done again. bc I’m pretty confident in#my ability to quit cold turkey again. maybe use the rest of the pack for drunk/social situations#which is also Big Growth of me bc I’m like. very much not worried about picking up the habit / straight nicotine addiction again#(clearly not entirely or else I wouldn’t be here w a pack of yellow spirits. but I digress.)#but a smoking habit’s too fucking expensive to keep up with anyways. this is a fucking luxury purchase. how did I buy these every week.#anyways. everyone look away jk no look back#I’ve accepted that im awake and you’ll all need to deal with it
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Sorry this took so long, but here is part 7 of my series you can read all about starting here in part 1!
Pairings: Sam Kiszka X Danny Wager ***slash pairing
Warnings and tags: 18+ only! unrequited love, slash, m/m kissing and sexual situations, some nipple play, angst, jealousy, third person POV Jake, Danny, and Sam, restaurant AU
Word count: 5.5k
The kiss started out gently, but when Danny pulled back for a breath and Sam quickly slammed into him again Danny’s grip on him tightened. His fingers weaved their way through Sam’s silk strands. Around to the back of his neck where he pulled him in even closer.
Sam's thighs squeezed around Danny’s from where he sat in his lap. He cautiously let his shaky hands move up Danny’s neck to perform the same move, feeling the way Danny’s new and expensive conditioner and leave-in products he had helped him pick out made his curls soft and pillowy.
Fuck he’s a good kisser, why haven’t we done this before? Sam thought to himself as his lips became faster and more frenzied. His hands left the spot where he’d been twisting his fingers in the dense ringlets at the nape of Danny’s neck, causing a small discontent whine that Sam gladly swallowed whole.
This is going… fast. The voice in Sam’s head told him to slow down, but his hands had already found their way to the hem of Danny’s shirt. He pulled his back away while still leaning in to keep their lips connected and ran his hands up Danny’s bare chest. It was hot, and moved rapidly with the way Danny faught and failed to control his breathing. The move was a force of habit, his hands mindlessly searching for something to grope, but he was slightly confused with what to do when he found nothing and suddenly remembered, Danny didn’t have breasts.
He was already here though so he decided to just do what felt natural and found Danny’s left nipple, pinching it between his fingers.
A muffled “mmph” sound came out of Danny and he thought maybe he’d pinched too hard, so he tried to sooth it by rubbing his thumb over the sensitive bud, realizing it was now rock hard.
Wait, he likes that? He reached his other hand up and repeated the same thing to the other nipple, pinching it then running circles over it with his thumb.
Sam finally let Danny’s lips go, just so he could check and see for sure that what he was doing was correct. More subtle moans fell from Danny and his brows knit together in concentration, trying desperately hard to not lose himself and take over.
What now? Are we actually doing this? Danny looks so turned on, by me?
I wonder what else he likes.
Based on instinct Sam had made it this far, but what was to come next was a little beyond his area of expertise. He ran his hands back down Danny’s torso, digging the tips of his fingers in as he did, feeling the way it caused Danny to shudder and sigh. Then he brushed against the cold metal of his belt buckle. One glance down and he could see the bulge in Danny’s pants.
Oh god, what do I do? Stay calm. Act cool. Only Sam couldn't stay calm. His mind was spinning and he felt kind of sick to his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t have smoked that joint on an empty stomach.
He closed his eyes to keep the room from spinning more and lurched forward to start kissing again. Anything to occupy his mind. Only this time his lips landed sloppily on Danny’s jaw.
He kissed there anyways, then moved to his neck to try and make it seem like he’d meant to do that. All while his nimble fingers worked hastily at trying to undo Danny’s belt.
Just as he managed to free the leather strap from the clasp a pair of hands circled around his to steady him.
“Sam, slow down” Danny’s voice betrayed him by still coming out needy and wanting. Sam looked confused and concerned about why Danny had stopped him. Had he done something wrong? Doesn’t he want me?
Hell yes he wanted Sam. When the time was right.
He brought Sam’s hands, still bundled up in his own, to his mouth and kissed his knuckles gingerly, “I want to do this right”. He kissed again. “I want to spoil you”. Kissed again. “I want to date you”. Kissed again. “Then, and only then, when you know how much you mean to me. I want to make love to you”.
A shiver ran up Sam’s spine. He’d never been talked to like that before. Coddled like he was the most precious and delicate ornament on the family Christmas tree.
“Dammit” He chuckled nervously, sitting back while also trying not to put all of his weight on Danny’s knees.
“What?” Danny questioned, his expression pulling into worry. Sam was being really hard to read. He thought he’d known how Sam would want to be treated if and when he ever got the chance to give it a go himself. Obviously having learned a thing or two from watching Sam’s past relationships fail to live up to his expectations. Maybe though, Sam was the one confused with what Danny’s intentions going into this were.
He sighed, but a half smile complimented by his still heavy lidded eyes appeared. “Why do you have to be so charming, Daniel? Geeze, you’re making me look like a sex-crazed teenager right now”.
Sam was starting to shy away, the sting of rejection still barely palpable, but having woken him from his dazed state. Danny wasn’t ready to let him go just yet, so he wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and pulled him back close.
A gasp left Sam as the change in angle made their still clothed crotches press together. He wasn’t quite hard like Danny was, but he was still sensitive.
“Be sex-crazed all you want lover boy” Danny whispered into his ear from where he had buried his nose against the sharp curve at the conjunction of Sam’s jaw and neck.
A hitched whimper, a sound Sam had never made before, came out when Danny’s tongue gave him a kitten lick behind his ear. His words came slow and drawn out, his breath breaking against Sam’s skin like prayers whispered to the ceiling in a vaulted cathedral.
“The build up will be worth it, I promise. Don’t you worry, I’ll make my mark on you soon enough”.
Sam’s cheeks burned red hot. The confidence this other version of himself Danny seemed to newly possess borderlined cockiness, but it was working. He was a flustered mess in his grip. The only worry was that this tenacity felt a little like the influence of someone very familiar.
Having had his fun teasing, Danny tapped Sam’s hip to signal him to stand up. Effectively putting an end to their first (of hopefully many) make out sessions.
“Well, what are you going to do about that in the meantime?” Sam’s eyes shot down to the very visible tent still pitched in Danny’s pants then back up with a cocky raise of his brows.
Danny shrugged, “what I always do, jack off in the shower”.
“Gross” Sam joked like he’d never done such a thing before, but smiled and reached over to playfully pinch at Danny’s ass as he tried to scooch past him.
After his shower Danny made the short walk from the bathroom to his room with a towel wrapped around his waist, not expecting to find Sam curled up in his bed.
“Mind if I sleep in here tonight?” Sam asked, though with Danny’s blanket already tucked underneath his chin he looked like he’d already made himself pretty comfortable.
“Oh, umm… sure, of course” he stumbled over his words a bit, because Sam had never asked to sleep in his bed before, he just sort of did when it was convenient. It wasn’t like he ever had to ask in the first place, but now things were a little different.
His skin was still flushed from the hot shower, thankfully, because he felt his cheeks growing warm with the realization that he had to take the towel off and put some shorts on before getting into bed.
Should I change in the bathroom? He thought to himself, trying not to look suspicious just standing around in his own room while he had an internal panic moment. No, I’m already in here, it would be weird to leave again.
He pulled a pair out of his drawer and turned to Sam awkwardly, holding the article of clothing in one hand and a firm grip on the towel folded over itself in the other. “I’ve got to get dressed now” he warned him, just in case.
Sam sat up onto his elbows, the blanket falling to show he was already shirtless. The way he liked to sleep. “You want me to close my eyes or something? It’s not like I’ve never seen you naked before” he tried to sound like he thought he was funny, but there was still a hint of nerves hidden in his tone.
“Alright then” Danny replied, holding Sam’s gaze as he played his game and dropped the towel. Sam held his breath as he kept his eyes fixed on Danny’s, the two staring each other down to see who would break first.
It was Sam, his willpower faltered and he gulped as he looked down to get a brief glimpse of Danny’s length before he was bending over and pulling the shorts on.
Pulling the blanket back, he slid into his bed as Sam settled back down. He could tell he’d been in there for a while, because his warmth had already filled the shared space.
Staring up at the ceiling he felt tired. His body relaxed into the comfort of his bed, but his mind was still racing. He let his head fall to the side, and saw that Sam was back with the blanket tucked under his chin but he was also not sleeping. Instead he was just staring at Danny, his eyes looking far away, deep in thought.
“Do you want me to hold you?” Danny asked, thinking maybe the action would put them both at ease and let them sleep.
“Do you want to hold me?” Sam asked back, but the teasing was gone. It was more like he’d wanted to say yes but didn’t want to seem like he’d agreed too easily.
Instead of answering Danny gently pushed his shoulder as he scooted closer and instructed “roll over”.
Sam obliged without a word this time, feeling Danny’s chest press up against his back, an arm sliding underneath the pillow his head was resting on, and the other wrapping around his arm intertwining their fingers.
Their breaths slowed together as the rising and falling of their chests synched up. Sam was worried that his hair might be getting in the way, or that his frame was too large to spoon compared to a girls, but when he whispered “are you comfy?” he got his response with a quiet gentle snore.
Jake's first day back at work was an early one. Inventory once again. Though the job was tedious he was glad to be getting back into the groove of things after his vacation with a mostly empty restaurant and a clipboard full of lists to keep his mind occupied.
He just had to get through this and then he had the rest of the day off to finish unpacking. Only there was one part he was dreading having to go over, the bar's inventory.
The issue with the last check he did still hadn’t been totally resolved in his mind, and he wasn’t sure what he would do if he found the same discrepancies again after he had already called Savanna out on them.
He left that for last, flipping through his checklist and going over all of his notes to find that he had already completed everything.
“It’s all looking good?” The restaurant director asked when Jake entered his office to turn in what he had of the inventory.
“Yes sir” Jake replied respectfully while also confidently. “Except, I didn’t see the bar checklists in here this time?”
“Don’t worry, we got them taken care of already” he replied, sliding the clipboard Jake had set down on his desk over to the side to review later.
“By the way, that kid you’re training did a pretty good job while you were gone. Good to see a man who isn’t afraid of helping their peers excel”.
Jake cracked a smile, not being shy in the pride he felt being complimented for his hard work. “Julian is an excellent study. Pretty soon he’s going to need his own crew to run full time”.
He looked up from his computer for the first time since seeing it was Jake who was entering his office, peering over his small reader glasses with a smirk. “I think you’re right about that, Kiszka. Soon”.
Jake knew that he was probably just being humored, but the mischievous look the director gave him made him feel that something was up. The director was always very cryptic about his business plans. He had to be since the restaurant industry was so competitive, like a game of cards where keeping your hand close was vital to winning.
Jake brushed it off and made his leave, but as he backed out of the office he felt his hip bump into someone walking by.
“Jake, you’re back!” Kim exclaimed when he turned around to apologize for not watching where he was going. “Oh, and you’ve got facial hair?”
He scratched his chin, feeling the new sensation of prickly hairs against his fingertips. “Yeah, my shaver broke in my bag when I went to New York. I haven’t gotten around to buying a new one yet. Josh kind of gave me a hard time about it too, saying I always try to copy him”. He quickly stopped himself from oversharing, but he was just excited, already reminesant about his trip and being around his twin again.
“Josh, your brother right?” She asked, trying to sound polite while wanting to make sure she had her facts straight.
It struck him that he’d never talked to Kim about Josh before, well he didn’t talk about his personal life to really anyone at work. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t know you knew him”.
“Oh, not really, I met him at his going away party. Savanna invited me” a light dusting of pink colored the top of her cheeks, realizing that Jake didn’t even remember her being at a party in his own apartment, granted she also didn’t know the other things he had going on that night. “He seemed really nice though”.
“He is, sometimes a little too nice. Nothing like me at all”. Being back at work had dredged up memories of his last evening here. Memories he had been ignoring over the last week that soon enough he knew he’d have to face. Though he was hopeful he could avoid them for at least one more day as soon as he could get out of here.
“Apparently I’m scary” his brows furrowed, unable to control the small pout that was appearing on his face.
Kim tried to suppress a laugh, but it came bubbling out of her anyways. “I don’t think you’re scary, just an asshole sometimes. Especially the last time I saw you”.
Oh yeah, the incident with the steak. “About that, I never got a chance to apologize to you about how I acted. I was having a rough night, worried about my flight and all”. It hadn’t even registered to him the name she’d called him, because her laugh had sounded so sweet and innocent.
“That’s alright, I handled it” she smiled coyly while tossing her long braided hair over her shoulder. Jake was reminded that even though she was small and soft looking outwardly, she held her own in the dining room when dealing with guests. She really was one of his favorite managers, always keeping her waitstaff in check while also gaining their adoration and respect.
A moment passed between them as Jake just smiled down at her, taking a moment to really see the woman standing before him. Until a voice called her name from across the restaurant breaking him out of his daze.
“Well,” she shifted her weight signaling that she knew she needed to go check on who was calling for her, but not quite wanting to leave the conversation just yet. “I’m glad you’re back, and you look good”.
“Thanks, umm, you do too” he replied, somehow feeling a little flustered about the unexpected compliment. “I mean, you always look good Kim”.
Her cheeks blushed darker this time but she didn’t try to hide her smile. A genuine smile that showed all her teeth and made the apples of her cheeks swell. “Well, I’ll see you around then”.
“Yeah, see you around”.
Once he was back home Jake started a load of laundry and stuffed his empty suitcase back up into the top of his closet for it to await its next use. He and his brothers had agreed to go home for Christmas this year, and although he was looking forward to seeing his family for a few days, he was also dreading being stuck in the house with Sam.
Josh could help, and he probably would start to get in the middle the moment he sensed some tension between his two younger brothers. Jake hadn’t spoken to him yet about anything that had happened though.
Usually Josh was his confidant. He was a really good listener. It was like Jake was talking to a mirror when spilling himself to Josh, letting him get it all out before offering his own words of advice.
Jake still needed a little bit of time to process his feelings first this time around. He was anxious to see Danny again, hoping his heart wouldn’t clench in his chest as tightly as it did when he saw the multiple messages Danny had sent him trying to apologize and check on him.
Danny was just a nice person. Always trying to make sure that everyone was happy and included. Jake knew Danny wouldn’t be able to withstand him being mad, only he wasn’t mad, he was embarrassed.
Embarrassed that he’d let what they were doing get so far. That he’d let himself get comfortable in his comforting presence, let himself be valunerable, and let himself feel. All while he knew Danny was never his to begin with.
“Slow night tonight” Danny commented to Kim as he leaned against the host's podium next to her. The host for the night had called in sick, so Kim had stepped in to cover which had kept her mostly occupied up front, but she knew it was fine since Danny was here to round on the dining room.
“Don’t jinx it” she jabbed her elbow into his side to get him to stand up. There was no lounging on the job on her watch even if it was a slow night.
Kim and Danny had grown to be pretty good friends since the Halloween party. It started off as exchanging a few friendly texts when she had wanted to apologize again the next morning for how she’d acted when she was drunk.
He’d told her not to worry, and that he was glad she enjoyed herself in their company. The rest of the group didn’t know, but they’d snuck out to get breakfast together that morning and recently they had met up a few more times outside of work.
“It’s a good thing Jake is back, so now you will have him to bother again instead of me” she joked. Although she was enjoying the extra bit of time they had been spending together, she knew in the back of her head it was only because Jake was away on vacation. It was wishful thinking to want to remain a steady part of his life, especially since Savanna and Sam had suddenly and surprisingly broken up. There was something going on there that she couldn’t quite discern, but Savanna had insisted she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Wait” Danny did stand up straight this time, the amusement in his face fading. “Jake is back?”
“Yeah, I saw him here this afternoon. Guess he’s still got tonight off though”. She flipped on her best customer service smile when a couple walked through the doors, ignoring Danny’s stunned gaze as she helped get them seated.
“You saw him earlier?” He questioned her in a fast whisper on their way back to the host stand where there was already another small group waiting to be seated. So much for a slow night. “What did he say?”
Kim gave him a quick warning look, one that said get back to work, now. He sighed defeatedly, hesitating for a moment longer with one last pleading furrow of his brows before ducking back away to the dining room to dutifully tend to his tables.
His reaction was worrisome to her. Danny and Jake were really close friends right? So why did he sound so worried to hear Jake was back?
Now that she thought back on the encounter, Jake had also seemed a little tense when he was here earlier. Admittedly she was a little distracted when she was talking to him. He did tend to have that effect on her and she hated that she was so self aware of it.
Despite her curiosity, more guests were coming so she pulled on her best behavior and pushed the wandering thoughts away. Perhaps she and Danny would have a chance to talk further about it later, and maybe he knew some more details about whatever had happened between Sam and Savanna.
After the quick little dinner rush Danny found himself leaned up against the stall of the restroom with his phone perched between his two shaky hands.
He examined the string of texts from the past week, all sent and read but with no response. After a few days of worrying, he had resolved himself to give Jake some space. If he wanted to talk he would reach out. He wanted to let him enjoy his time away and in turn Danny had let himself enjoy a little bit of his time with Sam.
Now that Jake was back though, there needed to be a settlement. He needed to properly apologize for the words he’d said without thinking, and make sure they were still the same friends they had been before their escapes into the physical fun they’d let themselves get momentarily wrapped up in.
He typed out one more message, hoping that this one would finally be the one to earn a reply.
Can we talk?
10:45PM
Jake had nearly drifted off on the couch when he saw his phone light up on the table.
He willed himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before holding the device up and letting it scan his face. A slight smile pulled at the corner of his mouth when he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the screen before it unlocked. He was reminded now he had facial hair that he looked even more like his twin, and he’d discovered he could trick Josh’s facial recognition.
It had taken Josh a minute to realize it was his own phone Jake was holding up and recording a silly video of them standing outside of Madison Square Garden (one of the only big tourist attractions Jake insisted on seeing during his visit).
After him yelling at Jake to stop dicking around and give him his phone back they both had a good laugh and decided to send the video to their mom who quickly replied with a sweet ‘love my boys’.
Jake’s smile faded when he opened the message, seeing that it was another from Danny. He hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days, which only made him more nervous that maybe he’d upset Danny even more with his silence. His cover must have been blown though if he was texting him this late.
Danny continued to stare down at his phone. Silently counting down the seconds from when his message had been sent and comparing it to how much time had passed on the clock in the corner of the screen. He was about to give up and get back to work when he saw the bubble with three dots appear. With bated breath his eyes narrowed in on the bubble, Jake was typing and he needed to know what he was going to say.
Just as he thought he couldn’t hold it any longer, he let out his breath with an exasperated huff when the bubble disappeared but no text came. He went to type another message out, but stopped when he saw the bubble pop up and disappear again.
He slumped against the stall door and let his head fall back, this was maddening. If he had any shred of courage or determination left he’d just hit the call button and hash it out with him over the phone right now, but he knew that wasn’t the best option.
The phone buzzed in his hand, but he doubted if it was real or just his mind playing tricks on him at this point. To be sure he checked and there was his reply, simple and unrevealing to what Danny would be getting himself into.
Come over after your shift
10:49PM
It was easier than he’d expected to convince Sam to let him go to Jake’s apartment alone. If Sam had insisted on coming he would have understood, but he really thought that this was a conversation they needed to have alone and when Sam agreed he knew deep down it was because above all else Sam trusted him.
After completing his closing duties, and a little extra to help Kim out since she had been tied up, he rushed out the door.
The knock didn’t come as a shock to him, but he still flinched a little at the sound when they came.
“Hey” Danny spoke softly when Jake opened the door.
“Hey” Jake replied, stepping to the side to let him inside.
Danny wished he could shrink himself down into the size he felt he was. Only a fraction of his confidence and composure remained since the last time he was alone with Jake, the rest of him was just a hollow space for his thoughts to echo in.
“How was your trip?” He asked, unsure where to begin but there.
“It was good”.
It was quiet, not uncharacteristically quiet, Jake and Danny both tended to turn inward when things got to be a little too much.
Jake leaned against the wall across from the back of the couch, the same wall he’d spent a long and tantalizing night painting with passion only now to see that it was still the same plain white walls they had always been.
“You wanted to talk, so talk” he crossed his arms and waited for Danny to say whatever it was he’d been dying to say.
He’s still mad. Danny thought, feeling his fingers tighten around his thumbs from where they had curled around them at his sides.
“I-” he hesitated when he saw Jake’s brows crumble in the middle.
He’s going to say I’m sorry. Jake thought. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, and the reason why he’d been avoiding this very conversation. To him, the moment Danny apologized meant he had known better and that this was all just one huge mistake.
“I still don’t regret anything”.
What?
“That night, when you asked me if I regret anything we’d done. I didn’t, and I don’t”.
Jake knew exactly which night Danny was referring to, because it was the same night he’d just been thinking of himself.
“I mean, I wish Sam hadn’t found out the way he did, but there’s no changing that now so…”
Jake relaxed a bit, pushing off the wall and making his way over to where Danny stood in front of his couch too scared to take another step.
“It was pretty stupid on our part to get carried away like that at work” he agreed, sitting down and motioning for Danny to do the same. “I guess it was just a matter of time before Sam really knew something was up though”.
Danny perched on the edge of the couch, propping his elbows onto his knees and folding his fingers together in front of his face. “Sam was already questioning things” he admit.
“Can I ask you something then, if Sam had figured it out and confronted you, would you have denied it?”
Danny hated how long it took him to figure out his response. His knee jerk reaction was to assure him he wouldn’t have denied anything, but he’d learned that impulsive answers weren’t always the right ones and he’d started to second guess himself lately.
“I don’t know what I would have done,” he replied honestly and defeatedly “but I think it would have anyways ended this way”. “Sam he…” he trailed off with a sigh, shaking his head and hiding behind his hands again. “You probably don’t want to hear about it”.
Jake chuckled a little, which eased Danny’s nerves some more. “No, I don’t really want to know the details. I’m sure Sam didn’t either”.
“Sam hasn’t really asked me about any of it”.
“He hasn’t?” That was a bit of a surprise to Jake. If he knew anything about his little brother, it was how inquisitive he was. It used to annoy Jake to no end when they were kids, Sam constantly questioning every move he made. He realized later in life that Sam was just absorbing all the information he could. He was a smart cookie (though he’d never give him the credit to his face), and wanting to know every single detail was his way of learning naturally.
Danny’s voice went shaky as he blew out a steadying breath, “I know you don’t want to hear about it, and it’s selfish of me to say this, but I need you Jake. When you left and didn’t text or call me back I panicked. Suddenly everything was out in the open and I came clean to Sam about, well about everything, but Sam was with Savanna and you were m.i.a in New York. I can’t talk to anyone about this and I was so lost”.
A pang of guilt struck Jake through his side. He knew when he left that Danny was a mess. He sat in his car across the street from his apartment, motionless and alone in the dark while Danny knocked on his door and called him over and over again, just waiting for him to leave so he could go inside and pack his bags for New York.
Talking then wouldn’t have done any good though. Jake was hurt but he couldn’t blame Danny for what he’d said. Danny didn’t love him and he knew that, but he cared for Danny in the way you cared about someone you knew almost your entire life.
“You can talk to me Danny. I said I was here for you and I meant it”. Jake started to reach over to place a hand on his bunching knee, but quickly stopped himself and pulled back, pressing his back further into the armrest he was leaning on.
“So you’re not mad at me?” His eyes followed the movement of Jake’s hand, noticing him consciously pull away.
“Mad at you? No. Sam though? He’s still with Savanna after you told him? Do I need to go over there and knock some sense into him?” Jake tried to sound cheerful and supportive, but it was a stretch. Although things were turning around for Danny, he was back at square one, lonely in his empty apartment.
“No, he broke up with her a few days ago. They’ve been cordial with each other at work which is good I guess, kind of makes me nervous about what he told her if she hasn’t tried to kill either of us though”.
“Interesting. Well, I’ll try to talk to him about it. I won’t bring you up, just check in on him and see what he says”.
Danny smiled back at Jake for the first time since stepping nervously through his door. He was glad he’d waited to talk. Glad they could continue to be there for each other instead of letting the emotions of that night dictate what was said. Because even after his time away Jake was pretty sure he knew what he would have said.
This was indeed a mistake.
When Danny got home he noticed Sam was back in his room tonight after having spent the last three in Danny’s. He checked the time and it was pretty late so he pulled off his work clothes and changed into something more comfortable before crawling into the cold sheets.
He and Sam had agreed to take things slowly, and that meant sometimes leaving him be. Even when all he’d wanted was to come home and curl up against a warm body.
