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sinisterlyhan · 4 years

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01. seo changbin ; 2chan / 5606 words

against the wall, dom!changbin (-ish), oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, blindfolds, seven minutes in heaven but like with a twist, female reader

parts: 01 ; 02

a/n: hmm, not extremely fond of this but that’s okay 😭

it did not take much convincing for you to agree with being dragged to a house party on a busy friday night.

it has been a long, dreadful week of being assigned new deadlines and lazy colleagues, your best friend suggested that you get away from life for a little, and you agreed.

however, it did take him a whole lot of convincing to do before you agreed on joining a group of strangers—his friends, not yours—in a game of spin the bottle, one that would directly lead to the famous sex-trap called 'seven minutes in heaven.'

except it wasn't just seven minutes in heaven, it was "we won't let you two out until we hear something rumbling inside, okay?" heaven. and when you asked about the morality of such a game, the only explanation chan gave you was, "don't worry, we're all getting blindfolded so even if it gets embarrassing in there, only the people waiting outside will know, and we've all sworn to secrecy!"

"right! wow! as if that makes everything better?" you hissed to the side, glaring to the side when the group whistled and roared at a particularly pitchy squeal coming from inside the closet. you frowned, your eyes shifting to the locked wooden door. "why would you even lend your closet out to do shit like this?"

"minho can be a bit of a freak," chan said with a little shrug. when he saw your confused expression, he turned your head to the side by poking at your cheek and pointed at a man. "that one is minho–"

"i know who minho is, we all know who minho is!" you smacked his hand away, slightly annoyed that he didn't think you'd at least know the student who swept the grand price during last year's talent show without—or so he claimed—a lick of preparation.

he was popular in his department before that as well. smart, fun, good-looking, rich, and now he even dances! how fantastic; you didn't believe in god but you would still blame her for having favorites just because lee minho exists.

he looked as good as you have briefly seen him be, but this time with blushed cheeks and a constant goofy smile. he was clearly drunk; drunk enough to be crossed off the game but not drunk enough to not enjoy the obnoxious noises sounding from his guest room's closet, mixing with the loud music playing from downstairs.

"hey, you don't have to play if you don't want to," chan said after seeing your attitude. he glanced behind him at the empty bed and gestured towards it. "you can sit back, get drunk, and maybe sleep. i'll wake you up and take you home when it's over."

you licked your lower lip, your mind suddenly being flooded with the intense sound coming from behind the closed door. god, it was awkward to faintly hear someone else's intimate session, but it was even more infuriating to hear the rattling of hangers and bumping of walls because of how much it made you yearn for it.

when was the last time you had sex again? it didn’t really matter, did it? it was just a fling. it wasn’t uncomfortable but it wasn’t decent either. you’ve probably given yourself better orgasm than whoever that man was so there was no point in keeping the encounter in your head.

"you know i won't, chan," you mumbled under your breath as you watched the group return back to their incoherent card game. "i haven't had sex in months and fuck, i can't live on just using my damn vibrator."

you just needed to be fucked by someone, preferably someone who knows what they’re doing.

“woah, why didn’t you tell me about it?” chan asked, raising a brow curiously.

you pulled a face, not looking at him but instead glanced around the circle to look for a suitable candidate for your little closet rendezvous. “why would i tell you that? i’m not going to beg you to have sex with me.”

“i didn’t say you have to beg for it, although that does sound like something that’s up my alley,” he teased with a breathy giggle. “just thought i could have helped.”

you sucked in a breath, your mind wavering. chan—ahh, chan. you’ve moaned his name before, once or twice under a dark room and behind closed doors. how could you not? broad shoulders, strong arms, big chest; kind, reliable, caring—he had always given you soft, dominant vibes, and you had submitted yourself to him in your imagination.

just your imagination, of course, never in real life. he was way too out of your league, much like all of his friends in this game circle.

there was minho, whom you’ve bumped into a few times in the halls but never talked to.

sitting next to him with long blond hair was hwang hyunjin, a freshman who was rumored to go for older buddies, who appeared to also dance really well, and you’ve heard around the corners of this party to be very good with his tongue, however you’d like to take that information.

shifting downward—black shirt with bulging biceps and visible chest, comfortable sweats with the outline of his thick thighs hidden underneath. that was seo changbin. if you had to pick who you were more friendly with among chan’s attractive friend group, changbin would be your top pick. you two weren’t close, having only talked to each other out of the obligations of classes, but at least you two have talked to each other before.

“hey! you! keep your head down, we’re picking!”

you snapped out of your thoughts when chan pressed your head down so you faced the ground. you grumbled in annoyance, hitting his arm away and hearing him giggle before the room went silent besides the loud music.

you could hear minho’s clumsy footsteps walking around, trying to find his next two targets. every time he approached your area, you could feel the hair at your neck stand in anticipation, but your mind would try to fend against the excitement and hammer your chest with a slight hint of fear, making you both wanting to be picked and didn’t want to be noticed.

the good side was that you might finally have sex. the bad side was that (a) you wouldn’t know who you were gonna be doing it with, and (b) everyone in the circle was more attractive than you, and you would be putting people at a disadvantage that they might have to have sex with you.

you suppressed a gasp when minho stopped behind you and gently tied a silk scarf around your head. it did not have too full of a coverage unlike what you had expected. somehow you thought minho would have better blindfolds than whatever it was he wrapped around your eyes. but you could still faintly see the blurs of the outside world if you squint hard enough.

he giggled when you stumbled to stand up, seemingly able to sense your nervousness but he has definitely mistaken it to be the anxiety of not knowing where he was bringing you toward instead of the fact that you were literally picked to get it on with a stranger in an even stranger location.

he guided you around a space, possibly around the group of unpicked people seated on the ground before he stopped. you felt his body move behind you, gesturing toward somebody else before he then leaned close to your ear to whisper, “oh, you are going to enjoy this one. he is good.”

alright, your possibility wasn’t narrowed down by a lot but at least you knew you would be fucking a man in his closet.

footsteps shuffled towards you and stopped. you could feel a presence next to you now that you were forced to pay more attention to your other senses, and before you had much time to think about who the person could you, both of you were shoved into the closer. the door slammed behind you both with minho’s obnoxious laughter, the last visible ray of light going off when the door was sealed and locked.

the room was dark and almost quiet. you could still hear the music from outside and the soft breathing of your partner, but you suspected that was only because you were rid of your sight, and therefore, your attention needed to divert itself to somewhere else. the room was completely dark, though, and if you were able to faintly see something before, you could not see a single thing now.

changbin licked his lower lip at the silence. he looked around despite the blackness and he was completely unsure of what he should do.

he never planned to join this stupid game until minho proposed that they play a mini-game between the four of them, or the three of them now that minho was out of the race. the mini-game was just your typical race game—whoever sounded like they had the best sex wins, or whoever can make their partner scream the loudest would win. three hundred dollars for the winner, one hundred from each of them.

there was that. he was okay with that, both for the money and for the sex since he was lacking in—and greedy for—both, frankly speaking. however, changbin didn’t plan to act on it unless he could make sure his partner was on the same page with him.

he wouldn’t tell them about the game, nor would he try and cheat his way to the top because of how sensitive minho was to sounds, especially lewd ones, jeez.

therefore, he planned to just make sure he had the green light before he would make a move, but that was the problem: how was he supposed to just ask for permission without feeling awkward about not seeing each other?

mustering up the courage, he took a big step forward and reached his hand out in hopes to feel his surroundings and access where his partner was. but immediately, almost as if the gods have heard his concern, his palm was met with a soft, plump surface and his ears were met with a surprised yelp.

changbin took a small step back, startled. “oh shit–i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to–well, actually, i did mean to do that but not in that way,” he said, fumbling about with his hands in the air before he held them to his chest with a pout of embarrassment.

you were stunned on your spot when you hard his voice. your hand was pressed against your breast, the one that was accidentally cupped a moment ago, and heat grew along your neck like vines upon the realization that not only did your partner actually planned to get it going in the closet, he wasn’t just anybody in the circle.

your partner was seo changbin. big arms, big thighs, big chest, gorgeous seo changbin, who minho told you was good at this.

“it’s fine,” you mumbled, trying to find your way back to him because despite your logic screaming at you to stand on your moral ground and not hook up with an almost stranger, you still wanted to be felt up, you wanted to be kissed, and oh god, you wanted to be fucked so badly.

“wait, so you… you’re okay with this?” changbin asked after hearing your mumble. his head moved around, cranking his neck to look at all directions when he heard the shuffling of your feet.

“don’t you think i would have left already if i have a problem with this?” you laughed, slowly advancing with both arms out, your fingers wriggling in a grabby motion.

the closet was small, yet somehow you two seemed to keep missing each other by an inch. it was until your arm casually swiped to the side when you finally found him, your hand hitting the back of changbin’s neck with a harsh jab. a small groan of pain left him as he turned around and quickly grabbed onto your wrist, pulling you closer to him in one swift motion before you lose each other again.

“point taken,” changbin whispered, leaning his face close but stopping just when he felt like his lips were about to touch your skin.

you felt his breath on your face, overwhelmingly hot and close. his hands had steadied your posture before they roamed down to your waist, feeling your curve up before resting on your sides. when you replied to him with silence, changbin took it as a cue to make a move, and he did so quickly by dipping his head down in hopes to find your lips.

you let out a faint, purse-lipped moan when his nose nudged against your jaw and his full lips found your neck instead. hearing your little sound of agreement, the cloud of doubt vanished quickly in his head and he finally got himself the motivation to keep going with his advances. he planted a trail of kisses down your neck before he found himself a spot to suck out a hickey.

you gasped, feeling the tingle of pain from his teeth, but you relaxed quickly when his tongue flicked over the spot to soothe out the sensation. you pouted a little then, wanting more than feeling his plump lips on your neck, so you tilted your head and leaned down to nudge your cheek with his. you pushed him just enough for him to perk his head up, and navigating solely by imagination, you pressed your lips to any surface you could find.

it was his cheek first, and it was the side of his nose, then you could feel the tip of his nose and down to his cupid’s bow. it was messy yet there was a sort of appeal in your clumsily leaving wet kisses around his face, changbin thought. and when you finally made it to his lips, it felt none other than worth it.

his tasted of faint alcohol and he smelt a little bit of smoke. you didn’t particularly hate it, and even if you did, it wasn’t like you could stop yourself from kissing him; your lips, on the other hand, tasted of cherry chapsticks and fruit punch, sugary and sweet in a way that only made changbin wanted more.

and he shamelessly looked for more, moving from kissing your lips to smooching your skin. everything changbin did to you had left you with a shaky exhale and a tremor in your heart. besides him, the blindfold was also doing absolute wonders to your senses. not only was it new and unfamiliar in the most exhilarating way, but it also forced you to rely on your other senses completely. you had to feel, hear, and smell everything he was doing to you.

the way his fingers squeezed at your waist, the way his lips turned upwards whenever you breathed out a content moan, the way his chest heaved against yours as you two started to pant at the lack of oxygen, his deep and sultry voice when he groaned, the way his hand occasionally moved down to your ass and—a gasp!

you held tightly onto his arms as your eyes widened at the feeling of his hard-on against the front of your pants. his palm pushed against your ass, bringing you towards him every time he grind against you mindlessly to feel more friction under his sweats, his moans being suffocated by your mouth as you continued to reciprocate the heated kiss that kept getting messier and messier by the second.

you were stumbling back at the force, your knees stuttering weakly at the exciting feeling of his clothed cock rubbing against the wet patch growing on under your denim pants. fuck, you could feel him, like really feel him. you hissed every time his tip poked against your clothed clit and whenever his shaft pressed against your slit. it was thorough, hard, and slow; it almost felt like you could guess his length and his girth just from the way he was dry humping against you.

it wasn’t long before your back hit something. a wall? a door? you didn’t really care, you just knew you wanted seo changbin, in whichever way possible, be it having him in your hands, your mouth, or between your legs. you just wanted to feel him, so after letting him pin you to the wall and kiss you with that fervent energy you prayed to god would stay until he was finished with you, you pulled away.

it was a swift movement, changbin wasn’t even able to comprehend what was happening. a quick whine huffed past his lips at the loss of your warmth before you turned him around and pushed him to the door. he let you, feeling both the faint ache on his back from brushing against the doorknob and the sweetness of your lips when you started to kiss him again.

as he planned to re-establish his dominance in this dark, dark closet, you got him wrapped around your fingertips again by moving your hand downwards and palming his member. he bit your lower lip, his hand gripping your waist to pull you closer. “fuck, stop teasing me–mmm,” he grumbled under his breath after pulling away, a hefty moan leaving his lips when you grabbed his length and stroked it through the fabric.

“you need to learn how to be patient.” you giggled as you took a step back so you could kneel before him, your hands sliding down his frame to steady yourself as you did so.

your hands moved to the waistband of his sweats before you pulled it down carefully, letting it drop to the ground with an inaudible thud. you thought this would be bad, in a sense that this might be a little awkward for you since you couldn’t exactly tell where anything was. everything you did was a blind assumption, from you running your hands up this bare thighs to fumbling around looking for the waist of his boxers.

but it wasn’t bad, it had turned out to be the exact opposite.

you were excited, both from being able to do such filthy act after a long dry spell and from the fact that you were about to suck changbin off out of everybody. he wasn’t just any random person in the party, he was the man who you’ve occasionally stared at during boring lectures, the man who you would never admit to ever having midnight fantasies about, the man who would probably never consider you to be a suitable partner if he could see clearly with his eyes.

he’s seo changbin.

“oh! oops, okay,” you whispered under your breath after the surprised yelp. you had miscalculated the proximity of your face to his body and the second you brought his boxers down to his ankles, his cock had flung out and brushed across your chin energetically.

bringing your hand back up to his skin, rubbing along his inner thighs before they finally made their way to his groin. your hands fumbled, delicate fingers curling around the base of his dick and hearing him hiss from above you. changbin was being impatient, as he had appeared to be for the past minute, and the second he felt the skin-to-skin contact, he tried to thrust forward into your hand for any type of movement.

fuck, how he wished he could see you right now, whoever you were. but, as much as he would kill to see your plump lips around his cock, the blindfold was serving him phenomenally. he wouldn’t switch it for the world, it seemed; he could feel it all vividly, the blood rushing to his leaking tip as you pumped it a few times, the slight graze of your nails where your fingers met each other at the end a god-sent sensation to him.

and when you eventually gave in and wrapped your lips around the sensitive bud, the softness of your tongue etching to his cock like a sharp needle to a piece of delicate fabric—poking his senses, sending tingles through his body, leaving his mind aching for more.

you bobbed your head forward and back, your eyes shut blind to taste the bitterness of his pre-cum and to drown in the suffocating feeling of his shaft poking your throat as you took all of him in your mouth. his hand flew to your hair, clutching a fistful of them and pulling at your scalp to keep you moving; you whined at the pain, he moaned at the stimulation. your hands rubbed along his flexed muscles, squeezing them greedily.

it was an array of sensations, both touch and sound, twisting and turning in your brain that you could barely catch up. but it was exactly the overwhelming rush of it that made you enjoy it so much.

“ahh, fuck, fuck–“ changbin cried out, his movement on your head stuttering when he felt his cock twitching inside your mouth.

and while it would be a dream to release in your mouth, he knew you both didn’t have as much time as he would hope. sooner or later someone impatient for their turn would come banging on the door. with that thought in mind, he quickly pulled out of you and pulled you up by cupping his hand at the back of your neck. navigating with his grip, he brought you to his face to kiss you, faintly tasting himself on your tongue and absolutely loving the taste of it.

he turned you around and slammed you against the door, apologizing with a quiet mutter when you groaned in pain. not that you quite minded the hammering in your head when his hands were busy fumbling with the zipper of your pants just to pull it off. and changbin wasted no time to press his fingers against your clothed heat, his finger sticking into your hole along with the fabric to make the wet patch even wetter and stickier.

“shit–are you gonna fuck me or not?” you asked, bucking your hips into his fingers as your chest jumped with each limited pump of his fingers, annoyed that his movement was held back by your panties.

“you need to learn how to be patient, baby.” changbin smirked as he mumbled down your neck, finally pulling his fingers away so he could tug your panties to the side and fully insert his digit inside. his smirk widened when you moaned, one leg moving up in instinctive response. his hand caught your thigh in time, and he brought it around his hip to move closer to you. his positioned himself at your entrance, lathering up the leaking essence before he teasingly poked the tip inside a little.

you whined when he stopped moving, your hands gripping his arms urgently as you let out soft needy whispers. changbin could feel you pull him towards you, a sign that you were still comfortable with this and you were not patient enough to wait for him to enter. neither was he patient enough to stall around, really. just the mere feeling of your wetness around his tip was driving him over the edge. he had only stopped in hopes to make sure you were okay, and it seemed that you were enthusiastic about this.

you held your breath when he pushed himself into you, his girth giving you an amazing stretch. you couldn’t be bother being surprised when he suddenly slammed a hand next to your head, his broad chest pressing up against yours as he got lost in the feeling of your tightness. a hiss sounded around your ear, changbin’s hand reaching down to push you against the wall to keep your in place before they quickly moved down to your thigh.

“up,” he commanded in a whisper.

you hopped as he told you to and he bent down to catch your legs in his arms. he pushed your back further against the door at the new position, feeling the back of your feet nudging at his side and your arms closing in around his neck. you brought his face close to yours, messily meeting his cheeks and his nose before your lips found each other again.

skin slapped against each other hotly as changbin rolled his hips into yours then, pressing your bones up against the concrete and pushing you upwards with each desperate thrust, all the while you clenched yourself around him as the soreness built up beneath your hips.

you kissed down his jaw then, returning the favor as much as you could by planting harsh kisses along his neck and his exposed shoulders. you bit onto his collarbone to leave a mark, earning a groan and a squeeze on your thigh from him. he unconsciously started to thrust harder upon the pleasurable trails you were leaving on his skin, finding the mixture of your hot breaths and the squelching sounds a very special kind of motivation for him to keep going harder.

“oh–fuck–right there, changbin!” you shamelessly screamed when his tip punctured through your sweet spot. your reaction was strong as the unexpected pleasure flew through your veins, your attention directing towards the movement down below.

and changbin could tell he found your g-spot just by the way your walls suddenly squeezed around him, the sensation so wavering and euphoric that he could barely respond to the abrupt idea that you knew who he was. not to mention how triumphant it made him feel to hear you scream his name, the ego-boost straight to his chest when he imagined the people outside listening to his name being rambled lewdly again and again.

“you like it here, hmm?” he grunted close to your face. he wasn’t sure where, but he could feel your breath closely against his so he assumed if he leaned a little closer he’d touch your mouth.

when he received no response from you, he pushed himself into you and shoved you against the door with a strong crash, his hand moving from your thigh when you were trapped tight between the door and his body to grip your jaw.

the slam buried his cock deep inside your cunt, the rough thrust making you whine out louder than when he suddenly stopped to grab your face in his hand. he huffed teasingly down your neck, the tip of his nose brushing past the hair of your skin before he stopped.

“i asked you a question, bitch,” he said through gritted teeth, the vibration of his growling voice slicing through your skin and making you whimper. “if you want it there, you better fucking beg for it.”

god, this discovery was like a revelation. it was a side of him you have never seen before since he had always been rather soft-spoken when you talked to him. but somehow you have always imagined changbin to be one to act rough during sex, mostly due to your preferences in a sexual partner. and damn, has he surprised you with this, both his stamina and his strength and, oh, his cock.

everything about him was absolutely heavenly, and you will beg for it, the same way you’ve been asking for it in your own time before.

“plea–“ a whimper cut you off when he faintly pulled out and shoved back into you sharply. pants got mixed in with your words as you squeezed your eyes shut, the joyous pain of his hand gripping your skin and the hot pouring liquid gathering in your abdomen overpowering your senses. you needed him to move, you needed changbin to help you chase your long-awaited release. “please fuck me, changbin, please.”

there was silence in the closet. the only sound reverberating through his ears were you panting out his name and asking him to wreak you up against the closet door, your voice dripping with the taste of velvet wine, hoarse from the whines and dreamy from the kisses. those were all the words changbin needed for his confidence to fly off the rails and off to space; it had no plan to get back down until he finishes both of you off.

you got pushed up against the door, your back scratching against the wall as changbin started to pound into you. you grabbed onto his arms to steady yourself at the force, not forgetting to tilt your head to give him access to your neck. his lips pressed against your skin and his cock rubbing against your walls—it was good, too good.

this was a hook-up you would be thinking about for a really long time until someone better comes along and wrecks his standards for you, and really, you doubt that man would come along anytime sooner to take changbin’s crown.

“changbin–changbin–shit, changbin–“

oh god, has he fucked you dumb? you couldn’t say anything else other than his name! his lips quirked up at that, finding it almost hilarious how with each puncture of his hips, your voice magnifies a little with his name hanging off your tongue.

“aww, i know.” he faked a pout, picking up his pace and ramming into your sweet spot. “be a good girl and come for me, hmm?”

perhaps it was the lack of daily compliments you receive from people, but something about him calling you a ‘good girl’ just got your heart all shivered up, and the rather tender soft but dirty command got you coming undone around his dick with a final cry of his name, the sticky liquid slipping through your hole and dripping out through the gaps.

changbin groaned under his breath, feeling his movement falter gradually as he continued to thrust into you to chase his own high. his hands found your face before he could lose his head and he leaned close to you, his voice soft when he asked, “can i finish off inside you?”

you heaved a sigh, wanting to retort with a witty reply but also finding it so appealing to have his cum all warm and stuffed up inside your pussy. you gave him a faint nod, closing your arms around his frame. “yes, please.”

you didn’t have to ask him so politely like that but changbin wasn’t complaining about it. with one final push, the friction sent him over the edge and he released himself inside you. a long, heavy exhale left his lips then, his head thrown back when he was finally able to relieve himself of the tension cooped up at the tip.

for a moment after everything was done, it was just the warmth shared between the two of you and the heavy breathes that resonated among the air. the tingling sensation of your essence dripping down your cunt gave you was almost ticklish, and the hot skin of changbin’s biceps a handle you never wanted to let go of. your legs were shaking slightly from the aftermath, and changbin was running his thumb in a circular motion to soothe you down as best as he could.

“that… wow,” you said, a small huff of laughter bubbling up your lips.

“thank you,” he mumbled with a smile. “you weren’t so bad yourself… with the blowjob, if you know what i mean.”

“thank you.” you giggled. “and you’re welcome.”

changbin scoffed a little as he put you down on the ground. as if on cue, someone from outside banged on the door, and minho’s voice rang through with a threat to expose your naked bodies if you two don’t head back outside. you and changbin immediately scrambled for your pants, laughing slightly when he threw a mindless insult at his friend.

“okay, there we go.” you zipped up your pants and slowly made your way towards the door. but before you could give it a knock for the people outside to release you, changbin stopped you by putting a hand on the small of your back and moving close to you.

“hold on,” he said in faint disbelief, a hint of urgency in his voice when he felt your presence ready to leave his side. “you’re not walking out of here without telling me your name, are you?”

ah, you almost forgot about your hidden identity. pursing your lips, you contemplated the idea of revealing yourself to him. the whole reason why this encounter managed to happen so smoothly was because of the blindfold hiding you from him; what if he didn’t like you after realizing that you were just some plain jane in a few of his classes? would you be able to hand that kind of humiliation and disappointment?

the way it hit you so quickly, all of a sudden, that the man standing in front of you was still seo changbin, someone far too out of your league.

“you…” you licked your lower lip with an inhale, then you knocked on the door. “you don’t need to know my name.”

oh, but changbin does. he wasn’t exactly sure why he was so hung up on you. what he planned to just be a one-time encounter had manifested into something bigger, his chest storing up the longing for an unknown person through the sugary kisses you’ve left on his lips and the sweet tightness you’ve engulfed around his cock.

changbin has to know your name, and he planned to find out.

#stray kids dark hours #stray kids smut #skz smut #skz dark hours #changbin smut #seo changbin smut

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sezja · 3 years

Text

Mermay AU

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Ship: Guydelot/Sanson

The pier is abandoned: the docks are weatherbeaten and bleached gray, and save for a few left-behind coils of water-rotted ropes and tattered nets, there’s little evidence of its past as a haven for fishermen and ferrymen alike; it was left neglected and forgotten even before the Calamity, and time has swept on without it. But that makes it perfect for Guydelot’s purposes, and for the past few weeks, he’s made the sad little pier his personal practice platform, secure in the knowledge that no one is likely to stumble upon him as he learns the beginners’ chords Jehantel has instructed the fledgling class of newly-minted bards to practice.

Which is why it's more than a little disconcerting to suddenly realize he is being watched.

And all the more disconcerting to realize he's being watched... from the water.

The river's not easy to swim in; the current here runs fast and cold. The idea that someone might've swam all the way from - what, from Gridania proper, even? And why, just to spy on him fumbling at his harp? - is laughable, but there they are: lurking behind a nearby rock, ducking out of sight when Guydelot tries to get a better look. He'd swear he's going mad, imagining things, if he didn't keep catching half a glimpse of them, enough to be sure they're there.

So.

"You might as well show yourself," he calls, strumming a few idle notes. "No sense hiding when I already know you're there, eh? Might as well come out and get acquainted." Silence. Guydelot plucks a few more notes. "I don't bite. Don't you reckon it's rude to spy on-"

Splash. He looks up, glimpsing a wave of drifting ripples from behind the rock, but no further evidence of his elusive audience. They couldn't have gone far, not without being carried away by the current, but they haven't come ashore, nor does he spot them swimming away - the only conclusion is that they chose to dive, mad as that is. Frowning in sudden alarm, Guydelot surges to his feet, squinting into the water for any sign of someone drowning.

What he sees instead steals his breath, and once again gives him cause to question his wits.

The sunlight through the trees overhead reflects on yellow-gold scales, shining beneath the water's murky surface: a tail, that's a tail, long and powerful as a serpent's coils. Guydelot's mind offers several possibilities before providing the word mermaid, but that's ludicrous; who ever heard of a mermaid in a river? And surely if there were mermaids living in the Twelveswood, someone would've seen one before now?

But he sure does seem to be looking at one.

The creature - mermaid, whatever it is - surfaces slowly, at the foot of the pier. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, reassuringly hyuran at a glance: if Guydelot doesn't look too close below the water, he might not notice the golden tail curling around the pier's supports, or the webbing between the creature's fingers where they grip the edge of the pier, or the way the skin's not quite skin as he recognizes it. But it - he? - isn't at all hard on the eyes, not really, though Guydelot's not sure he likes the pinched frown his new fishy friend is wearing.

"Well. Hello, there."

"What is that instrument you're playing?" The creature demands, pointing at the harp. "You don't play it well, do you?"

Guydelot blinks, torn between fascination and indignation. "What-"

"Never mind, you're clearly new to it. You've improved since I first began observing you-" And just when the hells was that? Guydelot wonders. "-and if you apply yourself, you'll master it ere long."

"Now just you hold on," Guydelot cuts in, kneeling at the pier's edge. "You could introduce yourself before you critique my performance, don't you reckon?"

"Sanson." Clipped, impatient tones; clearly he's eager to get back to the meat of the issue.

"Sanson's your name? Mine's Guydelot. And you're, er..." His eyes drift downward again, below the water, to that tail where it curls innocently around the wooden dock's supports. "...You're a mermaid, then?"

Those blue eyes narrow. "A merman, actually."

You're an impossibility is what you are, Guydelot thinks, And I've probably been sitting in the sun too long. "Right, sure, of course. And you've been spying on me."

Silence. Sanson's grip on the edge of the pier tightens ever-so-slightly.

Guydelot snorts. "No sense denying it. You already said you've been observing, right? For how long?" Caught out, the merman actually looks embarrassed: it's strangely reassuring, oddly grounding. Guydelot can work with embarrassed, that's something he understands, impossible mercreature be damned. He grins. "That long, eh?"

"Only a few days!" Beneath the water, the end of Sanson's tail lashes furiously, churning the water. "I heard you playing, and saw no harm in listening..."

"No harm, no, but you could've said hello."

Sanson frowns. "Land-walkers are dangerous, and I'd no desire to fight you if you proved to be a threat."

"And I'm not a threat now, eh?" Guydelot sits down, still grinning. "Decided I'm safe for a chat, did you?"

"I should go." Sanson lets go of the pier, sinking back into the river. "I've already been too long away-"

Guydelot leans forward, peering down at him. "Will you come back?"

Indecision plays over Sanson's face, as surely as the sunlight reflecting off the water's surface, and it occurs to Guydelot suddenly that he's beautiful: all his strangeness aside, there's a striking loveliness there. The sort of thing he might write songs about someday. The tale of meeting a merman at the river's edge might make for a charming little ditty.

And it occurs to him just as suddenly that he very much wants to see Sanson again, critiques about his budding harping notwithstanding.

"...Will you play again if I do?"

For you? "Aye, well, I mean to be a bard. It's a poor bard I'd be if I didn't keep at it, eh? I'll even sing a little."

Sanson smiles, and it sends a thrill down Guydelot's spine.

"Then I'll come back."

He dives, and is gone.

#sanson smyth #guydelot thildonnet #my writing #mermay #I DID IT.

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bubbyleh · 3 years

Text

Do I Know You? - Chapter 7

read this chapter on ao3! check out the rest of this series on tumblr!

Chapter 7: Redacted Version An idea of the truth.

- ○ -

Getting to know your long-lost sibling around thirty-nine years after they disappeared is certainly something. It’s difficult sometimes for Kleiner to reconcile the adult sitting across from him with the baby he knew so long ago, but he’s trying! And though Bubby isn’t really one to offer up much in the way of personal anecdotes, even hearing the odd story from five years ago from Coomer is nice.

At first, Kleiner told himself he wouldn’t press. He had no starry-eyed, idealized notion of Black Mesa in his head. The facility was fucked up beyond measure, and the thought of Bubby growing up surrounded by that? It was one he wanted to shove into a trash can in his mind.

But Bubby didn’t seem to want to talk about it, and Kleiner wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

Slowly, though, that changed. The incidents were small initially, but Bubby began to open up slightly. Like how during one of their regular coffee meetings, Kleiner asked a bit about the conversation he’d overheard in Chemical Engineering.

“Oh, that,” Bubby grimaces. “That was Dr. Daniels. He’s been in charge of my project for as long as I can remember. He died not long after that night .”

