#me - not even a quarter of the way through writing: yeah next month should be fine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

goldenlikedayl1ght · 7 months

Text

silver springs - d. wagner

a/n: hi. welcome back. remember the to do list i had? out the window. danny wagner kiss me on the lips challenge. enjoy, yearning sluts. warnings: horny, danny practices writing kissing and grumpy ish reader, right person wrong time, sort of slow burn? idk, death of a sibling, grief, angst, cursing, reader smokes until the end of the fic, reader has tattoos as usual, lots of sex refrences as usual, corny shit as usual. word count: 3.9k (throwing up) summary: the three times daniel wants you, and the one time he gets you. paring: daniel wagner x gn!reader now playing: silver springs - fleetwood mac "i follow you down/till the sound of my voice will haunt you/you'll never get away from the sound/of the woman that loves you."

It all starts when you’re eighteen, fresh off a breakup with a guy who cheated on you. You found him sleeping with a girl from your psych class after you introduced him to at a party. In hindsight, he wasn’t a loss or anything, but you were eighteen. You were stupid and in love and he was all that mattered to you.

After three months of moping around and being miserable because of him, your friend, Veronica, eventually convinced you to get over yourself and go out with her.

You obliged. It was three quarters of the way through your sophomore year and were determined to not let some guy who couldn’t even make you cum ruin your college experience.

And what was this wild experience your friend wanted to do to get you out of your funk?

Well, she decided it would be a concert. A rock concert.

You had heard of Greta Van Fleet a few times—Veronica was straight up obsessed with them. You mostly listened to music your ex-boyfriend listened to, and never really formed an opinion of your own on the matter. You had other stuff to do, you would defend.

At this point in their career, Greta Van Fleet was only just starting; They were playing a small venue nearby, as an opener.

Veronica convinced you to go super early and get a good view with her. What else were you supposed to do on a Saturday? Your homework?

And even you had to admit, they were pretty good. You enjoyed the passion they had for their shows, and they were all pretty good looking.

The drummer especially.

Veronica decided to stick around after their set, grabbing a drink with some guy she had met, while you went outside to smoke.

Smoking was a horrible habit you had picked up, and you fully intended to quit, it just never struck you as the right time. It was a late spring night, the air muggy and buzzing with the lights of the city. You had been going to school in New York for a little less than a year, and you loved every second of it. Sure, you missed your family, who you had left behind in Nashville, especially your sister, but you knew you needed to leave. Even for just a while.

“Can I borrow your lighter?” A voice asks. You whip your head only to see the drummer. What was his name again?

“Yeah, sure.” You take out your lighter and flick it on, letting him light his cigarette with it.

“Thanks.” There’s a silence that fills the air while you smoke, until he eventually extends a hand. “I’m Danny.”

You smile, shaking his hand and giving him your name before adding, “And I know who you are.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yeah, you’re the drummer.” You say coolly, although your heart is racing.

“You like our music?”

“Now I do. Tonight, was your first show of mine.” You explain, “My friend is like,” You cough on smoke, “Obsessed with you.”

Feeling bold, Danny asks, “What if I want you to be obsessed with me?” And it makes you scoff, only you’re only doing it because you’re nervous.

“You flirt with all your fans like this, Drummer?”

“Only the pretty ones.” You just smirk. You don’t expect the next words out of his mouth to be, “Come with me to California.”

“What?” You laugh, unable to believe it.

“California. We’re releasing an album later this year, so you should see more of our shows before we become a huge hit.”

“I can’t go to California with you!” You grin, and by the way he’s smiling at you, you know he’s not expecting you to.

“Why not?”

“I have classes, for one!”

“Classes? So pretty and smart?”

“Oh my god, Shut up.”

“What are you majoring in?”

“English. I want to write. Whatever they’ll have me write, articles, books, what the fuck ever, you know what I mean?”

And he does. He gets it because that’s the way he feels about writing music.

“I get it.” He answers.

“So, I can’t come with you to California.”

“No, I guess not. But when you get a job writing, you’ll let me come find you? Ghostwrite my memoir, write a scathing review of us, what the fuck ever, as you so delicately put it?”

“Deal.” You agree.

“Then, I’ll see you, Sugar.” You stop at the name, turning to him. “What?” He asks.

“That’s what my family calls me.” He laughs. “I’m being serious!” You argue.

“No, you’re not—” He realizes you most definitely are. “Why would they call you that?”

“Because my sister is the nice one, and I am an asshole.”

“No fucking way.”

“What, did ‘What the fuck ever’ not give you enough of a hint? She’s Spice, and I’m Sugar, only Sugar stuck.” You say, finishing your cigarette.

“Well, Sugar. At least let me give you my number if I can’t take you to California.”

“Deal.” You agree, but before he can, his friends from the band are calling him, and you know Veronica must be wondering where you are. And he doesn’t have his phone on him or a pen, and your phone is dead.

Fuck.

“Hey—” He pulls you close with one arm, his other hand still with a cigarette. He puts it in his mouth so his hand can reach down and pull your lighter out of your pocket. “I’ll give this back when we meet again, alright?” He asks, his words a little murmured because of the cigarette.

You’re usually cynical. You could’ve told him to fuck off and took the lighter back. But you don’t.

Instead, you kiss his jaw and mutter, “Okay. Later, Drummer.” He pockets the lighter, and starts walking back to his friends, only backwards to face you still.

“See you soon, Sugar!” He calls.

It’s only when you get back to Veronica that your brain clears enough to remember that your full name is on the lighter. You hope he’ll use it to come find you.

• • •

So, the next few years fly by and before you know it, you’ve been out of school for around a year now, and you’re happier than ever. You’re staying in Tennessee, staying with your sister and your niece. You’re apartment hunting, starting a new job as soon as the New Year comes, but you have ulterior motives.

You’re getting ready in her bathroom as she leans against the door frame, watching you. Your niece sits on the edge of the tub. She just turned six and is learning all about the world. You love watching her grow, except for one teensy little thing—

“Why does Sugar get to go see Greta and I don’t?” She asks your sister.

“Because Sugar has big kid money, and you spend your allowance on Barbie.” Your niece just huffs. You grin as you finish fixing your hair. You crouch down to her level, and push hair from her face.

“How ‘bout this? I’ll take lots of photos for you, and get you a shirt, and I’ll take you on their next tour, okay?”

She considers this for a moment.

“And you’ll say hi to Jake for me?” While you are in Danny Lane, Duh, she is strictly obsessed with Jake Kiszka.

“Of course, I will! Duh! He’s gonna love a message from his best girl.” You say it as if it’s obvious. She giggles and stands, giving you a quick hug before you have to leave.

“You’re so good with her. And nice too, I never expected that.” Your sister says as she walks you to the door.

“Don’t expect me to go soft with you, too. She’s the exception.” Your sister just smiles as she stands in the door, watching you walk down the walkway.

“Be safe!” She calls.

“Bye, Mom!” You say dramatically as you get in her car to drive to the venue with.

The show is amazing, as usual. Since their career has taken off, you’re only a more active fan, always keeping tabs.

You keep tabs to see if Danny is taking anyone. He does. You don’t know if that’s true for right now, but you know he has since you saw him. So have you. It’s ridiculous to assume you’d stop your lives for one flirty encounter when you were 18.

After the show, you notice people grouped around, waiting to see if the boys make an appearance. You don’t have anywhere to be. You stick around.

An hour or two passes. You smoke, lending cigarettes to other people waiting, and the number of folks start to dwindle down. But the summer is coming to an end, and you know that this might be one of the last times you can stay out this late without freezing for a while.

And wouldn’t you know it, Sam and Danny come out to say hi. And Sam is lovely, of course he is! He’s sweet and funny, and even more handsome in person.

But Danny makes your heart race. You grin to him, and it takes him a second before he breaks out in a grin, as he approaches you. Before you can say anything he just hugs you, and holds you for a while. He pulls away and looks at you, uttering your full name, as it was written on your lighter.

“Danny...” you say softly, and he just keeps smiling at you. His curls look healthier. He looks healthier.

“Hi, Sugar.” He says gently.

“You remembered that stupid nickname, Oh God...” you groan.

“And you still hate it.”

“Mm... maybe not so much when you say it. Maybe not when my niece says it.” Because it stuck so well, your niece just grew up knowing your name as Sugar, and not much else.

“Your niece?”

“Stevie, she’s an angel, and in love with Jake Kiszka.” You admit.

“I’ll extend the message. Stevie, is that a reference to the true queen of breakup songs?”

“Yes, of course.” You assure. You can’t stop staring at him. His eyes wander down to your arm, to your wrist.

“Cool tattoo.” It’s a lighter. It’s corny, you know that. And part of you didn’t even get it because of him. Half of you just thought it would be cool. But there was a part that hoped he’d see it one day.

“Well, some asshole took my last lighter and hasn’t given it back, so I figured no one can steal this one.” He laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re funny, Sugar.”

“Well...” You shrug softly, “You can keep the lighter by the way.” You assured. “No hard feelings.” He grins, pulling it out of his pocket and waving it at you.

“Thanks. And hey, maybe I could give you something of mine, too?” This confuses you until he pulls off the necklace he’s wearing and drops it in your hands. You look down at it, and your face flushes. It’s a long leather cord, with a milky stone shaped like a moon.

“Does this mean I won’t be getting your number tonight?” You ask, as your hand closes over the necklace. He smiles at you and shakes his head.

“It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I’m going to be on tour for a while, and you live in New York—”

“I’m moving to Tennessee. Nashville. For work.” You assure. He smiles wider.

“Then when I get back. I’ll come find you.” He speaks. “Are you in the writing business yet?”

“Getting there.” You tell him.

“Then I’ll find you in the future.” He assures, as Sammy calls his name back at the door where he came from. How come it always ends this way? How come you always have to say goodbye to him? Especially when he looks this good? Your heart aches for him already. You want him to kiss you. But instead, you lean up and kiss his jaw, and he smiles down at you when you pull away.

“See you soon, Sugar.” He says gently. It’s quieter this time. You know he means it. He pulls away, and takes one last long look at you, and turns just before you can see tears in his eyes, and just before he can see tears in yours.

• • •

The rest of the year flies, and your new job starts, about twenty minutes from where you live, and only fifteen from your sister and niece. You get a raise three months in, and it’s just in time for you to buy your niece tickets to the Starcatcher World Tour. You’ll be the first show of a long tour, and you know you can’t stay like you did last time. Besides, he won’t come out to see the fans, not after such a long night.

You bring something for him just in case.

But your niece and you have a great time, despite this being your first show without being in the pit. You have first row lower bowl seats.

Ticketmaster is your sworn enemy, and you’ve won every battle with them lately. Fuck ‘em.

Because it’s the first show of the tour, everything is new, and you don’t know what to expect. You especially don’t expect a ten-minute drum solo from Danny.

…It makes you want him desperately.

When they move to the B stage, you’re still a little caught up in him, but that is nothing compared to when they exit the B stage and start handing out flowers. Danny doesn’t really have any flowers, but Jake is walking right in front of him, and right towards you.

Your niece freaks the fuck out. Because she is a Jake girl, and Jake is right there. He sees her small hands and grins, handing her a rose, and clasping her hand with his for a moment before continuing his walk. You’re so caught up in this moment that you don’t register that Danny is quickly approaching.

And then you do, and you’re one of the many calling out to him, as he smiles and clasps his hands with theirs.

Instead of Danny, you call, “Hey, Drummer!” and somehow, during all this chaos, he sees you. And he’s grinning like an idiot.

He stops for a second, pulling you forward, and before you know it, he’s taking about twenty seconds to kiss you.

It’s deep, passionate, and full of the raw need that you’ve felt since seeing his drum solo. Everyone around you is freaking out as you slip what you bought to give him into his hand.

He must leave though, and he slips what you’ve given him in his pocket, pulling away, and whispering quickly,

“See you soon, Sugar.” He leaves, and you’re left to the screaming fans around you, including your niece, who can’t believe anything that just happened.

The show goes on, and there’s a new energy about Danny.

Everyone on twitter goes wild about your interaction.

When he gets off stage that night, he pulls out what you gave him from his pocket, and sees it’s a polaroid picture of you, in your bathing suit and sunglasses, on the beach.

He uses it to get through rough nights on tour.

• • •

The next year or so goes by in a whirlwind—In the worst way possible. Work is going well, you don’t date anymore, delusional about your Drummer, and for a while, everything is fine.

Until your sister slides off the road during a snowstorm and is killed on impact.

You go from taking care of Stevie when your sister needed a break, to being her legal guardian.

It is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. You balance your work life with your grief, newfound parental duties, and helping Stevie through the loss of her mother. Her father was never in her life, and you find yourself moving into your sister’s house, so Stevie doesn’t have to move schools.

You watch her attempt to process this huge loss at eight years old. She doesn’t listen to music anymore; she doesn’t want to celebrate her birthday and she doesn’t want to sleep without a nightlight.

You hold her while she cries for her mom.

You hold your mom while she cries for her daughter.

No one holds you as you sob, longing for your sister.

You will yourself to be good. To be nice and not let the grief suffocate you, you need to be there for your best girl, she cannot do this without you. But it’s so hard. You’re angry with the world, with yourself, with her, why couldn’t she have just stayed the night at her friends? You will yourself to channel that stupid nickname. You will yourself to be good.

The winter is hard, but as the season thaws, so does your grief. It’s still hard, but the kitchen fills again with the smell of pizza and baked goods, with the sound of Foo Fighters and Guns N Roses, and with your niece’s laughter.

You talk about your sister openly, never hiding your own grief from Stevie, and never being afraid to tell her stories of her mom.

You get a tattoo on what would have been your sister’s birthday. It’s just her birth flower.

Under it, in her handwriting, is “Sugar and Spice.” It’s right beneath your lighter tattoo. It’s the only time you’ve ever cried getting a tattoo.

Summer comes, and your office has no A.C. It’s a critically hot day in Nashville, Stevie is being watched by your mom. You’re editing a new chapter from a high-end client, just finishing it up before you head home for the day. Really, your day ended ten minutes ago, but you’re still working. Until you get a call from your office’s front lobby.

When you answer it, it’s just Jane, the security guard.

“Hey, Jane, what can I do for you?” You ask, rubbing your eyes from finally unfocusing from your computer screen.

“Hey, Kid. Just wanted to see if you were okay with company. Pretty boy says he’s here to see you.” You furrow your brows. Pretty boy? There have been no pretty boys in your life recently.

“What’s his name?” You ask quizzically. You hearJane asking for a name.

“Says his names Danny, and—” You stand, making sure your draft is saved before you turn off your computer, grabbing your things, and remembering she’s waiting for a response.

“Uh—Tell him I’ll be right there!” You say quickly before hanging up, then dash to the elevator, wishing it to go faster. It takes forever.

When the doors open, he stands in front of you, as if he was waiting to take the next elevator up. You just grin and lunge, hugging him tightly. He returns the sentiment. You hold each other there, just embracing each other and taking the other in. You pull away to really look at him.

You haven’t been active on social media since you took guardianship of Stevie, too busy. So, you haven’t seen him in a while. He looks phenomenal. His hair is shorter, but he wears two gold hoop earrings, a grey muscle tee, and has the same smile. His hair has this slight highlight to it, and his skin is tanner, his freckles enunciated.

You want to kiss him.

But you stand back from him for a moment to turn to Jane and thank her, and then you pull him outside, onto the busy streets. You walk for a few minutes in silence, turning here and there. You eventually lead him to duck into a quiet, relatively clean alley way. It’s in a quieter part of town, and you lean against one wall, unbuttoning the first two buttons of your shirt, heart racing in anticipation. He leans against the wall, looking at you.

He can see the leather cord around your neck. It pushes him over the edge.

Suddenly, his hands are on your cheeks as he begins kissing you. His lips are just as soft as you remember, but his hands are rough. They must be calloused, even blistered from guitar and drums. You deepen the kiss. It’s heavy, and hot, much like the day around you.

It makes you want him more.

You pull him closer, by grabbing his shirt and pulling him against you. He tilts his head for better access, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You’ve wanted this for years. Your hands leave his shirt, trailing up to tangle in those locks of his.

You finally pull away when you can’t stand to be without air anymore. But as soon as you do, you find yourself kissing him again. Not as deeply this time, but with just as much need. You kiss him again and again, your skin burning.

When he pulls away for real, panting, he leans his head on the wall behind you, his hot breath on your collar bone.

“Found me, Drummer…”

“Found you, Sugar…” He says softly.

“How? Why?” He pulls back to look at your face.

“How? You’re on your company’s website. Why? What do you mean why? Why? Because for the past six fucking years, I have only had enough of you to keep me wanting you, and every time I’m able to stop dreaming about you and your perfect lips, I am pulled back in by fate, seeing you always. And when I kissed you last year... It snapped something in me. You ruined everyone else for me, and I still had to wait. I don’t want to wait anymore. I’m not on tour, I’m here for a long time. I need you...” He says your name gently when he realizes you have this terrified look on your face.

“I… I can’t just… Danny, I’m my niece’s legal guardian. I will always have an obligation to her first, I can’t run off with you… Can’t go with you to California...” You tell him weakly.

“That’s okay.” In truth, Danny always wanted kids, and sure, he wasn’t planning on a kid just now, but he’s sure you can make this work. “When did this happen?”

“January… When my sister died.” You tell him, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it cracks with emotion. He just kisses you quickly and holds you.

“I still need you. I’d love to meet your niece.” He says once you’ve pulled away. You grin.

“She’s a big fan of yours.”

“More of a Jake girl, I hear.” He smirks. It makes you laugh.

You straighten yourself out, ready to take him to your house, have him meet Stevie, and just jump into it. Fuck it. What have you got to lose after waiting for him for six years?

Before you can make it out of the alley, he grabs your hand and says your name again. He takes out his—your lighter, and places it in your hand. You gave up smoking the night your sister died.

“I don’t need it right now, sugar. I told you, when I saw you again, it would be yours. And now we don’t have to say goodbye in two minutes.” It’s enough to make you lean forward and kiss him again.

You take his hand and begin walking with him. There’s no need to long for him anymore.

205 notes · View notes

simulationheartbeat · 7 months

Text

kobymeppo oneshot. late night thoughts.

"…Luffy"

Helmeppo tried not to wince as Koby said his name. He fidgeted with his hands, attempting to listen to what Koby was saying. But, the other boy's words were starting to sound like TV static over his own racing heartbeat.

"Helmeppo?"

He snapped back to reality. "Oh. Yes?"

"Sorry, you just seemed so out of it." Koby said awkwardly, clearly a bit buzzed from the alcohol they were sharing.

Helmeppo silently thanked the heavens that his face was already flushed from drinking. He picked up the bottle and took a small sip. "I suppose," he murmured, feeling embarrassed.

The two remained silent for a minute before Koby spoke again.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"Hmm?" Helmeppo quickly replied, turning to face him.

"Ah, sorry, I mean Luffy. Do you think he'll make it through the Grand Line?" Koby said bashfully, looking down at his hands.

Helmeppo shrugged slightly. "Sure."

Helmeppo found it difficult to ignore the fact that Koby brought up Luffy in nearly every conversation they had. Even more challenging was trying to overlook the underlying tone in his voice when he did so. He didn’t know what exactly the tone was but the sinking feeling in his gut told him he wouldn’t like it.

The night seemed to drag on… the drinking had long since finished and the two were peacefully sitting on the deck looking up at the big night sky. It was quiet, only their breath’s and the waves breaking the hush of the dusk. Koby’s eyes were glossy as he looked up and Helmeppo could tell he had drifted off into his own world. He looked his fellow cadet up and down… eyes lingering on the gap between their hands.

Realizing this, he sighed quietly and ran a hand through his blonde hair, pinching himself on the back of his neck. “Get a hold of yourself.” He scolded himself. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small notebook and a pen.

Journaling was a hobby he had picked up since joining the Marines, he was hesitant at first but had come to find word vomiting his emotions was the best way to deal with stress. Right now he had a lot to write about.

How to begin this. Well. The thoughts have come back. I tried to ignore it. I really did. But I notice how I tense up everytime he says Luffy's name, I just get so... jealous.

Maybe I'm reading into things but, Koby has to like him right? Like I'm not crazy am I? I feel crazy. I'm crazy about him. Ugh. I really have to give it up. Why would he like me of all people hah.

It's really not funny.

But to me, he's like the North Star.

He closed the book and set it down beside him. His racing heart was beginning to slow as he took a deep breath.

“You getting tired?” A voice suddenly asked.

Helmeppo’s head snapped up and he saw Koby staring at him with a polite smile on his face. Helmeppo glanced away. “Uh, yeah. Pretty worn out.”

“What were you writing?”

“Nothing.” Helmeppo stuttered defensively, tilting his head up.

Koby let out a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I should’ve expected that reaction.” He said, dusting off his uniform as stood up. “We should do this again.” He added.

“Y-yeah. We’re friends now so… whatever.” Helmeppo replied, feeling his heart in his throat. Koby nodded and began to walk towards the cadet’s sleeping quarters. Suddenly he paused and turned,

“Show me your writing next time, okay? I’m curious.” He said quietly then quickly left the deck.

“Not a chance,” Helmeppo said under his breath with a soft smile. He grabbed his notebook, ripped out the latest page, and tossed it overboard. The crumpled paper landed gently on the surface of the water, then, in an instant, disappeared into the navy blue abyss.

author's notes: My first Kobymeppo fic! Ever! I also haven't written in like 3 months so this is kind of shit. Headcanon that since Helmeppo hasn't really ever had a friend he can't tell Koby is just genuinely concerned for Luffy. Silly silly boy.

#kobymeppo #opla #one piece #one piece oneshots #oneshot #fluff #light angst #nooo helmeppo nooo koby likes you hes just shy......#koby one piece #helmeppo #koby x helmeppo #can both of them learn how to communicate #screaming

60 notes · View notes

pseudonympls · 2 years

Text

Taking Centre Stage

Rating: Explicit. 18+ only.

Era: Eighth Grade Era AU where Bo becomes a theatre director.

CW: explicit sex. sex on a piano. fingering. unprotected sex but he pulls out. sex on a stage but the theatre is empty. theatre-director!bo. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. very-soft-dom!bo

Bo Burnham x AFAB Reader. She/her pronouns.

Word count: 5k

A/N: I procrastinated writing Love Blooms by writing this...idk what to tell you other than I clearly have A Problem™️

Thanks to @oh-bo for this find and the gorgeous edit 🥰🖤

* * *

Sighing, you walked through the wings, noting the sheer height of the ceiling, the pulleys connecting the curtains to the master carrier. You peeked around the luxurious velvet, seeing the theatre completely empty. The rumbling in your belly told you that it was time for dinner, but it was a signal you blithely ignored, opting for a slow, steady tour throughout the theatre you would be calling home for the next few months. How you thrived on being on stage; the attention; the nerves; the adrenaline. Fuel to your frankly dwindling fire, as of late.

With jobs few and far between recently, you told yourself you should be grateful to receive any kind of work at all - even if it went largely unpaid. It lined your pockets with experience and kudos from the local art critics, instead, a currency you were sorely lacking in. Now centre stage, you felt huge - massive even. On a stage with no audience, anyone could be a star. Taking a deep breath, the scale of things came back into focus, the far reaching, impossibly high circle up ahead, intricate gold and red appliqué that lined the walls, the ceiling - a throwback to the extravagance and overindulgence of the 1920’s. How the past one hundred years had weathered this building: wars had been fought, styles had slid in and out of fashion - but the appeal, the draw of decadence of years gone by still held fast, still pulled at a thread in your chest, drawing you inexplicably nearer to chaos.

Lazily walking over to the black baby grand centre left stage, your fingers grazed the propped up lid. Lifting the fallboard your fingers felt magnetised toward the keys. Your hand assumed the position, finding middle C, the piano lessons you’d had as a child flooded back to your brain. The thrumming in your head was so loud, that you didn’t hear the tentative footsteps behind you, not until the owner of them cleared their throat loudly.

Adrenaline shot up your spine as you whirled around, one of the impossibly tall, blond theatre directors was leaning against the wing - a smug smile plastered across his face.

“I thought this place was shut for the night” he mused, not moving from his position, his prepotant stance keeping you frozen in place, too.

It was the theatre director from the audition, the one with the kind eyes. On closer inspection, he was a feast for the eyes, as well. At least six foot six, lanky but with a gentle grace about him - short but lightly ruffled blond locks, and a quarter inch of delicious stubble wrapped around his jaw. His lower half was draped in simple black jeans that he made look anything but simple. A thin, white button up shirt covered his top half, dangerously see through - and if you’d have known better, you’d have tried harder to avoid the plum shadows on his chest where his nipples lay beneath the fabric.

“M-me too, s-sorry” you stuttered through the words “I told security that I was starting a production next week and I-um, just wanted to see the place empty, I guess”

“That’s right, our leading lady, is that correct?” He cocked his head to the side, his disposition clear, cool and calm. Stark contrast to your jangling nerves, the way they shook and trembled every pore in your skin.

A flicker of recognition fluttered through your chest, “Y-yeah, you-you remembered?”

He scoffed, shaking his head lightly “how could I forget the audition with the monologue from that British show, Fleabag, wasn’t it?”

You swallowed deeply, casting your mind back to the audition - the terribly hot, sticky afternoon spent sweating it out in your trash heap of a car, hands slick on the steering wheel - willing yourself to go into the theatre. Small steps, you had told yourself. First: unbuckle your seatbelt, then, open the car door. Before you knew it you’d be on stage, at your first audition in months, perhaps even coming up to a year now? The thought trickled like battery acid through your mind, numbing every one of your atoms into a stillness - maybe then, you’d at least stop sweating.

You breezed through their script like a dream. You had spent the last week poring over it like it contained the cure for cancer, after all, so it wasn’t any surprise when the directors nodded slightly, and made notes on their pads of paper in front of them - the blond on the left pausing only to whisper something in the casting directors ear.

“And now it’s time to show us what you’re made of”, the art director said, gesticulating wildly with her hands “Get creative, show us why you’re right for this role, for this company, convince us that you’re the one for us. Your quirks, your personality - hell - even your flaws, we want to see them” her frigid smile inspired little confidence - her cold demeanour sent chills up your spine, and not the positive kind, but the blond to her left had kind eyes, and it was all you could do to avoid his gaze as you spiralled into your tirade.