@psychedelicsprinkles @twistedmelodies @heckingfrick @alwaysonthemend
#greta van fic#gvf#greta van fleet#greta van smut#danny wagner#jake kiszka#sam kiszka#josh kiszka#sanny gvf#janny gvf
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holy shit this is gonna sound so stupid, maybe i actually shouldn’t say that tho as my therapist would say it would “invalidate my feelings” i don’t want to invalidate them but if they weren’t so intolerable maybe i wouldn’t have such a hard time validating them. Really i just don’t think they’re that interesting, i don’t think i’m interesting. this wouldn’t be a problem if i actually knew how to behave normally around other people. but no i have to get anxious over the fact that i can’t ever think of anything to say to make people stay, or to make people like me which that of it self is so annoying like “oh boohoo people don’t like me and i’m gonna make it a problem for myself but not enough to change just enough to make my own life fucking miserable” and the truth is i’m not sure if i’m just too lazy to change or if it’s because i have such a hard time focusing on one thing for long enough to make any change in the first place. yet again starting a “new project” i won’t finish in the end. i mean it’s not like i died so i do have time to finish the project i’m just not sure when that’s gonna be. i love lists i think they are great maybe i should make one of every thing i want to change and see what the recurring pattern is in the bullet points, maybe i’ll actually see something i’ve never noticed and that will give me some fucking motivation to change. dissociation also doesn’t help though i‘m not sure if that’s what’s making me lose so much of my memory or if i just regressed and because stupid (this is such a big fear of mine). i picked up smoking i think, it’s just been a recent happening not rly wish to keep it going it’s an expensive habit in the long and short run. anyway going back to the fact that if i met myself i would hate me 😃 i admire so many of my friends and i am so judgemental i wish i could just love unconditionally and freely maybe it’s my dads fault i’m like this but i don’t even talk to him anymore so maybe i should start finding ways to fix it instead of just remembering all the shit he did to me. i think if i were to say this in therapy m would be like “ you need to start being kind to yourself and in time you will be to others as well” i am so fucking impatient tho will i ever be able to get through the process ?? i mean time passes anyway so might as well but it’s hard and exhausting and i am already tired.
how do i start changing if i am already tired, maybe i should ask that in therapy.
#writing this helped a bit i think#i’m not sure posting this will help but maybe someone will find it comforting#if anyone sees it at all#this is a very angsty post omg#well this is tumblr#i think it’s okay then
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Crisis of Lust
Mads Mikkelsen x Female Reader
Warnings; Smut, female oral receving, sexual content.
I had this idea with Mads/Hannibal combined: So, the OC (id love If you could name her Ylana again) and Mads are actors in Hannibal and in the series they’re not a couple, but good friends in real life noticing the sexual tension between them. As they spend a nice evening together they found some fun smutty stories by accident where the writer ships Ylana’s character with Mads character (Hannibal x Female Character name) and Mads starts to read out the story loud for fun but soon realising that it’s going to be a smutty one and both of them get turned on, but not daring to make a move so the sexual tension is even higher after reading the story. Anyway... both of them try to work together professionally and the continue to read smutty stories about their characters in private, getting turned on immensely and then you can choose how Mads approaches Ylana to make the stuff written in the smutty stories come true? 😅 I hope this ignites the muse!
@negans-attagirl
A/N: Thank you for this request I had fun lol! Sorry for nyt typos. Enjoy!
‘’Cut!’’
Bryan Fuller’s voice was heard by all of the actors and actresses who were on the set, ‘’Thank you for today guys. See you tomorrow.’’ As soon as he said cut Mads looked at you and started to giggle like a 5 year old. He had a habit of making your job difficult by bursting into laughter or tickling you in the middle of a scene, it was as if he wasn’t a 47 year old man, just a naughty child. You never got angry at him though because over these months you guys got closer and closer, you had to spend time together and this allowed you to get comfortable with him and become his friend… deep down you wished you could be more than his friend but you buried those unholy thoughts and feelings and locked them up, you had to be professional and not fuck this up. ‘’Fuck I need to smoke. Care to join me?’’ he asked you casually and you had to suppress your childish noise, ‘’Sure.’’ You left the set and went outside, he had his Hannibal Lecter suit on him, he looked handsome and sophisticated, your clothes were expensive too and walking in those high-heels was painful but you loved the way people looked at you, they saw confidence and a beautiful woman. Not to mention Mads checking you out every once in a while. Mads offered you a cigarette and you gladly took it. He lit yours first, eyes locked on your lips for a second and then he lit his, ‘’Bryan thinks that we have a good chemistry.’’ He said and started to smoke, ‘’I think so too Mads, I’m comfortable when I work with you and others. It’s an amazing TV series and we have amazing fans. They keep sending me fan fiction and fan art.’’ You said feeling your cheeks go red, you read some of those fics and they were sexual, you couldn’t leave your eyes from the bright screen of your laptop yesterday night, some fans have a wild imagination world. ‘’Fan fiction?’’ He asked curious, his maroon eyes searched your face, ‘’Fans write stories about us and the show, about our characters.’’ He threw his cigarette and stepped on it, a cloud of smoke left his plump lips, ‘’I would like to read those stories. Have you read one?’’ Should you lie or tell him the truth? You had to look up to meet his gaze he was taller than you. ‘’No. I haven’t had time.’’ His eyes felt heavy, you shouldn’t have lied, he didn’t speak for a moment still looking at you directly to see if lied or not and then he gave up. ‘’I’m starving Mads, we can order take-out if you want and eat together.’’ Mads was happy to hear the offer because first of all he liked spending time with you, you made him smile more often and second of all.. he was hungry like a wolf.
You rented a house close to the set, at first you were staying at a hotel because no one was sure if Hannibal TV series was going to continue but later it was established that you will shoot 3 seasons so you rented a small place for yourself. Mads visited you a lot but every time he came to your house you were nervous, didn’t know what to do or to say. He walked in like he owned the place, took off his shoes and jumped on your couch, you went to the kitchen to order the food and bring beers.
As the night went you ate and found yourself reading fan fiction with Mads Mikkelsen. He was sitting next to you on the couch, he was a tall man so he took a lot of space and your arms were touching, not that you complained.
‘’Hannibal Lecter looked at her like a starved man, he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill her or fuck her-‘’
‘’Oops.’’ Mads started to laugh, he was the one who wanted to read them with you and you were both having fun. ‘’Keep reading I wanna know.’’ You encouraged him because he stopped and took a sip from his third beer, he looked unsure to continue he wanted to but he needed the encouragement. ‘’As you wish my lady.’’ He got comfortable on the couch,
‘’She was just standing in his basement, uncovered his deepest and darkest secret and he was unsure of himself for the first time. This woman bewitched him that was his conclusion because he found himself reaching to kiss her. She was trapped between Hannibal and the cold wall of his basement and her heart was racing. Was she scared of this serial killer? Probably, however, the anticipation of this man having feelings for her sent shivers to her entire body.’’
As Mads was reading you finished your cold beer to calm yourself, he looked so into it and it sent unholy ideas to your mind.
Mads had a pillow on his lap to cover his growing bulge and your laugh, heavy breathing didn’t make anything easy for him. He wished he found fan fiction before because this was fun and sexy. He wanted to do what Hannibal was doing to your character right now but he didn’t want to make anything awkward between you two.
‘’His hand slipped under the dress she was wearing, found her lace underwear and felt how wet she was,’’ Mads and you gave a shaky laugh, he cleared his throat and took another sip from his cold beer wondering if you were wet right now. You shifted your legs moments ago so it gave him hope.
‘’When Hannibal removed his two fingers he put them in her mouth and she tasted herself, eyes on his dark ones. ‘’Good girl.’’ Hannibal replied with his rich accent.’’
You had to squeeze your thighs slowly because you felt how wet you were when you moved on your small seat, arms still touching. ‘’Someone has a daddy kink.’’ You said looking at the bright screen of your laptop and didn’t notice the look Mads gave you. He wanted to be the one you call daddy under covers. ‘’Not surprised. Hannibal is a control freak.’’ He added to your comment.
‘’Hannibal touched her wet cunt again but this time he started to move his fingers, ‘’Tell me what you want little girl.’’ His voice was low and dangerous and she could cum right there.’’
‘’This is your part darling.’’ Mads turned to you, when you saw what the character said you swallowed silently,
‘’I want you to fuck me with your fingers daddy, please.’’
You read it
as Mads asked you, and saw a spark of light in his maroon eyes, was he enjoying this as much as you do?
There was a slight pink color on his high cheek bones, lips parted and you could hear his breathing go heavy. To your surprise you heard your phone ring, it was hard to stop looking into his eyes but you managed and answered the call. It was Bryan, he said the plans were changed and you had to go to set earlier than usual. You told Mads about it and he put the laptop on the glass coffee table. ‘’It’s getting late and we should get some sleep, see you tomorrow darling.’’ Before you could say anything he left quickly and you missed the chance to see his huge bulge, he had to take care of it when he returned his home and you had to take a quick shower.
The Next Day
As soon as you saw Mads in his Hannibal clothes you remembered last night and you felt your pussy throb with need. This man was going to be the end of you, ‘’Morning love.’’ Mads had a habit of calling you love, darling, sweet girl etc. ‘’Morning.’’
As you were filming the scenes together directors and Bryan were keep giving you compliments and telling you how great you both were. It was true you and Mads had a great chemistry on the screen, and you were good friends in real life. Your scenes weren’t intimate but there was one where Hannibal touched your character’s hand and kissed it gently and you forgot how to breathe for a second. Mads was looking at you with those beautiful eyes, you could still feel the gentle kiss on your hand. He winked at you after the scene came to an end, you took a break and Mads asked you to use your laptop because his phone died and he had no charger, you were talking to Hugh Dancy at that moment so you said yes and brushed him off, Hugh was talking about a scene you shared and how to improve it. Mads didn’t like you attitude, he didn’t like when your attention wasn’t on him. He clenched his sharp jaw and left, you always had your laptop with you so he walked to your trailer, the door was open. He could smell your perfume, it made his mouth water. He found your laptop, his mind went to last night, he didn’t want to stop reading but it got to the point where he almost pinned you down to the couch and make love to you. Before he closed the laptop he noticed something, there was a tab he clicked on it and it lead him to a tumblr blog where there was a fan fiction, ‘’Liar.’’ Deep down he knew you read those stories. It was a sexual one, he couldn’t help but read it, it was about your characters and they were having sex.. a rough sex. Imagining you reading this alone turned him on, he was rock hard. He wanted to know the reason why you lied to him yesterday, he could ask you but that would reveal that he opened that tab and read the fan fic himself too. When Mads heard footsteps he quickly closed the laptop and left your trailer and ran to his. He had to touch himself and take care of hard cock. He wished you were there to help him.
Later that day Mads invited you to his house to read more stories together and you said yes, how could you refuse him? He had you wrapped around his finger and he had no idea.
He opened a bottle of wine for you because he knew that you loved red wine, got himself a can of beer and you opened your laptop, ‘’Let’s find a new one.’’ You looked so innocent while searching and so focused that he just wanted to grab your chin and kiss you but he took a deep breath and let you find a fic. ‘’I read the last one, you should read this.’’ He wanted to hear you say those nasty words and you didn’t complain.
‘’When Hannibal noticed that his office door was unlocked he felt rush of adrenalin. He remembered locking it yesterday night, was it someone he knew or just a break in situation? He carefully walked inside and saw her sitting on his shiny brown desk. She only had her dark red lace lingerie and a red lollipop between those beautiful lips. He closed the door behind him and locked it, ‘’I didn’t think you would be this bold. I must admit I am surprised.’’ He said coming closer to her, her scent filled his nostrils, ‘’I had a steamy dream of you last night Doctor,’’ she licked the lollipop gently, ‘’I haven’t waken up ever since.’’ Hannibal put his work bag on the floor and came to stand right between her open legs.’’ Mads started to shift at his eat, ‘’These fans I swear to God.’’ You smiled, when you were reading it he could feel the words going directly to his manhood. He couldn’t take it anymore. ‘’Why did you lie about not reading any fics about us?’’
You didn’t expect a question liked that, ‘’I didn’t.’’ Mads smirked like the devil himself, ‘’I saw an open tab on your laptop today, it was a smut fic about us. I think,’’ he put the beer can on the coffee table and came close to her, ‘’you read those to touch yourself at night. You imagine me touching you, fucking you into the mattress like a wild animal. Am I wrong sweet girl?’’
He put the laptop away, ‘’Cat got your tongue?’’ you remembered to speak, ‘’I- yes I read fics about us.’’ His big hand came to caress your flushed cheek. ‘’Do you touch yourself too my love?’’
‘’Yes.’’ You breathed, that was the answer he wanted to hear. He leaned in to kiss your wet lips, your body felt like it was lit by gasoline. Your hands went to his hair and you slowly got comfortable on the couch. He was on top of you now and kissing you like a starved man, he parted his lips, ‘’The thought of you reading those alone at night… I had to touch myself at work love. You were in my mind all day.’’ This honest confession almost made you cry. This time you kissed him, it was passionate, needy and hard. He was between your legs, your hands went to take off his black shirt and he helped you. Seeing his torso, touching it made your pussy throb with excitement. His chest hair was grey, he was much older than you but fuck it right? Who cares.
He decided to stand up and look at you, you were on his couch, legs separated, hair a mess and you were still very much clothed. He knelt and grabbed your legs to make you sit, he was on his knees and he had an idea. He pulled your pants with your wet panties and you took off your blouse, your clothes were somewhere on the floor and you didn’t care. A strand of grey hair fell to his forehead, your kneecaps pressed up hard against his chest, he wanted to eat you out until you screamed his name. The cool air of the house met your hot and slick pussy and you inhaled sharply, he opened you up even wider and you felt exposed, your hands went to cover your flushed face but he held your wrists, ‘’Don’t, please. You are beautiful and I’m honored to be in your presences my goddess. All I want is to serve you tonight.’’ His words felt intimate and honest. You felt safe and loved.
He looked at your exposed part, ‘’You look divine.’’ Hi face was too close to your cunt and you could feel his breathing, he first kissed your inner thighs, eyes locked on you. You felt so soft he could cry, he left few marks on your inner thighs, and suddenly his lips enveloped on your clit. The noise just left your parted lips made him smile, his mouth felt like a fucking furnace, hot and needy, his silver tongue came out to play with your clit and you could hear and feel him hum deeply in his throat. His fingers were holding and brushing your soft thighs, your cunt was swollen already and his sweet tongue was swirling circles around it. Your hips had their own mind, moving in rhythm. He slowly pushed two fingers in you, and your hands went to his thick hair, pulling with passion ‘’Oh- f- fuck!’’
His rough growls turned you even more, he pulled his fingers and pushed them again, creating a rhythm and his mouth was still on you, never stopped licking, kissing. His fingers were pushing in and out over and over again and were panting heavily, ‘’Mads, oh fuck k- keep going.’’
A fire was lit in your abdomen, and you started to beg him to be faster, he was teasing you with his hot mouth and fingers and he was slow but steady. ‘’Please faster Mads faster,’’ he liked the way you beg but kept being steady. He kept licking through your wet folds and finger fucking you. That was spreading to your body, your breathing was shallow and he still was going steady and it made you cry. You were shedding tears because of how good you were getting fucked by his mouth and fingers. And he stopped, removed his mouth and fingers which left you confused, he raised his two fingers to your mouth, you opened up and liked them and you moaned, never leaving eye contact and Mads felt his hard cock leaking with pre-cum. His fingers went inside you again, wetter this time. Your hips were locked and the soft moans leaving your mouth was driving him crazy but tonight was about you, he wanted to make love to you, give the pleasure you deserve. ‘’I-I- m gonna cum Mads oh I-m coming’’ his mhmmmm sound gave you courage, your hand was locked in his hair, he gave a soft lick on your clit and curled his fingers inside and hit a spot where no man could do it before. You didn’t hold your cry and sob and let your body erupt, your back arched and you saw white lights your legs were uncontrollably shaking and your cunt was flooding itself, you came in a man’s mouth for the first time in your life and Mads Mikkelsen didn’t pull away or looked disgusted, tonight he ruined all the men for you.
He slowly pulled out his fingers and mouth, your grip on his hair got loose, you moaned when he left contact because your cunt was still pulsating and legs were shaking ever so slightly. He kissed you lazily and then left a soft kiss on your forehead, ‘’Good girl.’’
Thank you for reading. :)
#hannibal#hannibal lecter#doctor hannibal lecter#mads mikkelsen#mads mikkelsen x reader#mads mikkelsen x you#hannibal x reader#hannibal x oc#hannibal x you#Smut#SMUT FIC#smut fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#reader#mads mikkelsen imagine#hannibal smut#hannibal imagine
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🦅Hawks HC’s🦅
This is SO unnecessarily long. Some NSFW. Minors do not interact.
- - - - -
General
Has zero social life or hobbies outside of work. He knows it’s unhealthy, but like, who has the time?? Oh? Lots of people do?? Haha what are healthy work/home boundaries? He desperately wants to retire and always talks about a world without heroes, but the truth is he would have no idea what to do with himself if he got his way. Take him to a park at midnight and watch him turn into a giant repressed child on a swing. He’ll do a standing-360 and it will be terrifying.
Listens to music way too loud in his headphones to drown out wind noise. Probably half deaf at this point. His musical taste is wild; listening history all over the fucking place. Algorithms have no idea what to do with him.
That visor? It’s prescription. Wow is he far-sighted. He wears glasses. He’s not blind without them (rather the opposite) but they help him see things directly in front of him without massive eye strain. Yeah, he looks really hot in glasses.
Prefers communicating via text. Sometimes it’s a lot of dumb memes, but mostly it’s sincere. He can say what he means when he doesn’t have to put on a public front.
Smokes like a chimney. Self medicates with stimulants. Coffee, tobacco, sugar. Fidgety, likes things in his mouth or hands. Gnashes on toothpicks and popsicle sticks. He really should go back to therapy, huh? His teeth are sparkling white for the cameras but his breath could use some work. Chews gum a lot to compensate, and always does it really loudly with a big shit-eating grin.
Impatient as fuuuuuck. Rude about it. If you take too long doing anything, you’re going to hear a foot tapping. He’ll smile and laugh it off, never ever directly criticize you about it. But lord, the dramatic sighs. He WILL nudge you out of the way and take over in order to finish a task faster, and it’s truly fucking annoying.
LOVES food. Has the metabolism of an actual bird. Will seize upon any excuse to eat. No need to be self-conscious about eating in front of him; he wants you to enjoy it. Steals bites from you and talks with his mouth full. Prefers street food and take-out, usually eats while walking or flying. Sit-down restaurants are an invitation for gawkers.
He’s one of those celebrities that looks way taller on TV. In real life, he’s small and compact. So you’re surprised the first time you see him in person. He has a big head. Literally.
If you’re taller or bigger than him, he does Not Care. He treats everyone like they’re four feet tall, even Endeavor. Everything you do is cute. If you’re actually short, he’s going to carry you around all the time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Collects big chunky overpriced watches. All the better to tell you you’re late.
Half his clothes are brand fucking new. Sometimes he forgets to take off the tags. (Don’t look at the prices, do NOT) He never seems to wear the same thing twice. He also never seems to go shopping. Brands just give him stuff, and he shrugs and goes “yeah okay.”
The other half of his clothes are old, faded, and patched up. Every item he acquires for himself has deep sentimental value. If you tell him to throw away that nasty ten-year-old pair of frayed cargo pants, be prepared to find out how wrong and evil you are for even suggesting it.
He doesn’t snore; he coos. Loudly. Like a fucking pigeon trapped in a megaphone.
- - - - -
Dating
Gift-giving is his love language. Bringing your favorite snacks. Leaving novelty magnets on your fridge. He found a copy of that book/game/movie you mentioned like a month ago, don’t you remember? If he has to go out of town on a job, he’ll bring back the ugliest possible souvenir, just to annoy you.
He likes gifting jewelry especially. Covering you in shiny baubles, little golden things. Not expensive, but unusual. Antiques or handmade, even bizarre vending machine crap. Gets really handsy if you wear or show off his gifts.
Since you’re the first person who has given him The Feels, if you are resistant to his advances (like, say, because he’s way too famous and you’re terrified he’s gonna break your heart) he’s going to go fucking nuts trying to woo you. Doesn’t have a single patient bone in his body but will wait as long as it takes for you to come around. He’ll act like he’s cool with just being friends at first, just hanging out, haha. Oh you’re busy today? That’s cool. Inside he’s shrieking like a tea kettle. Go ahead, make him wait.
Don’t bother giving him a key to your place. He’s coming in through the bedroom window or patio door. Just put out a damn welcome mat on your balcony... or a bird feeder.
A bit of a voyeur. He likes to watch you do your normal routine without interruption. He can see from miles away so if you’ve got your lights on at night, he’ll creep for a while before he comes in. It comforts him immensely, seeing a little slice of the world that isn’t constantly in need of saving.
Is super talkative and funny but a terrible communicator. Makes more jokes the worse he feels. Will almost never tell you what he needs. Most of the time, he doesn’t even know. You will learn to read between the lines and gradually notice his tiny unconscious cries for help. Back rubs make him emotional.
He shows up at your place at the weirdest times. All hours. You’re never ready. At first it was infuriating, because you wanted to look your best and have time to prepare, but you figure out pretty quickly that seeing you in your natural state is his favorite thing. He never gets to be around normal people, doing normal things. A boring, lazy afternoon is his idea of paradise.
He’ll pick through your things and ask a world of invasive questions. A medicine cabinet raider. He wants to know every fucking tiny thing about you, live vicariously through you.
He actually lives in a top floor penthouse. Because I mean, where else? Never spends any time there; mostly he seems to roost on the balcony. He has used the front door maybe once. He much prefers your place, and will only take you back to his after months of dating. It’ll take like, an entire emergency. You’ll end up in his bed by mistake.
Because when you finally come over, he’s embarrassed. Its sparse. White. Things in boxes. A new furniture smell. Like he’s not done moving in, though he’s lived there for years. He wants you to move in So Bad but doesn’t want to be pushy. If you don’t start leaving your stuff there, he’ll steal things from your apartment. Where the hell is your favorite t-shirt? Or that pillowcase you like? Dammit Keigo.
He’s a decent cook, a habit he made himself pick up because he thought it might make him feel more normal. It... didn’t. He never actually cooks until you give him an excuse. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed and watch you eat every bite with big hungry eyes.
He’s got a separate wardrobe for his hero costume and all his feathers. Yeah. His feathers. Because he can detach and control his feathers at will, when he’s alone at home he kind of just... shucks off his wings. The first time you see him do it, your eyes fall out of your head. He walks around in a tee shirt and boxers with these ugly little stumps covered in brownish, blood-red down. It actually looks kind of gnarly, like he got mauled by a bear.
He’s never dated until you. No one has ever been in his apartment until you. No one has called him Keigo until you. He has some bigass intimacy issues. Because. Y’know. The trauma. But god, he wants you in his life so bad, even if he has no idea how to make time for your relationship.
He’ll want to keep you to himself for a while. Once you go public he’s going to have an arm around your shoulders at all times. Publicly Displays his Affection way more than is socially acceptable in Japan, and gives precisely -100,000 fucks.
His fans either love you or hate you. There is no in between. He will immediately take your phone and threaten to drop it from a great height if he catches you reading shitty gossip about the two of you. Does NOT care about his public image anymore, doesn’t want YOU to care about it either. He’s gonna retire soon anyway, remember? That’s a lie.
Being a charming motherfucker is the core of his public persona, so you will get jealous. A lot. He will flirt shamelessly without realizing it. He will get photographed in compromising positions with gorgeous people.
Once you accept that he’s basically an actor 80% of the time and that Hawks and Keigo are separate identities, you’ll both feel better. When he comes home (to YOU) and falls over exhausted and stops being Hawks(tm), when he scratches his ass or burps in front of you, when he yells to you from the bathroom, when he groans childishly about his shitty day while laying face-down in your lap, you’ll know you have nothing to worry about. Keigo is all yours.
Boundaries? Never heard of ‘em. He’s either a million lightyears away or he’s glued to your hip. The whiplash is astounding.
Absolutely says “I love you” wayyyyyy to soon. It thrills you but scares you off at the same time, because there’s no way Hawks - The Hawks - can actually mean it, right? (He does)
Rings? Nah. When things get serious, he will make a necklace out of a feather for you, and if you ever take it off, you better be asleep or in the shower. Even then you’re on thin fuckin ice. If you’re not wearing it he knows. He’s never mean about making you put it back on, it just makes him nervous if he can’t feel your heartbeat.