“Good,” Kleiner says in response to that last fact, a statement that throws Bubby for a loop. They look unsure, avoiding Kleiner’s gaze for the briefest of moments and slouching forward. Suddenly, though, their eyes widen, and they sit right back up.

“Yeah, you’re right,” they finally say. “It is good.”

Bubby places their mug on the table, brow furrowing as they stare at the coffee, gently swishing. And something about it threatens to tear Kleiner’s heart apart. The wrongness of it all. Bubby shouldn’t have memories like that—of Dr. Daniels. They were supposed to grow up together, in a small house at the end of the street. Instead, they were in Kleiner’s admittedly cramped kitchen, trying to catch up on a lifetime of memories.

It’s unfair.

Kleiner takes a sip of his coffee.

“Bubby,” he manages to ask. “Have you ever thought about leaving Black Mesa?”

And Bubby frowns. “That’s… complicated.” They fiddle with the edge of their mug.

“How so?”

“Well,” Bubby sighs. “It’s not that I want to stay at Black Mesa, it’s more that… I don’t technically have a doctorate, you know. And I’m not qualified to do anything else. If I want a job, it’s gotta be here.”

Oh. Right. Actually, Kleiner hadn’t really thought about that, but it did make sense that Black Mesa wouldn’t be able to just hand Bubby a degree. Hell, it might actually be a bit of a warning sign if they could.

“But, also…” In the most simple of motions, Bubby smiles. “Harold’s here. You’re here, Isaac.” He brings his mug up to his mouth, but pauses to clarify, “You two are doing great work. I wouldn’t ask you to leave it, and I won’t leave either of you.”

Bubby’s clearly trying to keep their tone casual, but their words feel significant to Kleiner. They hold a weight to them; a promise.

- ○ -

The Hanukkah photo was the first step. It took a while, but the longer Bubby saw it and got used to it, the more he realized he was curious. The baby in that photo looks so happy to be with their brother, and it’s hard to imagine that that’s

him

. A little person whose family adored them. And maybe, if they see the rest of Kleiner’s photos, he’ll at least understand a bit about who that person could have been.

Isaac, of course, was thrilled by the prospect of sharing Bubby’s baby pictures. He’d promised to dig up as many as he could and bring them over, since Black Mesa’s singles dorms aren’t really great for receiving guests in. Once Harold had found out about the plan, though, he’d been eager to invite himself to the viewing. Actually, he’d been practically giddy about it.

Maybe they should be worried about that…

…

Oh this was a mistake.

Before they can really consider cancelling, though, there’s a knock at the door. And when Bubby opens the door to the sight of Kleiner holding a small cardboard box, it’s only then that he realizes that tonight is going to be extremely embarrassing.

- ○ -

“Oh, look at this one! He has to be less than an hour old, here!”

“My goodness, he’s adorable!”

Bubby has to resist every urge not to hide his red face behind his hands, because some poor part of his brain still really wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Unfortunately, Coomer does as well, and if they have to hear one more time about how they were the cutest thing to ever grace the planet, then they’re going to explode.

What’s even worse, though, is that Coomer brought out his own collection.

“You should see this one.” He slides a picture over to Kleiner. “They thought they were so cool!”

Bubby just barely catches a glance of a photo of himself when he was, what? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? Couldn’t have been too long after he started dating Coomer, actually.

“Wait a fucking second.” Bubby snatches the photo before Kleiner can get that good of a look. They do look younger, with a scowl on their face pointed somewhere offscreen. “I don’t remember you taking this.”

“Ah, well.” Finally, Coomer has the audacity to look at least a bit sheepish. “I made sure you weren’t looking.”

Bubby squints back down at the picture. “Why?”

“I thought you looked nice,” Coomer admits matter-of-factly.

And after a brief reprieve, Bubby’s flushed face returns in full force. This time, though, he draws his knees to his chest and buries his face in them.

“You two are killing me,” Bubby mumbles, holding the picture out for Isaac.

Kleiner plucks it from their hands. “You’re fine,” he insists.

“I will die, and it will be your fault.”

There’s a sound of papers shifting, followed by Kleiner muttering, “Hang on a moment…”

Bubby peeks out.

“I think that was it, actually,” Kleiner sighs. Almost instinctively, he reaches over and pats Bubby’s head, earning himself a glare. “You disappeared when you were around thirteen months. That’s not a lot of time…”

Kleiner’s eyes seem fixed on the photo of the newborn in his hand, though. He brushes it with his pointer finger, and in the back of Bubby’s mind, something clicks into place. They stand abruptly, much to their brother’s surprise.

“Fine,” Bubby states. “Give me a second.”

They loop around the couch, and after blindly fumbling under it for a moment, their hand finally finds purchase on what they were looking for. With a flourish, Bubby holds up their file, shaking off the dust that’s accumulated.

“Is that where you’ve been hiding that?” Coomer asks.

“Don’t worry, it’s getting a new hiding spot after tonight,” Bubby reveals. He settles back on the couch, clutching the file tightly. “Now, let me set the ground rules: This is a selective process, which means I reserve the right to withhold any picture I see fit.” He glares at the two of them. “No sneaking.”

Kleiner nods, and Coomer chimes in with “Understood!”

Bubby takes a deep breath before they open their file again. It’s been a while—a long while—since they last did, but everything is just as they left it. In fact, he thinks he might know where the first good picture is as he flips forwards slightly.

“Alright.” They undo the paperclip, slipping the photo to Kleiner. “This is me and Dr. Cynthia, one of the good ones. The notes say I was around fourteen months here.”

Dr. Cynthia had taken an immediate liking to Bubby, and judging by the picture, the feeling was mutual. She held him up to the camera with such a happy look on her face. Bubby’s struck with the thought that it was the first time in over a month that someone had loved him.

And Isaac has tears welling up in his eyes.

“No, shit,” Bubby struggles. “Don’t cry, fuck.” They pull Kleiner into a hug without really thinking.

Kleiner wipes away the few tears that escaped. “I’m fine, Bubby, seriously,” he says, but his voice sounds shaky. “It’s just… I didn’t get to see you grow up.”

Oh.

Crap.

“Okay, we don’t have to look at them anymore-” Bubby tries to put the file down.

“No wait!” Kleiner’s almost frantic as he grabs onto Bubby’s wrist. He takes a breath. “I want to see them.”

“You’re sure?”

Kleiner nods.

“Alright.” Bubby shakes his hand off them. “But we’re taking a break if you need it.”

- ○ -

Seeing the rest of Bubby’s childhood was certainly a mixed bag of emotions. They were such a cute little kid. There was a picture of them after they got their first pair of glasses, with a smile bright enough to light up a room. And then in their teenage years, their facial expressions gradually melted into “teen angst”. It was especially funny when Kleiner held up a picture of Bubby pouting when he was a baby, and they realized he was making the same face in both photographs.

Kleiner loved it, truly, but there was an underlying melancholy to it all. He should have seen this all himself. Bubby was taken away from their family, and for what?

That question sticks in their head. For what? Bubby’s clearly been skipping over large parts of their childhood, ignoring the bad parts and sharing the good. And that makes sense, of course, but…

Well, Kleiner read that first paper. Bubby was taken for augmentation and enhancement.

They did something to him.

“I’ll see you sometime next week,” Bubby promises as they see Kleiner out of their dorm. “Maybe we’ll do another dinner?”

“That would be nice,” Kleiner agrees. He’d stayed later than he meant to, but the trams would run for another hour or so. He has time for goodbyes.

“I’ll talk to you about it at work!” Harold calls from the seating area, where he’s still sorting the picture mess.

Bubby rolls their eyes, but they lean in, pulling Kleiner into another hug. “Thank you.”

Kleiner’s always happy about some genuine emotion from their sibling, but it’s a bit sudden. “Why are you thanking me?”

“I don’t know, really,” Bubby chuckles to himself. “Being my brother, I guess? Accepting me?”

“Like I wouldn’t welcome you back.” Kleiner returns the hug for a brief moment, before pulling back. “I’ll look at my schedule next week.”

Bubby waves his brother off. “Bye, Isaac.”

“Bye Bubby.”

And Isaac Kleiner decides. He is going to get his hands on that file.

#hlvrai #half life vr but the ai is self aware #hlvrai boomer #boomer #boomer content back :)#dr bubby #bubby #dr coomer #isaac kleiner #my writing #do i know you

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kaesaaurelia · 4 years

Text

nature is healing

For @whumptober2020 day 28: Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops (specifically "accidents" and "hunting season").

Continues on from day two, wherein Aziraphale was kidnapped by very health-conscious Satanists, day nine, wherein we find out how Crowley got there, and what the Satanists are after, day ten, wherein the Satanists took a lot of Aziraphale’s blood and made a potion, day sixteen, wherein they fed the potion to Crowley, who is no longer thinking clearly, and not entirely sure what he should do with this delicious prey the Satanists have given him, day twenty-one, wherein Aziraphale would be a very happy monsterfucker but being bitten by a venomous snake is a bit much, and day twenty-five, wherein Crowley is himself once more, and Aziraphale gets them both free.

Aziraphale/Crowley; not explicit, but many allusions to sex, xeno, and sex pollen; also discussion of 2020 Stuff. Implication of offscreen physical violence and psychological torment.

Aziraphale watched Crowley slither off, and then sat in one of the very uncomfortable, badly-warped pews of the ruined church to clear his head for a few moments. Poor thing, he was all wound up now. At least maybe he could take some of that aggression out on the Satanists.

What happened after that... well. Aziraphale would try not to get his hopes up too much, but he thought that probably after this he had learned his lesson about hoping for Crowley to break the rules and come see him during quarantine.

Aziraphale overheard shouting from outside the ruined church. He miraculously replaced some of his lost blood -- not all of it at once, that didn't always go well -- and wandered outside to see what the ruckus was about.

He poked his head out of the door to the church and saw Crowley, still extraordinarily serpentine, gripping the leader of the Satanists by the neck and holding him about a foot off the ground.

Crowley was speaking too quietly for Aziraphale to hear, but he imagined that whatever he'd said to the fellow must have hit home, because he was shaking like a leaf. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said. Crowley shook his head in disgust and slithered away. He was terribly handsome, Aziraphale couldn't help but think. Although he did hope Crowley wasn't stuck that way; he'd be so put out about having to refit his car so he could drive it without feet. And there would be no more of those very tight trousers he'd been wearing for the past few decades.

Aziraphale supposed he ought to go and offer comfort to the Satanist, even though the fellow had tried to kill him; it was only polite. "Hello," he said, ambling over to the man, who was still sitting in the middle of a dirt path.

"I'm sorry, I'm -- I'm sorry!" the man told him, shivering. He began to sob.

"Yes, well, all water under the bridge," said Aziraphale, agreeably. He ignored a horrified screech from another one of the Satanists. Might've been the one who'd been looking forward to the fires, now Aziraphale thought about it. He decided that that wasn't important. Crowley would do what he felt was best. But a lovely thought occurred to him. "You don't happen to have a copy of that recipe you used, do you? For reference," he added quickly, "not to use, obviously." And, in fairness, this was not entirely a lie; he wanted to see if it had any nasty side effects that might hurt Crowley down the road. But, also, if... if there weren't any nasty side effects, and if Crowley was amenable...

"I'm -- oh, oh, god, I'm sorry," said the Satanist, wiping his tears away on the very elaborately-embroidered sleeves of his robe and reaching one shaky hand inside his robe to pull out a worn, folded scrap of paper.

"Thank you very much," said Aziraphale, smiling at the Satanist. But the man didn't stop weeping, and Aziraphale's face fell. "Good Lord, what did he do to you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't -- I didn't want --"

Aziraphale cut him off by putting a hand to the man's forehead and looking inside him. "Ah," he said. "I see. Well. You did want that, didn't you? In a way."

"I'm sorry!" he said, lost in his own head.

Aziraphale knew he would gradually come back to himself, but he'd always remember having slain two people in a poorly thought-out but surprisingly effective Satanic ritual, and he would have to live with that for the rest of his life. "Chin up," he told the man. "At least now you know you're not cut out for this sort of thing. Takes some of us a lot longer to work that out." And he wandered off towards the van.

"No, no, please!" he heard somebody shout. Wherever that unfortunate cultist and Crowley were, Aziraphale couldn't see them, and he ignored the shouting as he leaned up against the van they'd kidnapped him with and perused the recipe.

It did not appear to be designed with an angel in mind; that little wrinkle had been added by the Satanists. In fact, Aziraphale couldn't really tell if this was a ritual to get a demon to go after somebody you didn't like, or a ritual to summon up a demon for... personal and private amusements. Aziraphale felt it would have been easier to just go to an appropriate venue -- a private club, say -- and engage in polite conversations and lovely meals and let things take their course, if one was lonely in this particular way. He did not pretend to understand the ways of human demonologists, though. And he couldn't really fault them for finding demons attractive.

"Help! Somebody? Anybody!" a man cried in the distance.

There'd been six cultists; Crowley had dealt with four of them. Aziraphale still had a bit of time. He squinted at the recipe.

Was it possible -- oh no, Aziraphale thought, that was silly, why would anyone do that?

Desperation, perhaps? And a lack of knowledge of the fundamentals?

It had been an awfully bad year.

Given that, Aziraphale began to suspect that the Satanists' precursors had failed to keep particularly good records, and these particular ones, in their desire to quickly pull together a ritual to make things better, had accidentally combined two potions; one to set a vicious demon against one's enemies, and the other to summon an amorous demon. And now poor Crowley was a bit of both.

His eyes settled on the note at the bottom. Effects to last until demon has taken (?) its target. And underneath that, with an arrow pointing at the word taken, the same hand had written How is this defined???

Aziraphale could think of several ways he might have defined taken in this context, but perhaps that was wishful thinking.

"No, no, let me go! I’ll give you anything! Please, don’t hurt me!" Aziraphale heard one of the Satanists shout. That was number five. He supposed he ought to be getting ready to go, then.

Aziraphale opened the door to the van, and then remembered that these things needed keys to start, too. Of course, he could just make the thing start, but he was woozy and he'd rather just have the keys.

He wandered back to the head of the cultists. "So sorry to trouble you again," he said, "but I'm going to need to borrow the keys to your van."

Apologizing and sobbing, the man fumbled around for a few moments before producing a handful of jangling keys.

"Thank you!" said Aziraphale, brightly, and left him alone again to go to the van. He wondered if there were any snacks in it. That was supposed to help with blood loss, wasn't it? Aziraphale thought he'd earned it.

He was just opening the back of the van to look when he heard Crowley shout, "Angel!" He looked to see Crowley slithering over, carrying the last Satanist by the scruff of her jacket. It was the one called Gemma, who'd got all the ingredients for the potion. "That'ss the lot of them."

"I thought you were going to deal with them all," said Aziraphale, frowning at her. "What do you expect me to do, I'm not going to smite anyone."

Crowley dumped her on the ground in front of the van. "No, you idiot, 'coursse I don't want you to ssmite her, but we need a driver. I can't drive like thiss," he said, gesturing down at his scaly torso.

"Well -- I mean... I could do it," said Aziraphale, feeling a bit overlooked.

"No, no, no, angel, have you even got a licssensse?" Crowley asked.

"Have you?" Aziraphale asked; he was going to be very surprised if the answer was yes.

"That'ss not the point," Crowley said.

"Well, how hard can it be? I've watched you drive plenty of times," said Aziraphale. “You barely even look at the road. And you take your hands off the wheel all the time.”

Crowley looked taken aback by this. "How -- how hard can it -- angel, what'ss -- why do you --"

"Excuse me?" Gemma asked, brushing herself off and standing. "Hey! Hello?"

"Thiss iss not your problem," said Crowley, waving her off. "Angel, do you want to learn to drive?" he asked. "Becausse I'd -- I'd be willing to show you -- but right now I'm in no sstate to --"

"Excuse me," said Gemma, again.

"Not now," Aziraphale snapped at her. He turned back to Crowley. "I don't really want to drive, only -- is she even willing to do it?"

"Willing doessn't really come into it," said Crowley. "She wasss part of thiss whole thing and she'ss not horrible enough to punish in any of the ways I could think of sso --"

"Fuck's sake, I'll drive, I haven't got transportation otherwise," said Gemma. She grabbed the keys from Aziraphale. "Thank you," she said, and stomped around the other side of the van to get into the driver's seat.

"Well. That'ss ssettled, issn't it," said Crowley, smugly.

"Out of curiosity, what exactly did you do to the others? And why didn't you do it to her?"

"I gave them all exactly what they thought they wanted," said Crowley, "but then..." He rolled his eyes. "I found her hiding in a tree trying to get recsseption sso she could look up how to de-esscalate a demon ssummoning without phoning the police."

Aziraphale processed this. "De... escalate?"

"All she sseemed to want out of thiss wass a fun ssocial event without loadss of people about, and then they sstuck her with the grocsseriess and she felt obligated. D'you know, she wass the virgin ssacrifice Mr. Fancssy Robess mentioned earlier?"

Aziraphale made a face. "Oh dear."

"Apparently Ssatanisstss are rubbish in bed, though, which, I mean, I could've told her that," said Crowley. "I told her to get an app or ssomething."

"Or, you know... mail order... devices," said Aziraphale, trying to strike a balance between sounding very worldly and not sounding like someone who'd actually sampled such devices. He tried especially to not sound like he'd gone with mail order because the devices he wanted were too esoteric for the shop next door to carry.

Crowley grinned. "You gonna give her ssome recommendationss, angel?" he asked.

"No! No," said Aziraphale, firmly.

"Come on, let'ss get back to London," said Crowley. "I can't turn back -- I tried -- sso I think I'd better ride in the back where there's room. You can be in the front, keep her out of trouble, ssort of thing," he suggested.

"Of course," said Aziraphale. "And... about changing back... I think you had better come stay with me at the bookshop until we sort that out."

"I... I don't think that'ss a good idea," said Crowley. He looked very worried about this, for some reason.

"I got the recipe for their nasty little potion, and I think I know how to get you turned back," said Aziraphale. "But I'd rather discuss that in private. So. Have her drop us both off at the bookshop?"

Crowley looked pensive. "Yeah," he said, finally. "All right."

"It'll be all right, Crowley," said Aziraphale, smiling at him. "And if it isn't, you know, we'll just... find a way to make everyone think you're normal."

"We will, will we?" Crowley asked.

"The snake people of London are returning to terrorize the streets in vintage cars once again," said Aziraphale, loftily. "Nature is healing."

It was the first genuine smile he'd got out of Crowley in -- well, in months, actually. So that was something, anyway.

[next part]

#whumptober2020 #no.28 #such wow. many normal. very oops #accidents #hunting season #good omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #fiction #dubcon #sex pollen #xeno #slightly spicy #text #kaesa op

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ofieugogyshz · 4 years

Text

Fic; Yearning for Adventure

Word Count: 2600

no tws / super fluffy, lovey-dovey content / self-ship content

Summary: Sometimes it’s hard being away from someone who feels like home. Someone who’s so busy, who puts so much on their plate, and not being able to help them with it. All you can do is wait, wait, and wait, hoping that maybe, one day, they’ll make the decision for themselves...

inspired by that one fucking uquiz and two lovedrunk fools crashing hands against their keyboards, cranking out things to fluster the other based off those uquiz results.

I mean, uh. I really love my husband and I want him to come home damnit.

As always, I love to hear comments and what you thought of it! :D rbs encouraged!

----------------------------------------------------

We agreed to meet up somewhere when he was done with the current job he was on. The current Pokemon G-Man mission he was on had kept him away for awhile, a bit longer than the jobs he had been taking in recent years. He called me every so often, usually at the end of his day when he could, and if he didn't think it was too late. (It was never too late for me.) Some days we joked about how we still managed to have such a great marriage in spite of his work; a job that he had been considering asking for less of, so he could spend more time focusing on other factors in his life: the league, the clan, his mentee... his relationship with me. He said that he thought it wasn't fair to continue to ask so much of me, for how often we were kept apart sometimes. But I always told him that I knew what I signed up for, and that any complaints I gave him were always promptly taken care of; it wasn't of concern to me.

At least, that's what I told him. I always told him that, but I'm sure he knew that that wasn't the case. How often I had asked him to take time off from everything and go with me to visit Alola; a few times just half-joking when everything was stressful, that maybe we should just pack up and move there, even though neither of us had ever been. (He didn't like the joke too much, being such a responsible person, but he understood that I never meant seriously.) Even when we went to Galar for his match against its Champion, we could only stay a week; and I found myself longing to extend our stay, despite having put aside the notion of adventure, of having finally taking a break to just stay put and find a new, everyday routine. I'm sure it was the same for him; he looked as though he wanted to stay longer, and reconnect with the Gym Leader of the local Dragon-type Gym. But, work beckoned. A week off was all that the league could afford him, and he was already set up for a new mission when we got back.

I had really wondered if he was okay with living like this still. So when I heard him say this one night, over the phone, that he was considering limiting his time with them, I felt my heart jump in my chest. He never said anything that he wasn't serious about, and I... I really wanted to believe him. But for all the love and joy that he's brought into my life, I've been far too used to being denied things, especially in my younger years. I've trained myself not to expect too much of it, even though, when he said something... I always wanted to believe. I usually did. This though... This just felt too good to be true. So I was cautiously optimistic, cautiously hopeful, that maybe his words would ring true. But he was only considering it. Considering... It didn't guarantee an answer, but it had been on his mind for awhile.

That was a relief to know.

Even though the match was considered official league business, they did allow us a free week stay at a hotel. The vacation was much needed. This short little vacation where he was pardoned from all other work, all other responsibilities taken care of for a time. We weren't the same kids as we were when we met, two kids, two teens, on their own separate journeys; we had a lot more responsibilities expected of us as adults. I remember the thought flickering through my mind about how tired he looked, trying to split himself up so many ways; and how, here, during that week off, did I see him get the rest that he needed. The rest that needed, he deserved, from having too much on his plate. ...I wanted to believe that, maybe, one day, it could be like that everyday. I did my best to enjoy it while it last.

My Dragonite shifted her head, listening. Pika stopped her playing as well, ears twitching, a curious expression on her little face as she looked in the same direction as Augusta. I stuck my head out of the mountainside cave, the little cliff that jettisoned over part of Route 45. I pushed my glasses up, squinting, trying to see anything. Augusta snorted, a puff of air coming out of her nostrils, as she crossed her arms. Guess it was nothing. I gave my Dragonite a suspicious look, and she closed her eyes, pretending not to see. Meanwhile, my Pikachu continued to look around.

“Pikapi!!” exclaimed Pika, pointing above. I turned my head up, pouting when I saw the silhouette.

“Aw, man. I was going to try and surprise you.”

“Must be why she,” I said, nodding in the direction of my Dragonite, “suddenly went quiet.” I could just imagine him gesturing for her to be quiet as his Dragonite flew in, hovering above the cave entrance; my Pikachu, on the other hand, was not so great at unspoken signals. Especially when she was nearly as excited as I was to see my husband.

“I didn't think Pika was going to be around.”

“Oh, really? My partner Pokemon from when I was nine?”

“You know what I meant.”

“I do! Now get off that Dragonite and greet your wife properly!” I said, pouting at him again.

He laughed, jumping down as his Pokemon lowered close to the cave's entrance. Even though I usually found it cool when he jumped off, watching his cape fluttering behind him as he somehow always managed to stick his landing, I didn't waste a single second of this reunion, and found myself running to hug him, squeezing him tight. He returned my embrace, kissing me gently on the head. We held each other like that, quietly enjoying each other's presence. Time was on our side for the moment, as we breathed in the other's scent. Relishing that moment's peace.

“I missed you too,” he said slowly, hesitantly, as though breaking the silence first would cause the moment to be over, and time would once again resume, our adult lives parting us once more as responsibilities came to claim us.

“I missed you,” I said, looking up at his face. He looked like he was tired, but the sight of me had given him some relief from whatever stressors his mission had given him. I wanted to kiss that exhaustion away, and leaned in to do so...

Only to be tapped lightly in the face with a letter.

Well, that was unromantic.

I pursed my lips, pouting at him again, as I pulled the letter he held away from my face. “What's this?” I asked, a little grumbly. It had better been good to interrupt that, I thought. And he knew it too.

“Well....” he began, starting to look a little bashful. I raised an eyebrow, curious. He was usually the better of the two of us when it came to confidently and clearly speaking. “Those nights when I thought it was too late to call you--”

“You know I'm nocturnal, it wouldn't've been too late.”

He cleared his throat, and I took it as a cue to let him talk without interrupting. Not an easy feat for me, but for him? I could try. I crossed my arms and waited, letting him take the podium once more.

“It's a letter for you. I wrote you one.”

My face flushed instantly. I grabbed the envelope, looking it over and trying not to make my fluster obvious. (As though I could ever hide it from him.)

“Lance! Are you frickin' serious? I can't believe you would-- Honey, please.” I threw down my hands, letter still in hand, reluctantly accepting my flustered fate with resignation. I sighed, giving up, and held the letter close to me once more, looking at it again. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know, I know. But... I haven't written you one in awhile, and, well, there were some things that I thought might be better said on paper. Especially with your memory,” he teased. I smacked his arm with the letter. “Ow!”

“Pff. You and I both know that didn't hurt.”

“It hurt my ego,” he said, giving me a sad face. He was using one of my own tactics against me.

“Oh stop that.” I rolled my eyes. My fingers traced over the back of the envelope, where the letter had been sealed inside. I waited. He didn't say anything, but watched me instead. “What?”

“I... Actually I wanted to see you read it. It's not long, I promise.”

My face, which had been cooling off from its earlier fluster, heated up once more. “E-eh? Uh... Um...” I fumbled around for my words, not even sure of what I was trying to think. It was embarrassing, for one, to think about him watching me read the words he carefully chose and picked out for me. And I was already so easy to fluster in person...

“What's wrong?”

“U-um... Nothing. Nothing, really.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm my shuddering nerves. “I'm just not used to this... I mean, it's been awhile since we've exchanged letters, and, well, usually we weren't face to face if we ever read them around the other.... I think.” I tried to think of a time when something like this happened before, but nothing came to mind. Memories of us as teens, meeting up, sharing our letters with one another; whatever we had meant to send out on our way to a meetup spot were shared during those moments, sitting next to each other, leaning into each other. Arms wrapped around the recipient, chins on shoulders as we watched with bated breath our datemate read, pressing our faces against the other's back... okay maybe that last one was mostly me. Memories of reading by candlelight during a storm in this particular spot came to mind. I briefly wondered if those initials I carved when I was sixteen were still somewhere, or if time or a Pokemon wore away at the wall that I inscribed them on. Maybe I was still too busy processing the unexpected turn of events to think of any other time except those.

I heaved another sigh, quickly accepting my fate, and opened the letter. I didn't read it aloud, at any rate, so I at least was spared that embarrassment. Though... to say his words were embarrassing would have been an insult that he did not deserve. He never shied away from telling me that he loved me, and there was not a soul that had spent any time around him that could doubt it. He treasured me greatly, and often went to great lengths to remind me of it. Even right now. I found myself skimming far quicker than my brain could process, various words standing out to me all at once, and I felt a quivering in my lips at the thought that went into them. I peeked my eyes out from behind the letter to glance at him. He usually enjoyed watching me do anything, but this was the one time I think he had managed to keep his glance askew, distracted with greeting my two Pokemon. I took a deep breath and tried again to swim through the words, letting them flow back into the sentences they once formed, and read it again, and again, all the way through, until it was done in one go.

I finally threw the letter down again, running to hug him again.

“You... You know you don't have to write me letters, right?”

“Sometimes, you need something a little more memorable. It at least kept me busy some nights without you.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You're silly sometimes, you know that?”

“I know.”

He kissed the top of my head again. He pulled back a little, cupping my face; starting at my jawline, gently tracing the sides of my face with his thumbs, his hands gliding until they rested just under my ears, tucking his hands in to the loose hair that had gathered there. I felt myself pulled in for a kiss, softly, as though he were taking gentle care of something that he revered. I draped my arms over his shoulders, hands linking at the back of his neck.

I loved our kisses. The ones when we had been apart for awhile, they never ceased to be amazing, some sort of magical moment that still managed to make my heart skip a beat. It was a release for all that tension that came from being apart, a relief that we were together again. Passion still beat beneath that, restrained, as though we were desperate to let the other know that we were missed, but we kept it back, used it to keep our kiss going, lips locked, never wanting to be apart once more. Never to be left longing again. There was a bittersweet feeling in the air as our lips pulled away slightly, heads pressed together.

“Having you to come back to... It's what makes the job worthwhile.”

I nuzzled him, kissing his cheek. “You're just saying that.”

“I mean it, Sarah. You're what keeps me going; I look forward to coming home to you.”

My face flushed once more, and I buried it in the crook of his neck. His hands came to rest on my back, and he held me tight. I whined against his chest, embarrassed. As always, I lacked the words to pinpoint the feelings it gave me whenever he said that; I always used to assume he just said those things to be romantic, when we were younger. But I quickly realized that whatever he said, he meant; and every single thing he had ever said since always made my heart jump. Even the cheesy ones.

He pulled me away a little to kiss me once more. I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning in to his kiss. A smile played its way onto our lips. We laughed, giggling, trying to kiss each other only for our lips to part. My mind played back what he said, as we kissed, the mirthful laughter still intermittent. Before we could get lost in our reunion, I pulled away, looking at his eyes.

“Does this mean that you're still going to be working the same hours with the G-Men?”

“Hm. I haven't been able to discuss it with them yet, but I did start filling out a request form to change my availability with them. It's been a long time coming, and I'm sure my colleagues there will be relieved to hear that I'm finally giving myself a break. Though, I will miss a lot of the adventures that job brings...”

My eyes widened as I listened to him. I had questions that I wanted to ask him about it, about what he meant specifically, what hours he had in mind, how come he never took this time before if others at this job were downright concerned for his well-being, but none of the right words would come to mind.

“Wow. What are you ever going to do with all that free time?” I asked, half teasing.

“I'm not sure. I'm hoping maybe spend more time with you.” He kissed me on the cheek, and I buried my face again, laughing into his chest.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I hope you do too.”

#pokemon #champion lance #pokemon lance #self ship pokemon #pokemon self ship #self ship writing #self ship community #pokemon selfship #pokemon selfshipping #selfship community #selfship writing #i'm missing tags im sure #oh yeah #pokemon fanfic #pokemon fic #writing #my writing #yearning for adventure

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insomniac-dot-ink · 4 years

Text

The Unmaker

genre: modern horror fairy tale

words: 2.8k

summary: a young woman encounters a unicorn in an alleyway

It was closer to midnight than it was sunset and my phone was ringing. The apartment was unlit and smelled of the burnt cheese on toast I made for dinner. The ceiling was a swamp of shadows and I couldn’t remember if I put on pajamas before I got into bed that night.