“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning.” you shook your head, a slanted smile pulled at your lips, as you waited the appropriate beat for the other character's line that would never come. “No, I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like. What to hate. What to rage about. What to listen to. What band to like. What to buy tickets for.” you shook your head with every other word, getting faster and faster as you spoke, your legs trembled on the stage, betraying your nervousness - hoping it would come off as in-character, intrinsic to her floundering. “What to joke about. What not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and who to love and how to...tell them” your bottom lip quivered - right on cue - you thought, pulling the words from the deep recesses you had hidden them, just as you had hid the blindsiding sorrow of finding your pet bunny - Forest - dead at the tender age of seven. Just as you had quashed those dreaded memories of mother calling you up in the dead of night, to tell you that grammy had passed after her long battle with cancer. The silence rang loud in your ears as you left a pause, and you didn’t dare look back at the table below the stage. “I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far, I think I’ve been getting it wrong.” you bit back tears, just enough to make it believable. “And I know that’s why people want someone like you in their lives, because you just tell them how to do it.” you curled your lip, letting some of your own iron tasting bitterness flow out, a peek of yourself shine through the lies “You just tell them what to do, and what they’ll get out of the end of it, even though I don’t believe your bullshit” you pointed your finger like a dagger toward your invisible stage partner and hissed the final few words “and I know that scientifically nothing that I do makes any difference in the end, anyway, I’m still scared. Why am I still scared?” you gave up hiding the tears now, the restraint gone, the scene almost done, you let them spill down your cheeks, almost in relief “So just, tell me what to do. Just fucking tell me what to do, Father.”

Their response hadn’t filled you with confidence, a wry smile had spread across the blond’s face, but the other two’s expressions remained stony, totally unreadable.

“Th-thats right” you blushed under his scrutiny, one-on-one seeming so much more anxiety inducing than three-on-one. He took a pause, and you couldn’t help but think that he was running your audition back through his mind - how your face had dropped as you exited the stage - how you had thought you were making an utter fool of yourself. You were more than surprised when you got the call back - astounded even, that they’d taken a punt on such a wild card.

He didn’t linger on the matter, as he folded his arms and nodded his head at the baby grand next to you “Do you play?”

Taken aback, for a moment you wondered what he meant, until reality dissolved back in around you “Piano? Oh, I used to, y-years ago, not for a long time now, though” your voice quietened as you spoke, your confidence dwindled with the volume.

“Just as well your character doesn’t play then, I suppose” he joked, a pithy attempt to lighten the air - lift the atmosphere.

“Oh, absolutely, to say that I’m rusty would be an overstatement” you threw back, and the resulting silence bit the air like the cool breeze of the air-con that filled the stage. A beat passed, and he unfolded his arms - just as you noticed how obscenely long they were, how long all of him was, he walked toward you, making light work of the several feet between you both.

“How about we do a little rehearsal, while we’re here? Hmm?” he clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms slightly.

“I…um” you paused, feeling a little surprised. You did not imagine rehearsing today, but, always eager to please, you travelled to the closet in your mind where the script for the show was kept, and agreed on it, “Y-yes sir”.

He chuckled darkly “Please, just call me Bo,” and you hid the somersaulting of your belly, as you slid into character: the ailing belle, long suffering wife of the brute, who would come to an untimely end. “Please, you’re hurting me, your negligence hurts me, whether or not you mean it doesn’t fucking matter, I’m withering over here” you pressed your fingers into your chest for emphasis, inwardly cringing at the scene Bo had chosen - knowing how it ended.

“Doll, I’m gonna need you to shut the fuck up, I’ve had it up to here” Bo lifted a large hand to his brow “With your shit.” he followed the blocking and went to turn around, before doubling back and squaring up to you “You know, there’s only so much a man can take before-”

“Ryan, please, we need to talk about this, talk it out, I’m sure we can make it work someho-” Bo made eye contact seconds before he interjected, preparing you.

“Fuck no, I’ve fucking had it, shut the fuck up!” he screamed in your face “or else I’ll make you” - he startled you, his sheer size, raw energy and charisma sent warmth between your legs in a way you could have never anticipated. His blue eyes, once calm and kind - radiated a passion, a hate, so strong it elicited almost a real fear response from you.

“Ryan, please,” you whimpered after him, crossing the breadth of the stage in your begging, and suddenly, the heat of the day crashed down on you, the lack of food in your belly made you lightheaded. It was all you could do not to collapse on stage right there and then.

Breaking character, Bo turned around, his gait returning to his soft, natural state - not the hypermasculine, defensive stance that Ryan took on. “That was great, but um, could you give me a bit more?”

You faltered for a split second, before nodding slowly, and took a few deep breaths in order to immerse yourself in the role completely. “Ryan please, please just listen to me” you continued, trying desperately to inject more emotion into the words, into your performance.

Bo resumed Ryan’s toxic stance, and continued walking away from you, but briefly turned around as Bo whispered “More!” out of the corner of his mouth.

“We’re fucking done, do you hear me? All this bullshit” Bo paused, “You, pretending that you love me - and me, pretending that you’re all I’ll ever need, all I’ll ever want, practically forcing me into another girl’s arms. Well I’ve had enough of it, I’ve had enough of you, Jess. We’re done”

“Ryan please, I’m-” you paused, willing the tears to begin flowing, your knees dropped to the floor so hard they’d likely be bruised, but your weary mind wouldn’t allow the pain to bleed through your mind - not during the performance, “I’m pregnant”.

“Give it some more, I know you can do it” Bo’s voice was encouraging, but there was an edge to it now, sharp as a blade.

“Ryan please!” you screamed, “I’m pregnant” you forced the tears from their hiding place, but they felt wrong, premature. A hot blush crept across your cheeks as you felt his gaze settle on your head.

“More!” Bo chanted, his voice heavy with demand.

That’s when you crumbled, “I’m sorry-I-I can’t!!” You screamed, tears now smattering your cheeks and chin with their downpour.

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry” Bo saw through the madness and knelt beside you, “I should’a known better not to push you, especially during an unofficial rehearsal like this, fuck” he swore undreneath his breath again as his palms came to your shoulders.

“Are-are you okay?” he sighed, “To be honest, you’re such a good actor I can barely tell what is acting and what is real, if-if that makes you feel any better” he laughed breathily, and you finally plucked up the courage to look at him instead of the ground.

“I’m-” you breathed “I’ll be okay” you half smiled at him, letting your heartbeat return to normal, and the adrenaline to still its course in your veins.

You both stood up, knees aching from the ground, and you finally made eye contact. His blue eyes searched yours for the truth, before settling on an idea “Will ice cream make it better? Ice cream always makes things better” he sighed with a smile, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, teetering from one foot to the other.

“Y-yeah, I guess, sorry, I don’t usually get this emotional” you stilled your palm against your roaring chest, feeling your heartbeat finally resembling a normal rhythm.

“N-no it’s good, it’s an incredibly emotional role, and that was exactly the kind of emotion I was looking for but…I feel like I’ve just fucking pulled a Stanley Kubrick on the set of The Shining…or something” he wrenched a hand out of his pocket and pressed it to his face, his expression strained with frustration.

“N-no, Bo - I’m fine - really I am” you reached out to lower his hand from his face - and it made pinpricks of electricity erupt all over the contact points. You froze again like a deer in the headlights when you realised what you’d done. “I’m sorry”

His own breath hitched in his throat “No, it’s okay”

The tension had built between you both like fog on a winter morning, kept you surrounded until neither of you could see anything but one another. He eclipsed everything else, and despite being the only other person in the room, you felt like that may become a permanent feeling - even with the theatre full to the rafters. His other hand reached for yours, circling his fingers around your wrist he lowered both his and your hand down “Is this okay…” his eyes punctuated the question.

“Y-yes” your voice caught on the word, hoarse with the rising atmosphere you had cultivated between you both. His grip loosened a little on your wrist as he filled the gap between you both in one long stride.

“Is this okay?” He sighed, and you could almost taste the sweet tang of his last coffee on his breath. Words weren’t an option, and you answered his question with your kiss. Your neck unnaturally tilted upward to meet his lumbering height, his lips responded in kind, searching, pulling and pushing, as his hands found the safety of your waist. At this proximity you could smell his scent; deep, woody and faintly floral, noticing that only this close could you breathe it in - it felt intimate, close, like he was wearing it for you and you alone. Startled by his hands, you took a step back, and he followed you gladly, step after step until you’d likely fall off the edge of the world together, and in all honesty - you wouldn’t mind.

Instead, your lower back found the baby grand, an innocent bystander to your tryst - Bo pressed you harder into the piano, and it didn’t budge, didn’t even make a sound against your bodies, quickly becoming entangled against the instrument. Bo’s hand found your hair, gripping into it harshly, before releasing you. He pulled apart from you only briefly as his eyes looked up toward the piano with devilish intent. Separating from you for a moment he made short work of the lid, lowering it quickly and quietly. He turned back to you and bruised your lips with a kiss, before his arms gripped your waist, and with a squeal, he lifted you on to the baby grand.

Childish grins spread between you both as he walked in between your legs, before a dark cloud rolled in over his features. “I-I don’t do this very often, I don’t, uhm” he bowed his head, partly in shame “I don’t have a condom” a blush stained his cheeks as his mouth tilted into a grimace. Normally, you wouldn’t be so reckless, but the thought that if you didn’t have him now - that you never would - just about consumed you entirely.

“It’s-its okay, you can just pull out” you relented, giving into your urges, so entirely caught up in the moment - in him.

“Is it fucked up, that I wanted you to say that?” he smirked, shades of shame still colouring his expression.

“N-no” you stuttered, as he flashed a dazzling smile up to you, before his hands found new pathways to traverse beneath your waist.

You fought back a heady sigh as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, “Ohshit” He breathed as his fingers parted your folds. “You’re soaked, sweetie” he marvelled - and it pained you to admit how much that little smidge of praise heated you further.

“I-I don’t do this very often, either” you admitted behind your own blush, your voice straining on the final word as Bo sank two fingers deep into you.

“Fuck, that feel good?” you quivered on his fingers - so sublimely thick and long, that your mind wandered to what else may hold such qualities.

“Mmhmm” you nodded, your eyelids threatening to shut out the scene unfolding in front of you. Bo, towering over you even with your hips propped up on the piano - his tongue pressed into his bottom lip in concentration as he finger fucked you on the baby grand. The whole theatre, spread out before you both, completely empty, not a soul to be seen, as you were spread before Bo just as eagerly, he - the only audience to your performance.

“N-no, tell me how good it feels,” Your eyelids snapped open, to see Bo’s gaze squarely on you, an impish quality to his eyes, the mischievousness he had hidden so well - until now. Suddenly any vocabulary fell out of your head as he increased his pace. “How about this, then?” His elbow moved back slightly as he changed angle, his wrist crooked, his fingers rocking against the tender spot inside of you, pushing a gasp from your lungs for good measure. “How’s that?” he teased.

“I-uhhmmmn” you managed, as he slowed it down to a pace that was wholly unsatisfying, your hips straining against the pressure.

“Come on, don’t be shy, I’ve seen how you are with words, why don’t you run that pretty little mouth, huh?” he coaxed, and you turned your head to look away from him - from the entire situation, as you finally found your voice.

“God that feels so fucking good” You blurted out, any thought was knocked out of your mind as you spat out a pure description of how he was making you feel.

“Alright then” he whispered, and cruelly removed his fingers from you. You’re sure you must’ve looked comical, spread on that piano, mouth aghast with his cruel removal of his hand - it was with the last remaining tinge of shame that you didn’t chase his fingers with your lips.

“P-please” you whined, fingertips sliding on the varnished wood behind you, unsure of just how much more teasing you could take.

He closed in on you, pulling your form against him with one hand - lifting your behind off the piano for but a moment, just long enough to relieve you of your underwear.

“Don’t worry sweetie,” He swiftly undid his jeans button, the tautness of the zipper sliding down by itself did nothing to allay your burgeoning anticipation. Your mouth hung open, and you had to suck in the small pool of saliva that collected there, before it slid down your chin. The grating sound of the zipper sliding open seemed to echo around the theatre, and it was all you could hear as your cunt clenched in anticipation of what was to come. His thumbs found the waistband and pushed gently down, exposing his light grey boxer briefs, and your eye was drawn to the dark patch that bloomed near the apex of his thighs, you felt yourself shiver from within to even look at it.

You should have known better - the guy was over six and a half feet tall, one of his fingers equalled two of yours - it was a matter of proportion that he’d also have a freakishly large cock. The impending reveal set off a chain reaction of panic that exploded across every inch of your body. You were about to see it unclothed, and in the flesh. Once the jeans and his underwear were around his ankles, you would have done well to have extra support on that piano - because you almost fell off of it. It had been so long since you’d even had sex, nevermind with someone as well endowed as Bo - you swallowed hard, and he must’ve seen the trepidation written all over your face.

“H-hey,” his fingertips came to your chin, pulling up your gaze to his eyes. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m just-just” you glanced down to the bulk of him, standing proud in the gap between you.

“We can stop if you want to,” he breathed, and his cock gave a gentle bob - if almost in agreement.

Suddenly, with those words on his lips, stopping was the last thing on your mind. You shook your head “no” and pulled him in for a harsh kiss, managing to whisper up against his lips “Just be gentle with me, okay?”

With a groan, Bo whispered into your mouth “Fuck, okay”

Your thighs hugged him close, almost through necessity as he lined himself up. You thanked god for artists’ ability to multitask as he slowly bit up your neck - nothing that a good splash of makeup couldn’t cover - plenty of it - actually, as he delivered one particularly bruising nick to the tender flesh of your throat. Teasingly, temptingly, he drew what felt like a figure eight on your throbbing pussy, grazing your clit with one swoop and dipping into your entrance with the next. His other hand found your behind and pinched it for good measure as he braced himself - and you - as he eased inside. Ever thankful for the acoustics, your helpless scream echoed around the theatre, bouncing off the seats, the concession stands and the walls, before making its way back to you - the absence of bodies in the room that would usually soak up the sound, created a gigantic echo chamber. “You sound so fucking pretty, echoing around the room like that” Bo grunted, still not even half way in “But I need you to be louder,” he breathed deep, barely moving “They can’t hear you in the back row” he muttered into your ear as his hips snapped his full length into you - your scream satisfying his request as he stretched your insides out so thoroughly, so harshly.

“That’s better” he praised, sending sharp shoots of pleasure up and down your spine. Sweat coated both of your bodies, even as the air conditioner blew fresh licks on to your exposed skin, you willed it to cool, to feel some semblance of relief. Bo’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ as he gazed down to where your bodies joined, how obscenely full you must’ve looked, stretched to the max, but he only breathed out a puff of air, seemingly in satisfaction, as he brought one hand up to push at your chest. “Lean back, sweetie, you’ll only fall down later, anyways” he smirked, and you heeded his request, letting your elbows sink further into the polished wood - the wet marks where your palms had been aiding in your descent. The new angle tested your every boundary, it felt like he was pushing your internal organs around, so stuffed full of him that with one wrong move - you’d surely burst open. “I-I know I can be a lot…for-for some people” he started, his voice more nasally now than before, more strained. “But I knew when you walked across that stage at your audition, I had a feeling you were something special” one of his hands remained on your hip, his grip not faltering as the other came up to your face. His long, pale fingers gripped your chin, “Look at me while I fuck you, sweetie”

You did just that as his hand left your face, trailing down your body, lifting up your t-shirt just enough to graze along your nipples - and you thanked past-you for neglecting to put on a bra that morning. Heavy hands made light work, as his fingertips slipped past your belly button and down to your core. His thumb brushed up against your clit, and you tensed at the feeling, tendrils of pleasure wound through your body, emanating from that spot between you both. “P-please” you begged, your body tensed, ready for everything and anything he would give it - fully on the edge.

Starting with slow circles that practically had you bucking up against him, his hips began the dance slowly emptying you, and then - with precise control, filling you once more, his thumb exacting devastatingly precise pressure on that sweet spot. His thumb began to quicken, every pass pushing another sweet moan from your mouth, and sent it echoing around the room. His composure began to falter, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the feathering of his jaw, all an indication of his restraint.

“P-please, Bo, I’m gonna c-” but you had spoken too late, his thrusts got shorter, more erratic and his thumb must’ve been numb from the movement but you couldn’t think about that, couldn’t think about anything as your orgasm took hold - wrapping you in its warm embrace - the pumping of blood through your ears was the only thing you could hear, the faint cries leaving your lips sounded as if they were in another room - wholly separated, and yet nearby. Your vision returned to seeing Bo panting above you, his hand resting on your pussy, thumb off the throttle for one moment - he scrunched his eyes shut as he saw you come-to, and returned to massaging your clit as he relentlessly pounded into you. “N-no Bo, I can’t-can’t do it”

“Yes you can, sweetie, come on, for me” his words were feather light, but his tone was demanding, and you struggled under the weight of him. Your body bristled with the tension of yet another peak, building rapidly - your hand came to grip Bo’s wrist, still working against you, but instead of removing his hand, you kept it there - every atom in your body was begging for it to stop, the overstimulation too much, but you had never been a quitter. This time you kept your eyes open, willed your vision to remain, to stay present so that you could look at him, feel all of him, every facet. It seemed impossible, almost painful, but he sent you over the precipice once again, and then all of a sudden you were falling, drifting through a second peak much stronger than the last. Clenching so hard on him that he released a strangled moan, and he tried his hardest to fuck you through your second orgasm, the pleasure roiling through your body like a hurricaine - and then he gave in.

Your hand acted before you even had time to realise, as you pushed the fabric of your skirt up and out the way, and he took his cue. He pumped inside you once, twice more, his hips struggled, when finally he pulled out of you - even his massive hand looked small in comparison to what he was working with, as he spilled hot ropes of come on to your stomach. You instinctively sat up, hoping to help with the effort, but he kept his eyes firmly on you, on your heaving chest, your body - spread for him on the piano, as he emptied onto your belly. His face was flushed, contorted with his pleasure, and you before him, doubly thankful for his abundance.

When the white-hot peak subsided, Bo rustled around in his jeans pocket, bunched up around his ankles “Apparently, I don’t carry condoms, but I do carry tissues?” he chuckled under his breath as he ripped one out of the packet and began cleaning you up. “Here, let me-” he scooped you up off the piano, and - more shakily than before, lowered you to the ground. He knelt down as if to retrieve something, and words were stolen from your mouth as he remained on the floor. He found your panties, discarded beneath the piano and looked up at you “One foot” he whispered, sliding the wet lace up one leg, “Other foot” he answered himself as you raised the other foot off the floor to allow him to re-dress you. Astounded by his sweetness, the generosity after the carnality, you laughed out of sheer surprise, and his expression took a downturn. “S-sorry, just thought it’d be nice to-uh-give you a hand” he rose from his knees, slowly surpassing your own height and once again, your neck began to ache from the difference.

“N-no, I wasn’t laughing at you,” you began, shifting from one foot to the next, nervously. “It was lovely, I mean-I know I said I don’t do this” you gestured wildly to yourself, to him, to the room at large “a lot, but when I have, guys have been, uhm, less than gracious about getting the fuck outta the situation”

The light flicked back on in Bo’s eyes again, the sweetness returned. “Do you still wanna go for that ice cream?” he said, the pink blush finally receding from his cheeks.

“I would kill for ice cream, right now, actually” you swept your sweaty bangs from your brow, collecting yourself amidst the fervour that was the last hour - your body sweet but your mind fizzled with electricity, abuzz with possibility, with what your first rehearsal would bring.

#bo burnham #bo burnham fanfic #bo burnham fanfiction #bo burnham smut #bo burnham x reader #bo burnham/reader #bo burnham imagine #microfic

206 notes · View notes

rocknrollsalad · 5 months

Note

Oooh, Stargyle has so much unexplored potential.

What about Steve and Argyle both going to community college for something hands on: woodworking, welding, pottery, plumbing--I don't really care? (Why? Steve is a very tactile, hands-on guy and not big on academics, and we see Argyle in woodshop.)

And they have to partner up for a project. They both turn out to be really good at one aspect of the project. Flirtation ensues.

OKAY, so I may have done a really shitty job of following this prompt. I read maybe seven words of it and rushed to a new gdoc. Immediately, I vomited out 1200 words and took it from there.

However, it's received some less-than-favorable reviews already so I stopped writing it. I'm kind of sorry. I'm more sorry about publishing it knowing it's neither finished nor as good as it should be. HOWEVER, here's what I got and I hope you get so many nice things for sending this to me in my hour of need.

tw: drug use (pot) word count: 2705

College was the last place Steve thought he’d be. Sure it was a community college and his parents made sure to let him know exactly how beneath them that was but it was still school. Something he thought he’d finished with because…school sucked.

It was also the way forward.

So, yeah, he was twenty-six and attending a full day of classes at some community college. He was also working part-time and somehow finding time to have something close to a social life. Occasionally. Not as much as he wanted on the latter and less in the way of dating but he was out of Hawkins and doing this on his own.

He’d moved out west three years ago, the last of his friends went off to colleges of their own and left him looking at a ghost of town that held nothing special anymore. It was a necessary bit of sadness to push Steve toward following his dreams.

Sun and surf, palm trees and tacos, and never a single snow day. Everyone wanted him to hate it, it was so far from them, but Steve hadn’t worn pants or a long sleeve shirt in 30 months. He’d been permanently tan for just as long and his hair found its way to something closer to blonde. The food was better, the people friendlier, and, yeah, everyone he’d grown up with was a plane ride away now but the good outweighed the bad.

Not to mention, he breathed easier out from under the Harrington shadow. Carving his own way for the first time in his life had been more freeing than being allowed to wear flip-flops to work. Robin, Nancy, Dustin, Max, they’d all understand eventually. Especially if they’d make that plane ride.

With a job at a daycare, Steve found himself a calling among all the naps on the beach. It made sense that he was good at it but it was luck he’d found out. At least until he got too comfortable there. His boss was the one who talked him into college, she had a list a mile long of things an early childhood education degree could bring him and, by extension, her. Steve wasn’t into the idea. Obviously, he’d done fine without it but she swore he could do so much more. After months of lectures and pamphlets and attempts at reasoning with him, Steve finally caved.

Once he did, though, she was his biggest supporter. Something Steve actually needed in all this. He didn’t have a lot of faith in himself to earn this degree. On paper, it looked daunting. But his boss helped him pick courses and study for his assessments. Holding his hand every step of the way and crossing a few t’s Steve missed. However, she didn’t console him when the results came back and he was below college level on everything. It would mean a lot of math courses and even more English ones.

Something he bogged himself down with for the first quarter. Wanting to speed run through catching up, all Steve did was depress himself and lose the desire to carry on. For the next quarter, they balanced things a little more. Classes for his degree and classes for catching up.

His boss had pushed a course on nutrition, promising it’d be fun and though not directly part of his degree requirements, would come in handy with their new programs and funding. Steve wasn’t sure about the fun part but it sounded far better than another stab at algebra.

So at ten o’clock in the god-forsaken morning, Steve dragged himself to a part of the school he’d never seen to learn about what foods were healthy. An easy A, Steve thought, the answer to everything here is just vegetables. Don’t give kids candy for breakfast. Carrot cake wasn’t actually healthy. It seemed like something he could do in his sleep. A fact he might put to the test at this hour.

Claiming a seat in the middle of the room, against the wall in case he needed a nap, Steve readied his supplies in some weird impression of Nancy Wheeler. Trying to look ready to learn even if he wasn’t. Something about faking it until he made it or whatever people said. No one could tell him he wasn’t trying.

Barely a minute before the class was meant to start (the teacher was nowhere in sight) laughter came from outside the door and followed a couple of guys in. Two other people stood up and they exchanged hi-fives as the jokes were explained and the laughter doubled.

One guy among them was enough to make Steve sit upright and pay a bit more attention. A gorgeous man with a loud printed t-shirt and the longest hair Steve had ever seen on anyone. He laughed and joked with everyone and Steve couldn’t stop staring. Like everything else in the room had just fizzled away and he was left with this muted conversation and his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

This was also something new to California. Not cartoon hearts appearing around guys, that had always been there, but being okay with it. Losing the pressure to be the golden boy had allowed him a chance to experiment and Steve could, with confidence, now say he liked all genders. If only the increase in possibilities had led to less striking out.

Almost immediately, Steve envisioned being rejected by this guy. He didn’t seem the sort to laugh in his face, maybe he’d let him down gently, say it wasn’t his thing. But a small part of Steve’s mind toyed with the “yes” of it all as he stared across the classroom.

The teacher had apparently arrived because everyone started to find seats and Steve was left feeling a bit lost and more than a little confused as he tried to come back to the present. The man in the front of the room trying to settle everyone was everything TV made hippies out to be, he sounded like Cheech or Chong and flashed the peace sign seven different times in his introduction. He certainly wasn’t going to be holding any of Steve’s attention but, again, this was just meant to be an easy A. It didn’t have to be dynamic. At least he had a reason to show up every day.

For days that drifted into weeks, Steve watched the other students arrive nearly the same way every day. This ball of energy and light, laughing and talking with everyone until the teacher made him sit down. Which he did with a casual apology and presented the floor to the man who had no command of the room. It felt like high school, hardly a higher learning situation but Steve’s boss had warned him, that college wasn’t as serious as people made it out to be.

They were supposed to learn about nutrition and why it mattered but mostly the guy talked about his garden and how to keep pests away. Other students stopped coming but that happened in all classes. Those that stayed, Steve found out, were all in the culinary program and it was this or more practice chopping onions. They were thrilled to be here and didn’t care what the guy talked about.

Which brought on a new feeling as the class list was an obvious clique and him. Steve was on the outside, not part of the group having fun, and it was a place he’d never been. Robin said it was good for him but he wasn’t so sure.

Steve thought he was going to spend the whole quarter looking on from afar, not even knowing this guy’s name, and he’d begun to make peace with that. Wondering where just a touch of King Steve was so he could waltz in like he belonged like he was a blessing to them. Maybe he didn’t have to swing his personality so far the other way but there was comfort in being on the outskirts that Steve wasn’t ready to give up.

Until a month into the quarter, the teacher didn’t show up. Everyone chimed in with different amounts of time they had to wait before they could leave but eventually, one brave soul made the call. Dismissed them all with a promise of an A for the day. Power they didn’t have but a joke the whole class shared.

