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id-rather-be-an-outsider · 2 years

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Simps. And Dumbasses.

Eren Yeager x Black!Reader

summary: Eren Yeager is an absolute simp and has no clue what to say or do to get you to notice him, and his pride leads him to ask Connie, of all people, for advice.

word count: 4080 (including words in text messages)

a/n: I’ve been vibing to Sza lately and for some reason I’ve been inspired to write this, uwu. reader uses she/her pronouns? warnings are reader experiences bullying throughout her childhood, hint of a micro aggression but it could also be seen as ppl just making fun of her curls bc I’ve experienced that before, so it’s up to the reader’s interpretation, that’s it I think. enjoy!

masterlist

“You’re a fucking simp, dude,” Connie laughs over the phone, and Eren squeezes the bridge of his nose, knowing exactly the stupid face the baldie was making. Connie continues, “But hey, I don’t blame you. If I had a chance with a baddie like that, with a booty like that, I’d already be so much of a simp ya’ll would never hear from me ever again.”

“That would be such a blessing, Connie, truly. Please go meet someone hot and leave the group chat in peace.” Eren chooses to ignore Connie openly discussing his crush’s ass in favor of the cynical jab. “Anyways, are you gonna help me?”

“Uh, yea. Just be yourself. It works for me.”

“… But you’re perpetually single.”

“No I’m- oh wait, I am. Shit.”

“Did you seriously not know your own relationship status?” Eren blinks, falling back on his bed. “I just got a migraine from your idiocy.”

“I’m sorry that I fuck often enough to have to debate it, simp.”

“You’re a thot. And stop calling me a simp!”

“Then stop simping for y/n and just talk to her, dumbass!” Connie hangs up before Eren can retort, and Eren’s phone vibrates in his hand. He checks his messages and a text from Connie reads:

Eren scowls, furiously typing back:

Eren throws his phone away dramatically, already tired of Connie’s antics. A few seconds later, though, he picks it back up, texting Jean:

Eren rolls his eyes. How is he supposed to learn about you? Other than approaching you, of course, because that would just be weird and bad and he would look like a creep. At least, that’s what his brain has decided on a whim of anxiety.

Anxiety isn’t normal for Eren, even general nervousy isn’t. Sure, back when he went to Paradis Prep, he would get nervous for big tests if he wasn’t strong in the subject, but this is different. For the first time, he cares about what another person thinks of him.

Do you think of him, even? God, he hopes so. If you don’t then that’s really embarrassing. As he ponders this with a tinge of existential dread, a notification pops up on his screen. You tweeted a link to your Spotify wrapped, and a lightbulb goes off. Okay, not a lightbulb, more like a sign saying, ‘HEY DUMMY TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS LUCKY OPPORTUNITY RIGHT NOW’ beat him fifty times in the face, but still.

He browses through the list, realizing he doesn’t recognize a single song. Jhene Aiko, Bryson Tiller, Megan Thee Stallion, Sza, Doja Cat and Isaiah Rashad. Definitely not his genre. Over the course of the day, he listens to the entire list, but one song specifically, titled ‘Pretty Little Birds,’ catches him off guard. He closes his eyes, letting the wind outside caress his face and letting the tide of the music’s highs and lows take him with them. At its end, he’s surprised to find himself with tears webbing down his face, and the next song makes it even worse.

*******************************************************

Armin hears music blasting from his shared dorm with Eren and immediately shakes his head, knowing it can’t be a good thing. He sends a quick text to Mikasa to let her know her brother is likely inconsolable, and opens it to hear ‘Garden (Say It Like Dat)’ by Sza breaking the sound barrier, and when he sees Eren laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, he sighs. “Alexa, volume down.” Eren lifts his head up and glares at him, and Armin says, “Eren, what are you doing?”

“SOMEBODY HURT HER, ARMIN! Somebody made her feel unworthy, or like she was an imposter, or something just as bad!”

Armin furrows his brows. “And just so we’re on the same page, this is about… who?”

Eren scoffs, like it should be obvious. “Y/n. Who else would it be? You know I’ve liked her for forever, Armin.” Armin does know that, yes, but he also knows that Eren has spent the last several months adamantly denying his crush on y/n. Armin suspected it had a bit to do with him being scared of everyone teasing him for it, and a bit to do with not wanting to be beat to a pulp by Onyankopon for crushing on his little sister.

The man is pretty chill normally, but the few times he’s gotten into fights were when guys tried to make a play for y/n and he didn’t think they measured up. The fight between him and Porco is one Armin remembers well, mostly because everyone was betting on Porco then. Armin bet on Onyankopon and won quite a bit of money. All under the table, of course. He’s seen the way Mikasa obliterates people who come after Eren - he knew Porco’s infatuation for y/n would be no match against an overprotective sibling, and he was right.

Wait. Porco.

At the time of that fight he hadn’t considered why the two were fighting other than y/n being too precious for anyone by Onyankopon’s standards, but now he remembers Sasha mentioning y/n dumping Porco after dating for a month because of something disrespectful he did, which Sasha heard from Niccolo, a close friend of y/n’s fiercely loyal older brother.

As he ruminates on this, he debates telling Eren, but decides he shouldn’t. It’s really not worth the risk with Eren’s temper. Instead, he says, “You know, Niccolo is friends with y/n, and Sasha is starting to get closer to her. Maybe you could ask them if she’s actually in need of comforting. Since you probably won’t ask her yourself.”

“Who says I won’t ask her myself?” Eren retorts.

“Uh, do the last two quarters ring any bells for you?” Armin supplies, knowing he’s got Eren beat.

Eren concedes, “Okay, y’got me there. When is Niccolo going to Sasha’s next?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t tell you.” Armin grimaces, leaning toward not telling him.

“I’ll tell Annie you like her if you don’t spill the beans.” Eren threatens, his gaze ice cold.

“Tomorrow.”

“Thanks, ‘Min.” He says, getting up and clapping him on the back as he makes a beeline for the fridge.

*******************************************************

“So, you want to know about y/n? Why don’t you just ask her out?” Sasha asks as she carefully licks Niccolo’s special sauce off her fingers. She loves having a chef as her boyfriend. Every time he cooks for her she’s convinced she could die happy.

Armin warned Sasha that Eren was acting manic now that he’s finally admitted his crush on y/n. It’s cute to see Eren give a shit about something other than video games, and him coming over meant Niccolo would cook more, ergo she would eat more because Eren would be too busy talking to notice her eating his entire plate after finishing her own, so she doesn’t mind the intrusion.

“I already told you, I can’t just ask her out. Onyankopon would kill me.” Eren grits out between his teeth, putting a hand up to shield his mouth from Niccolo’s eyes.

Niccolo, who definitely heard what Eren said, supplies, “What? Onyankopon is a nice guy, he wouldn’t do that. Just don’t hurt her and you’ll be fine. He likes you.” He sits down across from Sasha, his plate lightly scraping on the wooden table.

“But what if I do hurt her? With my… with my…” Eren trails off as he looks for the right words.

“Idiotic tendencies?” Sasha quips, shrugging her shoulders at him when he gapes at her.

“Why is everyone so mean to me?” Eren asks the air, hoping for some sympathy.

“Because you’re an open target.” Sasha answers for the room as she steals a shrimp from Niccolo’s plate, avoiding his disapproving glare.

“Thanks for that vote of confidence.” Eren slumps.

Niccolo laughs quietly. When both Sasha and Eren look at him, he says, “Just communicate, Eren. Ninety percent of relationships fail because they lack healthy communication. Do you think Sasha would stick around for my good looks and cooking skills alone?”

“I would.” Sasha replies, pupils practically heart-shaped.

He glances over at her lovingly, “Okay, fair point. But,” Niccolo’s face grows serious as he shifts his attention back to Eren, “If you’re not a handsome devil like me who made it through Hell’s Kitchen, you need to make sure you have that on lock.”

Eren nods, all seriousness. Then, he meekly asks, “So uh, what’s her favorite food?”

*******************************************************

He’s a foot from your door, about to knock. Before Eren decided to do this, he DMed everyone who he knew was friends with you and wouldn’t spill the beans, or he crashed whatever activity they were in the middle of, only coming across one sock on a door during his investigation. He now knows your favorite colors, candies, food, he’s caught himself up with all your favorite animes and historical dramas, has familiarized himself with your hobbies, and knows your schedule practically by heart. He’s almost sure you’re home right now, and he hopes to high heavens that he remembered correctly what your favorite flowers are, otherwise the bouquet he’s holding will look pretty thoughtless. He can feel his stomach bubbling and he’s not sure if it’s from all the Sprite he helped Connie drink a few hours ago before the rest of the case expired, or if he’s just regular-anxious. Or both. Probably both.

He takes a deep breath, and knocks. After about thirty seconds, Hitch answers with a happy greeting. “Hi, Eren! Y/n will love those,” She chirps as she grabs his arm, pulling him inside. Hitch is one of y/n’s roommates and her best friend, but Eren knew she would want to help him. She’s always been a romantic. “She’s not here right now, but I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” He’s smiling, getting his hopes up just a bit, only for his stomach to drop when he rounds the corner. Yelena.

He knew Yelena was another roommate of y/n’s, but he failed to consider that she’s Onyankopon’s best friend - along with Niccolo, of course. The one person he’s been terrified of finding out this whole time, is sitting right in front of him on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers pressed together like he’s thinking deeply and a sly grin on his face.

“Hello, Eren Yeager. Sit. Let’s have a chat.”

*******************************************************

Onyankopon thinks himself to be pretty even-tempered, all things considered. He’s only ever gotten into a few fights in his lifetime, and they all were justified, in his opinion. You may occasionally beg to differ, but you’re his sister - it’s not like you’re always going to understand that sometimes he has to do things you won’t agree with.

Like when school bullies would pull on your hair when you were small, or put sticks and twigs in it, laughing at how your curls kept it in place. When you got older, you realized why he put them on their asses, even if it meant being sent home from school and being dubbed a ‘problem kid’.

When you hit puberty and those same people who used to mock you now wanted to be your friends, you thought nothing of it, thinking that maybe they’d grown out of that phase. That was, until Onyankopon came home with a black eye and a busted lip because your supposed ‘guy best friends’ were joking about running a train on you in the gym locker rooms.

You blocked them all the same night, and the next day, asked your teachers to move you across the room. You ate your lunch in your history teacher’s classroom, and you held your head high when you caught them staring at you despite wanting to cry.

You never paid much attention to the way they were more touchy-feely with you before, or at least, you would brush off your discomfort as them just being like that and you being weird because you had a hard time making friends when you were little, but after that you realized how they never respected your boundaries and seemingly viewed you as a slab of meat.

Onyankopon didn’t need you to tell him how you felt then in order to know it - he knew you - but he listened anyway when you told him your fears, your insecurities, your doubts. He also listened to your dreams and desires, and he swore to himself that he would make sure no one ever crossed your path who didn’t tick all those boxes for your ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’.

Nowadays, you guys have a tight enough relationship for you to know, if Onyankopon says a guy isn’t worth it, he isn’t. Most people think you’re twins until he sets the record straight, but twins or not, he knows your heart.

He also knows that you’ve been crushing on Eren Yeager for a while now, your poor soul hoping he would ask you out, which made him sad since he knew Yeager would probably never do it - he knows Eren’s kind of an idiot. But, he did always think Eren was a nice guy. Definitely nicer than Porco, he thinks, who spent the week before being dumped by y/n getting too comfortable and making snide remarks about things he wished she could change, especially her lack of a want to get intimate early on in their relationship. Of course, you didn’t divulge that information to your brother until after you decided to dump Porco, but he still beat him up anyways.

Onyankopon’s mind stills as he observes Eren nervously wringing his hands, looking around himself at the environment, occasionally widening his eyes at Hitch who’s watching from the kitchen, very amused at the scene unfolding before her. As if he’s asking for help.

“So, uh,” Eren starts, his voice quivering a little as he swallows. Oh boy, this is gonna be fun. “Nice dorm you guys have here. I mean, girls, I mean, I usually use ‘guys’ as a gender neutral term but I don’t know if it would make you uncomfortable, but-“

“Eren!” Yelena stares at him grimly, before smiling gently and whispering, “Calm. Down.”

“Sorry.”

Onyankopon finally clears his throat (though he didn’t really need to, considering the attention was on him already), deciding on what to say. “So you want to date my sister.”

Eren nods meekly.

“Do you want to fuck her?”

“No!” Eren shouts, then corrects himself. “I mean, yes, I mean, if she wants to and we’re both capable of consenting, but that’s not- that’s not my main goal with it- that came out wrong, I-“

Onyankopon puts up a hand, effectively silencing Eren, who quickly clamps his mouth shut. Onyankopon can almost see the gears spinning in his head, and he wants to laugh, but he’s also kind of enjoying watching Eren turn into a blathering mess. “Are you… usually like this?” He asks, choking on a laugh he doesn’t want to release.

“Uh, only when I’m nervous. If you uh, need proof I’m not an idiot I can show you my GPA-“

“-Not needed. I know you’ve been on the Dean’s List every quarter. I always see your name when looking for my sister’s. Speaking of which,” He leans back comfortably, offering Eren a more friendly smile. “Why do you like y/n?”

Eren fidgets, stammering out, “Well, you see, I- We’ve a few classes together, and obviously the first thing I noticed was how pretty she is - and I mean really, she’s beautiful-“

“-AWWWW!!!” Says Hitch from the kitchen, before Yelena tosses another one of her murderous looks at her, after which Hitch opens up the fridge and pretends to browse around for a snack like she isn’t hinged on every word of the conversation.

“Continue.” Yelena urges, crossing her arms and turning to look at Eren next to her. She used to envy Eren’s abilities, until her own surpassed his. He’s not an idiot or anything, though - she’s just brilliant.

“Yea. Ummm, but what really caught my eye was how smart she was, and how passionate she was, is, about learning, and I know I’m probably not the person you see her potentially being with, but I really do like her-“

“Eren. All I want in a partner for my sister is someone who treats her how she deserves to be treated and values her like I do.” Onyankopon states.

For the first time during their whole conversation, Eren’s fiery eyes make an appearance instead of the ones where he looks like a scared cat. “Then I promise, Onyankopon, that is exactly what I will do.” And he can tell Eren means it. He knows that resolve, that fighter’s spirit - and it’s why he was secretly happy when he noticed the lingering looks you gave each other at social gatherings, both of you just oblivious enough to never catch each other in the act.

“Then you have my golden star. Don’t lose it.” He stands up, saying, “I gotta head out for work, but I’ll see you around, Yeager.”

Eren waves goodbye, and when he closes the door, Yelena and Hitch start chatting with each other, while Eren releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, sinking down into the couch cushions.

A few minutes later Hitch’s phone rings, and she answers it, mouthing ‘It’s y/n!’ Before saying, “Oh, yea? That’s totally weird. We’ll come and get you - we were gonna check out the Marine Biology Club anyway, Armin just started it and is looking for new members. Yep. See ya!” She nods at Yelena, and Eren looks between the two of them.

“Uhhh, what are you guys communicating that I don’t understand?” He asks, worried.

Hitch groans, “The vibes, Eren. Just read the vibes.”

Yelena says, “I compromised y/n’s key card this morning so it would stop working and we would have to walk down to get her instead of her showing up while we were still interrogating you.”

Eren sits in silence, wondering how the hell you compromise a key card. “So what do I do?” He settles on after a moment.

Hitch smiles at him. “Stay here and wait for her to walk in so you can surprise her.” She frowns, seemingly to herself. “Maybe hold onto the flowers so she doesn’t rationalize it and convince herself you’re not here to ask her out. And make sure you actually ask her - don’t just fumble around and drop the ball, because we’re not picking it up for you if you do.”

“Right. No pressure.” He says to them, but also to himself. He’s far too worried for a situation with only two possible outcomes.

“Good luck!” Yelena exclaims, cheery smile on her face as the door slams behind them, leaving Eren to his own devices for the next however-many-minutes.

*******************************************************

You can tell something is up from the way Hitch and Yelena give each other scheming little side glances, so you’re already shaking your head to yourself as you ride up the elevator to your dorm, which just so happens to be on the top floor, leaving you plenty of time to ponder every possible scenario before you open the front door.

None of that pondering prepares you to see Eren Yeager, holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers, standing in your living room. You drop your keys on the floor in shock, both of you just staring at each other like neither of you know what to do next.

“E-Eren! Hi!” You say nervously, then ask, “Uh… how did you get into my apartment?” You smile at him, then bend down to pick up your dropped keys, depositing them in your key tray and heaving your book bag onto the counter next to it.

Eren says, “I knocked and you weren’t here but Hitch was, so she let me in and then her and Yelena told me to wait. Oh! Uh, these are for you.” He holds out the bouquet, and you notice the wrapping around it is your favorite color.

You never realized how much Eren paid attention to you, the two of you only interacting through your friends. You feel your cheeks heat up, and you’re glad he can’t see you blush as you graciously take the bouquet from him. “Thank you, you’re really sweet. So, uh…”

“Sorry, right- erm… I should probably explain,” Eren stumbles through his sentence and if you weren’t so keen on him you might laugh at him, but you are, so you find it endearing. “I’m here because I want to go out. With you. I mean, um, I want to take you out. On a date.”

“Now?” You ask, a little surprised and confused, but not disappointed.

“No! I mean, I’m sure you’re busy right now, but if you’re interested in going out… with me… we could… my number! I mean- ugh.” Eren slides his palm over his face, sighing. “I’m sorry, I’ve never asked someone out before. How is this going?” He peeks at you through his fingers, hope shining in his eyes.

You laugh, and you don’t know it, but your smile causes Eren’s brain to melt down the rest of the way. “You’re doing terrible, but it’s really cute. I would love to get your number, and go out on a date sometime.” You wink at him, then raise an eyebrow after a few seconds of him standing there dumbly.

“Oh! Yea, here.” He retrieves his phone from his pocket, holding it out for you to type your number into his keypad, calling your phone when you finish so you have his number. You don’t know this, but Eren’s already put your name in his phone as “😍 y/n 🥰”, and will not let you see that until after your first kiss, but you’re no better.

After you say your goodbyes, which are full of you both giggling and smiling like drunk idiots, you look at your phone, copying his number from your recent calls and creating a new contact.

His name?

“💕 SIMP 💕”.

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inconveniently-discorporated · 2 years

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You know, I bet this (swapping with Crowley) helps Aziraphale tremendously with his confidence. After all...

form shapes nature

I think about that a lot. Like. My husband and I went to Las Vegas, right? And there's a bunch of people who are just trying to get you into their godforsaken timeshare presentations, and they will literally step in front of you and demandingly ask direct questions to try and disarm you so that you stop and engage with them. They're a psychological nightmare for people-pleasing folks like us. Engaging with these people in certain ways, or sometimes not engaging them at all, was so freaking hard for us. I mean, we were never rude to anyone, but these were objectively situations where it was OK to set a boundary and get on with our day without being bothered. We legitimately considered it practice in self-confidence and becoming okay with saying no.

If anyone was wondering, yes, saying "no" to people was the most thrilling thing we did in Vegas and apparently was so thrilling that I still think about it to this day.

Anyway, it actually did affect how I felt back home. On vacation, I decided, "No one knows who I am, likely no one will ever see me again. I'm going to go LARP as a confident person and see where this goes." And it actually helped me feel more confident, because...

form shapes nature

Final anecdote about this quote, I've adopted this technique into many other areas of my life. I have what I call a mental health shirt (spoiler it's my good omens shirt) and I wear it when I feel crappy, and it makes me feel better. I have what I call my "demanding a raise" boots, and they look awesome and make this really confident sound when I walk, and it makes me feel more confident and able to do things.

All I'm saying is, it helped me. I thought it was silly but now I put on the cozy socks and light a candle to help cope with existential dread. I put on the boots and do the power pose to help cope with the anxieties. I go on vacation and pretend to be a grandiose version of myself and it helps because why not we're all stories anyway so I might as well write my own. Because

form shapes nature

so I might as well shape mine.