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SPICY CHICKEN NUGGETS
High sex drive. Horny like 25/7. Probably a symptom of having way too much pent up stress.
Often takes care of it himself when he doesn’t have the emotional resources for anyone else, even his S.O. Figures you don’t want him coming on to you as often as he would like to, but he’s too stupid to talk to you about it first. Morning masturbator.
Yes he’s fucked around a lot but he’s not exactly a playboy either. People have always thrown themselves at him, and before he met you he let them do it. Especially when out of town and staying in a hotel. Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, etc.
He’d never be unfaithful to you though; his loyalty and dedication are frankly a little unsettling. Sometimes you feel like the only thing in his life other than hero work. Teach this man to knit. Make him join a book club. Christ. Anything.
Does in fact have seasonal mating patterns and it’s super embarrassing.
An underwear-sniffing perv. He’ll definitely hump your pillow.
Gets a sick thrill out of breaking in and startling you. Coming up behind you in the dark, sneaking into your bed. It’s probably his worst habit, and even he hates that he does it. If you get better at detecting him he’ll be so proud. Land a slap on him and he’ll be a horny mess.
Dog-whistles at you. Often from rooftops, and you have no idea where he is but you know he’s leering.
He will call you a lot of really stupid pet names. He likes the way you blush when he finds a newer, stupider one. Calls you angel when he’s really far gone.
Likes to scratch you with his stubble until your skin turns raw and sensitive. If it annoys you or hurts a little? Even better. Making you squirm is his new favorite thing. Especially when going down on you. Your inner thighs are always exfoliated.
His cock is average in every respect. This is not a bad thing. He knows how to please you with every totally normal inch of that cock. He has some kind of homing beacon installed on your sensitive spots.
Goes absolutely insane for blowjobs. Any time, any place.
Likes to bend you around in all kinds of positions with an assist from his feathers to hold up an ankle here, an arm there. Get used to floating mid-coitus. It just seems to happen.
Spanky.
His number one priority is making you feel adored and at home in his bed. Ohhhhh he likes to make you smile. But if you encourage him to get pushy and dominant with you, you will have a good, good time.
He’s switchy, and will lose his shit if you initiate or take control. Again, he’s always horny for you, because he can finally let go. Breathe in his direction and he’s hard.
Doesn’t moan much, but Babe, he’s a dirty talker. He’s not smooth or deliberate about it, it’s more like he can’t fucking believe you let him do whatever he wants to you. You like that huh? Like he’s in stages of shock. He’s singing your praises to high Heaven and muttering oh shit oh shit oh shittttttt and laugh-crying as he cums. He never talks about his feelings; he fucks about them.
After. Care. King. He loves pampering and clucking over you anyway, this is simply another excuse to do it. He knows exactly how much water you drink in a day. Can’t take care of himself for shit, but you? You’ll never have a need he won’t try to fill. What’s all that hero work for if not this? Yeah, soak it up. You deserve it.
#hawks#takami keigo#hawks headcanons#hawks x reader#hawks x y/n#hawks x you#gender neutral#smut#bnha#mha#mha headcanons#bnha headcanons#mha fanfiction#bnha x reader#mha x reader#fred writes#no idea why I’m writing these#guess I’m just in a Mood
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atlas | kim dongyoung
pairing: doyoung x reader
words: 15.4k
summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.
or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.
genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff
warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,
prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️
song rec(s): playlist here !
a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)
In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.
You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.
When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of.
“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”
“And then what?”
“Fuck.”
So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.
Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low.
(Fun doesn’t.)
Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours.
And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget.
It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore.
It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume.
The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.
You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.
You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.
Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type.
You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises. If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.
You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts.
You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself.
You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)
“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.
“What?” you yell back.
“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.
You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”
Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”
“Loser.”
“No, you.”
“How clever.”
Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.
“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.
“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”
You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.
“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.
Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”
Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life.
“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”
“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”
You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.
“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask.
You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it.
“Yeah.”
And the deal’s done.
It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.
Well, sort of.
You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it.
See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.
His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.
God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.
His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.
Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.
An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.
“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily.
The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year.
“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.
You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”
“In front of a wall?”
You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”
“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately.
To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.
“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”
You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.
“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.
Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).
Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.
Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one.
Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.
The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt.
He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.
“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.
“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.
Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.
He’s even better when he’s annoyed.
You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover.
Funny.
Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.
“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”
You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.
“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.
Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.
“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”
“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”
Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”
“One.”
He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours.
“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.
“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”
He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”
“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”
Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth.
“Who’s a virgin?”
Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words.
But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.
Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.
“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.
“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.
You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.
“Why not?”
“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”
He’s right.
“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table.
“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”
“Well, of course it is. I had your—”
Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”
You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.
“Where were you last night?”
You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.
“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.
You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.
(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)
Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”
You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.
“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”
“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.
“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”
You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”
They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad.
You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back.
“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.
“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing.
You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.
Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.
Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.
Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.
So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.
It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.
Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.
The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.
You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.
He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.
“How much lon—”
“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.
Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.
“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.
“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.
Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”
You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.
“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”
You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”
You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters.
“Are you guys… into each other or not?”
You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”
“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”
“No way.”
You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.
“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”
He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”
You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”
“You seem to like him though.”
“Who said that?”
Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”
“We’re not.”
“—or fucking—”
“Ten.”
“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”
“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”
“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”
“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”
Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”
You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”
Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”
You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.
“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”
“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”
“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.
“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”
“Well, we’re not.”
Ten shrugs.
“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”
He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”
“No.”
Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”
“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”
“It’s neither, promise.”
You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”
Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”
You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.
“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”
“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”
“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”
“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”
“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”
“That sounds good to me.”
“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”
You roll your eyes.
“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”
“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”
“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”
“Don’t complete that sentence.”
“I was going to say something funny.”
Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.
“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”
“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”
You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”
“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.
There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.
Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.
Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)
The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.
“Hey.”
You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.
“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.
“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”
“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”
“No. A little bit. Not enough.”
You sigh. “How will you get home now?”
“I live here, idiot.”
“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.
“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”
“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”
Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”
You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.
“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.
“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”
There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.
“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.
“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”
You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.
“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”
He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.
“Linguistics,” he answers.
��Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”
“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.
“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.
“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”
You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”
“Really now?”
“Yes,” you snap, looking away.
You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.
“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”
For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.
“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.
“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”
You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can.
“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off.
Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating.
“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”
“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.
He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.
“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.
“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”
He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.
“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”
You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”
“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”
“No way. You’re lying.”
“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”
“Hurts my ego.”
You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.
You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know.
How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.
Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young.
Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.
“Ow,” he mutters.
His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.
For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.
You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.
He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.
He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.
Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.
Doyoung’s out of breath.
“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.
“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”
Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”
“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.
“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”
“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.”
Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling.
“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.
After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”
“I know,” Doyoung mutters.
Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.
“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.
Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”
There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.
“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.
“What?” he whispers.
Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.
“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”
Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.
“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”
Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.
“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.
“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”
A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.
It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.
Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.
Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.
You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.
Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.
You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.
People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung.
He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.
“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”
“I’m busy,” he hisses.
Something’s wrong.
You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention.
Inviting him somewhere.
Rather sensually.
Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.
It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.
Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.
You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.
“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.
“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”
“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”
Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.
Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).
Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure.
You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.
“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”
“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”
He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more.
For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter?
“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”
He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”
Busy. Right.
“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”
“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.
“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”
“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.
“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”
You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”
“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”
“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.
“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.
“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.
“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”
You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him.
“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.
You blink.
“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.
He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.
“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.”
Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.
“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”
You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”
“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.”
You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.
“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”
“No,” you respond, checking your watch.
“Oh.”
There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.
“Then we can- uh- we can—”
“Fuck?” you ask.
He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”
You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.
It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.
Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”
“Tell me you drove here.”
He holds up his car keys in response.
You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.
So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”
You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.
“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”
And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.
The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.
Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.
It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.
You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.
You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts.
You’re disappointing.
You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.
You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.
For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose.
Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.
Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps.
Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.
It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.
When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.
“Why are we doing this?” you ask.
The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.
Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”
Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.
You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.
“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”
“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you.
You feel something close to guilt.
“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”
The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.
“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.
“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”
You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”
“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”
“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.
Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.
“I guess you’re right.”
You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”
“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”
You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue.
“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.
“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.
You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”
“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.”
You blink. “Fresher… girls?”
“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.
You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”
You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.
“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”
Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you.
“You do that a lot,” he notes.
“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)
The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families.
“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”
You look up at Doyoung amused.
“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”
“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe.
It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.
The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.
“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.
“As what, the start point?”
A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”
You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard.
For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them.
So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.
“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.
“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.
You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.
Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out.
You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.
Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.
When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.
“(name). Is something wrong?”
“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure.
Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.
You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up.
He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.
“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.
You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt.
Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder.
“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”
For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart.
“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”
“I know,” he whispers.
Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.
He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.
“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it.
You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.
“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”
Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.
“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”
You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him.
Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.
“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.
You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.
“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.
Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”
“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”
“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”
You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.
“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”
“That’s it?” he asks.
You nod.
No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.
Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak.
A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.
“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.
The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.
You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.
There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.
You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.
And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.
You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time.
It’s hard to love the same way now.
You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional.
It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.
Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love.
The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.
The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved.
You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.
It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.
“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”
His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.
Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?
You sigh in response, nodding.
“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”
I’m here and I get it.
Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either.
Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.
Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.
And now, this has gotten complicated.
An end.
Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.
“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”
His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.
Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?
‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple.
He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.
But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.
The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.
He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.
“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”
Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action.
“Ten?”
He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.
“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t.
Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days.
“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.
When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.
“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.
Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.
“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”
Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”
“What the fuck happened?”
Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”
“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”
“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”
Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”
“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”
“You set that up?”
“(name) slept with Hyungmin.”
Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.
“So?”
Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”
“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.
Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.
“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”
“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”
It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.
Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by.
He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers.
So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.
With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever.
“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout.
Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”
“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”
He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”
You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”
“That’s exactly what I did!”
You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.
“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?”
You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.
“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”
You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this.
“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”
You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.
You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.
No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.
Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose.
For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.
You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.
Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.
“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.
“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.
Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.
“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”
“That you’re fucking other people?”
“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”
“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”
You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”
“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”
Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.
“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”
“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”
“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”
“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”
“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”
“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.
You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?
“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”
“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”
You bite down your lip. “What kind?”
Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”
It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.
“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”
“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.
You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.
“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”
You stare at your feet, unable to respond.
“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”
“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—”
“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”
Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.
“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”
You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder.
Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”
You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.
The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.
You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.
Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.
You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him.
‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.
Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too.
You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.
It’s December again.
This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.
You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?
Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.
There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.
You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling.
Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.
“(name).”
You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you.
“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.
He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”
“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.
It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.
“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.
“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.
He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care.
“Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.
“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.
The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there.
Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.
You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.
“You’re not smoking,” he notes.
“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.
Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”
“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”
Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”
A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.
“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”
Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”
You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”
“I loved you on purpose.”
You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes.
“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”
You scan his face for signs of lying.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally.
Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”
You let yourself crack a smile.
“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”
Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.
“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”
You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.
“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”
“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”
Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.
“You’re warm,” he says.
He’s warmer.
“I want to kiss you,” he says.
You want to kiss him too.
“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.
“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”
Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”
You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”
Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”
The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer.
“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”
“Oh? I wonder what it was.”
“Kind of a long story.”
“I’ve got all the time for you.”
You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand.
#kim doie perfect man bye#doyoung x reader#nct x reader#nct doyoung scenarios#nct scenarios#nct imagines#doyoung imagines#nct fanfic#doyoung fanfic#nct angst#doyoung angst#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 angst#nct college au#moonwrites#okaaay idk what this is either#if you get annoyed midway thru the fic you are perfectly valid <3#i will literally never write smth like this ever again 🤡🤡🤡#if you notice inconsistency in character no u dont#(i had to fix up some earlier inconsistencies but it gave more inconsistencies maybe i should give up writing for good)
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I'm not sure if you have already done something like this before, and if you did, please let me know, I'd love to read it, BUT I was wondering if you could do a little thing, maybe with Sebastian Zöllner, where he is like totally behind on every fucking deadline, work is just piling up, he got into stress with his ex, the dishes are not done, he should go take out the trash, you know, everything is just piling up and he just cracks under the pressure, severely doubting his worth as a person. And his friend, the reader, gotta try their best to build him up again, telling him all the things they love about him, and it slowly turns into a love confession without them noticing.
Is this too elaborate, does that make sense for Seb? Idk. To me it does? Like he's always very...Seb around other people, but deep down I feel like he's always under this pressure to live up to his own and others expectations, wanting to be big and famous and perfect in a way.
I'm so sorry, brain go brrr.
Never Enough [Sebastian Zöllner x Reader]
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: bad habits (heavy smoking and drinking), self deprecation, depression and some fluff in the end.
A/N: I loved this prompt, I love to write Sebastian so thanks to you once more for giving me this opportunity
He should have probably realised something was wrong when the ashtray was vomiting cigarettes out from its dooming position beside the laptop.
He nervously used the left part of the one he just ended to scavenge some space and just pressed it along the others.
Or maybe when after another sip of the same cold coffee mixed with cheap gin he felt the walls of his stomach revolting and stirring against him, threatening a much bigger damage.
Or, again, when he felt like calling back Elke because he was so alone and he was hungry and tired, and she might hate him but he could pull some puppy eyes and maybe it would work. It usually did.
The truth was that he shouldn’t have taken up so many jobs, but the bank account was crying and he needed them, he needed the money.
But again: writing about the umpteenth girl- artist performing naked on a famous historic location?
Or do we have to talk about the way somebody splashed some colour here and there on a canvas saying it is the catharsis of his young mind against the social construct?
Please, may God spare him from the man calling himself landscape artist because he takes pictures of naked girls on a field.
Charged up with this amount of nothingness, he could just write and delete, write and delete, words count going quickly up to 400 only to go back at 0 in a snap of his fingers over the buttons, because he couldn’t just tear them down. He had to give them some hope, a glimpse of potential he couldn’t see and he wasn’t even aware it existed. Each of them disgusted him, but he was specifically asked to be entertaining and not a killer with his words.
So he kept swiping up videos and photos of these artists, trying to find one thing, one holy grail to get attached to and finally write one good optimistic line in the middle of the words he had to pull up to keep a moderate tone.
He rubbed his temple running over his hairline, which by the way was perfectly fine, before his hand reached down and he touched his t-shirt pulling on the neckline to gather some air, he was wearing his pyjama still, white stained shirt on blue tartan pants. He raised up the shirt and bowed his head down giving in a long inhale from the inside and just cringed to himself.
He looked around as he couldn’t stand up, if he did then he will get only more distracted and these articles needed to be ready for tomorrow.
He noticed the spray against the mosquitos on the floor, those little bastards always hiding under his desk to bite his ankles, he picked it up and sprayed it over himself like it was perfume hoping to ignore the need of a shower for few more hours.
His eyes scanned the small studio flat he was living now: the dishes sticking out of the sink, the noisy fridge buzzing. The one table that was also his work desk filled with used mugs, stained plates covered in cigarettes and leftovers, empty packages of his favourite brand discarded everywhere: from the bathroom up to the couch and to the small bed he owned. Damn, if he run out of cigarette it will be hard to ignore how he also run out of food.
The space was dark and gloomy, some of his stuff still packed up, the fake pop art panting of him and Elke staring at him reminding him of his other loss.
He didn’t touch the bed in days, he just slept on the seat or on the couch.
His attention was attracted by his phone buzzing.
He sat up straight as it was her, it was Elke.
Did she sense his discomfort?
“Elke” he picked up the call in a second.
“Wow, a quick answer, did you have your phone already in your hand or it happens just so late at night?”
Her sarcasm did’t go past him, but he just thought how long it was since he heard a human voice and not the recording of some idiot calling himself artist.
“No, I was thinking of you”
“Yes, sure, look I have sent you an email with the bills of the time you were here, the ones you have left to pay and it is only fair that you pay at least half of them”
“Sure” he just said it because he wanted to go past the point of money, he wanted her back. Maybe he could crush at her place, feel her hands through his hair, shower, sleep some good sleep and the articles will come around in few types “Elke, I was thinking we might…”
“I just called you for the bills”
“I know, but maybe we could have” his eyes darted at the top right of his laptop screen to see the time “a drink together?”
She huffed a laughter as he frowned lightly “I know you Seb, if it is money or sex what you’re looking for that door is closed and it has been for a long time”
“I know” he murmured as he let out a breathy sigh, a dooming sense of loneliness creeping over him like a giant spider ready to wrap him up and eat him “I just hoped…”
“Don’t hope Sebastian, you’re already an hopeless cause”
She hung up on him and he was left there, he kept that same pose with his phone against his ear. His eyes trailing once again over the empty page of his document on the screen, on the chaos surrounding him.
He nibbled on his bottom lip before running his tongue over the pained area.
He pushed the phone back down on the table with a tremble of his jaw and a shaky hand.
She was right.
What he did of his life anyway? He lost most of his occasions in life, he was now in his thirties and he concluded nothing of what he hoped to be, he failed in all the departments both as an artist and as a critic.
A jack of all trades is a master of none, and maybe only the first type of the famous quote could be applied to him.
He couldn’t even take the trash out or he couldn’t remember the last time he ate something that was vaguely resembling of fruits or vegetables. It is all good when you imagine yourself as a bohemian rooting against the world, when you convince yourself that’s only the proof you needed to know you are fighting well against a system of art that privileges banality and marketing over real artistic value and that, one day, all your struggles will be worth it.
Even Picasso was poor for a long time in Paris.
Damn, maybe to be in a situation like this in Paris would sound more romantic.
But the truth was: he never imagined to have to do it alone, that life would feel so overwhelming, that there wouldn’t be anything but extreme struggle, anger, loneliness and a terrible diet.
For a moment he wished to be a baby again, to be the bright boy he was and let mommy take care of his needs and his dirty shirt and empty stomach. He wished that maybe somebody noticed him before, that somebody saw his talent and helped him to pull it out instead of leaving him to do it on his own only to come late to every step.
And now it is too late, he is lost in the sea of terrible paid jobs and anguishing relationships, let’s not forget maybe he indeed had a receding hairline and he was doomed to get bold .
He squeezed his eyes as a soft sob took over his lip, hand running over his forehead as he pulled on his hair justifying his tears with some physical pain. He shook his head as he tried to gain back some composure, hand flung over to pick up his coffee mug and giving in a long gulp of the coffee, the same one he swore before to not touch again, only to almost choke on it, couching it out only to pick up the bottom hem of his shirt to clean his laptop screen.
He fucking hated to write on a computer, the old typewriters inspired him but that damn ink was too expensive now for his sore pockets.
He smirked to himself as he kept doing it, finding good excuses to call himself off any responsibility. But maybe Elke was right, well she surely was, she had two degrees, maybe he was really a lot cause.
He frowned as he wiped slowly the screen with his already stained shirt, the wetness sticking then against his skin as soon as he let it go giving him another shiver.
He didn’t have even the strength to cry, he could only accept it was over.
The curse that he shouted out loud when he heard knocking at the door, smashing him out of his thought spiral, generated an immediate anger reaction from him.
“Fuck, shit, if it is the fucking neighbour, I swear I will kill her cat or that rat she has as cat, fucking hell”
He grumbled as he stood up moving across the table not caring about his state, he only wanted to crawl back into a ball and maybe nuzzle a bit somewhere.
When his death glare appeared after the door opened in a powerful swing his eyebrows lifted immediately finding you on the other side.
He blinked, one of those sleepy blinks where somebody closes his eyes and then opens them really wide to make sure it is not made up in their brain, that one.
His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at you
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You should wash your mouth with holy water Sebastian” you said shaking your head raising your arms to show him some paper bags “I am bringing food and body shower”
He shook his head “Are you calling me stinky?”
“I am” You quickly replied moving past him into his place ignoring his groan.
He stood by the door slowly closing it, he was sure that old bitch was looking through her peephole, only then he stared at you try to make your way into the filthy kitchen. He was really embarrassed about his antics, but surely this time he exceeded some record.
“I am speechless Seb, I helped you with the moving and this place seems to have taken over you” you said as you knew he was in some rut when he kept such a long phone silence.
He was usually always texting, sending memes or one sentence texts.
You cared about him, deeply, you knew he was full of flaws and little quirks, but that’s what made him special. Nevertheless, you were worried about the state of the place, how it showed the way he let himself get dragged through the days.
So he observed you, better to say, your back, the way you moved around opening the window to let fresh air inside, turning on a lamp to make some light that wasn’t just the blue one of the screen. Pulling out commodities and food from your magic bags like some sort of Mary Poppins of struggling writers.
How you poured soap in the dirty load of dishes and pans, the way you marched securely to his desk to pick up that filthy mug and you frowned just sniffing at it.
“Is that poison?”
“Rat poison” he corrected you.
You shook your head as you cleaned a glass and filled it with water and among the groceries you pulled out a banana.
“Have this now, it will help” you said and he took the glass with one hand and the banana with the other like his brain was shut down.
He stared at you as you leaned your head slightly on side, he went through bad times after the break up but you had never seen him in such a helpless state.
He was chaotic but he always loved to keep up his appearance, to give that handsome and damned kind of vibe.
“Sebastian” you called him as his eyes spaced out and now where back on you “Are you alright?”
He observed you, he stared at your face like he was trying to recognise you, truth it was he kept pushing himself to say yes, say yes, say it is all good, make a joke, a remark, keep it up. You don’t need his burden, you don’t need to hate him like Elke and others do.
Just say yes.
“No” he said as his lips trembled and you watched his ironic mask fall right in front of you as he looked away hiding his tears, real tears, not the ones he can play out whenever he needs.
Just as quickly as you gave him the banana and the water you took them off his hands afraid he might hurt himself by dropping the glass in particular.
"Seb" you called his attention as he sobbed moving like a bird trying to hide his face against his own shoulder.
You took his now empty hands dragging him toward the couch and kicking off the pile of dirty clothes and discarded books on top of it to make him sit down with you.
"Talk to me"
He didn't, the man that was never out of words, even in the times he should have been, was now silent as a tombstone staring away from you as you gave a gentle squeeze to his hands. It pained you to see him in such a state.
So weak, so helpless like a lost child.
"I can't help you if you don't talk"
Sebastian shook his head still staring at the wall.
"You can't help me"
"Is it about writing? I can proof read you, it will be a moment"
He shook his head again making, hair bouncing from side to side.
"No, it is not important if I write or not"
You frowned at that comment.
"What the hell?" you just blurted out "Seb you're a talented writer, you're passionate, funny, witty, why shouldn't it be important?"
He looked up at you shaking his head "I can't write, I can't put together two sentences"
Your eyes travelled onto his side profile, truth to be told he looked worn out but he was still handsome like only Sebastian Zöllner could be. He had that chaotic charm, even with a wrinkled suit he was fearless, strong, poignant. You couldn't avoid him, he owned every place he stepped in and you could feel his gaze run through your bloodstream.
When he asks a question, he meant it, it was a test run into your bones and you loved every second of it.
His lips tightened as he diverted his gaze finally to you. You knew his relationship with Elke was important, he cared about others even if he didn't show it daily like most people do.
"Is it Elke?"
"No, she was just right"
"About what?"
He gulped, his throat dry as he pulled his bottom lip in his mouth grinding his teeth over it like playing something through that gesture.
"About me"
"Breakups are always shit, don't you even.."
"No Y/N" he interrupted you, he was serious, maybe his voice trembled but he wasn't lying or playing some role "I am really a lost cause, I mean look at his place"
His hand waved around the small flat like a drunk orchestra director.
"It is pure trash, I haven't finished unpacking, I didn't have food until you came, I am unable to look after myself, to look after the people that I care about. I worked so hard to be an artist and then I became a critic and now I am so knee deep into my own shit that I have more debts than entries, more failures than successes, more haters than friends"
He gulped down, the waterline of his eyes dangerously red and he sniffled up as he let out a little weak whisper "I just wish I could disappear"
"No"
It came out of you like a lighting bolt, it surged out of you before you could even elaborate. Like an order. A command.
"Seb, you're now in a rough patch of life, but you have always worked hard and well as a writer"
"I am a writer because I failed as an artist"
"You're a writer because you know of what you're talking about, because you're able to see the difference between marketing and passion, between hard work and laziness, because you respect that profession and it makes you the best critic"
"I just want to destroy them all because I am envious, Elke always said I am fuelled by my own envy”
"I have read pieces of yours only encouraging the rightful and bringing down the real frauds"
He shook his head as he was just fixating on the wrong, on the flaws, on the problems.
You huffed cupping his cheeks to force him to look at your eyes.