As those who weren’t in the culinary program packed up, Steve was approached by the guy he’d been staring at day in and day out. Whatever it was that had Cinderella able to make animals do her chores, this guy had. It was almost hard to be in the presence of and typically Steve wasn’t a fan of anything that made his confidence falter but he recovered in enough time. He hoped.

“Yo, man. You sit in the class by yourself, like, every day and I keep thinking ‘y’know what? That guy needs a friend!’ so here I am! We’re gonna go across the street to the Erin’s. They both got the same name but one’s a guy and one’s a girl, and they’re dating. It’s not weird, I guess, but I don’t want to be saying my own name in bed, ya know? But, yeah, they got a few new recipes to try and, y’know, plenty of weed. If you wanna come?”

There was a desperate “yes” on the tip of Steve’s tongue that he hated. “Yeah, I don’t have anything going on until later,” he lied.

“Righteous! I’m not an Aaron, by the way. Name’s Argyle.”

“Steve.”

“That’s so easy to remember. You look like a Steve. Steven?”

Steve nodded, not really wanting to claim the name in case Argyle wanted to start using it.

Instead, he nodded for the door and made moves toward it. “Alright, so have you ever had tres leches cake? Tell me you’ve tried this.”

“I’ve..never heard of it.”

“Prepare to be delighted. This is a big day for you, man. You’ll never be the same after it. Tell your taste buds to get ready, their tiny minds are going to be blown clean off.”

The description brought on a familiar feeling, Argyle was gorgeous and kind but under that amazing smile, he was as weird as everyone else Steve knew. And he knew how to hang out with the weird kids.

On the walk over, Argyle talked about how he got into cooking, why he was in college so “late” in life, and his restaurant owning dreams for the future. Steve couldn’t get a word in but he didn’t trust his flirting or conversational ability so it was for the best.

And Argyle didn’t seem to have a problem filling the silences or depriving Steve of them. Walking them around and introducing Steve to a bunch of people whose names he forgot immediately, feeding him snacks, and getting them both settled in the “backyard” where, for the first time, Argyle stopped talking. There were a bunch of other people to fill the silences though.

Most of what was shared, Steve didn’t follow. They spoke with familiarity Steve didn’t have, he hadn’t earned yet. Instead, he listened, passed the joint around, and ate more cake in one sitting than he ever had before.

All of it made it hard to stay focused. Steve realized his tolerance was not what it used to be and that made it that much harder to impress. Unless sitting quietly and nursing one drink because you were afraid you’d never see another beverage again in your life was now charming. Best he could tell no one seemed to mind but everything was really hazy so they could have been ripping Steve apart and he wouldn’t know. Just smile and take another sip.

How he got home was a mystery but the half a cake on his kitchen counter said it was done so with kindness. As with any night under the influence, Steve prayed he didn’t make an ass of himself and for the first time, all quarter found himself dreading the nutrition class.

But Argyle walked in the room and pointed at Steve, crowing out “He lives!!!!” before lowering his voice to add “Glad to see you among the living again, my man. You can not handle your weed.”

“I’m out of practice and…from Indiana.”

Argyle’s eyes went wide like the second point explained everything and before he could add anything else, the teacher came in demanding attention for another day of teaching them nothing. Steve moved up a row and relaxed some. Though he did spend more time daydreaming about burgers than cute boys who mock him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it. He’d been so wrapped up in the new experience that he forgot to seal the deal and there was a version of Steve out there that never would have let that happen. Now he was back to not knowing where he stood but knowing full well he should just find out. He knew how to find out but years of bad luck, a personality shift, and maybe a healthy fear of rejection kept Steve in his seat.

Every day after that, though, he got a little wave or nod from Argyle as he breezed into class with his group of friends. It was easier to pick out now that Argyle wasn’t the leader of the group, just a very devoted follower whom Steve had made the most important. A familiar scene from the other side. College wasn’t quite the same as high school though and Steve would kill for a pep rally to skip or dance to go to.

Instead, he stuck to quiet greetings. Like all the other classes he’d had. A group project here or there brought strangers together but for the most part, it was a roomful of people living their lives. At least these guys now welcomed him into the laughs. Though there wasn’t another invite to sit on a square foot of dirt and eat amazing food so he wasn’t part of the club, obviously.

By the time Steve had made peace with that, the invite to come out to have snacks at a friend’s was thrown his way. Though he was denied a chance to get high. Something he pouted about for far too long. It earned him sympathy but not drugs. He did remember the night this time and got himself home so maybe it was for the best.

The week after it wasn’t a friend’s place but the kitchens at the school because there was a ton of beef wellingtons that needed to be eaten. Sure most of them were overdone, a couple were burnt, but it was free food, and eating a bit of charred pastry was hardly anything to complain about.

After everything settled and people were hanging around talking, Argyle grabbed Steve and brought him through to an area with multiple kitchen setups. Lit only by the wall of windows, stovetops sparkled and the smell of bleach overpowered anything they’d been used for. Far beyond any home ec class he’d been in but he felt just as out of place.

They head over to one of the setups and sure, maybe they were there to try some amazing dish Argyle had in the fridge. Perhaps he just wanted to show off his area or maybe they’d “break the rules” and cook something special. Okay, so that last one was a bit too Hollywood but Steve was lonely, his brain did things like this now.

It also presented him with a fourth option that changed what sort of movie it was. All alone in a dark room with a guy he’d been lusting after for weeks, there was a very obvious choice. Far more risky than baking after hours, Steve wasn’t sure if he was picking up hints or Argyle just loved everyone but he’d never know if he didn’t try.

So Steve sucked in a breath and crowded Argyle’s space until the man was backed against the fridge, waiting for any indication this wasn’t welcome. When nothing was said Steve leaned against him. From there instinct took over for both of them and their lips pressed together.

#i'm not going to tag this as anything #but like i did clean it up #i just couldn't let it rot away #i hope it's something #to someone lol #i'm releasing it though #it's dead to me now 😂😂😂😂😂

5 notes · View notes

queenofthedorks · 1 year

Text

Last March I was officially diagnosed with ADHD after being unofficial diagnosed twice. Once my freshman year of high school when both my brother and father were diagnosed, the shrink was like “Oh yeah. She definitely has signs, but she’s doing fine in school. We don't need to do anything.” I then proceeded to deliberately flunk 8 classes in the next two years because I did not want to be in those classes, but no one did anything. BECAUSE I WAS FINE.

The second time I was unofficially diagnosed was in Fall 2013. I was working a full-time job and taking 9 credit hours of studio art, and I was getting close to graduating and trying to decide what to do, and it was just too much. Every time I sat down to make art, I had a meltdown. So I’m like okay. It’s time. I need meds. But I didn’t understand that sometimes you have to really push, and the doctor was like you're fine. Once you graduate, it will be fine.

I proceeded to almost tank grad school at least once a year for 3 years, and after a hardware failure, forgetting to back up, and in general, just being unmedicated ended up writing 60 pages of thesis in 2 weeks in a sheer fucking panic. BUT I WAS FINE.

Anyway, that's not what this is about.

Last March I WAS NOT FINE. (IDK how anyone could possibly be fine coming out of 2020/21, but that's also not what this is about.) So I took advantage of an online service, because finding a shrink to meet with in person after the previous instances was just TOO FUCKING MUCH.

And the online service was like GuuurRL. Congrats. You got both the inattentive type and the impulsive type. Well done. Well done indeed. We recommend medication. Also, some therapy, cause we’re a little worried about you.

At my med appointment, the shrink and I talked and eventually ended up with Concerta because, as I pointed out, I don’t remember to drink water or eat my lunch half of the time. I won’t remember to take my meds more than once a day.

And I was incredibly lucky because it worked pretty much straight out of the gate. I’d heard some horror stories so I was prepared to throw a fit, but the preauthorization was approved in like two hours, and I started taking my meds I wasn’t always 100%, but OMG, it was a night and day difference between being medicated and not. It took less energy to focus on the big stuff, which meant I wasn’t exhausted and frozen when I attempted the little stuff. And the constant low grade grind of anxiety I felt on a daily basis almost completely disappeared.

Then in January, I picked up my prescription and was like huh. The shape of my pills changed. Which should have given me a moment of pause, but this is the first long term prescription I’ve taken. About three-quarters of the way through January, I realized I was struggling. It wasn't quite as bad as not being medicated at all, but suddenly the little things like working out, cleaning, and packing my lunch became next to impossible to do again. And I don’t know, maybe it was actually worse, because I now know what I should feel like and I wasn’t. But still, I’ve been so gaslit by my previous experiences that I thought it was maybe me. January was especially grey this year, so I upped my vitamin D. Made some effort to sit in the sun when it was available and poured some effort into focus. And still I struggled. Anxiety kicked back up; small things slipped further through the cracks. I was really getting down on myself, because I should be fine. And I was not. So clearly I was fucking up some how.

And then I saw a tiktok from someone who was essentially in the same situation, but even worse. They’d been great for like a decade, but in the last two months it has been a constant struggle. And oh btw they were also taking Concerta. I decided maybe it wasn't just me, being me then. Maybe, there was something wrong. So, I started digging and discovered three things that happened at essentially the same time.

My insurance stopped covering the name brand.

The one manufacturer whose generic was precisely the same as the name brand stopped manufacturing it.

The generic that the pharmacy is giving is a bilayer tablet instead of a trilayer and is supposed to be time release, but????

The reason Concerta really works for some people is not the meds inside so much--it's just Ritalin--it's the way it's delivered. It's designed to do an initial dump of about 20% of the drug in the first hour or so, and then it does a really slow release of the rest of the drug for about 10 hours. Unfortunately, it's a proprietary delivery system, and with Janssen no longer producing it, it's the named brand or nothing.

Whatever this generic is doing it’s not doing it the way I needed to. And I should be fine, but I’m not. So after being kind paralyzed by anxiety and executive dysfunction for several weeks I am finally gonna talk to the doctor today about I don’t know? A new med? I don’t even know how this works. I just know that I know how functional feels now, so I’m not going back to not if I can at all help it.

Anyway, the American healthcare system is bullshit. Like I get that I’m incredibly privileged to have the meds covered at all, but fuck they should not be able to just suddenly decide I can only take a generic that’s not really equal to the named brand.

So after much dithering about if I should talk to someone, I finally made an appointment today. And after I made the appointment I realized they the only reason I dithered was because I’m concerned that someone is going to tell me I’m fine.

#adhdlife #living with adhd #adhd #long post

5 notes · View notes

bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Note

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #ask #anon #this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it!#my writing #my fic

253 notes · View notes

drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Day 65: Question

"Uncle Harry?"

He glanced away from Rose where she was eating the grapes Harry cut in quarters and over at Teddy where he was sitting at the table eating his grilled cheese. "Yeah buddy?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," he said as he looked back at the almost 16 month old eating grapes. He still got nervous about her choking.

"Do you like Uncle Draco?"

"Yeah," Harry replied casually, glancing out of the corner of his eye to gauge Teddy's reaction. "Yeah. Uncle Draco and I are good friends."

Teddy rolled his eyes, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how the time had flown by fast enough that he was sitting at a table with a nine year old who now rolled his eye at him. "I mean do you like-like Uncle Draco?"

"Gah bah dih!" Rose shouted, banging her chubby little fists on her high chair tray.

"See, Rose wants to know too," he translated for the baby.

He sighed, "It's complicated, Teddy."

"Why?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "Uncle Draco says he likes you. Why does it have to be complicated?"

"Uncle Draco said what?" Harry asked, sure he'd misheard.

(Read more below the cut)

"He said that he likes you but he thinks that you don't feel the same."

"Thats-" Harry spluttered, "I-" he started and broke off again, "But he nev-" he huffed, catching a spoon that Rose was trying to hit Max with. "Careful, Rose," he chided gently, "We don't hit the dog."

"Uncle Haarry," Teddy groaned.

"Apparently it's a conversation that Uncle Draco and I need to have," he managed.

"But-"

Harry shook his head, "No buts. If I like Uncle Draco, he should be the first to hear it, don't you think?"

"Fine," Teddy grumbled.

And Harry spent the rest of the day thinking about what he was going to say to Draco at trivia later that night.

-------

"I hate the muggle knowledge category," Draco groaned miserably as he and Harry prepared to answer the eighth round of questions that evening. "You're completely useless at it," he added, "even though you were raised by muggles."

Harry huffed, "Well, it's not like I was allowed to live like a normal muggle." He took another sip of his firewhiskey. He should stop drinking but he was just too nervous.

"What does that even mean?" Draco asked.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head to clear away the memories which somehow served to only bring them further forward in his mind.

"Potter," Draco said, poking his arm, "What does that mean?"

He stood up abruptly, feeling small and afraid, like he'd never be good enough. All of the feelings of loneliness and unworthiness that he'd had as a child rising up like bile. It was all too much all of the sudden and the idea that Draco might actually be interested in him was utterly preposterous. "I have to go."

"What?" Draco said as Harry made for the door. "Harry!" he called.

Harry fumbled with the door handle but finally made it out onto the street, pushing his way through a gaggle of people standing outside the door smoking.

He'd walked for maybe two minutes when he heard a set of feet running up behind him and he turned, body poised to fight.

"Hey," Draco panted. "You didn't pay for your tab, you know."

"Right," Harry said, reaching into his pocket and holding out a handful of galleons to Draco.

"I don't want your money," he said, sounding offended and Harry didn't know what to do with that. "I'm just telling you why it took me so long to catch up."

"Do you like me?" Harry blurted because he needed to know, once and for all.

Draco looked confused, "Harry, we've been friends for like 7 years, of course I like you."

"No," he shook his head, "I mean do you like-like me?"

The other man paled, taking a step back from him and Harry realized that he must be thinking that Harry had run out because he thought Draco liked him.

"Because I really like you," he hastened to add. "I have for ages but I didn't think you could feel the same. How could you feel the same?" Harry whispered, more to himself than Draco. "I'm a mess," he added, "I've got ptsd from the war but I'm also like super messed up from my childhood? And I don't even understand what healthy relationships look like and how to have them," he covered his face with his hands, "I'm just-"

"Harry," Draco interrupted, his hands gently holding Harry's shoulders. "Come here," he murmured, pulling Harry in against him and wrapping him up in his arms.

Harry leaned into him.

"Okay," Draco murmured, "Deep, slow breath with me, yes?"

He nodded and mirrored Draco's breathing, feeling his heart slow as his lungs filled with air.

"There we are," Draco said softly, brushing his hands over Harry's back. "It's alright."

"Sorry," he whispered, making no move to pull away from Draco.

Draco dropped a kiss on his cheek, "There's no need to be." After a beat he asked, "Would you like to come back to mine to talk? I've got some sobriety potions and I can make us some tea."

"Do you have biscuits?" Harry murmured against his skin where he'd tucked his face in Draco's neck.

"I do."

He nodded once and Draco held onto him as he apparated. After they took their sobriety potions and made tea, Draco nodded to the living room.

Harry curled up on one end of the couch and Draco sat on the other, cross-legged and facing Harry. "So," Draco said, and Harry really dreaded the next words now that he wasn't drunk, "Who ratted me out? Was it Weasley?"

"What?"

"Who told you that I like you?"

Harry blinked, "Teddy. But how-"

"I've liked you for six and a half years and people have been telling me that you like me for at least five of them. Clearly someone must have decided to tell you, it's the only thing that could have prompted you to change."

He tilted his head consideringly, "What I said, though," he started, "Well, it's still true, even if I'm less emotional about it now. I have had several relationships flop through no fault of the men and women I've dated. I'm a mess, Draco."

"Do you imagine for even a moment that I'm not?"

Harry huffed a bitter laugh, "You're always so poised and put together. You-"

"I have nightmares three times a week," Draco said matter-of-factly. "I sleep with my wand tucked under my pillow and a dim light in the corner. I see a therapist every other week. My father and I have a very strained relationship because he doesn't approve of me being gay. And," he added, "I haven't had a successful relationship ever."

Harry stared at him for a long moment.

Long enough that Draco started talking again, "I'm a lot. Even on my best days and I would drive you roun-"

Harry interrupted him by leaning across the sofa and kissing him once softly to stop the words coming from his mouth. "You are amazing," he breathed. When he pulled back he said, "If you're okay with me not being perfect, I would love to try."

"Really?" Draco whispered.

Harry nodded, "Really."

And in the end, it was their imperfections that made the other love them all the more.

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

Day 64: Shower | Day 66: Bond

So confession: this was not the fic I started writing for this prompt. But that one is already over 4000 words and it's like halfway done, so it's not making the cut tonight. I think it's actually going to end up being multiple chapters, I'll add a link in here when I've finished it. (I say this to apologize that this one is so rushed!)

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry #drarry ficlet #drarry drabbles #getting together #matchmaker teddy #day 65 #enjoy #send me a prompt and i'll write you a ficlet

244 notes · View notes

peralta-guaranteed · 3 years

Note

After that Jake-Mac-Rosa fic, you dropped this queen: 👑 Next time, a Jake-Mac-Holt piece?

Oh dang, THAT's where I left it. Thank you for that. 🤪

Grandpa Holt is always a pleasure to write, but let's try for some Dad Holt too...

"Is everything alright, Peralta?"

Jake has been sitting off to the side of the group for a while now, so Holt finds it necessary to inquire. He's not used to the eager detective being so closed off and quiet unless something is wrong, and nothing he can think of right now strikes him as 'wrong': they have been celebrating the end of a rather arduous case for Diaz and Boyle, and Peralta had been as helpful as he could be as a tertiary, which was not his preferred position at all. The first round at Shaw's had been paid by himself as Captain, obviously, and the next by Diaz, so Boyle has promised to shoulder the third, were it to happen. Ergo Peralta could not be thinking about his usual money problems, which have lessened anyway ever since Santiago took over his budgeting.

That means something else entirely must be 'wrong' in order for Jake to keep out of the conversation, only reply when he is mentioned by name, and drift off to a corner of the bar while the other congregate around the various game options of the room.

"I'm good, Captain, thanks." Jake answers with a smile and an obvious lie, so Holt doesn't even bother replying, just raises one of his eyebrows a quarter of an inch, which he knows usually gets him results with Peralta. The ensuing sigh shows that it is still working.

"It's just..." Jake shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, another tell of his discomfort. "This is my first night out alone since the baby."

"Indeed." Holt replies. "I remember your phone call to Amy to inform her you would be back late today."

"Yeah." His hand is still on his neck, the other one clutched around his half empty beer bottle. "She told me to have fun. But..uh... I still kinda feel like I shouldn't be here."

"Do you think having a child robs you of autonomity? I know I am not speaking from experience, here, but it does seem to me like you are allowed to enjoy time away from your family, especially if your spouse insists you do."

"Getting drunk at a bar while my kid might be crying at home doesn't feel like the responsible thing to do, is all."

"Ah, I see." Holt nods, and he does see - he actually sees a lot more than what Jake might be trying to imply in his statement. He remembers how he used to self-medicate with alcohol in the past, after ending his relationship with that defense attorney, or even before, while feeling heartbroken over Santiago. He also remembers anecdotes about his father's drinking, not from Peralta himself, obviously, but from the rest of the squad, whenever Jake would cancel on a promised night out after Roger Peralta's visits. As much as Holt hates idioms, one of his most despised is probably 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree', and Jake seems to fear it as well.

"Here is my solution, then, if you are willing to listen." Jake looks up at Holt as he's standing in front of him, and his hand drops from his neck. "You make the beer you are currently drinking your last for the night, and spend some quality time with your colleagues instead, enjoying a few parlour games, and then you head home at an agreeable time and still see your child before he falls asleep."

Jake grins and takes a sip of his beer.

"Sounds like a plan, Cap." He nods, and Holt doesn't ignore the fact that Jake has been using this shortened nickname for him a lot lately, and how eerily similar it sounds to 'Dad' in his voice.

(An hour later, he receives a picture on his cellphone from Peralta: The man himself, asleep on his couch, with his infant son equally asleep on his chest. Santiago must have commandeered his phone, and Holt is glad for it.)

-*-

"Grampa!"

The sound of that little voice echoes through the hallway as loudly as the ensuing footsteps, and Holt feels something warm and solid wrap around his legs.

"Hello, McClane." He smiles down at the little boy currently clutching his knees, and he smiles back before raising his arms in an obvious demand to be lifted up. Holt obeys it immediately.

He notices Mac looks surprisingly tired for an otherwise very energetic two year old, and Amy, who's now following him to Holt's side, looks equally exhausted.

"Good afternoon, Captain. I'm so sorry, I should've messaged you that I have to bring Mac in for an hour, the babysitter cancelled and the day care couldn't keep him longer than-"

"It is quite alright, Santiago. McClane knows how to behave himself at the precinct, right?" He gives the little boy in his arms a look, and receives a strong and eager nod in reply, the curls on his head bouncing back and forth. If anyone were ever to question Peralta's parentage, that alone would classify them as an imbecile. "I can watch him for the time being, if you have paperwork you need to get in order before leaving for the day."

"God, Captain Holt, would you- that would be so- I was going to ask Rosa, because I know she's at her desk-"

Amy seems far more frazzled than usual, and Holt realises that her regular schedule must be in quite a disarray, considering she has been a single parent for about a week now. Mac must not have been making it easy for her, either, nor must the baby currently growing in her stomach, which has started to show about a month ago, at which point they finally informed the squad about it (when everyone had already figured it out just like last time).

"RoRo!" Mac yells, happily, almost leaning out of Holt's arms, but he quickly hugs him tighter.

"Your aunt Rosa is working, McClane, and we should not interrupt her. We can spend the time in my office, and you can draw if you would like."

"Roro working." He echoes like a little parrot. "Like Daddy."

"That's right." Holt has learned from the parenting homepages he's visited that you are to encourage a child trying to talk and string together a coherent topic, no matter how long it might take.

"Daddy's working away." Mac continues, and out of the corner of his eye Holt sees Amy's forehead wrinkle in worry.

"Yes, your father is in New Jersey for the week to work on a special case." It's not a dangerous case at all, rather a boring standard task that happened to involve some out-of-state suspects, but Jake had still been trying to hand off that trip to anyone who might be willing to help him out. Seeing his son with bags under his eyes and his wife with stresslines around her mouth and her hand on her belly, Holt understands why.

"He comes back." Mac says next, and it is a statement, but the look in his eyes makes it a question, and Holt is quick to answer. He's glad that he has a definite answer to that, instead of the empty promises and assurances he sometimes has to make as the head of a police department.

"Yes, your father will be back soon. In two days, in fact."

Mac holds up two grubby little fingers, and Holt nods with so much fervor it surprises himself.

"Very good, that is two. Only two days and two nights until your father is back home." The worry in Mac's eyes seems to dimish a little at that as he stares at his own fingers. "If we go to my office, we can check on the calendar exactly how long that is." He barely waits for another nod before taking the diaper bag out of Santiago's hands, who whispers a quiet, but relieved "Thank you" to him. He understands again that it means far more than to thank him for taking care of the child for an hour so.

(If he uses that hour to assure Mac several times that no matter what, his father will always find a way back to him with far more emotion in his voice than he'd usually use, well, no one needs to know. Peralta certainly seems happy about the picture he sends him of Mac with his captain's hat behind his desk.)

-*-

"Congratulations." Holt's hand on his shoulder is heavy, but not uncomfortably so, and it gives a quick squeeze before dropping.

They've done the whole customary introduction to the newborn baby, the apparently necessary picture round, and now Kevin is having an amicable chat with Amy in her hospital bed. They've waited two days for their official visit, to give the new parents a chance to get at least a few of their bearings. (Holt was there merely an hour after the birth, of course, with the rest of the squad, but that was a moment of joyful chaos and many voices.) Now the room is filled with an almost serene quiet, Amy's and Kevin's voices low and comfortable in the background as Holt watches the man he truly considers a son hold up his new granddaughter.

"Do you want to hold her again? I know you already did for the photos but-"

Holt only nods and takes the infant out of his hands with perfect ease. He's more used to a wriggling toddler now, but he still clearly remembers the days when Mac was equally quiet and frail in his arms. The little one in them now is asleep amidst all that is happening, her tiny mouth open just a fraction, and he feels her arm bump against his chest while she seems to be having a dream.

"She is as perfect as her older brother, Jake."

"Yeah." Jake smiles, and there's nothing of that boisterous, loud, cocky detective grin left in it that he used to know. It is soft and kind and full of love, and it might be one of Holt's favourite expressions. "Amy did a superb job again."

"As did you."

"I'm sure I don't gotta explain this to you, Cap, but I didn't really do much." Jake jokes, and Holt can tell he's trying to divert the attention to a simpler topic, but sometimes things must be said.

"You do a lot, Jacob." He continues, then. "Far more than a lot of fathers do. Far more than many would expect of you. And you do it all perfectly right, with heart and determination."

Jake nods, swallowing down a lump in his throat, it seems, and it might be a step too far for his already emotional state, but Holt feels like it needs to accompany his accolades.

"I am very proud of you, son."

Jake is very obviously fighting back tears as he replies.

"Thanks, dad."

The little girl in Holt's arms stirs right at this moment, and Jake seems to want to interject immediately in fear that she'll start crying, but she simply stares up at Holt with impossibly big, brown eyes for the first time. And he realises, just as he did two years ago when Mac's little hand tightened around his finger for the first time, that there is a child in this world that he would literally do anything for. There are four of them now, even if two of them have not fallen under the category of a child for several decades.

"Hello, Maya." He says to the little face that seems to be inspecting him. "I'm Captain Raymond Holt. Your grandfather."

He looks up at Kevin and Amy, who've stopped their conversation while Amy is lifting her phone in their direction, and then at Jake, who's looking at Maya as well with shining eyes. Then he looks back down at Maya, stretching her arms out of her swaddle as if she's reaching for him.

"You are a very lucky little girl."

#b99 #brooklyn 99 #jake peralta #amy santiago #peraltiago #mac peralta #maya peralta #raymond holt #captain dad #my writing #ficlet

178 notes · View notes

aelingalathyniusrailme · 3 years

Text

Power recognizes power

A little power training gwynriel fic that came from me writing “if you find me at the edge, we’ll jump together.” and I was like this sentence deserves to be the title of something. plus throw everything (and by everything I mean that one sentence in the book) that you know about lightsingers away I’m just using the cute name. and yk there may or may not be some smut at the end.

She was glowing.