My cheap IKEA bedside table vibrated violently and I reached over with sightless fingers. Normally, I wouldn’t answer such calls, but it was closer to midnight than sunset and this had to be the fourth call.

“What?” I slurred into the receiver.

“Lilly?” A voice asked in a hush. “Lil, girl, you’re a virgin, right?” I cracked my eyes open and clenched my jaw, “What? Are you calling me just to ask--” “You have to come over here.” Katie Reynolds said slowly. “Like, right outside my apartment, right now.” I glanced down and realized I was still in my rumpled jeans no doubt making topographical maps of my skin. “I literally cannot imagine what you need me for at this hour… And how that’s related to my sex life?” “It’s cool, dude,” she whispered slowly. “But you have to come see this. Remember our classic beasts class? Remember about harvest moons?” I sat up properly and started reaching for a grungy bra I flung to the side earlier or else a heavy enough sweater. “Uh, yeah?” “It’s the harvest moon. It’s by my apartment. Oh shit, gotta go,” something crumpled in the background and Katie squealed, “just get your ass over here!” I fumbled my way out of bed and toward the dresser to put myself together. My tangled hair wasn’t important but my mouth tasted like you could forage for mushrooms in it from the grittiness alone. It hadn’t been an easy few months since I had been kicked out.

I brushed my teeth in lazily circles while I walked around the small apartment and found my shoes on opposite ends of the room as a clearly divorced couple. I got them back together and was out the door and onto the street just as a hazy layer of rain started to come down.

I had sold my car when the first rent payment had been due, but Katie only lived a few blocks from me. It was a Tuesday so the streets were practically empty except for a few cars with their brights on high and the city riff-raff wondering the nooks and crannies of the night. Nameless people passed at a fast-walk and the sky was bulky with heavy clouds. The yellowed street lights appeared faded and unreal through the mist as I walked.

I turned left onto Katie’s block and narrowed my eyes as the sheen of water seemed to grow thicker there. I looked behind me and then back to the street lamps on the block, and then back, the lights seemed to be more subdued on Katie’s block, like their light didn’t quite reach the ground.

I took a deep breath and kept walking.

With every step I took the air seemed to get slightly more shadowed and more hazy from the drizzle. I put my hood up over my damp curls and there was a certain hush in the air: quiet and electric all at once.

“Katie?” I whispered as I came up to the first side street. “Kate?” I stopped as I heard a series of muffled sobs. Someone was sniffing and silently crying to themselves.

I hurried to the next side street where the choked crying grew louder. I turned and found Katie in the middle of the alley with her face in her hands. She was wearing her regular gym clothes and a high golden ponytail with a hundred bobby pins stick to the side of her head.

But she was slumped over. Her generous height reduced to nothing and she was shaking slightly. I put my hand out to pat her but hesitated, “Hey,” I said instead, “it’s Lilly. I’m here.” She peaked through her hands and her mouth was fixed in a pressed frown. She nodded over to the end of the alleyway. The excitement from her original phone call was gone, but there was an urgency to her movements.

I turned quickly and there was a soft glow coming from the end of the short alley. Two hulking trash bins the color of pine needles and green wine bottles sat on either side of the dark street. The concrete led to a couple of black trash bags with slashes down the side.

The area itself was breathlessly dim and there was something thick and textured about the darkness there. Unnatural.

The light was sucked from the air and concentrated on the figure tucked behind one of the huge trash bins. A soft silvery light echoed from the corner-- a rainbow in one color and arches of pale glow that shimmered in the air and hung before me.

I took one hesitant step forward as I remembered what our Classical Beasts professor said: during the harvest moon often classic creatures will be drawn to their historical homeland. They remember feeding there in ancient times and return ritualistically.

My heart stuttered in my chest and skin crawled like ants climbing up my arm. “Hello?” The word barely left my mouth and I slowly rounded the corner of the bin.

A figure came into view and I gasped with a small shudder from my very core. It wasn’t big. It was delicate as a glass figurine in your grandmother’s cupboard and only came up to my waist in height.

The creature was slim and breakable-looking with fur the color of winter mornings and white so white it hurt. It was like looking at the negative of a photograph, it was white but in all the wrong ways. It’s fur glowed softly and its hooves were silver and gnarled.

I would never have called it a horse. It’s legs were too thin and face too fragile, long and regal and with a curling lovely white main that fell over it’s round eyes. They were intelligent eyes with a pink sheen and stars caught in them.

It’s horn was long and straight and wound round and round into an ugly looking point. It slowly raised its head and a tin can was hanging from its lips.

It was grazing as it would have centuries ago when this area was a clearing or a field. Trash lay around it in heaps where it was feasting on rotten meat and broken eggshells. I covered my nose as something foul wafted up in the air.

“H-hello.” I tried to remember my etiquette, but it was hard when I was stuck with a look from a massively ancient and powerful creature. I gave a small bow, “I am Lillian Oke. It-it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The creature kept staring and it’s left ear twitched.

“I was raised, um, not to believe in things like you.” I said with a tremor to my voice, “you were… against god's creation as they said. I was raised Mormon like that.” I tried to explain, as if I had to justify myself. “But I think you’re beautiful.”

I added the last part, but somehow I wasn’t sure I believed it.

“I am a virgin,” I announced to no one. “I was saving myself, before, um, I left the church. Or, well, they left me.”

It kept staring with it’s unblinking gaze and the slight movement of its lips as it chewed on the tin can in its mouth. “So… can I have a wish?” I asked slowly, steadily.

The unicorn must have reached something hard as a loud crunch shuttered through the small space. “Please?” I offered.

Another fraught moment passed and I could still hear Katie crying behind me. Weeping her heart out. I wondered if she had tried to make a wish.

The unicorn, slowly, lowered its head down.

I didn’t know what to do at first as it offered its head to me. Something primal told me to run, to turn around and bolt like a scared rabbit out from under the wheels of a car. This creature's eyes were the starry headlights and the horn was the windshields. But I wasn’t a rabbit.

I was a human. And I was worthy.

I fumbled forward. The stench of rotting meat became sharper and almost made my eyes water as I approached. The terrible wrong glow filled my vision and made me squint. She bowed her head down lower and my hands shook as my fingers slowly reached for her horn.

“I got kicked out by my family recently,” I whispered, “for the church thing and… a lot of things. But I think I was unhappy for a while even before that. Maybe I’ve never been happy.” I confessed to her elegant soft ears, “so this is my wish.” I grabbed onto the horn and it was cool to the touch, perfectly smooth, and seemed to tingled up my arms with an electric pulse. “I want to be happy.”

The unicorn gave a slight snort and pawed the ground. I held onto the horn for a hard moment and the pearl-soft surface seemed to warm under my fingers. “I want to be happy.” I repeated more strongly, “I want to be-- Ow!” I let go as the horn began to burn.

I almost fell on my ass as I backed away from the creature. I checked to make sure my hands weren’t burned, but they seemed as they always did. I looked up again as the unicorn lowered her head and bit down on a broken beer bottle.

Her teeth were charcoal black and twisted like corkscrews.

“Come on,” Katie reached for me. “We gotta get out of here.” Tears were slipping from my eyes without me noticing and I watched as the unicorn gnawed on chunks of glass with its twisted teeth and black spit. I turned, grabbed Katie’s hand, and ran.

--------------

The sidewalk beat hard against my sneakers and the rain came down in sheets as we entered back into Katie’s block. The street lights were almost all flickering or completely gone out by then and Katie was shivering. “I have to go home,” she said as she looked toward me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused. “I have to check on my mom.” “Okay?” She looked down at her feet, “I know I shouldn’t have.” She reached for her phone, “but I figured if the wish was for someone else, it would be fine?” I nodded and Katie frowned at me. “I hear you.” I finally said and turned back to my own apartment. “Call me when you get there and let me know if everything’s okay.” “I’ll try.” She looked over her shoulder. “Are you happy with your wish?” I just nodded slowly. “Thanks for calling me.” I said and there was something lighter about my chest, like a weight had been lifted from it.

“Sure,” she said and put her head up. “And Lilly?” “Yeah?” She sniffed and wiped at her face, “I hope it works out alright.”

“Yeah.” I walked in the opposite direction as I left Katie who I had known since we were roommates freshman year and somehow it felt strangely final. A slammed door behind us.

I don’t remember getting home that night, but I did manage to kick off my jeans this time and collapsed into bed.

I smiled into my pillow as I started to drift off. I could be happy after this.

---------------------

My chest was even lighter the next day. A tune was playing in the back of my head and I sat up quickly instead of waiting to force myself awake like most mornings. I stretched and it was only when I lowered my hands that I shrieked. I yelled from deep inside my chest and threw my hands far away from my face. “No, no, no.” I ran to the restroom to look in the mirror.

I slammed into the bathroom door and held both my hands up into the light. I screamed again. Half of my pointer finger was gone and sticking out of the top of the knuckle was some sort of pale silvery shard.

“Oh no, fuck.” I cursed at my missing finger and slowly reached for the shard in its place. I put my finger along its sharp edge and sucked on my bottom lip. It was smooth like glass and seemingly weightless on my hand. “Ah fuck.” There were sayings about wishing on unicorns, but it didn’t feel like the time or the place to start googling them.

Instead, I went back to my pants and fumbled to get my phone out. It was at 7% battery and I used my left hand to flick open Katie’s number.

“Katie?” I said as she picked up on the second ring.

I heard a loud sniffle, “this isn’t a good time.” I gulped, “your mom?” She let out a heavy breath, “meet me at the school. Professor Masterson should be in his classroom today.” She made a strained sound, “I’m sorry Lilly.” I swallowed thickly, “was that not a unicorn last night?” She sniffed, “No.” She said softly, “I think it was.” She hung up the phone after that. I dug up the thickest pair of gloves I could find.

-----------------

Professor Masterson was standing behind his desk with his glasses almost hanging off his nose and the lines on his face looking like canyons written in ink. He had that strain to his expression that he always wore every morning of every class I had attended.

Katie texted me that she was about to be late.

It was a hundred-seat classroom that was empty that day and the bright fluorescent lights overhead were almost pedestrian and slightly uncomfortable.

I looked left and right before jogging down the lecture hall stairs that led to the pit of the room. I wet my lips, “Professor.” I called weakly, “Katie Reynolds said you could meet with us today?” He glanced up and his expression somehow managed to tighten further before he looked back down at the text in front of him. “Did you learn nothing from my class?” He murmured and I looked down at my right hand.

“I’m a virgin,” I said softly. “All the books agree--” He shook his head, “your friend is going to be in a lot of trouble.” “I know.” I whispered, “but I think…” I reached for my hand, “I might be too.” His eyes went wide as the glove ripped off and there was a larger shard sprouting from my hand. The shiny white fragment was longer and sharper now and more of my finger was gone.

“Tsk,” he turned away and strolled over to the white board. “Do you know the other names for the unicorn?” I hung my head, “The protector of maidens?” He seemed to snarl, “The Unmaker according ancient Summerian.” He said slowly and purposefully wrote “The Unmaker” on the board, “The Reality Warper according to physicists.” He continued, “The breaker of matter according to poets.” He scrawled in his messy handwriting. “A protector, yes. Obsessed with purity. But purity… Ancient Chinese texts ironically sometimes refer to it as The Corrupter as well.” I looked down sheepishly at my corrupted hand. “But a wish granter.” He shook his head in disgust and looked down at my hand. “They were here long before we could write though. Long before humans learned to walk and long before this planet even existed.” He said in a hush. “And they do not understand humans in any fashion.”

I clenched my good hand, “alright, I fucked up.” I said sourly, “I wasn’t in a good place. Can you help me or not?” The professor faced the board, “What did you wish for?” I took the last final steps into the pit of the classroom. “To be happy.” I held up my hand and the entirety of my right pointer finger was gone. “What is it turning me into?” “Something that can be happy.” He whispered without looking at me.

His words echoed in my head: Unicorns do not understand humans in any fashion.

The silence that followed was all-consuming.

“What is it turning me into?” I repeated and somehow found that I couldn’t cry. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes but the tears weren’t coming. They never would again.

He turned back to me. “I don’t know.” I looked back to my hand and watched in slow horror as more of my finger receded into nothing and more of something else appeared there. “But if I were you I would make calls to who you need to make calls to before the end of the day.”

My chest was even lighter than before and I realized it wasn’t my depression disappearing. But perhaps the process of being slowly unmade was always going to be painless one.

#horror #fairy tale #writing #urban fantasy #magical realism #horror fairy tale #short story #my work #cw: body horror

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wacem · 4 years

Text

Alone in the Dark

An Until Dawn fic by Wacem

Chapters: 1,2,3,4 Read here or on AO3, where the formatting is definitely correct, because I suck at Tumblr.

Chapter 4

Chris --- 6:18 AM

Old Hotel

After the long dark of the tunnel, the light of the abandoned hotel was like daggers, working their way to Chris’ brain through his eye sockets. He squeezed his eyes shut and found the light filtering through his eyelids to still be too bright, so he buried his face in the crook of his elbow until the raging headache subsided. Phantom images surged to replace what he could no longer see, tugging on the edge of his sanity, and he hummed a tone-deaf tune in a fruitless bid to try and drive them from his mind. The stranger’s head thudding heavily in the snow, glassy pupils dilating as the life eked out of them. A shrill scream, cut abruptly short by a gunshot; Emily’s deathly pale face drawn open in a silent scream as the blood oozed from her empty eye socket. Ashley’s delicate fingers curling and blackening as the fire turned her to ash. A rusty saw tearing through Josh’s stomach, spilling his guts all over the floor; the broken stool where Josh had been, lying in a pool of blood. The hot metal of a gun barrel against the soft skin beneath his jaw; his own finger tightening around the trigger. No, no, no, no, NO!

His lungs were trying to escape from his chest, and his ribs screamed in protest. He turned and banged his head into the doorframe to knock the images out of his mind, and when that wasn’t enough, he banged it a few more times for good measure. Razor blades went rattling through his brain, and he clung to the distracting pain like a life-raft, opening his eyes again. The light boring into his retinas was still quite unpleasant, but it was better than the memories behind his eyes.

He took one moment to regard the humongous wooden beam used to barricade the door back to the tunnel and just scoffed. He was too tired and in too much pain to even try to lift that heavy thing with one hand. The door being closed would just have to be barrier enough.

No, it’s not, the Voice of Ashley Judgment whispered. You know that.

Sighing, he manhandled the thing awkwardly until it was leaned against the door like a pathetic brace. “There,” he huffed. “Nailed it.” If Ashley had been there, he knew she’d be staring at him with lips pursed and eyebrows raised, arms folded across her chest, and fingers drumming disapprovingly on her biceps. “It’s the best I can do!” he protested, his voice cracking ridiculously.

He shuffled across the hallway into a large room he immediately recognized. The rusty saws hanging from the ceiling were a dead give away. The dimmer light was a welcome reprieve to his aching eyes, but the memories that came with it slammed the breath out of his lungs.

Wait! Stop! You can’t do it, Chris. It should be me!

The saws were hanging silent and still in the shadows above him, but he could hear the shrill, metallic whir of them spinning as clearly now as he could then. The ligature burns on his wrist twinged when he saw the ties that had bound him and Ashley still lying on the floor where the others had left them. And the burns on his face….The sacrifice he’d made that had ultimately turned out to be meaningless.

No. He couldn’t stay here. Fresh grief surged up his throat like bile, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. The cold light of Josh's command center filtered through a door far to his right, blinding but safe, and he hurried towards it, skipping with his good leg to get there faster. As he turned to close the door behind him, he could have sworn he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Ashley sitting where she’d been during Josh’s fucked up game, struggling for freedom. He could hear her screams in his head, her pleas begging him not to kill himself.

You chose to save me before. Let me choose this time! Let me choose to save you!!

But when his eyes snapped into focus, there was nobody there. Of course not. That was a lifetime ago, when Ashley had still been alive. She was dead now. A pile of charcoal down in the mines. She wasn’t here. But logic had no place on Blackwood Pines tonight, and he found he couldn’t close the door on her. The apparition, whether supernatural or psychological… he didn’t even know anymore… still gave him some piece of Ashley to hang onto, and he just couldn’t lock her out like that. Keeping his eyes glued to the chair where she’d been, he backed into the safe room until his butt knocked against one of the desks, forcing him to break his gaze and turn it directly at…

A bloody eye socket.

A hoarse yelp exploded out of his chest, and he skittered away from the desk, backing into a wall of metal grating with a clang. Emily! His blood whooshed through his veins, making him feel like he’d explode, filling his ears with a dull roar too powerful for even the tinnitus to overcome. The pile of grave dirt he’d heaped atop his emotions, to bury them until they could safely be processed, exploded into a million pieces, and the horror of tonight all crawled out, muddy and bloody, to stare him directly in the face with one-eyed crystal clarity. Something in his gut broke loose, sending loud scream-sobs racking through his chest and swollen throat. His legs turned to jelly beneath him, and he slid down the wall into a fetal position, rocking and weeping, delicately covering his mouth, and utterly incapable of tearing his eyes from Emily’s horrified face.

Wasn’t your fault, Chris. None of this was your fault.

But it was. He could have done more to stop it. Could have said something helpful. Could have taken the gun from Mike, could have…

Taken the gun from Mike? Seriously? Ashley’s voice laughed incredulously, sending a wave of self-consciousness coursing from Chris' pelvis to the tips of his ears. You know I care about you, Chris, but there’s absolutely no way you would have won that. Mike would have flattened you-- maybe even shot you-- if you’d tried. You saw how worked up he was. Mike killed Emily. Not you.

Chris took the deepest breath his ribs would allow and held it until the pain forced him to let it go in a wavering sigh. He did it again and again until his hands stopped shaking so badly, and he could see without staring through an aquarium of regret. More than words could express, he wanted to pull Emily down from where her body was perched, indecorously splayed on the desk like that. Lay her somewhere more dignified and-- if he was being honest with himself-- less conspicuous. But, while he might have been able to pull that off with both arms at his disposal, there was no way he could now. So there she sat, silently screaming at him for not saving her, and he could only sit there and watch her as an inescapable thought rattled to the forefront of his brain.

Sam wasn’t here.

He didn’t know when or if Sam and Mike were coming back. He didn’t know if they’d find Josh, or if Josh was even still alive. He didn’t know if anyone was still alive, and the thought that he might be completely alone would have been enough to send him into another tailspin of panic if he didn’t already feel so utterly gutted. Everything was drained from him, like he’d been prey to a succubus. There was nothing left for panic to take hold of. He stood wearily and limped over to the swiveling chair in front of the CCTVs, pointedly avoiding looking towards Emily’s body, and gazed over the screens, squinting in the brightness of their light. Jeez… Josh really had set up cameras everywhere. Chris flicked from feed to feed, but there were no signs of life on the property. Wherever Sam and Mike were, it didn’t appear to be anywhere near the lodge.

Chris sighed and carefully, rigidly slid out of his coat and took advantage of the light to get the first good look at his injured arm. With the coat on, it hadn't looked so bad. Some punctures and tears in his sleeve. Minor blood stains that looked black against the blue of the fabric and more blood running down his hand. Overall, an outside observer wouldn't know how horrible it felt beneath the surface. With the coat off, however…. well, that was a different story altogether. The wendigo's teeth had torn much more easily through his sweater and undershirt. His forearm looked like hamburger meat and was deformed. Definitely broken; there was no denying that. The two bones angled and twisted in towards each other, giving his forearm a disturbing spiraled hourglass shape. And, it was still bleeding. The sleeve of his sweater was soaked up to the shoulder. He didn't even want to imagine what sort of mess the shirt underneath it was. No wonder he was so exhausted. On top of everything else, he was also bleeding to death. He unzipped his sweater and awkwardly fumbled at the bottom of his T-shirt to rip off a strip of fabric. This was much more easily said than done, with only one hand. And of course it was his stupid hand. Heaven forbid the wendigo leave him his dominant arm to work with.

Well, that is the one you threw the lighter with. If it only sees movement, of course it went for your right arm, you doofus. You painted a big red bullseye on it.

"Aw hush, you," he muttered at Ashley’s voice, surprised at how defeated his own sounded. "Let me mope in peace."

He tied the pathetic strip of cloth around his injured arm just above the elbow and pulled the tourniquet tight with the aid of his teeth. He considered maybe trying to find something to splint his arm, but he didn't know the first thing about setting bones. Even if he did, he didn't think he had the fortitude to set his own bone. The Hartley clan was known for many things. A high pain tolerance was not one of them. On top of that, there was nothing around to use as a splint, and it had been an ass and a half just to rip one strip of cloth off his shirt. "Fuck it," he mumbled and slowly, agonizingly put his coat back on. His arm lodged a torrent of bitter complaints at all the movement, and he cradled it miserably when he was done.

He was very tempted to just sit at the desk and wait until either Sam returned or the wendigo found him, whichever happened first. God knew his ankle needed a break from walking. He figured the numbness probably meant it had swollen so badly that the tightness of his boot was cutting off the circulation to his toes. But the throbbing in the joint itself wasn't going anywhere, and he was dying for an ottoman to prop his leg up onto. Anything to make his foot feel a little less engorged. He hoisted his leg up onto the desk while he took the cleaning cloth to his glasses, but the desk wasn’t exactly soft or comfortable, and the edge had an unpleasant habit of digging into his achilles tendon.

He pulled out his phone compulsively. The screen was cracked to hell, and the battery was at seven percent. The likelihood that he’d get anything even remotely approaching reception down here was zilch, but he figured he’d check anyway. Maybe he’d try shooting Sam a text. Hey, I know you’re probably fighting for your life against some cryptid abomination right now, but if you could send me a quick reply, so I can stop freaking out, that’d be greeeaaat. But of course, there was so little reception that his phone’s very attempts to find a signal were rapidly draining his battery. He sighed, put it on power-save and airplane mode, and slid it back into his pocket. Eventually there’d be a signal, and when that time came, he damn-well wanted his phone to still have juice.

Meanwhile, Emily’s corpse was still just… sitting there, staring at the ceiling with its one blind eye. Mouth frozen in a silent scream. Chris refused to look at her, but he could feel her there, burning holes into the back of his neck. It made his stomach churn and twist. He could almost hear her voice coming from the yawning cavern of her mouth. Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you save me? Raw, jagged, quivering guilt slithered its way through his guts, gnawed at the base of his skull like a rat, and dined on his precarious sanity like it was a delicacy. Eventually, the thought of spending even another moment alone in here with her was unbearable.

And that was when he heard something heavy and wooden clatter to the floor somewhere outside the safe room. Chris bolted upright, feeling his quickened pulse in his teeth. Was that the barricading beam? Maybe he hadn’t quite propped it up straight. He knew some of his old action figures at home had a habit of staying upright for months and months only to randomly fall off the shelf in the middle of the night and scare the holy bejeezus out of him. That could absolutely be what just happened with the beam. Right?

Then came the shriek, cutting through all the desperate denial and sending his nervous system into a blue screen of death. Only this time… that sound couldn't possibly have come from just one throat, no matter how supernatural that throat was. Waitwaitwait. You're telling me there's another wendigo?? The old guy didn’t say jack shit about there being more than one of those things! Not cool! Not cool at all!! But the shrieks and the clambering of bony fingers and toes against concrete and drywall crept closer and closer. His eyes darted around the room and landed on the revolver Mike had left behind. Deafening bang. Her eye disappearing into blackness and blood. Chris shuddered, glanced apologetically at Emily's body, and snatched up the gun. The ancient grip aggravated the blisters on his palm, but the weapon's weight was comforting in his hand. Awkwardly, he popped the cylinder to check its ammunition. Three rounds left. Awesome. So… barely any ammo, and it didn't have the stopping power of the shotgun-- hell, he wasn't even sure he’d be able to use the shotgun right now, even if it was down here-- but it was better than nothing. Chris fumbled one-handedly to toss the spent casings, snapped the cylinder back into place, and made sure it was turned right, before hobbling towards the saw room door. At the threshold, he froze dead in his tracks. His blood turned to ice in his veins, and his heart lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes. Long, pale fingers were wrapped around the edge of one of the circular blades on the ceiling. The light from the monitors gleamed in a pair of huge, pale eyes, peering around the mechanism the saw was hanging from. Another Gollum silhouette plopped into the doorway from the access hallway, limbs twisting in a jerky, arachnoid way. The wendigo clinging to the saw twitched its head to one side, staring at Chris with uncertainty. Then its face twisted in voracious hunger, and it screamed.

And that was all Chris needed to see. If he had been a gambling man, he would have bet his life savings-- pathetic though they were-- that his adrenal glands had nothing left in them, that they were useless little deflated sacks sitting atop his kidneys like shriveled balloons. After all, they’d seen more rigorous action tonight than they had the entire rest of his life combined! But if he’d made that bet… he would have lost the farm. Those exhausted little sacks squirted a fresh new deluge of adrenaline into his blood, and suddenly, all of the pain, the guilt, the heartache, everything disappeared beneath an overwhelming animal instinct to run. Common sense surfaced from the deafening torrent of his racing heart long enough to make him slam and lock the door to the saw room. Then he whirled around and fled as fast as his legs would carry him.

Immediately, he heard a loud thud against the door behind him, and he bit his lip to stifle a yell. No time for that! buzzed the adrenaline-soaked Voice of Ashley Judgment. Death is up your butt. Keep moving. Don't slow down.

And, really… she was preaching to the choir, because he hadn't. He was out of the room in an instant, crashing through a heavy door with a peep-slot and slamming it shut behind him. He tried frantically to remember the way back to the lodge, but his brain seemed to be filled with swarming wasps, and he couldn’t think. He could only run. His legs carried him through some winding corridors, into a decrepit room, up a small flight of stairs, through another door, down a hallway, around a corner, and into a freezer. Well, that at least was familiar. Or at least the dead pigs hanging in it were. Without pausing, he continued through the freezer and into the kitchen. Relics and memories of Josh’s deranged little prank flew around him like spectres as he ran. Clues Ashley had found and pointed out to him, there one moment, gone the next. Felt like all of that had happened centuries ago. How quaint they seemed now, in light of the very real danger screaming through the corridors behind him. Something squealed and crashed loudly in the freezer. Shit, they were close. Could he really outrun them all the way back to the lodge? And once he got there, what then? How was the lodge any safer than the fucking safe room?

Well, for one, the safe room has very recently been full of monsters. So… I mean, the lodge wins that point.

Fair enough. He slammed the door to the kitchen and continued running through dark, dilapidated hallways, trying not to trip over debris in the inky blackness. He stumbled into a staircase, and took the steps two at a time-- a feat he knew would make his ankle bite him in the ass when the adrenaline rush simmered down. The cold air slapped at the sweat on his face. His breath tore through his chafed throat in harsh, ragged pants. The cold and the dust made his lungs ache horrendously from within, while his broken ribs jabbed at them from without. For the second time tonight, he intimately understood why people went on runs. It wasn’t for fun. Cause, really, only crazy people actually liked running. It was so that when cryptid abominations were on your ass, you weren’t braying like an asthmatic donkey two seconds into the chase. God, I promise, if you get me out of this, I’ll go to the gym every freakin’ day. Even weekends. Pinky swear.

When he reached an ancient elevator, he chanced a glance over his shoulder. Two wendigos hopped around the far corner, leaping from floor to ceiling to wall to ceiling again like deranged wolf spiders. His mouth dropped in a scream that his throat was too sore to voice. He considered taking aim with the revolver and shooting one of them but thought better of it when he remembered how limited his ammunition was. Each shot needed to count, and blind pot-shots didn’t count. Instead, he took off down the decrepit hallway, trying not to trip over the jutting timber and crumbling plaster of the dilapidated structure’s exposed skeleton. There was an open doorway at the end of the hallway. He didn’t see the steps leading up to it, tripped, and soared through the doorway, somehow managing not to land on his bad arm. Frantically, he went to slam the door shut with his foot. Only then did he notice there was no way to do so; the thing swung outward into the hall. “Dammit,” Chris muttered, scrambling to his feet and over to the much heftier door to the lodge’s wine cellar. It was closed and locked. Just as the group had left it on their way down to the safe room. “Shit!” His hand, hampered by the revolver, was shaking so badly that it slipped clean off the bolt the first time he tried to slide it from the lock. He had better luck on the second attempt. The very instant he’d pulled the door open, something solid slammed into his back, sending him flying dramatically into the basement. He was vaguely aware of a loud, wooden bang, and instinctively put his hands out to catch himself before he face-planted hard on the concrete floor.

The mind-erasing agony in his broken arm made him want to scream, but his chest was full of glass, and he found that he couldn’t breathe. The weight on top of him shifted around madly, and he felt a line of fire slash across his back, then another. Chris tried frantically to turn around and face his assailant or move his arms out from under himself, but the wendigo’s weight had him firmly pinned. The thing slashed at his back again, claws digging deep enough to scrape bone.

He strips the skin off of your entire body, piece by piece.

That unlocked the scream that had been trapped in his chest. A huge, skeletal hand gripped his shoulder tightly enough to draw blood and yanked him back towards the wendigo’s maw… but it freed his good hand in the process. He crossed it up and over the opposite shoulder and turned his head away before squeezing the trigger on the revolver. He recoiled sharply from the discharge, pressing the back of his hand to his ear. He was gonna be deaf before the evening was done; he just knew it. But the claws extracted from his shoulder, and the weight lifted abruptly from his back. He scrambled around to face the monster, holding the revolver in front of him, and using his feet to slide himself further away from the thing.

A wendigo-- just one-- was attached to the wine shelf, staring down at him contemplatively. This one looked different from the one he’d seen close-up before. Its face was broader, more grizzled. Its features were muddled, as though they were rotting away. And it was wearing clothes! Time had worn them down to indistinguishable rags, but they clung to the monster’s emaciated body with the tenacity of a video game heroine’s chainmail bikini. The reinforced door back to the buried hotel jolted in its frame, and that’s when Chris noticed that it had somehow gotten itself closed again. The other wendigo was trapped on the other side, trying to break through it. The wendigo on the shelf shrieked at him, but-- both thankfully and alarmingly-- the sound was muffled by the aftershock of the revolver going off in his ear. And then the thing leapt at him, and his finger squeezed the trigger without waiting for conscious permission. The first shot seemed to have no effect. The second, however…

Well, that was the million-dollar shot.

