#this was just a quick scribble but the twitter crowd seemed to like it so here
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#xenoblade#xenoblade chronicles 3#future redeemed#A xenoblade#this was just a quick scribble but the twitter crowd seemed to like it so here
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71. you’re famous and you want to hide out in my bookstore which is fine except the stupid paparazzi won’t leave and now there’s a photo of us in the tabloids and they’re printing misinformation and why the fuck won’t you clear this up on your twitter account
Sternclay, NSFW, please!
Here you go! Let's end this round of meet uglies with a bang
The post-holiday slump is always the worst; everyone maxed out their credit cards last month and doesn’t want to buy anything, and the tourists won’t be back until the spring. It’s not that he’s concerned about keeping the lights on; Bookworms is popular and has a prime spot downton. It’s that he’s bored out of his mind.
All his orders for the day are in, everything’s been received and shelved, and he’s running out of things to tidy. If he’s lucky, the clouds that have been threatening a snowstorm since this morning will burst and drive some people to shelter among the stacks.
Dingdong
Thank the lord.
“Welcome to Bookworms, can I help you?”
The man stays by the door, peering through the glass onto the street while pulling off his beanie, “Huh? Oh, uh, nope, just coming in to, uh, get out of the cold.” He turns, and two realizations slap Joseph in the face.
One: this is the hottest man he has ever had the pleasure of seeing.
Two: He’s seen this man dozens of times, just never in person.
Barclay Cobb is a Food Network darling who got his start on Youtube, sharing recipes from vintage cookbooks he found at garage sales. That’s not why he’s starstruck, but it is probably why the taller man is hiding in the craft books alcove and keeps nervously looking his way.
“I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Mr. Cobb.”
“Phew” the man sighs, unzips his jacket, “thanks man. Thought I’d be bundled up enough that no one would spot me while I was out, but I didn’t get my hat on in time coming out of the Chinese place down the block.”
“I love that spot, they have the best beer-braised duck.”
“Yeah, I always stop by when I’m in town, they’re food is worth getting photographed for.”
It’s odd, everything he’s read suggests chef Cobb is friendly and warm when approached by fans in public.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate that people like my shows but, I, uh, sometimes I just want to eat or walk down the street without someone taking pictures of me.”
“Do you want to head into the back sections? There’s no windows in that half of the store.”
“Sweet, thanks. Uh, would it be cool if I autographed any books of mine you have? I like doing that, means I can send a little business towards smaller stores.”
“Of course. Here, the cookbooks are on this wall.” He slips into his office to grab a sharpie while Barclay pulls a stack of books and sits down on the floor. As the scratching of the pen fills the air, Joseph takes a trip to the paranormal and occult section, coming back with three copies of The Case for Bigfoot.”
“Y’know, not everyone stocks these.” Barclay smiles as he adds the paperbacks to the pile.
“Which is terrible business; you’re just as famous in the cryptozoology community as you are in the foodie one. This is the best book on bigfoot ever written, and I should know; I run a, um, a blog where I review books on paranormal topics.”
“You a true believer?” The cook blows on his signature in the copy of Desserts for All Seasons
“More an optimistic skeptic; your book is perfect because you make your case using actual evidence instead of reporting the same ten, poorly verified stories that everyone includes in their books. And I appreciated that you included recipes from the places you visited; that was a very nice touch.”
“Funny story about that” Barclay freezes as the front door opens. There’s definitely more than one person coming in, and when Joseph pokes his head around the corner he sees fifteen people, all with cameras or phones.
“Shit. You might want to hide in my office for a few minutes.”
By the time the crowd reaches him, Joseph is almost done re-shelving the signed books.
“Good afternoon, let me know if you need help finding anything.”
“Uh, yeah, we do, someone saw Barclay Cobb in your store-”
“Strange, we’ve only had one customer” he winces as someone’s shoulder knocks a hardcover off its display, “I didn’t get a good look at them before they went downstairs.” He tips his head at the staircase to the YA and Graphic Novel sections and is promptly knocked into the shelf as the throng hurries away.
“Come on, I can get you out through the back door” Joseph whispers to the Red Dust on his Soul poster on his office door. Barclay is remarkably quiet for a man his size as they sneak across the floor and let frigid, January air rush into the store.
“Thanks man” Barclay whispers, “I owe you one.” He sets a big hand on Joseph’s shoulder, squeezes it with a wink, then pulls on his hat and disappears into a crowd coming off at the bus stop.
---------------------------------------------------
Joseph always comes in through the back, flipping on lights as he goes, so the sea of bodies pressed to the front windows like a zombie horde surprises him. He knows Barclay tweeted about the signed copies, but this seems like excessive excitement even for a celebrity chef.
“Morning, Joseph--whoa, what the heck?” Aubrey clocks in without taking her eyes off the crowd, “why is everyone here this early.”
“Fan culture. I think.” The registers finish waking up, “I’ll pay holiday rates if you open that door for me.”
Aubrey gives a thumbs up, unlocks the double doors, and is swallowed up so quickly he worries she might have been trampled until she emerges near the greeting cards. Some people swarm the cookbooks, but an alarming number cluster around the counter, all shouting for his attention.
“How long have you been seeing Chef Cobb?”
“What?, I, I’m not-”
“Does he often visit your store?”
“No! He just came by yesterday!” There’s a horrible clatter of all the books on display near the door taking each other out like dominoes.
“Do you fuck in the backroom all the time?”
“Oh come on” He pushes past the man who asked that, deals with shouting all the way to his office and slams the door. A quick Google search for “Barclay Cobb” brings up a blurry photo of them in the alley, Barclays hand on his shoulder, and multiple headlines speculating on why the reclusive chef and author has chosen a nobody bookstore employee (he’s the owner, damn it) as his lover.
Okay, there’s a logical, easy fix to this.
He opens the door enough to speak, whistles so everyone will be quiet and listen to him, “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. Mr. Cobb isn’t in any kind of relationship with me; he just came into the store yesterday for some peace and quiet. So, if you’re looking for information about him, this is not the place for it. If you’re looking for the signed books, the cookbooks are there, and the paranormal section is just around that corner.” He gives his best customer service smile as the paparazzi exchange perplexed glances.
“...Is it true he bought you this store?”
“Wh--no! We rent this space.”
“From him?”
“Arggh!” He closes the door, slumps against it and cards his fingers through his hair. As he contemplates closing for the day, he spots a little, copper card on his desk. It’s Barclay’s, which is what he expected, but when he flips it over there’s a message scribbled in pen.
Main St Hotel, room 503, here until Monday.
He pulls out his phone, tells Aubrey she’s allowed to get the crowd out by any means necessary except for fire, and elbows his way out into the winter air.
------------------------------------------
Barclay almost purrs when he peers through the peephole in the hotel door; Joseph, as his nametag read, is standing on the carpet, looking twice as handsome as he did yesterday. His cheeks are even a little pink, and Barclay has some thoughts on how to make that blush deepen.
“Hey, glad you found-”
Joseph holds up his phone, screen in Barclays face, “please fix this.”
“Oh fuck.” He ushers him in, “I’m so sorry, I thought they’d stopped doing this shit.”
“No, and they’re fucking up my inventory as a result.”
“On it, lemme text my assistant, she’s good at drafting these kind of messages.”
“Thank the lord. Right, thank you for that, I’ll go now.”
“Wait” Barclay reminds his instincts that blocking the door is rude, “do you wanna stay a few minutes? You look kinda stressed.”
“Because my store is being overrun!” Joseph snaps, then takes a deep breath and straightens his sleeves, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for, this morning has just been a mess. And it, um, it’s a little bittersweet to have people thinking I could land a hot chef when I can’t get past a first date with most people. Um, sorry. Too much information. That’s a bad habit of mine.”
Barclay tucks his hands into his pants pockets, “About that. Y’know how I left my card?”
Blue eyes blink, then brighten, “I thought that might be the reason but I dismissed it as wishful thinking.”
“Nope. A guy who's hot, nerdy, and competent enough to sneak me away from the paparazzi? Sign me the fuck up.”
“I’m not opposed to a, um, tryst, but I really, really need to get back to the store, I can’t abandon Aubrey to deal with this mess on her own, that’s not fair, and now we’ll have to reorder things too....” He laughs, a tense sound, “good lord, I get a chance to fuck a celebrity crush and I’m turning it down for work.”