She was glowing and Azriel did not mean she looked radiant or that she was overcome with joy, although she did and she was. Gwyneth Berdara was a living, breathing star. As if the spring equinox had come early this year.

Her skin lit up against the blackness of the sky and her hair burned bright with the ferocity of the hearth.

Gwyneth Berdara had stopped singing, the crowd was silent. All eyes were on her but she was looking at him, her light, a beacon to his darkness.

His shadows yearned to go to her, he yearned to go to her. Instead, they both stayed stagnant, watching, waiting.

Azriel was had had enough, he dissolved from view and reappeared on the stage. Startled, Gwyn, took a step back and he stayed right with her, matching her step for step.

He gently tucked a stray piece of lit-up auburn hair behind her here, whispering, “It appears you glow, my love.”

Gwyn, ultimately getting over her initial shock lightly pushed him on the shoulder, “Don’t do that.” She scowled.

Chuckling, he pressed his mouth to hers, in a soft, soothing kiss, forgetful of the audience behind them. As she relaxed beneath his touch, the glow became dimmer and dimmer until it ceased to be. Darkness returned and he stepped back. Gwyn took a breath and stilled. The nervous, passionate energy, that arouse when she sang, calmed for now.

Azriel turned to the crowd, “Due to the events that occurred here tonight, the performance will have to be cut short.” A soft boo drew his attention and immediately he isolated the noise. “Do you want to boo my mate again?” Azriel threatened coolly, his eyes narrowing.

Annoyed, she sighed and spoke to the crowd, “Oh ignore him, I truly am sorry for this interruption but I want to give nothing more than my best and right now I feel as if I can’t do that. the show will be rescheduled sometime next month, letters will be sent out with more information.”

He watched as the stunned and irritated faces slowly began disappearing. Some winnowing away, others taking the slightly more traditional door. Gwyn held her hand out to him. He took it, “So you’re a living lamp?”

“An astute observation.”

“Is there any way I can convince you to rest now and figure this out later?”

She sighed, “It has been an especially long night.”

Azriel stared at her in disbelief, “did you just agree that you should rest?”

“Oh close your mouth, you’ll swallow a fly.” He responded by grinning at her and winnowing them away to their shared home.

Taking off his shirt he yawned not realizing how tired he actually was. It was still strange to him, being able to sleep so freely, without the looming fear of the past and what he couldn’t control. He stopped, realizing Gwyn had not moved from the door.

Gently he asked, “Are you coming?”

She looked at him blankly, lost in thought for a moment before she responded, “Um-yeah-later.” He was unconvinced so she tried again. “I think I’m going to stay out here and make some tea, maybe read a book.”

Azriel gave her a knowing look but did not push, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Az.” He tenderly kissed her cheek and walked to their room, immediately passing out on the bed.

—————————————————–

Azriel awoke at dawn and turned, unsurprisingly, to find the left side of the bed cold and empty. He sighed as he got out of bed, pulling on a pair of pants, mumbling. “Gwyneth berdara, you are going to be the death of me.”

Knowing there was no way she would be in the house but believing he probably should, he checked regardless and when he determined that she was in fact not in the house, he closed his eyes. When he opened them once again he found himself at the house of wind.

He nodded in acknowledgment, “Clotho,”

Shadowsinger. “The one and only.”

Is there something you require? “Just looking for that mate of mine. Any chance she’s here”

You know she is, and you know precisely where to find her. Ask what you truly want to ask. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “How long has she been here?”

Since 11 pm. Exhaling, he muttered, “Why can’t that damn woman ever rest.”

Over excursion out of only stubborn will seems to be a similarity between the two of you. Azriel frowned slightly before smiling pleasantly, “It’s been a pleasure as always, thank you for your help.”

Clotho only nodded and Azriel began the stairs to the 7th floor.

It took a moment for him to find her, the shadowsinger was a trained spy, forced to observe and retain even the smallest of details, yet he couldn’t find a bubbly redhead in a room full of texts and stories.

Ah, no wonder he hadn’t seen her. Gwyn was surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of books. She was drowning in literature, her hair was tied loosely in a braid with quite a few pieces falling out, there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and she was sporting the slightly insane look that came from a lack of sleep.

“Gwyn.” Her head jerked up in surprise to see him.

“Oh Az, Ok Ok, I promise I will go to sleep soon I just need 5 more minutes. I’m so so so close. I think I’m going to skip training today. Ok how about 2 minutes. 10. No that’s more. 10 sets of 1 minute. I just need 10 sets of 1 minute. I’m fine how are you?”

“Gwyn, my love, you’re delirious.”

She brushed him off, “What no I’m fine. I’m fine. Did I already say that? I can’t remember.”

Logic was never the way to deal with her insane stubbornness, so he tried a different approach. He pushed down his worry for her, and curled his mouth into a smirk, “I bet,” She perked up like a dog about to be fed, “that you can’t summarize everything you learned last night into,” he checked the clock. “15 minutes.”

“I could do it in 10.”

“Prove it.”

“And when I win?”

“I leave you to research. But if you can’t you have to go to bed.”

“Time starts now.”

Gwyn took a deep breath and began. “First I looked into where light magic is supposed to originate: the day court. Their magic is described as warm and comforting. Every single text I read described the magic the same way, as a sort of yellowish-brown light, like the sun. But the magic that came from me was more of an icy blinding light, like the lights from the stars rather than the sun. Also, as far as I know, I don’t have family from the day court so I looked into the family I do have. My family from the autumn court. However, we know that autumn court magic is fire, and what manifested in me was light not heat. My grandmother was a nymph so I thought well what type of magic do nymphs have. And the answer was severely disappointing, with basic plant magic being the most a nymph was able to do. I was stumped for a few hours before I realized. I’m basing my research on what I believe to be true not what I know to be true. I was told that I am a quarter nymph and because that heritage would explain my non-high fae-like features I believed that, for there was no reason for me not to. But what if my nymph grandmother was not a nymph at all. I flipped through dozens of books on faeries that have similar features, light magic, and/or can live on land and water. For the most part, I could not find anything, but then out of the corner of my eye I found a small tome on the history of light magic, the majority being all things I’d seen a million times before on the day court, but a passage no more than a page long, referenced ‘the lightsinger.’ Now what is a Lightsinger, you may ask? Honestly, I had no idea what or who they were so I found every book and story I could on them. The lightsinger’s, instead of being a title for a way to manipulate magic, like shadowsingers or daemati, were a race. A long-lost fae race said to be able to bend and create light with their voices and song. It’s said that they died out due to a conflict with the shadowsingers but every so often there are sightings of unknown nymph-like creatures in you’ll never believe where. The autumn court. Now I would only have 25% of lightsinger blood but magic is a fickle thing and some sources believe that when bred with high fae blood the magic intensifies.” Gwyn exhaled.

Azriel grinned victoriously, “It’s been 20 minutes.”

“Goddamn it, I didn’t even get to the interactions between shadowsingers and lightsingers.”

Now he was intrigued. “Well if you want to continue I certainly won’t stop you.”

“No no,” she yawned, “I lost which means I will be going to bed. But I do want to alter our deal slightly.”

“Oh?”

“I sleep now, you train me tomorrow.” The set of her chin and the look in her eye were enough to assure him of how serious she was.

“You want a male who specializes in darkness to help you master your light?”

“Certain theories believe that the mother gifted the light and shadowsingers their gifts to balance each other out and to remain harmonious.” She reasoned. “So yes there is no one I would want more to teach me.”

“I will not take it easy on you.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.”

“Alright Berdara, we meet Sunday at dawn, do not be late.”

“I’ll be there.”

——————————————————————————————————–

Sunday arrived and Azriel watched as Gwyn came down to the training ring in her leathers, with a white ribbon tied in her hair.

“Good morning Gwyneth.”

“So formal.” He shot her a look. “Oh alright ok my turn. Good morning Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster of the night court, mate of the most amazing female to grace this planet.”

“Training is serious.”

“Of course it is. Shall we begin?”

“I want you to light up the room.”

“What? is it not already lit?”

He smirked and let his shadows paint the room black. Azriel himself became smoke, nothing more than a voice in the darkness.

“Az, az come on this is not funny.”

“Good, because it’s not a joke.” His voice came from every direction and every way Gwyn turned she was surrounded by endless nothing. “You must learn to sing the song of light the way I learned the language of shadow.”

“Speaking in vague melodrama feels like it’s not going to be that effective.”

Gwyn tried to back up only to find what was once the training ring now bled together with the depth of the sky.

“Let the light speak to you. Coax it, nurture it. Burn through the darkness and find the light.”

“How am I supposed to do that.”

Gwyn thought of the way Nesta harnessed her silver fire, the way her eyes became the flame itself. She concentrated and searched deep within herself, searching and looking for the light she knew she possessed.

All she saw was a hallowed chamber.

“No.” The word echoed throughout the room. “Our magic is not like others, we do not create out of nothing, we manipulate what is already there.”

“How am I supposed to manipulate if I’m in a room with no light?” Gwyn huffed frustrated.

“Just because the shadows are masking it, does not mean it is not there.”

He was so damn infuriating. She tried calling the light to her, she flexed her hands, she even tried speaking to it, all to no avail.

“As you said, magic is fickle and our elements especially. Light and darkness do not want to be bound or controlled, let the light be a friend, a companion, let it want to help, let it want to be influenced by your will.”

But how the fuck was she supposed to do that.

“Think of the first time it came to your call.” He whispered ominously. “What were you thinking. What were you feeling? Power often manifests through emotion.”

Singing. She had been singing. Was it really so easy that all she had to do was sing?

Turns out it wasn’t.

For hours she sang hundreds of songs. From songs in the old fae language that she sang at the priestess services to ones she had written herself. Nothing worked. Azriel had let her have a singular break when she desperately needed to pee and even then he was skeptical.

He had left her to her own devices leaving his shadows to watch over her progress. When he returned he found Gwyn clutching her knees, rocking in the shadows. Her gaze was unfocused and she was humming to herself.

“You have officially broken me. I’m done.” She wanted nothing more than to sit in the library with her sisters and a book.

“No.”

Gwyn’s eyes snapped into focus, her breathing steadied, and she went predatorily still. “Excuse me.”

“You heard me. No.” Azriel laughed, a cold vicious laugh. “You asked me to train you. Gwyneth Berdara has never quit before and she certainly won’t start now.”

Gwyn was seething, but she remained quiet. “What?” He was toying with her. “A little darkness too much for you. Light up the room and we won’t have a problem.”

“Oh that’s right you can’t. 10 hours in and no light in sight. You’re pathetic.”

Her anger cleared her mind and in that moment of clarity a memory, buried deep within her, resurfaced as if it was resting, snoozing until its moment of need.

Gwyn was in her mother's lap, a black-haired girl sat across from her. Her voice pulled her attention. “My girls, Catrin,” She tickled her, resulting in a giggle from her lost sister, before she turned her head, “Gwyneth.” And also tickled her. Gwyn's small hands clutched at their mother, desperately trying to hold on. “My two beautiful daughters.” She sighed. “Your lives will be filled with so much darkness, darkness that you do not deserve. But I need you two to be strong, to stay with each other, and to find strength in the other.” ‘I don’t get it,” Gwyn whined.

“We are a part of a glorious and lost people, a people of light and song. But they fear us because they do not understand us.”

Gwyn and Catrin looked up at her, confused and innocent.

“It’s ok, you will. You know the song I sing to you every night before you go to sleep?” Gwyn and Catrin cheered, “Yeah.”

“I want you to sing it with me, and I don’t want you to ever forget it. Can you do that for me?”

Their voices came together in a melodic lullaby. It was captivating and cold, those who heard could not look away. The song demanded to be heard, to be sung.

The words came tumbling out of Gwyn, they twisted around her tongue and lips as if finally home. Lost but not forgotten. Lost but born anew. Through the shadow and darkness, her eyes found the light, it heard her call and from every direction it found her. She pulled the brilliance of the stars to her and let the light paint the dark white.

The shadows retreated to Azriel who stood just two feet in front of her. Their eyes locked and he smiled, “there she is.”

The light flowed and flowed, and the room lit up in a blaze of pearlescent radiance. Her pale skin lit and she had once again become one with the stars.

But while the call came from her, there was another that drew her light forward. His shadows and her light curiously answered the pull. Finding each other between Azriel and Gwyn. One did not dissolve into the other like it should but instead mingled, swirling around each other in an almost playful manner. They became one from two opposites that never should have met.

As they blended together she felt a pounding in her chest and a throbbing somewhere lower. Her toes curled and she craved more. Their power was its own entity and yet connected to them. A push and pull, a desire to be close.

Azriel bridged the gap between them breathing heavily, pulling her against him as he’d never felt her before. “Az.” she gasped.

His eyes were on her lips as he licked his own, smiling, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so alive.”

“You’re the worst,” She said between breaths.

“I know.” And their lips met in a furious burst of passion.

He kissed her with a fiery hunger, a male starving. Her hands weaved through his hair, her fingers getting lost in the darkness. Gwyn wanted nothing more then to be lost in his darkness, as he wanted to drown in her light. Azriel gripped her waist, grinding his hardness into her causing her to moan.

“You make such pretty sounds for me.” He chuckled, ripping her shirt off.

“Fuck me.” It was an order, not a request.

“Gladly.” Their clothes were gone moments later. His kisses moved down her neck as he sucked and his fingers dipped to her cunt as he felt her. “Always so wet and ready for me.”

She wrapped her hand around his cock, “Always so hard for me.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.” He laid her down in the middle of the training ring and stroked his cock up and down her folds, pressing against her clit. “oh my god-fuck.”

With that, his control snapped and he buried himself to the hilt in her. Stroking once, twice.

He smirked, crooning, “look how perfectly we fit.”

His thrusts were slow and shallow, edging her on, basking in the feel of him in her, of her around him.

He then went harder, hitting her in the right spot every time, but Gwyn needed more.

“Faster.”

“Your wish is my command.” Azriel fucked her hard and fast, and with every thrust she moaned in ecstasy, driving her hips forward, meeting him step for step.

“Oh my god fuck me.”

“Such a good girl, taking it so well.” He captured a moan on her lips, devouring her.

“yes, yes fuck.”

Where the light met the dark, was where Gwyn met Azriel. They were cocooned in a shell of power flowing between and all around them. They were a storm of blinding light and depthless shadow, the lines of what were and were not, blurred to just the other.

“Gwyn.” He groaned, nothing existed but them.

“Az I’m gonna cum.”

“Yes, my love, cum for me.”

Every thrust became sporadic and uncontrolled as if his pleasure had taken a mind of its own. He swirled his tongue around her nipple and ground her clit with his fingers.

It was all too much, Gwyn cried out as she came, her back arching, toes curling. Her cunt tightened around his cock as he fucked her past completion. She was everything and watching her cum was enough to send him over the edge as he emptied himself in her, collapsing on the ground next to her.

For a moment they were silent before Gwyn spoke, “would you like to hear what I learned about the interactions between Lightsinger’s and Shadowsinger’s” She smirked, “Apparently the sex is unlike even mate sex.”

“I can vouch for that.”

Gwyn laughed, and if it wasn’t the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

#gwynriel #gwyn berdara #azriel #gwyn x azriel #one shot #gwynriel one shot #smut #Gwynriel fanfiction

105 notes · View notes

cuquitalocita · 3 years

Text

i love you yeah yeah yeah |rowaelin month- day 3|

rowaelin masterlist

an: i’m not gonna lie, i had so so much fun writing this one! i’m a tennis player and my sister is as well, therefore why i know so much about the junior pro league. for those of you who don’t know, the orange bowl is an actual tournament played internationally for juniors and i’m ranting wow so anyway i hope this isn’t too tennis vocab-y :)

word count: 3,876

It’s the final two days before competition at the International Orange Bowl this year being held in Terrasen and it’s no surprise that tensions between players and academies are more than high. We’re so glad to be here for yet another year of thrilling competition in which the winners will automatically be placed into the first round of the U.S. Open. I, for one, and more than excited to see some new teen faces this year, what about you, Gavriel?

You know Cairn, I completely agree and as someone from Terrasen, you must be more than excited to see some friendly competition on your home turf.

Oh, I sure am excited, but I don’t know if you’d call this competition exactly ‘friendly.’ For those of you unaware, the rivalry between the TAT (Tennis Academy of Terrasen) and the DTC (Doranelle Tennis Center) has been going on for close to ten years now, beginning all the way back to when founders Maeve Vesta and Evalin Galathynius were in college, rivals through and through. Now adults, their children carry on their competitive legacy, taking the nation by storm. If you see the final match of any tournament, you can bet your money it’s a Doranelle kid and a Terrasen kid.

The stakes sure are high during this tournament, as it isn’t closed, like the academies’ usual ones. Instead, anyone player eighteen years old and younger with the qualifying points was eligible to register. I’m looking forward to seeing some new faces this year.

Me too, but you can never go wrong with the usual suspects. This year, my money is on eighteen year- old Rowan Whitethorn from Doranelle, ranked second in the country, in the men’s finals. As Maeve’s nephew, Rowan has been put in the spotlight for most of his life, not to mention taking a clear leadership role among the DTC alongside Lorcan Salvaterre.

That’s a good point, Gavriel, in the past years Rowan has made it to at least the quarter-finals but has always lost before he can truly do. I have a feeling the kid has a lot more in him. And as for the women, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see the Terrasen seventeen year- old cruising through a few rounds before her tough competition starts. We can’t expect anything less than Evalin Galathynius’ daughter, right?

I for one, am more than excited for pre- first-round interviews. It’s always quite interesting to see each players’ mindset before they set out for blood.

“What do you think our favorite golden girl has in store for us this year, Gavriel? Something tells me she’s a little more than annoyed given what happened at the finals of the last international tournament held in Terassen when Remelle Frost from the Doranelle academy beat her in what was the biggest upset of the season.”

Aelin rolled her eyes and glared at the back of her mother’s seat, the woman in question frowning as the annoying voice of Cairn Rossa rang through the rental car. She reached forward to turn the station off just as Gavriel’s voice rang out once more.

“Let’s not beat around the bush here, Cairn,” the older man was responding. “I’ve been doing this just a bit longer than you enough to know when a player isn’t themselves. One loss isn’t the definition of a player the same way one win isn’t either. I suggest both teams- including Aelin and Remelle themselves- step onto the court, and play.”

Aelin let out a satisfied huff. She knew she had always liked Gavriel. Aelin liked that the man looked at the players as more than just players in a video game or statistics on a screen. As a former player himself, Aelin knew the man understood the game in and out and was more than qualified to report during the national tournaments, no matter where he was born and what side he was essentially placed on.

The station was snapped off as her mother’s finger found the correct button, earning an annoyed glare from the Uber driver next to her that she promptly ignored in favor of turning back to her daughter, opening her mouth to say something. Aelin’s own eyes stared back at her before shifting down to the phone she held in her hand. It had just buzzed signaling a new notification that had her mother lifting her brows.

Aelin immediately shifted forward in an attempt to look over her mother’s should before her hand was on her face, batting her daughter away with a motherly ‘leave me alone’ look. She relented, leaning back into her seat with slumped shoulders. Finally, her mother huffed but remained with her back facing Aelin.

She knew it was different this year, she could practically feel it in the air. Without her father with the two women in the car, the tournament atmosphere was a different universe.

It was getting dark outside, the sun setting behind them as they drove through the dazzling city. The car came to an abrupt stop in front of the hotel that sent Aelin jerking out of her own thoughts. Her mother turned back to her with a sad knowing smile and patted her daughter’s knee.

“We’re here. Try to get some sleep- you have a long day tomorrow.”

“What’s the plan for today?” Aelin asked her mother around a mouthful of bagel the next morning. It wasn’t every day the founder of the University came to watch her players in a tournament, but whoever won this won would be fed into the first round of an official professional tournament. It would be amazing PR for the academy, Aelin knew, but she also knew her mother felt bad that her father had escorted Aelin to all of her tournaments in prior years. And now that he wasn’t here anymore…

“Eat up- after you’re done I’ve reserved three courts at the complex and we’ll get together with everyone.” ‘Everyone’ being every other players from the academy who had enough points to enter the qualifiers. Not all of them were as highly ranked as Aelin, but she found it helpful to train with them all the same. They were her friends. “We do need to pick Lysandra up from the airport first though,” she said as she frowned at her phone. “Her flight was supposed to have landed a few minutes ago but she hasn’t reached out…”

Aelin rolled her eyes at her mother, she always did have a thing with protectiveness over her best friend.

“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Aelin assured her. “Aed said he would pick her up and then meet us at the courts. I wouldn’t want to be in that car if I were you.” She faked a gag, causing her mother to laugh.

“Alright then. Eat, find your rackets, and take the rental to the courts. It was just delivered this morning. I have some business to finish here at the hotel.” She left Aelin with a kiss to the head.

It didn’t take long for Aelin to pull up to the familiar yet daunting tennis complex bigger than even the academy, and she pushed the car into park, simply staring for a moment.

This was it.

Three years she had come close to winning as the youngest person in history. So close. But this was the year. This was her year. She could do this. She would do this.

And so Aelin Galathynius pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin as she grabbed her massive tennis bag from the trunk and slung it over her shoulders. The weight was heavy and familiar as she walked through the glass double doors and to the front desk, only to halt in her tracks when she came face to face with a familiar head of silver hair.

Rowan Whitethorn.

She had quite often mused about how unfair it was that her essential biggest rival was so attractive. It didn’t really make hating him very fair, now did it? But there he stood, green eyes shining and teeth flashing as he snapped something at the young man at the desk. The poor boy looked ready to pee himself and Aelin couldn’t help but release a sharp laugh, causing both Rowan and the blonde next to him to whip around.

Aelin watched as Rowan’s eyes sparked and his mouth curved into a sneer as he took her in from head to toe. She forced herself still and kept her eyes on his face. It was all she could do. Rowan opened his mouth and Aelin prepared her hackles to rise instantly.

“Aelin. Good to see you here.” But it wasn’t Rowan who spoke. No, it was Remelle Frost, her least favorite bottle blonde on the planet that spoke as she curled a possessive hand over Rowan’s bicep. Aelin simply rolled her eyes, never one to beat around the bush. It was common knowledge that the blondes didn’t like each other. And after the Adarlan tournament, Aelin wouldn’t hide her disdain for the girl.

“Wish I could say the same,” she replied dismissively as she shouldered past Rowan and made for the front desk. One charming smile and the boy seemed to handle her much better than Rowan. She gave him her mother’s name, him quickly nodding a confirmation and giving her the court numbers, saying they would be available in just a moment.

She turned around, unsurprised to see Rowan glaring at the back of her head. It had been almost eight years of this rivalry. At least for them. Aelin thought it might’ve been a little ridiculous, considering that it started with her mother and his aunt, but the Doranelle kids just made it so easy to hate them. So easy to want to pound them on and off the court. She wouldn’t apologize for the adrenaline the rivalry provided her with.

Aelin smirked, cocking her hip. “Like what you see?”

“Hardly,” he growled. “Just wondering whether or not you actually came to play this time.”

Aelin recognized the comment for what it was- a direct jab to the last tournament where she had lost to Remelle. If the comment hadn’t pissed her off so much she would’ve recognized the compliment for what it was.

“Well, that depends which game you’re talking about, Whitethorn.” Her voice was just teasing enough to annoy him once more, and Aelin’s grin grew.

“Don’t you have a court to go find?” Remelle cut in from beside Rowan, who had distanced himself from her. Aelin didn’t blame him. She wanted to do the same thing.

“And here I was enjoying our little chat. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, mar sin leat.”

“This isn’t Terrasen,” Remelle hissed. “We say ‘good luck’ here. Gods, you Terrasen kids are pieces of-”

Someone caught her by the waist as Aelin attempted to throw herself at the girl and she was soon spun around in their arms, coming face to face with her own eyes. Aedion’s were flashing too as his eyes were fixed behind her, no doubt at Rowan.

“Leave it, Ace, it’s not worth it.”

“It’s true, princess,” Rowan finally spoke with a sneer. “You’re gonna need those pretty little hands tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you to have an excuse when you get your ass kicked.”

“Oh, I’ll show you-”

Aedion dragged her away before she could get another word out, her fists clenched and her teeth bared. She shoved him when he put her down.

“Fucking Doranelle,” Aedion spat under his breath as he shook his head.

He merely gestured to a figure behind her, causing Aelin to whip around with wide eyes. Shit. Duke Perrington grinned at her through the snake-eyed lens of his camera and gave her a tiny wave as she bared her teeth at him

Perfect. Now it would look like Terrasen had begun a fight before the tournament even began.

Her mother was going to kill her.

Aelin felt like the stadium had never been bigger. She had known this year she would be playing where the professionals themselves did, including Maeve and her mother, but never in a million years had it looked so daunting or made her feel so small.

The tournament had been, well needless to say, easy for Aelin so far. She had breezed through her first few matches, absolutely destroying the poor girls, and her third had been straight sets as well. But now it was the semis. And she would have to face Remelle on center court. It seemed the gods liked playing jokes on Aelin Galathynius.

She could feel every pair of eyes snap to hers the moment she stepped onto the court but she looked forward. Maybe she was a crowd favorite- but that would do her no favors in the upcoming match. Aelin thought she was going to hurl all over her new shoes and she let the deafening cheering of the audience cover the sound of her pounding heart.

Remelle walked in not long after she and Aelin met her in the middle of the court, racket in hand. Showtime.

Aelin might have been paying attention when the coin had been flipped, might have been minimally involved when she called heads or when she won the call and opted to serve first. She might have been only slightly aware of her surroundings as she took a small sip of her water and walked to the back of the court.

And then it was movement.

It was backward and forwards, side to side, low and high, and it was the same dance Aelin knew better than anything. The same feeling in her feet when she sprinted to the ball and the same stretch of muscles when she reached for a shot. This was who she was- this was the pattern she had lived for ten years.

But it didn’t seem to matter, not as the score continued to tip less and less in her favor with every passing point. She was playing well- but Remelle was playing better. And there was nothing Aelin could do but survive and ignore the satisfied smirks the other girl would throw her during their side changes.

Think, Aelin, think.

Nothing was coming to her head. All she could hear was the pounding adrenaline through her body telling her to play. To cross each bridge when she came to it. There was nothing more she could do than play.

It was then, when Aelin threw herself at a particularly difficult ball, that she felt something shift. And she knew she was screwed.