It nailed the wendigo directly in the eye, bursting it like a grape. The creature shrieked again, recoiling violently back into the wall. Those horrifyingly long claws would have taken off his face as they arced towards the monster’s ruined eye socket, if Chris hadn’t snapped his head back at the last moment. He blinked and saw Emily’s face, pale as death, her eye exploding in the wake of the bullet entering her skull. He blinked again, and she was gone. There was a faint click-click-click, and Chris realized he was still pulling the trigger on an empty revolver.

“Fuck you!” he meant to shout triumphantly, but his hoarse voice cracked unflatteringly instead. He threw the empty gun at the keening wendigo out of spite, clambered to his feet and ran as fast as he could for the stairs up to the lodge.

Now he was in really familiar territory. Considerably less dilapidated. This cellar was almost as familiar to him as his parents', so navigating it in the dark was a piece of cake. He positively flew up the concrete steps, leaping over the broken one like a gazelle. He heard the door in the wine cellar burst apart just as his hand wrapped around the knob at the top of the stairs. He heaved an internal sigh of relief that it wasn't locked. Screeching and clicking followed him up the stairwell, and he slammed the cellar door on all of that noise, leaning against it and panting. After the intense darkness of traversing subterranean passages without a flashlight, he found the moonlight drifting through the dust motes and casting strange and disturbing shadows through the Washingtons' uniquely unsettling decor to be almost painfully bright. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, flitting his cold fingers delicately over the throbbing bruise on his head.

So. He was in the lodge. Where to, now? Maybe somewhere with no windows? A back door so as not to become trapped? Something heavy smashed into the other side of the door, jolting it agonizingly into his savaged back. Suddenly, Chris found he didn't much care where he went, as long as it wasn't here. He ran forward, zigged right, heard the wendigos burst through the door behind him yet again. Their screeches filled the hallway a couple dozen feet behind him. He ran through the guest room, somehow managing to leap up and over the bed without tripping. Ahead stood the door to the cinema room, and it was open. Through the gloom of the room beyond, Chris saw Sam and Mike's ashen faces appear from around the corner. Holy shit! They were still alive! They looked a bit worse for wear, but still mostly intact. They even seemed to be chuckling at each other over something. His smile immediately died. Shit! They were right in the path of the wendigos up his ass. He’d led the monsters straight to them! FUCK!!

"GO GO GO GO!!!" he yelled as he blasted past them, not slowing down to make sure they did. He heard one of them exclaim something but didn't register what. He was already out of the cinema room and clambering up the stairs. The loud clumping of boots on creaky boards marked Mike running up the stairs opposite him. Oh, God, please let Sam make it out of there. He was halfway through the great room when he saw it. Another wendigo-- the one that killed Ashley-- clinging like Spider-Man to the big metal sculpture hanging from the ceiling. There was a dread about its presence a thousand times heavier than any aura the wendigo stooges behind him could muster. It seemed bigger. Stronger. Deadlier. While the others liked to putz around and play with their food, this one had a habit of going straight for the kill. The stranger's head falling heavily into the snow, eyes glazing and becoming blank. Ashley's headless body, soaked in blood and still warm. No. This wendigo didn't fuck around. Paralyzing fear rooted Chris to the spot. All he could do was stand and stare.

And he wasn't the only one.

Chris heard Mike all but screech to a halt when the latter reached the great room. Then he heard the lighter steps of Sam doing the same.

"Don't… move…" Mike whispered, wholly unnecessarily. "Don't… fucking… move… a muscle."

He wanted to shoot back a "No shit, Sherlock," but his tongue became a fat piece of meat in his mouth, and the words stuck in his throat.

For a small eternity, they all just stood there, frozen, while the wendigo on the sculpture jerked its head back and forth, searching for the prey it heard enter the room. But then something must have happened. Mike suddenly broke out in a run towards Sam, and the wendigo was on him faster than Chris could fathom. It picked Mike up and hurled him across the room like a rag doll. Shit. Shit! Mike might be a murdering asshole, but he was also their best chance of survival. If he didn’t make it...

The stooges chose that exact moment to join the party, drawing the attention of the one Chris was starting to think of as The Alpha away from Mike, and-- whoa, wait a second. Were they fighting? Each other? He wouldn’t have thought they did that. The stooges seemed to have had a synergistic energy between them whenever he’d hazarded a glance back at them. But... but yeah... they were fighting. That’s definitely what was happening. And The Alpha was kicking the other two's asses. It was hurling them all over creation, breaking every damn thing. It was a hell of a distraction. Chris looked at Mike and started slowly backing toward the lodge’s front door, willing the other two to do the same. He thought he saw Mike give a significant look just then, but it wasn’t to him-- because, of course, people like Chris don’t exist as anything but curiosities in Munroe-Land-- and he couldn't see Sam to know what the hell that was about. All he could see was Mike taking advantage of the distraction to pick himself up off the floor and creep beneath the clashing titans overhead. But he was going the wrong way. He was moving away from the front door and reaching towards… a wall lamp? What the fuck??

The Alpha ripped the head clean off of one of the stooges, and Chris felt his gorge rise when his mind’s eye replaced the stooge with Ash. Then someone-- Sam, he thought-- stepped on a creaky floorboard. The wendigo snapped its head towards her and screeched. Then it was gone, disappeared out of view to where Sam was, and then Sam was screaming over a wet, ripping sound. Shitshitshitshit what the hell?? He wanted to see what was happening. Wanted to do something. Make sure Sam was okay, but the stairs were in the way, and his legs weren’t responding to commands. Sam’s scream turned weak and faded into silence, and Chris heard another horrifyingly fleshy ripping sound. He could try to pretend he didn’t know what that meant, but there was only so much denial he could conjure in one night. Sam’s dead. Sam’s DEAD! None of this can be happening!! He could feel his lungs revving up a panic again. He looked pleadingly back at Mike who now had his hand wrapped around the lamp's light bulb. What the fuck?? How can Mike just be standing there, focusing on a fucking wall lamp, when that thing is killing Sam?

Just standing there… kinda like you are?

Chris bit his lip and closed his eyes at the guilt stabbing through his ravaged chest. Yeah. Like I am. Always there when things go tits up, but my presence is never beneficial. Then he smelled it. Gasoline. Had the wendigos broken a pipe in the fireplace? Oh, shit shit shit shit. Did that mean Mike was planning to-- He opened his eyes and saw the lightbulb shatter in the other man's hand. Mike doubled over and groaned, hugging his sides miserably. The wendigo, drawn by all the noise, was on Mike again like stink on cheese. It grabbed Mike by the face and lifted him into the air by it. Chris could feel that same hand wrapped around his throat in the dark of the tunnels. That bizarre moment where he thought the creature looked familiar. The creature wrapping its hand over his head like it was going to rip his head off right next to Ashley’s headless corpse. Then the wendigo tore out their esteemed class president’s guts with two quick swipes, hurling him into a nearby pillar with spine-shattering force. Chris felt a scream building up deep in his chest, climbing up his throat, to be whisked away by rapid, wheezing breaths. This was a nightmare. This was an absolute nightmare.

Blind panic broke the paralysis, and Chris turned and fled out the door. No longer caring if the wendigo saw him, no longer caring what hell awaited him outside, or where the other stooge had gone. He simply could not stay in that room another second and watch that thing tear apart his friends. He couldn't take being a useless bystander to any more death. Hadn't he seen enough?

He'd hardly cleared the front door when the hand of God swatted him from behind with a deafening boom and sent him flying off the porch. His feet clipped a stone wall, and he went flipping ass over teakettle into a snowbank. For a while, Chris could only lie face-down in the snow, shuddering, exhausted, all of the pain returning as the last of his adrenaline was leached by the cold. His head felt like it was filled with sand. A silence unlike anything he’d ever experienced pressed in on him from all sides. Crushing him, like he’d jumped into the deep end of the pool and sunk to the bottom. He only found the strength to push himself up and regain his feet when he felt something viciously beating the air overhead.

He wasn't ready for what he saw.

The lodge was an absolute inferno. And Sam and Mike were still in there. Any hopes he may have been nursing that they might somehow survive the night vanished in the flames devouring the lodge. And the lodge. All of the memories of vacations they’d spent there… the pranks, the games, the hijinks… up in a puff of smoke, soon to be lost forever. Like Ash was. Like he feared Josh to be. And Emily. Like Sam and Mike soon would be, if they weren’t already-- God, the thought that they might still be alive in there, burning to death while he watched on helplessly, it sent a skewer into his stomach that twisted and rolled his guts up like spaghetti. A noise came out of him that barely sounded human as his vision blurred with tears that were both freezing and burning. Were Matt and Jess still alive? He didn't know. Probably not. Mike and Emily had seemed to think they were dead, and they were in the position to know.

Huge embers came streaking out of the blaze, moving in unnatural ways through the smoke. One turned and surged toward him. A shriek cut through his deafness like a diamond through glass, and, in the flying blaze, he thought he could see the face of the devil. It nearly made him fall back into the snow, but he kept his balance on his one good foot by flailing his one good arm. He must be going mad. Either that or he'd died, and this was Hell. He wasn’t sure which thought was more comforting.

But that sensation. A deep whump whump whump chopping through the air and into the pit of his stomach. What was that? It was like the freezing wind had developed a heartbeat that was squeezing him to its pulse. That’s when a shadow intruded across the first light of the sun, and he realized what it was. A helicopter. Help had finally come.

But it had come too late. Way, way too late. Everyone was already dead. Everyone but Chris. And he felt the least deserving of help. How could he be the one getting saved? It was a sick and twisted perversion of justice. He'd just stood by and watched all of his friends die, one by one, without twitching a finger to help. He hadn’t saved a single, solitary one of them. And now here was the cavalry, come to save him.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He didn't deserve to be alive when all the others were dead.

As the helicopter approached the burning lodge, Chris dropped to his knees, the only part of him that didn't hurt. His good hand pushed his glasses up onto his head to bury his face in his blistered palm, and he wept bitterly as the helicopter gently touched down in the snow nearby.

#Until Dawn #Chris Hartley #fan fiction #elliepollie #wacem scribbles

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johannstutt413 · 4 years

Text

(continued from this)

“Ya sure ya wanna drive, darlin’? I reckon yer still pretty tired.” Croissant and Bison had finished loading up their freight truck. “Not ‘nuff coffee in a full pot to keep ya ‘wake after last night.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. If my dad saw you driving, he’d have a cow.” He chuckled at his own joke, joined by her guffaws.

It had been a weird night. Most of PL wanted to play poker, but someone had to do this job, so Bison had decided to step out; the fact that Croissant didn’t want to play and clearly needed someone to escort her back to her room made his choice even simpler. “Thank ya, Bison. Can’t see clear after all that whiskey, and I’m swayin’ like cattails in a twister.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think that’s yours up there.” They made their way over, and he confirmed that it was, in fact, Croissant’s room. “Alright, you have your key, right?”

“‘sin mah pocket.” She reached into her coat and pulled it out before waving it in front of the lock.

Bison took hold of her wrist and guided the key into the lock. “There we go.”

“Thank ya.” Once the door was unlocked, they opened the door, his hand still on her wrist. “Hey, you wanna c’min for a nightcap?”

“I thought you’d had plenty already.”

She chuckled. “Not alkamahal, ya dork. Just siddown on the couch and lemme get ya some water. I ain’t too light, and you done near carried me down that hall.”

“I am kinda thirsty,” he admitted. “Alright, I’ll hang out for a little bit. Besides, I should make sure you don’t need anything in the middle of the night.”

“Heh. That an offer, Bison?” Croissant winked at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t hit on drunk girls, Croissant. Come on, let’s have that water and see you make it to bed alright.”

“Hmph. Alrighty, then, take a seat over yonder.” She gestured over to the couch, where he promptly sat down. A few fumbling minutes later, she brought over a couple bottles of water. “Ya workin’ tomorrow?”

“Freight job - pick up in Lungmen, drop off in Siracusa. Long drive, but apparently the cargo ain’t- isn’t that heavy.”

She laughed. “Pickin’ up my accent, now?”

“Maybe a lil’,” he admitted. “When’s your next job?”

“Dunno. Couple weeks? I get by on mah’ bargain store, anyway.”

Bison blinked. “Your bargain store?”

“Ya dunno ‘bout mah bargain store? Eh, I’ll show ya when I can see the numbers.” Croissant downed the bottle of water, set it on the table in front of them, and started rocking side to side. “Hey, I gotta know: who ya sweet on in Penguin, eh?”

“Well...” The thought clammed him up as he tried to think of a way to defuse the situation.

She finally fell over, her head landing on his shoulder. “C’mon, Bis’n, I won’t tell nobody else. Please?”

“Alright...” Bison sighed, blushing up a storm. “But don’t think just because I’m saying it now means you’re getting anything else from me tonight.”

“Eh?”

He looked at her. “It’s you, of course.”

“Well gimme a red cape and call me a matador.” Croissant grinned super wide. “Now ya gotta spend the night wimme, doncha?”

“Like I said before-”

She bowled him over, kissing him as they fell sideways across the couch with her on top. “Ya leave ya eyes at HQ, ya big oaf? I been crushin’ on ya harder than a rock ‘n a hard place.”

“You...you have?” Bison was more prepared for the second kiss that came his way...and more receptive. “Well, I mean, if you’re sure you’d say the same sober-”

“I’d say the same if I caught the Doc’s amnesia.” Croissant tugged on his jacket before sitting up to help him slip out of it.

He took advantage of the moment to stand up entirely, lifting her to her feet as well. “Let’s do this right. Which door’s your bedroom?”

“C’mon, longhorn,” she winked, leading him by the arm. “I’ll take ya there.”

“Take it easy on a first-timer, alright?”

Croissant guffawed. “Same here, darlin’. Same here.”

While neither of them knew how long they’d gone at it, it’d left them both more exhausted than they’d ever been; the difference was that, while Croissant seemed to recharge almost entirely overnight, Bison was still quite drained the next morning.

“Hey, han’som.” She whispered in his ear as he began to stir. “Time fer work.”

“Fuckin’ headskillime.” He sat up and accidentally caught his horn on one of hers; he turned to her and blushed as last night caught up to him.

Croissant rolled over on top of him. “Yer not the only one. C’mon, I’ll make breakfast.”

“K’dkey,” Bison managed through the mix of euphoria and exhaustion. Even without the capacity for rational thought, her weight on him felt heavenly. “Hull muplz.”

“No problem.” She hoisted him to his feet before throwing on her jacket and handing him some of his clothes.

By the time he was dressed, Croissant had fixed herself up and put a burrito on the table for him. “Microwave, but better’n nuthin.”

“Salgudthinx.” He fumbled his way into a chair, cowlicks on his cowlicks and eyes barely open. “Yerwunful.”

“Aww, shucks, I’m just happy I got ta wake up to ya in mah bed. Most guys just left me at the bar - talked a good game ‘til I showed ‘em I could bench press ‘em.”

Bison blinked. “Hudevr dotha2ya? Dumbasses.”

“I mean, neither ‘f us were thinkin’ of anythin’ more than a night atta time, ya know?” Croissant sadly smiled. “Just how life is on the road.”

“Nothakeinaguy.”

She leaned forward. “What was that?”

“‘Said ‘m notha kinda guy.” He finished his burrito in record time. “Kay, tima gotawerk.”

“Alright, longhorn, get rollin’. I’ll meetcha there, kay?”

Bison frowned. “Kay.”

“What’s the matter?” Croissant chuckled. “Didya wanna walk in with me?”

“Mhmm.” Without another word, he walked out of her room, closing the door behind him.

She stared after him. “Mama never did say what I’m s’posed ta do if they say they wanna stay...”

Bison staggered in, looking like he’d just barely made it out of bed himself. “Mornin’, ev’ry’ne.”

“Morning, Bison!” Exusiai cocked her head. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine. ‘zere coffee yet?”

Sora walked over to the machine. “Not yet, but I’ll make you some.”

“Thanks.” He sat at the bar and buried his head in his arms. “‘Stoo damn bright’day.”

“What happened? You look like you got run over by a truck,” Mostima observed, her characteristic half-smirk now fully in place for a day’s use.

He looked back at her, attempting to glare but only managing to squint. “Wazzup mosta last night.”

“Really?” Exu couldn’t imagine why. “How come?”

“Mornin’; girls!” Croissant walked in and joined Bison at the bar, sliding an arm around his shoulder.

He returned the favor, setting his head on her shoulder. “Thnx 4 wakin mup thz mornin,” he slurred together.

“‘Course,” she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek. “D’ya want me to come with ya for this’un?”

“Mmhmm.” Sora set a cup of coffee next to him, which with Croissant’s help he managed to hold to his lips for a sip.

Texas asked the question on all their minds. “Did you two spend last night together?”

“Aw shucks, he was a real champ,” Croissant beamed. “A real keeper, this one.”

“I should call my dad before we head out,” Bison muttered.

She rubbed his back. “You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that after one night.”

“Thanks,” he shook his head, “but I want him to meet you, and if we’re going that direction anyway…”

“Now ain’t you just the sweetest apple in the barrel!” The cup of coffee was set to the side as she set upon him.

Once he was thoroughly awake - coffee and Croissant will do that to a person - they’d set off for the garage. Now, they were on the road; he’d asked her to be in charge of their music, letting her use his phone to do so, and for a few miles, they rode together in not quite silence. Eventually, though, she turned down the volume quite a bit. “Hey, Bison? Yer really sure I’m the girl fer ya?”

“I made my choice last night.” He glanced over at her, a smile forming on his face. “Whatever your past experience with guys might’ve been, I’ve only fallen in love once.”

“Oh? How’d that go fer ya?”

Bison chuckled. “I dunno. I’m taking her to see my dad now.”

“...Oh, Bison.” She smiled, wiping a tear out of her eye. “Ya really are an angel, aintcha?”

“Naw, you’re the angel. Never met a girl like you before, and I know I never will again. You know what my dad said when I told him about you?”

Croissant shook her head.

“Said I’d lost my mind,” he chuckled. “‘Son, there hasn't been a woman that perfect since your mother,’ he told me. I said right back, ‘Isn’t that what Grandpa said to you?’ He got a real kick out of that. My dad’s got his flaws, but you and him both have that merchant spirit in you. He’s gonna love having someone to properly talk business with, and I’m gonna love listening to you talk.”

“I’m gonna need ta start taking med’cine if I’m gonna hear this ev’ry day. I’ll turn the music back up now - don’t mind me, just gonna bask in mah luck fer a bit.”

Bison let a hand off the steering wheel and jostled her thigh. “Love ya.”

“Hehehe.” She set her hand over his. “Love ya, too.”

#arknights #bison (arknights)#croissant (arknights)#someone on reddit said they wanted more Croissant/Bison #and i love them both #so here ya go #hope that guy finds this #arknights fic

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cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

fox rain | three

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. namjoon) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid namjoon is (oh and like... ant gambling rings??) → words: 15.7K → a/n: this is late by a month and my whole life is a joke. i hope this makes you laugh bc i made namjoon extra dumb for y’all (for no extra charge. suck it, chipotle.) also: check bio for other chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | three | next • —

“This can’t be my fucking life. Can it?” you say to your own reflection, curtains of despair dripping from every inch of your visage. Your reflection stares back, the same dead eyes twitching imperceptibly from the lack of caffeine in your system. At this point, you wouldn’t be sane enough to be surprised if your parallel self would reply, perhaps with some scathing remark about how you were slowly losing your grip on your life. Not that it would be unwarranted, anyway.

After Hoseok’s explosion the other day, your weekend doesn’t exactly feel as exciting as it usually is. Of course, your mood is still a vast improvement from last week when you were out of commission for most it after your mental breakdown. Although, it doesn’t erase the fact that you’re still knee deep in shit and that you have no idea how you’re going to face Hoseok and Jimin the following Monday.

Damn. You could really use some coffee.

The day seems to be in much better spirits than you, and it would be a waste not to let the universe’s good mood try to make you feel better as well. There is a coffee shop just a block away, and maybe you could take a walk in the sunshine afterwards to help relax the dread consistently knocking at the back of your mind. It’s a little bit optimistic, but it’ll have to do.

Shrugging on a thin cardigan over some other semi-decent clothes, you step out of your stuffy apartment with a spring in your step. You didn’t bother with any of your usual morning ritual, seeing as how you don’t plan on meeting with anyone you know from university anyway. So what if your landlady Mrs. Park sees the bird’s nest on top of your head? Who is she going to tell? Her gang of old auntie friends all hate you already for wearing a “TRANS RIGHTS” shirt in front of them, so it’s not like you’re vying for their acceptance.

Other than your less than friendly neighborhood aunties, there are better old people to hang around anyway. Nearby the coffee shop, there is a senior home where you used to volunteer during your spare time until your other commitments forced you to give up your spot to some other benevolent soul. Since you have been meaning to visit the grandmas and grandpas there when you got some free time, you suppose it would be nice to talk to kind ol’ Ms. Kim today and listen to her recount her many youthful adventures (which is, more often than not, a euphemism for her various sexcapades in the 70s.)

The senior home is closer to your home than the coffee shop, so you choose to stop and gaze at the plain-looking white building with its neatly trimmed bushes and white picket fence. It looks out of place in the neighborhood, with its very suburban and Americana design, but you know it is only because the owner of the establishment had gotten her inspiration from Forrest Gump. She has a crush on young Tom Hanks, and you honestly can’t blame her for it; that man… he is a Man, with a capital M.

You’re in the middle of debating whether you should buy your coffee first before visiting the seniors when you hear a distant shout coming from within the house. Alarmed, you take a step back, almost falling on your ass and onto the sidewalk. You pause, tilting your head to try and peak over the fence and through the large windows that showed the reception area within. You recognize Hana, the receptionist, sitting by her desk in her usual green scrubs, her head bowed over a book as if the sound had not fazed her in the slightest.

“Am I crazy? Am I starting to hear things?” You wonder aloud, still staring at the innocent-looking home. Has the universe had enough with your lacklustre existence that it has caused you to hear nonsense? Is this only the beginning of your slow descent into madness?

You don’t have to fret over your sanity for too long because moments later, the shout repeats itself. Like the previous one, this one sounds just as pained and anguished, though you aren’t sure if it was a male or female who had screamed. For all you knew, the person might have either stubbed their toe or gotten a knife stabbed through their chest; it’s not like you spend time distinguishing the subtle nuances of tormented screams. However, you are more certain now that it had come from within the home, even though Hana has yet to react to the chilling noise. She flips to the next page, tired eyes squinting at the small text.

You are stuck at an impasse: do you go inside the home despite the possible danger of entering a secret cannabilist society of which your acquaintance has been initiated to, or do you turn around and go home where it is 100% more likely for you to survive the next 24 hours?

The choice becomes apparent to you, however, when a tall, lanky boy bursts out of one of the doors behind the receptionist, with his arms piled to the ceiling with dinner plates on the cusp of making their way to the floor. Even through the window and behind a fence, you can tell that he is in dire need of help, which Hana does not seem likely to extend. The mess of legs makes a beautiful display of himself, his lower limbs flapping about aimlessly as his body contorts to try and keep himself and the plates balanced.

Finally, after what feels like hours of torture watching the poor volunteer make a fool of himself, he manages to steady himself, his legs crossed together like he’s trying to hold in his piss. Carefully, he squats down, placing the plates on the floor in front of the receptionist desk. For a moment, you feel as though you should be applauding, for whatever reason.

Now without dishes obscuring his face, you can make out the identity of the flailing giraffe man. He turns, fingers combing through his distinctly colored hair––

Oh god. It’s him. You gotta get out of there, fast, before he recognizes you. Maybe if you run quickly enough, then maybe he won’t notice you when he looks out the window around.

“Ha,” the universe laughs, clapping their asscheeks to the rhythm of Ludacris’ Move Bitch Get Out Da Way™️ with a smirk. “Cute of you to think your life isn’t basically a 20-year long trainwreck in motion.”

Inevitably he turns around, his eyes immediately locking on your face despite being half-concealed by the fence. He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish until he lights up, recognition flooding his features. Even though you cannot hear him clearly, you just know that he said something stupid, judging by the way Hana has finally looked up from her book to stare at him weirdly.

Please don’t come out and greet me. Please just let me wave at you awkwardly and for you to stay where you are. Please don’t go out and talk to me––

Your prayers go unanswered once more as he sidesteps the wall of plates, his hip just barely grazing it and almost causing it to tumble down. The pile sways precariously from left to right, miraculously staying put as he rushes out to greet you. You can only imagine the mess he’d have to clean up if it did, shards of cheap porcelain left behind in his awkward, fumbling wake.

Luckily (or unluckily for you), he makes it out of the senior home in one piece. He crosses the short path to the fence in two inhumanly long strides, slamming the fence door open with a wide swing. It smacks loudly against the railing, the hinges making a pained groan as it looks to be at the inch of its life––literally. You vaguely remember replacing the screws on it just before you left over six months ago… Surely you hadn’t done such a shoddy job? Although, you know that simply can’t be true. After all, you’re dealing with none other than destruction incarnate himself, Kim––

“Y/N!” Namjoon greets happily, his dimples deeper than you remember. You swallow heavily, trying your best not to sweat under his overly enthusiastic gaze. God, you should’ve gone straight to the coffee shop when you had the chance.

Nothing like facing disaster head-on, as they say. “Hey,” you reply half-heartedly, though the walking inflatable tube man doesn’t seem to mind your lacklustre mood. He grasps your hands for a shake, swinging your entire body up and down with the care of a man who does not know his own strength. You, his unfortunate victim, are left to suffer through his artery-bursting grip.

“Oh god, you have no idea how glad I am to see you! Not that I’m not normally happy to see you at university, but––” He speaks so quickly that it’s hard to keep track of the specific contents of his sentences, so you can only hope that your unenthused nods will be enough to placate the bumbling buffoon. You resign yourself to a fate similar to the bobbleheads on the dashboards of those white suburban soccer moms.

“Wait, hold on.” What on earth..? You are full on gaping at the piece of work on top of his head, not even pretending to be polite as you try to process what is in front of you. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

You know from old Facebook photos that Namjoon has natural black locks, though you can’t say that his wacky hairstyles were also inborn. Ever since you have known him, he has always dyed his hair a sandy brown color, complimenting his tan skin. Now, however…

“You mean the weird blue streaks?” Namjoon says, rubbing a few strands thoughtfully. His hair is a walking disaster, and this is coming from someone who has seen what Kim Seokjin has done to his clients. (There’s a reason his Yelp reviews are terrible… He deserves negative stars, if you’re being honest.)

“Did you lose a dare or something?”

“Uh… Kind of?” He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I had meant to change my hair color to something more exciting, so I asked the kids at the daycare and they suggested blue. Problem is, the seniors said they preferred my brown hair but I already promised the kids so… Here we fucking are,” he says in one breath, appearing as though what he said was obvious.

“So your solution was to compromise… by coloring half your hair blue, like some botched version of Death the Kid?”

“Exactly!” He beams, glad that you understand him perfectly.

Oh my god… He’s… No words are coming to you right now, but you get the picture.

The thing about Kim Namjoon is… he’s not… bad. Or dumb, for that matter.

Okay, not the best compliment out there, but it’s true. You’ve known for as long as you’ve been a university student, and your first meeting is certainly one for the books. You wouldn’t exactly consider him a “friend,” and an acquaintance is a bit of a stretch on most days, but he’s a nice guy. He’s eccentric in the most positive way, and not at all in the same chaotic and evil way that Seokjin is (for which you are thankful for.) It has always been a bit tricky to get close with him, as his head is always so far up in his work that it almost feels like he’s being reclusive on purpose.

If you ignore the fact that he has that odd propensity to volunteer himself in any job on the face of the earth (with him being unqualified 9 times out of 10), it is easy to see why people think so highly of him.

He is a scholarship student with a 4.0 GPA, is the youngest candidate to ever receive the university president’s yearly public commendation, and has already released two reputable mixtapes with high praise from critics nationwide. He’s nothing if not a prodigy, and he’s amassed a hefty following for his accomplishments. As a music major yourself, it’s hard not to be a little starstruck with him if you’re being honest.

Most of all, you remember the first song that you had ever heard from him: Moonchild. You still can’t quite believe he let you hear one of his many masterpieces when the two of you had just been total strangers. The lyrics had been so heartfelt, so intimate, that you felt as if you were intruding on his personal space or something. But he had let you listen, let you take a peek at what goes on inside that nebulous brain of his. When he does things like that, it makes it easy to understand why people might think your love poem might be about him. He’s just so… easy to admire.

The poem isn’t about him, but. It could have been, in some other life. (Or maybe it is.)

(Was.)

(Will?)

Regardless, you still have to convince him otherwise. You just simply aren’t ready for that type of development, much less with him. Despite all his good sides.

Thus, Kim Namjoon leaves you at a standstill. Why do you feel so fucking weird about harboring this idol crush on him? How can he be so dumb and so smart at the same time? He has blue fucking hair for crying out loud! He’s causing you cognitive dissonance just by existing, and it’s giving your meagre amount of brain cells a workout.

Oh shit, have you been ignoring him? You were totally zoning out this entire time, haven’t you?

Somewhere around the time you were having your mini mental breakdown, Namjoon’s mouth had stopped moving, giving you an expectant look. Oh shit. He probably asked you something. Embarrassed and unwilling to give away that you had not processed even a single word out of his mouth, you nod and give him an approximation of what you assume is a friendly smile.

For a second, you think that you might have gotten away with it when Namjoon’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. He grabs you by the shoulder and envelops you in an chokehold-like embrace. You let out a wheeze, clawing at his biceps with your remaining strength to try and prevent your untimely death due to asphyxiation. “Namjoon..?”

He lets out a shriek at a higher octave than you thought a man of his size was capable of. Somewhere out there, a dog probably perks up at the supersonic sound. “Y/N, I knew I could count on you! Thank you so much for agreeing to help me with the elders for Zombie Tea Time!”

Now that caught your attention. You pause in your squirming to fix him with a confused expression. “I’m… I’m sorry? What did you say?”

His smile never falters. He presses his cheek against yours, rubbing it happily with a hum. In any other scenario, you might have fainted from how adorable he was being, but seeing as how all your blood is still trapped in your upper extremities from his vice hug, it is difficult enough trying to remember how to stay alive.