"Look at me" you said not admitting replies "you are talented in what you do, you are one of the best in your field and you're not on some big magazine only because they know they will have to put up with your shit: with the fact you always meet the people, you look at art pieces in presence, you touch them, you research the colours, you scrutinise everything to the bone"
He took your hands hating to be held like that but he squeezed them in his owns.
"And yes, you're allergic to ironing clothes and washing dishes is your personal nightmare, and yes, you give out many temper tantrums and have a terribly dark sense of humour, you are a failure at time and money management, you love filthy rich stuff and smoke like your life depends on it"
He stared at you, he listened quietly as you knew him from so long and many people, Elke included, wondered what you gained from helping him or just being around him that much. He often teased his ex about being jealous of you and she always said that it was like being jealous of a mortgage.
"So you agree?"
"I agree to say you are flawed like all of us, that you are just the perfect balance to your writing, you're what you write. You're passionate, you give out the two hundred percent of what you can give, you are like this, you go all-in in everything you do, there's no compromise, no mid way, no foreseeable change of direction, you speed up into the darkness and don't look back. You are bold, you take risks, you let people hate you because you do not compromise with who is son of who or who is the director of what gallery, you judge people over their real qualities. Because you talk to them in their face, because you don't hide that yes, you want to be great, because you're handsome and charming and smart, nobody can outsmart you in your field, not even that idiot you hate that much"
"Golo Fucking Moser" he murmured
"Golo Fucking Moser" you repeated with a chuckle "you don't have anything to envy to him beside the bruises he probably has on his knees for bending down to anyone"
He chuckled at that comment.
"And also, you're more attractive, that pisses off Seb, it is unfair to the poor man”
He leaned his head on side as you wouldn't normally shower him in compliments, he had enough ego for that, but you had never seen him like this and you wished to never see him again in such a state.
"You find me attractive?"
"Well for sure you're an eye candy" you joked
"I mean it"
You rolled your eyes blushing a bit and huffing a chuckle "I do, alight? It is universal knowledge"
He looked at you as he still held your hands in his, his thumbs making soft shapes over the back of your hand.
"That I am attractive or that you find me attractive?"
You groaned looking away with an embarrassed giggle “okay, okay, I see you're back in yourself, let's eat now"
You moved to stand up but he didn't do the same remaining sat in his spot.
"Tell me"
"I pumped your self esteem enough, now let me go"
He chuckled softly, he never really thought you'd be interested. He usually shows off so many bad traits that he has to tone himself down and really try hard to attract someone. It is all an effort on his part to appear better or at least less quirky.
And then now look at you, appreciating even his shit show.
"Y/N" he murmured giving you a soft squeeze. You kept silent not daring now to meet his gaze. He bowed his head trying to reach for your eyes with his gaze and he looked up at you, a smile that wasn't provocative over his lips.
You pulled back yanking your wrists off his grip to move straight into the kitchen corner.
You begun pulling ut some fresh vegetables and bread, you also got some cheese knowing he loves it, wanting him to have a good dinner.
He followed you almost immediately and soon you found his arms grasping you once more in a hug, his chest pressed against your back, his forehead on your shoulder.
"Seb, you..."
"I know, I stink, just give me a moment" he said and you obliged him gently caressing his arms around you.
You hated to be in the friend zone, but you wouldn't be able to survive to lose him forever or to have him joke about it.
Now he was quiet, tender like a hurt pup.
"Thank you, you know you can count on me too, right? For anything” he said and you chuckled softly “I know, you’re my favourite avenger”
He nodded brushing his crisp beard against your cheek and after few minutes stuck in that hug he dropped a kiss on your neck "love you”
He pulled back giving you a smile as he picked the shower gel you left on the counter bringing it with himself to the bathroom with a soft hum.
You smiled a bit bitterly to yourself as you guessed it was meant in a friendly way, but today it was alright. You could endure it. Also that kiss, he always did it when he was drunk, at parties or in the taxi back home after a viewing. It was his cuddly way to say things without saying them, without rambling, and you appreciated that silent language.
Maybe now he was drunk over his own feelings.
Just like you.
Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams @charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl @obsidianlaszlo @alindeluce @zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahling @everythingbeginsineternity-blog @archangelproperty
#sebastian zöllner#sebastian zöllner x y/n#sebastian zollner x y/n#sebastian zollner x reader#sebastian zöllner x you#sebastian zöllner x reader#sebastian zöllner headcanon#sebastian zollner#daniel brühl#daniel bruhl#daniel bruehl#ich und kaminski#ich und Kaminski fanfiction#tw: depression#tw: self deprecation
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Out of the Woods - College!AU - PART 1
A/N: Welp, here it is! Part 1 of my silly little AU for my favorite silly little king. I really hope I can do him justice and I greatly appreciate any comments and questions you may have! No major triggers- only implied drug use, drinking, allusion to sexy stuff. So, without further ado..
If you had to gaze into a crystal ball at the beginning of the year, this would not have been the future you expected to see. You didn’t plan on being unhoused, stuck in an idle relationship, and debating dropping out of school all together. But here you were, trying your very best to pick up the pieces, salvage what little motivation to carry on that you had left. It could have been worse. It could have been much worse, at least that’s what you kept telling yourself to keep from crumbling entirely. You were never one to back down though, and these few hurdles sure as hell weren’t going to be the thing to break you. At least one of your problems was solved.
You had just emptied the last of the boxes left from moving and were hanging up the rest of your clothes when there was a soft knock on your door. Genya popped her head in, smiling brightly.
“Hey. I was just making sure you were getting settled ok,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m just about done unpacking I think.” You sat down next to her on the edge of your bed. “Thanks again for letting me live here. You have no idea how much you saved his ass,” you laughed.
“Don’t mention it! I’m happy to have someone else here, honestly.” She seemed to mean it, so you decided not to keep groveling. “Anyways, I just had a friend text me about a party tonight if you wanted to go?”
Your party days were almost entirely behind you. Freshman and Sophomore year were a haze of booze and recreational drugs, leading to you almost flunking out of school on more than one occasion. You’d since cleaned up your act, for the most part, and found you way back on the Dean’s list. But...it was a Friday afterall. And you’d just spent all day moving and contemplating your entire life- did that not earn a beer or two?
“Yeah, ok. Ok. That sounds good,” you said with a nod.
“Awesome! I think we’re meeting there around 10ish, so I’ll come grab you to get ready in a little bit.”
“Get ready? Are we 18 and going to our first frat party?” you joked, making Genya laugh.
“I was thinking about it more so as a roomie bonding activity, but if you wanna be a brat…” she drawled, trying to keep the smile off her face.
“Come back in an hour,” you finally sighed. Genya looked simply delighted as she exited, very clearly planning out looks for you both in her head.
As you went to finish up organizing your closet, you felt the familiar buzz of your phone in your pocket.
Matt: u coming over tonight?
You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling back in your skull. That probably shouldn’t happen when you get a text from your boyfriend.
Y: can’t, sorry. Going out with Genya
M: ok- have fun. Make good choices.
Y: wtf does that mean
M: just to make good choices? Jesus does everything have to be a fight?
Y: i’m not trying to fight omg
Y: i’ll just talk to you later
M: k
K. He had some fucking nerve.
---
Across campus, Nikolai wasn’t having much better of an evening.
"Do I have to?"
"Yes." Aleks's tone was final; Nikolai knew there was no point in trying to bargain with him at this point.
"Jesus, fine." Nikolai’s fate had been decided and it was now mandatory that he go to the Delta Chi party that night. And here he had been looking forward to a quiet evening alone with his guitar and journal...
"It'll be fun, you sad sack. And I really want you to meet Alina," Aleks chastised.
"I didn’t know you missed my irreplaceable company quite this much."
Aleks gently threw a pencil across the table at his head. "Maybe you'll even catch a new fish of your own, huh?" he said with an obnoxious smirk. Nikolai just chuckled, nodding noncommittally before heading off to his bedroom.
It's not that he didn’t want to go. Well, he didn’t, really. But normally, he would. It’d been about a month since he called it off with the girl he met in Statistics. And it's not like he even missed her all that much- he knew she wouldn’t be around long from the start. But he was still stuck in the “mope in his room, write songs about heartbreak” phase of his healing. Because of such, he hadn't felt like partying much lately, but he’d blown off Aleks the last 3 weekends...he wasn't going to let Nikolai say no again.
Nikolai figured the least he could do is try and look presentable. It was unlike him to spend as much time in sweats as he had; his sense of style had always been impeccable. He was a man who knew he was handsome and knew the best way to broadcast just that. He pulled out tight black jeans and paired them with a powder blue button down with the sleeves rolled up, maybe a couple of the top buttons left undone. He pushed his golden hair back out of his hazel eyes and scrutinized himself in the mirror. To his horror, he looked like he hadn't had a good night of sleep in a week, which was true. Overall, it could have been better, but it could be worse. With a sigh, he grabbed his phone and keys before going out to find Aleks.
They got to the Delta Chi house, and there were already a few guys passed out on the lawn. Nikolai wasn’t surprised, but it was only 10:30. They must have been freshmen. Aleks lead the way to the porch where a petite dark haired girl turned around and beamed at them.
"You're late!" she says with a clearly fake pout. Aleks leaned in to kiss it away and Nikolai looked everywhere but at them.
"Sorry, sorry, I know. Miss Princess here had to be dragged out of his cave," he laughed at his expense. "Alina, this is Nikolai. Nikolai, Alina."
"Nice to finally meet you," Alina smiled. She's cute, he can give Aleks that.
"I’ll have you know I was not in a cave. I was waxing poetic about love lost, heartbreak and what have you,” Nikolai smirked as Alina laughed.
"Genya and her new roommate are already inside," Alina said, grabbing Aleks's hand.
Thank god. Not that he didn't want to spend time with them or get to know Alina, but he didn't really want to watch them suck face and play third wheel all night. Genya had been a friend of theirs since Freshman year- she smoked them down at a random dorm party and she'd been part of the gang ever since. Nikolai pushed through the crowd and made it along with Aleks and Alina to the kitchen. There were fewer people back here and Nikolai felt like he could breathe again.
"Nik," Genya chirped and threw her hands up excitement. "He lives!"
"You saw me Wednesday," Nikolai laughed. “But, I understand. Aleks was desperate for his company too. It must have been unbearable without me.”
"I really didn't think Aleks would get you to come," she said with an easy grin. Genya handed him a cup of what he assumed was beer. "Doesn't matter. You're here now."
They all circled up and chatted for a minute. For once in his life, Nikolai felt like he was noticeably quiet, but he found he didn’t have much to add. They didn’t want to hear about how he managed to cook a meal TWICE last week. Or how he’d written probably a dozen songs, all of them dogshit. Genya was grinning at a story their friend William was telling when she looked over his shoulder and motioned for someone to join them.
"Guys! Guys! This is my new roommate," Genya said. Ah yes, the new roommate. How could Nikolai forget?
New Roommate had wedged themselves into the circle two people away from Nikolai. He looked up from his cup and immediately locked eyes with you. Honestly, the name should have tipped him off. He never, ever thought he’d see you again. There's no way you possibly remember him, right? God, you were still so beautiful.
"Nikolai?" you asked with a tight voice, eyes jumping all around his face. And it's right about then that Nikolai wished he got a little more beauty sleep. Here you were, practically glowing, while he looked like the walking dead.
"Hey," he breathed out. It sounded a lot more desperate than he meant it to, but you always have had that effect on him.
"You guys know each other?" Aleks interjected.
"It's uh, it's been a few years, but yeah," you said with a blush, looking down into your cup. Aleks and Genya both looked at Nikolai with a raised eyebrow. He could feel the sweat pricking along his brow. Fuck, now all eyes were on him...
"Maybe there's a spot open for beer pong. Let's go check it out." Thank you. Subtle, Genya. "You guys can catch up," Genya said walking past you and patting Nikolai on the shoulder. The rest of his friends followed suit and Nikolai was left alone with you, staring not so subtly.
You hadn’t grown an inch. You’d lost the bright red glasses too. But, god, you were still the most gorgeous creature Nikolai had ever laid his eyes on. Really, he couldn't have lost his virginity to a hotter person.
It's your typical boy-meets-girl story. Nikolai first saw you at the rink where he played hockey in high school. Your parents owned the building and seeing as such, you were employed as the kid behind the concession stand. Nikolai remembered the first time he saw you, he thought you looked like a dork. A very hot dork, but a dork all the same. Nikolai began to notice you watching him in particular during practice, which just further flustered his raging teen hormones.
One night, after everyone else had left practice, Nikolai stayed behind and introduced himself to you. He’d never seen such a beautiful mouth and he had to resist the urge to kiss you right then and there. It became habit that he stay after practice and lean against the counter to shamelessly flirt with you. You often had the rink to yourselves by that time, so Nikolai felt like he could really be himself during those hours. He was still figuring out his place in the world and had stuck-up parents who would never approve of him taking you home. But in the lowlights of the concourse, he was allowed to have a crush on you.
Flirting led to making out behind the counter. Making out behind the counter led to hand stuff in your beat up purple van once you locked up for the night. Hand stuff led to him fucking you in the locker room shower. It was both of your first time and it could have been much less hurried. But you were young and inexperienced and horny as fuck and still exploring sexuality. You kept that arrangement up for the next few months until the season ended and Nikolai left that fall for school. He felt like a dick for not saying goodbye to you. It's not in his nature to ghost. It just isn't. He thinks maybe he was still scared of what it all "meant" and how much he really liked you. Maybe this was the universe telling him to make things right with you and make things right for himself.
"Hey, stranger," you said with a lopsided grin. Fuck. Nikolai was so done for if you kept looking at him like that.
"Hey yourself." And Nikolai couldn't help himself when he reached out to you to pull you in a tight embrace. Lucky him, you didn’t push him away and call him a fucking asshole; he thought he would have deserved that. You buried your face into his neck and the hot little puffs of air were doing way more to him than they should. You parted just enough to get a good look at each other.
"You look good," you said with a dark edge to your voice, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. He knew very well what he looked like that night, but you seemed to mean the compliment.
"You look better," he replied earnestly, because it was true. It shouldn't have been this easy to fall right back into things. But it was always different with you. Sometimes, he still thought you were the only one that really understood him without him having to say a word.
"Nikolai Lantsov, you always were a little flirt," you laughed. Your eyes crinkled at the corner and Nikolai thought to himself how beautiful you are when you’re playful. You’re always beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to whisk you away and have you alone. This time, he wouldn’t fuck it up. He wouldn’t let you go. You must have noticed his brain going into overdrive because you say "What's going on up there? What ya thinking?" You pushed a rogue lock of golden hair away from his face.
"Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"I'm thinking about how much I wish we weren't at a frat party right now. I'm thinking about how I want to be selfish and have you all to myself," Nikolai said low so only you could hear. You laughed a little to yourself and looked at him with sparkling eyes.
"I'm not stopping you," you drawled. Fuck. Fuck, ok. This was really happening.
"Let me tell the guys we're leaving and then do you maybe want to get some food?" Nikolai asked hopefully. You just nodded coyly with a small smirk.
"I'll meet you out front." You squeezed his hand once and started pushing your way through the sea of bodies.
Nikolai ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath before nearly running down to the basement, eager to say goodbye and make his way back to you. Genya, Aleks, Alina, and William were playing each other, a beer pong table stretching between their pairs.
"Where's your old friend?" Genya asked with a shit eating grin.
"We're um. We're actually gonna head out. So, I guess I'll—" but he was immediately cut off by Aleks.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Nik, are you leaving with a girl?" he teased.
"Yes. I am." Nikolai looked at him defiantly.
"How do you guys know each other anyways?" Bill asked before launching a shot.
"Just from growing up. High school or whatever," Nikolai mumbled.
"Cmon..." Genya begged.
"Wouldn’t you love to know," he said, voice laced with snark. "I just came down here to say we're fucking leaving!"
"Well then you better not keep your girl waiting," Genya said with a silent kiss in his direction. Nikolai just flipped her off and took his leave.
When he got outside, you were waiting with your hands in your pockets at the bottom of the porch steps. He smiled wide at you and offered a hand, which you seemed happy to take.
"So, are they gonna give me a bunch of shit next time I see them?" you asked as you walked hand in hand to the little strip of 24 hour restaurants on the outskirts of campus.
"Probably. Nothing you can't handle," Nikolai winked. You laughed then a little giggle. It's such a familiar sound and just like that, Nikolai was transported back to the ice rink and you giggling between kisses behind the snack bar.
You made it to one of his favorite delis in town and he offers to buy you a sandwich, which of course you tried to refuse his offer. Nikolai simply won't hear it. He had 5 years of douche baggery to make up for and insisted. You finally conceded and thanked him with the sweetest smile Nikolai had ever seen. You found a table in the corner, away from the door and prying eyes.
"So, how'd you meet Genya?" Nikolai asked.
"We have a writing class together. And we got to talking and became friends. I needed to find a new place cause my old roommate had to drop out and move home. I couldn't afford the place on my own. And I mean, you know how Genya is," you laughed, "I told her all about it one day in class and she offered me a room at her place without batting an eye."
"That does sound like Genya," Nikolai nodded.
"I've only been there like, two hours. But it's been good so far. Genya's been super cool," you said with a smile.
"I can't believe that we've been at the same school this whole time and it's taken this long to find each other," Nikolai said, mostly to himself, but you heard him and reached across the table to grab one of his hands.
"But we did find each other eventually, yeah?" You ran your thumb over his knuckle.
"Yeah," he said, suddenly bashful. Nikolai was seldom flustered. He had nerves of steel and had confidence to spare on his worst days. But you. You cut through him, all the way down to the core, and that made him nervous.
"So," you started, "Tell me about everything Nikolai Lantsov. Surely you've been up to something the last few years."
"Not much interesting to tell," he shrugged. "Been studying history. Writing music here and there to keep myself occupied."
"Girlfriend?"
"Who wants to know?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.
"Shut up," you mumbled into your soda. He doesn't miss the blush that's spreading over your cheeks.
"No. No girlfriend." he paused, considering how honest to be. But fuck it, he owed you candor. "I actually broke up with a girl a little over a month ago." You looked back up at him then, your eyes searching presumably for whether or not Nikolai was still torn up about it. "She wasn’t...she wasn’t right for mw and I guess I was just done. I feel like I should still be sad about it or whatever, but I'm not. I don't miss her. The wallowing and self reflection has been great writing fodder though," he said with a laugh.
"I'm sorry, Nik. You don't deserve that."
"Don't I?" Nikolai looked at you and suddenly felt torn open. "I...I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you." You bit down on your lip and looked out the window. "I regretted leaving you, god, and like a fucking asshole. I regretted leaving you so much. I know saying I'm sorry isn't even close to enough. But god, I'm so fucking sorry." He knew there were tears threatening to fall from his eyes, but he swallowed them down best he could.
"I'm not going to act like it didn't hurt me. Because it really, really did. But I accept your apology, Nik. You know I could never stay mad at you." You paused for a minute before looking at Nikolai with a tiny fire in your eyes. "You know, I'm pretty sure I was in love with you back then."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I don’t think I ever stopped loving you," He said confidently. Your jaw dropped just for a moment before you're giving him that sexy grin that apparently still drives him absolutely crazy.
"Still?” Nikolai just smirked. "What if you don't know me anymore?" you asked and sucked at the straw in your soda.
"I'd like to." There's a shift in the air between you. Nikolai was sure you could both feel it. It was suddenly too warm in the restaurant and there's too much table separating you. He decided to take his chance. “How do you feel about going back to my place?”
You suddenly seemed very interested in your nail beds, picking anxiously at the skin. “You didn’t ask me if I was seeing anyone.”
Nikolai stalled. He didn’t. You asked about his relationship status and he was so absorbed with letting you know that he was, in fact, single, that he didn’t bother to ask if you were even available. Hadn't you been flirting all night? He'd certainly been flirting. But like you said, maybe he didn't know you anymore. Maybe this was just how you were these days. “Are you...are you seeing someone?”
“Yeah,” you sighed. Maybe it was his own wishful thinking, him hearing the resignation in your voice. Not that he wanted you to be unhappy. No, you deserved the world and he wanted nothing more than for you to have the sun and the moon and the stars. But, maybe there was still a chance for him yet. “His name is Matt. We’ve been together for like, a year or so.”
“Matt.” He let the name burn his tongue. “You love him?”
“Nik…” you warned.
“Just a question.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Just my two cents here,” Nikolai started, leaning back into the booth, “But you deserve to be with someone you can gush about. Someone who when you get asked if you love them, you don’t think twice and say ‘they’re the love of my life!’”
“And you don’t think that’s him?” you said, huffing. “You think that’s you?”
“There’s a chance,” he smirked. “All that aside, I’m very glad fate has brought us together again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed. “I missed you too.” You looked at your phone quickly. “Shit, I should get going. I have a shift at 9 tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you home,” Nikolai insisted, standing from the booth and helping you into your jacket.
“Always such a gentleman,” you smiled, tapping him gently on the nose before walking ahead of him.
The walk to your and Genya’s place felt too short. Nikolai had made this trek, both intoxicated and sober, and it always seemed much longer. But now he was at your front door, hands shoved in his pockets as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. “If you don’t want to hang out again, I understand, but I need you to tell me now if you think it’s a bad idea,” he rushed out.
“Of course I want to see you again,” you said, rolling your eyes. “So dramatic. We can still be friends, right?”
“We can be best friends,” he smiled.
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight.”
“Likewise.”
You were both clearly just trying to prolong the evening at this point. Nikolai took it upon himself to put you both out of your misery and pulled you into his arms again. You gripped his torso tightly, melting your body against his. He held you close, both strong arms wrapped around your shoulder while he tucked your head under his chin. After a moment, he pulled back enough to leave a gentle kiss on your forehead.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered, his breathing a little hard.
“Ok,” you croaked, nodding. Nikolai stepped out of your space then, squeezing your hand one last time before walking back out to the sidewalk, waiting and watching to make sure you got inside safely.
#nikolai lantsov#nikolai lantsov x reader#prince nikolai#shadow and bone#grishaverse#nikolai lantsov fanfic#shadow and bone fanfic#nikolai lantsov au#shadow and bone au#grishaverse au#ootw#masterlist
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Model Wife-Thomas Shelby x Reader
(GIF credit to @nofckingfighting)
(REQUESTS ARE OPEN AND I HAVE ALSO CREATED A PROMPT LIST HERE IF YOU WANT TO TAKE SOMETHING FROM THAT)
Masterlist
Requested by @justsimplyme93: ‘Hey! How are you? I read the last tommy shelby one you did and i love it. Could you do another arranged marriage with tommy where he still go’s to lizzie and the reader asks to speak with him.’
Characters: Thomas Shelby x Reader
Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name
Warnings: Cheating, sex, swearing, arguing slight violence
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sipping on my tea, I looked around at our guests in the house, all members of the ‘Grace Shelby Institute’. We had to keep up appearances, and although both Tommy and I hated socialising with people who used to turn their noses up at people like us, they were the ones providing the money. Normally, we would keep most events out of the house, but Tommy had pissed me off, and seeing as he was too busy to help organise it, I made all the arrangements; being petty was sometimes the only way I could get back at him.
“Mrs Shelby, what a lovely home you have! And the decor for today is just lovely.” an older, highly posh woman gushed to me.
I smiled.“Thank you. I am quite proud of myself.”
“I have not had the chance to speak with your husband yet. It seems he keeps vanishing into thin air.”
“Yes, he does have a habit of doing that.”
Knowing that there was no point in trying to track down Tommy, I suffered through an awfully dull conversation with the lady, having to disguise my boredom with polite smiles as more women joined us. They were all much older, I had seen a few young women here, all married to very rich men who were twice their own age; I suppose I couldn’t judge, it wasn’t like Tommy and I were actually in love.
“You know Mrs Shelby, I have always wondered how you met a man like Thomas Shelby.” one of the women said.
She was bold to say something like that, especially to me. I refrained from sighing as I started to recite the story Tommy and I made up.
“Well, it seems very cliche, I must say. We met when he was meeting with my father, obviously wanting to unite our businesses. I ended up being in the right place at the right time, we easily fell into a conversation with each other which was unfortunately interrupted by my father. Thomas was very confident to take me out to dinner, right in front of my father may I add! Surprisingly he was a charmer, and I guess we just fell in love along the way.”
The ladies all cooed, some covering their heart with their hand as if it were the most romantic thing they had ever heard. It was all bullshit. We had to make it as vague as possible, make sure that they had nothing more to gossip about. Both Tommy and I had been married before, they were our real loves; and both had been murdered by a rival, but who received more sympathy after they died? And who was called vicious, degrading names when she re-married to a wealthier, more powerful man? People of ‘society’ were disgusting.