#good omens meta #form shapes nature #aziraphale #character analysis #i am the character

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lovetenya · 3 years

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hi tj! i hope you're having a great night. i saw you were taking requests and i was hoping you could write something where tamaki has a s/o that struggles with social anxiety at times like him, and they really want to get over the fear of making phone calls so tamaki gives them the support they need and lets them be alone when they make the call, but when it's over he goes back with them and says how proud he is of them. i hope this is not too specific. thank you in advance! xoxo

hi! this is such a sweet request, thanks for sending it! i’m sorry it took so long, i couldn’t decide how i wanted it to go. i like how it turned out, and i hope you do too!

—𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐝.

pairing: tamaki amajiki x gn! reader

warnings: none other than phone call anxiety? just fluff really

word count: 850

when you told tamaki you were feeling kind of sick about having to make the phone call, he knew exactly what you were going through.

he knew the feeling of existential dread that filled your stomach just thinking about something that’s supposed to be so easy, something that your parents say you just have to get over your fear of.

tamaki knows that overcoming fear isn’t that easy, but of course, sometimes it’s necessary to confront your greatest obstacles head-on. he also knows that sometimes a little support goes a long way.

one day, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the carpet of your living room in your shared apartment. tamaki holds your hands in his, and rests his forehead against yours. (you made him promise to lean on you instead of leaning on walls, and now he did it out of habit to soothe whoever needed it.)

you had been taking deep breaths together in preparation for your first attempt at the call. the breathing together was tamaki’s idea, an easy-enough coping mechanism he learned from fatgum one time when he needed to cool off.

tamaki leans back and whispers, “okay. are you.. ready to try now?”

you shift nervously, feeling like your peace would never return until this phone call was over with. even though you knew it was just a. leek you’d be talking to, it was still scary. you knew you’d only grow more comfortable with exposure, and really wanted to try. you really wanted to show yourself (and tamaki) that you could do it.

“yeah, i think i’m ready,” you lie, flashing tamaki a weak smile.

contrary to your words, your phone sits dark, untouched at your side. when you make no effort to grab it, tamaki speaks up.

“got nervous again?” he asks, looking at you with kind, understanding eyes.

“y-yeah,” you say, feeling abnormally uncomfortable. normally, you weren’t nervous around tama, but the fear of messing up in front of him was just too much to handle. you wanted to make him proud and show him you could make the phone call comfortably by yourself. he sees the storming behind your eyes, and thinks to give you some privacy.

“do.. d’you want to go in the other room? so i cant hear you?” he offers. “i know ‘s not.. not a serious call, but it’s good practice anyway....?”

your brain lights up. that just might work.

“great idea, tama!” you say excitedly. you make your way to the bedroom and shut the door behind you, leaning your back against the wall. you take a deep breath, remembering that tamaki is outside rooting for you. he wants this to go well just as much as you do, and while you know he’ll be proud of you either way, you really want to succeed.

you dial the number quickly, not giving yourself the time to think about it any longer. it rings twice before a woman picks up.

“hi, this is winged hero hawk’s fried chicken company, how may i help you?”

you laugh at the obnoxiously long name, just flashy enough for the number two hero.

you reply, “hi! can i please place an order for delivery?”

“you sure can! what can i getcha?”

the rest of the call goes perfectly, your order perfectly rehearsed and recited. the woman says your food will be there “before ya know it”, so you poke your head out the door into the darkened hallway. tamaki’s sitting on the couch on his phone, but looks up expectantly when he hears your footsteps. he lets you speak first, not wanting to assume either way.

“tama?” you call his attention, cheeks heating with pride.

“honey?” he replies.

“i... ordered the food.”

he smiles, and says “that’s great! how’d it go?”

“it went.. real good. i barely messed up, but even when i did i just kept going!”

tamaki cheers quietly, “hooray!! i knew you could do it!”

you deadpan, “are you just happy because we’re eating soon or cuz i finally succeeded?”

“hey! i’m proud of you, okay?!” he says, offended at the accusation. “i still don’t like ordering for myself at restaurants and i hate talking on the phone even more, so i think you really did a great thing!”

tamaki wasn’t usually so forward with his compliments, and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. he wraps his arms round you and presses soft kisses onto your temple.

he pipes up, “i’m serious, you know.”

“hmm?”

“i’m proud of you, honey. that took.. guts.” he shudders at the word choice, but the message remains.

“thanks, tama,” you say, snuggling into his chest. “wanna help me set the table?”

“for fried chicken?” he laughs.

“yeah. duh. gotta keep it classy, Mr. Pro-Hero-Suneater,” you tease in a silly voice.

“hey! that’s mean! you’re.... the telephone operator!”

“those don’t even exist anymore, tamak-“ you start, before the doorbell interrupts you.

the rest of the night is spent feasting on the “finest fried chicken in the city!” and getting tickled by chicken feathers manifested from tamaki’s fingertips. and after all that trouble, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

⤷ main masterlist.

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #tamaki amajiki #amajiki tamaki #tamaki amajiki x gn reader #tamaki amajiki x gn!reader #tamaki amajiki x reader #tamaki amajiki x you #tamaki amajiki x y/n #mha x male reader #bnha x male reader #tamaki amajiki x male reader #amajiki tamaki x reader #filled request #my writing

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morgana-ren · 4 years

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Come Down to the Black Sea III

Summary: The sea seems to call to you, but it’s not the tumultuous clash of the waves you should fear. Something lurks deep beneath the black waters, something sinister with a piqued interest and ill intent.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Siren!Shigaraki, graphic depictions of violence, heavy sexual innuendo, implied noncon, foul language, sexual tension you can cut with a knife, and just general sexual grossness. Joking daddy kink also, if you count that.

PART I, PART II

Here you go! The third installment. Your seafaring friend finds your hot button and decides to plant some lovely ideas in your brain. Listening to them probably is not the smartest idea in regards to keeping your heart beating, but it certainly gets your thighs clenching.

Taglist: @lemonzoey, @babayaga67

You know, it's really rough to explain to your superiors at work why you're so distracted when it happens to be because a mythical being is giving you the cold shoulder.

You’re not entirely certain why it bothers you so much that your last encounter with him ended rather sour. He had made it perfectly plain from the get-go that his intent with you was far from pure. Murderous, in fact. He had almost drowned you on your first meeting and insulted you incessantly during your second. Not exactly a friendly track record.

Regardless, he’s made a permanent home crawling beneath your human skin, like some itch you can’t scratch away. You can try to justify it however you’d like, but you can’t ignore the truth. In a word full of mundane existence, you’ve found an oddity and as much as you’d like to pretend you aren’t, you’re drawn to it. It’s part of why you returned to the beach despite the clear and present danger. You’d found a living, breathing mermaid. Even more impressive, you’d managed to piss him off.

Mermaid? Is that accurate? He’s so sensitive to being classified wrongly, but still never told you what he was. Considering the circumstances, maybe you should be a little bit more concerned about other things rather than offending him, but it still bothers you.

Your ignorance isn’t due to lack of trying. You’ve done extensive research in the spare moments you have during the day, but nothing quite matches his description no matter how deeply you delve into the weirder parts of the internet, even going so far as to browse around on conspiracy sites on the darknet. Mermaid? Merman? Siren? Fish-guy? Some distantly related offspring to that Ripley’s Believe it or Not monkey fish? Relentless searching proved fruitless. Plenty of old sun-crazed fishermen claim to have seen merfolk in the waters or sirens on the rocks, but more often than not, it was a walrus or stage 4 sea madness. No one had a legitimate account of meeting with a real, intelligent creature of the deep. Nothing that came remotely close to him, anyway.

Despite being unable to focus at your job, getting home only doubles the anxiety. Restlessly sitting and twitching on the sofa, repeatedly trying and failing to read or watch some vapid TV show. You’re unable to keep your mind from returning to the ocean, to him no matter how hard you try.

Over the course of time, you become acutely aware that staying home clearly isn't an option, but you're not really sure what to say to him if you see him again. Why do you even care? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring him? You can excuse your obsessive thoughts about him since most people would have the same reaction to seeing something supernatural not once, but twice in front of their very eyes, but a lot of people wouldn’t continuously return to see it especially if it was malevolent.

You love that preemptively planning what to say to a sentient supernatural sea dweller is a part of your day. That's awesome. Can't look that one up on google.

You’ll compromise with your compulsiveness instead. Go a little early and watch the sun set down over the horizon instead of watching the moon rise. Most parents won't allow their children near your rock because it’s slippery and dangerous, and frankly, you don't think he'll show up when others can see him. He’s deadly, but a mob of terrified parents and curious beach goers has few rivals.

Maybe you can get your fill before he appears. It's better to keep away from him anyway. He wants you dead.

He wants you dead, you remind yourself.

And so you do. Tread the sandy trail down to your favorite little hideyhole and plop down on the hard surface. You kick your feet absentmindedly on the rock beneath you, watching the small particles of sand splay and regather with every motion of your foot. The crash of the waves, still tumultuous and ornery, slap the side of your makeshift perch and splash you with speckles of water every few moments. You don't mind. You needed to shower anyway.

You can't help but feel a bit more lonely than normal, even surrounded by so many more people than you usually are. Flustered moms urge their children in from the shore to wipe them down with towels and flighty young twentysomethings hoot and holler, laughing loudly as they pile into their cars to find their next big spot for the night. The moon rises and the beach empties, leaving you alone again. The ocean settles, and even though it feels better, you feel alone.

You close your eyes, resting your head sideways on your knees with your arms buckled around your legs. You're close to the edge, precariously so. You just want to be close to the water. You should move back.

In. out. in. out. in. out. in. out.

The waves seem to move in line with the beating of your own heart, a tranquil feeling that dulls your restless thoughts and engulfs you in quiet solace. The hum of the ocean resonating deep within you with each breath you take of the briny air.

You're aware enough to recognize that the sound of the sea is luring you into a false sense of comfort. The darkness seeping over the horizon doesn't make it easier, and soon your slowly wandering mind is on the brink of unconsciousness. You're dangerously close to falling asleep, and given the circumstances, that probably isn't the best idea, especially since you're precariously close to the water.

You can't help it, it's been one hell of a week. You haven’t slept. Haven’t relaxed. Haven’t felt at home in so long...

Listen, there's no guide online to look at that can help you through what to do when a malevolent fish-man hybrid has decided he wants to drown you. You can imagine it would say something along the lines of 'Stop going near the water then, dumbass' but that's like asking a religious person to stay away from church. It's the one place where you feel any semblance of peace, and you'll be damned if you're going to let the moonlight water marauder take that from you.

Still, it makes things in your life exponentially more difficult when you can't explain to anyone what's on your mind.

'Yeah, I met a mer...thing, and he's decided that he hates me and he wants to drown me, and that makes me sad. The one supernatural creature I get to meet and he doesn't like me. Bummer.'

They'd probably have you committed. That’s a bit much even for your eccentric proclivities.

Your body occasionally jerks you awake, probably its way of saying 'You cannot sleep when there are enemies nearby', but it feels like it's been weeks since you've had a decent night's sleep. The endless procession of days marked by existential crisis with the tacked on bonus of being aware of the existence of a nefarious fairy tale creature makes everything feel awfully surreal. It feels as if you've been running on pure adrenaline and are about to crash. Hard.

If you were smart, you'd go home and try to bank on the feeling of sleepiness currently plaguing you, but you just can't bring yourself to move. Even barring the flaxen haired fish dude just chomping at the bit to drag you under, napping this close to the sea is a bad idea in general. Tides change rapidly and all it would take is a few minutes of you being unaware for the waves to snag you and haul you off to a watery grave. They'd probably never find you, just like the others who disappear here at night.

But that's probably his doing, isn't it?

What does he do with the bodies exactly?

You really wish he wasn't trying to kill you, cause you have an endless list of questions you'd like to ask. What does he eat? Where does he live? Does he sleep at all?

Musing on all the things you'd like to know about him and his life leads you into fantasizing about being a talk show host interviewing him, and one thing leads to another and before you know it, you're conked out cold. You've managed to find an extremely awkward position to slump into, but even the horrid crick in your neck isn't enough to shake you from the dreamless slumber. Your body doesn't even have the energy needed to produce a dream, so instead, you just float through an endless void.

It could have been minutes, or even hours, really. You're not sure. The only thing strong enough to jar you awake is a sudden and intense feeling of dread that blooms in your stomach and gives you a form and sentience again. Your eyes snap open instinctively, and you're greeted with a pair of spiteful red eyes far too close to you for comfort.

"Jumping jesus-!"

Surprised is a nice word for what you feel, an ugly screech emanating from your throat as you kick out your feet, knocking yourself over and almost falling in the water in the process. You hit your head nice and hard on a particularly jagged portion of the rocks, and by the time your vision undoubles, the danger is just barely settling in.

Except danger is too busy cackling to be a threat.

You try to grapple with the panic in your chest and get a grasp on reality again after your literal rude awakening, but it's a bit rough when the sadistic jackass who perpetuated it in the first place won't stop laughing. Apparently he's too amused to take the opportunity to seize you, so you take the moment to scoot much further back and out of his reach, resisting the urge to plant your foot right on his stupid face.

Eventually he quiets down, but the grin never leaves his face. Much like everything about him, it's hostile somehow, mocking and disingenuous.

"Humans really are so stupid."

"Joke is on you, tunabreath. You wasted the perfect opportunity to actually grab me."

He shakes his head, tutting you. "I couldn’t resist. We like to play with our food too, sometimes. Scared ones taste better."

Is he implying he eats people? Okay, you know what? You don't wanna know. You doubt he'd be honest about it anyway, and would probably say whatever unnerves you the most. He seems a prick like that.

"I thought the entire point was to drown me and get it over with. You’re borderline obsessed with it."

He scoffs, little head fins twitching as he waves you off. "If I’m going to waste my time, don't make it so easy. It's less fun."

Okay cool, this is all a game to him; your life is a game to him. Nice. Fun. Great.

Something on your face must have given away your ire, because he simpers at you and another raspy laugh bubbles in his chest.

"It's not my fault you're stupid. You're the idiot sleeping next to the ocean when you know what's waiting for you when you get too close. It’s like you want me to devour you."

"I thought after your little tantrum last night, you were gone for good. You really can throw a fantastic hissy fit."

That wipes the smile from his face.

“Little brat.” He taps a claw on the rock, narrowing his eyes at you. “Tough talk from someone afraid of getting a little wet.” He drags out the final word with a mocking tone, clicking his tongue against his fangs with the final syllable.

“For the last time, I’m not afraid of getting wet-” It takes it a second to sink in but wow this all sounds so wrong. Your face darkens and a familiar tingle worms itself in your gut. Are you really that lonely? “And don’t say it like that!”

His brows furrow and he studies you with a slightly quizzical expression. “Like what?”

How do you explain to a dude who presumably has no cock and no human sexual experience about the sexual insinuations of human expressions? Wow. This is not a talk you thought you’d be having. The entire situation is weird, but this really sets the bar.

“I know you’re probably not familiar with it, but that sounds... weird. It just sounds weird, okay?”

“I don’t understand.” His lips curl downward in annoyance, arching a pale brow in your direction.

“Look, when a human and another human... do stuff, things happen to their bodies and-“ a twisted sense of shame curdles your stomach and you go to scratch the back of your head, avoiding his eyes. Your words trail off somewhere mid sentence. If you were looking, you could practically see the gears turning in his head, but a few seconds later, his face pops in realization.

“I’m fully aware of your human mating habits.”

“Don’t say it like that either! Jesus, you’re so awkward.”

A slow smile spreads over his face and he leans closer to you, tail swishing in a steady rhythm beneath the water. “Why? You’re over the ‘age of consent’, as it’s put, right? A sexually mature human female? Does it make you uncomfortable when I say things like that? Or does it make you something else?”

He trails his claws in a walking motion towards your out of reach leg, and embarrassment isn’t a strong enough word for the emotion that colors your face as you recoil from his wandering fingers. “Knock it off!”

“Has it been a while since someone touched you, little human?”

“None of your business! You’re such a creep! And what do you know about it anyway? Don’t you fuckin’ lay eggs or something?”

He ignores your pointed jab, licking at his chapped lips as he runs his piercing eyes over you a bit too invasively for your liking. “You wanna know, huh? I can show you.” He reaches towards you again and you wiggle back a few more inches, caught between his words and the friction igniting feelings you’re desperately trying to ignore between your thighs.

“I’m getting mixed signals here. Are you trying to drown me or fuck me?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” He tilts his head, gaze lingering on your lips before drifting down to your chest without shame. His attention still feels utterly predatory, but for a different form of predator entirely. “Your death doesn’t have to be entirely painful, you know.”

“S-stop it.”

He’s giving you whiplash with his intense mood swings, but you can’t deny the less than appropriate places his words drag your mind to. Heat ignites inside you, warmth spreading through your navel as your cheeks burn deeper than they did before. You will it away, trying to shake loose the thoughts from your mind. No fucking way are you even considering this.

“Look, even if our bodies were compatible, which they aren’t, it’s not like you wanting to kill me is a turn on.”

He gives you another lilting grin, flicking his tongue and hissing in a foreign laugh. “Are you sure? I know that some of your kind are into that sort of thing. Hard. Rough. Dangerous. And judging by your face-“

Another bout of blood colors your cheeks so intensely that you can literally feel it. Oh God, make it stop.

“-You might be.”

“Shut it, shark bait!”

“And who’s to say we’re not compatible? I know plenty. Something about the beach is an aphrodisiac to you humans. Not to mention~” Another grin, but this one gives off the undeniable air of ‘I know something you don’t know.’ “You have no idea what I can do.”

You can’t help but look back at him as he says it and you can tell he means every word. The unnatural scarlet glow of his eyes seems far too welcoming, calling to you like some sort of beacon in the darkness. The soft gleam of his silvery hair in the moonlight far too inviting. You want to touch it, wonder what it would feel like entwined between your fingers, what it smells like and how those claws would feel like scratching against the sensitive skin of your ass as he holds you steady against his hips.

You bet those fangs aren’t just for show, and judging by his attitude, he’s probably not afraid to use them. You bet they’d feel all sorts of nice scraping and digging into your flesh, biting you and licking that thick tongue up and over your neck, maybe even a bit lower if you asked him nicely. He’s so lithe, so strong, he’d have no problem fucking you against the rock even with the water resistance. His slick skin rubbing against yours, webbed hands squeezing your waist, kneading your tits, pressing the rounds of your neck until you gave yourself over to him completely and the taste of him is the last thing you ever knew.

Okay, you admit it. You are really curious to see just what it is he can do. You’d probably be the first human in history to find out, the first girl to be fucked to literal death by a siren. Would it really be such a terrible way to die? Being dragged under metaphorically and physically and spending your last moments in pleasure wholly unknown to the moral realm?

He smiles softly, watching you toss it around in your mind as he cradles his head in his palm. He’s beautiful, and you loathe it. You hate that you’re even considering this, even toying with the thought as if it’s really an option. What the hell are you doing? This is complete madness!

“You aren’t serious, are you?”

He gestures you forward seductively, nibbling gently on his scarred bottom lip, keeping your eyes squarely trained on his mouth. “Come a little closer and find out. I promise I bite. Extra hard if you beg.”

Another clench between your legs. Shake it loose, shake it loose! “Look, even if I believed for a split second you wanted to seduce me, you really think I’m going to literally die for the chance?”

“What else are you going to die for?”

Oddly deep. Not a thought you wanted to ponder right now. Expertly deflect it with sarcasm and ignore the fact that he has a very good point.

“Of old age, in my bed, surrounded by loved ones and piles of money I didn’t get the chance to spend yet.”

He scoffs, blowing air through his nose. “Sure.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, shucking aside your irritation. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“Prick.”

He giggles, finding your crass human mouth oddly endearing. “Well, the offer stands. I told you I’m not going anywhere until you're under the water with me.” He pauses, considering you for a moment before grinning darkly. “I might just do it anyway, but it’s better if you’re willing. Not that I’ve ever been averse to a little struggle.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to say no when you can’t speak. I could easily bypass this little game of playing hard to get, but I want to see you squirm.” He eyes between your legs and you pray to the Gods that he thinks the dampness residing there is because of the watery environment. “I want to see you beg before the light goes out in those pretty eyes.”