“Every Saturday, the senior home hosts this event called Zombie Tea Time where the old people all get to have their faces painted with fake blood and all the volunteers have to pretend to be innocent civilians trying to get away from them!”

The more Namjoon speaks, the more you feel your sanity dripping out of your ass like diarrhea. “Ex. Excuse me? Say that again?”

“Yeah, it’s a new thing the volunteers are trying out this month,” Namjoon says, finally (finally) releasing you from his hug. You don’t know if your flushed cheeks are from embarrassment or a stroke. “Like I said, we’re a bit shorthanded today, so I’ve had to wash the plates from breakfast AND pretend to get eaten by senile zombies. It’s… a lot.”

“Oh, I can tell.” You grimace, patting him on the shoulder empathetically. You freeze. “Wait. So that’s why you were screaming a while ago?”

“Huh?” Namjoon pauses, before his face does something funny where it looks like he’s either going to sneeze or take a shit. Thankfully he does neither, but instead reaches his hand around his back like he has an itch he needs to scratch. He makes a pained yelp, plucking something out from his asscheeks and pulling out what appears to be––

You stare at the object in his palm. “Are those… dentures?”

“Hmm…” Namjoon stares at it, too tired to be disgusted. He just nods his head sagely. “Must’ve been when I was too slow to dodge Mister Lee’s lunge. I was beginning to wonder why my ass felt like it was being eaten out.”

“Please, never say that sentence to me ever again.”

“Yea,” he agrees, sighing faintly. He pockets the teeth much to your horror, patting it gently like he hadn’t just placed a pair of dentures in his fucking scrubs. He dusts off his hands, his lips pursed so that his dimples stand prominently on display. You barely contain yourself from sinking your finger right into their hypnotizing abysses.

He looks at you hopefully. “So… Uh. You said you’ll help me?”

Oh right. You fucking said you’d help him fend off a hoard of virulent old people in face paint.

You look to the right, where the coffee shop is just within sight. Sweet, sweet caffeine, tantalizing you with its saccharine presence, dangling its wretchedly addictive power over your head. If you breathe deeply enough, you think you can smell the coffee beans from here.

You turn back to Namjoon, and you can physically feel the weight of his hopeful gaze on your shoulders. Your defenses have never crumbled so quickly in your life. Fuck him and his stupidly handsome ass.

You sigh, resigning your fate to eternally being whipped for a pair of pretty long legs and size B man titties. “Let’s fucking do this, I guess.” Easier said than done, but you already have one foot in elephant shit, so might as well submerge your whole body as well.

You follow Namjoon closely, having to take two extra steps for every one step that he takes. He crosses the reception area quickly, sending energetic finger guns at Hana which unsurprisingly goes unrequited. You take the more inconspicuous route and wave shyly at her, intimidated by her even after you have long since stopped working here. She levels you with one of her infamous hundred yard stares, lips turned downwards as she appraises you.

“You’ve decided to come back?” she asks, leaning back on her chair with a huff.

Namjoon is in the midst of trying to once again carry all the plates in his Play-Doh arms, so you’re a bit distracted when you shake your head in response. “Uh. N-no, Namjoon just asked me to help with the dishes, that’s all.”

“That’s a shame,” Hana says, no trace of disappointment in her voice whatsoever. She returns to her book, buzzing open the double doors to let the two of you pass. She flicks her hand lazily at the commotion happening behind her. “Better hurry back in there. The seniors are getting antsy.”

The doors open automatically, and you almost topple over when you are immediately bombarded with the terrifying symphony of old people hollering obscenities at frantic volunteers trying desperately to get away from their gnarled clutches. The hoard hasn’t noticed the two of you yet, and you fear to wonder what type of horrors that you will have to face once you step through those doors. You absolutely refuse to die on this hill, not when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet.

“I don’t think we’ll die,” Namjoon says, as if he can read your mind. You look at him skeptically.

“You think?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t promise we’ll come out of this unscathed, though.”

He takes a tentative step forward, the pile of dishes wobbling dangerously on their perch. You are quick to steady the leaning tower of Disa(ster), managing to transfer half of it into your own arms. You grunt, adjusting your stance so that you do not accidentally lose your grip. “Dude. How the hell did you get all those plates out here in the first place?”

Namjoon stands up straighter, the weight significantly easier for him to manage now. He smiles cherubically back at you, eyes crinkling cutely. “Oh, I was literally on survival mode and trying to stop lil Mrs. Sun from gnawing my leg off. The elders can smell fear you see, so they were definitely going to climb on top of me like World War Z and probably kill me.” He pauses, deep in thought. “Although, I think I dropped a plate or two while I was escaping, so watch your step!”

He says all of that with the same eagerness as man who is about to do something crazy, like jump out of a plane or walk a tightrope over a 100 ft canyon. Though, you have to admit that this entire scenario feels like it is on the same calibre.

“Is it me, or are the old people here 10 times crazier than I remember when I volunteered here?”

“You used to work here?” Namjoon says, amazed. “Oh, I didn’t know that! I only started a week ago when some other person resigned due to mental health issues or something.”

“You sure that this place isn’t the cause of their mental decline?” You say it like a joke, though you mean it seriously. Maybe the universe had been looking out for you when decided to get out of this place.

“Hmm… Maybe. Although, we only received this shipment of old people fairly recently.”

Pause. Rewind. “S-shipment?” you repeat, staring at him wildly.

Like the lovable airhead that he is, Namjoon fails to notice your astonishment and instead takes the first brave step forward through the double doors. He tilts his head towards the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him. The plates rattle dangerously from his movements. “C’mon, we gotta get these plates cleaned before the lunch crew comes to take over their shifts!”

Walking to the kitchen is easier than you thought, especially after you take into account the fact that all the old people completely ignored you and chose to only attack Namjoon, for whatever reason. You like to think that it is because the seniors still remember you back when you were still volunteering here and that they hold some semblance of endearment for you, but Namjoon begs to differ. In fact, he screams out his hypothesis as to why you have been left unharmed, all while two older women climb his back like demented crabs.

“Y/N! I think they can’t attack you because you’re in civilian clothes! They only attack scrubs!” Namjoon says, swatting away one of the women off his back with a surprisingly coordinated headbutt. She shrieks as she falls, landing on all four legs like a cat would do. She hisses lowly at you, before scuttling off to somewhere unseen.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” you wince, watching Namjoon unsuccessfully trying to spin quick enough to dislodge the remaining senior.

Namjoon perks up when he catches a glimpse of his attacker’s face, giggling and appearing as if he isn’t currently being assailed by a senior citizen. “Oh, Ms. Kim! I didn’t see you there. I love the zombie make-up you got going. Who helped you?” He looks at you, as if imploring you to compliment her as well.

“Uh. Yes. You’re looking very… yellow.”

Ms. Kim snarls, baring her teeth. “It’s the jaundice,” she says.

Not wanting to stand in that hallway any longer, you carefully place the plates back on the floor before you gently unclamp the old lady’s talons from Namjoon’s poor biceps. You wince, feeling the length of her nails and knowing that Namjoon is going to have some nasty scars.

You tell him so, but he only shakes his head. “Nah? I think they’d be pretty neat! Battle scars are cool right?”

You grimace at him. “If that’s… what you think, then sure.”

After grabbing your plates and hurrying after him before the elders make note of Namjoon’s survival, the two of you share a sigh of relief as you both slowly start piling them into the dishwasher. The task is menial and repetitive, and despite what Namjoon’s earlier chattiness might have suggested, he is quiet while he works. The silence is not as awkward as you feared, and honestly the peace is a welcome respite after all the chaos that you had to endure in such a short period of time. Although, silence has never been a good friend to your overworked mind, as it allowed you to stew inside your own head for much too long––and you have found in your 20 years of existence that it is probably for the best that you are not left without external stimulation for too long.

But here you are, forced to do exactly that. You would have engaged in some conversation with Namjoon to stop yourself from getting in over your head, but you are afraid of what sort of embarrassing topics might spew out of your mouth if you do. Heaven forbid that you start geeking out on him about your unhealthy obsession of collecting miniature glass horse figurines––that is a secret best kept between yourself and the tentacle monster under your bed.

You begin reflecting on the events from the past two weeks, replaying them second by agonizing second and ruminating on the state that your pitiful young adult life has become. The more you allow these memories to simmer, the more you slowly realize the weight of the accumulated stress that has long since made you hunch over like a goblin.

Hoseok and Jimin’s argument comes to the forefront of your mind, the unexpected heat coming from both of them confusing you to no end. You still don’t know the source of their ire towards one another, but what baffles you the most is how you could have missed it in the first place. Sure, you had thought they were at least more than acquaintances; one does not simply challenge a near stranger to a dance off in the middle of a library three times a week, for more than two months and counting. Friends might have been a stretch, though you can’t say you’re familiar with how their schedules look like outside your tutoring sessions together.

The question is though… should you interfere? Normally, you would have stayed far away from anyone else’s drama––you just aren’t the type of person to stick their noses in other people’s business. Yet somehow, you feel as if your poem was the catalyst to this violent chain reaction, that you have inadvertently caused the foundation of a precarious building to explode and bring the whole thing crashing down. To think that your silly love poem for a boy who hardly knows that you exist has become the center of so many people’s lives… the entire thing is giving you a headache.

Speaking of headaches… you should probably confront Namjoon about the poem as well. It is probably best that you plan your approach better this time, seeing as how your two previous attempts have been anything but stellar. Namjoon can’t be that difficult to convince, right? And even if he does see right through you, he doesn’t seem like the type of person who would laugh cruelly at you in the event that he figures out that you are the author. Not like Seokjin, at least. Luckily no one is like Seokjin, the fucking rat bastard that he is.

(In the distance, Seokjin has the sudden animalistic urge to slip anthrax in your milk tea the next time he sees you.)

You glance at Namjoon from the corner of your eye, definitely not ogling the way his arms flex as he loads the final couple of plates. The breath catches in your throat when you realize that some time while you were busy swimming in your junkyard of a brain, he had rolled up his sleeves up to his forearms, displaying his god-like veins for the eyes of the deplorable (you) to feast upon.

Your mouth feels dry, even though other parts of you feel more moist than you remember. Oh god, now is not the time to remember how hot this fucking nerd is.

Despite the fact that your biological clock is screaming “HORNY HOUR” at your monkey brain, Namjoon continues to be thankfully unaware of your internal panic. He closes the dishwasher door shut, clicking it on with a relieved sigh. He gives you a megawatt smile and makes your heart leap into a somersault, probably knocking around some vital organs along the way.

“Thanks so much for the help, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it without you!” he cheers, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You wheeze under the impact, waving away his concern despite feeling like your lungs have probably slipped out of your asshole.

“It’s no problem, Namjoon…” you sigh, gazing sadly as Namjoon begins to do a final sweep of the kitchen before inevitably going to sign off for the day. You know your window of opportunity has already closed, and if you had not spent so much time staring at his beautiful man tiddies, you are sure you could have been a little more productive with him. Curse him and his damn chest.

But now, at least you’ll have more time to think of how to approach him and bring up the poem when you aren’t, like, seriously decaffeinated and on the cusp of a heart attack. You are about to bid him farewell with your tail between your legs when his hands cup your cheeks, catching you off guard.

You splutter incomprehensibly, arms flapping about like a fish out of water. “Wha––?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention! After my hours here at the senior home, I have the afternoon shift at the daycare center near our university and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

If Namjoon’s cool, large hands holding your face like a delicate flower had caught you off guard, then his sudden invitation only exacerbated the furious blush blooming across your neck like a rash.

So what do you say?

“Meep,” is what you say, like the verbose poet that you are. Y/N, renowned campus poet, has the vocabulary of a five year old.

“Is that a yes?” Namjoon smiles, letting go off you in favor of looping his gangly arms around your waist. Another unflattering noise escapes your throat at his proximity and his firmness. “That’s so great! The kids love seeing new faces, and I bet they’d love to have a pretty girl around instead of plain ol’ me all the time!”

You gape at him. Did he just say…

“P-pretty?”

“Yea, sure!” Namjoon says, his stupid grin still on his stupidly handsome face. He does not appear to be embarrassed at all by his brazenness, which is starting to make you think he is either a well-seasoned flirt or just plain oblivious to the implications of his own words. Knowing him, you wouldn’t put it past him that the latter might be the reason.

Compliments and unintentional flirting aside, you really did not feel up to another harrowing experience with Namjoon at one of his other volunteering stunts. You are but a woman in clown shoes, and even the most seasoned clowns must have their rest.

“Listen, Namjoon… I don’t think I can go with you. I have to go, uh,” you pause, your hamster brain working a mile a minute. “Water… my dog? No, I mean… feed my plant.” You cringe, mentally slapping yourself.

Namjoon, the sneaky bastard, hits you with his strongest and most potent puppy dog eyes in his arsenal. It was super effective! “Please, Y/N? I won’t take too much of your time! Just play with the kids for two hours and I promise to leave you alone!”

C’mon, Y/N. Focus. Are you the type of woman to break down her defenses for the wilful fancies of any man? You’re made of stronger stuff than this. Surely you can look him in the eye and tell him straight to his face that you would prefer to go home and rest on this beautiful Saturday than go frolicking with a bunch of snot-nosed children––

“Oh, sure. Why the hell not?” you say, like the dumb fucking idiot that you are.

Namjoon’s dimples deepen even further. You glare menacingly at them, knowing full well that they were entirely the cause of your weakness.

“Thank you so much, Y/N! The kids will really appreciate your presence! C’mon, we haven’t got time to lose!”

Namjoon does not even give you the time to fully comprehend your own pitiful existence before he nearly tugs your arm out of its socket as he maneuvers you to the local daycare just a few minutes away from the senior home. You don’t get to say your farewells to any of the seniors or your old work colleagues, but it might be for the best… You will need all the sanity left in your body to survive the rest of the day with Namjoon.

On the bright side, that means you’ll have the chance to talk to him about the poem, though you’re still hesitant to do so with how badly your previous stunts had ended up. But then again, when else would you get another good opportunity to talk to your crush acquaintance about this? You suppose you’ll just have to wait and see what happens next, and hope for the best.

You have been at the daycare for almost three hours now, and there are still no signs of you ever bringing up the poem. You might as well sign your last will and testament with the macaroni art supplies currently decorating your body, making you look like a morbid pasta dish monster from hell. You hope to god that the sticky stuff all over your skin is just cheese… White, rubbery scented cheese…

“Ain’t this fun?” Namjoon calls out from somewhere, presumably under the mass of ten or so toddlers all climbing him like a tree. You are caught in a state of déjà vu as the children start feasting upon any exposed areas of skin that their kid-sized incisors can find.

You just wanted to talk about the fucking poem for fuck’s sake! Instead, you have to deal with thirty 2-foot children and one 6-foot manchild during one of your only free days in a week.

A miniature demon tugs your sleeve, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Namjoon’s slow demise. You bend down to the little gremlin’s height, mouth twitching upwards in what you hope is a somewhat decent smile. Judging by the kid’s unimpressed face, you doubt it.

“Yes?”

“Miss Y/N? Can you tell your boyfriend that Jake peed in the ballpit again? Aera slipped on the puddle and now she’s crying and disturbing the younger kids.”

Record scratch, freeze frame. Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. Out of all the things the kid had said, you are sure that his implication that you were Namjoon’s girlfriend should not have been on the top of your list of priorities, and yet here you are, your cheeks as flushed as a baboon’s ass.

“He’s not––We’re not––” you stammer, waving your hands as you try to explain to this unenthused six year old that what she said was entirely impossible. “Namjoon is just a friend!”

You turn to look for the man in question, desperate for him to back you up when you realize he is no longer there. Confused, you leave the huffing child in search for him. You leave the main playroom and search the nearby nurseries, the kitchen, the bathroom… all of them with no Namjoon in sight. Just so you can cover all your bases, you decide to check one of the supply closets too, not really expecting to find anything except––

“Namjoon? What the fu––fudge?” You quickly correct yourself, noticing that not only is Kim Namjoon inside the cramped broom closet, but he is also surrounded by five other children huddled around what appears to be a series of tupperwares connected together by plastic straws.

Namjoon hastens a glance at you, before refocusing his attention back onto what he deems to be more important. He nudges his shoulder against the smallest of the bunch, stage whispering into her ear. “Jihyo, did you bet the three lollipops on Ant #3?”

Jihyo shakes her head, looking mildly offended. “Oppa, do you think I’m dumb? I bet all of my chocolate bars on Ant #6.”

Namjoon whistles lowly, impressed. “All-in? You’re one smart lady.”

You clear your throat. “Namjoon.”

Namjoon has the audacity to hold a finger up to silence you. “Give me a sec… Okay, Seungcheol. You said ten hard candies for Ant #2?”

“Namjoon. Are you seriously running a gambling ring in a daycare?”

He peers up at you, smiling sheepishly. “I’m, uh… Teaching them about capitalism.” He deposits the candy bets into his pocket before starting the timer on his phone. The children begin to cheer raucously, little fists pumping up as they watch their bets race towards a slice of cake.

“I can’t believe this,” you groan, wanting nothing more than the earth to swallow you whole.

Eventually, Namjoon exits the closet, gently closing the door. The shouts of the children become muted immediately. When you gaze inquisitively at him, all he does is shrug his shoulders. “What? Secret clubs allow people to explore their interests.”

At this point, you don’t really want to argue anymore. And so, the hectic day goes by, full of running after the children and occasionally having to reel Namjoon in when he does something bordering on negligence. The parents slowly start filtering in by five in the afternoon, most of whom pat Namjoon affectionately on the back and thanking him for his stellar daycare service.

“Oh, Namjoon! My little Jihyo absolutely adores you! She hardly wants to leave whenever I come to pick her up.” Jihyo’s mother smiles, slipping a small tip into Namjoon’s waiting palm. The little shit pockets it, bowing graciously at her.

“All in a day’s work, madame. I just love children, you know?” he says, sighing dramatically.

From behind her mother, Jihyo gorges herself on her prize winnings, shoving a whole packet of M&M’s into her mouth. She swallows them quickly when her mother turns to bring her home.

“I hate this,” you say to yourself, smiling through the pain.

“Oh, before I forget!” Jihyo’s mother dashes back inside, startling you. She approaches you, grasping your hands in hers and shaking it wildly until you can hear your joints pop out of their sockets. “Your name is Y/N right? Thank you for taking care of Namjoon, too. It’s so nice to see that he’s finally snagged a girl as pretty as you.”

It is a testament to how dead inside you truly are by how nonplussed you are by their unfounded accusation. At this point, they could congratulate you on your recent engagement to Namjoon and you probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

“Thanks.” All in a day’s work of being a madman’s little bitch for the day.

After the last child is taken away, your Saturday finally ends. There had been no poem discussion and no progress made; only your respect from one of your long-time crushes being whittled away like the soaps on those ASMR channels until you are left with useless cubes of Irish Spring scented granules.

On your way home, you pass by Seokjin sitting languidly on the bench outside the coffee shop that you had originally intended to go to this morning. The closed sign greets you impetuously, and your wounds are salted further by the sheer presence of the most annoying man on the planet.

Seokjin sips on his venti iced Americano, Gucci sunglasses tipped downward on his nose. An odd, high pitched windshield wiper sound escapes his lips, and you belatedly realize that he must be his version of laughter. “Y/N. So nice to see you. I’m guessing that you just came out of a… fishy affair?”

You grind your teeth, flexing forward with the intent of hitting the rat bastard. Fish crackers fall out of your hair in clumps from your movement. “I’ll eat your toes if you say another word about this.”

You say that, but you know that there will be photos of you out on Facebook by the time your head meets your pillow for the night, as you hear the telltale sound of a camera shutter go off as you limp sadly back home.

The following Monday, you resolve to talk to Namjoon during your History of Music class together.

Now normally, you would never subject yourself to sitting near Namjoon in class. No, it is not because of your debilitating crush, nor his eccentric personality, nor something unexpected like insanely toxic body odor (which he does not have, by the way. He always smells alarmingly like cotton candy.) In fact, nobody likes to sit near Namjoon, made apparent by the two row radius of empty chairs around him. As much as everyone adores and idolizes him for his talent, no one can stand his propensity to overachieve like the infuriating know-it-all that he is. His hand is perpetually up in the air, begging to be picked for recitation, always with something profound to say.

“Sir, I don’t think your notes are correct. From my research, that type of music would not have existed until the 1600s––”

“Namjoon,” your professor seethes, Powerpoint clicker clutched tightly in his fists. His left eyebrow twitches concerningly as he tries to calm his breathing. “I would prefer it greatly if you do not question the actual expert in this area, is that okay with you?”

Yeah. He is definitely not someone you’d want to sit beside.

Though, he really makes it hard not to want to be around him. Despite all the imperfect parts of his personality, Namjoon always looks like the cover model of what a perfect college boyfriend should dress like. Terrible dyejob aside, his hair is slicked back in a fashionable way, revealing his beautiful forehead for all of humanity to behold. He is wearing a fitted graphic tee under a denim jacket, with loose brown slacks that look good on his endlessly long legs. To top it off, his signature wire-frame glasses sit daintily on his nose, making him appear as smart as he is.

You are suddenly reminded of the true scale of your crush on him as sweat begins to build on your neck and down your backside. How the hell are you going to approach him now that you are perfectly aware of how good he looks? It is people like Kim Namjoon that remind you of this universal truth: attractive people only exist to cause the less fortunate to forget how to use their basic motor skills.

Focus. Remember how much of a crackhead he was last Saturday? Okay, retain that information. Remember how fucking stupid he is, and this will be much easier on your heart and your loins.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way to where he is seated, right at the front of the class. It is a long way down the auditorium to where he is, and you can feel the stares of a few of your classmates as you make the treacherous journey right into the proverbial lion’s maw. You do your best to ignore them, quietly sliding up next to him and waiting for him to notice your presence.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that he is jotting something frantically on a notebook, a mess of words in more languages than you can speak decorating every available space on the smooth white pages. At the top of the paper, you can see what might be a tentative title for a song, perhaps? You can’t be too entirely sure, as Namjoon is part of so many clubs and organizations that he might as well be writing next week’s lunch menu for the cafeteria.

(Highly doubtful as Namjoon has a reputation for allowing inflammable things to catch on fire, but you wouldn’t put it past him to at least try and apply for a culinary position.)

It seems that Namjoon is too immersed in his writing to greet you himself, so you have to be the one to steel yourself and strike a conversation with him instead.

“Uh. Hey… Namjoon?” Smooth like butter. Seokjin would be proud.

Namjoon doesn’t reply. He keeps scribbling along, humming something indistinct under his breath.

You clear your throat. “Namjoon?”

No response. Again, “Hello?” You wave a hand in front of his face. His blinking slows for a second, but he continues to ignore you.

Starting to get pissed off, you huff quietly to yourself before bringing your palm backwards and slapping him upside the head. “HEY PANINI HEAD! YOU FUCKING IN THERE OR WHAT?”

That manages to bring him out of his headspace, thankfully. “Huzzat?” Namjoon jumps, cradling the back of his neck gingerly as he stares at you, confused. Recognition filters through his eyes as he realizes belatedly what had just happened. He blushes slightly. “Oops.”

“Oops is right. Were you really going to ignore me for the rest of the class if I hadn’t slapped you?”

Namjoon shrugs, grinning in that cute goofy way that he does. “Sorry. ‘M not used to people sitting beside me, is all. Glad to have a friend in this class though! Have you always been in this class?”

“Yea, but I usually sit in the back.”

Namjoon nods, turning back to his notebook. “Sorry for ignoring you. I really didn’t mean it. When I’m in the middle of writing, it’s kind of hard to get me out of my own brain. Plus, this draft is due in two weeks and I’ve scrapped three pages worth of lyrics already… I’m kind of in a panic right now.”

You peek over his arm, trying your best to decipher some of his words. Your interest is piqued, always having wanted to see his draft notebook ever since that first time he showed you Moonchild almost a year ago. “Lungs have capsized… I am drowning in my own body… Wow, those are some dark stuff.”

“You think so?” Namjoon squints at his own messy handwriting. “I got inspired by the fish in the aquarium I volunteer in. I’m actually excited to go back there, because I want to play it for the fish and see if they like it.”

“Isn’t it better to play it at the daycare of senior home so you can actually get… human feedback?”

Namjoon gasps, hand to his heart, offended. “How dare you assume that fish can’t give quality feedback!”

“Right,” you cough, raising your hands in defeat. How dare you, indeed. “Sorry.”

Namjoon sniffs, closing his notebook just as the professor walks in to start the class. “You better be. The fishies get really offended when people say stuff like that.”

The professor begins the moment he sets down his things, so you know you won’t have time to bring up the poem, not when Namjoon is already starting to fall into his overachieving know-it-all student persona. You tap him lightly on the shoulder, gaining his attention.

“Hey, I have to ask you something later after class. Will you stay behind for a few moments?”

“Sure,” Namjoon replies cheerily, flipping on his laptop to start taking down notes. He stops in his tracks before gazing warily at you. “Hold on. If this is about the fishies again…”

You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes, so you sigh instead. “No, Namjoon. This isn’t about the fishies.”

Appeased, Namjoon returns to listening attentively to the professor drone on about dead musicians and their impact on musical culture. You hardly take any notes, still nervous about talking to Namjoon about the poem. What would be the best way to approach the subject, you wonder? Your previous attempts with Seokjin and Hoseok had featured a lot of yelling and arguing, and you would prefer not to leave a bad impression on Namjoon of all people. Additionally, you don’t want to know what arguing with Namjoon would entail, because you have a strong feeling that any debate with him will only leave you second guessing your entire existence with how good he is at flipping the subject. Or, you could always kick him in the knees, but that would be like overpowering a baby––you’d be a monster for taking advantage of him.

The short one hour lecture flies by quicker than you would like. To your surprise, Namjoon only interrupts the professor twice, so you suppose that’s a win for everyone else.

“Alright class. Please remember that the research paper regarding 17th century music is due on the Friday before your break,” your professor says. He points a stern look at all of you, and maybe you’re imagining it, but somehow you feel like he pauses just a second longer when he passes his gaze over you. “And please, try not to send your paper to the entire student body to air your secret little crushes like a bunch of lovestruck idiots.”

Your ears turn an unflattering shade of red as most of the students chuckle at his little joke, all of them probably not knowing that the lovestruck idiot was just a few seats away.

“C’mon, Namjoon.” You sigh, shrugging on your backpack as you wait for him to finish packing up. Namjoon watches you curiously, brows furrowed.

“You seem dejected. Are you having trouble with class? Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“N-not… not really,” you say, shaking your head. “Can we talk about this outside? People for the next class are starting to come in.”

Namjoon follows you dutifully from behind, and you can hear him bid his farewells to a few giggling freshmen as the two of you exit the lecture hall. They coo openly in his presence, with one of them bold enough to compliment his fairly generous bosom, her fingers twitching as if she is only one push away from grabbing them by the fistful.

You walk towards the small cafe near the entrance of the building, grabbing one of the empty chairs and gesturing for Namjoon to sit across from you. He does as you say, confusion still gracing his handsome features.

“So, will you tell me why you’ve called me out here now?” Namjoon asks. Before you can respond, however, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a half squished sandwich. He offers you the less crushed half, like the gentleman that he is, but you find it hard to accept when you feel like your stomach is turning inside out with nerves.

“Umm… How do I say this…” You groan, leg bouncing so incessantly that the poor table begins to shake. Namjoon doesn’t even try to stop his other sandwich half from sliding over, instead giving you a concerned glance.

Fuck it. Better to rip the band-aid off in one swoop, right?

“Y/N––?”

“Namjoon, are you aware that people think someone wrote a stupid love poem about you?”

His previously open mouth clamps shut, then. He stares at you in confusion, a dollop of mayonnaise hanging off his jutting chin. “What?”

Panicking slightly, you’re quick to continue your train of thought, probably to your own detriment. “NOT that the poem is about you, by the way. Well, it could be? No? I DIDN’T WRITE IT!” Pause for heavy breathing. “A-anyway, that’s not the point… I just wanted to ask if you were… umm… aware of it. Yeah. That’s it.”

Ohhhh my god. You stupid idiot. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you fucking stupid piece of shit ass tit fuck what other swear words are there oh yeah FUCK!!!

In the midst of your personal mental beatdown, you fail to see Namjoon’s genuine look of confusion, his head tilted to the side as he watches your face turn red. He chews on his sandwich thoughtfully. “Uh? No? I’m not aware? I really have no idea what you are talking about, Y/N.”

You finally stop swearing at yourself. “Wait, really?”

Namjoon nods his head. “Really. What poem are you talking about?”

“Please tell me you’re joking. I don’t really like being teased; I get enough of that from Seokjin.”

“No, I’m serious!” Namjoon raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t joke about something that is clearly giving you distress.”

“It’s not causing me distress!” You screech back, voice cracking from your tone going up a pitch. You clear your throat. “Um. Wait. So that means you haven’t heard about the huge rumor going around about a love poem being about you?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lips pursed. “Not a clue. Am I supposed to?”

Huh. You stare at the imbecile before you, his previously handsome looks starting to look less appealing by the minute. Is this shithead for real? Did you really spend hours worrying over how you would approach him about the poem, only to find out that he has no clue what you’re talking about? Like, how is it even possible for him not to know? You can’t even spend a minute doing anything without someone bringing up that stupid mistake of a poem. How the hell did you ever have a crush on him?

“Pardon? Did you say crush something?”

“Oh shit,” you curse, slapping a palm to your mouth. Did you fucking say that out loud?

“Sorry,” Namjoon swallows thickly, a large bite of his sandwich visibly going down his gullet. “I was chewing too loudly so I didn’t hear you properly.”

You heave a sigh of relief. Okay, maybe being an idiot has its benefits.

“It’s fine. It wasn’t anything important,” you say, already arranging your things to get up and leave. If Namjoon is oblivious to all the poem shenanigans that have been circling campus, then who are you to inform him? All you can hope now is that he remains ignorant of the poem at all, and chalk it up as a success in your book. It’s not like he’s going to be curious to find out more anyway––

“Wait! Don’t go! You’ve piqued my interest now. I wanna know what you were talking about,” Namjoon pipes up, leaning his lanky body sidewards so as to block you from leaving. You halt in your movements, surprised by his sudden inquiry.

Sweat starts to form in the middle of your back at his earnest curiosity. “I––it’s nothing, Namjoon. I was just messing with you. Don’t worry about it.” You laugh nervously.