“Hey” Barclay sets his hands on Joseph’s shoulders, “it’s okay. You’re not the first guy to be married to his job. But, uh, out of curiosity, you got any vacation days to spare?”
----------------------------------------------
“This is all yours?” Joseph takes in the sprawling farm as Barclay unlocks the front door of a charmingly rustic house.
“Yep, all the way to the creek and all the way to the road. Might surprise you, but I like my privacy.”
“I’d never have guessed.” He replies with faux shock.
“Smartass.” Barclay kisses his cheek, holds the door open with his shoulder so Joseph can pull his bags inside. He packed as light and efficiently as he could for two weeks away (he’d initially planned on one until Aubrey and Moira ganged up on him and told him he hadn’t taken a real vacation in years so he was taking one now, damn it) but his suitcase is still heavy as he rolls it to the stairs.
“I got that.” Barclay shoulders his own travel bag and hoists Joseph’s in the other hand, carrying them to the second floor like they’re nothing more than pillows.
The week the chef was in Madison, Joseph went to his hotel almost every night. Fell asleep in his bed more than once, when discussions of fusion cuisine or the Fresno Nightcrawler turned into frantic, heated kisses under the covers. It’s only when the cook drops all luggage into the master bedroom that the truth of why he’s on this trip sets in.
“You really invited me all the way here because you think I’m hot.”
“Yeah but no.” Barclay drapes his arms over his shoulders, lips still a little chilly as he kisses them, “brought you here because you’re smart” another kiss, this one on his jaw, “and funny” another, on his nose, “and you’re the biggest bigfoot fan I know.”
“You wrote a book on it!”
“Point stands. And yeah” he pushes Joseph back so he lands on the bed, crawling atop him as he growls, “I invited you here because you’re so hot I wanna pour sugar on you and see if it melts. Now get your pants off; I’ve been thinking about sucking your dick since we left the city.”
------------------------------------------
“How did the whole bigfoot thing start?” Joseph sips his Irish Coffee as Barclay puts his feet into his lap.
“Guess the same way any famous person ends up with two gigs; I was doing the thing I love, then was dicking around on cryptid hunter forums and found out I was also hella good at researching bigfoot. By the time I got really into it, I had enough cash that I could write my book without worrying about going broke. Helps that I’d handed off The Arch and The Lodge and was just the exec chef on them, since then I could travel if I needed to.”
Joseph nods, moves one hand down to rub Barclays foot; in spite of no longer working the kitchens of his five restaurants or having to test recipes for the books right now, he spent most of today on his feet making elaborate meals for two. Joseph teases him that he’s trying to stuff him to the point he can’t leave. Barclay always chuckles and says he doesn’t know how right he is. The last two days, Joseph then wraps his arms around his boyfriend and tells him he’d stay forever if he could.
He’s never thought of himself as romantic; he’s pragmatic, knows that relationships are things built out of time, trial, and error. But god help him, he’s fallen for Barclay like they’re rom-com leads with only ninety minutes to reach their happy ending.
They’re out near the creek--really more of a small river--the next morning, talking about books and speculating on the existence of life on other planets, when a storm sweeps through the trees. As trunks groan and roots pull loose from the snow, Barclay calls, “we better head back.”
He gives a thumbs up. Then the ice under him cracks.
He doesn’t correct course quickly enough, the rest dropping from under him and dunking him in freezing water. It’s deep, too deep to stand, but he’s a decent swimmer and kicks towards the surface. When the shadow covers the opening with a boom, panic threatens to push the rest of his precious breath away.
The tree that fell across the ice is heavy, and no matter how he pushes it won’t give. He bangs on the ice on either side, trying to get it to crack, but his lungs scream and his limbs alert him that the cold will soon shut them down.
He closes his eyes, trying to think, not ready to give up, not with Barclay so close. There’s a groan of wood and frozen water. His mouth opens without permission, desperate for air, and chokes him on frost instead.
-----------------------------------
“...be dead, please don’t be dead, please please please don’t be fucking dead.”
“Nnff.” That’s not what he meant to say, but it seems to calm the voice above him.
“Thank fuck. I’m so sorry, I got to you as fast as I could, do, do you need anything?” Barclay sounds exhausted.
“Cold.” He mutters.
“I’m trying to warm you up gradually, that’s what the first aid book said but, uh, here.” Warm, fuzzy arms draw him into a hug.
Wait.
The first thing he sees when his eyes flutter open are arms covered in reddish-brown fur. When Barclay rubs their cheeks together, it tickles more than his beard usually does.
“Barclay? What the hell is going on?”
“Uh. So.” He’s rolled with ease to face a creature he’s never seen and eyes that he’d know anywhere, “I’m bigfoot. Or, uh, a bigfoot. Maybe that’s kinda obvious now.”
His brain crackles to life, “What better way to stay undiscovered than get famous by giving people the wrong information about you.”
“Some of it’s true. Just not anything people could use to actually find me.”
“Smart, big guy” Joseph pets his face.
“You’re taking this pretty well.”
“I think my system is too shocked to experience more shock.” He shudders, “relatedly, how’d I get out of the river?”
“I lifted the tree off and pulled you free. Took my disguise off to do that and, uh, the fucking thing fell into the water when I got you. So I’m gonna be stuck like this until a friend of mine can get me a new one.”
“No complaints here. You look incredible.” He runs his hands up and down Barclay’s side and chest, warmth seeping into his fingers as he does, “But I’m a little surprised you were willing to risk someone seeing you or me blabbing to someone and trashing your whole life in the process.”
A low rumble as Barclay kisses his forehead, “It’s worth it. I, this is gonna sound so fucking cheesy, but I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time, and there was no way I was gonna lose you.”
“Oh.” Affection and surprise well up in his throat, pressing down his words so all he can do is nestle closer to the cryptid and let himself be loved.
His mind rebounds quickly from his misadventure. His body would like him to remember it for a while so he doesn’t put it in such jeopardy again any time soon. Instead of helping Barclay with cooking and chores, he lays under the covers while the storm rattles the roof and the cook clangs pots on the lower floor.
Barclay, attentive to a fault, is downright doting now that he’s stuck in bed. He’s never without a hot drink or something to read, and the cryptid is happy to answer the majority of his questions about the finer points of being bigfoot. When it’s bedtime, his boyfriend pulls him atop his massive frame and cuddles him, whispering over and over that he’s glad he’s okay, until they fall asleep.
Today followed much the same pattern, though when dinner time rolls around he gets a fantastic surprise.
“Chocolate fondue?” He peers hopefully at the bed tray in Barclays hands.
“Only the best for you, babe.” The cook sets the burnished wood down on the bedside table, “we lucked out, the berries I bought last week are ripe.”
Joseph reaches for the fork, but Barclay beats him to it.
“You should save your energy. Since you’re, uh, still recovering.”
He shrugs, sets his hands in his lap and opens his mouth for a chocolate dipped raspberry. It doesn’t take long to spy Barclay’s ulterior motive. The cook has a whole wardrobe designed to fit his cryptid form, but it’s having trouble concealing certain things.
“You’re getting off on this.”
“I, uh, I, maybe a little” Barclay blushes under his fur.
Joseph raises an eyebrow, tilts his head at the bulge in Barclay’s pants, “You call that ‘little’?”
A rumbly whine, the fork paused halfway to Joseph’s mouth, “I can’t help it. I’ve got a thing for taking care of partners, especially ones who are all competent and put-together the rest of the time, and you look so good when you eat and, ohfuck.”
Joseph inhales sharply as chocolate hits his exposed upper chest. It’s not hot enough to burn, and he moans as the sensation seeps across his skin. Barclays eyes, wide and ravenous, keep flicking between the splatter and his face.
“Looks like you made a mess, big guy.” Joseph begins undoing the remaining buttons on his pajamas, “you should clean it up.”
“Fuck yeah.” Barclay lunges, mouth first, lapping and sucking at the marked skin as Joseph laughs. Their shirts hit the floor together as he digs his nails into auburn fur. Barclay grunts at the pressure, sits up with a grin, and drips a line of chocolate down the right side of Joseph’s ribs.
“Oops. Better fix that too.”
“Cleanliness is importantAH, ahhnn.” He squirms a bit as Barclay nuzzles his stomach before dragging his tongue up his skin. There’ve been times he mourned the fact T didn’t make him as hairy as some other guys, but right now he’s grateful for the clear canvas Barclay can mark however he pleases.