Aelin was a tennis player- she had rolled her ankle before. But this was different. It had never hurt this bad. And as the rest of her body came down with her ankle, she thought that it could be it. That it was the end of the match all due to a stupid ankle injury.

With her heart in her throat, Aelin signaled to the red- headed umpire.

Injury, she mouthed to her, and the woman- Ansel, it seemed her name was- simply nodded. She was in the massive locker room without a second thought, dragging out a spare bucket of ice held in one of the corners of the room and shoved her foot it. Might as well get it over with.

Aelin winced as the ice on her foot began to take effect and her muscles began to ache, her breathing beginning to lose its consistency. Gods, she hated this. She hated the useless feeling that came over her at the thought of possibly being unable to finish the match. At the thought of all the people, she would be letting down.

She was tired. Aelin was so, so tired.

Gods, she just needed-

The door to the locker room burst open with a loud and abrupt clang, causing Aelin to jerk forward, spilling water on the ground as she opened her mouth. She was ready to tell them that she needed some privacy before her eyes locked onto a familiar figure that sent her heart pounding for a different reason.

“Rowan, you can’t be in here!”

The hulking boy ignored her protests, striding over her in no more than a few steps, both of his hands immediately going to the base of her neck to search her gaze with his own worried one, clearly not caring that he was in the girl’s locker room and would be kicked out of the tournament if he was found.

“Are you alright?” he insisted, his voice low and hoarse, forest eyes intense.

The gentleness in which he touched her had Aelin sighing and her hands reached up to lightly take hold of his wrists, bringing them down and gathering them in her own hands to hold to her chest.

She hadn’t meant to fall for Rowan Whitethorn.

But like everything in her life, it had happened quickly and unexpectedly, and Aelin had dealt with it head-on. It had been a year now. An entire year of playing tournaments in each other’s home’s just so they could see each other. Just so no suspicion was be aroused by the tabloids.

And Aelin hated it.

All she wanted to do was be able to link her hand through Rowan’s in public without causing a public scandal about a decade-long rivalry.

“I’m okay, you fussy buzzard,” she teased as she looked at him, pleased to see when the frown on his lips twitched the slightest bit upward. “It was just a little fall. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

But because he knew her so well, he had heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice as she spoke. So saying nothing, he pulled Aelin to his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around her completely, enveloping her in the scent that she had considered home for months.

And as she breathed him in, she wished home wasn’t always so godsdamned far.

Rowan let her breathe shakily into his chest, constantly running a soothing hand up and down her back as he hummed a small melody that he often did to get her to sleep over the phone at night. Aelin was the first person to admit it was much better in person.

“You don’t have to do it, Aelin,” he said finally, his movements never ceasing. “You don’t owe them anything.”

She knew who he was referring to of course, of the people who had come to watch the new ‘upcoming star’ in action and were expecting to see quite the show. They were the people Aelin had been trained to want to impress.

Aelin pulled back to tilt her chin up and look him in the eyes.

“I can’t just quit, Rowan. I won’t.”

“You have nothing to prove, Fireheart.” And Aelin almost broke as he used the nickname her father had. “Not to anyone.”

She shook her head, helplessness seeping through her body more and more as she looked at the boy in front of her. The pain in her ankle was even worse now. Unsurprisingly, he noticed, and his calloused hands moved to her wrists as he lead her back over to the bucket of ice water.

He kneeled down in front of the bench as she sat down and placed her foot in the water, wincing along with her even after she threw a glare at him.

I don’t see you with a foot in ice.

Seeing you in pain is enough to hurt me, his eyes gazed back playfully. Aelin rolled her eyes, quickly shutting them as another shock of pain rushed through her body, making her inhale sharply.

Her boyfriend frowned once more, clearly upset he could do nothing to help her. So he gathered her hands in his own, bringing them to his face to place a gentle kiss on them, pulling an unwitting smile from Aelin.

“I love you,” she said quietly. Rowan met her soft gaze for a moment before Aelin leaned forward, capturing his lips with hers in a kiss she hoped said everything she couldn’t. Thank you, I don’t know what I would do without you. I wish we weren’t a secret.

“I love you too, Fireheart.”

She would never get sick of hearing him say that. Of hearing the utter truth in his words.

Rowan was watching her with that adoring look he reserved only for her, his face open so she could see every emotion playing across his face. It only made her want to kiss him again.

So she did, although this time he met her halfway, taking her chin lightly between two fingers and tilting it up so he could kiss her thoroughly as her hands rested at the base of his neck, lightly twirling the pieces of soft hair she found there.

They sat there for a while, simply kissing, enjoying the feeling of each other’s lips and proximity when it was so few and far between, and Aelin relished in the feeling of loving someone who loved her back. In the feeling of not having to act.

When she accidentally tugged at a knot in his hair, Rowan pulled away with a painful groan and a nip to her bottom lip, causing Aelin to laugh and push his cheek away with two fingers.

“Sorry, Buzzard,” she laughed as Rowan stood up, with a playful glare. He folded his arms in front of him and it was only then that Aelin remembered she had a foot inside of a bucket of ice. And her medical time out was running out. “Shit. I have to go.”

Aelin jumped into action, taking her foot out of the ice with a hiss and grabbing a towel as Rowan maneuvered himself around her to find her shoes and socks. Apparently he had understood her message loud and clear about her intentions on forfeiting the match or not- he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with her.

Quickly enough, Aelin was good as new- well, as new as she could be with a half swollen ankle.

“Well,” she dropped her arms to her sides and turned to her boyfriend. “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot who shouldn’t be playing.”

“Or…?” she arched a brow. Rowan sighed and stepped toward her, his hands bracing both of her arms as he leaned forward to press an earnest kiss to her forehead.

“Or Terrasen’s champion,” he murmured against her skin.

Aelin grinned, a wicked and feral smile that meant she was ready to raise hell.

“Now that’s more like it.”

If someone had asked Aelin to regale the crowd with details of her match after she had come out victorious, she would have been unable to do so. Because all she remembered was the pounding of her feet on the ground, and the neon color of the tennis ball, and the feeling of her heart palpitating in her chest.

Oh, and of course she couldn’t forget the moment after her match- winning shot, when every care and inhibition had left her in one foul swoop. When she had sprinted over to the stands and thrown herself into the arms of the silver- haired enemy, delighting in his deep laughter..

And kissed him in the middle of the stadium for all to see.

this prompt was: secret dating

taglist:

@story-scribbler

@rowaelinismyotp

@live-the-fangirl-life

@claralady

@surielandiareendgame

#aelin galythinius #rowan whitethorn #aelin #rowan #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin au #rowaelin modern au #tog #sjm #throne of glass #rowaelin month

79 notes · View notes

jokerscrazybrilliant · 3 years

Text

Survive - Chapter 1 - (Captain Rex)

Idk why I'm so nervous to post this lol, but I'm new here, anyhow, I've been re-watching Clone Wars and re-fawning over the incredible Captain Rex, so um, here's the maybe beginning to something? I kind of don't know how to judge my own writing so I hope this isn't totally sucky lol..

ANYHOW CHAPTER 1 !! XD

Also out now:

Chapter 2 · Chapter 3 · Chapter 4

Story on other platforms:

AO3 · Quotev

________

sur·vive /sərˈvīv/ verb Continue to live or exist, especially in spite of danger or hardship. Similar: live · continue · remain · last · persist · endure · persevere · abide · linger · exist · be • continue to live or exist in spite of (an accident or ordeal). • remain alive after the death of (a particular person). • manage to keep going in difficult circumstances.

________

Darkness. Everywhere. Not just a lack of light, but the feeling of being lost and directionless, the great darkness that spread endlessly in every direction. And I was alone in it, unable to watch my step, I stumbled over my feet as I ran. Run. Run. RUN.

“MASTER!” The shout tore itself from my throat painfully as I shot up in bed, sweating and in a panic. Breathing heavily, I put a hand to my chest, feeling my heart pounding painfully rapidly. I tried to control my breathing as I blinked away tears, making my way to the refresher, the bright lights of Coruscant’s horizon making their way into the room through the window.

The shower helped calm me down and I got dressed in my tan and brown jedi robes, making my way to the balcony to meditate until sunrise.

Today the council would be informing me of their decision on my future. When I lost my master so close to being ready to take my tests to be knighted, the council was unsure of which path would be best for me. To assign me as a Padawan to a new master or to get me to take the tests early, neither seemed an easy option. I took a deep breath and let my mind quiet as I felt the force flow through and around me. Whatever may come would be for the best, I just had to keep my mind open and accept things as they were.

***

Standing there in front of the council, most of what was said passed around me in a haze. All of the comments on how what had happened was unfortunate, but the force willed it so, the comments on how it would make me a stronger Jedi to learn patience detachment and strength from this particular trial. While this was all true, I wasn’t in a place where I wanted to hear these words. I just wanted to know what their decision was so I could carry on without thinking about what happened.

“-so we believe that it would be best if you served under another Jedi master, not necessarily as his Padawan, but just to gain some more experience before you are ready to take the tests for your knighthood. And you would also be assisting him in leading his battalion and helping him plan strategies for key missions. This is a great opportunity, so I hope that you will make the best of it, and I’m sure you will, we have faith in you Nimra.”

“Thank you Master Windu,” I bowed my head to him respectfully. “Might I ask to which Jedi Master I am being assigned?”

At my question a half smile and a nearly playful twinkle appeared in the Master’s eye. “Anakin Skywalker. He is a very skilled Jedi, and things would certainly never be dull.”

I gave a slight smile in response and bowed once more to the council. “Thank you for the opportunity masters, I will do my best to make you proud.” With that I made my exit, sagging slightly once the door closed behind me.

Master Skywalker, huh? I had met him a few times with my previous master on certain missions, and Master Windu’s comment made perfect sense to me. Things would certainly be interesting, but I was just hoping to keep my head down and get through the next few months with him until I could take my tests.

***

He was late. This was a wonderful start. He was late, and he was arriving in an old trash pile of a ship, one that looked like it was found in a junkyard on an outer-rim moon somewhere. “Nimra!” He called my name joyfully as he made his way down the ramp with a small blue astromech and a young orange skinned Togruta following him.

“Master Skywalker.” I bowed my head respectfully and gave him a small smile.

“I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to your master. He was a great Jedi Master and it’s truly a loss to the republic and the Jedi Order.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Of course. I’d like you to meet my Padawan, Ahsoka Tano, Snips this is Nimra Sayla.” I bowed my head to the padawan as well and she returned it with a smile. “Nimra will be joining us for a while, and we will be lucky to have her, I’ve fought on the battlefield with her, and she is a force to be reckoned with.”

“You’re too kind, Master.”

“You’re nearly knighted yourself Nim, stop calling me that would ya?” He laughed at my formality, and I gave a small chuckle myself.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Master – Master Diya thought highly of professionalism and formalities.” I kept the smile even though saying my old Master’s name caused a sharp stinging pain in my heart. Anakin put his hand on my shoulder and gave me an understanding smile, which I appreciated immensely.

“Well, we should get going if we’re going to make the rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.” Anakin turned to climb back up the ramp before the astromech gave a series of agitated beeps at the Jedi. “Oh, you’re right, how could I forget. This, is R2-D2.” He laughed as he introduced the droid to me, it beeping appreciatively and spinning it’s head around slightly.

“Hello R2-D2, it’s nice to meet you.” I gave the droid a grin as we all made our way into the ship, me biting my tongue as not to comment on how this junk pile would possibly make the trip through hyperspace.

***

“Home sweet home.” Anakin commented as we made our way into the hangar of his Jedi cruiser we had met up with.

“Welcome back, General.” A clone trooper with the blue paint of the 501st met us as we descended. He was holding his helmet under his left arm, and he had buzzed bleached hair, with no other specific markings unlike many clones who chose to tattoo themselves or get very unique haircuts to set them apart from their comrades. Of course, being someone with the force, I could feel the energy signatures within people rather than just seeing their outsides, and that had always helped keep track of the clones, who while they had the same DNA, each had their own very different and unique personalities. “I see we’ve picked up a new recruit?”

“Thank you, and yes, Captain Rex, meet Nimra Sayla.” Anakin introduced us, gesturing his hands between us before focusing on an information disc R2 was giving him.

“Nice to meet you General.” The Captain gave me a salute.

“Oh, no, not quite. I’m not actually a Jedi Knight yet.” I gave him a slightly sheepish smile.

“Ah, sorry about that Commander.”

“That’s quite alright.”

“You’re not a padawan but also not a knight yet?” Ahsoka inquired from beside me.

“Uh, no, not yet. My master, he died before I could take my tests, so I’m going to complete my remaining trainings here with you until I can take them.” I was acutely aware of the pity entering Ahsoka’s eyes, but thankfully the clone did not show that same emotion, rather just a slight understanding of my situation.

“Sorry to hear that Sir.” Rex said, still standing at attention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too.” Ahsoka said sweetly.

“It’s really okay, but thank you.”

“Alright, me and Ahsoka have to go prepare a debrief, and discuss how when I say ‘let’s go’, it means ‘let’s go’, and not ‘take your time Ahsoka’.” I chuckled at Anakin’s words.

“But Master, if I hadn’t stayed as long as we needed, we would’ve never gotten the information we needed!” She retorted, pointing at the disc in his hand.

“Yeah yeah, that’s not the point, Snips. Anyway, Rex, can you show Nimra around and to her quarters please?”

“Yes, of course Sir.” The captain saluted again and then turned to me as Anakin and Ahsoka walked away, still bickering.

“Are they always like that?” I asked, small smile still on my face.

“Yes Sir, for the most part.” His response made me turn to look at him in the eyes, serious expression taking over my features.

“I will do whatever it takes, whatever it takes, to get you to stop calling me that.” The moment he recognized my joking, some of his seriousness dissolved, and a small half smile appeared on his face.

“Whatever it takes?” He inquired, arching an eyebrow.

“I will personally make the trip to the end of the galaxy and back, on THAT scrap pile, with an agitated blurrg as my copilot, just to get you to stop calling me ‘sir’.” I pointed at Anakin’s ship behind me, serious expression never cracking even as I gained a full smile from the captain, which made my heart warm slightly.

“Well in that case, Commander.”

“That’s not any better!” I exclaimed, laughing as he grinned at me.

“Shall we begin the tour?” He offered, arm outstretched in the direction we would begin with.

“Yes, Captain.” My grin remained as he began to show me around. This will be interesting indeed.

72 notes · View notes

pitviperofdoom · 3 years

Text

Me: I’ve got some time and motivation on my hands! Maybe I should work on one of my immediate projects, like putting the finishing touches on my RQBB piece, or making some headway on my TMA BB piece, or editing the next chapter of the DND AU...

Me: *writes a 5k opener for an au that’s basically The Owl House*

------

“Again.”

Jon held still and kept his eyes shut. Everything ached, his head most of all; the slightest movement sent lightning bolts of pain through his skull. Even now it throbbed like a quiet threat behind his closed eyes.

“Get up, Jon.”

He couldn’t. He was done. Wasn’t that obvious?

“I don’t have time to indulge you. I know you can do more. Now get up.”

He couldn’t.

“Open your eyes, Jonathan.”

That was a simpler request, at least. He could do that much, couldn’t he? He could open his eyes. It barely counted as moving.

Dutifully, Jon forced his eyelids apart. Punishment was swift; this time the pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream, only curl up tighter on the floor with a strangled whimper. The polished tiles were cold against his face, but they did little to soothe the ache. Warm liquid trickled from his closed eyes; when had he started crying?

Across the room, Jonah sighed. “Already? We’ve barely scratched the surface, Jon. I expected another hour from you, at minimum.” Footsteps echoed against the floor, and Jon tensed in spite of the pain, but the hands that picked him up were gentle. “Come now. Our work is too important for me to indulge you like this. For Titan’s sake, your endurance was better when you were a mere child.”

Jon kept his eyes shut, and hated the part of himself that wanted to curl up again, apologize, and promise to do better. The ache was beginning to recede, just barely, but he kept his eyes shut. If he opened them too soon, then Jonah would take it as a sign that he wasn’t as tired as he behaved.

“Can you make your own way back?” Jonah asked, steadying him by the shoulders. “Or do you need help?”

Jon’s blood ran cold. That was a dangerous question. If he chose to go under his own power, then Jonah might change his mind about letting him stop. But he didn’t want help. His limbs felt like wet clay, and there wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t hurt, but at least they were still his.

“I—” HIs voice cracked in his dry throat. “I can—I can make my own way. Th-thank you, Jonah.” He held his breath.

After far too long for comfort, Jonah sighed again, heavy with disappointment. “Alright, Jon. Get some rest. We’ll do better in the morning.”

“Yes, Jonah,” Jon replied, faint with relief, and waited.

He was met with silence.

“Have you changed your mind?” Jonah said, after a moment. “If you’d like to continue…”

“No,” Jon replied. “No, I’m—thank you. For letting me stop. Just…” He held his hands out in a blind plea. “It’s my eyes, so I need…”

“Ah, of course, how could it have slipped my mind?” He heard a faint rustle from Jonah’s robe, before warm, smooth wood was pressed into his waiting hands. Jon swallowed another sob of relief. “There you are, then.”

“Thank you,” Jon repeated, and turned toward where he hoped the exit was.

The shape in his hands shifted. Smooth wood became downy softness, before the feeling left his hands and landed gently against his face. Soft wings brushed his cheeks, tiny legs grasped the bridge of his nose, and the world returned to him.

He hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could see the room once more: the library’s main room, a vast space where he and Jonah did most of their work. He could see Jonah as well, watching him with the weary patience of a parent indulging a child’s tantrum.

Jon looked away, muttered his thanks again, and limped out of the room.

Even with a closed door between them, the weight of Jonah’s scrutiny never left. Not helping the matter was the wallpaper that, currently, was openly tracking his progress through the countless eyes hidden in the intricate pattern.

That was the downside to navigating with these eyes; when he used his own, he couldn’t see the Beholding that soaked every nook and cranny of the manor. At least then he could pretend that closed doors and distance meant something.

It was a long way from the research wing to his quarters—their quarters—and Jon had to pause several times for a moment’s rest. By the time he reached the last flight of stairs, he was shaking from exhaustion, and strongly considering the benefits of simply curling up in a corner of the hallway and falling asleep on the floor. Jonah certainly kept the carpets plush enough.

His borrowed vision went hazy for a moment, and soft wings beat gently against his face. Jon braced himself against the wall as another powerful headache washed over him, closed eyes be damned. His face was wet with tears again.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright. Just a bit farther.”

The mask of wings left his face in a sudden flurry of beating, leaving him blind again. Jon bit back a cry of alarm and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. He wouldn’t leave—surely he wouldn’t. He’d be back. Maybe he was just…

Before he could work himself into a proper panic, he heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open. Familiar footsteps came tumbling down the steps.

“Fuck, Jon,” a familiar, wonderfully welcome voice breathed out, and Gerry caught him before he could fall.

Jon made the rest of the journey leaning heavily against him, blind and trusting. He could feel gentle puffs of air against his face, fluttering wings that didn’t quite touch, and smiled gratefully.

Eventually Gerry deposited him in a chair and went to retrieve something—from the potions stand, going by the clatter of glass vials. Less than a minute later, one of them was pressed into his hand.

“Here. Need help drinking?”

Jon shook his head. “I can manage. Thanks.” He downed the potion and was rewarded by a receding headache. His eyelids were so sticky that he had to massage them open, and his vision came back in blurry patches, one piece of the room at a time: A single table and chair by the kitchenette. Two beds shoved together in the far corner. The sparsest alchemy array on the Isles. Gerry's face, watching him with open concern.

"Do you know how much you lost?" Gerry asked.

"What?"

Gerry gestured to his face, and Jon mirrored the motion until he found rough, sticky stains streaked down his face. He was confused until some of it crumbled off at his touch, and he looked down to find flecks of congealed blood clinging to his fingertips. "That's probably not good."

"Yeah, Jon," Gerry sighed, short and forceful with held back anger. "Probably isn't." He moved off to the kitchenette, and returned moments later with a damp towel.

Jon cleaned his face, sighing in relief at the coolness against the lingering ache. He put the now-soiled towel aside, eyes finally clear, and caught the briefest glimpse of amber eye spots on coppery wings before their owner alighted gently on the side of his head.

"Yes, of course," he said, reaching up to stroke one of the moth's large downy wings. His familiar nuzzled his finger in return. "Thank you, Atlas."

"He alright?" Gerry asked grimly, already checking the moth for any sign of damage.

"Jonah had him for the entire session," Jon replied. "No overt threats today, he just… didn't let him go until we were finished. So. Could be worse."

"Could be a lot better," Gerry muttered.

It will be, he carefully didn't say. Soon, it will be.

It wasn't safe to talk like that. Not here. Not yet.

After Gerry coaxed food into him, Jon crawled beneath the covers and curled up as small as he could manage. Patched and mended blankets didn’t offer any more protection than the walls of this place, but huddling in the dark made it easier to pretend that Jonah couldn’t see him here. It was the only way he could make himself sleep, these days.

When he awoke to Gerry’s gentle shaking, Jon found that he hadn’t moved so much as a finger in his sleep.

Without a word, he slipped out from under the blanket. The light in their quarters was dimming as twilight approached. Gerry barely glanced up from the book he was reading at the table as Jon shuffled to the kitchenette and the kettle.

Casting the spell was a simple matter of well-practiced sleight of hand, disguised beneath mundane activities. One spell circle traced idly by Gerry’s finger against the page as he turned it, the other drawn in the air as Jon waved away the steam. They never did it the same way twice, nor with any regularity by day or week or month. If it became a pattern, then Jonah might catch it.

The spell slipped into place smoothly, with none of the clumsy ripples of their earliest attempts, and Jon let out a shaky sigh. They had to assume that Jonah was always watching—but now, if he was, all he would see was Gerry reading at the table, and Jon drinking tea at the kitchenette. It was a routine they had set long ago. It was exactly what Jonah would expect to see.

Titan willing, it would be enough. They couldn’t afford to slip up now.

“It’s almost ready,” Gerry assured him. “Everything’s in place. All we have to do is wait for the moon’s alignment to power it.”

Jon ran his hand absently over his arm, scratching at the pockmark scars that dotted his skin. Some of the ingredients had cost them dearly to procure. They likely wouldn’t get another chance on any of them.

When he looked at Gerry again, his friend was watching him with something indescribably soft in his face. “It’ll work, Jon.”

“And if we’re caught?” Jon blurted. “We can’t hide this ritual behind false visions. He’ll sense it no matter what his eyes tell him.”

“Once it’s cast, it won’t matter,” Gerry said with grim satisfaction. “We’ll have our out. And where it leads, Jonah won’t have any of the power he does here.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms.

Gerry’s eyes never left him. “What’s on your mind?”

Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, Jon struggled to find an answer. “Is it—is it wrong that I’m afraid?”

“Jon, no—”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Jon went on. “I never wanted—ever since I came here, I’ve wanted to leave. And now we finally have a chance. Why am I afraid?” Gerry opened his mouth like he was about to reply, but Jon couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. “It’s not like I’m safe here. Today wasn’t even that bad, compared to… it wasn't that bad.” A bitter, ragged laugh tore itself from his throat. "He pushed me until I bled from my eyes, and he was happy to keep pushing, and all I can think is it wasn't that bad. Why am I afraid to leave?" His voice trailed off. Atlas’s wings fluttered against his head, mirroring his agitation.

Instead of answering, Gerry held out his arms. Jon walked into them without hesitation.

“You were a kid.” With his head on Gerry’s shoulder, his hand to his heart, and Gerry’s arms holding him close, Jon felt surrounded by his friend’s voice.

“I was nearly eighteen,” Jon protested. “Hardly a child.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been here too long not to be scared of what’s out there,” Gerry reminded him. “And it’s not like we’re escaping out the front door. We don’t really know what we’ll find on the other side.”

Jon’s hand curled into a fist against Gerry’s chest, and his other arm tightened around him. If they did this right, then their exit strategy would dump them into an entirely new world, of which Jon had only ever read old books or heard second and third-hand stories. A fresh wave of apprehension seized him.

Not for the first time, he let himself be desperately, pathetically grateful that he wasn’t doing this alone.

“Can you keep it together?” Gerry asked, still quietly gentle. “I just—I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I can’t do this alone. This is a two-person job at least, and—”

“Of course.” Reluctantly, Jon pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to give up at the last moment. You can rely on me.”

Gerry smiled. That was a rare thing, these days. All the more reason not to lose his nerve. Once they got out, Jon was going to spend the rest of their lives giving Gerry every reason to keep doing it.

“I know,” Gerry replied. “Now come on. Let’s finish prepping before we run out of twilight.”

***

“You know,” Gerry whispered late at night, as Jon settled himself into the curve of his body. “By the time I left home, I’d passed up five chances to escape.”

Jon listened in silence. He was never quite sure what to say when Gerry talked about how he grew up. Nothing felt like the right thing to say. Luckily, Gerry never seemed to expect him to say anything at all.

“Those are just the ones I was looking out for, at the time,” Gerry went on. “Couldn’t tell you how many I just didn’t see.”

“You were a kid,” Jon murmured back.

Gerry scoffed into Jon’s hair, and Jon smiled. “Don’t you turn my words back on me. How dare you.” A moment later, “But… you’re not wrong. I was a kid. She was all I knew. I didn’t know who I was without her.”

Safely out of Gerry’s line of vision, Jon allowed himself a thoughtful frown. It was different for him, wasn’t it? Gerry had been born his mother’s son, but Jon had been someone before he was Jonah’s… whatever he was. Student, research assistant, test subject, prisoner.

Before, he’d been the son of parents he barely remembered. He’d been the grandson of a woman who did her best until he drove her to give up on him, and a coven leader came to her with a kind smile and a promise to take away her burden. And now…

And now he wasn’t any of that. Because there wasn’t anything for him to go back to. The only way out was forward, into the unknown.

“I figured it out in the end,” Gerry told him. “You will too. I know you will.”

“I might need help with that,” Jon admitted. “I could use your expertise.”

A soft huff of laughter jostled him. “I’m gonna be in the same boat as you, you know? I’ve never been to the human world.”

“You still know more about it than me,” Jon pointed out.

Gerry was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t tell you anything?” he asked eventually. “It didn’t take much to get him talking, when I was running around with him.”

“Only a few things. His family, his brother, some of his favorite foods. It was all we had time for before we parted ways.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Gerry sighed. “The human world sounds amazing—if even half the things he told me about were even real.”