“You’re a fucking perv!”

“I told you I’m going to watch you drown, you really put it past me to not take other forms of satisfaction from you while I’m at it?”

He presents a good point. You resent the fact that you don’t entirely feel repulsed by the thought. You should. You should be mortified and terrified and other words that end in ‘fied’. You should run and never come back. You know you should.

You lean forward.

“I’d like to see you try, fish boy.”

A strangely genuine smile spreads across his lips and his face seems to light up at your words. It's still menacing, but oddly cute; like a child getting ready and excited to play their favorite game.

"You really think you can win this, huh?" He muses, looking up at you through those pale lashes. "You sure are something, little girl."

"What do I have to lose? If you win, you kill me, and whatever else, but I won't care, because I'll be dead. If I win, I get to see that arrogant smarminess wiped off your face when you don't get what you want. You'll have wasted all this time for nothing, and I guess that's a small consolation prize alongside my life."

“Time means nothing to me, but if it makes you feel better about the situation.”

From the way he says it, you don't deny it. It dawns on you that you really know nothing about his people. Do they age like you? Do they age at all?

“How old are you?”

"Older than you by far, I promise. What a rude question. How old are you?"

“Old enough. But that doesn’t answer my question. Don’t deflect.”

"No manners, you humans." He ponders it for a minute. "You count the passing of time in revolutions around the sun, right? I'd bet I had been an adult for a very long time while you were still learning to walk on wobbly little legs."

It's your turn to laugh now, and he doesn't seem amused. "You're an old man! Ew! You're an interspecies cradle robber!"

"I'm not old! We live exponentially longer than you! I'll still be in my prime when you're an elder!" His pallid face is dusted slightly red in frustration, and it's almost funnier than his reaction.

"Whatever you say, grandpa! Do you have an undersea walker? Drink sea prune juice? Is that why your hair is silver? Cause you're old?"

Self consciously, he strokes the front of his long bangs between his fingers. "No! You're an immature little brat!"

"Back in my day~" You barely dodge a swipe from one of his claws as he jumps as far forward as he can and swings at you. "Careful gramps, you don't wanna hurt yourself. You’ll break a hip or whatever it is you have."

He sneers at you and you bask in the minor victory.

You sit in silence; him with a scowl tightly pulled across his thin lips, and you with a smug little grin. So it’s not impossible to get under his scales.

He’s a world class pouter, you’ll give him that. He doesn’t strike you as vain, but this is probably uncharted territory for him; actually talking to a human and subsequently being made fun of for his age. He’s probably not used to being mocked in any sense of the word, seeing as he’s a ‘non existent’ mythical creature. Maybe his kind are prideful, if a little childish. He claims to have existed for ages, but he still has the mannerisms you’d attribute to a male around your age. Maybe a tad immature and explosive himself. You guess some things don’t change with the species. Aggression, domination, and sex. And murder, in his case.

Some things are universal, it seems.

He’s making a show of ignoring you now, clicking his claws together in a subconscious attempt to threaten you. They are awfully sharp. You swear looking at them makes the gashes on your arm start to ache all over again. Occasionally the fins on the side of his head twitch in an almost catlike manner, turning toward whatever source of sound can be heard. It’s so strange to you, you can’t help but stare. He looks ethereal, even as impudent as he’s acting. With the backdrop of the ocean and the moon behind him, he looks like a painting that belongs in a gallery. You can’t stop yourself from leering at him.

You’re trying to ignore the fact that he definitely takes notice.

He's angry at you, displeasure still slightly evident in his face, but a small smile crooks his lips. You've clearly offended him but your leering goes a little way towards soothing the hairs you've rubbed the wrong way. For whatever reason, knowing you find him attractive puffs his feathers- er, scales- with pride. Body language relaxes between the two of you and a few minutes of quiet follows.

Yet, it's difficult to keep a pleasant silence when the company you keep is far from familiar. This isn't two friends relaxing on a beach; at least unless most friends are malevolent ocean dwelling creatures with an end goal of filling the other's lung with sea water.

The lack of noise makes you antsy, almost like you're anticipating something but you're unsure of what. It feels false somehow, like you're trying to turn this isn't something it isn't; comfortable. No matter how his casual demeanor tries to lull you into a false sense of security, you have to remain vigilant. One little slip and he'll drag you into a watery grave- among other things if he was serious.

“So… What do you eat?”

He slow blinks at you a few times before grinning, light glinting off his all-too-sharp fangs. “You mean besides you?”

There’s multiple implications to that, neither one of which you want to ponder for various reasons. Your panties are already uncomfortably damp.

“Yes. Besides us.”

Shrugging, he flicks at a small pebble on the rocks edge and plunks it into the water. "Same thing you would if you were one of us. There's plenty of fish down here, only difference is I can eat them raw."

Your nose crumples and you stick your tongue out slightly, imagining him taking a bite out of a still-twitching fish. "Ew."

He rolls his eyes, brushing your obvious disgust aside. "If I recall, don't you humans have multiple dishes you eat raw?"

"Well, I mean, yeah, but it's different. We actually prepare it."

"Sounds like a whole lot of fuss over nothing. Your weak stomach just can't handle it and mine can, and you seem to find that to be some sort of bragging point. Also, don't you humans have a tendency to put things in your mouth that don't belong there?"

“Didn’t I already tell you to shut up about that?”

"I don't know, I'd say the occasional raw fish is a lot less dirty than a human male c-"

“Oh my god! I am so sorry I fucking asked!”

He cackles loudly and you realize that he's officially found your hot button. Even worse is he knows it. "I mean that's not to say we don't have our own filthy habits, but you guys are inspiring-"

"Dude! Make like a tunafish and can it! I don't want to hear any of this!"

"Oh? Is that so? Because around 10 minutes ago, you were half ready to rip your clothes off and jump in here and let me try you even if it meant your death."

"Momentary lapse in judgement. Don't get too excited, grandpa."

He frowns again but seems less offended now that the initial moment had passed. "If you insist upon calling me a nickname pertaining to my age, I'd prefer daddy."

All humor drops from your face. How the fuck does he even know about that?

As if he can read your mind, he responds. "A lot of you humans like to reproduce here. I've seen quite a bit and heard even more. Like I said, you’re absolutely filthy creatures.”

“Ah. Yeah. That makes sense.”

“My offer stands. Come a little closer and I’ll show you just what I learned.”

“Creep.”

“That makes two of us, now doesn’t it?”

"I'm not the one bringing up sex every 3 seconds."

Hey, do you know how awkward it is to be having this conversation? With him? Right now? Do you know how utterly surreal this is?

“No, but you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn and you know it doesn't matter what you say. Your face is a dead giveaway. He knows it too, crossing his arm and arching a cocky brow at you.

“And I’m the pervert, huh?”

You wrap your arms around your legs again in a subconscious show of defense. "Yes, you are. This is a natural response to embarrassing topics. Topics you keep coming back to."

He shrugs again, his head fins twitching a few times. "I don't deny my nature. If I feel lustful, I act on it. Another reason you humans are inferior. You deny what comes naturally in the name of some form of... shame, is it? I have no bonds holding me back, while yours are pointless and dictated by some invisible and shallow form of ‘morality’ and ‘purity."

He’s… technically right. Still.

"You realize you're saying this to the person you're trying to kill, right?"

"I'm aware. Consider it a parting gift. You can feel what it's like to be untethered before I end you."

You roll your eyes so deeply that you’re almost certain you’ve detached the retina. “Oh, how very kind of you. So thoughtful.”

"It’s not entirely altruistic, but it's better than I was originally planning. I was just going to rip you apart the second I pulled you in. Of course, that was before I got a good look at you. It'd be a shame to waste such a pretty thing without getting a taste first.”

It's a twisted compliment, but you appreciate it, at least as much as the circumstances allow.

“Thanks… I think?”

"It's a good thing, I promise. I won't just touch anyone, you know. Most of your kind repulses me. I'm not an easy please."

"Oh." Another awkward silence. "What makes me so special, anyways?"

His face blanks over, eyes hardening and mouth pursing in a tight line. He opens his lips a few times to speak, but seemingly stops himself. His expression flashes confusion, then rage, then apathy in quick succession. "I don't know. It won't matter for long anyways, soon you'll be dead and I can move on."

“Not if I win.”

"You won't. I don't lose. Besides, I've already almost gotten you twice. It's only a matter of time before you slip up again, and I'll be there to catch you when you do."

"Put it like that and it almost sounds sweet." A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

His face flushes and he looks away from you, expression contorting. “It’s not. Don’t twist my words.”

“Spoilsport. Go eat a mackerel or something. You’re not yourself when you’re hungry. Or maybe you are. Either way, you’re cranky.”

"It's hard not to be cranky when there's a meal right in front of me and I can't indulge."

"Quit threatening to eat me. I get the point, it's just weird.”

His thick tongue flicks out and runs across those glimmering teeth and he just smiles. "Who said anything about eating?"

“Give it a rest.”

He swipes a small amount of water at you with his thumb and forefinger. "Deny it all you'd like, you enjoy the attention."

"Definitely. I love being the first human to be hit on by the world's first mermaid fuckboy."

A hybrid mix of a groan and a growl rumbles from his chest. "I'm not a fucking mermaid!"

"Oh, sorry!" The sarcasm is palpable, and he scowls at you again. You love the fact he doesn't deny the secondary insult. "I meant merman."

"Don't insult me. As if your petty, unimaginative fairytales could even come close."

"You have a tail, you live underwater, and you're half human. Sounds pretty damn close to me."

The look on his face is as if you just forced him to swallow something extraordinarily disgusting. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. And I'm not half human. You're half us."

Now that takes you off guard.

“What did you say? What do you mean?”

"It doesn't matter." He pushes himself away from the rocks, his tail slightly flapping above the surface. "Besides, you were right. I am hungry. I should probably find something to eat for tonight, unless you’ve changed your mind." He doesn’t bother waiting for you to retort before skillfully diving down back beneath the waves.

You want to stop him, but he’s gone before you can think of a creative way to say ‘hell no’. The slight dash of silver hair makes out towards the horizon and before long, he's gone. As always, he leaves you feeling more frustrated than anything.

You want to stay, to enjoy the ocean like you used to before he barged his way into your life, but it all just feels too strange now. He won't return tonight, you know that much.

Heaving yourself off your asleep butt, you begin your bowlegged walk back to civilization, left with nothing but the ache of a cramp in your hips and a strangely heavy feeling in your gut.

#Shigaraki x Reader #Shigaraki Tomura #Come Down to the Black Sea #See warnings up top

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vanmccannonlyfans · 3 years

Text

Cocoon

part i.

But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“How do you have so many of these?!”

Alicia had 10s of boxes of tests in her suitcase, as if they were hotel shampoo bottles or restaurant breath mints. The pink floral branding stuck out against the sea of black leather and denim that comprised her wardrobe.

“Get em in bulk on amazon, cheaper that way and saves me a trip to the store.” As if bulk buying pregnancy tests was as casual as ordering toothpaste or tampons.

You moved to the bathroom to take the test, stepping over used towels strewn across the floor. You were glad you were doing this in a place so impersonal, however uncomfortable. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, you would be able to leave without any memories tainting the space, never to return and have to relive the feeling. If this was your bathroom at home, you’d be reminded every time you had to go.

Alicia camped in front of the mirror, smacking her lips together after every layer of strawberry gloss, the wand alternating between tracing her plump lips and pumping the tube for more product. Leaning against the fake granite hotel counter, she fussed with her raven black bangs and adjusted her top.

“Is it ready yet?” She asked, without averting her eyes from their own contact, her lips now more reflective than the mirror.

“I can’t look..” The room was twisting more than your stomach as you picked up the test, double vision making it impossible to count the number of lines.

Was there just one? Two? How dark does the second one have to be?

“Does this look positive to you?”

Alicia cocked her head at the test, brow furrowed.

“The second line is faint...but it’s there.”

“Fuck,” You exhaled as you fell against the wall, exasperated.

“Didn’t you always want to be parents?”

“Well yes, but...not so soon. We don’t even have a place to live...”

Life on the road was hollow and lonely, even with your best friends. Playing shows every night to strangers who saw you as enigmas, then returning to cold hotel rooms to sleep until the having to get back on the bus or plane for the next event, repeat ad infinitum until you had crossed off a laundry list of places you had stepped foot in but not actually experienced. It all seemed so fun and exciting until you realized that you didn’t know anyone anywhere and were too tired to do things even on days off, and ended up just sleeping the day away and ordering in pizza. It wasn’t a viable situation for raising a child, and hardly sustainable for an otherwise healthy adult.

You laid on the scratchy quilted comforter, each tick of the clock intensifying your anxiety, like a bomb about to detonate. Every second brought you closer to confronting a situation that felt neither fully real nor fantasy. Like your whole world depended on what he would think.

The beep of the key card brought you back down to earth from the peaks of your existential dread. You couldn’t wait to be held, comforted, told it was going to be alright, even if neither of you had any idea what to do. His touch was a balm to your aching soul, one that no antidepressant could rival.

Van entered without a word.

“Baby?” You called to him, as if he couldn’t see you.

He remained silent, dropping his guitar case on the ground. After what felt like eons, he looked up toward the window behind you, as if you were invisible.

“I think you should go.” His eyes were sallow, skin dehydrated from all the smokes and shitty fast food and beers every night.

“What?” The single word came out like a croak, your voice evading you. First you couldn’t be seen, now you could hardly be heard, as if you were dissolving from material reality. As if only his acknowledgement made you real. “Van--”

“No,” He cut you off, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the other on his hip, swiveling him towards the wall. His adams apple rose and fell without a word, bobbing like a buoy on a choppy sea.

“I don’t want to fight about this. I just want you to leave.” He looked down, running a hand through his hair before tucking it under his armpit as if he were chilled.

You were in disbelief. The same man who had invited you to accompany him across the world was discarding you as easily as you had tossed the test that said you were carrying his child into the bin.

“But Van--”

“JUST GO!” He belted, shaking the room with his volume. You had never heard him yell like that, hardly had ever seen him genuinely angry.

You struggled to catch your breath, hot tears erupting from your eyes.

“--I’m pregnant.”

There was a loud crack as Van’s phone hit the wall, leaving a mark.

“STOP LYING!” He thundered, grabbing your shoulders.

He was finally looking into your eyes. His were red and glassy and you could smell the last cigarette on his skin, so much so that you found yourself on the floor throwing up, then running to your suitcase like a wounded animal, then in the brass elevator, then out the lobby and into the street. You weren’t sure where you were going or how you would get there, just that you wanted to be gone.

When your legs finally collapsed from exhaustion, you found yourself out of breath in front of a bodega, simultaneously sweating and shivering from the physical and emotional trauma. You went in to buy a bottle of water and drank it in greedy gulps while scrolling on your phone to take your mind off of your predicament. At the top of your inbox was a flight confirmation, forwarded from the band’s manager. It was a plane ticket back home.

The sterile, unfriendly design of airports had always thrilled you. They were an exciting gateway to a new place in the wide world you hadn’t explored much of. You had never even been on a plane before Van had toured outside of the UK. The complete lack of rules and disregard for conventional social norms enchanted you; how strange a place to have bars open at 6am next to designer shops and restaurants more expensive than you had ever eaten in. Van would order bailey’s in your coffee while he had a morning beer, before sneaking tipsy kisses in cheap seats at 42,000 feet.

Now the airport felt like a portal to hell, sucking you back to the place you had escaped from.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming home, or that you had broken up, or...anything. You hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides the cab driver who asked which terminal to drop you off at. You weren’t sure who you would tell first, what you would say. If you opened your mouth, nothing would come out. Except maybe some incoherent stuttering and word salad, which fit how you felt inside--both numb and acerbic, cold to the touch but teeming with a pain so primal and acrid it could kill a horse. The water in your stomach felt like it was curdling, and you hoped you could make it through the flight without throwing up.

The cab dropped you off on the corner of your parent’s property where the guest house loomed, hardly visible through the gloaming. You fumbled with the key, hoping it hadn’t been changed since the last time. The door rattled open to dusty furniture and soupy air; musty and untouched as if it had been abandoned. You and Van used to sneak in here in for quickies and hold clandestine parties, lighting candles instead of turning on lights to not tip off your parents that you were present. The stain from when someone dropped a bottle of whiskey still marred the floorboards, and you wondered if anyone had been in here since you left.

You had hardly surveilled the place before the door snapped open behind you.

“Fuck, you scared me!” It was your brother, shaking the dew from his trainers. “Why are you back? I thought you would be gone until next year, at least.” You sucked in the thick air, scanning the room for alibis. Stretching the last few moments before you had the acknowledge that you now walked the earth all by yourself.

“Oh, you know. Just felt homesick.”

Your brother respected your lie, letting it dissipate in the stale air like the smoke from a snuffed wick.

“I never liked him, anyway”

Your parents were happy, albeit a bit startled, to see you. They had converted your room to an office and all of your old things from high school, like notes from Van and old chemistry notebooks, were collecting dust in the attic. It was good to have the guest house to yourself, to be miserable in peace without the lingering tension of having to acknowledge the reason for your return, or to have anyone ask why you were throwing up so much and sleeping for 14 hours at a time.

Your dreams were so deep and lifelike that you had trouble discerning reality from fiction in your own memory; your nightmares even worse. Once you dreamt that Van had come into the guest house bedroom with a cup of tea asking how you’d slept, how his baby was doing. When your eyes had burst open, you were cold and alone. Anguish gripped your stomach, forcing it’s contents up your throat then down onto the floor.

Other times the dreams were of him fucking you. Most nights it was just replays of your breakup, repeating every time you fell back asleep after being jerked awake from the sheer horror of that moment, worse than any organic monster ridden nightmare you had ever had. Each iteration more fresh than the last, as if someone was rewinding it over and over again on a cassette tape, starting at a high pitched blur then ending only when you could feel his hot breath ghost across your face.

Some days you woke up so paralyzed by your grief you wondered if you were in hell. Each moment was unbearably painful and eternal, the mere act of breathing felt sisyphean. But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

The clinic was on the outskirts of town, far enough away you weren’t likely to run into anyone unless they were there for the same reason. The ultrasound tech didn’t make eye contact a single time, snapping her gum as she dispensed the chilly ultrasound gel in a single deft shake.

Your chest tightened when you heard the heartbeat for the first time, eyes prickling with tears. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump ticking through the monitor flooded your heart with a profound sense of relief.

Finally, something that was yours.

Tour stretched on, every night sold out. Press junkets, radio shows, interviews, and photoshoots were plastered all over social media, news papers, television, even the bus station adverts and shop bathroom posters. You quickly learned not to check your phone outside of calls and avoided the media. It was easy when you hardly had the energy to lift your head in the first place. Isolation was easier than breathing, and a lot less painful.

You had learned the hard way when you had tried reading the paper each day. You could leaf through mindlessly, until page 6 which always featured a half page spread of Van and a nameless girl, all uniquely the same. They always took similar form, as if made in a factory by formula: tight jeans and low cut blouses, cakefaced and bottle blonde; each one skinner, prettier, and younger than the last. Some looked like they had school the next day. You stopped reading the paper.

When you told your family you were pregnant, your mother cried--whether out of shock or happiness, you weren’t sure. Your brother punched a hole in the wall, then went outside to smoke. Your father just sighed--a long, deep sigh that validated his disappointment in your circumstances and choices. His reaction was the most heartbreaking.

Unlike your mother’s reaction, you knew unequivocally that his was one of disappointment. You were supposed to go to uni, maybe Oxbridge or a fancy American school or even elsewhere in Europe where you could learn a new language and lounge on picnic blankets in the sun with a bottle of wine and fancy cheese while mulling over your Literature seminar readings. You were supposed to be interesting and clever and successful and far away from here. Instead you were back where you had started, some wash up’s discards, nothing to show for it except a new dependent on your taxes.

Your brother followed you back to the guest house, determined to argue as ever. He was a man of few words until he was upset, and then every word cut like broken glass.

“Are you sure you want to keep it? It isn’t too late for you to finish up and go to uni.”

You had almost forgotten that you basically dropped out to follow Van on tour.