“Finn,” I called out as I approached him, luckily escaping the women,“have you seen your brother?”
“Which one?” he smirked.
I smiled back, ruffling up his hair to annoy him.“The one I’m married to.”
He quickly smoothed it back down.“Not sure. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Alright, just keep an eye out for him, yeah?”
Although it wasn’t uncommon for Tommy to disappear (especially to avoid these groups of snobs), he had been gone for a while. He may have been frustrated by my choice of venue, but he would still inform me if he had to leave for business. This made me all the more suspicious.
Leaving the main room, I hastily walked down the halls, leaving the noise behind me. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, wishing that I didn't have an idea of where he could be...and who with. Brushing past staff carrying food and beverages, I made my way upstairs, checking our bedroom first. He was the lowest of low if he was up here; luckily, they hadn’t used this room. Checking through our bedrooms, it was only two doors down from our own when I heard heavy breathing. Taking a deep breath, I gripped onto the handle, bursting in and confirming my suspicions.
“If you’re almost finished, we have guests waiting for you downstairs.” I stated, averting my gaze away from the scene before me.
Lizzie had been bent over the bed, with her dress pulled up over her hips (how classy), and my husband right behind her. She bolted upright, shimmying her dress back down and pulling her underwear up; even after being caught in the act, she looked smug, head held high as she walked past me. Looking back at Tommy, he had an annoyed expression as he did up his trousers. I didn’t want to speak to him, but he called me back before I had a chance to leave.
“We need to speak about this.” he said.
“We do. But not now, not whilst I am hosting this event for the organisation you created for your dead wife.” I snapped, slamming the door shut behind me.
Luckily I had put a time limit on the event, and this time there was a genuine smile on my face as they all left. That was before I remembered what I had witnessed earlier. It was going to go down much messier than I first anticipated, especially since the tension between us had been building up after I caught them in the act. My footsteps were heavy on the way to Tommy’s office, not even bothering the knock before entering. In his usual spot at his desk, whiskey already poured, there was no reaction from him when he saw the fury in my eyes.
“Glad you’re settled for the evening.” I spat, hands on my hips as I stood opposite him.
“This is about earlier?” he coughed.
“What else would we talk about?”
“I’m guessing it has upset you.”
“Not for the reasons you’re thinking.”
He didn’t reply, instead lighting a cigarette.
“Tommy, I understand that there is that bullshit saying ‘all men have urges that need to be fulfilled’, but it doesn’t mean you can disrespect me in my own home.”
“Your home?”
“Yes, my home. I’m here a lot more than you are anyway. And of all the times to be fucking her, you chose the annual Grace Shelby Institute meet up?”
“Don’t say her name.” he mumbled.
I scoffed.“It’s the only way I can get your attention nowadays.”
Tommy raised from his chair, still smoking.“Attention? Since when have you ever wanted my attention?”
“We both knew that this marriage wasn’t based off of love, nor were we ever going to fall in love along the way. However, I have been nothing but a model wife to you. I keep up appearances on your behalf, I make up excuses for your disappearances, I also ensure that your reputation isn’t tarnished by people speaking about you behind your back! And if that doesn’t deserve some fucking respect then I don’t know what does! Also, don’t you think I miss the touch of a man? How many times have I come across men that have shamelessly flirted with me whilst you’re not around, and how easy would it have been to sneak away for just a moment to gain some satisfaction?!”
I could feel my face burning up as I ranted, hating that I wasn’t gaining any sort of reaction from him. Was he this blank with Grace? Was he this blank with Lizzie?
“So you’re asking me to stop seeing Lizzie?”
“I’m not asking you that, because even if I did, you would keep doing it anyway.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. I just want respect. I don’t deserve to be humiliated like this.”
“No one knows.”
“Your family does! And even if they didn’t, that means I don’t deserve respect?”
He sighed as he stubbed out his cigarette.“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You said it nevertheless.”
“What do you want me to do then?”
“Really Tommy? I want some common fucking decency.”
“Ask and you shall receive.”
I groaned, leaving before I said something I truly regretted. He was acting as if he didn’t give a shit (which he probably didn’t), which only angered me more. Who would want to be stuck in such a place? Letting out an angry scream, I picked up an expensive vase, raising it high above my head before throwing it on the floor with all my might. The pieces glided out across the hardwood floor, some spraying onto my shoes. A few servants rushed in, obviously alarmed by the noise. Instead of apologising, I marched past them, heading up the long stairs and to the bedroom; I would have preferred to grab the leftover bottles of champagne as a nightcap, but exhaustion from my anger would have to do.
Tommy still slept beside me that week, he still ate breakfast with me, sometimes dinner if he wasn't busy. He also tried to have normal, short conversations with me, though even when we glanced at each other, the tension was thick between us. It pissed me off that he was acting normal, and I knew that's why he was doing it...making me even more mad.
"I have a potential business partner coming here today." He informed me over breakfast.
"Why are they coming here?" I asked.
"I couldn't have a meeting elsewhere."
"I thought you said you don't like bringing business home...though come to think of it, you don't really do that either."
"Glad that's settled then."
I assumed that Tommy would want me out of the way when this 'partner' arrived. A good place to go was out to the stables, tend to the horses to take up time. However, I wasn't in the mood for riding or mucking out, instead opting to watch them be trained for racing. Leaning against a fence, I wasn't surprised that my mind was elsewhere, wondering why Tommy was still being so nice to me. We very rarely argued, mostly because neither of us wanted to face the problems at hand, especially when there were more pressing matters to deal with. But after yelling at him like I had, I expected some sort of silent treatment, or even for him to avoid me completely.
"Mrs Shelby?" a butler said from behind me. He continued as I turned around."Mr Shelby's meeting was to commence at twelve, but he is not here at present. However, his business partner has arrived. And..."
"And?"
"And Mr Shelby has asked that you keep him company whilst he is gone. He has assured me he shall be no longer than half an hour."
It was highly unusual for me to meet any of Tommy's associates. This meant that the man couldn't be any sort of threat, he wouldn't expose me like this. Following the butler back inside, I followed him to the parlour, preparing to act as a good host and a good wife.
"I'm sorry that my husband has kept you waiting, he's never been great with time keeping." I said as I walked in, the man having his back towards me.
As he turned around, my eyes widened, as did his.
"Christopher?!" I exclaimed.
"(Y/N)?!" He smiled, rushing towards me.
"Is that really you? What are you doing engaging in business with the Shelby's?"
"My firm is expanding, for some reason Thomas Shelby stepped forward and offered to become partners. I haven't heard about you for years!"
"Neither I about you. Ever since you moved away, we lost contact."
"And now you're the new Mrs Shelby. Bit risky isn't it?"
I laughed."Come sit down, u want to hear everything you have been doing since we last saw each other."
Christopher was a very old friend of mine. We had known each other since we were eighteen, becoming friends after our families were connected through business. We had been young people wanting to rebel, wanting to have fun; we were never in a relationship together, though we would sleep with each other, spend long nights out drinking with our friends. As a lot of my friends went off to get married to higher business men, he was still there, until I selfishly left him behind to marry my husband, the man I truly loved. I had loved Christopher, not so much as someone I wanted to spend my life with, though neither just a friend; it sounded more complicated that it was.
"You know, I always felt slightly bad for marrying and leaving you like that." I admitted.
"Only slightly?" he nudged me.
"It's not my fault I fell in love! We both said that we would never marry each other, it wasn't right."
"No, you are correct. Though, that didn't stop us doing things that couples do."
I giggled."And we did that a lot."
"I'm sure Mr Shelby keeps you busy."
"He would...if he was ever here. Though even if he was..."
"(Y/N)?"
"I've said too much already."
"Have the two of you ever...or haven't rather-"
"No we haven't. And I am telling you this in full secrecy, it must never leave your lips." I pointed a finger at him, becoming serious.
"I promise. I would never do anything to expose you like that."
"Thank you Christopher." I laid my hand on his thigh, thinking nothing of it until he placed his over mine.
Slipping away my hand, I looked away from him, feeling how intense our eye contact was becoming. It was stupid that my heart was beating faster, I was becoming hot under the collar over the tiniest amount of contact.
"I'm assuming your wife knows who you are making a deal with?" I said to start the conversation again.
"There is no Mrs in my life at the moment. I'm afraid work came first and well...there has never been much time."
"Oh Christopher, that's no excuse! Let me guess, you've lost your charm?"
"It's been working on you, hasn't it?"
He got me again. Glancing around, I saw no servants, though I wouldn't be surprised if they were eavesdropping. However, it was Tommy and I that employed them, if they wanted to lose their job, that would he the way to do it. Standing up, I gestured for Christopher to follow.
"We're going on a walk." I announced.
"What about your husband?"
"He will be ages before he gets here. And I'm allowed to show my old friend around the place."
We headed out of the front door, and without saying anything, I guided him down the path that led away from the house.
"(Y/N), I thought you were showing me around your home?" Christopher pointed out.
"I am. We're just starting at the beginning."
"What is that...hut?"
It was a small stone shed, one that would have been used to either keep guns or tools used to maintain the land, keep it tidy. Tommy had another one built closer, initially wanting to knock it down but soon forgetting about it. Now it was empty, the only things remaining being a desk and a chair. It was in front of the trees, slightly hidden by them. You would have to have a sharp eye to spot it, whether you were walking or driving by. Using my shoulder to budge it open, I stepped inside, closing the door after Christopher walked in.
"(Y/N), I'm not stupid, I know why we've come here." He said, staying close by me.
I hesitated to speak, knowing that I hadn't thought this through properly."Christopher... I wouldn't be doing this if-"
"Your husband is Thomas Shelby, this is dangerous for both of us."
"It isn't. He's allowed to go off and do what he wants, because he's Thomas fucking Shelby, and he's a man. Even if he found out about any of this, he wouldn't hurt someone if I asked him not to. He's good to me in that manner."
His hands came up to either side of my face."I'm worried about you, I've never seen you so..."
"Desperate?" I clung onto his jacket, pulling him closer.
"I couldn't believe it was you when you walked in. You're still as beautiful as you were when we were eighteen."
Although he was being a sweetheart and I hadn't received such compliments in a long time, I was inpatient. We both knew where this was headed, and it wasn't going to be as romantic or adventurous as it used to be.
Hungrily kissing me, his arms wrapped around my torso, reaching down to my arse as I pulled off his coat. Pulling away for a moment, he pushed me towards the desk, helping me scramble on top of it. My legs instantly spread as I ruffled up the bottom of my dress, using one hand to grab the back of his neck and kiss him again. I felt his hand slide up my thigh, gasping as he pulled my underwear aside. The sensation filling my body had been badly missed, and I felt myself writhing against his fingers. Leaning back against the wall, I moaned loudly, heavily breathing as I grinded my hips. He slowed down his movements, knowing how much it was frustrating me.
"Christopher..." I struggled to say."Fuck, please...don't stop."
He leaned in to my neck, sloppily missing it as he spoke in between."I loved teasing you like this."
I groaned as he removed his fingers, instantly reaching down to unbuckle his trousers. Before I could take a turn to torture him back, he pulled me off the desk, quickly turning me around and bending me over it. I yelped out in surprise, smiling at the thrill of it all. He tapped my legs apart, moving my skirts out of the way. I felt his skin on mine before he thrusted into me, making me cry out in pleasure. It didn't even matter if anyone could hear us, I hadn't fucked for God knows how long.
He was slow at first, building up the feeling that was in the pit of my stomach. I moaned out his name, reaching back to grab any piece of hm. He had a tight grip on my hips, especially as he started to quicken his pace. The noises escaping his mouth were somehow exciting me, I needed to feel and hear all of this. The pinching of skin from his hold didn't bother me, both of us shouting out each others names along with profanities before he came, but he kept going until I did too. With both of us finished and out of breath, Christopher gently collapsed over me.
"Fuck." I sighed as he pulled out.
Shakily straightening up, I made sure I was dressed correctly, kissing him gently one last time. My body couldn't believe what it had just gone through, and it already wanted more. Before we could say or do anything else, we heard the distant sound of a car, and it could only be headed this way.
"Shit." Christopher stressed, hastily getting dressed.
"It's OK! It'll be OK, Christopher!" I tried to calm him down.
"He's back already!"
"We'll head back and act like nothing happened. I was just walking around with you."
Making sure we both looked normal, we nervously made our way back to the house. My legs were still shaking as he speedily walked, but I said nothing, seeing the stress and fear plastered on his face.
"Ah, Mr Alexander, I see you have met my wife." Tommy was stood in the foyer, unnaturally smiling.
"We actually know each other. We grew up together." I explained, standing beside him.
Then it clicked.
"If you don't mind, I just need a quick word with my wife."
Christopher nodded, politely smiling at both of us before following the butler to Tommy's office. He turned to face me, casually putting his hands in his pockets.
"You invited him on purpose." I said.
"You might want to go lie down for a bit." He didn't say it maliciously, but I was still wary.
"Tommy, please don't hurt him. I initiated it, please don't-"
"I'm not going to do anything to him. He's done what I thought he would do."
"I'm confused. Why would you want him to sleep with me?"
"You said so yourself, why should it just be me doing what I want? You're Mrs fucking Shelby, you've got the power." He started to walk away, leaving me to still think about what he had done.
Still shaky but reeling from the events that unfolded, I ended up smiling."That scheming mother fucker."
#tommy shelby#tommy shelby imagine#tommy shelby imagines#tommy shelby x reader#tommy shelby one shot#thomas shelby#thomas shelby imagine#thomas shelby imagines#thomas shelby x reader#thomas shelby one shot#Peaky Blinders#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinders imagines#peaky blinders x reader#peaky blinders one shot#bbc peaky blinders#Peaky Blinders bbc
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The night Dazai left the Port Mafia
They entered the seemingly small chapel, after Chuuya had his fun with the guards outside. Pathetic, they could at least have made it a little harder for him. It was boringly easy for him to beat them up and stack them in a pile. Dazai sighed dramatically as he took the first step down the dark hardwood steps.
“Dammit. This is the worst day in years.”
He waved his hand to underline the statement. The Worst day in years, eh? Chuuya thought about this for a second. Usually, he doesn’t really keep track of his worst days; only if they were pure horror, so it was hard not to think about them. That unwillingly made him think about the worst day he had in the past couple of years.
“Yo Dazai, ever heard of Pétrus?”
He didn’t really know why he decided to bring up the topic. Maybe it was to rub it into Dazai’s face, how much he did not miss him at all.
“The flabbergastingly expensive wine.”
Dazai almost sounded bored as he answered Chuuya’s question. Probably because Chuuya always talks about wine, or at least thats what was Dazai’s impression of him. He didn’t really listen closely to the Chibi, anyway.
“The night you vanished from the organization, I opened an ’89 bottle in celebration.”
To keep up with Dazai’s pace, Chuuya jumped down a small set of stairs, and gracefully landed on one of the platforms, which was a turning point of the staircase, without making a sound.
“That’s how sick of you I was.”
Now he has said it. He didn’t ever bother telling anybody about this, since there was nobody who could have seen him that day, anyway. But for some reason, the urge to tell it directly to Dazai’s face the first time they were on a mission again, was just too big.
“I remember setting a bomb under your car that night.”
“That was your doing?!”
That actually explained a lot. Chuuya would never admit it, but this was the defining reason, why he didn’t go and look for Dazai that night, and instead drank the entire bottle of wine. He often had wondered if it was a coincidence, that his car had blown up, just as he pressed the remote button to unlock it. Dazai must have known, that he would always press it, when he was a few meters away from his car, out of an impatient habit. He didn’t even have a scratch in the end, despite his car blowing up into a million pieces.
All of that has happened on a breezy autumn day. Chuuya had woken up with a strange feeling in his guts that morning, but he didn’t give into it. He had a solo mission this day, a very welcome alteration to his usual partner-missions he had with Dazai. It would cost him fewer nerves if he was on his own. The mission was relatively simple, so it was clear from the start that there would be no scenario where he would have had to use corruption. This was reserved to difficult partner-missions with dimwit Dazai so there was at least a chance of survival for him.
When Chuuya returned from his mission however, the atmosphere in the Port Mafias headquarters had changed. Everybody seemed to be on edge, the air basically felt electric. It only fuelled his bad gut feeling, but still he didn’t give in. He probably had eaten something wrong that day.
Chuuya returned to Mori’s office to give him a first report of his successful mission and the files he had acquired. With a smug grin on his lips, he walked up to the Port Mafias leader and stretched out his hand with the files. He told the leader briefly how the mission went along and concluded it by saying: “It went even smoother than we thought. No problem at all.”
Mori took the files with a small smile and nodded. “Thank you Chuuya. You can rest now.” That was weird. Usually, he at least suggested writing down a report, just in case there would be issues concerning the mission in the future. He shrugged it off and thanked Mori as he went to the door. When Chuuya’s gloved hand touched the doorknob, he heard Mori clear his throat, so he turned around to face his boss, who was still sitting in his chair.
“Oh before I forget it... Unfortunately, Dazai left our organization today when you were away on that mission. For future missions, you will need a new partner.”
Chuuya froze in place, his hand clenching around the doorknob. His bad gut feeling instantly exploded into a rush of shock that washed over the redhead without warning. Dazai left our organization today. He repeated Mori’s words in his head a few times, until he realized that he was still standing in front of the door and had been staring at it, instead of opening it.
“Very well... Thank you for informing me. I’m glad that I don’t have to babysit this waste of bandages any more.”
Chuuya opened the door and walked out of Mori’s office, his body feeling weirdly numb all of a sudden. He didn’t understand why he was so shocked. Why wasn’t he running down the halls, cheering on top of his lungs because that bastard was gone? Instead, he had to force himself to walk down the hallway.
Dazai left our organization today.
Dazai left our organization today.
Dazai left our organization today.
Mori’s words repeated on the inside of his skull, over and over again. They seemed to burn themselves into his body, he just couldn’t stop thinking about this. He had to find Dazai. Convince him to come back. This was clearly a mistake. One of his sick jokes that he liked to pull. He can’t be gone. Not like this. Not without saying a damn word to his partner. But on the other hand... why would he have said anything? They hated each other, right?
Without thinking too much about his actions, Chuuya went to the parking spots on the back of the building. Down the stairs, not making eye contact with anybody on the way. They all better minded their own businesses. With an unnecessary amount of force, Chuuya kicked the backdoor open - or more like kicked the door out of its angles. At this point, he saw red. If he found that damn boy, he would beat him up until he came to his senses. It just wasn’t fair to leave him - no, to leave the Port Mafia - like this!
Chuuya pressed the small emblem button on the keys of his BMW to unlock it, still walking forward in the direction his car was parked. Not even a second later, the world went silent. It forced Chuuya to stop dead in his tracks for the second time in the span of not even an hour. He watched in a strange state of awe and shock how his red BMW exploded in front of his eyes. Instinctively, he started manipulating his own gravity, so nothing would hit him, but that was almost unnecessary. Almost like the person who had placed the bomb knew he would stand far enough away to leave the scene without a scratch. Even though this really sounded like a Dazai kind of thing, he couldn’t quite believe it.
And that was the exact moment, when Chuuya gave in to all the feelings that had built up inside him that day. He dropped to his knees, his own gravity manipulated, so he was ten times heavier than usual, and started to scream on top of his lungs. It felt good to scream. It felt good to destroy. It felt good to have the rage pump through his veins like hot poison, fuelling his frustration even more.
He didn’t know how long he had sat there on his knees, screaming out the frustration and anger that had built up in his body all day, but eventually his throat became sore and not a single sound escaped through his lips any more. This idiot. This fucking idiot. He always knew how to tease Chuuya until he basically exploded with rage, just as his car did right in front of his eyes. Dazai was probably hiding somewhere around, right? Laughing about his success. Breaking the charade. Laughing at Chuuya because he actually believed that Dazai had left the Port Mafia. That Dazai had left him. But Chuuya didn’t hear laughter. He didn’t see a mop of brown hair or a lanky idiot wrapped in bandages. A burning car and a destroyed parking lot, that’s all there was.
Chuuya got up and wiped some dirt off his pants. He took a quick look around in the parking lot, hoping that nobody had seen his silly outburst. And then he started to laugh. Laughed about himself. About how stupid he was. He was finally free, wasn’t he? So why not enjoy the newfound peace? Without noticing it, he had started to cry. Hot drops of salty tears had started trailing down his cheeks. Probably due to the thick smoke that came off the car wreck. A little annoyed, he wiped the tears off his face and went back inside, silently still cursing Dazai as he went to his room.
When he entered the room, Chuuya slammed the door shut behind him with a loud bang. He stripped out of his coat and vest, which smelled like smoke, and carelessly threw both to the ground, shoes and hat following them only seconds later. Chuuya went to the small cabinet that had his most prized possessions in it - a lot of very old wine bottles. With a quick look around the cabinet, he found what he was looking for. The slightly dusty bottle of ‘89 Pétrus looked like just what he wanted to celebrate with. He grabbed the bottle and opened it by manipulating the cork’s gravity a bit. That was one of the most useful things, his ability allowed him to do.
He grabbed one of his lead crystal wine glasses and poured some wine into it, after he sat down in the leather chair next to the window, that was facing the port. The first sip of the expensive wine felt like the first breath after you had your head underwater for a while. It filled up Chuuya’s senses. The slightly sweet smell in his nose, accompanied by a sweet and sour taste in his mouth and the alcohol quickly spreading throughout his body, numbing some of the tension that had built up inside. He would never admit it, but Chuuya was actually a bit of a lightweight, so the effect of the alcohol kicked in pretty quickly. But it wasn’t enough to make him forget why he started celebrating.
Drinking actually had a reverse effect on him: He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Just why would he leave without a word? Chuuya just couldn’t understand it. He had to understand it. Even if they were bickering all the time, deep down he still cared about the suicidal maniac that was - no, used to be - his partner.
One glass of wine followed another, unitl the bottle was empty way too quickly for Chuuyas liking. He had drank it all on his own and ended up laying on the floor, staring holes in the ceiling. His thoughts eventually got slowed down by the alcohol that intoxicated his body. He cursed Dazai’s name so often in those lonely hours in his room, slightly hoping that would be enough to summon that damn demon. But Dazai didn’t come. So he fell asleep like this, cursing Dazais name, curled up into on the floor.
The demon whose name was cursed by a small redhead miles away meanwhile sat in his favourite bar. Alone and unbothered by anything. He had done what Odasaku had told him: Dazai had left the mafia. Why was he feeling so shitty then? It already felt like he was missing something, even though it hadn’t been more than a few hours since he had walked off the Port Mafias grounds. Before leaving, he had left a bomb in Chuuya’s car, just in case. He knew that his ex-partner was impulsive and would try to chase him down and therefore making himself a traitor, too. But he also knew how important the Port Mafia was to Chuuya, so he just took this as an extra measure to save Chuuya from himself. It was just fair. His goodbye present. Dazai raised his glass to an invisible audience and then drank to his newfound freedom.
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AN: I looked everywhere but couldn’t find any clue about what Chuuya’s car might have looked like. Since he’s probably an aggressive driver, I had to decide between Audi and BMW but went with a BMW (a bit biased on this one :D). His red bike set the colour choice. If you happen to know what his car really looked like, please let me know, and I will change it!
Ao3-Link:
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Cookbook
Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit
Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame
Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.
TW: cigarettes, smoking
Read on AO3
Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here
----------------
Bucky smokes on the way home from work.
Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.
In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.
Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.
The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.
He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.
He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.
He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.
He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.
Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.
He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.
And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.
It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.
It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.
That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.
He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.
That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.
He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.
Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.
He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.
In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.
At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.
“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”
How many times has she said that today?
He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.
“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.
The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.
The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.
Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949
The B. Manischewitz Co.
Printed in the U.S.A.
1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.
“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.
“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”
Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”
The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.
He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.
“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.
Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.
The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.
He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”
She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.
He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.
“No pressure.”
She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.
He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.
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Love and Marriage - Chapter 10 (Mature, Minors DNI)
Description:
After a loss in the family uncovers a family secret, Jaleia and her husband Jesse are forced to balance one family crisis after another along with their budding careers and their plans to expand their family. Will the pressure to keep everyone else together ruin their own relationship? Can ruined relationships be fixed before it’s too late?
Chapter 10:
Jesse's POV
I opened the door to our hotel room. I slept on the plane and I was still tired.
"Ooooooh." Diana said walking into the room behind me. We had a two room suite. I turned to Diana.