“A mess can be more fun.” The cook licks his lips, sucks a hickey above his belly button, “and by the time I’m done with you, babe, won’t be a single part of you that isn’t one.”
“Then get to it.” He shoves his pants down, lets Barclay pull them the rest of the way off and fold them. He lays back, resting his arms behind his head, and moans as the cook drizzles chocolate on each hip. Joseph feels like a gourmet dessert and, from the growls between his thighs, Barclay intends to treat him like one.
His boyfriend is always enthusiastic when sucking him off, but tonight he throws finesse out the window in favor of burying his face at the crease of each thigh in turn, licking his hips clean while clawing at his calves and sides. He lifts his head, wipes his mouth with a satisfied grin that shows the points of his teeth, and dives down again.
Joseph yelps with pleasure, the hint of fangs hitting all his buttons, lighting him up like downtown on a dark night. It’s intense, the scratch of fur on skin just different enough from the usual beard to remind him of who’s down there, and his legs try to kick closed. Barclay growls again, holding them open with ease.
“Not until I’m done with you, babe.”
He surrenders to flood of feelings from both outside and within him, Barclay’s sheer delight at his body rendering all his doubts and worries toothless and small, quieting them until all he can think about is incredible creature holding and all he can say is some variation on-
“Barclay, please, right there, lordalmighty that’s good, that’s so good big guy, please.” He squeezes his eyes shut, craving the impending orgasm more than he has words for. Barclay sucks determinedly and huffs, pleased, as Joseph's thighs tense in his hold and his climax chases away the remnants of yesterday's aches.
As his brain insists that really, body, opening our eyes isn’t that hard, there’s a metallic zip and strong legs bracketing his thighs.
“Here I thought you couldn’t look any better.” He murmurs as Barclay gleefully strokes his cock, “as soon as my brain works again, I’m coming up with so many ways to use that gorgeous thing.”
“Can’t, fuck, can't wait to hear ‘em, but I only got one for tonight; I’m gonna use it to cum alllll over that fucking perfect body, fuck, Joseph, you look so good when you’re ruined, fuck.” An impressive amount of cum spatters up his stomach, chest, and neck as Barclay howlgrowlpurrs and then sets his hands carefully on the bed.
Joseph’s whole body is sticky with chocolate, sweat, and cum, and Barclay definitely has at least two of those things mussed into his fur.
“You’re right, big guy, a mess can be fucking amazing.”
That being said, being sticky gets old quick, and soon they’re in the tub, Joseph whistling as he shampoos Barclay’s chest. The cryptid hasn’t stopped purring, and every time he looks Joseph’s way the sound deepens.
“When are you next in the city?”
The cook yawns, “Was gonna check on how the new chef de cuisine is getting on at Kepler in about two week.”
“Would you like to stay with me? It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the Ismuth, so you can get to Kepler on foot without trouble, and there are fewer crowds there this time of year. I suspect paparazzi are also less likely to track you down at some random house than at a hotel. That might make up for my lack of, um, high class amenities.”
“Good point. But I gotta be honest babe; as long as you’re there, that’s all I need to be happy.”
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Writers Month 2019 Day 2: Hurt/Comfort (Malec)
(post 2x12, because I was recently talking on Twitter about my headcanons about the wards after Clary blew through them like paper in that episode.)
Alec stumbled in the dark, cursing under his breath as his toe his caught the edge of a side table that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Things must be worse than he thought if Magnus had redecorated yet again.
Carefully, he eased around the corner into the living room where Magnus kept his apothecary. Sure enough, the far corner was lit in a pool of yellow light, a smear of color in an otherwise dark space.
Magnus was hunched over several cauldrons, hands dancing as he measured and mixed ingredients without pause. The low melody of his voice filled the air as he talked himself through whatever bit of magic he was working on. Behind him was another new addition to the loft’s decor, a whiteboard with scribbles that were more letters than numbers. Perhaps some obscure demonic language, but not one that Alec had ever studied.
Alec cleared his throat, heart breaking as even that small noise caused Magnus to startle.
“Alexander!” Magnus’ elbow nearly knocked over the cauldron at the very edge of the table but his quick reflexes caught it before its contents could escape. “You should be in bed.”
Magnus never used to startle, but ever since getting his body back from Valentine, he’d been on edge, even here in his home. Alec hated it.
“So should you.” He ached to take Magnus into his arms and kiss away the deep line of tension between his brows but he’d learned the hard way that crowding Magnus only agitated him more. “The bed’s too big without you.”
“I can fix that,” Magnus waved his fingers.
“Or you can come to bed.” Alec swallowed the lump in his throat. “Please come to bed.”
Magnus stilled, and the lack of movement made him seem much smaller. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
Alec didn’t need to guess what research had captivated Magnus enough to keep him from sleep for so many nights on end. It was the same thing he’d been working on constantly since the day he’d regained his body. ““The wards won’t be finished tonight,” he said. “And they won’t be finished tomorrow or the day after that. You need rest.”
The agitation was back, firming Magnus’ strong shoulders and bringing the fire back into his eyes. “You saw the rune Clary made. And while I’m grateful to Biscuit for bursting in and sending Valentine back to that cell—” Magnus’ whole body seemed to shudder at the word, as if a part of him was still reliving every moment of his capture—"she exposed an unacceptable breach in my own protections. What use are my wards if they can be brought down with nothing but a stele?”
It was a familiar argument, and so was Alec’s rebuttal. “All the magic in the world won’t matter if you drop from exhaustion.”
Magnus’ eyes flickered to the whiteboard. “I’m so close, Alexander, Just a little more work and this place will be absolutely impenetrable. I can even put the new wards up in the Institute if—”
The ache in Alec’s chest grew so large it drowned out the words. His world narrowed to the dark bags under Magnus’ eyes, the telltale chips in his nail polish, the way he swayed on his feet even as he spoke.
This couldn’t go on.
He put both hands on Magnus’ shoulders, moving slow enough that Magnus could retreat if he wished. He didn’t, and some of the tension in Alec’s chest eased at that. With the same care, he ran a hand up Magnus’ neck, cradling the base of his skull. Magnus leaned ever so slightly into the touch, betraying how exhausted he truly was.
“Okay,” Alec said, reaching with his other hand for the stele he’d tucked into his sweatpants when he’d first woken up alone and worried. Before he could change his mind, he ran it across his stamina rune and felt the familiar energy sweeping through him, lighting up his senses and setting his nerves on edge. He felt refreshed, as if roused from a full night’s sleep and a cup of coffee.
Magnus blinked several times. “Alec, what are you doing?”
Instead of answering, Alec put away the stele and tugged at Magnus’ hand. “You can work on the wards tomorrow. I’ll keep watch until then.” Why he didn’t think of this solution before, he didn’t know, but the answer suddenly seemed crystal clear. If Magnus didn’t feel safe behind his wards anymore, Alec would give him the next best thing.
Magnus dug in his heels but made no effort to break Alec’s grip on his hand. “That’s kind but unnecessary. I can look out for myself.”
“Even High Warlocks need sleep.” Alec took a step closer, recognizing victory when Magnus didn’t retreat. “And I already activated the rune, so I’ll be up all night anyway.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, not bothering to hide the pleading in his eyes when he said, “Let me do this for you,”
Magnus’ eyes went wide and this time he didn’t protest when Alec led him towards the bedroom.
The door swung shut behind them, closing them off in the place that was fast becoming a sanctuary in Alec’s mind. Here, away from the street noise of the balcony, the silence seemed unbreakable, a blanket spread over the two of them that separated them from the outside world.
It was an illusion neither of them moved to break as Alec unbuttoned Magnus’ shirt and helped him out of his pants. His fingers skimmed along each inch of newly bared skin, a comfort rather than any intent towards more strenuous activities. Gently, he took off each of Magnus’ rings from unresisting fingers and lifted the layers of necklaces over his head. Magnus didn’t say a word as Alec tilted his head so that he could disentangle the earcuff from its usual place, though the peaceful smile on his face gave Alec hope that he was going about this the right way.
Once the last piece of jewelry was removed, Alec deposited the whole handful of heavy silver adornments onto the bedside table. He didn’t think Magnus would stay awake long enough to get his makeup off and so, clad in nothing but his boxer briefs and his eyeliner, Alec bundled him under the covers. Magnus must have thought the same, because he let Alec take him to bed without a word of complaint.