You had told your family that it would just be a couple stops, then you never came home. Until now.

One day your mother phoned in a rage after receiving a letter from the school that you had been expelled on the grounds of truancy. You remembered you told her you were turning in your work remotely—an obvious, bold faced lie.

Your relationship with Van had changed you from a studious rule follower to a fool, lucky in love, dropping out of high school to accompany someone else building their dream. Loving Van was like climbing a tree, higher and higher with no thought of how you would get down. But now you were flat on your ass, with another between your legs.

Your personality change had sparked concern in your friends in family, allegeding that you were “not that type of girl” to abandon everything for a man.

“I’m not really sure what type of girl I am,” was your only response.

After all,how could you know who you were meant to be when you were so young? Being with Van, being Van’s, was fun and exciting in a way you had never experienced. You’d never really dated, and didn’t have a lot of friends outside your brother’s friends, which was how you met Van. He was always nearby, goofing around and causing trouble.

Your earliest memories of Van were of riding bikes through town, collapsing in the cool grass when your legs turned to jelly and you could hardly peddle anymore. Van would blow dandelion seeds in your face while you giggled and rolled away from him. All of the hours spent under the gushing lemony sunshine ended in grass stained knees and freckled cheeks that lingered long after the popsicle drippings had been washed from your fingers.

That was the beginning--the familiarity; the quintessential bedrock of love that matures as you do, which each outgrown shoe and lost tooth. The type of childlike innocence entwined with companionship that warms your stomach just to think of, having had such a pure memory to call your own; an endless syrupy summer’s day that no one can take away from you.

As you grew and changed from girls and boys to women and men, your love morphed right along with it. There were many long stretches of time you hadn’t seen him at all, either from busyness with school or a row with your brother. But whenever you saw him again, that warmth returned right back to you, starting in your stomach and burning up to your sternum, bright and effervescent.

Your relationship mutated from platonic to romantic one night at a house party. Alcohol was still a novelty to you and two bottles of beer was your limit. You and Van were sitting together on a couch, the dim room filled with your other friends, illuminated only by fairy lights and the occasional flicker of a lighter. Van was telling ridiculous stories all while gesticulating wildly, each one making you laugh harder than the last. The combination of the alcohol and throwing your head back with laughter so many times had made you feel like you were on a rollercoaster, vertiginous and bubbly.

As if you hadn’t had enough, you got up to get another drink and fell back down onto the couch--except you missed your original spot by several inches and landed squarely on Van’s lap. You laughed out loud at your clumsiness. If you were sober you would have been so embarrassed! But your lowered inhibitions helped you see the humor in the situation. The room was aglow and the world was still big; the energy of youth electrifying the room.

Van instinctively placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, and quickly jerked it up towards your shoulders as to not make you feel uncomfortable. A twinge of excitement seared in your stomach. You had never really touched before, and this felt nice in the most unexpected of ways--as if you had found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

You studied Van’s face, having never been so close to it. The perfect slope of his nose, the confetti of reddish freckles across high cheekbones, the pink pillowy lips that outfitted his wide mouth.

He must have been staring at your lips, too, because they clashed together as if drawn by magnet. There was no saying who kissed who as your heads met, puckering together needily. You wrapped your hand arms around him, leaning into his warm body so that your heads were resting on the couch, lips married together. His mouth tasted sweet like fairy floss, the room spinning like a carousel. You weren’t sure how long you made out for, but it felt like you were alone in the room full of people, coiled in the sweetest embrace that made time stand still. When you finally came up for air Van was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, gingerly tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I hope your brother didn’t see that,” he joked, making you blush.

You didn’t remember much of how the rest of the night went or how you ended up in your own bed the next morning, but the mere thought of having kissed Van so publicly both thrilled and mortified you. Surely people would talk--or were they all too drunk to notice? Did this mean he fancied you, or was it alcohol fueled happenstance?

At school the next week you heard his voice echoing in the halls, and turned to see him hanging on another girl while fraternizing with a group students the same year as Van and your brother. He tickled and teased her before hugging her from behind, then kissing her cheek with fervor. White hot shame flared inside you, ruddying your cheeks. You hurried home in a daze, scolding yourself for being so naive. He was a flirt and you were a fucking idiot for allowing yourself to be involved with someone like that--your brother’s friend, no less.

But the next weekend the same booze soaked gathering reoccurred, this time with more warm bodies packed into a smaller room. You sipped from a can while exchanging small talk with a girl from your chemistry class, wondering if you should leave or have another drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Van had arrived with the same girl from earlier, making a scene as he greeted his friends.

You decided to have another drink.

Cracking open a fresh can, you turned away hoping Van wouldn’t notice you. You smiled and nodded while your classmate blathered on, not registering a single word she said, unable to concentrate on anything other the imaginary tension in your head. The slick condensation beading on the aluminum can was your only anchor to reality as your body flushed from the discomfiture as much as the humidity. Though you hated to admit it, you wanted to be the girl next to him. Instead you slurped more beer, hoping to reach a level of inebriation where someone else started looking better.

Eventually the heat of the room became too suffocating to bear, and you excused yourself for a smoke. The noise of the party was barely a low thrum from the cement patio, despite being eight feet away. You sat on the very edge of the pavement, stretching your legs out into the dewy grass. The damp chill grounded you, your heart rate descending as you exhaled into the ether. The stars scrambled against the inky sky, floating in and out of focus as your nerves melted away with each crisp breeze. You were more drunk than you thought, but it felt nice out here where you weren’t being choked by calefaction and confronted with Van with the other girl.

The first drag of your cigarette was interrupted by a body shuffling next to yours, thumping down beside you on the cement.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here by yourself?” It was Van.

You scanned over the back of your shoulder to see if the girl was around you. She was not.

“I’m alright,” you sighed, tapping the ash from your cigarette onto the curb.

Van wrapped his arms around his crossed legs, shaking his hair out. From under his fringe, his eyes searching your face for clues to decode your expression.

You exhaled the smoke so at least there would be something between you to shield you from his intent gaze. The chirp of crickets in the distance filled the silence. Snuffing the butt out on the cement, you got up to leave without a word. Van grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks.

His expression nearly broke you, wide eyes begging for an explanation, confused as it was hurt. Letting out a deep sigh, you weighed your options: stay with him and exchange meaningless platitudes or leave. Leaving seemed like the better choice.

“I’m going home.”

Van sprang up. “You shouldn’t go alone this time of night after drinking. I’ll walk you home.”

Secretly, you loved the initiative he was taking. He wasn’t asking, he was announcing. This type of attention and caretaking were foreign to you, even as the kid sister and tagalong. No one ever fussed over you. Even though Van was known for being sweet to everyone, you were pleased as punch he was fussing over you.

Dark was the night as you trudged home, guided only by the flaxen incandescence of streetlamps and drunken intuition. For a long time neither of you spoke, reveling in the quietude of the sleepy town in the dead of night.

Van broke the silence. “So how’ve you been?”

“Same as it ever was,” you sighed, still uncomfortable with the hidden motive of his small talk. “Is your girlfriend gonna be upset that you’re walking me home?” Van laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t a joke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Only partially did those words alleviate the tension that had been badgering you all night. The alcohol poisoning your bloodstream was making you bold.

“So you just kiss all your friends like that,” You kicked a bottle down the road. Van’s head jerked up, turning towards you.

“Let me kiss you not as a friend then.” You stopped dead in your tracks. Of course he could be bolder than you. For the second time that night, you looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. You could feel yourself freezing in place like a deer in the headlights, but your bodies were being pulled together as if magnetized. Van grabbed your face as your lips married; exchanging greedy, hungry kisses. His arm migrated around your lower back, pulling you into him, subsuming your bodies as one. You kissed as if you couldn’t breath without the other’s air, desperate and smacking.

Even when your lips finally parted, your figures remained cocooned together. Your noses brushed at the tip, studying each other’s faces. Never had you seen Van so still and ruminative before. He brushed his thumb across your cheek before imparting a final kiss.

“How’s that for not friends?”

Soon Van was coming to your house to see you more than your brother and their friends. He would meet you in the hallway to exchange forbidden kisses, risking demerits and suspensions. Now instead of lurking on the outskirts at parties you were right next to him, the center of attention, with his arm wrapped around you.

You could tell your brother wasn’t comfortable with your arrangement, but he never said anything discouraging. You had never smiled so much in your life, and people sometimes didn’t recognize you next to him. You drank more and wore less. School began to feel like a prison, entrapping you 8 hours a day when you’d rather spend time with your sweetheart. Even in subjects you loved, you couldn’t focus. You tried to study while the band practiced, but you’d always get distracted by how cute Van was and his never ending questions about their creative direction. You started helping manage their shows, calling venues and arranging transport and making sure every piece was in its place.

Soon you were helping out so much that you were hardly home and rarely saw your other friends. As the band became more successful, you would occasionally skip school to accompany them to far off gigs and events, reveling both in the rebelliousness of playing hooky and the sheer delight of watching your favorite person achieve their dreams.

One of your favorite teachers had warned you against following Van, confronting you during office hours when you had dropped in to ask about an assignment. There was genuine concern in his expression, as if you were his own child that was making a stupid mistake.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but you really should rethink your decision to leave. You could go to a great school and study whatever you wanted. You’re brilliant and clever and could charm the most stoic of souls. There are plenty of people in the world like Ryan, who will want to harness your energy to use for themselves. Don’t let them.”

You had thought he was just jealous, or perhaps had a tiny crush on you. You smiled at your past naivety. He was right. Your brother agreed.

“He picked you because you were hardworking and clever and too sweet to realize he was taking advantage of you! You were the best girl at that school and he fucking knew it. None of the girls like Alice or Nia would have lasted longer than a second with him! They would have crumbled from not being the center of attention, nor do they have a brain cell to show for it. He wanted someone to support him and do all of the hard work while he took credit for all of the glory. I mean, he didn’t even arrange you as a manager or assistant like Larry so you could get paid by the touring company!”

You hated when your brother was right, because it was a gut punch every time. He was a man of few words, but those choice words stung. You had organized much of the band’s earlier endeavors, like communication with agents and venues and examining contracts for faulty clauses and loopholes. The band was hardworking and talented, but still too hungry for success to make good judgements on their offerings. Without you, they surely would have fallen prey to a lecherous label under a contract that would have destroyed them.

“I know it wasn’t malicious, because he can’t pull his head out of his ass to think about anyone else. He surely knows you could achieve more without him, the thought just never occurred to him because it’s his world and the rest of us just live in it. And now you’re having his child in the town he abandoned while he’s living out his rockstar fantasies. Did he ever even call you to make sure you made it home, and the plane didn’t fucking explode with his unborn child on it? Does he even fucking know your pregnant? Does he even care?”

You turned away so that your brother wouldn’t see the hot tears in springing from your eyes.

“You can go now,” you mewed, hoping he would take the hint.

“If he sets foot in this town again, I’m going to fucking kill him.”

It was a promise.

#this is a wip but i wanted to post it bc it is both cringe AND fail #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #catb fic #catfish and the bottlemen fic #vanfic #van mccann #van mccann fic #van mccann fanfiction

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wanderingfanfics · 3 years

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My Balan Wonderworld Story

So on Twitter I saw a trend of people talking about how they discovered Balan Wonderworld so here’s mine! I’m using tumblr because long-winded is my middle name (Wandering Long-winded Fan)

Warning I’m going to be talking about death in the family, anxiety and depression.

...I know that’s a little dramatic for how I got into a game with the funny hat man.

So I have anxiety. I’ve always had it, but I pretended it was manageable. I used to have a therapist but she was sort of...judgmental. I saw her for a year before I decided that I didn’t need to anymore. The anxiety spikes got more frequent and I’d end up going into terrible spirals where I fixated on atrocities, but I could brush it off because I’d still find a way back to things I enjoyed.

Then my grandma died last summer. I’ll spare you the details, but she was the first person I opened up to about my non-straight situation, and I loved her for it. The games I was playing, the songs I listened to, the fanfiction I was writing, I stopped doing all of it. It was all trapped in a time when my grandma was still alive, when I could still hear her voice through the phone after work.

I was distraught for a couple of months and then I was able to go back to normal routine, but at the beginning of this year I had another anxious spiral, and it wasn’t going away. The thoughts wouldn’t stop, and they overtook everything I did. I couldn’t read, play games, work, watch movies, anything without thinking of existential dread. After five years, I started getting panic attacks again. I was still able to eat and work and even play games, but I got none of the joy anymore. Having both anxiety AND depression is quite the concoction to choke down during a pandemic.

Now, this might be the point where I go, “AnD tHEn bALaN SaVED mE,” but I won’t, because that’s a dangerous lie.

You know what saved me? Getting Help. I went to the doctor, I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression and then I got some hecking medication for it. You can’t depend on a game to save you, you need to talk to someone.

The spiraling thoughts still pop up every once in awhile, but they don’t have the same control over me like they used to. Soon as I can afford to, I’m going to a therapist and I’m not going to brush off my depression and anxiety ever again.

So anyway, I was prescribed some medication which would take effect after a few weeks. And HERE’S where Balan Wonderworld comes in. Because I found this video.

youtube

And I couldn’t stop thinking about it? Why was Penny Parker mortified when they started dancing? What’s going on? I looked at her impression of the full demo, and I thought “oh! this’ll be fun to watch others suffer though!” (btw Snapscube is cool streamer you should check out) I was one of those “love to hate it” fans at the beginning, or maybe more accurately a “love to watch others hate it” fans. It was so hilarious seeing people’s brains melting over such an innocuous looking game. To be fair I didn’t hear of this game when it was announced, so I didn’t have expectations to be trampled on.

Then I thought, “Wait...those Tims...remind me of Chaos.” Suddenly the demo was in my hands, and I replayed it like five times. Next thing you know I preordered the game (and then a second time before I realized I already preordered it) bought the cd, bought a freaking portable cd player to play it with, and am in the middle of writing a whole fanfic.

Then after all that, after replaying the game twice, it hits me. I was genuinely enjoying something again. I loved this game.

My dog died a few weeks ago, and I cried for a couple of days. He was the sweetest boy in the world in his passing hit me like a truck. But instead of shutting away the fanfiction I was writing because it was when he was alive...the first thing I wanted to do was write again. It wasn’t something to shut away and put under the bed, it was a comfort now.

Balan Wonderworld did not “save me” from anxiety and depression. The joy and love I have for it comes from the fact the it came to me after I decided to finally treat my anxiety. The love and joy for Balan Wonderworld is the result of finding me at the right time and place to bring me happiness.

I know this has nothing really to do with the actual game, but maybe that’s the point. It wasn’t the game itself, it was the circumstances surrounding it. Though, the game looked like it was just made for me. I mean, dance sequences? Colorful backdrops? Tims? What’s not to love.

So long story short after crawling out of a terrible spot in my life I reach the top to find Balan Wonderworld waiting for me, and I’m happier for it.

If you happened to read my previous fic “Yuma and Memories” I’m sorry its taken so long, but I haven’t given up on it. I’ll get back to it one day. For now, I’m going to keep working on “Welcome to the Wonderworld!” because its become a comfort and a joy to me. I hope you enjoy.

...Also I got a puppy and so I can’t finish the chapter this week I’M SORRY-

#balan wonderworld #Balan Wonderland #Welcome to the Wonderworld #fanfiction #fanfic #anxiety #depression #death in the family #death of a dog

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strawberrysoup · 4 years

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Let’s Review || Chapter 21

Peter Parker knew that his big sister would do anything for him to be safe and happy. She’d given up everything for him twice over already and would do it again in a heartbeat. And that’s why, when the criminal mastermind Tony Stark started inextricably following him around, he didn’t say a word. Because he knew without a doubt Penny would do whatever she had to if it meant keeping Peter safe. He had to protect her, just like she always protected him. He never considered what would happen if Stark decided both Parker siblings were worth taking. Never considered who else in Stark’s inner circle would agree. He just wanted to protect her and yet somehow, they both ended up with needles in their necks.

relationship: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character/Bucky Barnes, background Peter Parker/Tony Stark rating: Explicit warnings: Dark Steve Rogers, Dark Bucky Barnes, Dark Tony Stark, Dark Avengers, kidnapping, non-consensual&dark sexual situations, underage Peter Parker, emotional and psychological abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat more warnings: you know what? there’s really not anything. except like... this ones gonna hurt 🤙🤙 good luck

read this: fuck guys this chapter was draining and insane, please reblog and comment if you liked it. pleeeease.

The anxiety had been building for a week now, but as the final day of Penny’s stay in the tower progressed Peter found himself practically vibrating with panic. He’d been trying, desperately, to make Tony change his mind—he’d spent an entire day not talking to the man, had screamed and raged against him, he’d cried and begged, offered anything in exchange for Penny to stay. The older man had held his ground remarkably, gently admonishing him for all of his misbehavior and brattiness and explaining, every time, that it was what was best for Penny.

In all fairness, Peter realized about half way through the week there was no hope for convincing Tony, but he had to keep up the behavior lest he rouse suspicion. Thankfully it wasn’t exactly hard to be depressed and angry and petty, not when Tony was endangering his sister.

The garbled piece of technology in his pocket felt heavier than ever, in his head the iridium electrodes were ten thousand degrees. Peter didn’t want to use it—kind of. He didn’t want to make Tony sad or angry, but he kind of did? What he knew he wanted was for Penny to escape, with or without him. Any disappointment or anger would be worth it, he’d revel in it just a bit, and Penny would be safe.

“Come here baby.”

His feet moved before he even thought of it, trailing over to where Tony was standing at the bar with a finger of scotch in a tumbler. They were getting ready to head down to the soldier’s floor, freshly showered after a day in the lab and just waiting for it to be time. Peter didn’t understand why they couldn’t just go early, why did they have to wait all day anyway? He could’ve been with Penny hours ago, he could’ve helped her escape hours ago. The clock was ticking and his nerves were rising.

“You are freaking out,” Tony told him pointedly as he drew Peter into his arms once he was close enough, tucking the boy against his chest, “I can feel your brain going nuts. What do you need baby?”

“Penny.” It wasn’t a belligerent or angry response, just short and desperate.

Tony sighed heavily, weight settling on his shoulders at the teenager’s words. He’d been conflicted for the last week, ever since Steve told him the ‘plan’. The plan to take Penny a thousand miles away and tuck her away inside of a cabin until they could condition her to behave. He understood the method to the madness—he’d considered spiriting them away before too. But the keyword was them. He had considered taking them both off to some secluded cabin. It was the same sensation Tony had gotten when he decided he would steal Penny away along with Peter; they were supposed to be together.

But that wasn’t to say he didn’t see the necessity.

Tony was fully aware that Penny was not adapting the same way his boy was. Where Peter had fallen into tolerance and was moving towards acceptance and potentially even appreciation, Penny was still actively resisting most of the time. Steve revealed that she’d started to break after reaching her pain threshold, there had been small cracks in the surface and the soldiers were managing to pry their way through the gaps. Had it been Peter, they would’ve had him calm and docile and perfectly behaved by now—but Penny was a completely different animal.

It was slow going though, agonizingly slow. And her reluctance caused a correlating reluctance in Peter, who generally matched her opinions and emotions but at about a quarter of the level of passion. Not to say Peter wasn’t passionate about things, the kid was, but Tony still wondered if the teenager realized the gravity of what had happened the way Penny did.

For all of his intelligence, Peter was still young. His ability to think logically was great, but his immaturity hindered him; Penny had shielded him, a lot, from the realities of the world. The idea that he was with Tony for the rest of his life likely didn’t mean much, it was a concept but Peter didn’t have any way to conceptualize the future like that. His brain was perpetually stuck in the present, just like most kids his age.

Penny understood consequences. She understood harsh realities and disadvantages and unescapable struggle; she’d lived it for so long. Three jobs, no bed, no insurance, no degree, no— Tony had to stop himself. Penny understood suffering in a way she hadn’t allowed Peter to, had protected him from. Penny knew what forever meant and she knew it was crippling. Peter was in the early chapters, still in his exposition and living in the moment. His sister was at the end of her story, a tragic dénouement of everything she’d ever known.