"Pick whatever room you want, shake out the blankets, and sleep. We got a busy day tomorrow. Or today." I rubbed my face. Diana slept on the plane and now was wide awake, touching everything in the room.
"Di, go to bed, I'm tired."
"Sorry, I'm just so excited. I can't even sleep! We haven't been here in so long. Thanks for bringing me. Oooh, let me take pictures by the window." She ran to the window.
"I'm going to bed, don't do anything crazy. Night." I said.
"Kay, night Jess!" She said
I found the bigger room and collapsed on the bed.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"I miss you already, babe! I couldn't sleep." Jaleia said. I was face timing her before me and Diana left for the day. It was 5AM her time but 8AM in Cali.
"I miss you too, love. I haven't had to go away in a while. "
"I know. I hated it when you lived in L.A."
"Yeah, you kept telling me."
"So what's the schedule like?"
"Today me and Di are hanging out. This week and next I'm working with the new artists. The week after next is when I work with some famous people."
"Sounds fun. I'm going back to sleep. Love you."
"Alright baby, don't over sleep. Love you."
I hung up. I grabbed my wallet and keys and walked out the room. Our suite was nice, it had two rooms, a common area, a bathroom and a small kitchen area. It looked expensive as hell so I was glad that the studio was paying for it. I make decent money but sure as hell not enough to stay here for three weeks. Maybe not even 3 days.
I walked to Di's room and knocked on her door. After the "incident" we've all been more aware of knocking first.
"Di are you done? We gotta go!" I yelled through the door.
"Almost! I just gotta find the right shoes!"
"Well hurry up! We gotta pick up the rental car." I said. Because we were going to be here for a few weeks I got a rental to make it easier to get around. Having lived her before I knew the traffic was going to be shit.
>>>>>>>>>>>>
Diana had not stopped talking since we left the hotel. It was making my head spin. We had just picked up the rental, and now we were now on our way to see the Hollywood Star Walk of Fame. Diana had been bugging me to take her. And as I predicted we were stuck in traffic.
"And hopefully we have time to go to Universal or Disneyland or world or whatever the one on cali is called. I can't wait to take selfies. What do you-"
"Di."
"I cannot wait so see L.A, like really see it.-"
"Diana."
"I'm just so Excited!!"
"DIANA!"
"What?"
"Just a second of silence, please." I said.
"Sorry." She said.
"Don't be, my head is killing me." I said which wasn't exactly a lie but I felt bad for killing her joy.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
We got back to the hotel at midnight. Diana made me feel old. She dragged me everywhere on the Hollywood Stars to find her favorite stars. My feet and back hurt. I was done.
My phone rang and I groaned. I had spread out on the couch in the room while Di took a shower. I looked at the screen. Jaleia was face timing me. I answered.
"Hey Jess!" Jaleia said. She looked like she was in our bed.
"Hey bae." I said, trying to keep my eyes open.
"Awww, you look tired, how was your day? Diana drag you around?"
"Hell yeah! We went to the Hollywood Walk of fame. When I tell you I'm tired. I'm done! It was fun but damn."
"Aww, you're a good older bro. You look so tired. It's adorable."
"Woman, I am not adorable. I'm a man. I'm not adorable. "
"Yes you are! So cute when you're tired. I'll let you get some rest, make sure you call me. I love you."
"I promise I'll talk more tomorrow. I love you, bae. Bye."
"Bye."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The first few days in the studio were great. They knew what they wanted, what sound they were going for and they were already talented in music. There were three artists this week, Alana who was looking for a pop sound, Smoke R&B, Jazmyne soul. We worked on about three tracks in for each of them. When I'm in L.A it's a much bigger song writing and producing team. I got my man Dre, best friend since NYU, who produces, JD, Dre, Mandy all produce, and Mark, Green, and J.T and I all write. We do melodies and help produce as well but mostly we do the lyrics. I produce as well but my strength is in the lyrics. It's a lot of noise in the studio with more six people and usually it's hard to work like that but we've been doing it together for years and we're able to cut through all the nice to get the sound it words we need. We usually work in teams to produce an album.
Diana had been having a good time from what I could see hanging around the studio and watching us work. Anytime I could fit in I took her to different places around L.A, mostly places to eat because that's all we had time for. She couldn't get over the fact I used to live here before I got married. It was so hard to move but I had to, Jay couldn't since she was in her residency. But someday we're moving back. I had Diana on lunch duty, so she could get out from the studio for a moment. She picked up our lunch when it was within walking distance. She didn't mind because she once ran into Luke James and hasn't stopped talking about it since. So she volunteers to get lunch now.
On Wednesday, everyone decided to go out for lunch. I let Diana go with them since Dre was going and I knew he would look out after her like I would. He's known her since she was seven. I stayed behind to finish a track we were working. It was just me in the studio and I was so into working I didn't hear someone enter.
"Jess! How are you?" Imani Redd walked into the room. She was wearing a bra and those shorts girls wear where their whole ass is out. She hadn't changed much since I had last seen her in person except her hair was now blonde. She still looked good. I got up from my chair.
"Hey Imani." I said.
She laughed and said "You don't have to be so formal. We good. You looking hella nice. You didn't dress like that when we were together." She gave me a tight hug.
"What's up?" I said sitting down again.
"I heard I would be working with you and just wanted to swing by and say hello. I know we didn't leave on the best terms-"
"Fucking understatement of century there." I said, crossing my arms.
"But I wanted to make sure we were cool and that you knew how very sorry I am for doing that to you. You didn't deserve that. I loved you, I really did. I hate that I screwed it up, especially for a guy that wasn't even worth it. Are we good?" She said walking toward my chair. She bent down in front of my chair, putting her hands on the armrests of the chair. I leaned back to get her breasts out my face.
"Cause if we're not, I'm sure I can make it up to you." She whispered in my ear. I started to sweat.
"Um, we're good, what's in the past is in the past, there's no need to bring ANY of it back up. I'm actually glad what happened, happened, I wouldn't have met my WIFE if it hadn't." I said, rolling my chair back. She turned around and like I figured, almost her entire ass was out. As she bent down in front of me to pick some imaginary object off the floor, I stared at the ceiling.
"That's too bad," she said, now standing over my legs, putting her hand on my shoulder. "Cause I love to make a man happy and I've only gotten better. Congrats on getting married, Jess. I'll see you later. And please let me know if you need anything." She slid her hand down my chest slightly brushing my crotch. Her hips swayed as she walked out the room. I let out the breath I was holding in. I wasn't scheduled to work with her until the last week I was here but I could already tell she was going to be a problem.
>>>>>>>>
It was past 2AM in the morning as we sat and talked in the studio. Diana had passed out on the couch. All the artists had gone home and it was just Dre, Green, J.D and me left still trying to finish some tracks. Admittedly we stopped working a while ago.
"So you used to bag Imani?" Green said. Green was a 35 year old white guy who slept with any girl who would sleep with him. He's been divorced five times, all for the same reason - infidelity. He was a terrible partner but a great somgwriter.
"I used to date her, yes."
"How was she?" Green asked. Green was also a pothead, and had a few edibles earlier. He was still as vile sober as he was high. I wouldn't let him eat them anywhere near the studio, since I had Diana with me. Usually I didn't care but she was staring to get better and she wasn't going to pick up bad habit now.
"You know I don't talk about women like that. Especially since I'm married. " I said.
"Hmm. Yeah you let your wife whip you. But I would love to get that Imani in the sack. She got it all."
"I'm not whipped." They all gave me a look.
"Y'all think I'm whipped? Trippin."
"Nah, man I hate to say it, but she got you wrapped around her finger. Ain't nothing wrong, that's your girl. But hell yeah you whipped." Dre said.
"I'm not fucking whipped."
"I bet you had to beg her to come here. Especially once she found out about Imani. " J.D said.
"We talked about it but I ain't got to beg for shit!"
"Yeah, okay man." J.D said.
"I'm not whipped!"
"What happened between you and Imani anyway?" J.D asked.
"She did him dirty as hell. Played his ass." Dre said.
"We were engaged and she was cheating on me for months. I only found out because I walked in on her with another guy."
"Damn. She really had you going."
"He really acting like she wasn't shady before that though." Dre said.
"How was I supposed to know?"
"This nigga really gon ask that? She used to "go away" for the weekend and have "late night recording sessions" and never could show him a demo. You know that this nigga right here wrote like seven songs for her? Almost her whole first damn album. She played the hell out of you. I even told your stupid ass that she was doing you wrong. And you ain't want to hear it." Dre said.
"I was young and in love." I said. When he put it like that I did sound stupid for not knowing she was using me.
"More like young and dumb as hell!" J.D said. They all laughed.
"And you had the nerve to be all depressed afterwards, acting like you ain't know she was no good. I got sick of your Mopey ass. I guess the sex was that good. But I got to say you married well." Dre said.
"I did, didn't I? Well it's not like you had it together either. Remember that girl who tried to claim that you were her deadbeat baby daddy?" I said.
"Oooooohhhhh. She was a fucking nightmare. Almost ruined my relationship." Dre said. J.D's jaw dropped. We had met J.D after we got out of college.
"Followed him around campus everywhere. Dressed the kid just like him. You've dated some crazy ones, don't play me like that!" I said.
"Look, I would cheat on my girlfriend just to hit that ass. Imani got that ass." Green said.
"We know." We all said at once.
"I would never cheat. My girl would kill me if she ever found out." J.D said.
"I never want to lose my wife again. Not again. " Dre said.
"You cheated on Eva?"
"Before we got married, we were engaged. Wasn't worth it, it was the worst mistake I ever made. I would never do that again. And Jess is too whipped to even think about cheating. " Dre said.
"Fuck you... But you right about that." I said as they laughed.
"I know what it's like to be cheated on, so I would never do that her." I said.
"But you got to admit that Imani is fine. You would hit that again if you were single. "
"I'm happily married."
"He didn't say no."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"So what are you trying to say with the hook because it's really confusing. Is the relationship worth saying or not?" I said to Jazmyne. We were finishing up one of her songs and the chorus just didn't flow right.
"What I'm trying to say is I don't know what I want from the relationship. I guess I could make that more clear."
"Yeah, I really want that point driven home in the chorus. You're stuck between two feelings and you just want something worth fighting for."
"Oh my God, that's it!"
"Let's try it." I picked up my guitar and started to strum the melody.
Baby I'm stuck in the middle,
Of this one single issue
Don't know what I'm saying
And you seem to think I'm playing
Not sure if I don't want your love
Cause it feels like it's from above
I'm sick of being ignored
I just want a love worth fighting for
I just want a love worth fighting for
Jazmyne sang.
"I love that! I like the switched melody, and I love that new line. You are a freaking genius!"
"Nah, you did all the work. You ready to lay the vocals down for real?" I said.
"Yes!" She went into the recording booth, a couple of takes on the chorus and she was done.
"How does it feel to have all of the tracks to your first album ?"
"I'm so freaking excited! This shit was lit. So what happens next?"
"You're going to pick your favorites, and the ones you don't want on the album. You'll play it for some executives on the label and they'll give you feedback, you skim the tracklist and songs down more, hopefully get it approved. And then work on the cover art. They'll give you a date and some promo, and your album will be released. There's a bunch of other bull in between that but that's really it."
"I'm so excited. Wow that's a lot. But I'm so happy with everything, thanks for your help. Can I listen to them all?"
"Sure, they'll be unfinished of course."
"Yeah, it's fine. Thanks." I handed her some headphones.
Alana was almost done with her album. Jazmyne was done with hers. Smoke however, had a lot more to be done.
Usually writing an album takes several months and it did for them. We were just here to polish the songs they had, write any ones they were missing, and really curate the style they were trying to have and finish the demo album.
It was my second week in L.A and it had been great so far. Last weekend I took Diana to Disneyland and we had a great time. She was such a good sport about being cooped up in a studio for so long I really wanted to do something special. It was Friday night and it was going to be another night spent at the studio.
My phone started vibrating on the control panel. I put down my guitar and looked at screen. Jaleia's face lit up. I answered, propped my phone up nearby and started to strum my guitar lightly.
"Hey Jess!"
"Hey Love, what's up?"
"I miss you. I'm sorry I keep saying it and calling you and-"
"I never get tired of you. Call me anytime."
"How's Di?"
"She's having fun, I'm sure she'll tell you allllllllll about it when we get home."
"I feel kinda stupid."
"Why?"
"I cried cause I missed you so much. The house is a mess, I've been late so much lately. I can't wait for you to come back."
"Aww, I'm sorry baby. It's only one more week. I miss you too."
"I know."
"Did you see all the organization tips I left you? I know it's hard for you to adjust your schedule suddenly. "
"One of the worst parts of ADHD I guess. Your wife's a mess. What's new?"
"Jay, you're not a mess, don't talk like that. What you up to tonight? You look cute." She had a low cut silky night shirt on.
"Um, I am having a sleepover with the girls. I finally convinced everyone. A quiet girls night. Movies, wine, snacks and shit. Should be fun. I'm really lonely, please come home soon."
"I'll be home real soon, alright."
"Oh and Jess? I found your present. And it's beautiful. I'm wearing it now. I always wanted a tennis bracelet! Now I get to brag about how great you are. When you get home, you will get the biggest thank you ever. Whatever you want. Trust me."
"I knew you'd like it. And I'm looking forward to that thank you."
"I have a little sneak peak of something I bought for you." She said and pulled her shorts down a little so I could see the top of her lace panties.
"You like these?" She said pulling her shorts back up.
"Hell yeah, you look sexy. I'm still on the studio Jay, so I gotta call you back. I love you, Jay?"
"Yeah?"
"I really miss you too. You're amazing and I love you! Have fun tonight."
"Love you too Jess! I'll talk to you later!"
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Axiomatic
ax·i·om·at·ic (adj.)
Self-evident; unquestionable.
The best part of battle is the afterparty.
(Or: Remember that banquet Luffy promised? This is it.)
Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Partying
Set in Wano. Spoilers for all of Wano. Read Chapter 2 here.
***
“What do you think?”
Lipstick glides over thin lips, the wax malleable and smooth as it leaves a coat of rusty red in its wake. Killer makes sure it’s perfectly even before he glances elsewhere. In the mirror, Kidd’s face is all scowled impatience.
One last run-down �� eyeliner, mascara, lipstick: done, done and done – then Killer grabs the mask waiting for him. “Alright, let me see.”
Their eyes meet and Killer sighs. Metal over skin-and-bone, Kidd’s arms are crossed; his shaved brows push together further. As if Killer doesn’t indulge his every whim by the regular.
“I’m looking. Show me again.”
Kidd grumbles, “Watch.” He opens his arms, reveals an unbuttoned shirt tucked into his favorite patterned pants, glinting gold over black under a double-belted cinch at the waist. So far, so very Kidd.
No, the point of discussion is the frankly massive coat slung across his neck: Nice soft-looking suede on the outside and glossy-grey fur on the inside, it hugs Kidd’s shoulders in all the right places to then cascade down his back in a display of near-ridiculous opulence.
Extravagant, over-the-top, flashy. It’s hard to tell which type of animal had to die for this. There must be a lot less of ‘em now, with this monstrosity in the world.
Kidd is swiveling it back and forth with critical glances to the mirror, the coat wooshing with the motions. Killer takes in the fluid glide of fur over Kidd’s exposed chest, the contrast of impeccable couture against jagged scars. Loses himself for a moment or two imagining how it would feel like to run his hands over both.
An appreciative hum. In Killer’s educated opinion, Kidd looks damn near sinful.
“Yeah?”, Kidd asks and Killer nods. “Yeah. Heh, told ya the detour’s worth it.”
Perhaps it was, although sifting through Onigashima’s treasury whilst bleeding all over heaps of shiny expensive everything might’ve been a case of skewed priorities. There’s no need to talk about what-could-have-beens, though – they’re here, they’re rich and they’re long overdue at Strawhat’s banquet.
Killer’s practically done, tight jeans under a shirt that’s done up to the third button and left to flare open otherwise. It’s not his old favorite (that one stopped fitting him a good year ago) but similar enough, patterned in geometric black-and-white shapes. Definitely one of his fancier ones, not that anyone will care one way or the other where they’re going.
It’s… been a while since it’s been anyone other than them and their crew. Pirates are pirates, allied or no; Killer eyes the scythes neatly stored next to the bed.
Kidd is touching up his lips one last time, the same shade as Killer’s. “Bring ‘em. That Roronoa guy keeps throwing you weird looks and I’m not allowed to kill him.”
Yet goes implied. Killer isn’t wearing his mask and so he doesn’t roll his eyes. “He’s got every reason to”, he reminds his captain, focusing on the heavy clasps of his weapons to keep the memories at bay. The red mark on his chest stings, stuck in the limbo between a healing wound and a fresh scar for a few days still.
A testament to his failure that Killer won’t hide. If Zoro hadn’t stopped him that day his hands would be stained with blood that cannot be washed off, not entirely.
Kidd’s eyes are on him, dark. “I don’t care.”
Resentful as always. Killer reaches for him, digs his fingers into the fluffy lining of that coat and oh, the fur is as soft as it looks. “I do, though.” A firm tug, one Kidd follows until Killer can kiss him, careful not to smudge anything.
“No killing of allies today, ‘kay? We just came back from a war. The crew’s tired. I’m tired.”
“Mh” is all Kidd has to say to that, a grumpy huff against Killer’s lips more than anything. Kidd does give him a proper kiss, however, and Killer knows he won this one.
All he can ask of Kidd is to try, anyways – with two equally hot-headed captains and a whole host of morons around to rile him up, there’s bound to be blood eventually. The trick is to make sure everyone’s drunk enough not to take it too personally.
A pinch to his ass tells Killer he was caught scheming. Kidd smirks, tells him, “We’re getting wasted tonight”, all triumphant like it’s the best idea he’s had all week, and Killer doesn’t miss the emphasis on we.
“Two Emperors down! Strawhat better bring the good stuff tonight or this alliance is over.”
Killer groans, “Kidd”, but he’s smiling, too. Before he can be called out on it, Killer shoves his mask into Kidd’s hands, metal clanking against metal. “Make yourself useful. We’re late.”
Kidd’s laugh is more of a cackle than anything else – “Yes, darling”, said in that sarcastic lilt Killer knows all too well – yet Kidd complies. His hands, organic or otherwise, handle the mask they’ve built with care and precision. Soon, Killer’s vision is narrowed down to dots, the audio filter of his helmet kicking in soon after.
Killer rolls his neck and hums, satisfied. “Ready?”
Kidd throws a final look at himself in the mirror, grinning into the collar of his new coat.
“Hell yeah. Let’s go.”
*
The banquet is a sprawling, messy affair that swallows the entirety of the ramshackle village the Strawhats picked as their home in Wano Country.
From the moment the Kidd Pirates get there they are surrounded. Wherever Killer's eyes roam there are knots of people drinking, eating, laughing and crying, sometimes simultaneously – there, at the heart of it all where the crowd is thickest, burns the largest bonfire Killer has seen in a while, perhaps ever. Smiling faces all around and for once, it doesn’t make Killer’s stomach drop because they’re genuine.
Survivors of SMILE just like him, caught in the rush of real emotions for the first time in who knows how long. Killer has a pretty good idea how that feels like.
Next to him, Kidd is so tense he’s stalking, gaze intense, oozing Haki to keep people away; Wire’s hand is clenched to bloodlessness around his trident while Heat exhales a bit of smoke with every breath and yeah, Killer gets it. Can’t help it himself, either, scythes kept close to his sides to make sure they’re there.
The thing is: They don’t do these kinds of things. Parties, yes, many and often but not like this. Killer can count on one hand the amounts of times the population of any island was actually happy to see them, much less willing to send them off with one big feast.
Actually, he wouldn’t need to count at all because it’s simply never happened. Even filtered by his mask it’s… a lot to take in at once.
The entire damn country is here, it seems, all breathing a collective sigh of relief so monumental the air itself carries their joy. For all that the Kidd Pirates were in this for revenge and glory, Killer can’t deny it’s rewarding to see a nation so ravaged by an Emperor’s greed do whatever they want for the first time in decades.
Finally, a few familiar faces start popping up. Some of the samurai greet them with nods of their heads, overly formal like the people from Wano tend to be; here and there they spot the distinctly branded yukata the members of Trafalgar’s crew are wearing and, rarer but all the more noticeable, those animal people Strawhat dragged along from somewhere.
Minks? Or something? Killer is inclined to say it doesn’t matter if they didn’t have the habit to jump on them out of fucking nowhere. Looking for bone-crushing hugs and wet-nosed kisses, of all things, and– Oh no, he did not sign up for this.
Much less for whatever that group of cat minks are gearing up to, staring at the holes in his mask with eyes nearly swallowed by black, round pupils. Killer is absolutely, solidly convinced he doesn’t even want to know what that’s all about.
“Captain.”
And yeah, his tone is a little more alarmed than he truly means it to be. It gets Kidd’s attention, though – himself having fought off a dog mink enamored with his metal arm not too long ago – and he barks a laugh even when he ramps up his presence to an almost stifling degree.
“C’mon, I feel Strawhat up ahead.”
To nobody’s surprise, they find him smack dab in the middle of everything. Strawhat and his crew are lounging around the bonfire, there’s no other way to describe it: All broad smiles and flushed faces amidst the chaos, completely in their element, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the closeness to the bonfire or the vaguely impressive amounts of empty bottles lying around already. They’re certainly boisterous enough for it to be the latter, even Jinbei.
And no, Killer hasn’t quite processed that turn of events yet. The strangeness of seeing someone of that caliber wheeze into his mug with laughter as his (new?) captain takes a disturbingly big bite out of an even bigger chunk of meat is… not helping things, in that regard.
What a bunch of weirdos. In the safety of his mask, Killer allows himself a small smile.
From here the flames seem to reach for the sky, tinged in warm pinks and oranges by the sinking sun and there, very faintly, Killer can make out the first stars. He can’t remember ever seeing them, not with the factories running over night as well.
“Spikey!!”
Ah. Killer’s head turns with Kidd’s and it’s a good thing, too, because there’s a stretched arm coming for his captain – Kidd bites out, “Nope, no, Strawhat”, red eyes going wide – and Killer manages to side-step it in the last possible second. One, twice it wraps around Kidd, fancy coat and all, and then the rubber recoils.
“Killer!”
Oh my, Killer thinks mildly as he watches him go. Behind him, half their crew is flabbergasted and the other half is in stitches. “Captain’s gonna be in such a mood”, Heat says to Wire, and it just sends them into another fit of chuckles.
For Killer, finding a drink becomes his top priority. So much for keeping things peaceful.
>>Chapter 2.
#one piece#eustass kid#killer one piece#kidkiller#fanfiction#one piece fanfiction#this is a setup for smut in chapter 2 ngl#(i just got carried away as per usual)#this fic is also on AO3!!#my stuff#one piece spoilers
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Warhammer 40k: Wrath &Glory RP #29
The party gathers together themselves, aliens and Ferrus for a little party in the conference room. Alien booze is involved. There’s a game of Truth or Dare (mostly Truth tbh) that gets called. Larry and Alice do a little arm wrestling, which Larry totally cheats in, and Alice says that she let him win. Coco asks Tirak what’s her favorite thing about La’awali is, and Tirak says it’s how her mind works, how she always thinks about things more deeply. Tirak dares La’awali to give her a kiss. La’awali asks Larry whether he finds Tau attractive, and Larry says that sure, they’re not bad looking. Larry asks Ferrus why he doesn’t sleep with his employers, and Ferrus tells that he used to sleep with a Captain, who, when Ferrus told him he could drop off some of his crewpeople on a war-torn planet, the Captain, apparently offended for being challenged, stranded Ferrus on the planet as well for several months. La’awali does a little dance and Coco admits to being afraid of flying beavers.
We learn that Alice has once pulled a truck off from top of a sewer grate and Alice is the only one who manages to learn a Kroot swearword. Ferrus asks what Izarak’s first time was like, and Izarak admits to maybe having some relations at the Ministrum school. Izarak asks Alice, what she would like to keep hidden from someone. Alice says she wouldn’t have liked her mom to know that she worked in the pits, but apparently her mom died young. Alice asks Ferrus what’s up with his name, and Ferrus tells that all his siblings are named after primarchs in some strange ploy to gain the family some luck (he has a sister named Leman, it’s not great). Larry tells about the worst instructor he had, a flight teacher who liked to humiliate his students.