In almost no time at all, his breathing slowed and evened out, his body going limp and vulnerable in sleep. Alec wasn’t naïve enough to think that one night of rest would solve all their problems, but it was a good first step. One they were taking together. It was enough to give him hope.
Deep in sleep, Magnus shifted on the bed so that he was sprawled on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow and the other slung across Alec’s waist where he sat propped up against the headboard between Magnus and the door.
Alec kept watch over him all night.
#shadowhunters#malec fanfic#writersmonth2019#malec#magnus bane#alec lightwood#lynne writes fic#i didn't think i was going to write anything for today but then this grabbed me at the last second so here we are#sh 2x12
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Hunger: Two
PAIRING: Jared x Reader
WORD COUNT: 3,801
CHAPTER(S): 2/?
SUMMARY: When reader isn’t attending a Supernatural Convention, she’s preparing for the next one. Staying busy is the only thing that keeps her sane. While it’s difficult for some people to understand her motives, one person will show her that he knows exactly what she’s going through. Will Jared be able to make the reader believe she deserves to be loved or is she too far gone already?
CHAPTER WARNINGS: Anxious Reader, Touch Aversion, Inner Mean Girl
In through your nose...out through your mouth.
A skin-numbing tingle spread through your limbs, your mind swimming with the implications of Jared’s request as you shuffled down the hallway stretching through the quiet hotel. New knots twisted themselves into a worrisome frenzy the closer you came to the large theater room where autographs were scheduled to take place. Your hands trembled just slightly. Clenching your cold fingers into fists and with the aid of several more deep breaths you found yourself pushing through the anxiety threatening to debilitate you.
Familiar black curtains were erected in each of the four corners of the ballroom. Low-hanging chandeliers cast a warm glow over each station. You knew Jared sat behind one of those panels. You knew you’d have to join him - acting as if everything was normal. As if you did this all the time.
But then again, maybe you were overthinking the situation. It's not like he'd confessed his undying love for you. Maybe he just appreciated that you were a hard worker? His compliment from the previous day floated back through your subconscious and your cheeks flushed with a sudden warmth.
Steeling your nerves, you quietly slipped through the crowds of people all chatting amongst themselves, their faces lit with excitement as they waited for their time in front of the guests.
With a final deep breath, straightening your posture to appear as tall and confident as possible, you proceeded to walk through the last few bodies as you approached Clif, knowing well enough that if he was around, Jared and Jensen weren’t far away.
As luck would have it, you had chosen the correct table and the smile you plastered across your face was mostly genuine as Jared came into view.
He’d begun signing moments before; a young girl with wide eyes clutching a cardboard poster tube with white knuckles-stood before him, her breathing quick and shallow.
Looking up from where he’d scribbled his signature in the lower left of the glossy print on the table, he’d started to slide the picture back across to her when he paused, bending over the print of the impala before furiously scribbling a message that personalized his signature. A breathless nod of thanks was uttered as the girls’ eyes shone with unshed tears. You could see how hard she was trying to hold back her emotions as she slipped away.
“[Y/F/N]! Standing suddenly, the giant man skirted the table and wrapped his arms around you. Instantly, you froze. Eyes wide, back stiff, your haphazard pat to the back didn’t go unnoticed and Jared pulled away suddenly, realizing how uncomfortable you obviously were.
“Oh, I’m so sorry - I was just happy to see you.” Hurriedly you waved off the unease you’d felt. Sure, it was Jared Padalecki that had just crushed you against his very solid chest, but it had still been unexpected and you’d yet to find a way to convince yourself that hugs were okay.
Truth was, you craved them. You needed to be touched almost as much as you needed to eat, or sleep. It’d been so long since you’d experienced any kind of real affection however, and you weren’t sure how to react.
To most people, a simple hug was nothing...merely a greeting perhaps. But your conscience went into overdrive at a moments’ notice. How long were you supposed to hold on? Was this a genuine hug or simply an awkward, superficial gesture of a typical human hello? Your reaction was always delayed, and most people would’ve stepped back and moved on to conversation by the time you’d had the opportunity to return the embrace. What you wouldn’t give to have someone really hold you. To take a full minute and just envelope you in a blanket of comfort. No agenda, no awkwardness - just comfort. As you began to focus, you noticed Jared had returned to his seat, the next few people in line curiously looking between you and him - likely trying to figure out if there was some new story worthy of a late-night Twitter discussion.
“Be normal. Just move to your chair and smile. Just smile. Smiling is what they expect. Ask how they’re doing. This is fine.” The narration played in a loop through your mind as you quietly took your seat. Turning to the next person in line, you forced yourself to do just that, the more agreeable expression replacing the lost look of moments before.
“Hi!” Reaching forward, you carefully took an electric guitar from a middle-aged blonde that stood before you. Gingerly, you set it on the deep red linens covering the table and handed Jared a gold sharpie, captivated as the metallic ink flowed over the polished black body of the instrument. Taking a moment to admire the other signatures she’d collected, Jared spoke for a few moments about how it was a really neat item to have signed, asking the woman why she’d picked a guitar. While you’d never worked with or near anyone of even remote celebrity status, you were pleased with how engaged Jared was with his fans. He seemed to genuinely care about the people patiently waiting to speak with him and, for a moment you forgot that he was an actor. Thinking, you realized you’d like to know what he was like everyday. There were stories on the internet about his generosity and seemingly real interest in the people who looked up to him. But to witness it in person was a completely different thing.
The following two hours passed in a similar fashion. At one point, you took a moment to look around the edge of the draped wall. A lot of people still waited in line, their expressions varying from excitement to exhaustion and everything in-between. What surprised you most however, was that Jared was the last guest still in the room. Volunteers were chatting with each other as curtains were folded and stacked in totes and the frames surrounding the folding tables were disassembled. Jensen and Misha must’ve been long gone.
Eventually, Jared came to his last autograph of the evening.
“Hey there, thank you so much for waiting this long for me!” As tired as he had to be, Jared didn’t even think about letting his exhaustion show. Speaking the longest to this particular young man seemed important. Technically, as his handler it was your job to move things along as efficiently as possible, but it was the end of the night. You were tired, no one was waiting and this interaction seemed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event for most people. Who were you to rush it?
A short time later, you rose from your seat, fully intending on calling it a night. While it hadn’t seemed much like a fourteen-hour day, your body was sternly reminding you that you were, in fact, no longer a teenager that could run on two hours of sleep.
Stacking the cold plastic chair atop the others lined against one wall, you turned to head for the doors, removing the thin black lanyard from around your neck. You wanted nothing more than to blend back into the crowd, to become just another person, to not explain that the bathroom was, in fact, twenty feet back in the opposite direction for the five hundredth time.
Just as you reached for the lock-bar stretching across the double wooden doors of the theater, you turned to find Jared saying his own goodbyes to the crew.
“Hey, [Y/F/N], wait up!”
Had it been -anyone else- you might’ve pretended you couldn’t hear them. Ignoring Jared wasn’t an option however. You’d never forgive yourself. So, instead of pretending, you turned to see the man literally jogging up to you. “How did he have so much energy after such a long day?” Briefly wondering, you realized you could actually ask him that very question.
“Ha, uh..I dunno. Guess I’m still running on adrenaline?”
“Ahunh, well, you’ll hafta tell me how you do that sometime.” A tired smirk accompanied your reply and you realized that you’d missed what he’d said afterwards.
“What was that?” “Sorry, guess I’m a little slow tonight.” Nervous laughter took the edge off of your words.
“I asked if you wanted to maybe get a drink?”
“Mr. Padalecki, you realize it’s like..oh.” Pulling the phone from your pocket to check the time, you had the decency to blush when you realized it was still fairly early.
“What?” Wow, his smile really was infectious. “Crap, stop staring [Y/F/N], focus!” Clearing your throat, you took a moment to gather some sort of order to your scattered thoughts.
“I was gonna scold you for wanting to go out so late..but then I realized it’s only nine o’clock.”
“Sooo…?” It was then that you were made blatantly aware of why the Supernatural Family referred to him as an overgrown puppy.
How often would this situation come up? After this weekend, you’d go back to your normal nine to five in your hometown. Back to the office. Back to traffic. Back to complacency.