Peter had retained his rose-colored glasses, whereas Penny’s were smashed when she was thirteen. Hard stop, no condolences for the loss of her childhood—they were obliterated when she could barely comprehend what life was and the difference between the pair was palpable.

If they kept the siblings together, Penny would never adapt beyond protecting Peter. She wouldn’t be able to see the future as an opportunity versus a loss, not while she felt like she had failed him. Seeing Tony touch him, talk to him, look at him was enough to make Penny fall into a pit of existential dread over her failure to protect her brother. The separation had to happen; him and Peter needed to develop away from the soldiers and Penny—there was no other viable solution.

The way Tony’s arm tightened around his back for just a moment, a quick reassuring squeeze, told Peter that despite the silence the man hadn’t changed his mind. He wouldn’t relent. He wouldn’t fucking fix it.

“Here, you know what? Let’s peek in,” Tony gestured towards the TV with the tumbler, tugging Peter around the bar to stand just behind the sofa, “JARVIS, how’s Penny and the Popsicles?”

“Ms. Parker has just changed clothes and is awaiting your arrival, sir,” the AI responded smoothly, “shall I pull up the camera feed?”

“Yeah, throw it on the TV,” Tony wrapped his arms around Peter and pulled him into his chest once again, resting his cheek against the side of his head while they focused on the screen, where Penny was walking into the living room.

She was wearing a long sleeved shirt that dusted her knuckles and leggings, her masses of hair pulled into a bobble on the top of her head. The camera was focused on the living room as a whole, angled to see the front of the couch and armchairs, Penny’s daybed just barely visible in the corner. Bucky was sitting on the armchair, phone in his flesh hand while Steve skirted the top corner of the screen, walking around the kitchen and dining room.

Peter clocked that something was amiss immediately. Penny was hugging herself around the waist, shoulders hunched towards her ears as she crossed the room. They were able to catch her profile as she came to a stop in front of Bucky and waited until she had his attention, a hint of the expression on her face something Peter recognized to be heart wrenching. When he put his phone down and sat up slightly, looking almost concerned, Penny immediately tucked herself into his lap—of her own volition. Bucky was visibly in disbelief, arms snapping up to help settle her, tucking her close when she rolled even further onto her hip and pressed her chest against his. She went so far as to press her face against the slope of his neck, arms tucking around the back of his neck and shoulders tightly.

Bucky had followed all of her movements valiantly, helping her adjust and tugging her knees to rest between his thigh and the arm rest. Steve even crept further into the corner of the screen, looking at Bucky with raised eyebrows and signing something with one hand while absently holding up a pitcher with the other.

There was something crawling under Peter’s skin; he could feel it slithering over his muscle tissue and insinuating itself into his being. A sharp tremble ran down his back and he pulled away from Tony, pretending to turn to wipe away tears when instead he was trying to get a handle on his shaking. He couldn’t identify it, didn’t know what was going on, it felt like his blood was bubbling in his veins and he tamped down the shiver fiercely before Tony could tug him back into his chest.

“See baby, Penny’s fine, she’s just waiting for us,” he murmured gently against the side of Peter’s head—Tony didn’t know, didn’t recognize how sad she looked— “I know this is going to be hard. It’s gonna be hard for all of us, but Penny won’t be gone long baby. They’ll be back before we know it.”

Penny would break before they knew it. Penny would break. Penny would shatter. Something viscous was festering in his chest, constricting his organs. His heart was pounding but blood was oozing rather than pumping through his veins, it felt thick and congested—he felt sick, he was going to puke but Tony was shuffling him towards the elevator already. Peter swallowed hard, allowing himself to be ushered inside while the man followed behind.

“Soldiers’ floor, J.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony cursed before the elevator doors closed, sticking his arm out, “I forgot Penny’s present, wait here baby.”

And all of a sudden the blood was rushing through Peter’s veins. He didn’t even think—the moment Tony was out of sight he ripped the piece of tech from his pocket and opened the tiny pocket that allowed whatever little physical maintenance that was necessary for an AI enhanced elevator. He couldn’t have imagined such a pristine opportunity, hadn’t had any idea how he was going to execute his plan.

“Mr. Parker, I do not—”

“Sorry JARVIS,” he gasped, on the verge of a panic attack as he hastily connected the circuit board to the elevator system and, by proxy, JARVIS’ system.

Peter had just closed the panel before Tony returned and the teenager found himself gasping for breath, leaning against the railing in the elevator. Tony sighed upon seeing his distress, obviously believing it was a result of Penny’s impending departure—it wasn’t like JARVIS could explain otherwise, Peter glanced towards the red dot in the corner of the elevator, once again apologizing to the AI in his mind.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped into the foyer where the soldiers’ front door was located and waited, shaking, to see what happened when Tony stepped off. He let the man shuffle him along, listening for the sound of the elevator doors behind them. Tony didn’t seem to notice that it stayed in place, open, an anomaly for either of the tower residents’ personal elevators.

The front door opened and Penny burst through, immediately jumping up to wrap her arms around Peter’s shoulders to tug him into the biggest hug she was capable of. He could feel her shaking, Tony’s hand rested on the small of his back and the soldiers were standing inside the apartment, waiting to welcome them in. Peter reeled with scenarios, looking to the side at Tony’s face, his eyes. He let his eyes trail over him for just a few seconds before shifting.

He made eye contact with Steve for all of four seconds before sweeping Penny up and darting back to the still open elevator, “JARVIS! Down, now! Fast!”

He slid through the doors with Penny clutched to his chest just before the door closed and the elevator started to descend at the fastest rate that was safe for unaided, standing human transportation.

“PALTI CHAYIM WHAT DID YOU DO?!” She was screaming in Hebrew, words flying from her mouth so fast he couldn’t even keep up—something about stupid, why, what they’ll, safe—

“PENNY—Fuck! You have to run! Stop screaming, listen! When we get to the floor you run!” He shouted back, trying not to shake her too hard while they continued to descend uncomfortably fast, “I don’t know how long it’ll work!”

“Peter why did you do this?” Penny was sobbing into his chest while he struggled to get them both to their feet, “Palti Chayim, I—Fuck! Fuck—”

Her hands dug into his shirt roughly and she shoved him into the back corner of the elevator, falling against him just a moment later. Peter’s arm lashed around her waist when she almost fell while trying to turn, her back pressing him further into the corner and he realized the elevator was starting to slow. Penny’s hands gripped the railings to each side, trapping him in the corner. His eyes snapped to the blue dots over the doors and his heart seized in his chest—they were only on floor 35, for the elevator to have slowed so much they would’ve needed to be on the 20th floor minimum to stop on the 1st floor at the current rate of deceleration.

JARVIS was back in full control, carefully dropping their speed until it came to a complete stop on the 12th floor. Penny’s body locked up like she’d gone into rigor mortis when it started to ascend again, her breathing coming in frantic pants. It was going up at the usual clip and Peter realized that every second it took made his heart beat faster in his chest. He was light headed, dread setting in.

Tony had told him multiple times that anticipation was the real punishment sometimes, the overwhelming paranoia and fear and desolation. His thoughts immediately began to spiral and his knees weakened slightly.

“When it stops you stay in here,” Penny’s voice shook as she spoke.

“Wha—”

“Shut your mouth!” She screamed, once again defaulting to Hebrew, “Be quiet. Do as I say. Do. Not. Move.”

“Penina—”

“Stop.”

Peter swallowed down a sob, head dropping to rest on her shoulder. The passing of floors was marked by a soft tone and between the two of them, they were barely able to remain standing when the silence between beeps started to lengthen. Penny’s grip on the railing slipped, her hands sweaty from sheer panic, her knees just barely holding up the extra weight. His arm was still slung around her waist, but his hold was too slack to keep her up despite the strength with which he clenched her shirt in his fist.

“Stay.” Penny managed to choke the order out just seconds before the door opened, a panicked sound escaping her lips when she realized her legs weren’t moving the way she needed them to.

It just amped the anticipation, Penny’s brief but agonizing hesitation before she forced her limbs to react and lead her out of the elevator. He nearly gagged on a sob, watching as she put her hands up and out to her sides, just slightly. Penny was vibrating with fear, her fingers almost blurry from a distance.

“P-Please—” Peter couldn’t see them, they must’ve been standing to the side of the doors, in front of the second elevator, “it’s m-my fault.”

“No—!” He launched himself forward, only for his sister to turn faster than he thought she could move.

Penny had never laid a violent hand on him, but the way she shoved him back into the elevator bordered on it, “SHUT UP!”

He’d never noticed the way Penny’s voice cracked when she screamed before. It had always been there, he was aware in the back of his mind, but he’d never really noticed. It hurt in a special way, when the bottom seemed to fall out of her words until she could rally through the rasp. Penny had been smoking some combination of weed and cigarettes for almost as long as he could remember—had she been fourteen or fifteen? He was only eight, maybe nine at the time. Did her voice crack like that before?

His thoughts spiraled once again while Penny turned forward again, putting herself between his seated self and the three men’s towering forms, “I’m his guardian. His actions fall on me, not him. I should’ve stopped him, I shouldn’t—if I had stayed inside t-to wait, it wouldn’t have—”

“Babydoll,” Steve sighed, shifting to step closer but stopping short when a full body cringe racked her form and her hands lifted to cover her face, just for a second before she clasped them tightly in front of her chest, “Penny…”

“You—you can just… p-punish me, okay?” Her voice was shaking as badly as her body, hitching every few words and she shuddered violently for a moment before lowering herself onto her knees, “H-He’s just a k-kid, I should’ve—”

“Okay, precious, come here,” Tony scooped her up under her arms, bringing her back to her feet before tucking her into his chest, “I know that this is just what you do. It’s a compulsion, trying to take the blame like this? But we both know nothing you did could’ve stopped him. He grabbed you and ran before Steve could get to you, sweetheart.”

“N-No, I—”

“We had audio and video in the elevator the whole time, doll,” Steve cut her off gently, “JARVIS was translating to Tony’s phone. We know what you said, and we know what he said.”

A choked sob escaped Penny and her fingers dug violently into Tony’s old t-shirt, her nails scratching him through the fabric. Bucky immediately darted forward and snatched her out of Tony’s arms, spinning them around until Peter couldn’t see her around the bulk of his body. It had been preventative—if they got to her before she did damage, there didn’t have to be a punishment. He could see her legs kicking and the sound of her crying but not much else.

“Peter,” his attention snapped to Tony, who’d stepped directly in front of him, “we’re going to go inside, everyone is going to calm down, and we’re going to have a good night. Do you understand?”

His breath froze in his chest for just a moment, whooshing out when the man crouched to look him dead in the eye, “are you willing to calm down so that you can be with Penny this evening?”

It took him a half second longer than he intended to nod, murmuring a quiet response. He was rewarded by a small smile and Tony helping him up, the older man immediately wrapping an arm around his waist once he was on his feet.

There wouldn’t be any opportunity for escape, of course, whether Tony was physically holding him or not. He’d give the kid one thing: he never thought Peter would get so close. Never thought Peter could get so close. He wondered how long he’d been working on that particular piece of tech—something that overrode JARVIS’s response to his orders. It only worked in the one elevator and it was corrected within two minutes of the breach, but it was still incredibly impressive. Especially considering Tony had been very careful not to provide him with any parts or pieces that could facilitate a runaway attempt.

Inside the apartment, Bucky was still cradling Penny tightly to his chest but now in the same position that they’d seen on the security camera. Tony could feel Peter tremble against his side at the sight, his chest jumping with a suppressed sob. There were a pair of kittens worming their way around Bucky’s ankle, the little white one particularly loud in its’ efforts to be noticed.

“It gets upset when Penny’s upset,” Steve stated from behind, startling Peter for just a moment when he walked around the pair and towards the chair, “here you go, doll.”

The super soldier scooped the tiny cat into his hand and deposited it right against the exposed crook of Penny’s neck before swiping the orange one up as well, setting it on the arm of the couch a few feet away.

“That one doesn’t?” Tony questioned, guiding them over to the couch and pressing Peter sit before sitting next to him.

“It doesn’t like to be touched as much,” the blond answered, already walking towards the dining room again, “food should be up soon.”

Tony knew that Steve was doing his best to distance himself at the moment, lest he lose his temper on Peter. He was pissed, practically steaming in irritation and honestly Tony appreciated the lengths he was going to. The orange cat let out a squeaky meow from where it sat, looking hesitant to be on the same surface as other people. It very carefully hopped from the arm of the couch to a seat cushion, toeing the very edge before backing away nervously.

“Here, I’ll put you down,” Peter murmured quietly, reaching over and carefully picking the kitten up, relieved when it didn’t protest and sat it on the ground gently.

“Do you need a cat too, baby?” Tony nosed his temple gently before pressing a kiss there, watching Peter smile when the orange cat went up onto its back legs to knead its little paws against his ankle.

The teenager reached over and picked the kitten back up when it continued to meow and scratch at him, obviously looking for attention. As soon as it was on his lap it started to squirm, but only until his hands weren’t wrapped around it. The little thing was sniffing around him curiously, stumbling across his lap on unsteady paws.

A tone sounded near the front door, alerting them that the food had arrived. Steve was quick to respond but Penny didn’t even shift and Peter certainly didn’t look much inclined to move while the kitten was, adorably and painfully, clawing its way up the front of his shirt.

“How about we eat around the coffee table,” Steve suggested as he walked into the living room with two large, brown paper bags full of food, having evidently read Tony’s mind, “Tone, can you get everything out? I’ll go grab plates.”

Tony started absently digging through the bags and pulling out the styrofoam containers. He was definitely checking what was in everything and stacking it around the table depending on who’d be eating what, but his eyes were mostly locked on Peter. The kitten had made its way up to his shoulder and was furiously rubbing its face against his cheek, purring up a storm.

“It usually only lets Penny touch it,” Bucky’s voice rumbled from the armchair, his eyes also focused on Peter and the cat while his hands absently roved over Penny’s still form, “even then not for long.”

“Maybe it has discerning taste,” Tony reached out and tried to scratch it under the chin, only to jerk back when it lashed out with sharp little kitten claws, “exquisite tastes, I guess.”

“It’s cute but those claws are sharp as hell,” Steve returned with plates and silverware, two six packs balanced on top and a few bottles of soda tucked under his arm, “Bucky would be covered in scars if we didn’t heal.”

“I was trying to play with it, I didn’t think it would turn into a psycho killer and go for the jugular.”

“Says the psycho killer who regularly goes for the jugular,” Tony muttered under his breath, making Steve and Bucky both snort in amusement while Peter wondered if an actual ice cube going down his spine could make more goosebumps than that statement, “why not get it declawed?”

Steve and Bucky exchanged looks, both cautiously glancing towards where Penny’s face was tucked into the brunet’s neck, “it’s not—”

“Declawing a cat is cruel,” Penny’s voice was watery and angry, “they’ll be in pain for the rest of their lives. You want them to stop scratching but all it does is make them angry and mean and they’ll spend the rest of their lives hating you. Making your life as miserable as possible until you give up and either euthanize them or give them away. It’s what you get for ruining their fucking lives.”

#steve rogers x oc #bucky barnes x oc #steve rogers x oc x bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #dark!tony stark #dark!fic #dead dove do not eat #let's review chapter 21 #let's review

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senor-cummies · 3 years

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I request that you ignore how cringe the first part of this is lmao i wrote it like 2yrs ago. Happy post a wip Saturday! this is for my wip 'to covet anonymity' which is the prince!link/bounty hunter! revalink au, or, as my horrible disgusting friend mike likes to call it 'the revalink mandalorian au'

The sound of thundering hooves still echoed in the forefront of his mind. It soaked him in a fear that was completely alien to him. The fear of being caught. The fear that, despite his efforts, he’d fail. That he’d be taken away from the confines of his safehouse and thrown in a jail cell, or worse, into the bed of the person he was meant to marry four days ago. The fear swamped him, overwhelmed all of his senses until he knew nothing but it. Until he was lost in a thick fog of immeasurable consternation with no means of escape.

He was drowning in it, a thick, viscous, never-ending ocean of horror that permeated his tight-wound barrier. A constant pounding, taunting, sense of vehement trepidation that struck him with a force that rivaled a title wave. The salty winds off the Akkala Dead Sea, running through his hair even at this low point on the Ulria Grotto where he was seeking refuge, carried with them the twinge of dismay, each rise and set of the autumn sun that brought him closer and closer to his judgment day.

To the inevitable.

Overstimulating anxiety pounding against his skull, screaming for any way to escape besides red hot tears and muffled screams into his bedroll. He willed for sleep to take him, to succumb to something other than existential dread, for a break from perpetual suffering even if only for a moment. And all he got in return was the sound of cool wind and rushing water.

No rest, no sleep, no freedom, just crickets, and owls. Deer in the distance, mysterious rustling that made him go reaching for the broadsword sheathed at his bedside.

He’d never get any sleep at this point, any attempt to do so was worthless. He had to head to the stable up the coast in the morning anyway and, given by the moon, he only had a few hours of night left till sunrise. He’d just hoped, wished, he might be able to sleep. Link hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep, even a bad night’s sleep dammit, since before this whole engagement nonsense. Maybe, if he was willful and believed hard enough, he could manage to milk even 30 minutes.

With a deep breath, he settled into his bedroll, holding his blanket tight to his body, before shutting his eyes and trying one more time to rest.

A drop of water fell on his cheek.

Then another.

And another.

One more...

A shower of rain poured down upon him as if the goddess herself was telling him to move. That it, too, was fate.

Still, he stayed laying in his covers that slowly got wetter and wetter as time went on. He could afford to lay a bit longer, at least until the first thunder crack.

(he tried his best to pretend he just didn’t hear the quiet rumble of thunder in the distance as he rolled over onto his other side.)

alpha

Link stared at the bounty poster of himself on the stable wall, next to an advertisement for Beedle's new Akkala shop location and a warning sign for a lynel herd that moved into a field in the gulch. It was like looking at a ghost. He could barely recognize the hylian looking back at him.

He looked so...Sad. So out of place. He fit in much better out here.

Link frowned, ripping the poster off the wall and stuffing it in his bag of tinder.

He turned, walking over to the check in shelf to peruse the newer, dry, non falling apart at the seams, tunics.

"How can I help you?" The clerk greeted. Link looked him, bringing his arms out from under his cloak.

'I'd like a child's traveler's shift.' The clerk reached behind him, grabbing it.

"Just the shift right?" Link nodded, looking around the room as the clerk sorted through to find his item. He looked back at a navy blue rito.

Do I...Know them?

They stared back at him, eyes slits. Link scrunched up his face, pulling his hood over his eyes.

"Alright, that'll be 20 rupees for the shift." Link nodded, reaching into a small pouch on his hip.

There was a loud ruckus outside, the sound of pounding hooves, casting over the clerk's voice as he attempted at small talk.

"It's probably the knights again," theg groaned. Link tried to silence his anxiety.

"Oh, he comes around about twice a week looking for that 'lost prince'. You know, I don't think he's lost. I don't think he was abducted at all, I think the poor sap ran off. You hear he was supposed to be shipped off to Ganondorf? Join his harem? I woulda done it too." Link tuned him out, his breath picking up.

The hooves grew louder and ceased at the stables entrance, the entourage casting a shadow over the inside of the stable. Link gulped, giving the man his rupees taking his shift and leaving, stuffing it into his bag as he made a mas face and he gulped.

“No one leaves until we’ve searched the entire premises, okay?” Link made a mad dash to the back door, covered in the bedlam that was the King’s arrival. A large wing was shoved into his face, the impact of it knocking him to the ground.

“Are you deaf, elf? Nobody leaves.” Link cursed, moving to pick up his things that were dropped in the collision.

"How many times are you going to keep bumping into me, bird guy?"

"I don't like it any more than you do." They crossed their arms, watching Link scramble to pick up his things. "And don't call me bird man."

"Don't call me elf,"

The rito huffed, leaning down to help.

"I'm fine," Link mumbled, voice quiet in an attempt to not be recognized.

"I don't care about you, it's just taking you a pathetically long time to pick up your things." Link rolled his eyes, picking up his books and clothes.