Coco tells the tale of how she and Ace met; her family had found some eldar artifacts and invited an Inquisitor to look them over, Ace was the Inquisitor’s acolyte and that’s how Coco and Ace first came to know each other, but they started dating only after Ace had been made an Inquisitor. Coco asks Izarak what his favorite part of his job is and he says helping people. La’awali shows a hidden talent for handstands. La’awali inquires about what exactly Inquisitors do, and Coco doesn’t exactly answer the question, saying she doesn’t involve herself with Ace’s business much, but as far as she know, he studies eldar culture and artifacts. Larry tells Coco how he got to Dimmamar with Iris. Ferrus tells a bit what the Captain he used to sleep with was like (some rich kid, kind of handsome, okay in bed).
Ferrus wants to know what Tirak thinks of humans and she says that they’re oddly soft and squishy with no claws and blunt teeth, which she takes to mean that they must have been peaceful at one time, but she’s sure she could crack their skulls open very easily, except maybe Alice. Tirak asks Larry what the biggest human crime is, and Larry answers that it’s heresy (ie believing in wrong stuff). Larry asks Izarak if he has any kids, Izarak says no. Alice recounts walking in on a friend working (as a lady of the night) as the most embarrassing thing ever happened to her. Alice asks Ferrus who in this room he’d fuck. Well, he’s gay and both of the men in the room are employing him in some form, so... Larry’s apparently more his type. Ferrus asks Larry to name a person in his life that he misses the most, and when Larry is unable to name a single person, Ferrus asks whether this is the sort of game where stripping is punishment. Larry answers by taking off his shirt. He also calls out for Izarak to take off his robe (implication being he has lied on a question).
Tirak tells that she might want to be a painter if she wasn’t an engineer/soldier. Coco says that she and Ace might have kids one day, and humans do not lay eggs. Ferrus isn’t quite sure what he’d do if he weren’t a Navigator, which is what Coco asks, as he has literally no experience or knowledge with anything else. Maybe something like piloting? Settling down onto a planet is out of the question. Ferrus asks Alice what she is looking for in a woman, since that’s what they had been talking about. Alice says she would like someone smaller than her, someone quite homely and kind, someone to have a quiet life with. Alice questions Coco about who she was looking for in Asphodel, and whether she was doing it at the behest of Inquisition, as Alice had heard some rumors about that. Coco tells that she was looking for Ranan, and that the Inquisition had nothing to do with it, purely personal. La’awali says she’d like to take a holiday on a Tau planet renowned for its art. La’awali asks Larry for the meaning of his name and Larry lets her know he’s actually named Laurel, presumably after the wreath, though he isn’t sure if there’s more meaning to it than that. Alice tells Larry that she joined the gang by Julo seeing her fight in the pits. She could have become his second-hand woman immediately, but she opted to work for it instead. That’s enough of truth-or-dareing for the night. But the party is far from over.
At some point during the evening(?) Larry takes Alice aside. Alice asks how Larry is finding the party. Larry says it’s good to get to relax a bit after the ordeal they’ve been through. Larry asks about Alice’s lung and says it might be good to get a doctor to look it, at the same time as they get a doctor to take the spores off. Alice says that’s probably good, but she’ll have to save a lot of money to get it replaced. There’s a bit of confusion whether Alice actually works for Larry or not, but anyway Larry hasn’t paid her. There’s many people Larry hasn’t paid, but he’s getting in a better spot with his money, hustling, picking up stray rings here and there. You know, that sort of stuff. Anyway, he asked her to join him, because there’s something he wants to tell her, namely that he actually was educated to be a pilot, by the Imperial army and used to be a pilot for the army, a genuine navy boy. Alice takes this well, or as she says “there was a saying in the gang that all soldiers are bastards, but we’re okay with hanging around with Inquisitor’s girlfriend so I guess it’s okay” and “you might have been a bastard but you haven’t stayed a bastard”. Larry lets Alice know that the navy thinks him dead, so that might become a problem at some point. Alice lets Larry know that he can ask her for help if he needs it at any point.
Rest of the party goes pretty well. Coco gets quite talkative and friendly when drunk, but she is among the first to retire. Larry makes sure to act nice and friendly with Izarak, apparently feeling bad for calling him out. Izarak seems… not too pissed (?).
In the morning Alice talks with Michael, wanting to know about how his acid spit affects his kissing abilities. Michael lets her know he can turn it off, so if he were to kiss someone (which he is not in the habit of doing) the receiver of the kiss would not get hurt. Alice is fascinated by this answer, as she is apparently really interested in Space Marine biology. And other biology too, as she mentions talking with Ferrus about Navigator eye makeup. Michael, somewhat confused, says he doesn’t wear makeup. Alice looks at him like he’s a bit of a dummy. Michael makes the point that he’s mostly just like humans, except bigger (somehow also him not sleeping with people gets brought up). Alice bravely resists asking about Michael’s dick size.
They eventually get to Mpandex. The Forge World is covered in a thick layer of smoke as is very common with the Mechanicus owned planets. They descend through the layer of smoke and find a factory the size of a continent and a sea. They locate an archipelago with movement and a light house. They agree that La’awali should hang around the empty islands of the archipelago, while the party drops off into the sea near the islands. They drift ashore and pretend to be unconscious, except for Alice who starts dragging people away from the water.
Pretty soon some servitors approach and grab them. They are taken inside the lighthouse, where someone begins to examine them. Alice “wakes up” at some point and comes face to face with a tech-priest, who appears to be wearing a swim-suit. He’s mostly human looking, except he lacks hair and eyebrows and appears to have cut off his own eyelids. His name is Chaerilus.
Alice claims to Chaerilus that she doesn’t remember anything, and when he gets a bit suspicious Larry miraculously wakes up and confirms her lie by also not remembering anything. Larry complains pains, saying he has some kind of tumors. Chaerilus also notes that Alice’s lung should be checked out, but she says she can manage, so Larry gets taken in first. Chaerilus asks if Larry would like to stop feeling pain, seeing that he is planning on opening his stomach up. Larry agrees and Chaerilus does something to his brain, so Larry is awake during the operation. Next he takes Alice in and does the same thing. He lets her know that she should look into getting a lung replacement through whichever faction she works for, when/if she remembers it. She asks how expensive they are, he says very.
Once Chaerilus has returned Alice everyone is a bit awake. All claim memory loss. Larry says he remembers the name Ross, but nothing else. None of the others remember anything before falling into the water. Chaerilus provides them with some Mpandex swimsuits to wear, and says that tomorrow he’ll take them to the mainland so that they can be put to use. After some prodding it turns out that Chaerilus tests how clothing fares against elements / weaponry. Mpandex is the biggest under-armor / swim garment manufacturer in the whole segmentum. The party says they’re getting tired, so Chaerilus says he’ll let them sleep and he himself grabs his wide-brimmed hat and heads out to fish.
#nemo roleplays#long post#wag rp writeup#wag rp s2#campaign tag: mom always said you'd end up a circus performer#new campaign tag time :o
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King Falls AM Fic Recs
I finished listening to Kfam about a week ago and immediately started binge-reading fics (and re-listening to the entire series). So rather than clogging up my weekly fic round-up, I thought I’d make this into its own list. I’ve still got plenty of fics left to read, but here’s a list of the ones I’ve really, really enjoyed so far.
(Contains spoilers!)
You Don't Tip Over by helloearthlings (Note: this author is going to keep popping up in this list - their fics are just so good)
“I mean, I’m just an intern,” Ben says quickly. “I’m not – I’m not complaining or anything. It’s just – I came to LA just for this internship, and I’ve never lived away from home before. So on top of all the shit I get here, I’m in this awful sublet with five roommates who act like smoking pot is a personality and there’s never a moment’s quiet, and it’s so expensive anyway. I just really miss my mom, this is the first time I’ve lived more than a few miles from her, and the town I’m from is just so special to me and I’ve never been away for longer than a week – oh God, I’m rambling, I’m so sorry -”
“Ben,” Jack moves to squeeze his shoulder, recognizing the symptoms of a panic attack after years of helping Sammy through his. “Just breathe. In and out. You’re gonna be okay.”
[In which Jack recruits Ben as an intern for Shotgun Saturday Nights.]
Take My Heart and Run Along by SolBaby
Ben is 12 and Sammy is 18 and they're whole years too young to try and survive and navigate life on their own. But they have friends who love them more than they know what to do with. And they have each other, despite everything bad in their life that's trying to force it otherwise, at the very least, they have each other. And that's the best they could ever hope for.
Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)
by
Cassidae
Ben had This Is Your Year, Sammy Stevens clips edited to Green Day’s Good Riddance, subtitled Time of Your Life. It’s a song about someone leaving, but that’s semantics.
Then Sammy’s gone.
[ The first Sammiversary happens sans Sammy. This is what happens after. ]
Wish You All The Best by FoxGlade
“This is gonna sound like a stupid question,” Ben says suddenly, “but what year is it?”
Well, Ben has said stupider things. “2018,” Sammy answers. Ben looks to Jack, who looks to Emily, who narrows her mouth into a thin line.
“That’s… maybe a problem,” she says.
(The Christmas magic of King Falls strikes again, giving Sammy a firsthand account of his own future.)
Call On Me by FoxGlade
There's only one 24 hour grocery in King Falls. Considering the night owl habits of what seems like half the town, Emily was expecting it to be busier, but she's the only one cruising the aisles at 4am on a Tuesday morning. She's just passed the pharmacy section and picked up the medicine she needs, and now she's idling in the produce section. It's maybe too early in the morning for her brain to be online.
But it's not too early for someone else.
The phone only rings once before the voice on the other end says, “You're live on King Falls AM for our special Get Better Ben show.”
(Emily calls into the station while Ben is home sick.)
for a higher love by helloearthlings
“Supreme Court legalized same sex marriage this morning, 5-4.”
Ron could tell in an instant that Sammy already knew; something about him crumpled when Ron said it out loud.
God, the guy was – sad about this? Ron’s quiet suspicion about which way Sammy swung was absolutely confirmed – the straight and narrow of King Falls might be all woe is me over the fact that they didn’t have a monopoly on marriage anymore, but no one looked this wrecked if the decision didn’t affect them personally. The question was why this had put Sammy in some sort of drunken stupor.
[Ron, Sammy, and Pride in King Falls.]
tell me we'll never get used to it by feather_cadence
Ben, Sammy, and Lily come up with some rules for living together. Lily tries to figure out just where it is she fits.
reflected by helloearthlings
“Oh God,” Sammy says faintly with Ben’s voice, staring slack jawed. “I didn’t even know my face was capable of making that expression.”
Ben doesn’t think he has any particular expression on but Jack nods emphatically in Sammy’s direction. “That’s how I knew it wasn't you! Your face just doesn’t do that.”
“Do what?” Ben feels particularly defensive of his face – it’s his face, he can’t change it, except apparently he can, since it’s Sammy’s face right now and oh shit, Ben needs to lay back down and wake up from this surreal dream.
Shine by neversaydie
It's not a flashy affair, more of a cookout than a parade, but Ron's dock is decked out in rainbow bunting and there are cheesy tunes blaring from a speaker inside the Bait and Tackle - as the man himself flips burgers in nothing but his daisy dukes and a rainbow flag tied around his shoulders like a cape.
He is, quite literally, the hero they deserve.
Sammy watches from a distance, leaning against the side of the shop and nursing a beer as the party unfolds. There's already talk of repeating the event next year, getting some local sponsorship and making it bigger and better.
It's… nice. Weird, but nice.
[in which Pride makes it to King Falls, and Sammy gets used to being out and proud.]
Tend by helloearthlings
Ben had been so startled the first time this happened, running in and finding Sammy sobbing and crying out like there was a monster under the bed, but Ben had quickly adapted to this new feature of their friendship. He could be the big brother for a change. He’d shaken Sammy awake, wrapped his arms around him and fell back asleep curled up next to him to make sure Sammy slept through the night.
Sammy told him again and again, with a lack of eye contact and pink cheeks, that it really wasn’t necessary, that he could take care of himself. To which Ben always replied that Sammy had done enough taking care of himself in the last three years and it was someone else’s turn now.
i'm bleeding, i'm not just making conversation by helloearthlings
“I – I don’t know how to say it,” Sammy says, desperately wanting to because he just wants someone to understand, but he knows Jack can’t no matter how hard he tries, and Sammy’s so ashamed already even without his best friend knowing he’s faked his entire life. “I think I’ve been trying to say it all my life, but I can’t, I just can’t, I can’t say this out loud. Every goddamn choice I’ve ever made, every decision, every fucking – personality trait – it’s all fake, it’s all to stay hidden, I don’t think I’m a real person, I really don’t think I’m real.”
[Sammy's internalized homophobia over the years.]
living for the right now by helloearthlings
The crib isn’t all that’s in the box. There’s a stack of kids’ books – Dr. Seuss, mainly. A couple of onesies. One of them is yellow and has a giraffe pattern on it, the other green with turtles.
What really gets Ben is a little brown bear, barely bigger than Ben’s hand when he picks it up with all the reverence he can muster. It’s got a big, bright smile, little black nose, and says I Love You Beary Much on the heart in its paws.
“Oh,” Ben hears Sammy’s voice whisper from somewhere behind him. His voice is very soft and thick, like he’s choking tears back.
That’s when Ben breaks, little sobs coming out of his mouth that he just can’t help.
Oh Bondage, Up Yours
by
neversaydie
Part 1 of Kink Falls AM (Note: I don’t normally rec smut fics, but this series is a character study with an amazing amount of depth that just happens to be centred around kink. Very well written.)
In which Sammy and Jack's less than vanilla sex life becomes apparent, Ben is extremely sex positive while trolling, and Sammy is absolutely mortified.
a fever i am learning to live with by helloearthlings
Sammy had never lived alone before he came to King Falls.
[Five times Sammy had to deal with living alone for the first time, and one time Ben put a stop to that.]
#my posts#fic recs#kfam#king falls am#man i HOPE that 'read under the cut' works#if not: i'm so sorry mobile users#long post /#kfam recs
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What the Water Gave Me
Happy holidays, @gryvon! And thank you to @stetersecretsanta for putting this all together!
You can also check it out here on AO3:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876028
A run in with a rusalka leaves Detective Stiles Stilinski with a crippling fear of the water. And help comes from an unexpected quarter.
Or, that time Stiles hates Peter Hale, right up until he doesn't.
What the Water Gave Me
“I don’t like him,” Stiles says.
“I don’t even know why you think your opinion matters here, kiddo,” John replies as he tips a jar of salsa into a serving dish because, yeah, that’s about as classy as things get around chez Stilinski. “This is my weekly poker game, and I can invite whoever I damn well please.”
Stiles growls.
He’s not proud of it, but he growls.
“By the sound of that, I’m not the one who’s been spending too much time hanging out with werewolves,” John says. “And you and Derek…?”
“Are me and Derek what?” Stiles asks, and then mentally backpedals. “No, don’t answer that. Me and Derek have never been and are never going to be a thing, okay?”
Stiles and Derek are bros. There was some awkwardness there when Stiles was pubescent and drowning in hormones, but he’s over it now. He’s not sure that Derek ever will be, because at the same time Stiles was at the mercy of his raging hormones he was also at the mercy of his raging nascent spark, and he might have maybe magicked all of Derek’s clothes off him this one time. To be fair to Stiles, it was a total accident, but Derek’s never really forgiven him. To be fair to Derek, it was in Whole Foods.
Not all of Stiles’s memories of his spark in those formative years make him laugh. Magic is... magic can be terrifying. As someone who lives with it in his bones, Stiles would rather not dwell on that. It’s much easier to think of Derek’s pale naked ass and chortle.
But no, Stiles and Derek are bros. Stiles likes Derek. He does not like his asshole of an uncle, Peter, with his expensive suits, his smirk, and his habit of looking at Stiles like he’s some sort of interesting and slightly gross scientific specimen: Gentlemen, the dung beetle.
And it doesn’t help that Peter Hale is Beacon Hills’ foremost attorney. Defense attorney. How John can even bear to have him in the house is a total mystery to Stiles. Peter’s life’s work is literally to screw John. In a professional way, not a fun one, because ew. Point is, Peter is the enemy.
His dad should not be inviting the enemy to poker games.
John lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at the expression on Stiles’s face. “Son, while you’re living under my roof—”
“Stop right there,” Stiles says, dragging a corn chip through the salsa. “I’m twenty-five years old, and the only reason I’m living under your roof is because you broke into my motel room and stole all my things.”
John snorts. “After I fought the cockroaches for them! That place was a fleapit, Stiles!”
“I had an aesthetic going on!”
He did, too. He was a weary jaded detective, all hard-bitten cynicism and jagged edges, living in the gutter and staring bleakly into the void while he listened to slow jazz on his phone. It was very emotive. Very noir. He’d been considering taking up smoking.
“An aesthetic? You had a fungal infection!”
Okay, so that’s technically true. But when Stiles had applied for the newly created detective’s position in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department after a few years in Sacramento, he was adamant that he would be coming back as an independent adult. Apparently though, that was not negotiable once his dad actually saw where he was living. So here he is, back living in his dad’s house like he’s a kid all over again, and although it’s nice not to have to worry about dying of cholera or whatever else was lurking in that motel, it hasn’t been without friction.
Like tonight, for example.
“How about this, then?” John asks, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I don’t pull the ‘while you’re living under my roof ‘card and—”
“Deal!”
John fixes him with a challenging stare. “And you don’t tell me which friends I can invite over for poker night?”
Dammit. Stiles knows when he’s been stymied.
In a final act of petty revenge, he grabs the chips and salsa and flees upstairs.
He eats them in his childhood bedroom with the lights off, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that he put there when he was eight and listening to Dad and his friends—including Peter Hale—laughing and talking downstairs.
It’s no good.
Even Miles Davis and his Blue Moods album are never going to get Stiles’s fledgling noir aesthetic back now, are they?
The Yoda plushie on Stiles’s bookshelf gives him a look of wry agreement.
***
Stiles is the first detective in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department to be Supernatural Certified. That means he knows his weird shit, basically, and has done the courses to prove it. It means that whenever a case can’t be explained away by the usual measures, it lands on his desk. Which means, in a town with a nemeton close by, that Stiles gets a hell of a lot of overtime. It’s routine stuff mostly, and not at all as dangerous as his dad worries. Most supernaturals are just regular people, after all, with a little extra going on, and Stiles can hold his own with a spark as strong as his. The long hours he works are great for the student debt he came out of school with, but not so great for his social life. As in, apart from catching up with Derek a few times a week for coffee, Stiles doesn’t have a social life.
Derek’s eyebrows judge him on a Tuesday morning as Stiles pours what might be an entire cup of sugar into his coffee.
“Look,” Stiles says, “I’m not saying I hate Peter, but why does he have to be such a smug asshole?”
“Weird,” Derek says and sips his tea. “He says the same thing about you.”
Stiles jolts. Peter talks about him? But also, wait. “He says I’m a smug asshole?”
Derek considers for a moment. “No, he says you’re a little asshole.”
“I’m not even smug?” Stiles gasps. “Does he think I’m not smart enough to be smug? I can be smug, Derek!”
“I am aware.”
Stiles glares at his coffee.
Peter Hale is the first werewolf he ever met. Well, not the first, since he’s known all the Hales forever, but he’s the first one he ever saw shift. Before that, werewolves existed for Stiles conceptually, but only like, say, Iceland did. It was a thing, and Stiles knew about it, but he’d never actually figured it was something he’d have to deal with on a daily basis. All that snow and herring, ugh.
Anyway, when Stiles was twelve and his spark manifested for the first time and some bad shit happened—there may have been explosions involved—suddenly a rampaging, slavering beast was charging right at him, tackling him to the ground while he screamed and the world erupted into flames around him.
And then, just when Stiles thought he was going to die, the rampaging, slavering beast turned into a naked man—which Stiles would like to point out was disturbing on a whole new level—and yelled, “Are you trying to burn down the whole fucking forest?”
And that was how Stiles found out that Peter—and all of the Hales—were werewolves.
He wasn’t brought into the circle of trust so much as he accidentally incinerated his way into it, because while people nowadays know that the supernatural is real, most supernatural beings prefer to keep their status to themselves.
Stiles has a bunch of files on his desk relating to what he suspects is hunter activity that show exactly why that’s still the case.
He tips more sugar into his coffee. “Anyway, how’s the rest of the pack?”
Derek’s resting bitch face softens into a smile. “Good. Cora and her girlfriend are thinking of moving back to the States. And Laura is expecting again.”
“Again?” Stiles blinks. “That woman is a baby machine!”
“And if you call her that,” Derek begins.
“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “My throat, her teeth, I know. What is this now though? Baby three?”
“And four,” Derek says. “Twins.”
“Jesus.” Stiles says. “We definitely need to take Patrick out drinking. Like in commiseration or something.”
“You mean in congratulation.”
“With twins on the way? I know what I mean.”
Derek raises his eyebrows. “You know, some functioning adults actually treat children as a good thing.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “Maybe when you’re a functioning adult, you’ll understand.”
“Excuse you!”
Derek quirks a brow. “How’s Yoda?”
Stiles glares at him, and drinks his sugary sludge.
***
Stiles is halfway through lunch, brushing fallen lettuce from his burger off his open case files, when Tara leans into the bullpen. “Stiles? Hale’s here to see you.”
“Good,” Stiles says, leaping up and barging toward the door to the foyer. “He owes me an apology for this mor—”
It’s not Derek.
Of course it’s not. It’s Peter Hale, looking smug and sharp in a suit that probably cost more than what Stiles still owes in student debt. It’s pinstriped for fuck’s sake. Who wears pinstripes in Beacon Hills? Stiles is barely wearing a shirt with buttons. If it wasn’t for stupid regulations he’d be wearing a t-shirt. And his Converse.
“Detective Stilinski,” Peter Hale says smoothly, looking him up and down.
Stiles picks a piece of lettuce off his tie. “Mr. Hale.”
“I’d like to discuss a client with you.”
Stiles sighs, and holds the door open to let him through. He sets his burger down on his desk. “Which client?”
“Clare Stepanova,” Peter says.
Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs the file, and uses it to wave Peter Hale through to the nearest free interview room. He takes his burger too, because fuck it, he’s hungry.
Stiles takes a seat on one side of the table.
Peter takes one on the other side, and checks his reflection in the two-way glass. Does something to his already-immaculate hair, because he’s as vain as he is arrogant.
Stiles rolls his eyes and flips open the file on Clare Stepanova.
Clare Stepanova. Twenty-one years old—though Stiles doubts that—absolutely gorgeous, and a mouth on her like a Prussian sailor. Stiles wasn’t her arresting officer, but he definitely remembers being shocked by her language when Tara hauled her out the back to the cells. And it takes a lot of language to shock Stiles. Still, at least her curses weren’t literal. Stiles knows they could have been.
“Now how did Clare Stepanova afford an attorney like you?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
“She has wealthy parents,” Peter says.
Stiles snorts. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Well, she has wealthy people who call themselves her parents, and were able to pay my retainer,” Peter says.
Stiles eats the rest of his burger and folds his arms over his chest. “What do you want?”
“I want you, as a Supernatural Certified detective, to go over her file.”
Stiles nods down at it. “Already did.”
“Then you’re aware that this isn’t a regular case.”
“Bullshit,” Stiles says. “She’s not a regular collar, but this is sure as shit a regular case. This isn’t a newly-bitten beta wolfing out on a full moon and breaking indecent exposure laws, or some wendigo kid slipping up and eating the neighbor’s cat. Clare Stepanova has no biological imperative to walk out of Sephora with $600 worth of cosmetics shoved down her jeans. Her being a rusalka has no bearing on this case.”
“Ah,” Peter says, his eyes lighting up for a moment.
“You didn’t know?”
“I got the vague impression of water,” Peter says. “Your spark has come a long way, it seems, now that you have it under control. Finally.”
One of Stiles’s most useful and valuable skills is his spark-given ability to know exactly what supernaturals he’s dealing with at a glance.
Kevin from the grocery store: fae.
Mrs. Iravani from the library: peri.
Clare Stepanova: rusalka.
Peter Hale: asshole.
“I would have expected,” Peter continues, “someone with a spark to have a little more empathy to the supernatural.”
Peter Hale: asshole.
Peter Hale: Grade A asshole.
“I have plenty of empathy,” Stiles says. “But until you can prove to me that rusalki need three different types of top-of-the-line lipstick and a bunch of other overpriced glittery shit to live, then I’m afraid I’m going to reserve that empathy for people who actually need it.”
Peter smiles slightly.
“I think we’re done here,” Stiles says. “I have reports to get back to, and you have to go and break it to your client that she’s shit out of luck.” He closes the file and rises from his chair. “Have fun with that, I guess.”