“I don’t think you were?” Namjoon rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t have been so adamant to call me out here just to be joking.”

“Listen, I really have to go. I have another class soon and I wanna grab lunch before I––”

“You said something about a poem.” He remains undeterred, pulling out his phone. “And it’s about me? Well, not about me, if that’s what you’re saying…”

“Hold up!” You snatch his phone out of his hands, holding it behind you to keep it from his reach. Even though you know his inquisitiveness is not his fault, it doesn’t stop you from wanting to punch him square in his cute little nose. Hell, you don’t recall wanting to fight anyone as much as you do right now.

(Seokjin sneezes somewhere in the distance, feeling offended for whatever reason. “Y/N should only be punching me,” he thinks to himself as he dumps way too much purple dye on this poor lady’s head.)

“Why are you being so weird right now? Give me back my phone!” He pouts at you, not at all knowing that your resolve is already quickly crumbling before him.

“I…” You gulp, foot tapping restlessly as you try to think of what to do. “Okay. Fine, I’ll show you the poem. Just… don’t read too deeply into it, okay? It’s just a stupid thing that got too many people excited over nothing.”

“Sure,” Namjoon nods his head, acquiescing quickly. “I don’t really like paying attention to much of the rumors and trends that happen on campus. I just want to see what this poem is all about.”

“Just… don’t let it get to your head,” you mutter, returning his phone to him. You direct him to the university confessions group page, watching as his fingers fumbled with his keyboard. Eventually, he gets to the post (pinned to the top, forever mocking you for your stupidity) and reads the short piece in record time.

There is a pause where neither of you speak. You know he has finished reading it from the way he has started to scroll down to the comments, though he quickly jumps back to the top when you glare at him to stop. He leans back into his chair, closing his phone and stares at you expressionlessly.

You click your nails across the coffee shop table as you observe him suspiciously, his lack of response making you more nervous. “Well?”

The left side of his mouth quirks up––but not in a way that might suggest glee or satisfaction––and he stays frozen like that for a bit. You have the sudden urge to wave your hand in front of him to check if he’s fine, and being the type of person to submit to your urges, you do as you please.

Thankfully, he snaps out of it, blinking quickly as if he’s forgotten that you were there. He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. The poem, uh… How do I put it…”

“What?” What on earth could he have a problem with? Does he genuinely think the poem might be about him? “If you’re starting to think that the poem may be about you––”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Namjoon opens his phone again, peering at the poem questioningly. “I was just going to say that this poem is a lot less impressive than you were hyping it up to be.”

Excuse me??????? He did not fucking just say that.

“You did not just fucking say that,” you verbalize, glowering at him. You can feel the fumes start to steam out of your ears, but Namjoon remains oblivious (as per usual) to your emotions. He just hums, shrugging his shoulders with his nose upturned in the air, as if he had just smelled something horrible.

“It’s just… the meter is all messed up… Like, I’m all about free verse or whatever, but I can tell the author is trying waaaay too hard to keep whatever rhythm they had going on in the first verse.” He scrolls through the poem some more, before stopping somewhere in the middle. He shows you one of your favorite verses with a look of something akin to disdain. “And what’s up with all the moon references? That theme is so overused.”

“YOUR MIXTAPE LITERALLY HAS A SONG CALLED MOONCHILD! THAT’S WHY PEOPLE THINK THE POEM IS ABOUT YOU!” You explode, spittle flying everywhere from the force of your shout. A group of freshmen sitting nearby jump up in surprise, though most of the older, more dead-eyed college students do not even bat an eye at your spectacle. This university is full of cuckoos, is what they are probably thinking.

The biggest cuckoo of them all looks at you defensively, frowning somewhat irritably. Namjoon continues, “Yeah, but I used the moon in my song in a classy way! I would be offended if someone would write this poem for me after being inspired by my song.”

Is it possible for blood to boil inside your veins? Because you’re really starting to feel heat trail up your back up to your neck, causing you to see nothing but red and the tantalizing vision of your hands around his neck. Easy, Y/N. You can’t afford anger management therapy; you have a tuition to pay.

In all seriousness though, you cannot take this any longer. You have suffered long enough while having to follow Namjoon around like a bitch for two days, and if karma still wants to use the strap on you, then she’s going to have to do it some other day because you cannot physically stand being around Namjoon for another ten seconds if you can help it. And this is coming from someone who is around Kim Seokjin at least twice a week, so it is obvious that your patience and sanity is truly at its limit.

“I’m done.” You are barely able to keep yourself from slamming your head against the table. Instead, you stand up hastily, chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. You shoulder your bag quickly, waving at him without even turning to face him. The sooner you get away from him, the better. “You can think what you want. Just live your life, man. I’m done.”

“Okay? Well, have a nice day, Y/N!” Namjoon calls out a cheery goodbye, though his tone obviously still sounds confused even as you walk further and further away from him, a trainwreck of a human being. You resolve to yourself to call Hana the next morning to ask her to slip some opened sweets into his jean pocket so the ants at the daycare might climb out of their shelter to bite him in the balls.

How did you ever have a crush on that bastard? I guess that mystery will have to remain… unsolved.

Unluckily, your mood does not improve after lunch, nor do you calm down after your next class either. In fact, you are still steaming when you arrive to your tutoring session with Hoseok, so much so that you have completely forgotten to be worried about him after the events of last Friday.

(Record scratch, freeze frame. Pause. What the hell happened last Friday again? Your overworked brain cells can only handle one stressful event at a time, so you suppose that problem with Hoseok and Jimin will have to be solved another day.)

Hoseok, the caring boy that he is, also forgets to retain his moodiness from Friday’s argument when he spots you looking like you were about to pop a blood vessel at any moment.

Hoseok sits hesitantly in front of you, even placing his textbooks gently onto the table as if any sudden sounds might cause you to self-combust and splatter your guts all over the library floor. The only thing really keeping you from doing exactly that is because you wouldn’t want poor Jungkook the library assistant to have to clean up your mess.

“Umm… Hey, Y/N. You okay? You look kind of… red.” Hoseok says carefully, smile twitching on his face.

The suddenness at which you slam your hands on the table causes not only Hoseok, but also Jungkook who is three whole bookshelves away, to jump up in surprise. The former makes a terrified scream to accompany his leap into the air, staring at your frantically with his fists held up in defense.

“AHH? Y/N, what’s going on––”

“SHUT UP!” You point a finger menacingly at him, making him shriek once more. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding audibly. “YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT, HOSEOK? I’LL WRITE THE NICEST POEM IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR YOU, OKAY? YOU DESERVE IT! FUCK WHAT ANYONE ELSE THINKS! I’M A GOOD WRITER AND NOTHING KIM NAMJOON SAYS WILL CHANGE THAT!”

Hoseok’s mouth opens, agape. He doesn’t know how to respond, not quite understanding what you were saying in the first place. A lot of angry words spilled from your lips in such a short amount of time, and Hoseok was more impressed with your flow than anything. Were you a rapper, by any chance?

Unaware of Hoseok’s musings, you huff loudly to yourself, slamming open your lecture notes and shoving them aggressively towards him. “ALSO, I TOOK THE LIBERTY OF WRITING A REVIEWER FOR YOUR MIDTERM! PLEASE READ THROUGH THEM IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS!”

“Umm… Thanks?” Hoseok says, not really sure which part of your loud declarations he is specifically thanking you for. He sneaks a glance at the front desk, thankful that it is only meek little Jungkook in charge today and not the cranky older librarian who already has a personal vendetta against you and your tutoring group for being public nuisances (not that she was unjustly pointing fingers, of course).

Your mental collapse aside, the rest of his tutoring session goes smoothly, with Hoseok still walking on eggshells around you just in case you might feel like exploding again. You know, for fun or something. Although, he does end up asking if he can leave a few minutes early, saying something about a paper due at the end of the week. The excuse doesn’t make you bat an eye until Jimin arrives for his own session, his grin faltering when he sees his hyung not there to greet him with their usual dance battle in the library.

“Ah… Guess Hoseok-hyung really is still mad over what happened…” Jimin sighs, slumping into his chair. He thumbs his textbook thoughtfully, tongue sticking out like a puppy.

“I’m sure it’ll blow over soon,” you say hopefully, though your heart isn’t quite in it either. Coughing awkwardly, you pluck his textbook out of his hands, desperate to talk about something else other than your crumbling interpersonal relationships. You pause at the page, however, before staring incredulously back at Jimin.

“Jimin.”

“Hmm?” Jimin is still listless, head pillowed by his arms on the table. “What?”

“This is a book on differential calculus. I’m supposed to teach you about writing academic essays.”

“Oh yeah,” Jimin sighs, closing his eyes. “I stole that book from some freshman on the way here. The English textbook I usually bring is with Taehyung right now.”

You pause. Actually, now that you think about it… “Jimin, do you actually even go to this university? What the hell is your major, even?”

“Wha-?” Jimin yawns, fanning his mouth with his hand. He blinks sleepily at you with a big, doofy grin. “Sorry, I played MapleStory for hours last night and I haven’t gotten much sleep. Can I just sleep during this session? I’ll still pay you or whatever…” he trails off, stretching like a cat under a patch of sunlight. Before you know it, the soft sound of Jimin’s snoring fills the silence.

Thankfully, Monday ends without much more commotion. You may have come out of this experience a little bit more broken inside, but hey! That’s what character development is all about, babey. You are just glad that Tuesdays are usually your quietest days, as you only have two classes to worry about. It is also one of the days when you have Creative Writing with Sera, who usually manages to rope you in to get greasy fast food after class. Despite the traumatic experience that particular class has indirectly inflicted upon you, your usual zeal and excitement does not diminish in the slightest. After all, writing will always be your first love, so there isn’t any way some silly poem mishap will make you detest it.

Hopefully nothing else will go wrong, because you aren’t so sure your sanity can take much more of a pounding.

(Fwip. Do you hear that? That’s the sound of karma putting on her strap.)

“Alright class, see you guys on Thursday. Don’t forget that we have a quiz at the beginning of class on Thursday, so please don’t be late.” Professor Puth says, his eyelids blinking out of sync. You hate to be someone who assumes what other people do during their off days as it is none of your business, though the perpetual cloud of marijuana that clings around him can only do so much to mask what his recreational activities might be.

“Dude, I think Prof Puth is finding Nirvana soon,” Sera says loudly, earning the giggles of a few classmates nearby.

“I’d be surprised if he could even find the exit of this building,” you snort, just as the man in question trips over air and nearly faceplants on the ground. Like the model students that you are, you both pretend to be busy doing something else, leaving some other poor soul to help your professor.

Two girls that you vaguely remember from somewhere approach Professor Puth. They are quick to help him straighten up, if his groaning and gasping are anything to go by. He thanks them gruffly and waves them off, but the girls seem adamant to stay put.

“Professor, I have a question…” One of the girls asks, nervously tugging on her ponytail. Her friend giggles surreptitiously beside her, urging her to continue. Their odd demeanor causes signals to go off in your brain, telling you to stop and listen. You tug on Sera’s hand, halting her from leaving.

“Wait. I wanna hear what they’re gonna ask,” you mutter, ignoring Sera’s complaints about being hungry. She can wait for her McNuggets for another five minutes, no matter how much she pretends that she’s starving. You had seen her eat two whole burritos before coming into class today.

Professor Puth raises his brow. “Yes? What do you need?”

“We were just wondering if you could… tell us anything about the identity of the author from that poem?” The girl manages to get all of it out in a rush, cheeks flushed as her friend nods fervently beside her.

“Yea, Prof! We’ve been dying to know! The suspense is killing us, knowing that the mystery author is in one of your classes!” The other girl continues, glittery excitement practically exuding out of her in waves.

Professor Puth sighs, leaning heavily on his desk. He appears about as done as you feel. “Listen… You can badger me all you want, but there’s no way I can tell you. Privacy laws prevent us from sharing information like that without prior consent, even though that student in question might have accidentally sent her assignment to the entire school.” You might be imagining it, but you think Professor Puth points you with a knowing look. You gulp, hastily bowing your head and pretending to fiddle with your phone.

“Aww, Prof! It’s been days and the university hasn’t shut up about it! Surely one of the theories on who the author and muse are must be true, right? You can tell us that, at least.”

You can’t bear to keep listening any longer, though Sera has started to become more interested in the conversation as it progressed. “Wait, wait… I wanna hear the Prof’s opinion,” she says, grinning despite your nails digging crescents into her arm as you try to pull her away.

“No can do! Remember, I have your freshman Halloween pictures saved on a harddrive, and you wouldn’t want me to accidentally send that to the entire student body as well, would you?”

That manages to snap her out of it. Quickly, the two of you leave the lecture hall and away from possible discovery by your poem-frenzied classmates. You are also relieved to be able to breathe in fresh air once more, after being stuck in that class surrounded by liberal art students for two hours. You always do feel a little bit more relaxed after class with Puth, although that might just be from all the secondhand drug use.

Perhaps the fumes really did dull your reflexes, as it takes a while before you realize that Sera has been nudging your shoulder.

When you finally glanced at her, there is a sneaky grin on her face: never a good sign. “So,” she begins, a singsong quality in her voice

After having been her friend for long enough, you have become adept at telling what Sera is going to say next. Call it intuition or whatever, but you like to think of it is a self-defense mechanism. As much as she is your friend, she does love digging into your personal life like it is the cover story of some shitty tabloid. You have to prepare yourself to be interrogated.

“You’re going to ask about the poem, aren’t you?”

Sera rolls her eyes, like you shouldn’t have even asked. “Duh, of course I am. What else would I want to talk about?”

You shrug your shoulders, pretending to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you could have asked ‘Hey, Y/N! How’s your mom been? Have you been eating and drinking well?’ You know, like a normal person.”

“Well, firstable, your mom is literally my friend on Facebook and I saw her go out to that bougie high tea place with Jennie’s mom the other day, so I know she’s fine,” Sera says as the two of you round a corner, heading closer to the parking lot where her car is. “And secondable, you don’t fucking drink water, because you like pretending to be a dehydrated piece of jerky.”

“I just like drinking apple juice, okay? Water is weird,” you say defensively, kicking a pebble as you walk.

“Nah, you’re weird,” Sera counters, ever the creative debater. She remains undeterred, however. “So. Any updates on the poem situation or am I going to have tickle the details out of you?”

You groan, pushing her away from your sensitive sides. “Please don’t… I have no upper body strength and I won’t be able to push you off!”

“That’s the point.” Sera laughs, pinching your cheek. She snatches her hand away, only narrowly escapes getting bitten by you. “Why don’t we skip my torture methods then and go straight to the juicy bits? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!”

“What if nothing has happened since I last saw you?” You grumble, miffed that she really isn’t letting it go. You just want to have one relaxing day, is that too much to ask?

Apparently, it is. Relaxation is a rare commodity these days. Sera snorts, patting you condescendingly on the back. “Nonsense. You’ve got that post-mental breakdown glow around you. You look absolutely radiant with stress!”

The conversations pauses for a bit when you make it to the parking lot. You don’t have to walk too far, as her car is parked relatively close to the exit, which is just another display of how lucky Sera often is in comparison to you. While your unfortunate plebeian ass is busy drowning in shit, Sera is off somewhere aboard a yacht, getting a massage from some Instagram thot.

She hops into the driver’s seat, waiting for you to put your seatbelt on before backing out with one hand on the wheel. “McDonalds?” she asks, though it is pretty much a given that is where you are going. The last time you both tried diverging from your usual hang out spot, you got intense food poisoning from eating at Chipotle. Sera came out completely fine though, that lucky bitch.

She continues her questions on the drive there, and you relent by telling her most of what has happened to you over the past few days. You gloss over the argument between Hoseok and Jimin, not really wanting their spat to suddenly go viral on Facebook as well. Everything else, however––

“Wait, so you talked to Kim Namjoon? The Kim Namjoon? The Namjoon that you had an embarrassing crush on during our first year?” Sera laughs maniacally, almost driving off into the wrong lane. Luckily, you are quick to latch onto the wheel, saving the two of you from becoming roadkill.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, but Y/N! That’s literally so fucking funny!” Sera’s laughter has simmered to a giggle, despite the fact that she is still trying (and failing) to furtively glance your way when you hit a stoplight. “Is he like how you remember? God, do you remember how you were after you first met him? All starstruck because your senpai showed you a draft of his single? ‘Oh, Sera! He has the most amaaaazing flow! I’m going to suck his di––’”

“Shut up!” You whine, slapping her in embarrassment. “Believe me, that crush has died, along with any respect I may have had for him. Men are scum, and I’m going to only date girls from now on.”

“Fine by me! More dick to suck for me, I guess.” Sera teases, whistling innocently. Bold of her to assume that there is any innocent or pure bone in her body; you’ve seen her thirst tweets and no amount of holy water can cure the disease that your vision must have sustained.

“I just want the rumors to die down… It would make my life way more bearable.” You murmur to yourself, sliding down your seat.

Sera is silent for a while. The McDonalds is just within sight, so Sera waits until she has finished parking before she turns to face you fully, uncanny sincerity in her expression. It unnerves you how serious she is, not when you know that this is the same girl who would snort sugar packets if you bet her $5. She places her hands on your shoulder, fixing you with a meaningful look.

“Listen, Y/N. I know all of this is tough right now, but I’m sure it’s going to be alright, okay? The rumor is going to die down soon enough, and everything will be back to normal. Stay strong for now.” Her voice is soothing, sympathy dripping from every word. As mortifying as it is to admit, the tears flow down your cheek effortlessly; perhaps it is the consequence of having to bear this burden on your own for so long without anyone actually telling you that it’s going to be alright.

“Thanks… I think I needed that,” you say after a while, sniffling just a bit. Sera grins fondly at you, wiping your tears.

“No need to thank me. I may be a chaotic shithead, but I’m also your friend.” She unbuckles her seatbelt, gesturing for you to do the same. “C’mon, let’s go in. I’ll even share my nuggets with you.”

Despite her best efforts at comfort, you still feel a little bummed. You allow yourself to wallow in your self-pity for a bit, as McDonalds is a prime location to feel shitty about your life choices anyway. The heart attack inducing food, the barely hygienic facilities, the minimum wage high school employees… Nothing else screamed “I’d rather be dead but it could also be worse” quite like Mickey D’s often did.

You wait by one of the booths while Sera goes off to order for the both of you, leaving you with her phone and other belongings. She promises to let you eat four out of the twenty nugget pieces, which is asking a lot considering who you are dealing with. Sera could probably eat sixty nuggets if she so desired, but only stops herself so she can be physically well enough to continue being a thot. Chasing men all day requires physical fitness, or so she says.

When you go to place her things on the other side of the booth, you notice that Sera had accidentally left her phone unlocked. You can see that she had been previously looking at one of those popular forum sites for your university, where most of her repertoire of gossip is usually sourced from. You aren’t usually the type to frequent those types of pages, with good reason too. That exact forum is the reason of your current stress, where your most private thoughts and feelings were revealed for all to see. Any sort of positive opinion you might have had for that site was immediately dashed the moment that cursed poem was released into the wild.

It kind of pisses you off that Sera still uses that forum despite knowing how much anxiety it has caused you, but then again, there is only so much you can expect from her. Her appetite for drama and chaos is her way of life, her only other hobby aside from writing. You also vaguely recall her saying that she gathers inspiration for her short stories from some of the more outrageous posts made by your fellow schoolmates.

In the end, curiosity gets the best of you as you stare at the open webpage, tantalizing despite the murkiness that lies within. Oh, lighten up. It’s just a confessions page… Besides, you also kind of want to see what people are saying about your poem, and whether the commotion might have died even slightly over time. (Unlikely, but you remain hopeful.)

“Let’s see,” you murmur to yourself, sneaking glances at the counter to see if Sera is close to ordering. She appears to still be next in line to order, so that might give you enough time to read a few of the comments on the post. It doesn’t take you long to find the original post either, since Sera seems to have been perusing the same thing just beforehand.

“Typical Sera... Sympathetic in the streets, a nosey bitch in the sheets.” You snort, scrolling quickly through the comment section. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, except for a few overenthusiastic responses from a couple of people who have bombarded the forum so much that it takes you a few moments to navigate past their thread. You catch a few words here and there, mostly the names of the seven possible muses and not so much the names of any of the possible authors. Honestly, you are more than happy with these turn of events, perfectly content as long as your identity never sees the day where it becomes associated with that disaster piece.

You sort the comments by popularity, wanting to know what everyone’s biggest guesses are. You want to remain hopeful, but as the results start to load, the wave of nausea that suddenly hits you may have been the first warning signal that you should probably stop before you read something that you will regret.

posted by u/SeokjinGod [3d ago]:

[+103, -4] i’m really hoping that kim seokjin is the muse of the poem!! has anyone seen the ads for the new play he’s staring in? he totally looks like the lead actor in a romantic comedy ^^

➾ [+54, -69] psh. that idiot, the muse? PLEASE anyone who has ever worked for kim seokjin KNOWS that it’s physically impossible to form a human connection with that man

➾ [+2, -1] lol seconded

posted by u/namuwuchild [1d ago]:

[+88, -3] WAIT why am i not seeing kim namjoon’s name more often T_T he deserves more love!! stream moonchild or else i’ll bite your ankles

➾ [+1, -6] lol i miss when namjoon used to do actual hiphop… fucking hippie dippie go fuck a tree and some crabs while you’re at it

You sneak a look over your shoulder. Sera is at the front of the line, reciting her orders while the harried employee has to quickly punch in the inordinate amount of food items. Okay… While no one’s looking, time to downvote a couple of these and maybe report some of these assholes… No way in hell are you letting anyone think Moonlight Sonata is about either of those Kim idiots. You would honestly rather out yourself than let anyone think they are worthy of such public displays of love and humiliation.

You are just about to close Sera’s phone and vow never to set foot on social media ever again when the next post catches your eye––the first one where you actually see your name. In fact, your name is generously sprinkled a number of times in this one specific thread.

“Wait a second…” You squint at the top of the thread, reading out the username of the original poster. Is that… Is that your name?!

“User Y/NKook… Oh my god!” You shriek loudly, almost dropping the phone from your sweaty palms. It must be the same person who had organized that merchandise booth in the cafeteria the other week! The number of upvotes on the post isn’t making you feel any better.

posted by u/Y/NKook [3h ago]:

[+98, -5] idk why you noobs are even trying… intellectuals KNOW that y/nkook is real and i won’t take no for an answer… give me my childhood friends to lovers fic RIGHT NOW because this slowburn has been going on for years now and i can’t stand it!!!

➾ [+11, -0] omg op do you know them personally?? how’d you know that they were childhood friends?? i go to the same drama class as y/n and jungkook but they never sit together… are you sure it’s them??

➾ [+20, -1] of course!! they’re even neighbors… besides, haven’t you heard what his nickname is? his friends call him moon eyes for a reason! they say that y/n is the one who gave him that name ^^

You feel your eye twitch, disbelief flooding your senses. Why is this weirdo shipping you with Jungkook? You guys haven’t even spoken properly since elementary school… How does this dude know who you are? Are you being stalked? You whirl your head around, scanning the restaurant for any suspicious people who may or may not be following you. Is this what celebrities feel like when they get shipped with their friends? You feel a sudden surge of respect for them, unable to grasp the situation that you are in. God, you really hope Jungkook hasn’t read any of these.

You go to switch Sera’s phone off, feeling less accomplished than ever before. Maybe it is best to save yourself the anxiety of seeing your world fall apart and try to delude yourself into thinking that the past two weeks have never happened at all. However, there is a certain appeal to reading things that you know you should not, like watching a car crash and unable to look away. The urge to keep scrolling and gaze upon your own personal hell is hard to stop when you have already gained momentum.

“One last post, then I’m done…” You are hard set on that promise, not wanting your apprehension to destroy your peaceful afternoon completely. The next post on the forum greets you with a high upvote number, sending a lick of fear to run down your spine at what you might find. Please don’t be about Y/NKook, you pray helplessly. Little did you know, there are worse things to worry about other than being shipped with your friends.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [1h ago]:

[+154, -5] hey guys i’m back again with another update! so i’ve managed to shorten the list a bit since last time i posted, and i’m 100% certain that kim seokjin is not the muse! sorry, gamers… our prince is in another castle it seems. worry not, though! that only helps our search better and shortens the list. on the other hand, the authors list has also been edited! turns out that neither jodi nor melody is the author, as they both submitted poems about something else. if you are interested to see the updated lists for both muse and author, please head to my profile and look for the original post titled “Mystery Moon Author & Their Mystery Muse” :-)

You have never clicked on a profile as quickly as you did in that moment. Not even a notification from UberEats could make you move that fast.

Lo and behold, the post that started it all is right at the top of the user’s profile, with the significantly shorter list that they had promised. Sweat begins to build on your temples when you realize that the authors list has decreased to seven names, with your name still obstinately sitting at the end of the lines. When will your suffering end?

There is still something that doesn’t sit right with you, however. As you peruse this user’s profile some more, you feel as if there is something weird about it that you can’t quite place. You never did like using this forum, so maybe you are just not used to the layout of the website? What is it about this user’s profile that is making your stomach coil with nerves?

Wait a second… Why is there an edit button beside their profile picture?

“Y/N! I’m back! Sorry for taking so long; I think I ordered too much again. You’re fine with BBQ sauce on your nuggs, right? That’s all I asked for––” Sera had been happily chirping away, sliding into the bench across from you before finally noticing your stoney face. She pats her face, rubbing her cheeks in confusion. “What? Do I have something on me?”

“How fucking dare you!” You hiss, slamming her phone on the table. Unfortunately, you had accidentally locked the phone in your anger, showing only a black screen.

Sera flinches backwards, bewildered. Her eyes flick to the screen and then to you. “Huh? I thought you liked BBQ sauce on your nuggs? I mean, I can ask for sweet and sour sauce if you want…”

“Unlock your phone right now and explain to me why you have triceratops’ profile logged in.”

Your words begin to click in Sera’s mind. Her face grows pale, her body unconsciously sliding further into the booth to hide from your glare. “U-uh… Haha, what on earth are you talking about..?”

“Don’t even try to lie, Sera. I saw everything, and I honestly don’t know if I’m madder that you betrayed me or that I was stupid enough to believe that you were my friend.”

Sera splutters incomprehensibly at first, waving her arms in panic as she tries to save her ass. “I––! You––! It wasn’t like I––”

You lean forward, peering at her coldly. “Oh yeah? What wasn’t it like? It wasn’t like we were friends?”

“No, of course not! I mean,” she backtracks, tongue-tied. “We are friends! It’s just… I made that post before I knew you were the author and I originally sent the poem to just a couple of people because I was so impressed, and I just wanted to––”

“Hold on,” you interrupt, holding up a finger. She squeaks, staring at you fearfully as you slowly get up to your feet. You cry out, “You were also the one who released my fucking poem to the world?!”

“Anna ou––” Sera whimpers, slapping her palm to her mouth. She lowers it, whispering ruefully. “I… didn’t mean to say that…”

“Oh, so you were meaning to lie to me even more?” You seethe, ready to burst into flames.

The poor McDonalds employee who had come to deliver your order to your table seems too frightened to approach the two of you, her arms shaking both with fear and the weight of five orders of 20 piece chicken nuggets. “Uh, is this a bad time?” The girl asks, eyes darting away from your heated glare.

Instead of answering, you grab the tray from her hands and dump the contents on the table. Sera squawks pitifully when a few of the nuggets fall to the ground, though she absolutely yells when you start chucking them at her head like tiny oily cannonballs.

“What the fuck––Dude stop!” Sera has her arms up in defense, shielding her face from your fiery attack. The sound of you ripping open a BBQ sauce packet has her straightening up, however. “No, not the BBQ sauce! Anything but that!”

“Give me one reason why I should show you mercy.” Your hand is poised to pour the sticky sauce all over her white Valentino bag, ready at a moment’s notice.

“Please, Y/N! I’m really sorry!” Sera jumps out of the booth, and goes on her knees. She clasps her hands together, shaking them frantically. “I really didn’t know it was you at first!”

“Well then, why didn’t you fucking take the post down the moment you did know it was me? I thought you were my friend!” You clench your fist around the BBQ sauce packet, causing some of it to spill onto her bag. She makes a desperate noise.

“I just… I like the attention?” She knows this is the wrong answer, judging by your unimpressed expression. She sighs heavily, head bowed in shame. “Look, I’ll fix this, alright? I genuinely didn’t do this wanting to hurt you… I just got so caught up in the clout that I didn’t really think about what would happen if you found out!”

“‘If’ I found out, huh…” You echo, more disappointed than angry now. You slump back into your chair, taking care to grab the napkins and cleaning the sticky mess on your skin as best as you can. “You really were going to continue doing this for as long as it took, huh?”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.” Her voice is soft, repentant. It doesn’t do much for your sympathy, however.

“Fuck you, honestly. If you really are sorry, you’ll fix this mess as soon as possible.”

You reach for your bag, your movements jostling a few more nuggets to tumble to the floor. You don’t bother saying goodbye, not wanting to see if Sera is doing her Crying Face Emoji impression to try and soften you up. Not this time. This time… you don’t think your feelings can recover after this.

You have read enough stories about heartbreak and longing, but you don’t think any of them top the experience of losing a friend you realize you never even had.

The next morning, there is a new post on the forum from user triceratops.

posted by u/triceratops 👤 [0s ago]:

[+0, -0] Hello, friends. I think I’ve found the author.

It’s Lee Sera.

398 notes · View notes

theatresweetheart · 5 years

Text

Horror Movies and Soft Landings

Fandoms: Sanders Sides, G/t

Summary: Horror movies can be the bane of ones existence, good thing Virgil drops in to ease Roman’s worries.

Warnings: Swearing, fear, brief mentions of slightly disturbing movie imagery.

Pairings: Platonic Prinxiety

Word Count: 3431 words

Taglist: @isle-of-gold @lovelylogicality

~—~—~—~—~—~

Horror movies were not a good idea. He knew it had been a bad idea from the start.

Though even as he sat up in bed, eyes scanning the shadows for something that seemed to be moving, Roman knew he was just psyching himself out at this point. There was nothing there, he knew that for a fact.

But what if there was?

There could be something lurking in the darkness that he couldn’t see and it made his heart rate spike. He had already taken some precautions, such as tossing a pillow onto the empty chair in his room and locking his bedroom door.

You could never be too well-prepared.

Oh, pull yourself together. Leave the overthinking to Virgil, he’s good at it.