Jon laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Can you imagine someone actually swimming in the ocean? It would strip the flesh clean off your bones.”

“Not if the water’s cold and non-corrosive. Which it apparently is. People swim in the ocean all the time. It’s a thing. They take their kids and everything.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jon stifled a yawn.

“It was weird, you know?” Gerry went on. “The things he’d talk about like they were nothing. Sometimes he’d say just the wildest thing, and he’d look at me like I was crazy when I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm… trying to think of one I haven’t told you before…” Gerry hesitated. “Did I tell you about how mornings in the human realm just… make water?”

“You mentioned something about the rainwater being cold,” Jon replied.

“No no, this is different. Titan, how did he explain it…” Gerry hummed thoughtfully. “Something about how, when it’s cold enough, everything’s covered in little droplets of water in the morning. The air just… does that. Makes water out of nothing.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Can’t remember,” Gerry admitted. “He showed me a picture, though. Water droplets on a spiderweb. Looked like tiny little diamonds. Dunno what kind of face I was making, but he laughed at me.”

“Rude,” Jon murmured.

“Still not sure I believe it.”

“Maybe we’ll see it for ourselves. One day.” One day very, very soon.

Gerry’s only reply was to run gentle fingers through Jon’s hair, again and again, until Jon finally fell asleep.

***

The moon sat at its apex, round and bright and wreathed in blue fire that seemed to dim the stars around it. It was the first thing Jon saw when Gerry gently shook him awake.

He stirred, wincing when his movements jarred his injuries. Most of the day had been devoted to Jonah’s experiments, and Jon had fresh wounds to prove it. The burns on his face would heal without scarring, but his right hand was still wrapped in liniment-soaked bandages. Jon avoided putting any weight on it as he rose to a sitting position and pushed back the blanket. The sight of the moon, burning brightly in celestial alignment, chased away any lingering weariness.

They cast their usual cloaking spell with less caution than usual. It was only a stopgap measure at best, a few minutes’ safety to get everything in place. The table, chair, and alchemy set were pushed aside to clear the floor. With steadier hands—Jonah had been focused on Jon today, leaving Gerry a day of respite—Gerry borrowed Jon’s staff to draw the circle. Atlas alighted on his place at the top of the staff, colors fading as he shifted back into wood, and the symbols glowed brighter. Jon fetched each component from their hiding places around the room, and began laying them out amid the lines that Gerry was tracing.

They worked quickly, not speaking, barely breathing. For all their planning, there had been no time to practice. They would get only one chance, and no more.

And so, there was no time or opportunity to brace themselves before Gerry drew the last line, and Jon poured the last drop of Titan blood, and the circle caught the moonfire blazing through the open window.

The spell ignited, and the sheer force of clashing power nearly knocked them both off their feet. Their flimsy cloaking spell shattered, exposing them to Jonah’s sight, but it was far too late to turn back.

Jon had barely regained his footing when his own magic, coursing through the spell circle alongside Gerry’s, was caught in the moonlight’s amplifying effect. For a single, glorious moment, for the first time in years, Jon felt magic—wild magic, covenless magic—coursing through him. He smelled fire and earth and sea air, felt wind against his face, sensed the distant light of stars above them, tasted blood in the back of his throat as drumbeats pounded in his ears. Every sensation rushed him at once, melding together into a storm of color and music. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

And then the coven brand on his arm blazed, burning away the storm until only the Beholding remained.

It seized him mercilessly, knowledge clamoring its way into his head all at once. It was a confusing mess, so many sights and sounds and thoughts that he couldn’t have picked out a single one among them. But in the end he adjusted, the stream became more focused, and his mind was his own once more.

At the center of the circle, a seam formed in the fabric of the world. It split neatly down the length of it, opening wide into a ragged doorway.

Jon’s heart leapt. They had been planning this for years, researching in secret, sneaking and lying and stealing to get the components together, and yet—only now did he realize that he had never expected it to actually work. The fact that it had, that freedom lay only a few steps from where he stood, was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Jonah was on his way, he realized absently. It wasn’t just the inevitability of it; even without his focus on the river of knowledge flowing through him, he couldn’t help but catch a few drops. One of them showed their captor flying up the stairs toward their quarters, wild-eyed and intent.

“Gerry,” he said. “We have to—”

Another scrap of knowledge slipped into his mind, like a dagger between his ribs.

“Jon?” Gerry’s voice sounded far away. Everything was suddenly muffled, even the portal. Even the Beholding, swollen with moonlight, felt far away. The whole world was contained in a single, inescapable truth.

“We can’t.” The words slipped from Jon’s mouth. His hand closed on Gerry’s arm. “Gerry, we can’t.”

“Jon, let go, the portal’s right—”

“It won’t work.” Jon squeezed his arm. “It won’t—there’s not enough power. It’s not stable enough for both of us. As soon as one of us goes through, the spell will fall apart and the portal will close. It won’t work.”

Gerry stared back at him, face suffused with dismay.

Dismay, but not surprise.

Jon’s heart sank like a stone in mud. “You knew.”

“Jon, there’s no time for this, now let go—” He was pulling away, prying Jon’s fingers from his arm, and the portal was within his reach, and Jonah was so close to their door.

“You knew,” he repeated. “How long have you known? How long have you been lying?”

“I had no choice!” Gerry shouted over the crackling, ringing din of the spell. “There was no other way! What was I supposed to do, sit here while both of us wasted away? What other chance was either of us going to get?”

The worst part was, Jon couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, or even all that angry, really. Of course this was going to happen. It was simply the culmination of his entire life, thus far. His parents, his old friends, his grandmother—and now Gerry.

Maybe it was just his lot to be left behind.

Across the room, the door rattled. Jonah called to them from the other side. Jon barely heard either.

“I…” His throat grew thick. “I understand.”

“Jon, I’m sorry,” Gerry said desperately. “I wish there was another way.”

“No, I—” He really shouldn’t be crying. This was a happy thing, after all. Gerry was going to be free. “At least—even if it’s just one of us—”

Gerry smiled through his own tears. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he said.

“It’s not fair,” Jon blurted out. “We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to see it together!”

“When has any of this ever been fair?”

Tears gathered in his eyes until Jon blinked them away. His last sight of Gerry should be a clear one. “Please don’t forget me.”

The door rattled again, and Gerry choked back a sob. “Fuck. I could never. You’re not the sort of person anyone just forgets.”

Before Jon could reply, Gerry lunged forward. Not toward the portal, not toward freedom, but to Jon. The kiss was fast and clumsy with desperation, but the hands against the sides of his face were ruthlessly gentle.

“I love you,” Gerry whispered. “Don’t look back.”

Jon blinked back his tears, confusion cutting through the grief. “What?”

Gerry curled Jon’s hands around the staff and threw him into the portal.

He fell through the riot of color and music, too shocked to scream as the image of Gerry shattered into pieces above him. The light winked out, and Jon fell into the emptiness alone.

***

Jon landed hard, though not nearly hard enough for how long he must have been falling.

He lay in darkness and silence, wheezing softly as he regained his breath, gripping his staff until his fingers went numb and his injured hand screamed in protest. The air was cold and smelled stale. The light show from the portal was gone, but he could still feel its power humming beneath his skin, threatening to burst free.

After a while, Jon gathered himself enough to roll over. The floor felt like stone beneath his hands, relatively smooth but unpolished. With a grunt of effort, Jon planted his staff on the ground and pulled himself to his feet. It was too dark to see well when he opened his eyes, so he felt along the length of the staff until he found the shape of wooden moth wings at the end.

“Atlas?” His voice rasped in his chest. The wood turned to soft chitin, and Atlas took off from the head of the staff to flutter in frantic circles around his head, buffeting him gently when he flew too close. “Yes, yes—it’s alright. We’re alright.”

Atlas landed on his shoulder, and Jon’s eyes adjusted.

Was this the human world? For all he knew, the portal might have simply dropped him elsewhere in the demon realm. He was in a room, possibly a basement, judging by the clutter. Boxes sat in stacks and piles, some of them too full to close properly. Indistinct objects sat against the walls—an old mirror, frames wrapped in thick brown paper, a tall wooden clock that didn’t seem to be working. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, untouched by fingerprints or footsteps.

He was alone.

Of course he was alone, he’d seen the portal break apart as soon as he fell into it, with Gerry still on the other side. Jonah had been seconds from breaking the door down, and now—

A harsh sob took him by surprise, and tears blinded him all over again.

Jonah had never set a clear punishment for escaping. And now, whatever it was, Gerry was facing it alone.

They weren’t supposed to be alone, they were never supposed to be alone. It shouldn’t have been him going through the portal, it should have been Gerry, why couldn’t have been Gerry, why couldn’t Gerry have been selfish for once in his life—

A distant scream rang out, shocking him out of his tears. Jon stared around, wide-eyed and searching, but the room was still. Then the ceiling shook with a crash, drawing his eyes upward.

“It’s above us,” he murmured. “Stairs—we need to find stairs.” Atlas took off from his shoulder, eye spots glowing in the gloom.

With an extra set of eyes, Jon found the stairs within a minute. He ran up them, his brand warming as he loosened the leash on his swollen magic. The door at the top of the steps was locked, but he Knew within seconds where to find a key. Atlas vanished from his side and returned moments later, clutching it in all six of his legs.

The door opened to an unlit hallway. Jon hesitated, took one last look back at the dark and cluttered basement, and hurried on.

He could hear more, now that he was really listening for it. Running footsteps, multiple sets by the sound of it. Shouting, always muffled and bitten-off, as if whoever was doing it was trying very hard not to. There were people in trouble—this was the human world, wasn’t it? Was it as hostile as the demon realm after all?

The hallway ended and took him up another flight of stairs. He expected to see light at some point, either artificial or from the windows. The last time he saw the moon, it had nearly blinded him. But instead, the darkness of the stairwell only seemed to grow thicker as he ascended, and reaching the door at the top did nothing to abate it.

At the very least, what he could see of the room he stepped out into looked more like the ground floor. There were proper floorboards, high ceilings, and windows that only showed faint outlines of trees against a dark, starless sky. The house was unlit, and his eyes refused to adjust. Jon drew a quick spell circle on his forehead with one fingertip, and magic poured into his eyes to light the way.

Shouting rang out again from somewhere above. Jon raced to follow it.

Around him, the house was in the slow process of falling apart. Ornate wallpaper hung faded and peeling, shreds of old rugs showed the ragged remains of color and embroidery, and broken shards of wood protruded from walls and doorways alike, as if any ornamentation set into them had been ripped out long ago. This must have been a fine-looking house once, but now it was a crumbling wreck.

Eventually the hallway opened up to another dilapidated chamber, this one a rotting front hall with its doors still standing ajar. Opposite them, the sagging remains of a grand staircase led up to another floor.

Jon had nearly reached the foot of it when he spotted movement at the top of the steps, and his vision went black.

For a split second he thought he’d lost consciousness, but the floor remained firmly beneath his feet. His breath came in short bursts of alarm as he drew another spell circle for sight in the darkness, to no avail.

Jon settled his grip on the staff, wincing at the pain in his burned hand. The bad news was, nothing that simple was going to let him see through this darkness. The good news was, it meant he knew what he was dealing with. He should have figured it out as soon as he left the basement and saw how dark it was. Stupid.

He could hear the others. Their running footsteps had fallen still, but the sound of panicked breathing was unmistakable. Someone was whimpering in pain with each breath. Someone else was whispering frantic reassurances. The darkness swallowed up everything else.

Jon hardly had to reach for his magic. It was brimming all the way to the surface, swollen from the storm of half-wild magic that had brought him here. When he drew a spell circle in the air with a tight whirl of his staff, it all came boiling up and out like a geyser.

Eyes opened everywhere—in Jon’s face and neck, along the length of his staff, in Atlas’s wooden face and wings, and in the choked air all around him. The darkness burned away as quick and clean as thin paper, revealing the scene before him.

There were three people now at the foot of the stairs, in such a state of panicked disarray that Jon could hardly tell whether they’d run or fallen down them. The larger of the two men had the others pushed behind him, backing away from the creature that menaced them, all three of them too frozen in terror to even attempt to cast a spell.

In spite of the glowing eyes that lit the room, a single wriggling mass of darkness remained, crawling and twitching toward its prey with wispy feelers that reached out to touch them. Sour air wafted from its body, filling the room with the smell of rot.

An acid shade. Nasty, hateful things that hunted prey by blinding it, then dissolving it while it was still alive. One touch was enough to melt the skin off your hand. Gerry still had scars from his last encounter with one.

Gerry.

The eyes blazed, and for the first time the brightness touched the shade’s slick hide. It recoiled, convulsing with a sound that was not a scream, but close enough.

Jon didn’t remember crossing the room, but he stood between the writhing mass of shadows and its would-be victims, so he must have. Fear warred with wild, directionless anger. He missed Gerry and hated Jonah. He remembered the feeling of lips on his, and the sight of his only friend weeping as his image shattered. Jon took all of it, gathered up every last drop, and poured it all into the merciless light of his swollen magic. He gave it all of himself, until it was blinding, until he could See every part of the room he stood in, down to every last crack in the walls, down to every convulsing wisp of darkness that made up the shade.

It let out another not-scream as it was utterly, agonizingly Seen.

And then it was gone, and Jon’s last drop of magic trickled out and left him hollow.

The darkness returned—not a demonic creature this time, but regular unconsciousness creeping up on him. He fought it as he turned and looked back at the faces of the people he’d saved. A round-faced man, so pale that his freckles stood out in his face; a woman with wide eyes and dark hair in disarray; and the second man clutching a corrosive burn that covered his arm, whose face—

—whose face Jon recognized.

“Danny?” Half-blind, Jon struggled to focus as the world grew smaller, and the darkness overtaking it nearly obscured the look of shock on the man’s face. “You found your way home?”

He lost his grip on consciousness before he could hear the answer.

#the magnus archives #tma #jongerry #tma fic #tma isekai au #fanfiction #tales from the pit

128 notes · View notes

bloody-bee-tea · 3 years

Text

Goo

Jiang Cheng rapidly blinks to clear his vision, but the haze over his eyes stays where it is. It almost feels like he’s seeing double at this point, and seeing Sect Leader Yao twice does very little to improve his already poor mood, if Jiang Cheng is being honest.

While this is not Jiang Cheng’s first conference as a Sect Leader, it’s still new enough that he desperately has to try to make a good impression, and nodding off in the middle of Sect Leader Yao complaining about something or other is certainly not the way to do it.

Even though Jiang Cheng would love to do nothing more.

He’s not sure when the last time he got a full night’s sleep was, but it must be months at this point. Between caring for his infant nephew, taking over the role as Sect Leader and rebuilding Lotus Pier there is simply not enough time for him to sleep.

Not that he could even if he had the time for it, with how his nights are haunted by nightmares, but Jiang Cheng tries his best not to think of that.

Just like he’s trying very hard not to think about his shaking hands or his weak knees or how his vision keeps tilting as if he’s already falling to the side.

He cannot allow himself to show some weakness here, especially not with Jin Guangshan watching him like a hawk.

The old leech is just waiting for Jiang Cheng to make a mistake—has been since that very first meeting Jiang Cheng attended as a Sect Leader—and Jiang Cheng would rather die than play into his hands like that.

So Jiang Cheng keeps himself awake by sheer force of will for the rest of the day, and by the time Nie Mingjue puts an end to this endless farce—at least for this day—Jiang Cheng feels sluggish and slow as if he’s wading through goo instead of normal air.

He just hopes that no one else noticed it yet.

“Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang says as he sits down next to him and Jiang Cheng feels like crying.

He just wants to leave and rest his eyes for a few moments, drop the Sect Leader charade and give in to how weak he feels, but it doesn’t seem like he gets to do that yet, if Nie Huaisang wants to talk.

“What do you want?” Jiang Cheng snaps out and then winces as he realizes how unbearably rude that was.

Nie Huaisang is the beloved brother of a Sect Leader and Jiang Cheng likes to think that they are somewhat friends, and Nie Huaisang definitely deserves better than that.

“I apologize,” Jiang Cheng presses out, still way too formally, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t seem to be that offended.

At least for now.

“I guess that answers the question of how you’re doing,” Nie Huaisang muses and sends Jiang Cheng a knowing look from behind his fan.

“I’m doing just fine,” Jiang Cheng tells him, desperately trying not to burst into tears when he thinks about another day of endless talks tomorrow.

“You look like death warmed over,” Nie Huaisang shoots back and Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually have anything to say to that.

“How’s Jin Ling doing?” Nie Huaisang wants to know when Jiang Cheng stays quiet and Jiang Cheng can’t help the small smile on his face.

“He’s doing well. He’s growing so quickly,” he whispers, because Jiang Cheng still can’t believe that Jin Ling is going to turn two in a few months.

“That’s good to hear,” Nie Huaisang gives back. “It would be even better, though, if you were doing well too,” he then tacks on and Jiang Cheng flinches, before he straightens up.

“Who says I’m not?” he bites out, even though his vision is still tilting all the damn time because he’s so tired.

“You don’t look fine at all,” Nie Huaisang lowly says, and the only thing that prevents Jiang Cheng from snapping at him is the clearly worried look on Nie Huaisang’s face.

“I’m not—it’s not so bad,” Jiang Cheng whispers as he scrubs a hand over his face. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I think I do,” Nie Huaisang says, with a thoughtful look that he fails to hide behind his fan. “You need rest so you’re going to sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” Jiang Cheng scoffs, because while there is nothing he’d want to do more than go to sleep, he doubts that he can.

He can barely sleep at Lotus Pier; there is no way that he can fall asleep in a strange place, where he doesn’t feel safe.

Nie Huaisang narrows his eyes at him, and Jiang Cheng sighs.

“You can’t make me, so drop it now, Huaisang,” he tells him, but that only seems to spur Nie Huaisang on harder.

“Oh, but I know someone who can,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes and a shudder runs down Jiang Cheng’s back.

It used to be a badly hidden secret that Jiang Cheng had the worst crush on Nie Mingjue, but honestly, it’s been so long, and with everything that’s been going on recently, Jiang Cheng doesn’t think that even Nie Mingjue’s disapproval will be enough to send him to bed, no matter how much Jiang Cheng still wants to impress him.

“And would you look at that, what a coincidence, he’s just walking over here,” Nie Huaisang suddenly says, his fan hiding most of his face again and Jiang Cheng can feel a faint flush on his face.

“When the hell did you become such an insufferable schemer,” he hisses out, because this anger is always something he can fall back on even when he’s dead tired and embarrassed beyond belief, and while Nie Huaisang seems more than amused by this, Nie Mingjue’s face darkens as Jiang Cheng’s words reach him.

“He always was,” Nie Mingjue tells him with a hard glare. “Which you would know if you made any kind of effort of maintaining a friendship between the two of you.”

Jiang Cheng tenses at his tone, more than at his words. Nie Mingjue sounds honestly displeased with how Jiang Cheng has been treating Nie Huaisang, and he can’t even say anything in his defence because he has been neglecting Nie Huaisang.

There is just almost so much to do; he barely has time to eat or sleep, how the hell would he ever find time to write to Nie Huaisang when it’s not an important Sect matter? Jiang Cheng doesn’t even have time for idle chit-chat with his own people; there is no way he would find the time to sit down and put it onto paper.

“I apologize, Nie-zhongzhu. Nie-xiong,“ he then says to Nie Huaisang with a low bow. “I will take my leave.”

Jiang Cheng is already half turned away, because leaving this situation—and Nie Mingjue’s disapproving look—is the only thing on his mind right now, but then Nie Huaisang speaks up again.

“Da-ge,“Nie Huaisang whines before Jiang Cheng can run away from them. “Cut him some slack, would you?” he asks as he smacks Nie Mingjue with his fan, and Jiang Cheng thinks this is definitely the wrong way to endear Nie Mingjue towards him.

“You wouldn’t expect me to maintain non-essential friendships if I just lost you, and our entire Sect and I had to raise your baby,” Nie Huaisang says decisively and Jiang Cheng watches as the tensions drains out of Nie Mingjue at that.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he admits as he scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Jiang Wanyin.”

“There’s no need,” Jiang Cheng quickly gives back, wondering if this could be a hallucination, because Nie Mingjue is not known to apologize.

“He was just being overprotective,” Nie Huaisang says as he leans close. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, right,” Jiang Cheng scoffs out, before he can think about it. “No one’s ever been overprotective when it comes to me,” he tacks on, voice still barely above a whisper, but Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang freeze.

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang then says, his eyes wide and pleading and Nie Mingjue nods as if he just made a decision.

Jiang Cheng can only continue to stare at them, because none of their reactions makes any sense, but then Nie Mingjue places his hand on his shoulder and it’s heavy and warm and Jiang Cheng sways under it.

“You need to sleep, Jiang Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue tells him and now Jiang Cheng feels like crying, because Nie Mingjue’s voice is soft and there is nothing in this world Jiang Cheng would like to do more, but he can’t.

“I can’t,” he whispers, finally admitting to that one weakness, and Nie Mingjue squeezes his shoulder.

“Why not?” he gently asks and Jiang Cheng hangs his head in shame.

“I mean no offence,” he starts with, because he needs to get that out of the way first, “but I don’t feel safe here. At least not enough to sleep.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Nie Huaisang starts, but Nie Mingjue cuts him off with a gesture.

“It’s not Lotus Pier,” Nie Mingjue says, and there’s understanding in his voice. “And you didn’t put up the defences of this place yourself.”

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng breathes out, his eyes burning again and he’s unsure if it’s because he’s so goddamn tired or if it is because someone finally understands.

“Would it help if you warded your own room?” Nie Mingjue asks, but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

It would probably make him feel safe enough that he could fall asleep for a few minutes at a time, but by now Jiang Cheng knows that a few minutes are worse than no sleep at all.

“What if I sit with you?” Nie Mingjue asks next and Jiang Cheng can’t help the scoff that comes out at that suggestion.

As if Nie Mingjue really has the time to sit with him, just because Jiang Cheng cannot manage to fall asleep on his own.

“My da-ge doesn’t joke,” Nie Huaisang says, and when Jiang Cheng looks at him, he doesn’t like the look on his face at all.

It seems far too calculating for someone like Nie Huaisang.

“Come on, we should continue this talk in your own room,” Nie Huaisang says, and now even Nie Mingjue looks like he knows that Nie Huaisang is up to something, but he doesn’t say anything and instead uses the hand that is still on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder to steer him towards his assigned quarters.

The trip there is short and blessedly silent, but Jiang Cheng can’t help but to notice the hand that Nie Mingjue still keeps on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. It’s heavy with his concern and Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to handle that at all.

He sees Nie Huaisang throw him some looks from the corner of his eyes, but Jiang Cheng is too tired to figure out what the hell Nie Huaisang could be thinking and so he simply allows the Nie brothers to lead the way.

When Nie Huaisang closes the door behind them, Jiang Cheng immediately gets nervous again.

“You really don’t have to,” he says before anyone else can say something but Nie Mingjue shakes his head.

“I don’t have to, but I’m offering because I want to. I don’t know if anyone told you yet, but you look like shit.”

“I did!” Nie Huaisang says immediately and Jiang Cheng sinks down on the bed.

He really doesn’t know what he got himself into when he came to this conference.

“I would be more than happy to sit with you if that helps you sleep,” Nie Mingjue tells him and Jiang Cheng can tell that he means it, too, but he can’t accept this.

He can’t steal that much time from Nie Mingjue.

“You need to sleep, too,” he argues because he doubts that anything else will get him somewhere.

“No offense, but I can deal with a sleepless night. You on the other hand look like you’re going to drop dead if you don’t get at least seven hours.”

“Besides, there’s still Baxia,” Nie Huaisang says, and there’s something to his voice that makes Jiang Cheng tense up.

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue says in warning, but Nie Huaisang isn’t paying attention to him.

“You know, da-ge’s saber? You know that she’s semi-sentient, right? Even in the off-chance that he does fall asleep, Baxia would wake him up if someone with malicious intent were to intrude on these quarters.”

“Huaisang!” Nie Mingjue snaps out, clearly not liking what Nie Huaisang just revealed, but it’s done now.

“Semi-sentient?” Jiang Cheng asks, and he can’t help but to fiddle with Zidian around his finger.

It’s a spiritual weapon, too, like Sandu is as well, but he wouldn’t describe either of them as semi-sentient.

“That’s none of your concern,” Nie Mingjue gruffly says and normally Jiang Cheng would shrink back from his tone, but he’s actually too tired for even that kind of reaction though he does make a mental note to never ask about this again.

“If you don’t believe me, you can touch her to check for yourself,” Nie Huaisang says and now Nie Mingjue turns towards him, using his full height to tower over him.

“Nie Huaisang, you will stop right this instant!”

“But da-ge, look at him! He’s going to drop dead if he doesn’t sleep and how else is he going to feel safe enough?”

“Those are Sect secrets!”

“And Jiang-xiong is not going to tell anyone else, right?” Nie Huaisang asks as he leans around his brother to look at Jiang Cheng.

“Right,” Jiang Cheng says on reflex, but then he shakes his head. “Of course I wouldn’t tell anyone about that.”

He barely believes it himself. How would he ever tell someone else about this?

There must have been something in his voice, or maybe he just makes that pitiful of a picture, because Nie Mingjue takes a deep breath and the tension visibly leaves his whole posture.

“People have been killed for talking about this,” he states matter-of-factly and Jiang Cheng immediately nods.

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of a pause, before Nie Mingjue says “You may touch her if it helps.”

Jiang Cheng’s head flies up at his words, because with how this talk was going, this is really not what he expected.

“I wouldn’t dare to,” he gets out, completely panicked at the thought that this is just another test; one he’s going to fail because there probably is no right answer to this.

“I’m offering,” Nie Mingjue says and true to his word offers Baxia to him. “Huaisang is right. Even if I fall asleep, Baxia wouldn’t allow anyone to break into here. She would wake me at the first sign that something is wrong.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers go back to Zidian again and he wishes the same were true for his own spiritual tool. He definitely would sleep better if he knew that Zidian could wake him up or even act without his conscious thought.

“If you’re sure,” Jiang Cheng says after a long moment, and he only reaches out for Baxia when Nie Mingjue nods again.

Jiang Cheng’s fingertips have barely grazed the saber when another consciousness washes over him.