"Well, would you look at that..." Link looked up from the shirt he was refolding to the rito's wing. Sitting in it's navy blue feathers, was the diadem he'd snagged off his bedside table. His eyes widened.

"Give me that!" He cursed, snatching it up out of his wing.

"Now, now, I recognize this." Link whined, following their wing to try and grab it.

"Where did you get this?" Link huffed, dropping his arm, the rito inspecting his diadem closely.

"Where did you get this?" They repeated.

"I don't see how that's any of your business." Link hissed, grabbing the rito's wrist and snatching thr diadem out of it's wing. Link shoved it into his bag, stomping away from the stable. He could hear the rito behind him.

"What do you want?" Link groaned.

"That's the prince's diadem." Link bit the inside of his cheek, still walking back towards the grotto.

"If it is, than I bought it for a hell of a steal."

"Bought it from who?"

"What's it to ya?" He yelped as he was grabbed, slammed against the hard bark of he tree. He looked up with flushed cheeks to meet piercing green eyes.

It only made him blush harder.

"I am going to make myself clear, hylian. I ask a question. You give an answer. I asked who you bought it from." Link panted quietly, shaking like a leaf. Somehow, he still managed to muster up a smirk.

"What's it. To ya."

The rito struggled not to slam him into the tree again, for fear he might knock thr hylian out.

"If I tell you why I'm asking, will you answer?" Link shrugged. The rito gripped him harder, grinding him up against the harsh tree bark.

"Yes! Ow!" The rito dropped him, backing away. Link groaned, rubbing at his arm from where thr Rito had him.

"My name is Revali. I'm a bounty hunter chosen by the king to lead the search for the Lost Prince. That is the prince's diadem, now, if he give two shits about your life and your freedom I'd say who sold it too you. Withholding this information is a crime, you know?"

Link nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I bought it off a pawner at the Ridgeland Stable, near the Coliseum? Sold it to me for 800 rupees. Had I known it was Prince Link's I would've asked for more..."

Revali stared at him, his hood and hair still hanging in his face. They sat, staring at each other for a few minutes before Revali sucked in a gasp.

"Put it on." Link's eyes widened in panic.

He doesn't...How could he?

"Doesn't fit."

"Put. It. On."

Link rolled his eyes, trying to conceal his fear as he reach into his satchel, pulling out the diadem. He pulled his hood back, his hair spilling out in long, silky, tendrils across his shoulders. Slowly, fearfully, he placed the crown on his head, staring at the bounty hunter.

Revali stared at him in shock and awe.

"Are you--"

"No." Link took the diadem off, putting it in his bag.

"I'm not the prince, I've never been to the castle, my name isn't even Link!"

"You look like a Link..."

"You look like an overgrown cuckoo!"

#link botw #botw #loz #tloz #botw revali #revalink #to covet anonymity #tca #paws #post a wip Saturday #mandy writes shit

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petrichxxr · 3 years

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fateful coincidence [2] | l.jh

A/N: here I am yet again wondering if people still read the things I write... I started this series a year ago (I think) and finally have gotten around to updating it...

Word Count: 12,552

Genre: chaebol/heir!au, supernatural elements/deal with the devil, slice of life, romance (slow burn/soulmates)

Warnings: reader (fem) x lee jooheon (monsta x) pairing, mature/suggestive themes, language

Summary: Lee Jooheon is a well-known heir to a global hotel conglomerate, and is next in line to take over the family business. You’re a journalist, aspiring for more, but barely managing to pay your own bills at the end of the month. The two of you are from entirely different worlds, yet fate somehow tangles your threads, and Jooheon seems to know an intriguing amount more about you than he lets on.

You’re forgetting things.

Like pockets of memory, it starts off small. Miniscule things throughout the day that slowly progress into more important issues. There are holes, you reach in and grasp for something that you know should be there, but nothing comes out. It’s an irritating feeling—to know that something is misplaced, forgotten, but to be unable to identify what it is. It feels as if it’s only gotten worse since the night of the hotel opening, but a part of you is suddenly aware that it’s been going on for much longer than that.

It’s only after the event, waking up the next day with the taste of alcohol lingering, that you wonder how serious your memory displacement might be—because you realize, waking up, that it’s not even the alcohol that’s making you forget. Yet despite that, you still push everything down. You lock it and the dashing Lee Jooheon away in the depths of your mind, forcefully making yourself forget this one thing. You didn’t have the time to keep constantly turning his words over in your head, attempting to sort through the shrouded mystery that they presented. Not just that, but he was from a completely separate world—even if you allowed yourself time to do just that, he was still untouchable.

Plus, you didn’t want to relive every single detail as you described the event to Kihyun. There were some important factors that could be conveniently left out—he had refused to talk to you for almost three days, annoyed you’d hung up on him and given him the cold shoulder that day. Despite having a job to do. But you were just as irritated in his behavior and lack of thoughtfulness the day of the event when you’d called out of work. He hadn’t bothered to check on you at all, and you had needed to get to your job. It was as simple as that, but he’d taken it out of proportion and was being childish.

His childish behavior had dropped after the three days—after he seemed satisfied he’d gotten whatever point he was attempting to make (there was none) across, and after you got some decent recognition from Minhyuk due to the article you’d written. You tried not to consider the fact that it could have been some of Jooheon’s doing that the piece was performing so well, another thought you pushed out of your mind and locked away.

After the hype of everything between the event and article died down, your daily routine fell back into place. Kihyun was back to his normal blunt best friend act, Minhyuk was as bossy as ever and overworked you, and your daily headaches returned.

The daily headaches. You wonder if it has anything to do with your missing pockets of memory.

“Are you forgetting anything?” Kihyun’s voice suddenly breaks through the slight throbbing just beyond your skull, silencing the thoughts that were just about to make everything worse.

You glance up from your suitcase to see him entering your room, eyes scanning over the piece of paper you’d typed up. A gray cloud of fluff, fondly known to be your cat Silas, expertly weaves his way through Kihyun’s feet. Whenever he did that to you, you’d trip and fall—yet for some reason, he and Kihyun had it down to an art. No matter how much Kihyun multitasked, he was always used to the feline being just underfoot.

Silas breaks apart from Kihyun and trots across your bedroom to you. “Hey, bub.” Smiling, you reach out and give the cat a few chin scratches. Looking up to Kihyun, you add, “I don’t think so. You’ve taken care of him before though, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Kihyun frowns. “Not for this extended length of time, though. Does he get separation anxiety?”

“With how much I work and am away from home, anyway? Doubtful. But who knows, he may miss my presence. Just sleep over here. I have food that’ll go bad and you still have a roommate.”

“True. Hyungwon just sleeps, anyway. It’s not like he’ll really notice I’m gone.” Kihyun lowers the paper of instructions for caring for the flat and Silas while you’re gone on your trip, eyeing you. “Are you going to get that checked out, by the way?”

You practically scramble to lower your hands from your neck, realizing Kihyun had spotted you attempting to massage away some of the pain throbbing at the base of your nape. He was always so watchful, it was almost annoying. You understood the headaches were something to be concerned over, but he didn’t have to nitpick so much.

“It’s not really a work trip, nor a leisure trip. I’ll see if I have time.”

“Still, you’ll be visiting home while you’re there. You may as well fit in a doctor’s appointment,” Kihyun pointed out, giving the paper in his hand a small wave. “Plus, you’re there a little over a week. Family matters to take care of or not, you’ll have plenty of time. Make sure to get some rest, too. Maybe you just need some decent sleep.”

You sigh. “Yes, mother, I’ll try to.”

The sound of Kihyun’s scoff immediately follows, along with his footsteps. Silas, who had been sprawled out on the floor this entire time, scurries away at the sudden weight reverberating across the floor that startles him out of his catnap.

“Anyway, did you forget anything?” Kihyun asks once more, eyeing your open suitcase in front of you.

You glance back at your suitcase, a little haphazard with the contents but sorted and all together nonetheless—you just had to figure out how to make everything fit between your checked and carry on baggage—and shake your head. “No, I think I’m good. If I do forget anything, at least I’m going home. There’s usually spare stuff available, or I can just buy it if it’s something small.”

Kihyun frowns. “You were literally just complaining a few weeks ago about having to spend money on a dress, and now you’re saying you can just buy what you need.”

“Well, I figure if I forget anything, it’ll be something cheap like shampoo,” you cut him a look, rolling your eyes. Not a gown, you want to say. “Anyway, let’s get some sleep. Flight leaves at two in the morning, and I’m sure that’s going to be a lovely time waking up for the both of us.”

If possible, Kihyun’s frown deepens. As quickly as you possibly can without making any mistakes, you finish organizing your belongings between the luggage and close everything up, creating a pile to easily collect upon your departure. Kihyun bids a soft goodnight and makes his way back to the makeshift bed he’d created in your living room. You were already dreading the sixteen hour time difference and having to reset your internal clock for your visit to the States. At least all Kihyun had to do was wake up at an almost-unholy hour of the night to drop you off at the airport, then return to home and bed. You hoped sleep would come easily to you on the plane—because as the lights in your apartment are shut off and you close your eyes, the pounding of your headache seems to increase and rear its ugly head in full force—making sleep almost impossible for the five or six hours ahead of you.

—

Sleep comes, at some point—though not easily. But as long as it took to come, it ends in an even shorter amount of time. When you finally do fall asleep, it feels as though only a few moments pass before your alarm begins to go off. You groan, your head still pounding, and roll over to bury yourself further under your covers. The blaring song of your alarm does nothing to ease the throbbing within your skull, and you wonder how you’re supposed to get into an airplane and make the trip. Will the climb in altitude make your head hurt worse?

It’s Kihyun’s groaning from the other room, followed by his annoyed stomps—that finally wakes you. He silences your phone alarm before abruptly pulling your covers off you, making you groan again.

“Wake up,” Kihyun orders, and you feel your shoulder shoved at. ��You don’t want to be late.”

“I don’t want to be at all…” Comes your sleepily mumbled reply.

“We are not having an existential crisis at twelve in the morning. Get up. I will not hesitate to drag you out of bed,” Kihyun warns. “And your apartment floors are wood.”

Letting out a sigh, you push yourself into a sitting position. Giving your eyes a rub, applying a slight pressure in hopes to ward away the throbbing headache, you drop your hands then blink a few times and allow your sight to adjust to the darkness of your bedroom.

“You still have a headache?” You see Kihyun frown in the dark.

“Why are you surprised? It’s a constant thing nowadays,” you sigh once more, pushing yourself to the edge of the bed. “Plus, it took forever to fall asleep. I’ll just sleep on the plane, though. Do you mind packing the car and I’ll get ready?”

You don’t really wait for Kihyun to answer, knowing he’ll do so anyway without you having asked, moving around to collect the clothes you’d set out the evening before and heading to the bathroom. One of Kihyun’s pet peeves was being tardy, and while you lived close enough to the airport that it wasn’t a huge deal to leave a little later—it had been Kihyun’s idea to at least get there an hour and a half earlier than your flight. Which honestly made sense on any normal occasion, but the airport was sure to be a bit on the dead side considering the time of night.

It doesn’t take you long to get ready. Your warm morning shower does nothing to ease the tension in your head—a last ditch effort you had hoped might work. By the time you’ve finished a very shortened version of your morning routine brushing your teeth, drying your hair, and applying your facial care—Kihyun already has the car packed and is pouring some food into Silas’ bowl, before pulling a hoodie on and getting ready himself. You gather the last of your toiletry items that need to be packed, and when the two of you head downstairs and you bid your farewell to your beloved feline, you stuff your toiletry bag into the top zipper of your luggage.

Kihyun was right to urge you to leave earlier rather than later. Despite the distance to the airport, there’s a decent amount of midnight traffic due to it being a weekend. You close your eyes as he drives, the blinding city and street lights glaring against the glass window of the car and burning your pupils and head. Kihyun’s smooth operation of the vehicle makes it easy to doze off a couple of times before you arrive. While the traffic may have been on the heavier side, you still make it early, and with plenty of time to spare.

“Make sure to tell me when you land,” Kihyun orders as he helps pull your bags out of the trunk of the car.

“I will.” You’d be sure not to have a repeat of the hotel opening night, where he hadn’t checked in on you when you’d called out, and out of spite you hadn’t bothered to reach out to him. “Make sure you send me plenty of photos of Silas while I’m gone.”

“He’ll be fine, he’s a cat.”

You jut out your bottom lip into a pout. “That’s not what I said.”

Kihyun scoffs, but reaches up to pat your head gently. “I’ll send you photos. Please try to see if you can get into a doctor while you’re there.”

“You’re going to keep pushing that, aren’t you?”

“As much as I possibly can,” Kihyun lowers his hand to give you a one-armed hug. “I’m going to miss pestering you. I don’t think we’ve been separated for a week since we met in college.”

“You could just say you’re going to miss me like a normal person would.”

“There’s no fun in that though.” Kihyun grins down at you, before nodding towards the entrance to your gate.

Giving a small wave, you gather your luggage and head inside. In total, it takes about thirty minutes to get your bag checked, get yourself checked in for your flight, and to go through security. Just as you’d suspected, the airport is practically dead at this hour and the lines are nonexistent. However, the traffic had been enough to make a dent in the time, and you thankfully don’t have long to wait before they start calling for your gate to board. There’s exactly enough time to grab a quick pastry from a nearby coffee shop that happened to be open before making your way onto the plane when your seat section is called.

You board the plane, stow your carryon in the overhead compartment, and then claim your seat and fasten your seatbelt. Having flown before, you stick your earbuds in your ears—figuring you’ll listen to the flight attendants’ usual spiel when the time came—but more eager to make yourself comfortable and attempt some more sleep as quickly and as soon as possible. Especially since you’d been lucky enough to snag an unclaimed window seat. This meant you were tucked away in your own little back corner, hopefully left alone for the sixteen hours ahead by whoever decided to take up being your seat partner.

Hopefully left alone was too much along the lines of wishful thinking.

As you stare out the window, watching workers move about below in the dark as they load and prep the plane for takeoff—you suddenly feel an uncomfortable tug on the cord of your earbud, before it’s pulled straight from your ear. You can’t help but grimace, feeling the bud tug at one of your many piercings.

“What the hell—”

Just as you speak up, a voice that’s all too familiar asks, simultaneously, “What are you listening to?”

You blanch as you turn in your seat, coming face to face with none other than Lee Jooheon. He quirks a brow at you, tilting his head to the side as he inserts your stolen earbud into his own ear. You can just barely make out the dimple impressions on his cheeks, his mouth pressed into something along the lines of a smile suppressing an amused smirk.

“How—” The word falls from your lips, empty and confused. How, what? You wonder. How did he get here? How was he on the same flight as you? How did he recognize you? Not that you’d chosen to sit too far towards the back, honestly—anyone walking into the plane after just boarding could easily recognize a familiar face with an empty seat next to them. You liked sitting toward the front-middle of planes when traveling; apparently, in this case, that was your downfall.

“Business trip,” Jooheon just shrugs, replying simply. “Why didn’t you ever text me that night?”

You turn away from him, pursing your lips. Text him? You briefly remembered him handing you a business card, though couldn’t remember where it had slipped off to—too many drinks made it difficult to keep track of something that small. He’d only asked for you to notify him you got home safe, anyway, so what was the big deal? His bodyguard that had escorted you home surely passed that bit of info along to him.

Had he—a possible multimillion dollar heir—really expected you to text him, unannounced? And why would he expect such a thing?

Copying his shrug, you glance away from him. “I lost your business card.”

It wasn’t a lie. As much as you wanted to admit, it was easy to forget the business card and it’s whereabouts. It was easy to forget the possibility of texting him as he’d asked. With the alcohol that had coursed through you, it was easy to forget that entire night. That was something that would probably irk him if you did choose to admit it. However, what wasn’t easy to forget were his words that randomly popped into your mind and turned over in your head, playing like a broken record—Do you really not remember me?

That, on the contrary, was something that irked you.

What was there to remember? Had you really forgotten something? It was a question that burned into your mind, day and night, even when you attempted to suppress all thoughts of him. You tried not to allow yourself to think of the events of that day, or him. While the former was fairly easy, there was something about Jooheon himself that made the latter next to impossible. There was no way for you to fight off the burning curiosity he’d created, as much as you tried. You could forget everything but him and his mysterious words.

“Well, we can fix that,” Jooheon’s reply doesn’t miss a beat. Before you even have a chance to react to his words, you feel your unlocked phone slip through your fingers and out of your grasp.

“H-Hey—”

But Jooheon is paying no mind to your protest, and you watch as he swipes out of the Spotify app on your phone to open the dialing screen. His fingers glide across your screen as he inputs his number. He even goes a step further as to open your messages and start a new text to himself—ensuring he also had your number.

As he hands your phone back to you, you frown, feeling your jaw tense. You glance down at the screen briefly, which he’d returned to your playlist, before looking back up at him. What would he do if you blatantly deleted his phone number? A part of you felt spiteful enough to do so just for the mere fact that he had taken your phone without asking and entered his number. It’s fine, I’ll just delete his number after the flight, you decide. Even if he has my number, I can just block him.

Whatever kind of coincidence this was—it was just that. A coincidence. Nothing more would amount after this. It was rather unlucky you were stuck here for sixteen hours with the given circumstances, but you reminded yourself that this wouldn’t be happening again, and to just suffer through it for now. But there was a small part of you that wasn’t quite convinced it was merely just a coincidence, like you hoped… his words from the hotel opening night, like a broken record, continued to replay in your mind. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing. Something you really had forgotten.

“I like this song,” Jooheon comments off-hand, and you only hum in response, finally turning away. It would be an understatement to say you weren’t really in the mood to engage him. Maybe he’d only spoken up and said that because you’d been staring for so long, taking your gaze the wrong way. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be completely lacking in common sense. Jooheon doesn’t push for more of a reply out of you, allowing the two of you to sit in silence as the rest of the flight occupants take their seats.

It’s almost more unnerving to sit next to Jooheon without saying anything. During the hotel night, before things had gotten weird with what he’d muttered, you two had been able to freely talk without much difficulty. There was something about his energy that made it almost comfortable, yet invigorating, to be in his presence at that time. But now the invigoration has twisted and warped into an unnerving feeling. For the most part, you feel on edge—yet there’s still a high energy, a curiosity, that sparks between you. While the flight attendants review the usual plane and flying regulations, you find yourself glancing at Jooheon. The music still plays between the two of you, having not reclaimed your earbud and he having not offered to return it.

Despite your better judgement, you’re aware of the way that the wire of the headphones rests against his shoulders, and how in normal, casual clothes—he’s actually quite broad. It’s something you feel like you should have noticed when he was dressed to the nines in a suit, yet so many suit jackets have padding you weren’t actually sure you would have trusted it. But in the simple hoodie he was wearing, you can see the breadth of his shoulders, and you’re positive it’s not because it’s oversized. He looks so simple, the outfit rounded together with some black sweatpants and a white shirt peeking out from underneath the hooded sweatshirt. So simple, and so unlike an heir or someone of his financial status. You try to ignore the fact that your brain keeps yelling at you that he looks good. It’s not important right now—or right ever, actually. Why did your mind feel the need to supply such an observation?

You’re about to pull your gaze away from your attention on Jooheon, when you notice something as you do so—where his hand lays on the armrest, his finger taps incessantly. The tapping seems to pick up speed, even becoming more sporadic, as you feel the plane beneath you pick up speed with the takeoff. For a moment, you lose yourself in the background noise of his tapping—the tiny sound overtaking your senses and demanding your focus, a rhythmic and hypnotic thing. Don’t worry about him, you tell yourself. But there’s a part of your mind that is just too curious.

“Are you okay?” You suddenly ask, dragging your eyes away from his fingers. The action seems to feel as though it takes slower than it should.

“Huh?” Jooheon blinks at you in surprise, having not expected you to acknowledge him for the rest of the flight. It’s then that he realizes what he’s doing, and he stills his hand. “Yeah, fine.”

But when you glance down, you notice the way he grips the armrest instead—forcing his muscles to be still. You think he might start vibrating with the anxiety.

“Are you sure?”

Jooheon nods, though the action is terse. “I just don’t like flying.”