Even so, he reached over to grab his phone off the bedside table and sunk a bit farther down into the comforters on his bed, flickering the screen on. He winced for a moment, squinting just enough to see through the blinding light until he managed turned the brightness down and activating the night shift. It was still a bit bright for his taste, but it was better than how it had been.

2:47 am.

That was certainly a lot later than he usually preferred to stay up. Being in bed by 11 pm was usually a must and then getting to sleep about an hour after was how his schedule usually hung around.

However, tonight was different as his mind hadn’t given him the chance to relax from the adrenaline high and had instead been rather helpful with creating scenarios and monsters in his mind’s eye.

Logan had said this would happen and Roman knew it would happen anyways, but he hadn’t listened to his common sense or the voice of logic.

Patton had tried to find different ways to make him feel better as well, such as tea with honey or warm milk. Nothing had worked, but he had appreciated the attempts.

As the darkness began to become overwhelming again, he tugged the blankets further up and stayed half hidden beneath them. He didn’t really care that it was starting to get a bit toasty. Not when there was something else in the room with him.

He had tried to tune out the silence from the room and had managed to do so rather impressively, if he could admit, which he could.

He had finally managed to find a tentative peace and if he allowed himself to stay like this, there would be nothing to worry about. He’d be asleep in no time.

But what if that’s what the monster is waiting for?

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Roman was well aware that according to all reason, there would literally be nothing like that lurking in his bedroom; especially not if he was still awake to see it. But it would also have to defy all logic as well. Though, the more fantastical side of him supplied that it could be possible. While he usually adored imagination, right now it wasn’t doing anything than making him nervous.

So, he tried to settle his nerves while scrolling through his phone. There had to be something distracting enough, right?

“Why are you still awake?”

A sudden voice from just above him made Roman jolt and knock back against the headboard which caused the bed to shake and his phone to nearly fly entirely from his grasp, only to land a few inches in front of him.

A small, startled gasp was the next thing he registered—that and a rather loud curse that followed quickly afterwards—before the nearly unnoticeable weight that had plopped onto pillow just next to his shoulder followed suit.

With his heart now in his throat, Roman fumbled blindly for his phone in the pitch darkness, finding that it had fallen into the waves of comforter in front of him. He shakily managed to switch on the flashlight, bathing the room in a bright white light.

As soon as he could see, after blinking the spots from his eyes, he turned just enough to see a familiar black hoodie slumped into a small divot that his landing had caused.

“Virgil?” He muttered breathlessly, eyes wide and surprised. Now that had sent his adrenaline through the roof.

Was he okay? Jesus Christ.

Sure, the pillow was admittedly soft, if it wasn’t, Roman wouldn’t be using it. However, the softness of the pillow wasn’t what really mattered when you fell from a height that could be otherwise damaging if you landed wrong.

Roman almost feared to move, not wanting to upset the borrower’s position more. “Are you alright?”

It took a moment, but the smaller form moved a bit, pushing himself up and onto his elbows from the near face-plant he had taken. He took a moment to just breathe, because holy shit I don’t want to fall from that goddamn height again, fuck me and then he was rolling over onto his back and looking up at the very worried human looming over him.

That sort of thing was still unnerving to him, even though the more rational side of him knew that he was perfectly safe in this situation. Though, it was still hard to convince the terror flooding through his veins that that’s what this was.

In literally any other setting, if a human were looking down at you, you needed to get out as soon as possible. Even though his instincts would keep going off whenever someone was looking at him, he knew it wasn’t because he was in danger. It was just because he had those instincts driven into him so hard as a kid that he couldn’t shake them even as an adult.

In any case, these were the instincts that kept him alive, so he couldn’t complain too much.

Though, he needed to get him to stop looking at him like that. The helpless, kicked-puppy look.

Virgil opened his mouth to say something, before thinking better of it and flipping Roman the bird.

It seemed to express exactly what he needed it to because he watched as the worried expression crumpled almost instantly and was replaced with a mock-irritated one.

“What do you think you’re doing, sneaking in here and scaring the hell out of me at 2 in the morning?”

“'Cause I though it was funny?” The borrower shrugged his shoulders, an amused grin sneaking across his face. He got a flat look in response so he changed his story. “I was just curious as to why you were still awake at this hour. It’s not like you to be a night dweller.”

Roman made an undignified noise. “Well, maybe I should be asking you the same question.”

Virgil quirked a brow. “Because borrowers are naturally nocturnal? Because I just happen to be an insomniac? We’ve been over this before, so it shouldn’t be a surprise. I just saw your phone on and I guess I wanted to know why you’ve been holding off going to bed. Is it a sin to be curious?”

Roman rolled his eyes, before shifting a bit more to the side and sinking back against the headboard, leaving the borrower laying on the one pillow and using another to support his back. “No, not necessarily.”

Virgil adjusted himself, struggling for just a moment before pulling himself up and sitting cross-legged on the too-soft surface. “You know, I think I can guess why you’re avoiding sleep.”

“I’m not avoiding it—”

“Oh please, it’s because you watched that horror movie, isn’t it?”

The human pursed his lips. He broke the quiet after a moment. “You heard that, huh?”

“Hard not to when you live in the walls,” he said nonchalantly. “That and you were screeching, so...”

Roman winced. “Right.”

The silence held for a minute. It wasn’t awkward, but they both felt as if they needed to fill it but both for very different reasons. Roman didn’t enjoy sitting in the silence for too long, as it allowed his mind to wander again and Virgil just didn’t like sitting in silence because it could get awkward eventually.

“You know, you’re an idiot for watching it in the first place. You’d think you’d know you and horror movies don’t bode well by now, and didn’t Logan warn you too? Sure, he talks a lot, but the guy has some good advice,” Virgil spoke up again, drawing the weight of the brown eyes back to him. There was that unimpressed look again. He tugged at his hoodie a bit, almost nervously with the consistent attention. “Don’t look at me like that when you know I’m right.”

There was a sigh in response, which caused Virgil to turn his attention back to said male. The bed shook a bit violently as Roman moved to bring his knees up to his chest.

Goddamn, were they supposed to be having a heart-to-heart moment? God knows he wasn’t good at those.

But sitting in the silence wasn’t going to do either of them any good, so it seemed it was up to him to do something about this. That unhappy look on the other’s face just wasn’t sitting well with him either.

Pushing himself up into a stand, throwing his arms out at the lack of a steady surface and needing to keep balance, Virgil managed to wobble across the pillow before hopping off of it and onto the comforter instead. He made his trek across the blanket as smooth as it could be. Though, the closer he got to Roman, the more he realized just how much he didn’t think about how big he was anymore.

Letting his anxiety about that get in the way wasn’t exactly how he wanted to deal with this, so he pushed it down and continued with his plan.

He knew that Roman wasn’t watching him as the weight of his gaze was somewhere else, though as soon as he had grabbed onto the pant leg of the pajamas he was wearing, his attention shifted instantly. He suppressed a small grin at the fact that he could literally feel the tense muscles underneath the soft fabric.

Virgil could give it to him for trying not to shake him off with his natural movements.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, but with his new found confidence he hauled himself upwards until he was sitting cross-legged on the top of Roman’s knee, panting slightly but meeting his eyes at the same.

There was a self-deprecating look hidden behind those brown eyes. The only reason Virgil could see it so clearly, was because he knew how that sort of pain felt. So, before the human could even say anything, he was breaking the silence again. “Insomnia sucks.”

Roman scoffed. “You’re telling me.”

Virgil snapped his fingers, causing a slight jolt from the human and his attention was back on him, if a bit surprised. “I wasn’t done,” he explained his intentions. “Are you going to shut up and listen to me now or do I have to climb higher?” The startled look Roman was giving him said enough, so, he rubbed his hands down his thighs before tucking his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie. “Insomnia sucks, but you can’t let it control you. Especially if this is all caused by a scary movie, because one sleepless night turns into two and then three until you realize you haven’t slept in a couple days.”

He could see the snarky response coming from a mile away before it was even said. It was that smug look that sold him out. ‘Has this happened to you, Tom Thumb, or are you humouring me?’

A hand was held up and it stopped him from saying it. “Is it the creativity in you that’s leading you to think there’s something here with you?”

“Other than you?” Virgil gave him a deadpan and Roman only grinned, but it was gone after a second. “…I guess.”

“Distracting yourself won’t really help,” he admitted finally, leaning forwards on his own knees, keeping his head at an angle where it was still comfortable enough to look up. “I’ve tried. How long have you been trying?”

“...three hours.”

“Exactly. If distracting yourself hasn’t helped yet, I don’t think it’s going to any time soon.” He then rubbed the back of his neck, focusing his attention elsewhere for a moment. “Would you feel better if I stayed for a bit?”

He got a reaction almost instantly. “You don’t have to do that. Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Virgil shrugged his shoulders before wrapping his arms around himself. “I know what it’s like to think about the worst possible situations alone at ungodly hours.” He felt the pity stare, but made it a point to look anywhere that wasn’t Roman. “I offered, anyway so, whatever I guess.”

It took a moment before it clicked and understanding flooded forwards.

“You don’t want to be alone tonight, either, do you?”

Roman watched as Virgil flinched before his shoulders tensed. The body language wasn’t hard to read, even if he was smaller than the average person. The lighting in the room also wasn’t great, but it wasn’t poor enough to hide the grimace on the smaller features either. Then his shoulders were released and the boy was shaking his head slightly, his chin resting in the palm of his hand.

After what seemed like forever, Virgil was actually turning to look at him. “Are you going to say something stupid if I say yes?”

Of course, his friend looked offended by that, before seeing the insecurity lurking behind those eyes. “’Course not,” he offered instead, “when have I ever done something like that?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Yeah, no, okay. I see your point.” Though, the quiet was held again, he had to ask honestly. “Nightmare?”

“Ah, no, not exactly,” he answered, tucking a bit further into his hoodie, almost as if he were trying to hide in it. To hide away from the world. “I’d call it more of a…resurfacing memory.”

Roman bit his lip. Must have been pretty bad if he came in here searching for comfort instead of seeking Patton out. Which, did confuse him. If he wanted comfort, why did he come here? Maybe it was the fact that he knew he would be awake at this point or maybe it was because Virgil knew Roman wouldn’t smother him the same way Patton would.

Bless Patton’s heart, really, but when those dad instincts kicked in, they kicked in hard.

It didn’t matter who he was focused on, whether it was him, Logan or Virgil. They have all felt it at some time or another. That overwhelming want to make sure they were okay.

They had all been smothered by the well-meaning ball of constant energy.

When Virgil had twisted his wrist a couple weeks back—rendering him incapable of climbing around anywhere—the boy could barely take a few minutes to himself without that doting compassion constantly focused on him.

Instead of saying something, knowing for a fact that he wasn’t incredibly good at being fuzzy and cutesy with words, he offered his cupped hands out in front of himself.

“You know me,” he shrugged his shoulders when he got a confused look in response to his invitation. “I’m not great at this whole fuzzy, warm stuff. That’s Padre’s specialty.” Virgil quirked a brow in question, prompting him to keep talking. “I’ll take you up on that offer earlier. It would be nice to have another presence that I know and trust in the room. So, what do you say, Short Stack, wanna have a sleepover?”

“First of all, never call it a sleepover again.” He adjusted his hoodie. Belaying his words, Virgil pushed himself off of the knee and into the hands of his friend. Almost instantly he was surrounded by warmth and a comfort, but it wasn’t smothering. “Secondly, this entire thing is for you. I don’t need the reassurance.”

“Yeah, sure,” Roman agreed, bringing his hands closer to himself, before shifting so that he back in his normal spot on the bed. “Whatever you say.”

He let his partner back off onto the pillow he had tumbled into earlier, this time though, the pillow itself was pushed a bit more to the side to give him a little bit more space on the bed.

It didn’t take long before the two were getting comfortable and Roman had grabbed his phone before settling back down and shutting the flashlight off. He reached over the borrower to plug his phone back into the charger and laid against the softness of his pillow, tucked comfortably underneath the comforter.

When Roman turned his head, he saw that Virgil was curled into his hoodie, looking all the world like he was content that way. So, he allowed himself to stare at the ceiling for a moment.

He was about to break the silence when the latter did instead.

“Did you know that 3 am is supposed to be the Devil’s hour? Said a lot of haunting stuff happens around this time.”

“Oh for fucks sake, Virgil.”

The human got nothing more than a snort from beside him, before the sound of it being stifled.

Obviously he was trying not to laugh too loudly but coming from such a small pair of lungs, his breath support would never really be enough to be truly loud.

The thought that it was now the Devil’s hour wasn’t really making sleep come any easier at this point.

“I’m sorry,” Virgil laughed, a hand covering his mouth, “I couldn’t help it.”

“Yeah whatever,” Roman mumbled right back at him, turning his head just enough to see the smaller form in his peripheral vision.

Another moment of silence passed as Virgil tried to calm himself down and after his laughter did eventually stop, Roman thought they would be done for the night.

Oh, how very wrong he was.

“Do you need a strong man like me to protect you?”

Roman sighed loudly. Making it a point to show just how exasperated he was with this.

Though, when he heard Virgil’s laughter resume again, almost as if this time it was louder, he couldn’t help but feel a grin cross his own features. It was rare when he heard the latter laugh like nothing else in the world mattered. He wasn’t honestly sure if he had ever heard such unabashed laughter from the borrower before now.

He chuckled a bit himself, before shaking his head. The two calmed down a little bit after that and the quite was held, but this time it was warmer. The tone was lighter, brighter.

In all honesty, he was feeling much better now, the pictures from the movie laying nearly completely forgotten in the back of his head. It was also nice to know that he had someone he knew and trusted directly to his right just in case those feelings did change.

Having another person in the room was also relieving as well.

“Thank you,” Roman spoke up, but this time his voice was quieter, it held more meaning.

He heard the movement from right beside him and he adjusted his attention just enough to see the smaller companion, laying on his stomach now to face him.

“For what?”

“For staying here with me,” he offered back, letting his hands rest over his stomach and letting his eyes trail back to the ceiling. “And for feeling comfortable enough to let me know that you were here seeking solidarity as well.”

Virgil rolled over onto his back, pulling his hood up over his head and shoving his hands into his pockets. He shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever, Princey,” he mumbled, “shut up and go to sleep.”

If the words had been said in an argument, Roman knew that they would have held more of a punch but at this time of night, he knew it was a bit more well-meaning. So, he only grinned and finally shut his eyes to get some sleep.

Just as he was about to drift off, after what felt like five or six minutes later, he heard the small voice speak up again.

It was almost so quiet that he could have sworn that he had imagined it:

“You’re welcome.”

It did make him feel better that Virgil knew he was appreciated.

So, with that in mind, he was able to push all of the other thoughts from mind. He wasn’t alone and this time those words didn’t send uneasiness into him.

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nelllraiser · 4 years

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hotel jared | blanche, nell, & jared

LOCATION: nell’s greenhouse. PARTIES: @harlowhaunted, @nelllraiser, and @themidnightfarmer. SUMMARY: jared appears in desperate need of shampoo and gets more than he bargained for.

For once, Nell and Blanche were asleep at a reasonable hour. Though...it was more likely to be a nap more than anything else. Both of them were passed out in the bed Blanche had put into the greenhouse, wrapped in blankets with Iago draped over the both of them. But then— there was a familiar little ping on Nell’s wrist where her bracelet was always worn, the one that was connected to the perimeter spell, and acted as a house key. It woke her with a start, her heart already racing in anticipation. What if it was him? Was Montgomery back to finish the job? Her still blurry eyes saw the figure approaching in the darkness, unable to make out anything other than the vague shape of a man. She didn’t even bother to see if Blanche was awake yet, sitting up with a start as a hand filled with magic burst forth from her. It was the same spell she’d used on Kaden, summoning ropes from seemingly thin air to wrap around the victim from shoulders to ankles, the bindings tight as they shackled legs together, and arms to the sides. Her voice was rough with sleep when she spoke, but it was still filled with her iron determination and protective nature, nearly a growl. “Don’t come any closer.”

The next person that told Blanche she needed a nap was going to get a very angry ‘I DID TAKE A NAP’ screamed into their face. She had dozed off, curled up next to Nell with Iago, when Bea’s bracelet pinged. It was hard to get used to that. Blanche stirred, a low groan leaving her before she jolted awake fully. Fuck. Someone had crossed the property line. Thinking along the same lines as Nell, she swung her legs off the bed, ignoring Iago’s wine as she snatched her taser lying on top of her bag, ripping the safety cable out as Nell bound the intruder. A pillow soared threw the air, bouncing off the man’s body as she fumbled for the light switch so they could see what they’re doing. “Listen here, dickwad -” Blanche flicked the lights on brandishing the taser threateningly. “You’re not gunna - oh.” Iago trotted past Nell to go say hello, unbothered by the man’s intrusion. “.... Whoops.”

It was not his smartest move he would admit to himself later. But arriving at the Vural house had never been this treacherous before in his defence. Jared had seen no life in the house and he’d remembered that Nell had mentioned the greenhouse. He’d only just turned his body in that direction when the ropes spouted from thin air and wrapped him up so tightly he couldn’t take even an inch of a step further. He was knocked a little off balance when a soft object hit his chest but he stayed standing as the lights flickered on. Jared squinted at the two standing there and then down at iago. Unable to hold his hands up in surrender, he instead tipped himself backwards and let his ass hit the floor. Eye level with the Baku as it moved forward to greet him. “Bad time?”

Nell squinted against the light for a moment, blinking in confusion as the man came into focus. “Jared?” Her voice was still laced with that groggy quality, trying to make sense of the world. That must have been why it took her a second longer to remember the ropes she’d cast. “Oh shit- sorry.” A snap of her fingers, and the ropes were no more. Still, she couldn’t help the little chuckle of amusement as he seemed to simply accept his fate, sitting there on the ground of the greenhouse. “Sir, have you heard of texting?” she tried to joke. “The Charlie’s Angels were ready to take you out,” Nell teased. “And not on a fun date.” She glanced at Blanche, making sure she was also alright. “Iago likes him, doesn't she? That makes sense. The pillow was impressive, though. I think that would have taken a lesser man down.”

Blanche rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “Sorry Jared,” Blanche said, before glancing at Nell. “Hey, I was ready to tase the crap out of him too!” As if to prove her point, she waved the taser in the air, before quickly putting the safety pin back in it before someone actually got hurt. Well, this was a mild disaster. At least the only true casualty had been her pillow. She would have to do laundry again after it bounced off him hit the ground. Iago was happy enough to lean against Jared. “Iago does like him, we should have known.” She put the taser back down on her bag concealing a yawn behind her hand. “So, uh, what do we owe this wake up call? The moon doesn’t have an eyeball on it, does it? Because I swear to god, I cannot handle that right now.”

As the girls argued back and forward about how they were going to take him out, Jared reached out and gave Iago a few gentle pats now that his arms were free. He stayed on the floor for a moment just listening to them before giving a sheepish smile. “I have heard of texting, but I’d already left the house by the time I realized and this was a time sensitive mission. But no the moon is NOT also an eyeball so we’re all good there.” he then grew rather sheepish for a moment. “Came to steal shampoo.” he tells the two girls before the thought of the pillow truly hits him and he looks behind them at the bed. “Are you two… staying in here full time?”

Nell considered her own pillow carefully as Blanche spoke of tasers before playfully launching it at Jared. “I wanted to try- it looked like it was fun. And I know you were about to lay down the law.” A little smirk came over Nell before she teased, “Time sensitive. Has it been that long without shampoo? You’re gross. Why are you stealing shampoo, though?” Then it was her turn to be sheepish as she looked around at the bed, as if she was considering making it disappear. But- well- Jared had already seen it. “I mean- yes? Mostly? But that’s okay! Right, Blanche?” The house was still too littered with memories of Bea, and the greenhouse felt much safer.

Jared was here to steal shampoo? Blanche didn’t have long to feel confused, though, before Jared asked about if they were staying in the greenhouse full time. The greenhouse was Nell’s closet - this was where Nell felt safe right now after Bea’s death, and who was she to say try and drag Nell back into the house that was full of painful memories. She wouldn’t leave her alone, how could she leave her best friend alone? She would stay in silent solidarity until things got all better again. Blanche nodded. “Uh, yeah. I put the bed frame together myself.” With some help from the internet and Nell. Surprisingly, dragging the mattress and the box spring downstairs had been the easy part of it. “It’s alright. The sheets and comforter are new too.” Was she being defensive right now? Shit. She was being defensive right now. She gave a strained grin. “You know, sleeping next to plants is, like, the new in thing right now.”

“Time sensitive because I just sent the kids to their rooms and I don’t want them sneaking out while I’m gone.” He countered, not really paying much attention to his own reasons for being there anymore. “Good job.” he said genuinely if very distractedly to Blanche about her building the bed in there. He gave so little thought to the words before they came out of his mouth. “You should both come stay with me.” There was a good reason not to be in the house clearly, since the both of them were out here, he himself couldn’t really imagine being inside the place at the moment either. But as much as they’d say it was okay, living in a greenhouse wasn’t really the best option. And the words were out of his mouth and he was not taking them back. “Everything under one roof, your own beds, your own rooms. You should both move in.”

Nell’s arms crossed stubbornly, realizing he must be rather one track minded at the moment if he wasn’t paying attention to the pillow she’d thrown in addition to ignoring her questions about shampoo. “But why do you need the shampoo?” she repeated, never one to back down. “It’s true, though. Everyone’s sleeping next to plants these days. Me, Blanche, The Jolly Green Giant...Oprah- probably.” Then she was blinking in surprise once again, not entirely processing what Jared had said. But when she had, excitement was coloring her voice. “What? Like- in the farmhouse?” Normally Nell would have agreed in a heartbeat, but she wasn’t sure of Blanche’s opinion on the matter. After all, she still had the mansion with Nora and Remmy. But Nell also knew that the greenhouse had become something of a safe space for the girl. She couldn't leave her without it. “What do you think, Blanche?”

It was late and she was tired because Blanche wasn’t processing what Jared had said properly at first. She looked between the two, confused, and she realized that Jared and Nell could probably see the steam coming out of her ears. Stay with Jared? Nell liked that idea. She clearly wanted to go. “Okay,” Blanche found herself saying. She rubbed the back of her neck, and quietly wondered if that meant she was going to be cockblocking if she went, but decided that she didn’t really feel like getting murdered by Nell. She thought of Remmy and Nora - she was really only home during the day now. Nora had told the ghosts to stay out of her way, but she could still feel them there… It was better now, though. But Nell still needed her, and if Blanche was being completely honest with herself, she still needed Nell too. “I can stay for a little bit, yeah.” What difference did it make anyway? The greenhouse versus the farmhouse. And it would probably be far more comfortable than sleeping in the greenhouse anyway. “Are you sure you don’t mind me going too?” Blanche asked, suddenly, looking at Jared. They had only just stopped talking about the weather. Her temporarily crashing could be weird. “And Iago?”

“I’m gonna be strapped for cash for the month, unless I can flog something. Found out I was running low on some things a little too late. Figured you’d sub me in exchange for being invited for when calving season starts.” Jared looked between the two and nodded. “Yeah in the farmhouse.” and then waited for Blanche like Nell was. It was maybe an odd invite for her, considering they’d only just gotten the deeper understanding of each other that Nell and Jared had shared for seven years or so, but he didn’t retract it. They were both living in the greenhouse, they both needed a place to go. Somewhere with hopefully better memories or even just a neutral space, and he could provide. He had ample room for all of them. “Everyone’s invited.” he says seriously, giving Iago a few more hearty pats before finally getting to his feet and lifting the two thrown pillows into his arms. “You can come to stay a little while, or you can come to stay for more than that. I have so much spare house it’s unreal. No house rules, just a few farm things we’d need to talk about. Mostly safety stuff Nells knows already.” His eyes found Nells and he smiled before looking back to Blanche. “What do you say? We can go now, give you a better night's sleep since I ruined it?”

“Yeah...Yeah, I could do that!” Nell agreed readily, as if she wouldn’t have given him whatever he needed in a heartbeat in the first place. “The calves!” Her excitement was nearly palpable, it having been quite some time since she’d been around for the season. “Blanche, the calves are cute.” She was doing her best to seem neutral, not wanting Blanche to feel pressured or obligated, but Nell was also unable to contain herself when calves were mentioned. Jared was right about the safety situation, though. Thankfully, Blanche had been coming into her own with the sparring they’d been working on, as well as her telekinesis. Of course, Nell would prefer Blanche not have to use that, but it was good to know she wouldn’t be defenseless. And the thought of having two of her best friends under one roof? Even if it was temporary? That was more than enough to bring a bright grin to her lips. “I could grab the stuff- get Greg and Taki ready to go, too.” Taki who had been sleeping for the entirety of this conversation suddenly decided to crack open his fiery eyes, considering Jared with his always judgemental gaze. “If you want- I mean,” she said, looking to Blanche again.

“We can sub you for whatever you need,” Blanche agreed, looking between the two. Nell seemed so excited, especially about the calves. It made Blanche smile. She could stay for the calving season. That would be fun. And she truly didn’t mind. Her opinion of Jared was always good, even if she could never think of anything to say to him before the other day when she burst out about the supernatural, but now it was only improving. He was kind, clearly, and he just wanted to make Nell feel better. She nodded to Nell. “Yeah, yeah, I want to go. That sounds like it’ll be a lot of fun, with the kids and what not,” she shot as she grinned at Nell. “I like calves too. They are cute. But - uh, I’ve never really lived on a farm before, I don’t really know how to milk a cow. Is that okay?” Blanche was suddenly concerned that she was going to be more of a nuisance than she was going to be helpful. “And Iago’s really clean, honestly! She just, uh, may want to snuggle at odd hours, but I’m sure that’ll be okay... Right?” Blanche said brightly, fighting back another yawn.

Jared grinned when Blanche said she was willing to come. This smile only to be replaced by one of very mild horror at the thought of Blanche trying to milk anything on the farm. “Oh haha we’re not a dairy. First rule of the farm, Nell knows all too well. Just don’t really get close to anything. If possible, take the path furthest from the kids unless I’m around.” He explained with a nervous laugh. “That’s the main one. But we can talk particulars later.” He gave Iago a smile and shot Taki a familiar respectful nod. “Everyones invited as they are. Seriously, no house rules. It’s just been me at home and I’m not worried about any of that.” The stifled yawn caught Jareds attention and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I can go and you can both get some more sleep until later this morning. Or you could both get in the truck and we can go snooze at the house and sort the rest out later?”

The thought of Blanche trying to milk anything was….truly horrifying, but also amusing that she’d asked in the first place. So a soft smile found its way to Nell, as she finally stood from the bed, Taki meowing in objection as she picked up one of the blankets to wrap it around her shoulders. She was about to say that they could start now, wide-awake not that her excitement had gotten the best of her, and always ready to take off with any idea that came her way. But it was impossible to ignore Blanche’s yawn, so she brought herself back to Earth, remembering how often she requested her friend to sleep. “Later is good,” Nell affirmed with a nod. Meanwhile, Taki rose from the bed to brush up affectionately against Iago, curling his tail around the Baku, still making eye contact with Jared as if to say you wish this were you. Nell dipped forward to scoop the Ovinikk up in her arms, already beginning to try and get a feel for where Greg was so that she might get him to the truck as well. “You’re sure about this...right Blanche? And you too, Jared? You guys don’t have to do this.”

Blanche was trying to figure out the logistics in her head, but all that was in her head right now was something akin to a flaming dumpster. Oh god, maybe she really did need sleep. She felt a little bad because Nell was clearly bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to go, but the thought of shutting off the lights in the greenhouse and getting a few more hours of sleep was a little more attractive. Surely after she got drunk the night before, Morgan and everyone else who told her she needed a nap would can it, right? Regan wouldn’t have to threaten to send Adam after her, thought that thought was still really funny to her. Iago whined slightly as Taki was scooped away from her, and went to go nuzzle Jared, she looked at Nell and nodded, covering her mouth as she yawned again. “I’m cool with it,” she affirmed, glancing at Jared. “So long as he is. And he’s serious that I don’t have to milk anything.” She was starting to wonder though, farm animals couldn’t really be that dangerous, could they? Then again, knowing her luck, she would probably be the one to be mauled by a cow.

“No milking.” Jared repeated firmly before getting a little excited himself. There were going to be people in the house. Actual talking people. Not just his animals when he left a door open. It would take a lot of talking through later, and an awful lot of reshuffling of the house (or rather just himself) but it’d work out great in his opinion. So he herded the girls towards the truck, snatching their blankets from the bed to go along with the pillows he was still holding. Ushering them into the backseat he pushed the pillows in and threw the blankets over their knees. He might be fully awake and in clothes, but the girls had been asleep. They would be more likely to catch a chill. Once they were in he hopped into the driver's seat and looked back at them. “Anything last second or can it all be grabbed later today?”

It suddenly occurred to Nell that...she’d been assuming Jared had mentioned the true nature of the farm when he and Blanche had their share-fest. As she sat there, comfortably burrito’d in the blankets, she emerged from the cocoon for a moment to say, “Jared did you...tell Blanche about the...farm?” Certainly he’d know what she meant, right? But she did a quick, mental check as Jared asked if there was anything else they’d need. Taki was warm in her lap, and she’d Summon Greg once they were at the farm. It was easier than making sure he stood still in a truck, anyway. “You’ve got everything though, right?” she asked Blanche. “Iago’s snug?”

Blanche let herself be herded to Jared’s truck, only semi aware that this was how people got kidnapped. But, like, Nell trusted Jared, so it was fine. Well, probably, at least. She shuffled into the back seat, Iago following and wedging herself into the most comfy position on top of her and half on Nell. “‘M snsdjg,” Blanche said unintelligibly. Her head lulled to the side, gently against the truck, and she was almost out. Iago followed suit, curling up into Blanche with a loud sigh, nuzzling her. “D’you think …. Grocery…” And then she was out for good. Her train of thought would return in the morning, and Blanche would figure it out then. Now it was time to appease everyone who had told her to sleep.

#chatzy #ch:blanche #ch:jared #hotel jared

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captainillogical · 5 years

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Devil’s Ballroom Ch.5

A year after the events from the earth’s final attack, Little Homeworld is finally complete, and there’s a new jazz bar where gems and humans mingle and drink. - As you’re typing back a reply, someone pulls the stool out next to you and takes a seat. You see a sliver of pink out of the corner of your eye as you try not to actually Look. Oh god. It’s her. God can’t help us now.