“Uh, sure. I guess one drink can’t hurt.” Grinning, you pushed your weight against the door leading into the corridor connecting the theater to the green room. Grabbing your bag from the carpet next to one of the overstuffed armchairs, you promised to meet Jared back here after changing into something a little less work and a little more appropriate for a night out.
“I look forward to it, [Y/F/N] - meet me here in..say...thirty?” Glancing at his watch, the man sank into the deep blue cushions of a long couch, slouching and raising his feet to rest upon the solid wood coffee table arranged in front of it. With another wide smile, he pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly becoming lost in what you assumed to be his social media feed as you made a hasty retreat to your room, not realizing just how much everything was about to change.
As you stepped from the elevator, after casting a cursory glance over both shoulders to make sure no one was around, the sprint to your room at the end of the hall left you breathless with excitement.
Checking the time and setting yourself an alarm, you quickly began to rummage through the mess of a suitcase that sat haphazardly at the end of your bed. Today was the last day of the convention and you'd had no plans on doing anything remotely exciting, least of all spending the night having drinks with Jared Padalecki.
Throwing off the stiff, black t-shirt you'd worn all day, you stood there in little more than your underwear, trying to decide what to wear.
The fifteen-minute warning sounded from your phone and panic tried to set in. Muttering to yourself, you hastily grabbed an oversized, cream-colored, off-shoulder sweater and a pair of black leggings. There was no time for anything fancy and this wasn't a date. For some reason you had to keep reminding yourself of that little detail.
Freshening up your smeared eyeliner and swiping on some new deodorant was the best you could do as the five-minute warning sounded.
This time, you couldn't care less if people saw you sprinting through the halls of the hotel - you weren't about to make Jared wait.
With ten seconds to spare, you arrived back at the green room, taking a moment to collect your senses before calmly pushing open the door to where Jared sat waiting.
Looking up from his phone at the sound of the metal latch clicking open, Jared could only smile. [Y/F/N] looked beautiful. The stretchy black material of her leggings clung to every curve of her hips; small triangles of mesh strategically lining the length of the pants hinted at the beauty lying hidden beneath. [Y/F/N]’s hair framed her face perfectly; the fluffy sweater she'd chosen artfully draped across her bare shoulders was meant to be comforting, he was willing to bet. He was intimately familiar with anxiety, seeking comfort from inanimate objects helped ground him when he was struggling too.
He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. He wanted to show her she was beautiful. But instead, he smiled, hoping she'd realize how genuine it was.
“Hey, [Y/F/N].” His voice was soft in its greeting. “Ready for that drink?”
With a deep breath, you nodded, a bright smile lighting up your [Y/E/C] eyes.
Watching Jared haul himself up from the low couch would have been amusing if he weren't so graceful. But, he pulled it off with an elegance you weren't used to seeing in most men.
The hotel bar was bustling with groups of people winding down from a busy weekend. How the two of you managed to snag a booth in the back corner was a bit of a mystery, though you weren't about to question his methods. Approaching the dimly lit table, you felt Jared slow, stepping aside and gesturing for you to go ahead. Silently grateful, you slid into the wide cushioned bench, instantly more comfortable with your back pressed to the wall.
Flicking his eyes between the open seat next to you and the one across the table, he carefully slid his large frame into the opposite seat. Glancing back over his shoulder, he took a deep breath before turning to face you; his broad shoulders angling to slot themselves into the very corner of his booth.
An hour into the night, you were finally beginning to relax. The double whiskey you sipped likely helping you feel more comfortable, though it too, could have just been Jared. He didn't seem to have an agenda, and he listened to you with as much focus as he gave anyone else. The conversation flowed easily and you sat perched on the edge of your seat, enraptured with one of his stories from set.
Once again, you noticed him glancing around the room before trying to sit deeper into the corner of his seat. Twenty minutes prior, he'd turned, reclining his legs in front of him on the bench, twisting his upper body to still face you.
Scrunching your face into a concerned arrangement of apprehension, the mean-girl living in the recesses of your mind sprang to life. “He just feels sorry for you, why else would he have asked you to drinks? He's way out of your league, just look, he's clearly not having a very good time…”
Clearing your throat, you spoke up, surprised at how even your tone was despite the disappointment and embarrassment you felt.
“Hey, Jared. Are you okay? I mean, you really don't have to hang out with me...you just..I mean..you seem pretty uncomfortable.”
His gaze landed back on you and his heart ached at the thought that you thought he pitied you.
“Wha-? No! I…”
Leaning forward he reached out with one hand, intent on grasping the fingers of your hand that wasn't cradling your glass tumbler. At the last moment, he hesitated, pulling back to put his hand in his lap. Looking down at where he fidgeted with a loose string on his shirt, you marvelled at his beautiful coppery hair as it fell around his face.
“Heh, you're probably going to think I'm silly, it's just…”
Another deep breath escaped with a huff before he glanced back up to meet your concerned face.
“I'm really anxious about sitting with my back to people.” The words came out in a rush, and he was back to looking everywhere but at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to maintain his composure.
You sat there for a minute, stunned by his confession. You knew he struggled with his own inner demons, but to see him fully able to tell you about his discomfort with a situation when he barely knew you was kind of inspiring. If Jared Padalecki could talk (mostly) confidently about his struggles, maybe you could too.
For a moment, you considered what to say next. While your mind still weighed your options, your mouth clearly had other ideas and you were surprised as the words tumbled forth, “you could come sit on this side with me..uh..if you want.”
“Shit. Uh. Well, guess that’s out there. Be cool. It’s fine if he says no. Just breathe…”
Letting out a slow breath, you put your smile back on and hoped it reached your eyes.
Jared was surprised. “Oh. Uh, are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I think I’ve done that enough for one day, ha..” Fidgeting, he clapped a large hand to the back of his neck, his gaze averted as he remembered quite nearly knocking you over in his exuberance earlier.
Were you sure? Yes. Yes, you were sure.
“Yes.” That same smile still in place, you patted the seat next to you and watched as the man slid across the seat, rose and cautiously lowered himself into the space next to you. Not realizing the breath you held until your lungs started to scream for air, inch by inch you relaxed. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood settled over you as Jared got comfortable, one knee pressing against your left thigh. A light twist of summery pineapple and pear rounded out what would become a very intoxicating scent.
Turning to lean against the corner of the booth, you were careful to maintain the light touch between your bodies - this time, the smile on your face - though hesitant - was one-hundred percent real.
As the clock approached midnight, you began to dread the end of your conversation. Nothing could last forever, and this had been one of the best nights you’d had in a very long time. Trying your best to stifle a yawn - and failing miserably, you might add - Jared chuckled under his breath “I guess I should let you get to sleep, don’t want you turning into a pumpkin.”
“Aha, yes, very funny Mr. Padaleski.” Jared rolled his eyes when you drug the syllables of his incorrectly-pronounced name out in jest. “Just because I like pumpkin flavored liqueur, doesn’t mean I’m gonna turn into one!”
“At any rate, I should get going anyhow. My plane leaves in a few hours and I’ve gotta be ready to start filming very shortly afterwards.” The exhaustion was evident in his features, but his tired smile was comforting, nonetheless.
When he made no move to let you out of the booth, you almost didn’t say anything. But, he was right. Besides, who were you to keep him here? He’d already lost out on a full nights’ sleep because of you.
“Here, let me walk you back to your room?” Sliding from his side of the booth, he turned and reached a hand out to help you. There was no hesitation when you grasped his warm fingers and allowed him to pull you from your seat.
“You really don’t have to walk me back, I’m sure you’ve much better things to do - like sleep?”
“Well, maybe I want to walk you back." Hurriedly, he added “If you want... besides, I can sleep when I’m dead.” A quiet huff of laughter softened the statement. Relenting, you fell into step next to the taller man as the last minutes of your night out ticked away.
Too soon you stood in front of the door to your hotel room. In a few minutes, you’d have to say goodbye - unlikely to ever have this moment again. Sure, Jared had asked specifically for you to be his assigned handler for conventions, but Adam hadn’t officially offered you the position. You had a lot to think about. While the answer seemed easy enough, it would likely be anything but. You were a creature of habit, often shying away from change and the unknown.
“So..I guess this is goodnight...goodbye even.” Jared’s words trailed off and you picked up on the distinct impression that he wanted to say something else.
“So, rather than tackling you head-on, I’d very much like a hug goodnight. Would that be okay?”