“Don’t you have to do it a lot, though?” You ask, surprised. He was the heir to an international hotel chain. Wasn’t he meant to do a lot of flying? Plus, he could be considered a businessman… the idea of him not liking flying and being used to planes confuses you.

“I—” Jooheon starts, though his words are immediately cut off as the plane picks up, pulling itself off the ground as it officially takes off. Jooheon intakes his breath sharply, the takeoff pushing both of you back against your seats. It’s not a rough takeoff, per se, but you’d definitely had smoother.

Despite that, Jooheon isn’t handling it well. Something within you pulls toward him—an innate need to protect that you can't quite explain. It’s like a little tiny flame, you feel it stir within you and you can’t help but want to feed it. The combination of his intake of breath, and the way his jaw clenches when he closes his eyes, causes you to reach out without thinking—practically prying his hand off the armrest to take hold of it.

You wrap your hand around his, giving a reassuring squeeze.

Jooheon is surprised by the contact—enough so he stills for a moment, opening his eyes to peer down at your hands in curiosity—before he’s caught by surprise by something else. It’s in that moment that your hand folds around his, skin touching skin and your warmth flooding into his system through shared palms—entwining itself around every nerve—that everything stills. The sensation of everything within him simply quieting—the black, reverberating anxiety that shook at his core like a thunderous stormcloud, and the way his stomach twisted with nausea at every jerky movement the plane made. But it wasn’t just that, it was everything from that to standard stresses, a whirlwind of things that needed to be done for work, and the tormenting voices he often had to deal with within his own mind—they all just silence at your touch.

He finds his gaze locked on your hands, confused and curious all at the same time. He’d never had this happen before. Was this something that was supposed to happen? Even if he wanted to, Jooheon feels as though he’s unable to pull away from the warmth there. Like your palms are magnetized, connected, and something he shouldn’t pull apart. There was a warmth just beneath his hand, where his skin met your skin, that he could feel building like a little fire. But instead of overtaking everything in the way that a wildfire might, Jooheon finds the warmth to be soothing. Comforting, like a warm drink that fills you up—or perhaps closer to the sensation of sinking into the warm water of a bathtub. The silence within him is a welcome sensation that he’d personally like to drown himself in, if only to escape reality for just a little bit and stay suspended where he was in that strange sensation of lulled time.

For you, the skin to skin contact with Jooheon is scalding. You immediately feel that electricity you’d felt the night of the hotel opening shoot across every nerve in your body like a cosmos, the tiny flame you’d been curious about flare up with a vengeance. The heat that floods through your system at his contact in places you’d never even imagined—the pit of your stomach, the cavity of your chest, the back of your throat, is parching and suffocating and entirely overwhelming. It overtakes you in such a way that you feel your chest seize up, like you can’t breathe. But for some reason, you hang on to him. You wonder if you’ll start shaking from the sudden pressure that feels as though it’s been placed on your body, hyper-aware of the contact of him.

Yet, for some reason you don’t have the answer to, nor the mind or focus to think about—despite the way his skin contact is scalding, the nerves in your body ignited and burning from his touch—you still find yourself reaching out to him during the flight. It’s almost like it’s instinctual, though you aren’t quite sure how that would even be possible. Every time you notice Jooheon tense or become physically uncomfortable, the incessant tapping of his fingertips against the arm of the seat picking back up—you reach out to him. Your touch stills the anxiety from pouring out of his body in a physical form. It always happens when there’s turbulence, Jooheon seemingly seizing up every time the plane acts up in any way. You find it an odd fear or worry to have, considering he should be someone accustomed to flying so much, but you suppose people don’t get to pick and choose what it is that they’re afraid of.

For a good majority of the flight, Jooheon opts to leave you alone. As much as he has questions and curiosities, and a need to hear your voice, he doesn’t want to push his luck. Every time your hand finds his whenever the turbulence of the plane gets to be too much for him—everything within him stills after a shock of electricity passes through his system from your touch. It’s like that single strike flashes through his system, piercing through every bit of thick, smoky anxiety in its wake. But beyond that touch, Jooheon doesn’t ask or prompt for much more. And as the turbulence settles the longer the sixteen-hour flight drags on, the less Jooheon feels your touch that acts as a solid comfort to him. Instead, he relies more on the music the two of you listen to together. You never ask for the earbud back, and the cord of the shared headphones acts as the main thing linking you together the more time passes.

Jooheon only pushes his luck a little bit every time food or snacks come around. He takes these moments to chat with the stewardess, asking some questions, and pulling you into the conversation with ease. It’s then that you find yourself stuck in small chats with him as he passes you snacks, drinks, or your meal. Luckily, it’s easy conversation that—for the most part—doesn’t push any boundaries, and always has something to do with the food being passed around. Questions like, How does that taste? What’s your favorite food? And barters to trade snacks. They’re interactions that don’t require much of a thought process otherwise, just meaningless words to fill the silence and help pass the time. While most of your interactions with him up until that point had been begrudging, to put kindly, Jooheon couldn’t help but be surprised at how receptive you could actually be.

In between conversation, you spend the flight trying to get some shut-eye in, as you had originally planned—to no avail. You aren’t sure if it’s the presence of Jooheon being so close to you, his flying anxiety, or the sensation and sounds that came with flying that make it difficult to find sleep. From the corner of his eyes, you’re unaware of Jooheon watching you nod off every now and again, unable to ignore the way your head starts to bob or fall back against the seat suddenly. At these times, you barely manage to catch just a few fleeting moments of rest, something you couldn’t quite place your finger on always stirring you back awake.

It’s during one of these brief moments when you stir back awake that you notice Jooheon working on a tablet. At first, you think nothing of it, wanting to go back to sleep—even though you’re almost certain it’s impossible at this point—but, then it dawns on you that Jooheon is focused and quiet, and most importantly: Working, and not bothering you. As much as you hated to admit it, you’d become accustomed to Jooheon pestering you every time you moved even an inch. His silence almost disturbed you.

You blink a few times, blearily at first, refocusing your gaze and quietly straightening in your seat to peek a glance at the tablet. It sits in Jooheon’s lap, propped against one of his knees that he has raised and crossed over the other leg, where he drags the stylus against the screen, moving a specific item back and forth across the piece he’s working on. You can’t tell if he’s being erratic or indecisive. For a moment, though, you stare—studying what you assume to be some sort of pamphlet being put together for a hotel—before a yawn overtakes you.

When the yawn subsides, you shift in your seat, leaning closer to Jooheon. You give his elbow a nudge on the arm rest as you peer further over his shoulder at the tablet. “There’s too much white space.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing when Jooheon startles in surprise at your sudden intrusion into his space—having thought you were asleep still—letting a curse in Korean slip from his mouth under his breath. Cute, you can’t help but think, offering up a sheepish smile as if to apologize when Jooheon turns his head to stare you down, his eyes screaming offense. Jooheon lets out a small sigh, turning away and lifting a hand up to pat his chest and clear his throat—attempting to settle a heart that had almost tried to jump out of his chest.

“I can’t get this layout to work,” Jooheon says as he returns his attention to the tablet in front of him.

You reach over the armrest, and over his arm which holds the tablet, pointing at the screen as you speak. “You should resize these things, and then move this font here, and this image here. You could also do an overlay with a neutral color to offset the layers of this.”

As you point to what you’re talking about, careful not to touch the tablet and accidentally move something, Jooheon watchings your index finger carefully. You don’t notice the way his brows knit in focus, hanging on every word you say and carefully listening to you. You also don’t notice the way that, as you speak, he’ll find himself losing focus for just a split second to allow his eyes to flicker to your face—so close to his as you lean over the armrest—taking a fleeting moment to admire the way you seem so serious and concentrated, your eyes alight with determined focus. Jooheon glances away from you, and back down to the tablet as you speak, feeling the corners of his lips twitch with amusement. This is what you liked doing. It was the part of your job that you liked, and he could tell. A stark contrast to the night of the hotel opening, which just seemed stressful and forced on you.

It’s Jooheon’s turn to shift in his seat, leaning closer to you as he pulls his arm back and puts the tablet on the armrest between the two of you. You feel yourself freeze slightly at the proximity, having been so focused on what you were telling him. He lifts his hand, holding out the stylus to you. You blink, glancing at him and meeting his gaze—brief enough that it makes your chest clench—before glancing at the stylus.

“What?”

“I’m not going to retain any of what you just said. I got a bit of it. You take over.”

“You… want me?” You blink in surprise, glancing at the screen of the tablet, and at him again. “This seems important though. It’s for your work, I could mess it up—”

Jooheon scoffs. “Please, if anything—I’m the one that’ll mess it up. You’re the journalism major here, I’d say you’re much more qualified.”

“Then why are you doing this?” You ask, relenting and taking the stylus from Jooheon.

“We acquired a hotel in Los Angeles a few months back that’s been undergoing renovation—for the line of hotels I introduced at the grand opening the other night. The one in Seoul was built from the ground up, but we’ve slowly been expanding and we took a historic hotel and made it our own,” Jooheon explains, watching as you finally touch the stylus tip to the tablet and begin to work. “Anyway, long explanation shorter—the opening for that and the reintroduction of the new management is soon, but we recently lost our marketing manager. We haven’t been able to find someone else to hire, and we’ve got deadlines to reach. I’ve been trying to help out by taking over half of the job duties from the general manager.”

“That’s very… responsible of you.”

“Well, this whole chain is my responsibility,” Jooheon muses. “So, yeah. But also my best friend is the GM and his ass is getting kicked. Neither of us are any good at this, we’re just good at the business portion of it.”

The conversation falls off there, Jooheon realizing you’re focusing. Hearing he and his general manager were struggling made you feel more pressure, and you can’t help but mentally chastise yourself for stepping in and helping, despite how clearly he had been struggling. Luckily, Jooheon stays close to you as he watches you work, leaning against the armrest. You try not to focus too much on the way your shoulders touch, or the way his scent flows into your space as he delegates a little, giving you technical hotel terminology to include and add in as the pamphlet comes to life on the tablet screen and the white space that had been taking up the majority of the screen before slowly melts away. When he challenges something you do, he allows for you to explain your reasoning behind it and listens carefully as you do so. You find yourself surprised at how well he listens, and how easily it is to compromise with him on certain things.

You two spend a couple of hours working away at the project together before determining it’s finished, Jooheon and yourself both pleased with the outcome. Jooheon is smiling with enough force that his dimples show on his cheeks, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling along with him—his happiness infectious; you’re happy he’s happy, and you’re happy to have helped. Yet even with the happiness, you find your eyes stinging because of staring at a bright screen for so long, and are acutely aware of your beloved ever-present migraine rearing its ugly head even more than it had at the start of the flight. Jooheon takes note of the way you lift a hand to pinch your nose, attempting to suppress the pain throbbing from your skull.

“Get some sleep. I won’t bother you anymore,” Jooheon comments, lifting the tablet up briefly to give it a small wave. “Thanks for your help though.”

“No problem,” you mumble, suppressing yawn. His thank you catches you off-guard, enough so that you lower your hand from the bridge of your nose to blink at him a couple of times. But he’s not paying attention, turning away from you to put the tablet back into a carry-on he’d had stowed underneath the seat ahead of him. You shift in your seat—away from the position which had you closer to him—attempting to make yourself comfortable again as you close your eyes.

Sleep seems like a fever dream to you. Something you’re aware that you’re receiving, but never feeling quite satisfied from it. As if it’s there, but simultaneously not; all a figment of your imagination. You begin to doze almost immediately after closing your eyes, the migraine practically pushing you to do so, because keeping your eyes open hurt too much. The intensity of the migraine doesn’t relent, though, which has you dozing and waking just as you had before you’d begun helping Jooheon with his work. Just as before, you find yourself going in and out of consciousness, nodding off and startling awake when your head begins to bob or tip too far. You sleep in increments—none of it restful.

Jooheon is aware of your restlessness next to him, but he’d promised not to bother you—and he has to remind himself of that. But the way your head tips and bobs makes him feel anxious for you. Especially because he could briefly recall a mention of a constant headache the night of the hotel opening, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the reason sleep wasn’t coming to you easily was because of that. Had you been serious about it? You had a dry sense of humor, which he found quite amusing, but it had him often wondering if what you said was the truth or not at certain times—and did a decent job to keep him on his toes as he attempted to figure out whether you were being serious at times.

He gives in to listening to himself constantly telling himself that he had said he wouldn't bother you, though, after too much time passes watching your head nod as sleep attempts to overtake you. That has got to be uncomfortable on the neck… he thinks to himself, completely giving in when he watches your head fall forward a bit too far. Jooheon reaches out to catch your head, guiding it gently toward his shoulder. As he does so, he sinks lower in his seat just a bit, so your head can rest more comfortably against him. He’s a little disappointed to find that the instant calm and quiet that had overtaken him earlier during the turbulence from your touch doesn’t envelop him warmly again—he is, however, surprised to find that after a few moments pass, you shift in your seat closer to him. When Jooheon glances at you after feeling the movement, he finds you still asleep—thankfully—slumping to the side to lean towards him more comfortably, snuggling against his shoulder.

The way you nuzzle against him has him tensing in surprise—a heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. The action from you and the heat he feels overtake him with a sudden ferocity are familiar. Too familiar. A type of hunger he’d rather not put a name to.

No, Lee Jooheon. Not right now. He clenches his jaw, glancing away from you and swallowing roughly, feeling parched suddenly. It was strange how different actions elicited different reactions, his body responding in such stark contrast to each. As Jooheon turns away, he carefully lifts his hood up and over his head, closing his eyes.

He should sleep, too. There was still quite a bit of flight left.

—

You’re met with silence when you finally wake.

The plane is bustling and alive, a quiet hum of sound that reverberates through the cabin as people speak in hushed tones and get ready for their landing. These sounds all come to you, slowly seeping into your consciousness. Before your body fully wakes—before you begin to tense your muscles and stretch, and a yawn overtakes you while your eyes crack open—your mind wakes first. And you notice something that seems a little off.

Everything is silent.

Your headache is completely gone.

You stay still for a moment, reveling in the odd silence, though your mind is reeling as to why the migraines which had been plaguing you for months were just suddenly gone. The cavity of your skull where your mind rests feels empty, but in an oddly good way. What had changed? What had happened? Was it the ascension in the plane to a higher altitude? Was that even something that could stop chronic migraines?

It almost felt too good to be true, considering your migraines also came hand-in-hand with your pockets of disappearing memory. For all that to just suddenly stop felt too good to be true.

Furrowing your brows, you squeeze your eyes closed tighter. You want to stay here—suspended in silence and the darkness behind your eyelids—forever. There was no ache just beyond your temple that caused nausea; the pain so bad sometimes you felt like you might pass out. There was no ache behind your eyes that typically brought about the stinging sensation of tears, and made the glaring brightness of any sort of light hurt. There was nothing. There was just silence. No thoughts, no suffocating pressure, no pain.

“Are you awake now?” Abruptly, Jooheon’s not-so-welcome, yet familiar, voice breaks through your silence.

Begrudgingly, you open your eyes, blinking a few times to readjust to the light. And then, you blink again, realizing the tilted angle at which you’re resting.

“Sleep well?” The hint of amusement in Jooheon’s voice has you jolting upright—and off his shoulder, where you’d been resting your head. You take a moment to stare ahead, refusing to meet Jooheon’s curious gaze that you can feel burning into you. Silently, you swallow down your nervousness and glance to your side, avoiding his gaze for a moment to stare at his shoulder—your makeshift pillow for who knows how long—then you lift your eyes to meet his.

Without prompting vocally again, Jooheon simply raises an eyebrow.

You almost hate to admit you did sleep well, considering the push and pull you kept experiencing towards Jooheon. There were too many unanswered questions about him, too many things that made you curious and worried at the same time. He was too mysterious. Admitting something like this to him almost felt like you were placing a playing card right in his hand. There was a small part of you that wondered if his presence had anything to do with it, but you immediately pushed that thought out of your mind, writing it off as absolutely absurd. You barely knew him, how would he have any sort of effect on you such as that?

Letting out a sigh, you nod finally in answer.

Jooheon takes the silent answer with a small nod of his own, turning away to gather his belongings which had been at his feet to begin putting in the backpack he had, before pushing it back under the seat before him. “That’s good, you looked like you needed some decent rest.”

“Apparently so. My headache—or rather, migraine—is gone.”

When Jooheon straightens in his seat, he turns to look at you again. “You mentioned once you had a constant headache. Was it that bad?”

You nod. “It would vary. Sometimes it was a headache, sometimes a migraine. Anywhere from manageable to incapacitating, but always constant. It’s been going on for almost three months now, I think?”

“That long?” Jooheon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and the corners of his lips immediately follow in the opposite direction, pulling down into a frown. “You mentioned during our first meeting you were stressed, but that sounds like something more than just stress. Have you been to a doctor?”

“Please, finding the time is too difficult. Don’t start nagging me like Kihyun.” Out of habit, the borderline pushiness of his words has you reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose. There’s no headache there to attempt to subside—which has your hand just as quickly falling down from your face. You frown at your palm, studying it. The habit had been built on stress, and as stressful as Jooheon’s miniscule attempt to nag had been, there was no physical representation of that stress like usual.

Maybe Kihyun is the problem, you muse to yourself. He did have a tendency to nag to the extreme. Almost like a mother.

“I’m starting to think Kihyun might be on to something,” Jooheon grumbles from next to you, causing you to lift your gaze from your hand. “You seem to be stubborn, you need someone to nag you, it seems like. You should find the time. Three months almost certainly implies there’s some sort of underlying health concern.”

“My headache is still gone, don’t ruin the moment. If you keep it up, it’s almost certainly going to come back.”

With a scoff, you look away from him and nestle back into your seat. As you do so, an announcement over the intercom notifies everyone aboard the plane of the oncoming landing. Instructions to start preparing for landing by putting away and stowing all belongings follows, and the stewardess over the speaker ends the announcement by asking everyone to return to their seats and begin buckling up.

“Fine. I won’t ruin this moment. But I can’t promise for any future moments,” Jooheon declares. When you glance at him in surprise, he looks over at you with a small dimpled smirk. You end up rolling your eyes—rolling your gaze away from him. How the heck was he so annoying, yet somehow charming?

As if someone hears the word charming cross through your mind—the plane hits a bit of turbulence just before it begins to tip to the side, turning to make a circle to land. It’s a very slight maneuver, almost unnoticeable. In fact, you were so accustomed to flying that you really wouldn’t have noticed it yourself, if not for the fact that Jooheon, next to you, was visibly tensing as he had earlier. His hand, lying on the armrest between you, grips the edge so hard the skin pulls taught and translucent over his knuckles.

Even Jooheon’s unusual fear and his reaction to it, something you had become accustomed to during the flight, was somehow charming.

Wordlessly, you reach out, pushing your hand beneath his where it grips the armrest. It takes a bit of urging before he feels your fingertips pushing against the base of his palm near his wrist, attempting to push your way underneath. When Jooheon does, he glances at you in surprise, lifting his hand just enough for you to slip yours beneath to take hold of him as you had before.

When your palms connect, fingers wrapping around his and him returning the gesture, that scalding feeling from before returns. You knew you’d be burned, touching him—yet for some reason, as you had so many times through the flight already—it was a risk you were willing to take. That same electricity that you’d felt before, and felt from the night of the hotel opening, shoots up your arm from where your palms connect and shoots across every nerve in your body again. This time, though, it feels so much stronger—and now you wonder if the clarity of your migraine being gone is a good thing, or a bad thing. Without the heavy, leaden fog that rests over your mind with the migraine, you’re suddenly aware and feel everything. So much so that the contact this time and the reaction your body has to him makes you flinch in surprise, though very subtly.

Jooheon, of course, takes silent note—his eyes never not watching you curiously.

That electric fire that swarms through you happens in such a brief amount of time that it takes you a few moments of staring at your hand, connected with Jooheon’s, to realize that it at some point quiets down to something more akin to a simmer. Warm, and somehow pleasant. Something like sitting in a window, where sun filters through, your eyes closed against the sunlight that warms the glass and warms you.

You really had to be going crazy, you think. Jooheon was handsome but there was no way you were attracted to him—right?