“Oh,” he breathes out in surprise, because he really didn’t expect Baxia to be like that but then the feeling of something other overwhelms him completely and Jiang Cheng doubles over.

He can feel rage and the ever-vigilant aura of something that doesn’t have to sleep, but beneath that there is unimaginable joy and something like recognition.

Jiang Cheng’s head is spinning with all these impressions but before he can drown in these emotions that are not his, Baxia retreats. She doesn’t vanish completely, though; Jiang Cheng can still feel her as a steady presence, and he knows she’s looking out for him now as well, but when Jiang Cheng blinks his eyes he notices that he stopped touching the saber.

He shouldn’t still be aware of Baxia like that.

“What the hell,” he whispers and he jerks when Baxia reflects amusement back at him, before she goes almost dormant.

It takes Jiang Cheng way too long to realize that she seems to be going dormant in Zidian and he jerks his head up when he finally does.

“What the hell,” he asks again, louder this time, and he holds his hand out. “Why is your semi-sentient saber in my spiritual tool?” he demands to know, a tinge of hysteria to his voice, but Nie Mingjue looks like Jiang Cheng is feeling which is completely overwhelmed and thoroughly confused.

“Thank the gods,” Nie Huaisang whispers and it takes Jiang Cheng way too long to turn his head and look at him, because Nie Mingjue is keeping his gaze and Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually want to look away.

“What is going on?” he asks Nie Huaisang when he finally manages to break eye contact with Nie Mingjue, even though it feels like one of the most difficult things Jiang Cheng has ever done.

“Congratulations, you’re soulmates,” Nie Huaisang says and he claps his hands together as if his words actually make any kind of sense.

“Huaisang, explain,” Nie Mingjue mildly says and Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s more fondly amused than really concerned and Jiang Cheng wonders how he can be this calm right now.

“Jiang-xiong, can you still feel Baxia?” Nie Huaisang asks instead of getting into an explanation and Jiang Cheng barely has to reach out for Zidian—for Baxia—before she responds to him.

“She’s like a cat that got the cream,” he says, because she radiates contented smugness and Jiang Cheng isn’t sure if he likes it or not.

He decides to go with not for as long as he doesn’t know what’s actually happening here.

“Da-ge, can you still feel Baxia?” Nie Huaisang asks next and Nie Mingjue nods as well.

“She’s—content. Happy.” There’s a bit of a pause. “Whole.”

“That’s good, that’s so good,” Nie Huaisang mutters and then he darts forward to hug Jiang Cheng. “Thank you so much for being my brother’s soulmate,” he whispers into his chest and Jiang Cheng brings his arms up around him on reflex, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate his confusion.

“Can you explain?” he asks, too tired to come up with more words for his request and Nie Huaisang pulls back.

“There’s this really old legend,” he starts and Jiang Cheng sits down, because this might take a while and despite what just happened, he is still ready to keel over out of tiredness.

“The legend says that the saber spirits used to be whole; made up of a soul to know right and wrong and a heart to know compassion. But over the course of time, those two got split up. The soul was pushed into the sabers to cut down those that are wrong, but without their heart to know compassion and love, they went wild; crazy. They started to lash out against their wielders, causing them to go mad and to qi-deviate.”

“Like Baxia has been doing,” Nie Mingjue says, but the hand he puts on Baxia speaks of fondness, rather than anger.

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang nods. “But if the soul is reunited with the heart, they can heal. They can be whole again.”

“Say it clearly,” Jiang Cheng snaps out, because he’s too tired to understand the implications of all of it, though he does note down Nie Mingjue’s little remark.

It hurts his heart to think that Nie Mingjue was suffering because of Baxia. And going by the wave of sadness he gets from Zidian—from Baxia—she is hurting because of that, too.

“Zidian is Baxia’s heart,” Nie Huaisang says and then winces. “Well, Zidian wielded by you is Baxia’s heart. The tale turned into a legend, because not many people know of it; because it barely happens. Finding your soulmate like this is extremely rare, because not only do the soul and the heart have to be a match, the humans who wield them, must be too. Zidian has been around for ages; but now it’s drenched in your spiritual energy and that’s what makes it a fit.”

“Kind of reassuring to know that Madam Yu wouldn’t have made the cut,” Nie Mingjue mutters and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he bursts out with laughter.

“Can you even imagine that?” he wheezes out, and a very distant part of himself knows that he’s completely overreacting because of his sleep-deprivation, but he can’t stop.

“I don’t want to, actually,” Nie Mingjue drily says and then pushes Jiang Cheng gently down on the bed. “Sleep, Jiang Wanyin,” he whispers when Jiang Cheng goes easily.

Jiang Cheng tries to struggle, tries to gives this a bit more thought besides the warm feeling that fills him when he thinks that he might be made for Nie Mingjue, but his thoughts are sluggish and sleep is creeping up on him.

He reaches out for Baxia again, and he relaxes when he finds her awake and alert, ready to protect him should anything happen, and Nie Mingjue’s heavy, warm hand has moved to cup Jiang Cheng’s cheek, telling him that he’s still here, that he too would protect Jiang Cheng.

It’s enough for Jiang Cheng to finally close his eyes and give in to the darkness.

The last thing he hears before sleep takes him is a muttered “Sleep, my heart.”

It’s the best sleep he has gotten in ages.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

#bt writes #the untamed #mdzs #mingcheng #soulmates #canon divergence #hurt/comfort #sleep deprivation #fluff #kinda getting together

183 notes · View notes

misfit-fics · 3 years

Text

Demon Rehab For Dummies

Summary: (Y/N) started seeing seven demons when she was 10. Through the years they all disappeared, all but one. Namjoon. A demon who has not so creepily, creepily, very creepily been in love with her for years.

Genre: fluff, crack, extremely minimal angst, idiots to lovers, romantic-comedy

Word count: 7384

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of suggestive & kinky themes, a handful of cursing, a story with a plot but not doesn’t exactly have a plot, a stubborn (Y/N) who dismisses love confessions & genuine flirting, an unspoken confession

A/N: Hey! we're back, it's been a while. We're starting school in a while but it will be gamble if we'll be more active or not. Well... we ARE active but just not posting? Yeah, you know what I mean. This has been sitting in our drafts for a while now and we're posting it now... although it's pretty unedited, feel free to address any oopsies. Hope who ever finds this enjoys reading!

At the ripe young age of ten (Y/N) began seeing seven men. Which- would’ve (should’ve) freaked any kid out but you know (Y/N) is just kinda quirky like that so she didn't really mind much. The men were nice and played with her anyway, and the only weird thing was that sometimes they would bring her dead birds.

At age eleven (Y/N) noticed that one of the men was missing.It didn’t affect her much except for the fact that this particular one would help her find things and she’d lost almost all of her socks since he disappeared. Not to mention the increase of bug bites after he left. The darn things seemed like they multiplied exponentially after a month.

By twelve only two of the men had disappeared, at this point (Y/N) not only lived in sandals (she still couldn’t find her socks) but she also couldn’t explain why her hair was burning off every time she tried to straighten it (her lil demon friends didn’t want her to, you’d think after almost 3 years of having men following her around and telling her what to do she’d get with the program already.) Her dog her parents had given her when she was 9 started disappearing quite often after he left. He always came back with a single sock that would disappear the next morning.

By thirteen (Y/N) had developed a crush (more like unhealthy obsession) on one of the men, Namjoon. The third year was also the year when Jimin disappeared, taking all of her favorite shoes with him. That year she had prayed to whoever was listening because her parents really couldn’t afford to keep buying her socks and shoes, and because she definitely couldn’t afford to shave her head.

By fourteen, Hoseok, the man who had cheered her up whenever she needed it, had gone, leaving a tidal wave of bad luck in his wake. He had a great deal in keeping (Y/N) happy, although some of his antics made her want to punch him, it never turned out that way.

When she was fifteen no one left… except for the dog. Aside from that, the only thing that left was her social life (It wasn’t like she had one before but you know it was still a little rough). (Y/N) began to depend more and more on her demons. She had become great friends with the oldest, Seokjin, who cooked for her when her parents went on trips.

At sixteen Yoongi left and the nightmares began. And with the nightmares came the growth of (Y/N)’s relationship with Namjoon. Namjoon became her protector, along with sometimes Seokjin, who still cooked for her and cared for her altogether when she couldn’t.

At seventeen, (Y/N) was informed that when she turned eighteen Seokjin would be leaving, on account that they didn’t need each other anymore. (Y/N) had been torn up when he told her and even more when he left. He didn’t take anything when he left other than a piece of (Y/N)’s heart.

At eighteen, (Y/N) moved away from her parents house with Namjoon trailing behind her (He even had lil demon suitcases and everything,) following her every move.

“I really don’t understand why you had to follow me out of my parents house. I thought spirits are supposed to be attached to a general area…” (Y/N) took to unpacking a box in the small apartment she now lived in.

“(Y/N) how many times do we have to go over this, I'm a demon, DE-MON.” Namjoon clapped his hands with each syllable. (Y/N) rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist at the self-proclaimed demon.

“Demon, ghost, same thing.” She shrugged her shoulders, “same thing as to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“It is not the same thing!” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) like it was obvious.

(Y/N) snorted, “Okay Casper.” She continued pulling out the items in the box.

Namjoon looked flabbergasted, “CASPER!?” Namjoon put a hand over his chest and widened his eyes. (Y/N) looked up at the demon with a raised brow,

“Geez Casper, why are you so offended? I’ve called you Casper before, Casper.” (Y/N) struggled to keep in her laughter, trying to keep a straight face as she looked at Namjoon.

Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “I think I shall simply cease to exist in your realm.”

(Y/N) looked back down at the almost empty box, “You wouldn’t do that, you love me too much, my dearest Casper.” She said in a singsong voice, “Oh hey I found a sock.” She pulled out said sock from the box, it had yellow stripes. :]

“I think Jungkook took the mate to that when he left.” (Y/N) threw the sock at Namjoon with a loud ‘FUCK!’

“I mean we could try and summon him to see if he’ll return your socks.” Namjoon shrugged.

“I wouldn’t even try.” She started putting the random items in their new places.

“You should put Juno on the window sill rather than the coffee table, I mean cacti do need sun.” Namjoon looked at the little green prickle plant.

“I’m sure if i didn’t tell you how to parent your child, it would’ve been confiscated by child protective services.” Namjoon crossed his arms and looked at Juno who had been (rightfully so) moved to the window sill.

“Casper- Juno is a cactus. There is no CPS (Cactus Protective Services).” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon with her own arms crossed over her chest and an eyebrow raised, “Now if you could- Can you please go unpack a few boxes?” (Y/N) shooed Namjoon away before her eyes widened and she added in, “NOTHING LABELED FRAGILE!”

“You know if we painted a wall or two in here, it would liven up the place so much…” Namjoon looked around the bland apartment, “Maybe an accent wall over here. A floor lamp over there. A new plant in the kitchen. It wouldn’t hurt you to give Juno some siblings.”

(Y/N) looked flabbergasted, “You want me to pop out another child?!”

“No I mean-” Namjoon’s eyes widened.

“-OUT OF MY WALLET?!? MY BARELY 21 DOLLARS!?” (Y/N) got her wallet out and zipped it open. She shook it in the demon’s face, about 26 pennies, 2 nickels, 1 dime, and a quarter fell out. It was followed by a single, folded, 5 dollar bill.

“I don’t think that’s 21 dollars, (Y/N)” Namjoon looked down at the floor, where one or more of the coins had caught onto his feet.

“I have a gift card.” She pulled out the cheap plastic, silver, $25 visa gift card (that didn’t have 25 dollars) with a bit of a struggle.

“How much exactly is on that gift card (Y/N)?” Namjoon eyed the flimsy silver object.

“You expect me to know- I mean probably more than 10 dollars!” Namjoon raised a brow at the statement. “Okay, maybe about 3.69.” Namjoon sighed, massaging his temples. (Y/N) bent down to put the money back into her wallet like a pigeon eating bread crumbs the old lady on the bench threw onto the floor.

Namjoon walked away from the pigeon-girl and grabbed a notepad and pen that was left on the kitchen counter. “We’re making you a to-do list.” He stated, clicking the pen.

“WE haven’t even unpacked all the boxes yet.” (Y/N) whined, pointing at the last large box in the middle of the hallway. Namjoon looked to where she pointed and shrugged.

“It says Christmas decorations.”

“EXACTLY! VERY. IMPORTANT.” she clapped her hands in between each word.

“It’s February.” He said.

“It’s still winter.” (Y/N) reasoned, finally done picking up the money. She plopped herself down onto the small brown couch.

“Okay so first off you need a job.” He wrote it down onto the notepad, the pen scratching being overlapped by a loud gasp from the human in the room.

“You dare ignore me?!” She yelled offendedly at the demon who glanced at her before looking back down at what he was writing.

“You also need to go to the supermarket.”

“I told you I barely have any money.”

“Your parents gave you some money.”

“Oh, you’re right.”

“And also, you should walk to the school and find a short route to get there.” Namjoon pulled out a literal map.

(Y/N) pouted, “I thought you were gonna walk me to all my classes to deter all the frat boys from coming my way…”

“I did say that,” he confirmed before continuing. “But I mean to get to the actual school grounds.”

“But we have a car.” She had drawnout the ‘but,’ trying to make her point that she didn’t need to walk.

“But you need exercise.” He reasoned, mimicking the way she had said her words.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“(Y/N) i’m not.”

“Yeah you ARE, Casper.”

“Would you PLEASE call me by my actual name for once?”

“Sure thing. Rap Monster.” She teased, the ground started shaking. (Y/N) let out a loud screech looking up at the demon who’s eyes were rolled back. “OH FUCK YOU!”

The shaking died down, Namjoon staring down at the girl who was now underneath the coffee table. “This is why you’re still here!” she cried.

“You want me gone?” Namjoon questioned, offendedly. (Y/N) army crawled her way from her ‘safe spot.’

“I DIDN’T SAY THAT!” She yelled, returning the offended tone.

“I’m out,” Namjoon pivoted on his heel, walking to the front door robotically.

“Noooo!”

“Will I ever see my socks again?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon with hope, “I mean having shoes would be great too though.”

“What’s wrong with living in sandals? Birkenstocks are very comfortable.” Namjoon pivoted around with a candle in his hand.

“It’s winter.” (Y/N) frowned.

“You could always use mine?” He gestured to the shoes at the shoe rack at the front door. The ones that were closed toed…

“Your feet are too big.” (Y/N) looked over at the shoes, then looked down at her own feet, then at the demon.

“Size didn’t matter Last night with your sweaters?”

“That’s different, Namjoon.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Size.” Namjoon smirked.

“Different.” (Y/N) stood confidently.

“You know, you could always just go buy new socks?” Namjoon looked at her oddly.

“I usually wait to get them for Christmas, you should know this by now.”

“Independence.” He stated.

“You’re a hypocrite.” Namjoon let out a ‘huh?’ and (Y/N) continued, “You said independence when you’re dependent on me.”

“That isn’t my fault.” Namjoon raised his hands in defense.

“It kind of is though…” (Y/N) shrugged, Namjoon opened his mouth to retort but was quickly cut off, “I’m literally a rehab center for you.”

“Apparently you’re not a nicely rated one.” Namjoon shook his head.

“I’ve helped 6 other demons, Namjoon. You’re just being difficult.” (Y/N) poked his chest really hard before retracting her hand.

“Ouch,” he put his hand over his heart where she had poked him, “You shouldn’t be saying these things to your client.”

“I didn’t ask to get a client or even BE a rehab center.”

“The reason why you became a rehab center was because you decided that humans were ugly and disgusting.”

“The reason why you ended up with me was because you did something bad and you just now decided to be a good person and it’s not turning out well for you.”

“For your information, I could have left a long time ago.” Namjoon crossed his arms, with an audible exhale from his nose. He stared down at the rehab center.

“And why didn’t you, hm?” (Y/N) crossed her arms also with a raised brow. Namjoon kept quiet, debating how to answer, keeping eye contact as if it was an olympic staring contest.

“You.” He said. (Y/N) snorted, ready to insult the patient. “-would’ve starved to death by now if I hadn’t stayed with you until now.” He finished, (Y/N) gasped, reaching up and hitting Namjoon on the shoulder.

“You. Jerk. Get. Away. From. Me.” She hit him harder every word before waddling away into the hallway from the chuckling demon.

“No problem,” Namjoon disappeared with a veil of sparkles out of view.

(Y/N) thrusted open the door to her new bedroom. Continuing her waddle to the end of the full size bed. Facing the head board, she plopped the top half of her body onto the bed front first. Namjoon reappeared about 6 feet away from her with a loud poof and a burst of sparkles scattering around the room.

“Go away.” (Y/N)’s face was still shoved into the mattress, “Seriously shoo.” (Y/N) lifted her arm off the bed to wave him off.

“I won’t go. You can’t make me.” Namjoon walked towards the bed hesitantly, scared to get fucking murdered by his prison warden, “Move over. Give me some room.”

“Go sleep in my closet.” (Y/N) flipped the demon off.

“You’d prefer nightmares over your dearest Casper?”

“Yes.” Namjoon sat down on the bed, his knee almost hitting the girl’s head. “I thought I said in the closet.”

“And I prefer the bed.” Namjoon leaned forward and took (Y/N) by her hands and pulled her closer to himself with an annoyed groan from her. She was pulled until her head was laid on his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

“I hate you.” (Y/N) grumbled into her demon-pillow.

“I know.”

“You live because I allow it, and that is it to be my flesh pillow.”

“Okay, now sleep.”

“But why do you have to leave?” (Y/N) looked up at her bunk buddy, her chin was impaling the person’s chest.

“I have to. I'm ready to go.” Yoongi looked crestfallen, “They said I could have one more night. But then, when I leave, I can pass on my role.”

“Could you maybe not steal my socks?” (Y/N) pouted at Yoongi who chuckled in response. “This is a genuine request.” She said with slight seriousness in her tone.

“You don’t have any to steal anyways,” he rolled his eyes with an endearing smirk that replaced his dispirited look just seconds before.

“Ok just- don’t go stealing any of my clothing, I need it.” (Y/N) clicked her tongue, not denying the fact that she was sockless.

“I won’t. I don’t need your clothing.” Yoongi shrugged, “I might take your guinea pig though. Meatloaf is cute.”

“YOU wouldn’t DARE take Meatloaf from me.” She glared

“I can and I will.” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest and looked towards the cage that housed Meatloaf. (Y/N) groaned, unlatching an arm that was sandwiched between the bed and Yoongi’s back. She planted her palm smack in the middle of the demon’s face, covering his view of the poor guinea pig.

“No.” She patted his face, Yoongi’s eyes now squeezed shut.

“I can lick your hand.” he threatened, his voice muffled and jumpy from the wacky hand.

“You’re gross,” she moved her hand up, now only covering his eyes and revealing a gummy smile from Yoongi.

“It’s sleep time,” he declared. (Y/N) whined in response, “I’ll be here in the morning to say goodbye one more time okay?”

“Promise?”

“Never said that,” he hummed.

“You jerk,” she groaned, laying her head sideways. Her ear over his heart, engraving the sound into her mind.

Like a cliche love story, (Y/N) woke up to no one but herself on the bed. Through groggy eyes, she could see that poor Meatloaf was gone too.

“I tried to stop him from taking Meatloaf I swear.” Namjoon uncrossed his arms from over his chest when he noticed that (Y/N) was awake.

“Did you really?” (Y/N) sat up in bed.

“I did, I swear,” he said immediately, “I have proof.”

“By proof, do you mean you broke something?” Namjoon took a deep breath figuring out whether or not to say yes or no.

“I… never said that.” He decided on dying, his words drifting off in nervousness.

“So… you did?” She concluded, Namjoon nodded slowly, his eyes down on the floor.

“Yea…” (Y/N) sighed, trying to find anger to cover up a tsunami of sadness that was approaching.

“It’ll be okay. We can summon him every once in a while. Maybe while we’re at it we can try to get your socks back.” Namjoon smiled and hoped it would make her feel better while the reality of things had begun to set in for him. All of the boys loved (Y/N) with all of their hearts but he was the only one willing to stay for the long run.

“I don’t think people want to go back to a rehab center, Namjoon.” (Y/N) let the tears begin to pour.

“(Y/N) it’ll be okay…” Namjoon went over to sit on the bed next to (Y/N), “Seriously we’ll get through this.” Namjoon put a hesitant hand onto (Y/N)’s shoulder and began trying to comfort her.

“I know- I know but-” (Y/N) sniffled, “Hold on, my mascara will run.”

“You’re not wearing any?-” Namjoon raised a brow and looked at (Y/N) like ‘bih-’

“Shush.” (Y/N) shushed Namjoon before shaking off his hand and placing her head on his shoulder.

“You know you can’t prevent me from getting a boyfriend forever.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon before continuing to pack her bag for school.

“I can and I will.” Namjoon slung his own bag over his shoulder. He was definitely a professor.

“You can’t make me be single forever.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes and slung her backpack onto her shoulders.

“Your preferences in men are horrible (Y/N), I'm not trying to prevent you from getting a man.” Namjoon said in a matter of fact voice, moving and opening the front door, letting (Y/N) pass through before he walked out behind her.

She scoffed, “maybe you should hook me up with someone, maybe then you can leave rehab.”

“I miss Meatloaf,” Namjoon said solemnly, changing the subject.

“Why do you always change the subject when I bring up my love life?” (Y/N) complained, stomping her foot as they walked down the hallway of the apartment building toward the elevator.

“Do you think Yoongi will respond if we try to summon him?” He ignored the question.

“Hey Joon? Is your dick ribbed? I heard all the demon dicks were ribbed.”

Namjoon stopped in his tracks, putting his feet together and staring down at the human with a face screaming ‘what-the-fuck?’ (Y/N) had a boxy smile on her face, waiting for a response. “Who the fuck did you hear that from?”

“A fanfic I read, it was a group called DTS,” she shrugged. “Is it right though?” she leaned forward slightly in high expectations.

“Well-” Namjoon paused, “uhhh…” his eyes darted around. “Mine… isn’t.”

“Damn- that’s really disappointing,” (Y/N) frowned, throwing down an imaginary hat onto the ground and continuing walking with Namjoon following behind her.

“Why is it disappointing? You’re a virgin.” Namjoon raised an eyebrow.

“Why would you think I’m a virgin?” (Y/N) looked offended. They stopped in front of the closed silver elevator doors, Namjoon hit the down button before responding.

“You literally had no social life in middle and high school and depended on demons who were attached to you by force in order to not lose your ability to speak in English.” Namjoon raised a finger, “Plus I’ve known you since you were ten and unless it was before that… I would know.” He slipped into the elevator, turning around and walking backwards. A know-it-all smirk plastered on his face while (Y/N) had an annoyed look on her own.

“Can we just- stop before we start arguing about my sex life?” She marched forward into the elevator like a preteen going into their room after an argument with their parents.

“How did you even become a professor?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon confused. “Couldn’t you have just you know… poofed yourself from people’s view when I go to school?”

“I need something to do while you’re in class. I might as well teach asshole frat boys how to do business math amiright.” Namjoon chuckled.

“I mean… you can just be the ghost you are and haunt me n’ stuff?” (Y/N) suggested, “I mean you already do that, Casper.”

“That’s Professor Casper to you.” Namjoon laughed too hard at his own joke.

“Ew,” (Y/N) cringed. “I’d rather call you Daddy Casper.”

“Only in the bedroom.” Namjoon looked at the human.

“Sex doesn’t always have to be private.” (Y/N) stared back at the demon, flipping her hair back. “Wait- are YOU a virgin then?” She asked, bringing back the topic from earlier, but this time about Namjoon.

“Classified.” Namjoon glared.

“So you ARE a virgin?” (Y/N) snorted a laugh, “And you call yourself a demon.”

“Not all demons are incubi or succubi, your demon-racist.” Namjoon accused.

“I am not demon-racist.” (Y/N) looked up at the tall demon, “I’m human.”

“You’re not a human, you’re the personification of the word ‘dumbass.’” He said, poking the proclaimed dumbass on the forehead.

“Rude of you to assume what I am, Casper.” (Y/N) smacked away his hand and pushed Namjoon not so gently on the shoulder.

“Now you’re the hypocrite,” Namjoon glared, “Professor Casper.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, “Daddy Casper.”

Namjoon frowned, “If you’re so persistent on not calling me Professor, then just Daddy works fine.”

The girl shrugged, “I’d prefer to just call you Daddy Casper, but without the Daddy part.”

“But what if I want to be called Daddy Casper.” Namjoon wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as they walked through the gates of the school, the walk soon enough would be coming to an end.

“Woahhhh down bessie.” (Y/N) lifted her hands and moved them in a downward motion, “Save it for the student who’s gonna try to fuck you for their grade.”

Namjoon laughed again, “You say it as if it won’t be you trying to fuck for an A.”

“I don’t get how an idiot like you got a job as a professor.” (Y/N) punched Professor Namjoon on the shoulder who was still laughing at the insult he pulled out his ass against the girl.

“I don’t know how an idiot like you got into college.” Namjoon rubbed his shoulder and then pushed (Y/N) back with a grin on his face. The bell conveniently rang, ending the conversation and forcing the pair to speed their way over to the classrooms.

“You know I saw one of the sorority girls eyeing you, I think we’ve found our fuck-for-a-grade person.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “You wouldn’t fuck her right?”

“I would never fuck one of my students.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “Plus I don’t like cheerleaders, I like depressed freshmen who can see demons and that double time as rehab facilities.”

“I am not a rehab facility. I am a struggling freshman.” (Y/N) clapped at Namjoon.

“No you’re not a rehab facility, you’re my rehab facility.” Namjoon smiled cheekily, “And the way I see it you are not a struggling freshman, you live with a professor that helps you with most of your homework.”

“Eh- The one thing you don’t help with is stress relief.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “The least you could do is let me go out and find a boyfriend.”

“You HAVE a boyfriend.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) seriously.

“WHERE? WHO?” (Y/N)’s eyes frantically searched the room.

“HERE! ME!” Namjoon pointed at himself and then widened his eyes.(Y/N) looked at Namjoon with a raised brow, her frantic eyes stopping and looking the demon up and down.

“I didn’t know you had a rental-boyfriend service?” (Y/N) said in genuine shock, “I don’t have any money though so-“

“You don’t have to rent me.” Namjoon scoffed, “I’m right here and I cost no money.”