Jared’s eyes widened in surprise, but rather than answering, he simply opened his arms - allowing you to come to him.
Reminding yourself to breathe, you stepped forward into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his waist and turning your head to press your ear to his chest. The warmth of his scent washed over you as he held you to him, his chin resting atop your head. The sure, thick, beating of his heart had just started to help loosen the tension singing through your veins when your brain started screaming at you to back away. “That’s enough [Y/F/N], let the poor guy go! Why are you still hugging him?!”
Hurriedly, you removed your arms, intent on listening to that voice and stepping back from Jared. Intent on escaping through the thick barrier of a door and back into the comfort of your own world. With a resigned sigh, he loosened his grip and let you go. Instantly, your body temperature seemed to drop, even though it certainly wasn’t cold in the hallway where the two of you stood.
“Well...goodnight [Y/F/N], I had an amazing time and I hope you have a wonderful night. Sleep well..” With a final flash of his bright smile, Jared turned, his long legs carrying him down the hallway and to the elevator.
Disappearing behind the heavy door of your hotel, you slumped against the wood - sliding down to rest on the floor and allow yourself to breathe again. A flood of emotions from the previous several hours assaulted you all at once.
Wrapping arms around your knees, forehead resting against your chilled skin, a heavy sigh slid between your lips as you began to decompress.
The quiet sound of knuckles against the door behind you went unnoticed at first. Only when the sound became more insistent did you get to your feet. Bracing yourself against the door and peering through the peep-hole you couldn’t see anything. Turning the brushed-nickel handle as quietly as possible, you pulled open the door to see Jared sauntering away from you.
“Jared?!” Your tone might have been incredulous but you were in disbelief that he’d come back. Slowing, the man turned to face you, hesitating before his approach.
When he had reached your side, one hand slid back into his hair as he nervously avoided looking directly at you. Crossing your arms over your chest, you waited, expectant.
“Hey, uh, sorry to bother you.” “I was wondering…-reaching into his pocket, he pulled an iPhone out and handed it to you - a shy smile hesitant on his face.
“...would you maybe...want to exchange phone numbers?”
CHAPTER THREE
TAGS: @jaredsunflowergoddess @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven @arses21434
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How do you think Beca would handle her fame in perdition? We know all the gossip magazines like to make up stuff about celebrity couples and that talk show hosts and interviewers like to prod, do you reckon Beca would be open about her relationship with Chloe bc that’s something she’s wanted for so long, and therefore would scream from the rooftops that she’s in love with Chloe Beale and that she’s hers?
i know this wasn’t your intention anon but congratulations you got a drabble i just wrote in like 3 hours:
(P.S. If you love Stevie as much as I do, PLEASE watch this video of her singing “Wild Heart” while getting her makeup done for a Rolling Stone photo session. It will change your life.)
[COVER STORY]: Beca Mitchell on Her Newest Album, Coming Out & Finding Love. “I’m bisexual, and I’m proud of it.”By Sydney Havershaw
**
You probably wouldn’t recognize Beca Mitchell if she walked past you on the street. Her personal style is more ‘early-20’s grunge rock enthusiast’ than ‘Grammy Award-winning musician.’ She’s dressed comfortably for our interview — in a pair of skinny jeans, combat boots, and an oversized flannel shirt. Mitchell seems perpetually youthful, and among the crowd of college students around us, she fits right in. At 5’2”, she is also certainly an unassuming figure on the street. “I’m basically a hobbit,” she jokes early in our interview, when situation demands we perch on a set of barstools while we wait for our lunch table. Mitchell’s feet dang comically off the floor, and she swings them absent-mindedly while we get to know each other.
The restaurant where we meet is a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro — the space is so small it can barely fit 6 tables and the mini-bar it confusingly insists on forcing into the already-crowded room — but it’s a favorite of Mitchell’s (who made me adamantly swear to reveal neither the name nor location of her personal haunt). The little building is charming and rustic and somehow both out-of-place and perfectly nestled within its surroundings. The atmosphere is exquisite. I find myself nearly anxious to grab my pen and begin scribbling down notes.
There’s something easy about being around Mitchell. She has this awkward energy that makes her seem jumpy but also strangely endearing. She’s quick to crack jokes and put herself down for the benefit of the group dynamic. Though her proclivity to make fun of herself is startling at first, her wit and sincerity ultimately triumph, becoming the adjectives which immediately come to mind whenever her name is mentioned in my presence thereafter. Before we even order our food she’s had me in stitches twice, both times with stories about some of her more raucous adventures with her all-female college acapella group, The Barden Bellas (more on them later). She’s an excellent storyteller, if not excellently verbose, and I cannot wait to see what she might have in store for our interview.
It’s a bright afternoon in early March, with clear skies and only the barest hint of a chill in the air. It’s beautiful, and the subtle feeling of spring is beginning to emerge in outfit choices, store inventory, and menu changes. But while most people tend to feel energized and rejuvenated with the promise of new beginnings, Mitchell is still practically reeling from the relative whirlwind of the previous month. She won a Grammy, came out, and started a new relationship — and that was all just in one day!
“I feel like everything changed overnight. I went from being, like, a club DJ to now, I’m at the point where people literally stop me on the street for pictures.” She laughs and shakes her head, like she can’t quite believe it. “It’s been completely nuts.”
For those who may be unaware: after a very public Grammys acceptance speech earlier this year, Mitchell was caught locking-lips with her date, Chloe. [Note: While their relationship is not a secret, and the identity of Mitchell’s partner can be easily found, Mitchell requested we leave Chloe’s last name out of this article for the sake of her privacy.]
Almost immediately, Mitchell’s name-recognition sky-rocketed. The image of the kiss circulated countless gossip websites, made headlines in newspapers around the country, and became a trending topic on Twitter. Videos of the night played on nearly every morning talk show. Mitchell’s social media following almost tripled overnight. Suddenly, and without warning, Mitchell has found herself at the center of a media blitz caused by her very public — and incredibly adorable (link) — public coming out. Seriously, if you haven’t seen the video of her acceptance speech yet (have you been living under a rock?) go watch it right now. You’ll cry, you’ll laugh, you’ll squeal, you’ll fall in love.
**
[image]
Pictured: Beca Mitchell [left] and partner kissing on the red carpet.
**
Since we both know where this interview is eventually headed (it would be impossible not to talk about it at some point), I figure I should ask: does she want to talk about her relationship first?
She shrugs, her leg bouncing under the table. “I don’t know. No? The… I always think of myself as an artist, first. And my personal life is my personal life. But, you guys are, like… the gay magazine. I can’t imagine it won’t come up.”
Her confidence from earlier has all-but vanished. Perhaps because her music carries with it the easy, confident maturity of an artist with twice her experience, it’s easy to forget she’s still new at this. In order to put her at ease, I start off with a few softball questions, things to get her excited and make her more comfortable with where our interview is going.
Her favorite musician growing up? She smiles, looking much less anxious. “I think this probably is gonna hurt my rep, but I gotta go with Stevie.”
“Nicks?” I ask. This is surprising to me, though perhaps it shouldn’t be. While Mitchell’s music is pretty reliably ‘Pop’, it also shows evidence of clear influence from eclectic styles of music, including jazz and alternative.
“Absolutely. She was my childhood crush. And like, she’s totally everything that I want to be, as a musician. First time I listened to the album Rumours I thought, ‘God, that’s just about the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.’ It’s the story of a relationship falling apart, the dissolution of a marriage, about cheating and heartbreak and mistrust. But it’s also about optimism, and joy. And… well, to me, it’s also about love. And I used to sit there and listen to that album and think, ‘That’s what I want. If I can produce a piece of music even half as emotional, half as complete, I’ll be happy.’ My entire life, all I’ve ever wanted is just one great love story to tell.”
She’s passionate when talking about her music. She seems energized and excited, like she’s thrilled that anyone at all is interested in her music in any capacity. Because it seems like her preferred topic of discussion, I keep asking her questions about her most recent work. Her favorite song on the album? “Oh, that one’s easy,” she says. “Gotta be ‘Saudade’.”
Saudade is a Portuguese word that roughly translates to a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia. It is a word closely associated with Brazilian music and Brazilian culture. Its most famous usage in pop culture comes from the famous Antônio Carlos Jobim Bossa Nova song “Chega de Saudade” (the published English version is titled “No More Blues”). Mitchell uses the chord changes of Jobim’s chart as the basis for her own melody. This is a common musical practice amongst jazz composers (similar to what ’sampling’ is to Hip Hop and R&B artists), but much less prevalent in Mitchell’s more Pop-dominated genre.