Meanwhile, the same warmth floods through Jooheon, euphoric and soothing. He draws his eyes away from you, clenching his jaw and trying not to physically react to the fuzzy feeling that overtakes him, filling him up yet again. The welcome silence of everything stopping within him returns. If he isn’t careful, he’s sure he might let out a sigh of contentment that would give everything away. And so, he clenches his jaw a little tighter, pursing his lips.

“You’re going to break the poor armrest,” you say, past a knot that forms in your throat. Your throat feels dry, seizing up again. You feel awkward just holding his hand—especially as you try to make sense of the sudden fire that had built up just as it had before, before slowly dying down into something more manageable. This time, it wasn’t as suffocating. Yet you still felt somehow nervous and small next to him, that unnerving edginess he causes settling over you again. Your body was starting to feel as though it was experiencing whiplash.

A little over sixteen hours spent in his presence was starting to confuse you. Were you still irked by him, yet somehow intrigued? Or were you actually starting to soften up to him? You had to admit that his mysterious riddled words and overly generous actions had made you immediately throw up a wall… but he hadn’t been that bad during this flight. He’d been much more normal, still as charming, but besides taking your phone for himself—he hadn’t pushed any boundaries or said anything weird.

“You’d rather I break your hand, then?” Jooheon retorts good-naturedly, which has you suddenly snorting out a small laugh.

“Please don’t actually break it. I need to return to work after this trip.”

“What are you on this trip for, anyway?” Jooheon wonders, and when you look at him with a frown, he shrugs. “I told you what I’m going to LA for.”

“Family reasons.”

“A vacation, then?”

You shake your head, grimacing at the thought of what awaits you when you land. Although Jooheon has made the flight a little more bearable, despite everything you thought about him prior, a small part of you wishes you hadn’t even boarded the plane back in Seoul. Knowing what you were walking into when the plane landed—you wished for everything that, somehow, you wouldn’t have to. If only you hadn’t been pressured into taking this trip. You wanted to stay suspended here, with your migraine gone and a bit of peace from everything in life and just spend some time not thinking. Not thinking about work, not thinking about family, and not thinking about how much pain you were constantly in. Kihyun had told you to get your migraine checked out while you were near your family doctor, but you wondered when you’d have time for that—wondered how long this peace from the head pain would last. Which is why you wanted to keep it, for as long as possible. It was so nice to have some silence and a break from it all. Soon, you’d be walking back into more pain. Unwillingly so, but that was the outcome, nonetheless.

“It’s not going to feel like a vacation.” Comes your answer, just as the plane lands. It’s at that moment that Jooheon squeezes your hand, the impact of the plane hitting the runway jostling everyone inside just a bit. But there’s something in the way that he gives the squeeze—almost reassuring instead of to comfort himself—that has you staring at your hands, yet again, in silent curiosity.

Jooheon keeps holding your hand up until the plane reaches a complete stop once it pulls up to the jetway. It’s only then that he relinquishes his hold, and the both of you silently gather up the belongings which you’d brought as carry on items onto the plane. Other passengers begin to do the same, standing in their rows and slowly beginning to exit the plane. Jooheon, once he has everything in his backpack he’d brought with him, soon stands in the row you share, turning to glance over his shoulder. As you finish gathering your things into the backpack you’d brought on the plane with you after claiming it from the overhead bin, you look up at him—noticing him searching.

You peek over the top edge of your seat just as Jooheon appears to have found who he was looking for, giving a curt nod of acknowledgement. “I’ll meet you outside,” he says, nodding over his shoulder to signal when they exit the plane. You squint, studying the people, before your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, instantly recognizing the larger built man a few aisles back from you who seems to nod a reply to Jooheon.

“He was here too?” You blurt out, without thinking, memories immediately flashing back to the night you’d been drunk and that man had taken you home. You grimace, sinking down in your seat a bit and hoping he doesn’t see you.

Your outburst causes Jooheon to glance down at you in surprise, lips twitching in amusement at your reaction and the way you attempt to hide yourself. “Of course. Hoseok’s my bodyguard. And kind of an assistant, since he keeps track of all my schedules.”

“Why’d you sit with me instead of the person you came on this trip with?”

Jooheon shrugs. “You’re much more interesting. Plus, I see him every day.”

You frown, but before you can reply, Jooheon reaches down behind you where you sit, backpack on, and gives the hook strap on your bag a tug, urging you to your feet. The two aisles ahead of you move to make their exit, marking it as your turn next. Jooheon turns away as you stand, stepping out of the aisle—and his next action catches you by surprise. He steps out enough to block others from cutting out and ahead, nodding for you to go first. Blinking in surprise, you almost trip as you rush out of the aisle so as to not hold up the line, feeling Jooheon keep close behind you as he follows.

You don’t realize until you’re off the plane that Jooheon has an ulterior motive by letting you exit first. As soon as you’ve cleared the bridge connecting the plane to the terminal gate, and have stepped out into the waiting area, Jooheon steps forward from behind you and slips his hand into your own. He takes a firm hold, tugging you along as he leads you off.

“Hey!” Surprised, you stumble after him, having not even had a chance to figure out what your next step after arrival would be—you’d traveled back in time, and it was almost nine o’clock at night on a Friday in Los Angeles. You needed to figure out a form of transportation home, first and foremost, before things started to close down. “J-Jooheon!”

The sound of his name slows his pace down, and Jooheon glances over his shoulder at you with a quirked brow—but he doesn’t stop walking. “That’s the second time you’ve said my name.”

You frown, staring at him. Had he been counting such a thing? You hadn’t really been aware you’d said his name so little… but you had been avidly avoiding the use of it. You didn’t want to give him too much power by using his name. It was better, you thought, to just keep him as a stranger. That’s what you’d thought the night of the opening ceremony and the nights following where he’d constantly tormented the gaping hole in your memory. Unfortunately, he’d pushed past that boundary line already—something you were well aware of. Lee Jooheon was more like an acquaintance now, and as much as you hated it—it was too late to turn back.

“We’re going to go get food,” he announces when you don’t say anything to his statement, turning away from you to keep leading you on.

You give your hand a tug, attempting to pull it back to yourself. “We don’t need to, though—”

“Nonsense, I’m starving. The plane meals weren't that filling.” Jooheon glances over his shoulder at you again. “And like I said, you’re much more interesting to spend time with. I’m not done doing so yet—as soon as you leave this airport, who knows when I’ll see you again, or if you’ll even use that phone number I put in your cell? LA’s a much bigger city than Seoul, we might not cross paths at all while we’re here.”

“Why does that matter?” You grumble. You wanted to keep things at the acquaintance level.

Jooheon shrugs. “Matters to me. But please, just indulge me for a bit. I’m stuck here for at least a week having to do work. I might not get to see anything outside of a hotel for the entire time.”

You sigh, but give up trying to pull your hand back to you. Jooheon doesn’t free you of his grasp until you’re being seated. As you stop outside the restaurant he’s chosen, you can’t help but stare up at the sign on the wall for the Mexican food eatery, grimacing. Jooheon catches the face you make as you sit across from him—and when your eyes meet as you take your seat, and you realize he’d seen you make the face, you let out another sigh.

“Did we really have to eat here? Airport food is so expensive.”

“It’s quick and convenient. Plus, I’m paying.”

“What?” You shake your head. You already owed him, you didn’t want more added on. “No, definitely not.”

“You’re indulging me, so I’ll be the one to handle the bill.” Jooheon reaches across the table, tapping the menu that had been set down in front of you by the waiter before they had disappeared. After doing so, Jooheon pulls his phone out of his pocket and busies himself with it.

You purse your lips, scanning the limited menu options. The downside to airport food, besides the price, was how little there was to choose from. That being said, it made making a final decision a lot easier and faster. When the waiter comes back around—the two of you being among the very few people sitting to eat at that time of night—you both place your order with ease.

Just as the waiter leaves, Jooheon’s phone rings. He glances at the phone face to see who’s calling, before answering in Korean. While the voice on the other end of the line speaks, you decide to pull your own phone out of your bag that you’d brought with you. Having been dragged away by Jooheon, you hadn’t had a chance to turn your phone off airplane mode. You do so, and then wait for the onslaught of messages to pour through.

“Hey,” Jooheon says from across the table. You glance up from your phone to look at him, just as your finger pushes the little slider to turn airplane mode off. “What does your luggage look like?”

For a moment, you just stare at Jooheon, confused.

“It’s Hoseok, he’s at baggage claim.”

“Oh.” The word falls from your lips slowly as his words settle into your mind, realization dawning on you. That’s right—you’d been dragged away so fast you’d also forgotten about your checked luggage that you had to pick up. “Uh, it’s a larger black suitcase. I have a yellow ribbon tied to it.”

Jooheon nods, repeating the information to Hoseok. As he does so, you overhear him follow up by telling his bodyguard-assistant that the two of you are eating, and apologizing profusely for running off. It’s clear from the tone the conversation takes that Jooheon isn’t going to be let off easy, despite being the boss. You zone out, then, instead returning your focus back to your own phone. But the screen contents are empty when you tap the screen to wake the phone from sleep, unlocking it.

The lack of any sort of notification causes you to frown. Of course, it was past nine now, so you doubted anyone here that was waiting for you to arrive actually cared about you arriving. This entire trip had been a guilt trip, and was an inconvenience for you. You were sure drama would start as soon as you arrived home. It was likely no one had even stayed up to greet you, so why would anyone bother to check and see if your flight had gone well? There had been minimal communication leading up to your departure, anyway.

Doing the math in your head, you count back, figure that it’s a little after one in the afternoon back in Korea. The fact that there was no message from Kihyun, either, was a little deterring—considering it was a weekend in the middle of the afternoon. But then you remembered he had asked you to call him when you landed. Mentally chastising yourself, you open your text messages and send him a quick text, letting him know you’ve landed and were grabbing some food, and would call him a little later.

“You okay?” Jooheon asks, now off the phone. He’d been sitting there quietly for a few moments, watching your expression turn increasingly sour.

Hearing his voice, you startle in surprise—having not even realized he’d gone silent. You fumble with your phone, locking it quickly—slightly guiltily—and pull your gaze back up to him. Not long ago, you’d been trying to get out of eating with him and slip away as fast as you possibly could. But, now you realize it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like you had anywhere to go.

“Yeah, fine,” you mumble sheepishly.

Jooheon clicks his tongue, reaching for the glass of water the waiter had set on the table when seating the two of you. “That’s a lie,” he says, before taking a drink. “But I won’t press.”

Before you can react to that, wondering how Jooheon would know such a thing was a lie, your waiter returns with your food. The way you can feel your expression instantly lighten on your face, your stomach growling in response to the delectable scent—you realize that’s how Jooheon had known you were lying. Thinking about what you were returning home too had dampened your mood enough that it was visible on your face. But the smell of the expensive, yet delicious-looking, airport food had lightened it back up.

Jooheon smiles softly, watching you, amused at how easily food motivated you seemed to be. He gives a quiet thanks to the waiter before joining you, taking a bite of the tacos that had been ordered. The two of you eat in silence, for the most part. The only questions Jooheon asks are if you like the food, just as he had done on the plane, and how long you’ll be in Los Angeles for. Neither answer illicit much of a further reaction from him, or push him to speak more—and so you finish your shared meal together quite quickly—and thankfully before things get awkward with the staff as the restaurant nears closing time.

You wait by the entrance while Jooheon finishes up paying. As he turns away from the counter, he sticks the receipt he was given in his wallet, before shoving that into the pocket of his sweatpants, walking over to meet you. You offer up a smile as he stops next to you.

“Thanks for the food.” “Thank you for eating with me,” Jooheon replies, returning your smile. He can’t help but take note of how soft, and slightly shy, the way your lips appear to be turned up on your face. It’s cute. Before much more can be said, his phone goes off in his pocket.

The sound makes you a bit jealous, and you watch as Jooheon pulls the device out and studies the name on the screen. He lets out a very long sigh before he answers the phone—and you’re almost surprised it’s in Korean, again.

“I just finished eating,” you hear Jooheon say, and you turn away as he speaks on the phone.

As you do so, you blink, catching sight of something—or rather, someone—peculiar.

“Daniel?” The name falls from your lips with confusion, but with a raised-enough voice that the owner of the name—the person walking towards you—lifts their head in answer, confirming your suspicion.

Jooheon, standing behind you, hears your voice not only against his ears—but he also hears it echo within his phone receiver, as well. Blinking in confusion, he pulls his cell phone away from his ear just enough to stare at it, surprised and confused, before turning around slowly. Jooheon looks at you, first, then lifts his gaze up to see what you’re staring at with such a surprised expression.

“Changkyun.”

You glance over your shoulder at Jooheon, hearing a name fall from his lips that isn’t a question—but rather, a statement. Seeing where Jooheon is staring, you look back.

Daniel—or Changkyun—stops dead in his tracks where he’s walking, the cell phone he’s holding to his ear frozen there. He stares, dumbfounded, looking between you and Jooheon. After a few moments, your name falls from his lips in surprise—out of breath and nostalgic, the familiarity of it hits you like a wave. And then, his next word that follows has you blanching in surprise, looking once again back over your shoulder at Jooheon.

“Uh, hi, Boss.”

Jooheon purses his lips, lowering his phone from his ear and hanging up the call. He shoves the device back into his pocket. “You’re late.”

“S-sorry, you know how LA traffic is.”

“You two know each other?” You blurt, suddenly, just as Daniel nears the two of you, slowly coming to a stop.

“I want to ask the same thing.” As he speaks, Jooheon quirks a brow at you.

“Actually,” Changkyun clears his throat. “Same.”

“This is the best friend-general manager that I was telling you about on the flight, for our LA location,” Jooheon explains, before nodding in your direction. “And she’s my favorite small-time journalist in Seoul.”

Favorite small-time journalist. The words ring in your head, and you’re suddenly propelled back to weeks ago when you had found yourself wondering if Jooheon had a hand in how well your article had been doing. You purse your lips, but decide not to say anything.

It’s Changkyun’s turn to quirk a brow, but you’re too busy turning the rest of Jooheon’s words over in your head to react. It takes a moment before your eyes suddenly widen. Your head snaps up in the direction of Daniel, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and mouth falling open. “You?! A general manager?!”

“Wow, the lack of faith in your incredulous reaction is a testament to your faith in me,” Changkyun mutters, tone dripping with sarcasm. All you do is shake your head, still in disbelief, before looking back at Jooheon.

“We went to high school together,” you reply simply. “And middle school, actually. We’ve been friends since then.”

“Speaking of, why are you back? Are you here for—” Before Changkyun can finish his sentence, you loudly cut him off.

“Oh! Look! Hoseok has the luggage!” And before waiting for either of the men next to you to react, you push past Daniel in a rush, heading towards Jooheon’s bodyguard. Changkyun blinks, surprised, meeting Jooheon’s eyes before looking over his shoulder at you. Jooheon simply shrugs, following after you a little more slowly.

“How are you getting home?” Jooheon asks as he catches back up to you, watching as Hoseok relinquishes your luggage back to your own possession.

You give Hoseok a small thanks, turning back. “I’m just going to call an Uber or Lyft.”

Jooheon frowns, before looking at Changkyun. “How close are you two?”

“Uh… close, I guess? Our families know each other, and we keep in touch, albeit inconsistently because of work.”

“Perfect. Let her borrow your car.”

In unison, you and Changkyun both blurt out, “What?”

“It’s late, and it’s safer. We can just get the Uber. This way you can just head home,” Jooheon explains, matter-of-factly. “And if you two went to school together and your families are familiar with each other, I’m sure you know where to pick your car up.”

“Hey,” you mutter, scowling at Jooheon. “That’s not really for you to decide—”

Changkyun sighs, waving you off. “It’s fine, it’s not a big deal. He has the right idea. You live like twenty minutes away from here, anyway.”

You frown, wanting to argue further—but you feel Jooheon’s intense gaze on you and figure it probably won’t get you very far. But to just make that decision on his own, without asking… you cut Jooheon a look of annoyance before turning your attention back to Changkyun as he fishes his car keys out of his pocket, pulling the car key off and taking the remaining keys on the ring. He hands it over to you, briefly explaining he’d left the car in the loading port after convincing the attendant outside that he’d only be a short amount of time, urging you should likely go soon so as to not result in his car being towed. You nod, thanking him and giving him a quick hug, before turning to Jooheon.

Lifting Changkyun’s car key menacingly, you glare. “Don’t you dare use this as an excuse to see me and come with him and pick the car up, got it? I appreciate your concern and I’ll accept it this time—but I’m not happy about it.”

And before he can answer, you gather your things and turn on your heel, heading away. You hear Jooheon let out an audible laugh as he watches your retreating figure. He smiles, watching you leave, and waits until you’re out of earshot before turning to Changkyun.

“High school friends, huh? What a coincidence.”

“That’s the girl you’ve been bugging me about?” Changkyun crosses his arms, frowning. “If so, I don’t think coincidence even begins to cover it.”

Jooheon tilts his head to the side, curious.

“She’s the one, right? The failed contract you mentioned?” Changkyun prompts, before letting out a bitter chuckle as Jooheon nods. He shakes his head, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Ha… I can’t even be surprised, with the divorce and all…”

“Divorce?” Jooheon echoes.

Changkyun frowns. “My statement that she dodged earlier. Why she’s back here… her parents are getting a divorce. Long time coming, honestly, and she probably got dragged back into it. There’s… a lot in that household that’s worth escaping, to be honest. Which makes sense why she sought you out.”

“If it makes so much sense, then why’d the contract fail?”

“Do you really not know?” Changkyun wonders, quirking an eyebrow as he levels his gaze with Jooheon’s.

“I’m not here to play guessing games, Changkyun,” Jooheon mutters. “It just happened to be convenient that you showed up to see who I was referring to, and coincidence that you know her and we were on the same flight. But I’ve been venting all this to you for the past few months because I’m at an utter loss as to why the contract would have failed. I’m not all-knowing, despite what people may think. Now that you’ve seen her, I’m assuming you have an answer. So, spill.”

Changkyun smirks, stepping forward to place a hand on Jooheon’s shoulder. “My Lordship… that girl is your soulmate.”

Soulmate.

Before the word even processes, Jooheon is scoffing, to which Changkyun tsks.

“You were human at one point, too. We all have one. Even you, the King of Hell,” Changkyun chastises. “I’m guessing you probably can’t see it, or you would’ve caught on much sooner—but her aura, it reads totally differently when she’s next to you in comparison to when she was walking away. It’s quite interesting to see this in person, I’ve only ever heard of it happening a few times through sources.”

Jooheon frowns, studying Changkyun’s face for any sign of a lie. Soulmate. Another person with which one had a natural affinity and deeper connection toward. The connection was often instantaneous and natural—and strong enough that one would feel themselves drawn to that other person in every single way while simultaneously bringing about a sense of peace and calm. Jooheon wanted to scoff again. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in them. He’d seen the magic at work for others. But, for himself?

And yet, so many things made sense. His anxiety eased when near you. The entire plane trip, everything had been calm. A sort of calm he’d never experienced before. Just as much as things had been calm, though, every touch had set ablaze his nerve endings. He hadn’t experienced such a nervousness in someone else’s presence in years.

What an ironic twist of fate this had to be—the universe was definitely playing games with him, now. He was well aware he’d pissed off many higher powers over the years… but to do this to him? Send him his own soulmate, on a silver platter, begging to make a contract with the Devil? Begging for release? Begging to forget?

To forget…

Jooheon blinks, realization dawning on him—the migraines you’d mentioned. He lets out an audible groan, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Of course that would be a side effect. While he had never had a contract fail in the past, unless a soul really wasn’t set on release—a broken contract could amount to many side effects, some more serious than others. In most cases, Jooheon had witnessed the failed cases simply go insane. But since your request had been so definite and simple, it made sense that it would backfire with a physical manifestation like this.

That’s why she doesn’t remember me.

“Changkyun, I need a drink,” Jooheon mutters, brushing past both him and Hoseok. The two share a look, and Changkyun stares after Jooheon in confusion, before trailing after in a hurry.

#jooheon fanfic #monsta x fanfic #mx fanfic #jooheon scenarios

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