Peter doesn’t even have the decency to look slightly miffed at his wasted trip.
***
Stiles spends the rest of the afternoon writing a recommendation to the DA’s office for dropping charges in a case against a wiccan who was going sky-clad under the full moon last month. Mrs. McIntyre isn’t technically a supernatural—she has as much magic in her as you’d expect from your average elementary school teacher—so she doesn’t necessarily fall under Stiles’s purview, but she’s sixty-eight years old, never had as much as a parking ticket, and Stiles has incredibly fond memories of her back from when she was his third grade teacher.
It’s late when he gets out of work.
John has already left and gone home, but he sends Stiles a text asking him to pick up some milk, so Stiles swings by the gas station on the way home. He parks away from the pumps, wanders in to get the milk and whatever Skittles happen to catch his eye—four different packets do—and then heads outside again.
And steps immediately into a puddle.
Stiles groans and looks down. He doesn’t remember that puddle being there when he walked inside, and it’s not raining so where—
The water glistens in the light like an oil slick, and Stiles can’t tear his gaze away.
For a second he watches the colours, mesmerised, and then the truth of it hits him.
He can’t tear his gaze away.
He doesn’t want to, but also he literally fucking can’t.
His chest squeezes as fear grips him. He hears footsteps behind him, but he can’t tear his gaze away.
Feels soft, cool fingertips brush his cheek, but he can’t tear his gaze away.
He drops the milk and Skittles.
Feels the tickle of her hair against his face as she leans in, and he can’t tear his gaze away.
His phone. He needs…
He can’t make his hands move.
She smells like fresh water, like nature, like a cold, clear stream he wants to drown himself in.
“Hello again, Detective Stilinski,” she says.
Stiles stares at the colors in the puddle, and he can’t tear his gaze away.
And then her hands are covering his eyes, and everything goes black.
***
It’s dark when Stiles blinks away again.
He’s…
He squints into the gloom, but he doesn’t know where he is. He’s cold and wet.
He’s…
He’s been stripped down to his underwear, and he’s lying in about an inch or two of water. There are rough bricks underneath him, and…
Is he in a cellar?
He might be in a cellar. There’s a crack of light some distance away that might be a door? If it is, it’s some distance away and also higher than Stiles is, so he guesses there are stairs. It’s too dark to make them out though. There doesn’t appear to be any other light source.
Stiles shifts slightly, and the water tickles him.
It’s cold. Not shiver-to-death cold, but cold enough that hypothermia might become an issue. Does the light from under the door mean it’s daylight up there? When the temperature drops at night, the cold is definitely going to be a problem. If he lives that long.
If it’s daylight up there, has he already been here an entire night?
Dad must be looking for him then. Dad, and every cop from the station.
Stiles’s hand goes instinctively for his phone in his pocket, and only brushes against naked skin.
Underwear only, right.
He closes his eyes, not that it makes much difference, and reaches for his spark. It’s always there are the core of him, both hidden behind and intrinsically bound to his heartbeat. It’s—Stiles knows it sounds lame as fuck, but he’s always thought of it as his soul. Something uniquely him, but also something that’s not bound to his physical form. His spark encompasses so much more than bone and muscle and meat and, Stiles likes to think, it will last longer than those things too.
He finds it shining warmly behind his breastbone and he focuses on it.
If he can summon it, he can use it to—
And then the cold water is lapping at his skin, higher and higher, and Stiles opens his mouth to suck in a breath but he gets a mouthful of water instead. It rushes down his throat, suddenly a torrent.
Stiles flings himself upright, coughing and hacking, wiping at his mouth with his shaking hands.
The water recedes again, sliding down his skin like an icy caress. It leaves a shiver in its wake that Stiles feels through to his bones.
He doesn’t reach for his spark again.
***
“Hello again, Detective Stilinski,” Clare Stepanova says for the third time, or maybe the fourth, as Stiles chokes and coughs and tries to clear his lungs.
The water rises when she speaks, like tides pulled to the moon. And she’s beautiful, so beautiful, but she won’t let the water take him. He’s cold and he’s weak and he wants to sleep, wants to stop fighting the heaviness in his lungs, but she won’t let him go. She draws the water out of him with a flick of her wrist, her gold hair gleaming like moonlight in the gloom, and then she smiles and commands the water to drown him again.
The weight in his lungs is like lead. His head throbs. His chest aches. His heartbeat turns sluggish.
And then she pulls him back.
“Hello again, Detective Stilinski.”
Five times now, maybe six.
***
He’s lying on the floor, staring into the gloom. The water laps at his ears but he hasn’t got the strength to move. He’s going to die here. Every breath is harder than the last. Every one sounds like the wheeze of squeaky bellows. He’s going to drown in two inches of freezing water. He’s cold, he thinks, but he can no longer feel it. And his spark, that part of him he always thought of as indestructible, flickers on and off like a faulty lightbulb.
The water creeps up him again, icy fingers climbing his clammy skin, and a hot tear leaks out of the corner of Stiles’s eye and slides down his temple.
He’s going to die here.
And when the door crashes open and Stiles is blinded by the sudden blazing light, he thinks, for a moment, that’s what’s happened. And then there’s a dark shape moving down the stairs, and footsteps splashing toward him, and the roar of a werewolf fills the cellar room, and Stiles passes out.
***
“No,” John says firmly as Stiles blinks awake. He covers Stiles hand in his, and draws it away from the scratchy thing in his nose. “That’s your oxygen, kiddo. You need to leave that alone.”
Stiles squints at him.
His dad looks tired; about as tired and wrung out as Stiles feels right now. He’s sitting in a chair beside Stiles’s hospital bed, and he’s wearing a uniform that looks at least three days old, judging by the creases and what look like coffee stains down the shirt. His stubble’s about three days old too, and grayer than it should be.
Stiles pulls in a wheezing breath.
“You had pulmonary edema,” Dad says. “They’ve drained the water from your lungs, but you also have pneumonia, so that’s what’s causing you some issues now. You’re gonna be in here for a few more days before they’ll let me take you home.”
It’s a lot to take in, especially since Stiles can’t even remember for sure how he got here. His brow creases. “Clare?”
The name comes out like a croak.
John’s expression hardens into one of grim satisfaction. “Dead.”
Stiles tries to summon up a bit of feeling for that, but he’s mostly numb. Also, he’s mostly astonished that she was prepared to kill a cop over a shoplifting charge, but that’s the way of it with some supernaturals, isn’t it? Especially the old ones. Centuries of feeling superior to mundane and mortal humans tends to result in more than a few egotists who don’t see why they should be bound by human laws. Like vampires, for example. Total assholes who think they’re better than everyone else just because they saw Beethoven live in concert or whatever. Vampires are the fucking worst. Well, at least they were the worst, but for the record Stiles is going to shift rusalki up to the top of the list now.
He thinks back to the cellar. “Werewolf?”
John squeezes his hand and nods. “Peter.”
Stiles feels a jolt of surprise at that. For some reason he’d thought Derek, mostly because Derek is his best friend and has always had his back. Or maybe angry Talia, because she loves him like a mother. But Peter? Clare’s defense attorney Peter? Clare’s defense attorney Peter who thinks Stiles is a little asshole? Yeah, that’s definitely out of left field.
“The pack was tracking you the whole time,” John says. “Turns out that rusalki can hide scents. Who knew, huh?”
Well, Stiles knew. He’s done the course. But now isn’t really the time to bring it up.
“Anyway,” John continues, “Peter figured it might have been Clare, so he set up a meeting to talk about her case, and followed her after that. He was supposed to wait for backup, but, well…” He grimaces. “Apparently you didn’t have that much time left.”
Stiles sucks in another wheezing breath. “Wait… won’t he get in trouble? With the Bar Association or something?”
“Oh, son,” John says, and his mouth quirks. “If you think Peter Hale gives a flying fuck about the Bar Association, you really don’t know him at all. Besides, attorney client privilege doesn’t cover crimes in progress.”
He nods, and a rush of dizziness leaves him with black spots in his vision.
“Careful,” John says, with mild rebuke in his tone like Stiles has just tried to run a marathon, not nod. “You need to take it easy, kiddo.”
“Yeah,” Stiles rasps, and feels a sudden prick of tears in his eyes. He doesn’t even know why. He’s just… it’s all been too much, he guesses. Clare Stepanova tried to kill him, and he didn’t even fight back. He’s never had that happen before. And he knows it was because he was in her thrall, and he knows it wasn’t his fault, but he still hates that he made it so easy for her. Stiles has always been a fighter, oftentimes against all advice to the contrary, and it’s terrifying how Clare just shut down that part of him. Like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.
Stiles was supposed to be stronger than that, smarter than that. He feels as helpless now as he did when the water was rushing into his lungs.
John squeezes his hand again, and Stiles summons up a weak smile for him.
And then Derek turns up with a massive blue teddy bear wearing an It’s a boy! ribbon from the hospital gift shop.
“You can put it with your Yoda,” he says, glowering at Stiles like Stiles’s near-death experience has personally offended him.
“I love it,” Stiles says, his voice still rasping, and opens his arms for a hug.
Both his dad and Derek get in there, and Stiles closes his eyes and feels warm again for the first time in days. And he wonders where Peter is right now.
***
It’s four days before Stiles is allowed to go home. He curls up in a blanket on his dad’s couch, and doesn’t move for hours. He stares unblinkingly at the television until John makes him move into the kitchen for dinner. Then, after they’ve eaten, John herds Stiles upstairs and toward the bathroom.
“You stink, kiddo,” John says.
“Way to pull your punches, Dad.”
“Get cleaned up and get in bed,” John tells him. “I’ll bring you your meds.”
Stiles shuts the bathroom door and strips off. Steps into the shower and…
He can’t turn the tap. The thought of water on skin is…
He can’t.
And he knows he should. He knows his dad is right. He stinks. And he knows the steam from a hot shower will be good for his pneumonia. But he just can’t bring himself to do it.
He steps back out of the shower and crouches down in front of the bathroom sink instead. Ferrets around in the cabinet until he finds a bunch of wipes, and cleans himself with those instead.
He’ll shower tomorrow.
***
Three days later, and Stiles is out of wipes. His skin is greasy, and his hair is an oily mess. He’s also got a gross scraggly excuse for a beard, but he can’t bring himself to shave. Not even when the blast of water in the kitchen sink, or the trickle of it through the coffee machine is enough to make him freeze up. He’s pretty sure they can smell him all the way downtown, because there’s only so much that deodorant can do. Spoiler alert: not much.
“Poker night tonight,” John says. “Want to join us?”
Stiles pokes his spoon at his cereal. “I’m good.”
John’s face is creased with worry. “Stiles,” he says, “what’s going on, kid? You’re…”
Decaying, Stiles thinks. Moldering. Something.
“Not yourself,” John finishes. “Do you need to talk to someone? A professional?”
“I’m tired,” Stiles says. “Once I get over the pneumonia, I’ll bounce back.”
John holds his gaze for a long moment, and then nods.
Stiles knows better than to think his dad is letting this go though. The Stilinskis are a stubborn bunch.
He waves his dad off to work, and dozes on the couch for most of the day. He’s jolted awake sometime in the afternoon when the door opens and footsteps tread down the hallway.
“Good lord,” Peter Hale says, looking at where Stiles is nesting like a rat on the couch, surrounded by blankets and junk food wrappers. “You smell like you’ve been dead for a month.”
Stiles grunts and shows him his middle finger. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
“Please,” Peter says. “Your father and Derek would have been on my case for eternity if I hadn’t ripped that bitch’s throat out.” He grins and shows his teeth.
“Well, thanks anyway.” Stiles feels a sudden thrill at the thought of Peter wolfing out over him, and pretends he doesn’t. “How did you get in here anyway? Do you have a key?”
Peter raises his eyebrows. “As though I’d need a key.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. Peter is such an asshole.
Peter strides over to him, and wrenches his blankets off. “Come on. You’re a mess, and your father’s worried about you. So is the pack.”
Stiles allows himself to be bullied all the way upstairs and into the bathroom. He baulks when he sees the shower.
“Peter, I…” He can’t finish the sentence. He can’t admit his fear, even when he knows it’s etched into his skin, and written into every expression. Even when he knows he literally reeks of it.
“Shirt off,” Peter says. “And then sit on the edge of the bath for me.”
Peter’s no-nonsense tone is easy to obey, and it gives Stiles something to rail against. He’s grateful for both those things as he pulls his shirt off and grumbles about overbearing asshole werewolves getting all up in his business, and this is bullshit, Peter, bullshit.
The blast of water in the sink makes his blood run cold and freezes the words in his throat.
Peter squeezes out the washcloth under the tap, and then grabs the bar of soap from the shower stall. When he turns back to face Stiles, his expression is grim.
“I thought you were a corpse,” he says. “When I found you in that cellar. I could barely hear your heartbeat.”
Stiles hunches over and looks away.
Peter crouches down in front of him. He takes Stiles wrist in his hand, and draws his arm out straight. Stiles shivers when Peter drags the warm washcloth from his shoulder to his wrist. “You scared me, Stiles.”
There’s no hint of rebuke in his tone. There’s only something softer than that; an admission, not an accusation.
“Scared me too,” Stiles murmurs.
Peter scrubs the soap along the washcloth, and then drags the cloth down Stiles’s arm again, leaving foamy bubbles in its wake. “So scared you can’t even face the thought of a shower?” He pinches the skin on the back of Stiles’s hand, and the mark doesn’t vanish. “So scared you’re letting yourself go dehydrated?”
Stiles nods, his eyes stinging with shame and helplessness.
“She’s dead,” Peter says, his blue eyes shining. “She’s dead, and she can’t hurt you now.”
“I know,” Stiles rasps. “I know that, but…”
“But you don’t feel it,” Peter says, and hums slightly. “You know what you need, Stiles?”
“A therapist?”
“Well, possibly.” Peter smiles slightly. “But in the meantime would you settle for an amoral and slightly sociopathic werewolf by your side who’d tear out the hearts of your enemies if they even looked at you sideways?”
Stiles should be embarrassed at how long it takes him to get that. “But you hate me.”
“Nonsense,” Peter says, and swipes the washcloth over Stiles’s collarbone. “You are the thorn in my side and the pebble in my shoe, Stiles, but I’ve never hated you.”
“Really?”
“Do you think I break into the houses of people I hate and give them sponge baths?”
Stiles blinks. “No. That would be weird. I mean, this is weird enough, but that would be super weird.”
Peter’s laugh is low and full of warmth. He rises to rinse the washcloth out, and then he’s back, lifting Stiles’s other arm up and washing it gently. Stiles feels almost dizzy at the touch. He feels weak and helpless, but a part of him melts into this too. The part of him that wants to be cared for, wants to be allowed to need this without judgement.
Stiles is pretty sure he’ll judge himself harshly enough for this at a later date, but that’s a problem for future Stiles.
He closes his eyes and lets it happen. Drifts for a while on the feeling of being looked after.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Peter says softly. “Take the rest off.”
It should be humiliating, probably, but Stiles is floating from Peter’s touches, so he lifts his hips and lets Peter pull his sweatpants down and off. The hospital sponge baths were perfunctory and clinical; this is not. This feels almost like an act of quiet worship, and Stiles might be drunk on it.
“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles melts a little more.
He’s zoned out enough that he can almost pretend the careful swipe of the warm washcloth over his dick and balls doesn’t happen. Almost. But by the time he jolts and his eyes flash open, Peter has already moved on to his thighs. He finishes up at Stiles’s feet, and Stiles toes curl at the slight tickle.
Peter smiles up at him, and then stands. “Now how about your hair, sweetheart? You look like a weasel dipped in oil.”
Stiles snorts. There’s the asshole he knows and… knows. There’s the asshole he knows, period, full stop, and nothing further to add.
Peter’s expression turns serious. “It needs a wash, Stiles. Do you think you could handle some water through it, if I’m here?”
Stiles’s heartbeat quickens, and he’s afraid that it he so much as blinks he’ll be back in that cellar, water rushing into his throat and drowning his screams.
“I have an idea,” Peter says, and then disappears from the bathroom. He’s back a moment later, wheeling Stiles’s computer chair with him. “Let’s do this salon style.”
He flings a clean pair of sweatpants at Stiles, and Stiles climbs into them. Then he sits on the chair, and Peter wheels it back toward the sink. It’s not quite the right height, but Peter pillows a rolled-up towel under the back of his neck, and folds a dry washcloth over his forehead.
“I’ll do my best to keep the water off your face, hmm?”
Stiles nods. He wants to close his eyes, but he doesn’t dare.
It’s… it’s not as bad as he was afraid it would be. The tickle of water on his scalp makes his skin crawl, and makes him want to leap out of the chair, but Peter works quickly and calmly, and his fingers massage Stiles’s scalp deftly.
“What do you know about this Braeden person?” he asks.
“Which Braeden person?”
“The incredibly attractive and intimidating woman that Derek has fallen head over heels for,” Peter says. “I like her, but on the other hand I feel like I shouldn’t approve.”
“Because she’s very possibly a mercenary?” Stiles asks curiously.
“No, I think that’s hilarious,” Peter says. “You should see Talia’s face! I just feel like I shouldn’t approve because, well, I like to make Derek squirm.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles says.
Peter catches a trickle of water before it escapes the washcloth on Stiles’s forehead. “He’s my nephew. It’s my job.”
“It’s really not.”
Peter shrugs. “Well, we’ll agree to disagree. Now, want me to attack that abomination you call a beard? No water, sweetheart. Just shaving cream and a washcloth.”
Stiles nods warily. “Just… just keep talking, okay?”
Peter smirks. “I’m a lawyer, Stiles. That was never going to be an issue.”
***
When it’s done, all of Stiles’s doubts and insecurities come rushing back in. He’s clean and he’s shaved, but at what cost? Peter Hale saw him naked, and not just naked, but a whole other level of nakedness than Stiles is comfortable with. Peter didn’t just see his skin; he saw his vulnerability. Somehow Stiles knows that’s the thing that’s going to be hardest to reconcile.
He sits on his bed and stares out the window, and wonders if tomorrow he’ll be able to actually brave a shower, or if he’s going to be scared of water for the rest of his life. Which would be fine, if it was swimming in the stuff. But showering? Doing the laundry? Hydrating? These aren’t optional activities.
Stiles sighs, and grabs his laptop off his desk, and queues up an episode of Star Trek. Why aren’t sonic showers a thing yet? They need to be a thing.
The knock on his door doesn’t really surprise him.
“Come in, Peter.”
Peter opens the door. He’s holding a glass of orange juice.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs playing poker with my dad and all his friends?”
Peter ignores the question and sits next to Stiles. He sets the orange juice down on his bedside table. “I think you and I got off on the wrong foot, Stiles.”
“What, when you broke into my house without a key?” Stiles grouses.
“No,” Peter says. “When you were a twelve-year-old with a newly manifested spark, and I scared the hell out of you.”
Stiles feels the faint echo of that fear as he thinks back to that day. And what a hell of a day it was. “To be fair, I was exploding the forest at the time.”
Peter nods. “True. But still, I feel that being lunged at by a werewolf was probably quite traumatizing.”
“It was actually more traumatizing when I saw your dick,” Stiles says. “Werewolves, that was totally out of left field. But naked men jumping on me? Dad had warned me about how dangerous those were.”
Peter’s eyebrows do something complicated. It’s a Hale trait. “You thought I was a child molester?”
“Not for long! But, in my defense, you were a naked man who jumped on me. I was twelve, Peter. There wasn’t a lot of nuanced thought involved!”
“Well,” Peter says at last, “When it comes to nakedness, I suppose that we’re even now after today, sweetheart, aren’t we?”
There’s a strange weight in the air as Stiles avoids Peter’s gaze, and he thinks it’s all in the way he just said the word ‘sweetheart’. Usually Peter uses the word like it’s a sharp weapon, but now—and ever since he walked into the house this afternoon, if Stiles is honest—there’s no barb in the word at all. It sounds almost…
Almost real.
“Peter,” he asks cautiously, lifting his gaze again, “do you like me?”
“Yes,” Peter says.
“I mean, not because I’m pack adjacent, and Derek’s best friend, and Talia refers to me as the son she always wanted, but like-like, like—”
“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Peter says, and rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
This is the part where they should fall into a kiss, right? Stiles reaches for Peter, only to find a splayed hand on his chest.
“Nu-uh-uh,” Peter says. “Not until you drink your juice, sweetheart.”
Well, Stiles guesses, there’s some incentive.
He drinks his juice.
***
Stiles narrows his eyes at the bottle of water on his desk. He’s been back at work for three days now, and he’s mostly a lot better, but still not a total fan of this whole hydration business. It’s a shitty thing to develop a trigger over, but he’s working on it. He’s downloaded an app on his phone that reminds him when to drink, so he’s no longer got an excuse to avoid it. Also, his therapist prescribed him a shitload of Ativan, so that’s pretty sweet.
“Stiles?” Tara calls from the door. “Hale’s here to see you.”
Stiles leaps up from his desk, anticipation bubbling through him. Peter promised to bring him lunch, and he’s been counting down the minutes. Not because he gives a fuck about the new fusion place on Third that Peter’s been raving about, but because, well, Peter. Peter has been visiting Stiles every day, both at work and at home, checking that he’s functioning. They’ve got into a weird pattern now where when Stiles showers, Peter sits in the bathroom and talks to him. It should feel humiliating, but it doesn’t. And Peter isn’t even a jerk about it. He’s still a jerk about everything else, but, well, that’s Peter. It turns out that there’s just a lot more to him than that asshole exterior. As embarrassing as it is to admit it, Stiles might actually be in love.
Ugh. He has taste in his ass.
But so does Peter, probably, so it all works out.
And frankly, Stiles can’t wait for the day when showering with Peter means something a whole lot more sexy than their current arrangement.
He wrenches the door open. “Hey, Peter, I—motherfucker.”
Derek blinks at him.
“It’s always the wrong Hale,” Stiles says. “Every damn time.” He plasters on a smile. “Hey, Der-bear. It is great to see you!”
“Clearly,” Derek deadpans. “Anyway, Mom wanted me to remind you that it’s pack dinner this Friday, and she expects to see you there. And she said she’s making extra cookies so you can take a bunch home, and not try to smuggle them out in your pockets like last time.”
“She can’t prove that ever happened.”
“Stiles, your jeans smelled like chocolate for days. You should do your laundry more often.”
“You’re not actually supposed to wash your jeans after every wear.”
Derek raises his eyebrows. “You are if they have chocolate in the pockets.”
“Point,” Stiles admits.
“See you Friday,” Derek says, and claps him on the shoulder before leaving.
Stiles heads back inside to the bullpen—and discovers Peter sitting at his desk, his fancy Italian ankle boots resting on Stiles’s open files. He’s eating something from a takeout container. It smells fucking orgasmic.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he demands. “Did you break into a police station?”
Peter smirks. “I brought you lunch, sweetheart. Let’s not quibble over the details of why, and how, and whether or not it’s really an indictable offence.”
“Someone let you in the back door, didn’t they?”
“Your father,” Peter admits. “I met him in the parking lot.”
Stiles leans his ass on his desk. “You’re such a dick,” he said fondly.
Peter shrugs, and nudges Stiles’s water bottle closer to him. “Takes one to know one.”
“Touché.” Stiles takes a sip of his water, trying not to grimace, and Peter rubs his knee gently in silent encouragement. Then Stiles steals his takeout and starts shoveling it into his mouth. “When I finish this, want to go make out in the file room?”
“Sweetheart,” Peter says with a broad grin, “I can’t think of a better way to spend my day.”
And how weird is Stiles’s life now? Because it turns out that neither can he. He wouldn’t say he’s grateful to Clare Stepanova—fuck that evil bitch—but Stiles knows that if he hadn’t been attacked, he and Peter would still be bitching about each other to their families, and snarking at each other when they met, and both of them dancing around the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was a spark of something between them that wasn’t sheer contempt. And, since they’re both such assholes, they would have died of old age before admitting it.
So there’s an upside, Stiles guesses. A crazy weird upside to being drowned repeatedly by a rusalka, and it turns out it’s the bastard of a werewolf pointedly nudging Stiles’s water bottle toward him again.
When Stiles had come back to Beacon Hills, he’d tried to like the idea of being alone. Romanticized it even, in that gross fleapit of a motel where he pretended to be a hard-bitten cynical film noir detective. But it turns out Stiles isn’t that kind of guy at all.
The corners of his mouth turn up as Peter nudges the water bottle against his thigh. Stiles picks it up and sips from it, and Peter makes a smug, satisfied noise.
It turns out it’s nice to be cared for after all.
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