“Saudade” is an early stand-out on Mitchell’s album. It’s a melancholy affair, with a Latin/Bossa drum feel that immediately conjures images of warm summer nights. And to round out the nostalgia of the instrumentals, the song’s lyrics are almost as haunting as the vocal work. Cynthia-Rose Adams, one of the album’s main featured artists, manages to evoke a quiet, unendurable kind of heartbreak while still keeping her performance subtle and subdued. The piece is more than a little impressive. It truly is a masterclass in sad, mournful, longing ballads, and puts more popular efforts by artists like Adele completely to shame. If it isn’t on every teenage girl’s “breakup playlist” by the end of the year, I would be shocked.
But when asked about her preference for that song, Mitchell’s response is less-confident than the quickness of her earlier answer would imply. “I work with a lot of really incredible musicians. My friend, Cynthia-Rose [Adams], who actually provides vocals for that track, she’s a trained jazz vocalist. She’s listed as a co-writer for that song because it’s really all because of her that it has any kind of melody. I showed her a bunch of lyrics really early on, back when I was still work-shopping, and she was in the room with me when I was writing the first draft. But, God, it was terrible.” She laughs again (always willing to joke at her own expense). “No, for real, it was… horrible. So cliché and dumb. But Cynthia just kind of on a whim suggested we try to craft a love ballad using the chord changes of Chega, and I listened to it one time and then it’s like I couldn’t stop writing. It all just poured out of me. The music tied to the lyrics and back again. It’s like the song always existed, and I just was the first person to hear it and write it down.” She pauses, as if she’s only just realizing how long she’s been speaking. “But really,” she says quickly, “without the performance Cynthia puts out on that track, it just… I couldn’t have done it with any other singer. I’m so grateful for her.”
This is a common feature of our interview. Mitchell is almost reluctant to take sole credit for her own music. At every turn she’s thanking her vocalists, her sound engineers, and her co-producers. It belies the incredible amount of time and energy and dedication she put into crafting this album. Anyone who works with Mitchell will also be sure to note both her work ethic and her unyielding attention to detail. Talking to her, you might think a great many things about her character, but ‘immodest’ would certainly not be one of them.
When I ask how she met her collaborators — specifically Adams and Emily Junk, the album’s other featured vocalist — Mitchell grins wider than she has all afternoon. The ease immediately returns to her body. She relaxes in her chair, lounging back with her legs crossed over the knee. She seems like any other 20-something again. You never would guess that, a few short weeks ago, she was a trending topic on Twitter.
“I met Cynthia and Emily in college. They were in the same acapella group I was in.” She’s talking about the Barden Bellas, the nationally-ranked all-female acapella group out of Barden University, a small liberal arts college just outside Atlanta, Georgia. Mitchell was the captain of the group for 3 years, and led the Bellas to two national championships and one world title. “We were really just a bunch of misfits,” she says when I prod her for more information. “And, y’know, being a group of only women, it’s actually pretty hard to make a name for yourself in the acapella world. The best groups are either mixed or all-male. And we’re a very diverse group, and most of us don’t necessarily fit with conventional beauty standards. So I’m just really proud we were able to break through, make an impact, and show people what a group of badass, powerful ladies can do.”
Does she keep in contact with her old group? “Oh, of course, we talk on the daily. I mean, the Bellas gave me everything. They’re my family. I truly don’t know where I’d be without them.”
But now, it’s time to address the elephant in the room. I almost want to apologize to her, though I know it’s completely unnecessary. She has made it apparent that she is comfortable answering personal questions, and has previously specified to me that she is open and completely willing to talk about her own coming out experience. But even though I know she’s agreed to this line of questioning, that’s still just the kind of person she is: she makes you want to look out for her, to keep her safe. She’s so shockingly sincere, so non-malicious, that to do anything to harm her in any way seems tantamount to blasphemy.
Almost like she can sense a shift in the air between us, Mitchell sets her shoulders. I ask her if she’s nervous about coming out. “Not at all,” she answers quickly. “I’ve been ‘out’ for pretty much my whole life. Sexuality has never been a problem for me. I’ve never talked about it before because, honestly — and I know this sounds cheesy and cliché, but I really do mean it — it’s just never come up. It’s been such a non-issue for so long. And I guess I figured it would become common knowledge sooner or later. I just never anticipated, the, um…”
“Going viral?”
She flushes. “Yeah. Never saw that one coming.”
Becoming an overnight sensation by going public with a relationship is an experience that is difficult to replicate or understand, if you haven’t been through it. I ask Beca how she feels about the sudden influx and attention she’s been receiving.
“I don’t mind the attention,” she says honestly. “It can get pretty scary sometimes, but it’s not like I have paparazzi lurking around my apartment or anything, so I feel like I got off pretty easy. I mean I don’t like the attention, but, y’know… sales have gone up, at least,” she jokes, somewhat half-heartedly.
And about her new internet celebrity status (there are dozens and dozens of Tumblr pages devoted to her alone) as an out, queer female musician?
“I mean, I hope we’re moving into a time when, like, it doesn’t matter who anybody dates?” she says, somewhat uncertainly. “I’m like, yeah, technically a celebrity, but it still shouldn’t really matter who I’m with. Man or woman. Like, shouldn’t we be past this, now? If I had kissed a guy that night, I wouldn’t have made the front page. There’s just something different about a queer artist, a woman kissing another woman publicly, I guess. And I mean I do get why. When I was a young, baby bi, I didn’t really have any musicians I could look to, to see myself represented. I know how important it is to see people be out and open about who they are and who they love. I don’t mean to imply that I’m taking that for granted. I am so thankful to every person who’s told me that they’ve connected with my story. And to the people who say I’ve helped them in any way, like… truly, that is such an honor.” She pauses, chewing on her lower lip nervously. “But at the same time, I don’t know if I like that we still live in a world where it’s, like, headline news if a low-level celebrity like me just happens to be dating someone of the same gender.” She laughs lightly. “Guess that’s not something I should say to a magazine that focuses on LGBTQ issues, huh?”
I shrug it off. Mitchell’s point is, after all, a valid one. In this modern political climate, there does seem to be something strangely antiquated (if the early-2000s can be considered ‘antiquated’, that is) about a celebrity needing to give a ‘coming out’ interview. But, despite the merits of her argument, I still have a job to do.
I ask her about her burgeoning role as an icon for other young queer women hoping to enter the industry. “I don’t know if I’m the best role model,” she says with her signature self-deprecating manner. “But I am queer. My music is based off of my life, and I am in a same-sex relationship at the moment. My last album was about a woman. And none of that’s a secret. I’m just going to continue to make the music that I want to make, and my sexuality and my current relationship are definitely a big part of my art. I’m not going to apologize for that. I’m just gonna live my life the best I can, and if people want to see me as a role model for that… yeah, I’d be proud of that.”
I wonder how Chloe feels about her sudden thrust into the limelight. Her life as an inauspicious, unknown civilian must be all-but over (at least, for the time being).
Beca is careful with her response. It takes her many long moments to weigh her words. “We both really value our privacy. And with regards to our relationship, well… I don’t want to speak for her. But I do know that she’d prefer it if she didn’t have any of the fame or the attention. Because of that, we’re really doing our best to keep a low media profile, for our families and also for our personal lives.”
**
[image]
Pictured: Beca Mitchell, wearing an Angela Chen Jacket, Skoot Apparel Sneakers, Gap Socks, Stylist’s own tank top, and her own jeans.
**
“But I… we really do want to keep out of the media, as much as possible. But I don’t want people to… A lot of people have contacted me recently, like… way more people than I expected. I get Instagram and Twitter messages every day from young fans; people approach me in the street and tell me that they’ve been impacted by my story; I get letters from people saying that it’s meant a lot to them to see a prominent queer female artist, and… I do feel such a responsibility, now. I understand how much it blows to feel alone and… misunderstood. So, while Chloe and I are trying to keep our private lives private, I don’t want people to think that I’m ashamed of who I am or who I choose to date. That’s not the reason we’ve been keeping a low profile. I’m not ashamed of who I am. So I want to be open about my life. I want people to know that I’m bisexual, and I’m proud of it. And I’m proud of my significant other. But I also want people to respect me, and what I choose to share. I’m sort of a public figure, now, and I signed on for it willingly; like I knew this was coming for me. But Chloe doesn’t really want that life, so… if people could respect my privacy, that would be amazing. I’m not going to stop being who I am and loving who I love proudly and vocally, but I want people to understand that the parts of my life I share are the parts of my life I’m willing to share. Because sometimes — and I think we forget this a lot because of how everyone’s always gotta be documenting their lives on social media and everything — sometimes I think there are some things that should just be for you.”