Spinel/Reader

collab with my lovely wife @firstofficertightpants

Within minutes, the two of you arrive at your house. It’s along a narrow street with a couple of other residences, in a pretty well-lit area. You walk up to the door, grabbing the keys out of your bag while you almost trip on the literal only step in front of the entrance. Smooth. You drunkenly fumble your keys attempting to unlock it. Spinel is next to you idly looking around, mildly interested in her surroundings. Once you unlock the door, both of you step in, and you close it behind you.

“Home sweet home,” You say to her while toeing off your flats, and setting your bag down on the entrance table. “Make yourself comfy. And please take off your shoes.”

“Nice place.” She says as she’s currently eyeing your photos with your dad on the entry wall. You watch her bend down to untie her shoes and you almost want to help her, because she’s clearly struggling. Inebriation and basic motor function don’t go hand in hand.

“Thanks. It’s not much but with dad here, it’s home.” You reply with. You point at one of the more embarrassing photos, the one from the fair when you were young and crying, ice cream on the ground, and your dad laughing his ass off. “This is my dad. As you can see, he’s a huge dillhole.” You say while smiling, despite yourself. She looks at it more carefully once her shoes are off, getting a little closer to it and squinting.

“You look a lot younger.” She says, finally.

“Humans grow, remember? This was over 10 years ago, anyway. I was still a kid.”

“Did your dad grow too?” She wonders out loud.

“He’s an adult, so he stays the same, but aged some. He’s got a huge beard now. And since I’m an adult now too, I shouldn’t really be growing anymore.” She honestly just kind of gives you a look like that’s fuckin weird, but whatever. “Give me just a second, I’ll be right back.” You say to her, and leave her by the entry staring at your family photos as you make your way to the kitchen and grab two glasses out of the cupboard, filling them with water. You also grab a bottle of aspirin, and head back over to Spinel. You hold out a glass and the pills for her to take, and she does. "They’re just basic painkillers, you’ll thank me for it later. Don’t wanna be hungover in the morning and all.” You take yours, and down them with almost all of the water. She eyes hers, shrugs, and does the same.

“Wanna sit on the couch for a little while and watch tv? I kind of want to wait a little bit before sleeping, if I go to bed this drunk, I’ll wake up nauseous.” You say to her while grabbing the glass from her hand, and put them back into the kitchen.

“Sure, it’ll give me some time to sober up as well.” She follows you to the living room you share with your dad, and sits next to you, one leg tucked under the other. She puts her arm over the back of the couch, between you two. She sighs and her face relaxes, and sinks a bit into the couch.

“Comfy?” “Very. This is comfier than the bed Lapis gave me. I don’t need to sleep really, but I kind of like the break it gives my mind.” She says, and you chuckle. “Some human things aren’t so bad, yeah?” You grab the remote, and turn on the tv to the science station. Fuck yeah, ‘How It’s Made’ is on. Nothing else that’s on matters anymore.

“I mean I kind of have to adjust to human things while living on earth. Don’t want to be a complete outsider, I guess,” She smiles, looking over to you. “I like ice cream, and booze, and finding new weird human music. You guys are good for that.”

“You don’t sound like you’ve tried enough human things, and you’ve been here how long?” You say, already thinking of a few things you’d like Spinel to experience. The show a murmur in the background while you two chat, narrator describing the process of putting peanut butter into jars. You’ve seen this episode countless times by now, but you still catch yourself watching it every couple of seconds.

“Actually living here? Give or take.. 4 months. I was going back and forth between the diamonds, before I figured out that living with them wasn’t the best for me.” She’s watching the show, vaguely following along. She moves her arms to take the ponytail out of her hair, and lets it fall all along her shoulders and the back of the couch, running her fingers through it to smooth it out. You can’t really help but stare, because she looks different with her hair down, like way more casual, and soft, and for a very brief moment you can imagine what a domestic life would look like with her. You shake your head to clear your rampant thoughts.

“4 months, and just that? I’d figure you’d have a few more things under your belt by now.” You say to her, watching her put both her arms over the sofa back, completely relaxed. She’s staring directly at the screen now, almost pointedly.

“I don’t.. really know how to exist normally, yet.” Her tone is a little quieter. You’re still staring.

“What does that mean?” You ask, slightly concerned.

“Remember earlier I told you someone important abandoned me?” You nod. “Her name was Pink Diamond. I don’t know if you know, but gems are created for a purpose, and they know exactly what they’ll be once they come into consciousness. I existed to be her companion, and best friend. Things were wonderful for a while.. but. I guess she grew out of me, because the next thing I knew was that she said she’d be back, and then I basically stood in total isolation on a floating garden, waiting for her to come back, like she said. For six thousand years.” What the fuck, you think to yourself.

“You talked to no one?” You ask.

“Nope.”

“You didn’t leave? You.. waited?” You ask, not caring that you’re not even pretending to watch the show. “Did she ever come back? What happened?”

“She never came back. She doesn’t exactly exist anymore.” Her tone of voice hasn’t really changed, but you can kind of tell she’s masking a lot of emotions.

“Disappeared? But.. how did you know? Did someone come and find you?” You feel like you’re prying, but she hasn’t given you any indication that she doesn’t want to talk about this.

“About a year ago, I saw a broadcast of Steven.” The gears in your sloshed brain slowly start to turn. “Peace and Prosperity, and that also, Pink Diamond I had been waiting for? Steven’s her son, and she basically gave up her form so he could be born. So.. she’s gone, now.” She lets out a long breath, and pauses for a moment. “I’ve never felt worse in my life than in that moment. And, well, you know the rest since it was your planet that I almost destroyed.” She chuckles, albeit slightly off.

Oh.

Oh, it all makes sense now. You know the rest. It’s only been a year!? And she went right back to the diamonds.. no wonder she came to earth instead after a little while.. Oh.. and her only friends are a few other gems, who went through different problems than her, so she hasn’t had anyone to relate to, or really share her grief, anger, or feelings of worthlessness you know she’s going through.. and she’s been on this planet for what maybe feels like a minute compared to how long she was isolated. Like, at least you still had your father with you when your mother left, and you gained really good friends. You’re completely lost in your thoughts about how horrible what she went through was, that you don’t realize that she’s watching you now, with an unreadable expression.

“Are.. you okay?” She asks you. You look up.

“What a fucking massive bitch.” You say to her. She stares, sits up and turns to you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the light mood. I-"

"No. Don’t apologize. I’m just mad that she had the gall to be your so-called best friend, and pull a total shit move like that. You didn’t deserve any of that. You deserve so much better.” You say. “Both her and my mom can burn in hell.” You’re fuming a bit at this point.

She looks vulnerable and you want to hug her. Fuck it, your drunk brain foregoes any rational thought and you surge forward, wrap your arms around her middle, and hug her. She makes a startled noise and freezes. “And I know that you’ve probably struggled with abandonment, and worthlessness, and she never had any right to make you feel that way.” You feel her arms relax and wrap around your torso. The feeling of her gem pressing against your chest. It’s hard, of course, and not at all cold like you had thought. It’s quiet for a moment, and you hope you hadn’t upset her in any way. You’re starting to fret to yourself, before she speaks up.

“Does this make us friends now?” She asks. You laugh loudly, and snort a little, much to your horror. You can feel her body shake, and for a moment you think she’s crying, but you can also hear her laughing a little.

“We were basically friends after 10 minutes of knowing each other, why are you even asking.” You reply. You can feel her smile against your bare shoulder, and you feel your heart jump. She’s so close, and warm, and you like the way it feels to hug her. Your heart feels like it’s beating itself out of your chest, and you’re worried she can feel it. Before you can even think about pulling away, something jumps up on the couch suddenly and startles the two of you apart, both of you screaming. It’s Jellybean.

“Fucking cat,” You say, hand over your heart, breathing heavily. “You little asshole, you’re going to send me to an early grave". Jellybean chirps and headbutts your hand, smearing half her face on you in loving affection.

“Oh, she looks so soft, I love her already.” Spinel says, and tentatively reaches out to let the cat sniff her hand. You watch Jellybean sniff a little, and then headbutt her hand as well. Spinel melts immediately as your cat crawls onto her lap, purring.

“What a little attention whore.” You say, chastising your cat. She ignores you for pets. You look to the tv and see the episode wrapping up, and yawn. You guys should probably sleep. “Listen. I’m exhausted. My whole ass body hurts from work today. I’m gonna go sleep. Would you like to borrow some spare sleepwear?” You ask her, looking at her pants like they don’t seem that comfortable to sleep in. She shrugs.

“Yeah, it’d probably be a lot more comfortable if I did.” She replies while petting your cat. You stand up, a bit reluctantly.

“Gimme a sec, I’ll be right back.” You say, and head upstairs to your bedroom. You go over to your dresser and grab a spare clean oversized shirt, and some shorts that you hope will fit her. You also grab a spare set of blankets, and a pillow. You head back downstairs with the items in your hands, trying not to trip back down the stairs. “Hope these are okay.” You say as you hand the clothes over to her.

“They should be fine.” She says, still petting Jellybean. You suspect your cat loves Spinel more than you now. “And hey,” She looks at you. “Thanks. For everything.” She’s smiling softly and sleepily, and you fight down a blush. She’s really pretty, and you’re trying really hard to not think about it.

“Don’t mention it.” You say, and turn around to go to bed before you do anything weird. Or stupid.

Before you know it, you’ve stripped down to your pajamas, you’ve taken your makeup off, and you’re flopping into bed. You fall asleep pretty quickly, and for once, and no dreams.

By the time you’re awake, it’s near noon, and Spinel has already gone. She left the clothes she borrowed on the couch folded in a neat pile, and looks like she accidentally left her hair tie on the couch. You check your phone. Spinel left a text.

Spinel: Thanks again for letting me crash for the night. You’re a doll.

You smile and go on about your day as usual running errands, with thoughts of Spinel occasionally on your mind. You decide to send her a text in the evening.

Y/N: Hey, do you wanna hang out in a few days? You can pick what we do since I’ve done basically everything around here.

She replies back within seconds of you sending the message.

Spinel: Yesssssssss.

It’s definitely just hanging out, and not a date, you attempt to convince yourself. You wonder what she’ll pick.

#spinel #spinel x reader #spinel su #Steven Universe #spinel self insert #my fic #fic #devils ballroom

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tootiredmotel · 5 years

Text

Been one of those days (can I lean on you?)

Read on ao3

“Toledo. Out of all the places this could’ve led us to, we ended up in goddamn Toledo. In mid-fucking-December.” The windshield wipers struggle to keep the snowfall clear of Sam’s vision, dim street lights not being of much help either. “ ‘We need you back asap Cap, and don’t worry, there’s no snow scheduled in Ohio till next week’ bullshit, Fury.” He mutters under his breath in his best impersonation of the man, squinting towards the upcoming sign reading ‘Welcome to the city of Strongsville’.

“Spot on, Sammy.” Bucky slurs out next to him, before drifting back asleep. Sam smiles.

The last two weeks have been a neverending story. Following lead after lead, they’ve been to four states and seven cities all across the northeast. A simple, straightforward mission, Fury said. One weekend tops, to take down these arms dealers.

“Bullshit,” Sam mumbles again.

It all led them to some forgotten warehouse, of course, and it was absolutely jam-packed with these guys. It took the pair about an hour to take care of them all, and then another two to clean it up with the help of local police. They’d been awake for a good 16 hours before that (Bucky a bit longer since he’d done most of the driving), and Sam almost popped a vein when he got the call from Fury that they were needed back in D.C. the next morning. So he simply said ‘yes, sir’ and let Bucky continue patching him up. He and Nick have been at odds the past couple of months.

He stops at the first red light he’s seen in the last hour and rubs his face. Sam doesn’t know why he stopped; it’s well past midnight and there’s clearly no one else on the road. All he knows is that he can’t help his gaze from wandering to the man next to him. Bucky’s leg had suffered some damage that will probably fully heal in the next two to three days, while the cuts and bruises on his face are already looking better. Sam wonders if there are any more cuts and bruises Bucky didn’t mention that are also starting to heal, but stops himself from wondering too much about where those bruises might be. He remembers having seen someone round-kick him in the lower back, and someone else elbow him in the chest pretty hard… He’s sure that some bullets Bucky only nearly missed.

He turns his gaze up to Bucky’s face again. The strands of hair that had fallen out of his bun lay across his face, his head laying on his right arm against the car door. He looks peaceful. Nothing like when he was in cryo, Sam thinks. Like this, he actually looks like he’s resting. He looks content and young and hands-.

He stops his brain from finishing the word. It’s not that Bucky isn’t handsome, of course, he definitely is. Sam has even told him this once or twice like he compliments all his friends (or it could’ve been to throw him off, he can’t recall). But this is different. This he can’t do. This isn’t to tease Bucky or to banter; this is Sam in his own head during a moment of dark and quiet. This is pure and unfiltered and not to Bucky, but to himself. Sam can’t let his mind go there. Maybe it’s the two weeks of non-stop companionship, the proximity inside the car, the darkness of the strange town, or the snow that now seems to be floating instead of falling around them…

It’s then that Sam notices the light is already green. He doesn’t know how long it has been or how many times it has changed, but he knows his mind is somewhere else and he is in no condition to be on the road for five more hours. He makes up his mind to deal with Fury in the morning and turns at the next motel sign.

“Bucky… heyyy, wake up…” Sam’s sore and hushed voice lures Bucky back to consciousness, along with the tickling feeling of hair being removed from atop his forehead and nose. He hums in response. He slowly wills his eyes open and is met with a fuzzy image of Sam’s tired smile, a surprisingly small amount of inches away from his face. It takes Bucky aback for a hot second, but gosh that smile. Sam flashes that grin, lazy but tender and still reaching his eyes, and, as with so many others of his, Bucky can never stop himself from smiling back. That’s Sam’s effect on him. He makes him smile more often than anyone else can. Not to mention that, though Sam is never one to hold off on showing affection, proximity like this isn’t common, and it feels pretty nice.

The clock on the car system reads 2:46 am. There’s no way they’ve made it back to D.C. already, Bucky thinks, it’s only been two hours since they left Toledo. To his right stands a (weirdly triangular) white establishment, and peeking inside he can only see a counter and a couple of armchairs. Turning back a little, he spots the sign in front of it, reading “King’s Inn”. Yet it looks to be made for anyone but a king.

“Where are we?” Bucky mutters, rubbing his face and straightening up on his seat.

“Strongsville, still Ohio. I’m sorry, man, I couldn’t keep going.”

Why Sam is sorry is something Bucky’s too tired to figure out. “‘S alright. We’ll deal with Fury in the morning.”

“Great minds,” is all Sam says, before they both quickly step out of the car and into the building.

The counter inside is nothing more than a rectangular hole in the wall, adorned with two potted plants and one of those tiny American flags. On the other side, in a folding chair, sits an old woman who definitely shouldn’t be awake so late, happily reading a newspaper from a few days ago and listening to old rock music on a small stereo. She pays no mind to the two men standing across from her, too enraptured with what she’s reading.

It’s only when Bucky softly knocks on the countertop that she finally looks up, flashing a warm smile that’s missing a few teeth.

“Hello, dears. Are you lost?” Her voice is high and shaky. Something about her tells Bucky that she has lived quite a life.

“Roadtrip. Sorry to bother you so late ma’am but we need a room.” Despite trying his best to hide it, Bucky can hear the tiredness peaking through Sam’s tone, as well as feel Sam instinctively leaning on him. More than usual, he notices, and marks it down to exhaustion.

The woman’s look turns empathetic. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, we’re all booked! There’s so many tired people trying to get home for the holidays, you know? And there’s only so many of them we can fit.”

Right. Hanukkah’s about to start, Christmas is a few days later, then Kwanzaa… Chasing around these dealers really made Bucky lose track of time, and he can only imagine how Sam feels. He probably wants to be home with his mother and sisters and the rest of the Wilson crew, drinking hot chocolate, playing with his nieces, insisting he’s seeing someone so they won’t berate him too much about not settling down (yes, that’s what they give Captain America crap for); but no. Instead, he’s stuck with his partner in a rundown motel in the middle of Shitwhere, Ohio at 3 am. Bucky’s suspicions are confirmed when Sam lets his head drop on top of the counter. He puts a hand on Sam’s back and gives him a small rub. He’s tense.

“Are you sure there’s absolutely nothing ma’am?” Bucky insists. “We’ll take anything you have.” He gives the woman a soft smile and a head tilt that, back in the day, all the girls that he wasn’t interested in would swoon over.

“I’ll check one more time for you, dear.” The woman begins shuffling around all the clutter on the table that acts as a desk until she comes across a clipboard. “Well… we have one room, but it’s not in the best condition.” At this, Sam lifts his head in what Bucky can only assume to be hope. He moves his hand to Sam’s shoulder and squeezes.

“As long as it’s got a couple of warm beds,“ Bucky gives her another smile, "I’m sure we’ll be alright.”

“Well… the bed is warm.” The woman says sweetly, and Bucky feels she’s insinuating something, but decides not to pay it much mind.

He turns to Sam, and only then notices how close together they’re standing, although that’s really nothing new for them. Sam’s eyes were already searching his expression with a questioning brow, to which Bucky only shrugs as he fumbles for his wallet.

Sam has to give the woman some credit. ‘Not in the best condition’ is a pretty accurate descriptor of the room, and he knew this the moment he flipped the light switch and had to wait for a solid seven seconds for the lamps to flicker on. It does the job though.

As he and Bucky stand side by side, borderline squeezed into the doorframe to try and escape the cold, another thing the woman said comes to mind; ‘the bed is warm’. As in, one bed; the one queen-sized bed that stands against the far right wall, with an oddly-shaped mirror hanging above it.

His brain didn’t process that when she said it.

They have to share, Sam concludes once inside. There’s no couch, only a table and two chairs with stuffing coming out of them. He checks the closet; no extra sheets.

He turns back to say something, he’s not sure what, something to lighten the vibe and hopefully makes Bucky laugh; only to find Bucky standing by the bed where he’s set his bag down, struggling to take off his jacket and running his hands through his now lose hair. Sam decides to forego the comment and turns his attention to the hardwood floors, walking past Bucky and to the bathroom. He doesn’t notice until he shuts the door behind him that he’s biting his lip and needs to take a breath.

The air he inhales is significantly colder in the bathroom. The small window above the mirror seems to let in a draft. There’s a steady drip coming from the sink, and the water refuses to heat up, so Sam skips the hot shower he felt he so desperately needs. ‘The bed is warm’ that lady said. Sam decides to trust her.

After changing into some sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, he walks out to find Bucky already collapsed on the bed. He changed into something similar, except his t-shirt has short sleeves, and that old man once again forgot his arm is detachable. So Sam now has to deal with that freezing thing in the bed all night.

Except he doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t. Vibranium doesn’t get as cold as other metals anyway. It’s the thought of sharing a bed with his partner that has him looking for reasons to complain. This is all just too close to The Line.

The Line was coined by Natasha a few months ago. She and Sam got absolutely wasted one night after one of few perfectly executed missions, and let’s just say that the following scientific discovery was made that night: a black widow has a way higher level of alcohol tolerance than a falcon. Sam ended up spilling his guts about these growing feelings for Bucky, about all the things he wants to do and say, but that something stands between them, and he can’t pinpoint what. A sense of professionalism? Fear of rejection? Of awkwardness? Something that stops him from staring too much, from smiling too wide, from hugging too tight, from sitting too close. Whatever it is, he’s not crossing it. And so Nat suggested he just call it The Line. Not long after that, Sam passed out on the couch; he awoke the next morning to breakfast, orange juice, and painkillers sitting on the counter for him, with a note that read “Hope you and Nat had fun last night, she texted me this morning to make you this. Out for groceries :) - B.B.” That idiot always signs his notes, even though no one else lives there. This was Sam’s only thought before he dug in, paying no mind to the fuzzy memories of the previous night.

A hand on a shoulder is one thing. So is a pat (or rub) on the back. Maybe pushing Bucky’s hair away from his face earlier in the car was close to The Line, but it’s nowhere near as close as sleeping under the same ugly motel bed covers is. Although Sam has to admit that they are pretty warm…

Quickly and steadily, like the ocean retreating from the shore before a big wave, every fear of awkwardness and unease slips away. The warmth and comfort engulf him in an embrace he hasn’t felt in much too long (or at least it feels like it after a too-long day). He nestles into his pillow, laying on his right side, back to back with his partner. Gosh, Sam envies Bucky’s ability to fall asleep so fast. You would think a man who was frozen for so long would have more trouble, but he’s able to go under in as little as five minutes when he’s tired enough.

Sam always stays awake for 20 minutes or so after going to bed, and despite the exhaustion, this night is no different. He’d usually dig into his current book, which is probably in his backpack, but neither his eyes nor his brain is in a place to do so. He’d get a headache. So he settles for watching the snowfall out the window while drifting off.

Sometime later, he’s not sure how much, with his eyes already closed but still half-conscious, Sam feels shuffling. Then an unnaturally heavy and (as he predicted) slightly cold limb settles around his waist, pulling him closer. Bucky’s chest fits snugly against his back, and his long hair and hot breath tickles the back of Sam’s neck a bit before he buries his face into it, and goes still. Sam can’t help a small smile, letting this unfamiliar (but not at all unpleasant) peacefulness have its way with him and take him into a deep slumber.

It’s just as easy for Bucky to be awoken as it is for him to fall asleep. Probably the army conditioning. The faintest thing can snap his eyes open, like Sam closing the front door of their apartment when leaving for his morning run, or their upstairs neighbor’s cat that’s basically his by now from all the time she spends meowing for attention on his fire escape; or in this case, the distant beeping of a heavy-duty snowplow at 9 am.

Still, despite this curse, he loves sleeping, and can always doze off again until the next sound happens by. But not this time. Not this morning.

This morning there’s a response to his waking jolt. It’s movement, something stirring beside him, and then a deep, quiet hum, before the something relaxes once again, moving its hand from Bucky’s abdomen to just over his heart. This is one Samuel Thomas Wilson, sleeping soundly, cuddled into Bucky’s side. His head lays just at the crook of Bucky’s neck, with Bucky’s right arm under and around him.

Bucky freezes (no pun intended), his eyes fixed on what little he can see of Sam’s face, from how close it is. A white glare shines in through the window, only partly covered by the patterned curtains, and a leafless tree sways just outside. The air is cool and slightly stuffy in his nose, the covers are heavy and warm and not all that soft. A dog barks, a car drives by, and Sam sleeps in his arms.

He’s scared to breathe now, to move, afraid he’ll wake him. Sam waking up means this moment would end, and Bucky doesn’t want it to.

Sam, who always lets him pick what historical documentary to watch on movie night, because he knows Bucky wants to catch up on all he missed; Sam, who teases him for whatever ice cream flavor or candy he discovers and becomes obsessed with, but will then buy some of it for home; Sam, whose laugh, wit, eyes, whose very existence can bring a smile to his face; Bucky’s now sharing a perfect morning in bed with him, and that’s one thought he never could’ve imagined passing through his head. He brings his left hand up to hold Sam’s over his heart.

He still can’t believe it.

All those nights in, all those long stakeouts turned dull, all those afternoons on a park bench, he longed- he yearned to hold Sam like this. It ached inside him like a dam about to crack open. But he’d convinced himself long ago that their relationship- their partnership wouldn’t go anywhere past a hug when they needed one.

And yet there he is, in bed, with Sam. It’s been a good ten minutes now, and he’s still transfixed.

There’s always something about Sam that could send Bucky into a trance; how free he looks when he flies around during a sunset, his unmoving crossed-arms stance when dealing with official Cap business, his cute gap-toothed smile during a laughing fit; more than once Bucky has been caught staring at Sam, luckily never by Sam himself, as far as he knows. Natasha approached him once, a little over a year ago, back when the pair still pretended to not get along. It was during their bi-weekly training with the other Avengers. Sam and Peter were sparring, and Nat seemed to notice how closely Bucky was studying Sam, unknowingly biting his lower lip. So she went to stand next to him against a wall and said: “Sam Wilson. Heck of a man, huh?”. Bucky’s defenses immediately sprung up and he began to list all the things he ‘can’t stand’ about the guy; his constant sass, how competitive he could get, how righteous he was, the way he fought, his cocky smile, his stupid brown eyes; and by then he was staring again. “Oh yeah. It’s definitely his eyes,” Nat mocked beside him, earning herself a glare before she smirked and walked away.

Bucky smiles at the memory. Gosh, he loves those stupid brown eyes.

“You know your hand is cold as hell, right?”

It’s then that Bucky realizes he’s staring into those eyes, which are now open. He has now been caught staring once by Sam himself. But he’s already in the most vulnerable position he’s ever found himself in with the man, so what can he do?

He snaps himself out of it. “What?”

Sam simply shakes his head in a dismissive manner with a smile and a slow blink, not moving from his spot on Bucky’s shoulder. “How long you been awake?” he asks.

“Like 20 minutes.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Staring at me like a creep?” He stretches a bit, and Bucky has no choice but to let go of his hand, so he puts his own behind his head. “You’re not a morning person though, Barnes.” He says, settling again, this time with his arm completely wrapped around Bucky’s torso.

“Usually.”

Sam cuddles deeper into Bucky and feels himself drifting off again. “So what’s different?” he croaks out.

A few seconds pass before Bucky replies. “You’re here with me.” The sheer tenderness of the statement wakes Sam right up, like part of his brain hadn’t powered up until now. He stares up at Bucky, loosens his grip around his torso, and chuckles. He chuckles again, letting his head drop on Bucky’s chest, and the chuckle turns into a full-blown cackle. He feels Bucky rubbing his arm, hears him laughing along in confusion while asking, “What? What is it?”

Sam leans away from Bucky to lay more on his back, on top of Bucky’s right arm, staring up at the ceiling. “Oh you smooth fucker…” he says, still laughing.

“What? I’m serious, Sam.” Bucky playfully pulls Sam back into him with that same arm, maybe a bit faster and harder than he intended to. Their noses bump into each other, and their laughter comes to a full stop. It feels like the whole world does too.

Sam had never seen Bucky’s eyes this close and is just now noticing the flecks of silver amongst all the blue, like an icy lake or striped clouds against a midday sky. His breath hitches in his throat.

Bucky’s gaze travels all over Sam’s face, from his eyes and the gentle expression in them, to his lips and the softness Bucky imagines he’d feel if he were to touch them. His heart boils in his chest.

As much as he tries, he can’t stop his metal hand from reaching up to Sam’s face. His thumb strokes Sam’s bottom lip, Bucky’s artificial nerves proving him right: they were very soft.

The contact sends Sam’s heart racing faster than anything. Faster than when running, faster than when being shot at; this isn’t normal, he thinks. So he needs to know he’s not the only one. His brings his hand to Bucky’s chest; it’s thumping just as heavily as his. It’s also very toned, he notes.

After a few seconds of nothing but longing gazes and deafening silence, it’s Bucky that gives in. He kisses Sam, and their world is reborn. All the back and forth, the uncertainty, the repression; weeks, months, what feels like ages of stolen glances and touches; moments of should we, can we, could we, and a million more questions and insecurities rushing through their heads; it all vanishes in this one kiss.

It’s not an eager kiss or a desperate one. It’s tender and slow, and it feels like taking a breath after coming out from underwater. Bucky flips onto his back, bringing Sam to lay half on top of him, and Sam somehow deepens the kiss. His lips feel even softer against Bucky’s. He can only press Sam against him as much as possible, while Sam’s hands explore his hair, face, and neck like he’s clinging for his life. It lasts for as long as any good kiss can last, both of them relishing the proximity they’ve been craving for so long. They’ve been needing this from each other as much as their lungs need air.

As they part, Sam struggles to catch his breath, attempting to hide a smile he can’t control. He doesn’t dare look at Bucky, who can’t stop looking at him. Instead, he wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and lays his head down on the pillow, neck to his. Bucky completely wraps his arms around Sam, grinning at the ceiling in disbelief. They lie there in an endless, soundless embrace for as long as it takes their brains to catch up with their pounding hearts.

Bucky breaks the silence with a deep breath. “I’m done, Sam,” he exhales, squeezing Sam��s torso.

Sam’s stomach churns. “Done what?”

“Pretending I don’t want.. something like this.“

Sam pushes himself up and lays back down at Bucky’s side, his head propped up on one hand, while the other one rests tentatively on Bucky’s chest.

Bucky intertwines Sam’s fingers with his metal ones. "With you.” His voice betrays him, only allowing the words to come out at a whisper. His eyes are pleading and adoring and hold a million words though: I want this, it feels right, I need more of you, I belong with you, I love you.

And Sam hears him loud and clear. He puts his forehead to Bucky’s and brushes the words “Me too, baby,” against his lips. He places a soft peck on them, before trailing his way kiss after kiss along Bucky’s jaw, until he buries his face at the crook of his neck.

After another while of trying to convince themselves this is all really happening, Bucky starts placing soft kisses on Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Sam mumbles into Bucky’s neck, as cool and casual as ever.

Bucky pauses in between kisses. “Hey, yourself.” He keeps going until Sam pushes himself away and sits up. Bucky’s hands linger and reach and catch Sam’s with a squeeze, as if asking it not to go too far. Sam tugs at him to sit up too, and Bucky raises his eyebrows in question.

“Let’s go home, man.”

Bucky smiles wide and lets both his arms plop down on the bed. “Yes please, I’m sick of the road.”

Sam flips over him and out of the bed. “Too bad, ‘cause you’re driving.”

“Oh I’M- no, yeah that’s fair.”

Unlike the time spent in the car during the previous weeks, the ride back to DC is overwhelmingly delightful. Sam blasts the radio at full volume and sings along. Surprisingly well, actually. Bucky glances over with a smile whenever he can. Sam occasionally takes his hand and kisses the back of it (any time a love song comes on, though Sam thinks Bucky doesn’t notice), then promptly reminds him to put both hands on the wheel. They take advantage of every single red light they encounter to share a dopey grin and a kiss. They say whatever dumb thing they come up with just to hear the other one laugh. It’s heaven in an Audi.

About an hour into the drive, there’s a phone call from Natasha, who’s ecstatic about the news and to have a few teammates pay up. She’s actually calling on behalf of Fury though. It’s 1pm and they are both in deep shit.

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A/N: Thanks so much @lazynikky and Cora for sticking by me through this whole thing and for beta-ing, ily guys.

Title from Ben Platt’s Bad Habit.

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TAGGING: @mackiesmcu @foreverbeingthunderbuddy

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