“I don’t take charity work, sorry.” Namjoon groaned and covered his face with a hand.

“You’re literally the most stubborn person I know.”

“I’m trying to keep my single streak here, thank you very much.”

“Wait so we aren’t dating?”

“You thought we were dating?”

“You didn’t think that?”

“You like me?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I mean- you never said it-”

“I literally said it seconds ago, (Y/N).”

“Well yeah, seconds ago I guess but I mean before?”

“I literally confessed to you when we were looking for apartments to move out of your parents house.”

“When?-”

“What about this place then?”

“I like it.”

“More than you like me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Are you questioning my love for you?”

“Bitch, maybe I am.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I be questioning it then, hmm?”

“I’m literally helping you look for a home that we both will move into.”

“That proves nothing.”

“Bitch- If that doesn’t say ‘I LOVE YOU’ I don’t know what does.”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe saying ‘I love you’ straight up?”

“Fine.”

“I love you.”

“Nice.”

“Ohhhhhh.” (Y/N) smiled, “You meant that?”

Namjoon looked at her with a blank face. She stared back waiting for an answer that didn’t come.

“So… you do mean it?” She confirmed it herself. The demon nodded slowly, waiting for her to process it.

“(Y/N)? You good?” Namjoon waved a hand in front of her face.

“You know,” she started, finally having rebooted her system. “There’s a lot of things wrong with this relationship. First of all, you’re a demon and I'm a human.”

“Not the first time I've heard of that type of relationship.”

“Secondly, you’re supposed to leave soon considering you’ve delayed it enough. Even using my personified dreamcatcher as compensation to stay longer.”

“I’m pretty sure at this point, they’ve given up on trying to get me back.”

“Third of all, it’s weird that you’ve literally known me since I was ten.” She held up ten fingers, “How old are you again?”

“Not that old for a demon,” he shrugged.

“Exactly. For a demon, thank you for proving my point.” Namjoon went to retort but (Y/N) continued. “Fourth, teacher and student relationships are weird.”

“People roleplay it in the bedroom?” Namjoon shrugged once again.

“Exactly,” she said again.

“It’s technically not weird since you’re not my student though. You’re definitely not a business major so…” Namjoon weighed the pros and cons of being caught with a student even if said student isn’t even one of his.

“I’m an English Major- BUT that’s besides the point. You’ve still known me since I was ten.” (Y/N) poked Namjoon’s chest.

“Hey it’s not like I was creeping on you when you were a kid…” Namjoon raised his hands in defense.

“No you just started creeping on me when I was around sixteen.”

“It’s more acceptable than pedophiles!”

“You’re like three hundred!” She exclaimed, she threw her hands above her head to

“Add about seven-hundred years to that.” Namjoon added with slight hesitation.

(Y/N) stood there, mouth agape, trying to do the mental math.

“You’re one-thousand?!”

“Give or take some.”

“I- I’m going to remove myself from this situation.” (Y/N) walked away.

[:] I ran out of image things, so we get text from now on. [:]

“Maybe I should start sleeping in the closet.” Namjoon voiced his thoughts as he was grading papers one night.

“You don’t have to sleep in the closet.” (Y/N) looked at the demon from across the kitchen table.

“The closet is comfortable.” Namjoon shrugged before voicing his concerns about the student’s work, “I’m pretty sure this student is gonna try to suck my dick for an A. This work sucks ass. How did she even get x=34? The answer is x=0!”

“I’m bad at math, don't look at me.” (Y/N) jotted a note down on her work before closing her notebook.

“But anyway- Back on track. Why do you want to start sleeping in the closet?” (Y/N) raised a questioning brow.

“Because the bed is awkward now.” Namjoon sighed before writing a bold ‘10/35’ down on the paper and circling it. (Y/N) glanced over at the paper that was marked red at every inch of it.

“You should put ‘see me after class’ on it. Maybe she’ll suck your non-ribbed demon dick.” (Y/N) suggests as she puts away her notebook. Namjoon’s fist hit the table in annoyance with a loud sigh that definitely said ‘i’m not getting some dumb bitch to suck my dick.’ The girl snorted, “Geez, no need to be so rough on the table.”

“Stop bringing up my non-ribbed demon dick.” Namjoon glared across the table.

“You admit that it’s not ribbed? That’s rough, man.” (Y/N) sighed sympathetically. “Some people are into that, you know.” Namjoon facepalmed, a bit too harshly, a loud smack echoing in the cramped apartment. “No need to be so rough, Casper.”

“You’d probably like it rough, and why the hell are you so bent on the fact that my dick isn’t ribbed?” Namjoon glared, moving onto the next student’s paper.

“We’ve taken the god damn BDSM test together, Casper. You KNOW I'd like it rough.” (Y/N) said in a smart-ass tone, knowing for a fact that they’ve done the test before.

“That shit lies,” Namjoon declared, “I’m not a bottom.”

“We know sweetie, we know. The test did you dirty.” (Y/N) weighed her options before ultimately deciding not to cross the room to comfort her demon. “But you know, the test DID have some direct questions-”

“You mean like the golden showers?”

“Ew, why would you even bring that up.”

“You said ‘direct questions.'” Namjoon shrugged.

“That question was traumatic.” (Y/N) shuddered, “But anyway, You can keep sleeping in the bed. It’s only awkward for you. Plus you can’t even be a demon dreamcatcher from a closet.”

“I can and I will. Now go get ready for bed. I'll join you in a bit. I have to email the kids' advisor.”

[:] Oh wow, another spliter [:]

“What’s awkward about this?” (Y/N) asked, ignorant to the fact that it was very awkward. Her legs were wrapped around the demon’s waist, who was laying down as straight as a log uncomfortably.

“Everything is uncomfortable.” Namjoon tried to push (Y/N) off of him.

“This is where you’re wrong,” (Y/N) states. “Your chesticles are very comfortable.” She furthered her point, by moving her head and weirdly nuzzling her cheek into his chest.

“(Y/N) get off of me.” Namjoon was now really uncomfortable.

“No.” (Y/N) pulled Namjoon’s log-body closer.

“Please?” Namjoon wiggled some more, “Seriously (Y/N) get off.”

“No…” (Y/N) held Namjoon tighter, “Imma go sleep now.”

“Ok (Y/N).” With that Namjoon pushed (Y/N) up and off of him and climbed out of bed and into the closet.

(Y/N) whined, “Nooooooo!” She looked at the closet through her eyebrows. “Are you hiding something from me?” She accused the demon.

“Excuse me?” Namjoon opened the closet door a bit.

“Oh my god- are you a closet gay?” She gasped loudly.

“WHAT?” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) from the crack in the doorway.

“It’s okay! You don’t need to use a fake confession to hide it from me.” She comforted the demon, “I will support you 1000 percent.”

“I’M NOT GAY!” Namjoon wiggled around in the closet before emerging from the space.

“Okay okay- but just so you know, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, Casper. Closeted or not.” She hummed, her words being muffled as she slowly put her face into the mattress.

“It’s been awkward since you basically called me a cradle robber, you stubborn piece of shit.” Namjoon blushed at his confession.

“I thought you didn’t care about that earlier.” (Y/N) looked back up, taking a deep breath of air after almost suffocating herself.

“Well I did.” Namjoon huffed out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Well that sucks,” (Y/N) said blandly, “I was thinking of saying I love you.”

“The fuck- wait,” Namjoon’s eyes widened.

“Night night.”

[:] Cockadoodle-Doo it's morning [:]

The next morning came around quickly for (Y/N), though I wouldn’t say the same for Namjoon. Having him overthinking the “postponed” love confession from (Y/N). Meanwhile, though the night was quick, the morning dragged the girl by the toilet paper stuck at the bottom of her shoe.

Frown plastered on her face, seemingly deep in thought. She was unmoving in her seat aside from her wrist moving to stir the half eaten cereal in front of her. Namjoon sat across from her, “You can stop thinking, you’re going to hurt your head.”

The insult snapped the girl out of her concentration, she looked up and clicked her tongue. “I was just thinking about you. You want me to stop doing that?”

Namjoon raised a brow, “Depends on what you were thinking about.”

“I was wondering if we could summon the boys,” (Y/N) smiled before continuing, “Maybe get my socks back…”

“Are you saying you’d enjoy the company of your socks more than you with me?” Namjoon asked rhetorically with a shocked expression. (Y/N) gagged and rolled her eyes.

“Namjoon…” she said with a honey coated tone. “Are you saying you don’t know that I know you’ve used MY socks before?” The accused had a shocked look on his face that looked like he was on the verge of throwing up.

(Y/N) started snickering, amused by the demon’s expression. “As if I'd use your cheap ass yellow striped socks,” Namjoon aimed his nose at the ceiling. The girl laughed harder, finding the insult to her socks a bit too amusing.

“Okay, back on topic,” she said in between giggles, “We’ll get back to this later.” Namjoon shook his head, unamused unlike the person across from him.

The offended sock insulter cleared his throat, “We should have enough time before we need to go to the school to summon one of them.” He said in a factual voice, (Y/N) nodded as she took a glance at the time that read 7:23 am.

“What did we need again?” She got up from the stool she sat on, abandoning the poor soggy cereal. Namjoon got up also with a hum of thought.

“Candles and a lighter are the main things, obviously,” He says. (Y/N) nodded going into one of the kitchen cabinets for the items. “And if we’re summoning all of them, we’d need offerings…” Namjoon drifted off.

(Y/N) put down the candles onto the marble counter and looked at Namjoon questionably, “So… we need another hamster and dog?” This made the demon pause before nodding slowly, the situation becoming a bit more difficult than it needed to be now.

“And then what about Hobi? What he took wasn’t exactly… a physical object?” She also put it into consideration and clicked her tongue. “I’m still mad at you for sacrificing my literal source of happiness and good luck for yourself.” Namjoon’s jaw dropped.

“I thought we were past this!” He threw his hands up in the air, (Y/N) flipping him off simultaneously.

“Maybe you were,” she sassed, pointing fingers with a half assed glare.

“Technically, it wasn’t a sacrifice, (Y/N).” He said, crossing his arms.

“Well-” She was cut off by the demon.

“Nuh uh, It was just him choosing to leave and wanting to stay,” he snapped, not in a harsh way though.

“But-”

“You know what, let’s just try and summon them another day. I don’t think it’d work anyways.” Namjoon said, dismissing the topic by waving his hand, taking a glance at the tree outside.

[:] Wooshy flash back time I guess [:]

“Why are you still here?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “I mean weren’t you supposed to leave this year?”

“I was supposed to leave instead of Hobi last year. I asked to stay.” Namjoon was sitting nonchalantly in one of the lounge chairs in her parents' living room reading the book she was supposed to be reading for school.

“Why didn’t you leave when you were supposed to?” (Y/N) looked at the demon, a look of confusion evident on her features.

“Who else is supposed to write your book reports for school?” Namjoon smirked while holding up the book before going back to reading said book.

“Then why did Hobi leave? Did he not want to be attached anymore?” (Y/N) began to tear up.

“It’s not that. I asked to stay because I felt I wasn’t ready to leave yet and Hoseok felt he was ready to leave. Most of the time, we leave when our time comes (Y/N). Hobi and mine were at the same time and I wanted to stay so I stayed.” Namjoon smiled at (Y/N).

“But why didn’t Hobi want to stay?” (Y/N)’s tears were flowing freely at this point.

“(Y/N)! Are you crying?” (Y/N)’s mom came rushing downstairs to investigate why her only child was crying.

“I’m fine.” Even (Y/N) wasn’t convincing herself, “Really Mom, I’m just over exhausted. I’m gonna go up to my room.”

[:] And back to the present :) [:]

“Are you almost ready to go?” Namjoon popped his head into the bedroom, “We have to leave soon if you want to be on time for school.”

“I’m almost ready, relax. And don’t you have a class to teach and a non-ribbed dick to get sucked by that one bitch for an A?” (Y/N) scoffed from where she was printing an essay that Namjoon had written the night before.

Namjoon started counting down from five, “Five- You better fucking get your ass in gear or you’re gonna be late. Four- Seriously (Y/N). Three- Professor Howard can’t give you another pass just because he likes you. Two-” Namjoon got cut off by (Y/N).

“I’m ready, asshole.” (Y/N) looked at him, “You better not let that bitch Brianna suck your dick.”

“I won’t let her suck my dick!” Namjoon raised his hands in defense, “What about my toes though?” (Y/N) looked at the demon with a face of disgust and looked at him from head to toe.

“Are you Namjoon or Taehyung?” She squinted, looking at his face.

“It was a joke!” Namjoon smirked, “But I'm sure she’ll do it for an A anyway.”

“I’m done with this conversation Casper.” With that (Y/N) slung her bag over her shoulder and left.

“Hey wait!” Namjoon grabbed his own bag before speed walking after (Y/N).

[:] Professor Casper or Daddy Casper? [:]

“SO.” (Y/N) sat down across from Namjoon in his office, “Rumour has it that you’re dating a cute english-lit major and are up for evaluation. What say you in your defense?”

“I mean I am dating a cute english-lit major. But I’m not up for evaluation, I used my demon charms to get out the punishment.”

Namjoon looked at (Y/N) seriously.

“Did you actually?” (Y/N) gaped at Namjoon.

“No. I explained that dating you is punishment enough.” Namjoon smiled, his dimples popping.

“Bastard.” (Y/N)looked at Namjoon.

“Bitch.” Namjoon smirked at (Y/N) before leaning over the desk and kissing her on the forehead, “I love you.”

“Good.” (Y/N) blushed.

There, through the window of the office, there were 6 peeping toms watching the couple.

“Adadada-uda,” Taehyung stuttered, “THEY’RE SO CUTE!”

“This looks like it’d turn out like a straight porn video on the hub,” Yoongi says bluntly.

Jungkook looked at Yoongi, “Ew straight.”

“Moving on,” Seokjin cleared his throat, “Does anyone remember when (Y/N) said I love you back?”

A series of “No’s” could be heard.

“Maybe we weren’t watching!” Jimin raised his hands, “But when were we not watching?”

“Oh I know!” Hoseok interrupted, “When they split up because of classes earlier. We left Yoongi hyung in charge just in case something happened.”

“I took a nap and must've missed it.” The guilty demon shrugged.

“No, (Y/N) definitely isn’t someone who confesses straight up.” Seokjin said, stroking his chin. The rest nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, that's why she didn’t have a man when we were still there.” Jungkook snorted.

“No JK, we all know the reason why (Y/N) was always single. Was because she was pining after Namjoon.” Jimin stated the obvious.

[:] Damn. Imagine having someone to kiss in public. Or at all. [:]

“So how do you reckon the staff caught onto us… I mean PDA really isn’t our thing.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “Who have you told?”

“I haven’t told anyone!” (Y/N) frowned, “Maybe someone saw us go home together? I bet it was that bitch Brianna. She gives off the stalker vibes.”

“I’m not gonna let her suck my dick.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “And she’s already failing my class so even if I did let her suck my non-ribbed punisher, she still would probably only have a D-.”

“Hey- I thought we stopped referring to your dick as non-ribbed.” Namjoon raised a brow, making a face that said ‘you’re-the-one-who-started-it.’

Reading his expression (Y/N) glared at the demon, “Technically you’re the one who started it because you freely admitted it freely.”

“What makes you find out the hard way that my dick isn’t ribbed?” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) suggestively before flopping namtiddie first into the couch.

“I think I would've preferred finding out the hard way.” (Y/N) flopping onto Namjoon’s hard back.

“So I can’t even have the couch to myself?” Namjoon groaned before realizing what (Y/N) meant by ‘finding out the hard way,’ “Are you saying you rather had found out in the heat of the moment after having prepared yourself for a ribbed demon dick?” Namjoon leaned his head up to bump (Y/N) who still had her fat ass on his back, “I can’t breathe, get off.”

(Y/N) rolled off of Namjoon before plopping herself down in front of Namjoon, “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

[:] Smh stalkers at every moment [:]

“And I got a big fat ass!” (Y/N) shook her ass while singing off-key.

“Your ass is everything but big, baby.” Namjoon passed (Y/N) to reach for the garlic from the spice cabinet.

The girl turned and looked at Namjoon with an offended look, “You know. As my rental boyfriend, you’re supposed to be nice.”

Garlic forgot, Namjoon turned to (Y/n) and grabbed her waist, “I’m not your rental boyfriend and you know that.”

(Y/N) laughed, “Okay go off I guess, not my rental boyfriend.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes before pushing Namjoon away.

“Woman,” Namjoon placed a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”

(Y/N) turned around and smiled at her demon, “I could argue that you’re the one that wounds me.”

“I do not wound you.” Namjoon scoffs, “But I could very well wound you if you keep saying i’m a rental boyfriend, love.”

“Well we wouldn’t want you to wound me now would we,” (Y/N) smiled up at Namjoon before leaning in and placing a quick peck to his lips, “I love you.”

Namjoon smiled before returning (Y/N)’s peck with a chaste kiss, “I love you too, baby.”

*Meanwhile from the dining room 6 men were watching from not so afar*

“Hyung! Hyung! Did you see that!” Jungkook excitedly pointed towards the couple in the kitchen.

Yoongi groaned, “See what?”

“Le gasp! How could you have missed that!” Taehyung held a hand over his heart, “(Y/N) initiated affection for once!”

Jin smiled, “It really was adorable.”

[:] Oh look, you're at the end. [:]

“Every kiss begins with consent.” Namjoon wiggled his shoulders while grading papers at the table.

(Y/N) smirked before leaning over the table and planting a large whet kiss on Namjoon’s cheek.

“Rude.” Namjoon scoffed before pulling (Y/N) in for a proper kiss.

“You know that kiss didn’t have much of my consent in it.” (Y/N) smiled before leaning in for another kiss.

“I don’t think I consented to that either though.” Namjoon smiled.

“Get back to work baby.” (Y/N) nudged Namjoon towards his pile of papers.

“Yeah yeah.” Namjoon smiled before looking down and putting a big red ‘F’ on a paper clearly marked Brianna Simms.

“When will she just drop the class?” (Y/N) chuckled, “Dumbass.”

do not repost, translate, or claim as your own. :]

80 notes · View notes

blackcherrykiss · 3 years

Text

BLOOD BOUNDARIES - Enhypen OT7 Fanfic (ch.5)

[CH.1] [CH.2] [CH.3] [CH.4] previous chapters

[CH.6] next chapter (now available!)

genre: vampire au, romance, drama, mystery, thriller

note: written inspired by enhypen's storyline, given-taken lyrics & teasers. please keep in mind all members are apart of this fanfic and the main theme is mystery/drama!

P.S Niki and Sunoo's roles become bigger in later chapters :) sorry I took 2 weeks to update. School + new enhypen teasers made me alter the story now jesus their lore is confusingly interesting. Didn't proofread half of this chapter LOL. Happy readings <3

"Well now that everyone is here, I'd like to announce we have a new student who just transferred here." Your eyes were immediately drawn to the student's platinum blonde hair. Despite his sharp and charismatic face, his eyes were delicate and innocent. He had an exceptionally small face and a sunkissed skin tone. The new student snapped himself around so that the entire classroom got a good look at him, "Hello, my name is Park Jongseong or Jay, call me whatever you feel." He bowed slightly, his voice having a cool ring that played over in your head.

"Everybody please welcome Jay to our astronomy class. Lend him any of our previous notes because midterms are coming up and I'd appreciate as a teacher if you guys helped him catch up before our long weekend coming up in two weeks." Your teacher gave a warm smile, nodding in such a way that made the rest of the class nod with her.

Without a student saying a word, everyone's eyes followed him as he took a seat at a desk a couple of rows in front of you.

You stared at him tirelessly, barely listening as your teacher rambled off-topic. You noticed Jay often stared out at the crying sky that occasionally flickered with lightning. His eyes focused intently on the woods. You were sure you weren't the only one who was interested in the new boy as you frequently caught other students glancing over at him every few seconds. Jay carried an attractive and dark aura that clearly contrasted from the crowd. Both girls and boys stared at him not because of his pretty face but because he was far different from the new students who had joined your school mid-semester.

The class flew by for you because of Jay until a simple but intriguing question was purposed by the teacher, "Bonus marks today if anyone can guess when the next full moon is." she lifted her eyes off the projector for a few moments, waiting for answers to come sailing.

"Saturday?" Somebody from the front called out, followed by numerous answers that ranged between the second week to the fourth week of the month.

"Come on now. Don't blurt out, give others chances to guess. Jay why don't you guess?" Your teacher questioned welcomingly, expecting no answer from him.

He leaned back in his chair, scraping the non-writing end of his ballpen on his thumb, "November 30." A gentle sound of thunder playing perfectly when he said the answer; like some sort of scene out of a comic.

"Ding ding ding!" Your teacher switched to a PowerPoint slide with the new unit name bolded, "I know this isn't part of the curriculum but I got it approved by the head of the school." She took a breath, giving students time to comprehend what was presented in front of them. "Our next unit will be looking deeper at the moon. More specifically, we'll be looking at both the sciency and non-sciency sides of this topic. And before anyone asks; no, you don't need to believe in astrology or superstitions to understand the non-sciency material. It's just very fascinating because it connects to many cultures." Your attention was now far away from Jay. You were enthusiastic about a topic for once in the class.

"And looks like we're running out of time." Your teacher's wrist clock blocking her eyes. "That's it for today's class everyone! I'll have your projects marked for next class, I promise! Have a good day." She said while shutting off the projector.

You slid all your handouts into your binder, not bothering to align the three-hole punches of the papers to their designated rings.

"Y/N before you go, do you mind helping out Jay? Today or tomorrow?" Your teacher stopped you on your way out.

"Like lend him my notes?"

"Yep! I just forgot to ask but he just left so you might be able to catch up to him. Maybe ask if he's got the notes yet."

You waved your goodbyes and chased the new boy down, his uniquely blonde hair standing out from the hallway of heads. You picked up the pace to catch up with his swift steps when you caught him chatting with Sunghoon and Jaeyun. Your feet froze straight down in their place.

Were they new friends? Or perhaps they were old friends?

You weren't going to bother talking to Jay as you already knew what kind of funny business would come up if you did. You could only watch them swing and lean their arms against each other in a close and friendly way. The picture was becoming more and more clear to you as to what kind of association Jay had with Sunghoon and Jaeyun perhaps even Heeseung, Sunoo or Jungwon.

...

You throw yourself violently over your thick mattress after finishing a long study and homework session at your dorm. The session wasn't productive but the time you spent surrounded by your schoolwork made it feel that way. Your dorm was awfully quiet that afternoon as your dormmates had music rehearsals for their extracurriculars. Nana had told you to come by the music rooms around a quarter past five when their practice was over to go down to the dining hall and have dinner but you couldn't think of a way to kill your remaining hour alone.

Phones were forbidden in your school and you often felt uncontrollably alone and bored with your thoughts during your free time. You could only lay tangled in your bed with your half progressed work in the corner of your eye. You shift on one side to watch your wide-open binder until you got some burst of motivation to finish studying until an idea hits you.

After eyeing your handouts from your astronomy class, you decide to hit the library and do some reading to get a little advanced in the class. Sure you could study for your other class but the sudden idea was far more worth your time in your mind. You quickly twirl out of your room, clearing your desk while you're at it. Excitedly, you hop into your shoes and head straight for the library. You were put in a good mood as you skipped along the long journey to the bookhouse.

The library was moderately packed as you don't bother to recognize any faces there. You get deja vu as you trail the same path you did when Sunghoon and Kyungeun were around. Sliding between the thin space between the bookshelves once again, you search for the section related to the moon, feeling dizzy at the sight of books your school owned. You could've made your life easier by asking the librarian but you were confident you could find it on your own. You move up and down the aisles as you catch a glimpse of theoretical and astrology related books that sit next to a couple of history books.

Backing up, you awkwardly bend your knees forward to get a better look at the small selection of books under the genre. You peel a random book spine out from its tight spot as if it had never been taken out before. You dust off the book a bit, reading the wordless cover and open it to check if it was really related to any sort of astronomy as you find a much stranger subject being discussed.

"Finding everything alright?" The librarian comes by, pushing a kart from the other end of the shelves. "I-I'm looking for books related to the moon." You say, standing up and forgetting you still had the old book in hand.

"The scientific information is just on the other side of this shelf but the section you were just looking at has some interesting stuff that might be related." The librarian stuffed herself in between the shelves to get toward you.

"Yeah, I noticed... This book I just picked up was talking about vampires." You laugh a little as you hold it up.

"Ah, that book..." She paused, snatching the book out of your hands to examine it, "I read this before... It relates to astrology. I think there are some parts of the book that go into detail about the moon, you should give it a read."

"Is this book just theoretical research about vampires though?" You were unconvinced with the idea.

"Yeah, real or not, our school grounds and the neighbouring town are talked about in the book. Apparently many years ago this place used to be a hotspot for vampires." She looked you dead in the eyes.

"Do you think the information is true?" You questioned with deep curiosity upon her answer.

"Some information in there is haunting. I think vampires did exist." She said with some sort of distress beginning to seep into her face.

Shivers ran down your spine, if she was just trying to sell you the book, it was working damn well on you.

"I'll leave you be, no need to sign out the book, nobody ever takes it out so I trust you'll return it." And with that said, she left you cold with mystery as the book between your fingers stared at you with big round eyes.

You shake back to reality, checking your wrist just to find out your time has vanished. You shift your priorities to getting to the music department, throwing the book into your bag without much thought.

...

The sun was already going down around the afternoon as the days got shorter with autumn blossoming. You're standing between rooms full of beautiful voices and instruments, peering through every window attached to a door in an attempt to find your roommates. The issue was the widows didn't give much of a view as to who was in the rooms. But your ears were drawn to a gentle piano that played a bittersweet melody beneath the louder sounds of people singing in a harmonious glee. As you move in the forward direction of the hallway, the piano gets clearer to your ears. It became clear that the sound was coming out of a room with its door wide open. Your back attached it to the wall in fear of being seen as slide yourself until you meet the spine of the door where you could see into the shadowy room.

Your eyes lit up when they see a familiar platinum blondie behind the keys. The melody was enchanting and was played in such a personal way as the sounds escaped into the noisy environment where it hoped to go unheard. Jay had reached the final notes of his song as he turned his head in your direction. It was as if he knew of your present from the moment you started watching him from the doorway.

124 notes · View notes