She shakes her head ruefully. “My publicist is gonna kick my ass. That answer was so preachy and long-winded.” She startles. “Oh shit, can I say ‘ass’?” When I nod in the affirmative, she seems more than a little relieved.
I tell her I understand her desire for privacy. I want to respect her wishes as much as possible, but I’m still dying to know something.
Does she think she’s found her one great love story?
“Chloe’s my best friend,” Mitchell says calmly, with a serene sort of smile on her face. “And she makes me happier than anyone in the world. So if you’re wondering whether I’m ‘finding love’?” She smiles coyly, and looks off to the side. The street outside our café is bustling with activity. A young couple walks by with limbs intertwined, their free hands each balancing an ice cream cone. On a nearby bench, an old man reads the newspaper to his bent-over wife. It think maybe it’s just me, noticing all the sweet signs of romance filtering through the air. (Spring, like I said, makes me think of new starts and new beginnings.)
But Mitchell finally turns back to me. Her smile never wavers. “I would say that it definitely looks promising.”
#perdition#one shots#bechloe#anonymous#asks#didn't plan on writing this but got inspired#:)#long post
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Selcouth [Yoongi x Reader]
Part 1 Part 2
Yoongi is shoving his school notebooks into his bag, in a rush. He overslept his alarm again today, and really; he should consider having multiple alarms set so he doesn't just snooze on the one and ruin his schedule. Hair a disheveled mess and clothes wrinkled, he shoves his feet into his converse (our tired boy can tie them later) and scurries out of the house. He manages to remember to shout a quick "I love you" to his parents as he races against time to the bus stop. Yoongi is extremely lucky that he makes it on time, although maybe he only makes it because the bus driver is familiar with his usual tardiness. One minute later and he would've missed the bus, and missed school, and then dropped out because of it. Wow, life is hard. So, when he finally drags himself up the steps and plops down into a seat, face red from the morning coldness, he can only let out a heavy sigh as he hears the drivers belted laughter.
Yoongi scoots to the window seat, reserving the space beside him with his bag for comfort. Of course, he doesn't need to because the bus is never crowded this early, but he's never like strangers sitting next to him. Yoongi puts his headphones on and clicks shuffle on his music, not in the mood to play a specific playlist. His eyes wander out the window, mentally telling the driver their daily route to the usual stops. Turn right here, go straight, stop here, keep going, right, left, stop, keep going. It's all the same until the driver stops at the sign where he would usually go straight, and he turns. Yoongi immediately registers the unfamiliar sights and yanks his headphones out before turning his head to look at the driver through the mirror.
"You weren't supposed to turn there." He states, scrunching his nose as he looks at the cars through the front window.
"Don't worry, kid. It's a shortcut, it'll save us a few minutes." The man assures, shooting Yoongi a knowledgeable look before focusing back on the road. Yoongi lets out a huff of disapproval, eyes squinted as he reaches into his pockets for his phone.
"So this means I'll arrive at school sooner? No thanks, turn around." He deadpans, flicking a hand in a signal for the driver to make a U-turn. The man simply chuckles at the youngster's joke, maintaining his focus on driving. Yoongi's lips twitch upward into a small smile, that old man laughs at everything. They reach a stop light and Yoongi looks up, from having scrolled through his twitter a bit, to the scattered students walking along the sidewalk. He cocks an eyebrow at them just as the driver silently answers his question.
"There's another school around here. It's an all-girls academy, it's pretty small but my niece tells me it's relatively nice." Yoongi nods in understanding, looking out from the side window to the high-school girls. They're all chatting, laughing, enjoying their last couple of minutes before school starts. When the light finally turns green, the mentioned school comes into view. It's smaller than his school, but it certainly looks far much cleaner than his school does. Yoongi is just about turning his head away when a certain girl comes into view. Her hairstyle and uniform don't ring any bells to him, but the bandages on her knees sure do. It's likely to be the girl he helped a few days ago with that, surely it is with that same dazed look on her face. Unless some other girl scraped her knees a well, coincidentally? Even as the bus drives past, Yoongi turns his whole body to keep looking at her.
"Did you like what you saw?" The driver jokes and Yoongi scrunches his nose again, leaning back in his seat and scoffing.
"Not really." He replies, brushing it off as he puts his headphones back on. Although unknown to all except for him, Yoongi thinks "I'm glad she at least got home safe."
When the bus finally arrives at his stop, Yoongi utters a "have a nice day" to the driver and quickly scurries off after the other three students. Adjusting the straps of his bag, Yoongi walks the last five minutes to his school campus, immediately spotting his older friend, Seokjin, standing in their usual meet up place. Yoongi is tempted to turn on his heel and walk in the opposite direction of Jin, but he refrains from doing so, knowing he'll only get an ear full as retaliation. Jin attacks Yoongi with teasing gestures about the sour look on his face, a joke Yoongi can't bother to understand. Then, he goes on with his rant about how the younger should be more grateful that he's friends with someone so handsome.
Plenty of time before class starts, so the pair walks around campus, Jin's rant finally dying down and being replaced with casual talk about nothing special. The sky is clear today, Yoongi notes, not a single cloud in the sky but he wishes it would rain just so their physical education class would be canceled. When the first few classes of the day roll by, it seems agonizingly long, although it always feels like that the first few days back from break. It's only when lunch comes around, in the middle of scribbling ideas in his notebook, that Yoongi remembers.
"Ah, oh yeah. I saw a girl this morning who resembled that girl who scraped her knees a few days ago." He mutters, clearly uninterested, as he keeps scribbling. He had briefly summarized the event to Jin over the weekend, and the older clearly had an interest. Not many worthwhile things happen in Yoongi's life, although maybe this isn't as worthwhile as Jin makes it out to be. Jin's eyes widen, flexing his shoulders when he leans in closer to Yoongi.
"Wow, really? Was she okay?" He asks, concern laced in his voice, but Yoongi just shrugs.
"Yah! Answer me properly, this is disrespect." Jin huffs, making Yoongi lean away from his writing and cross his arms, eyes cast to the side. He purses his lips in a silent defeat and simply nods.
"How am I suppose to know if she's okay? She had bandages on her knee's, and she could walk, so that's good." Yoongi glances briefly at Jin before casually continuing with his scribbles.
"Well, you said before that she seemed shocked. What if she hit her head when she fell? Did you as?" Yoongi shakes his head, absentmindedly doodling a small dandelion at the corner of his notebook. Jin nudges Yoongi's arm, causing his pen to stray and draw a line straight through all his work.
"Hey, that was uncalled for! I've been working on this for days." Yoongi whines, crossing his arms and letting out an exasperated sigh as he meets eyes with Jin.
"You said you saw her, was she going to school? Work? A party?" Jin pushes, and Yoongi narrows his eyes, unsure of why Jin cares so much about some silly girl.
"She had a school uniform on, so she probably goes to the academy close by my workplace." Yoongi takes a sip of his juice box, looking down to skim his work before closing his notebook. He can finish his music plans later, because if he keeps working on it now, Jin might just rip the entire thing.
"Why don't we go check up on her? Ask her if she's doing okay." Jin suggests, but Yoongi scrunches his nose and gives the elder a look.
"I'm not just going to go to her school and casually ask her. She'll think I'm a stalker or some kind of creep." He groans, picking the paint off the table at which they sit.
"You have to go make sure she's okay," Jin states in a tone so serious that Yoongi has to look up to make sure his ears aren't deceiving him. It's not often that Jin is this serious with him, he's always been the playful one. ��But the elder doesn't press any further, leaving silence between them as Yoongi slumps in a defeat like-state. Jin knows his words will weigh on Yoongi's mind, especially after his serious tone. Truthfully, he just wants the younger to stop being so aloof about things that he should care about. He knows he'll do the right thing and make sure the girl is fine, sacrificing a bit of dignity is nothing. Or at least, he hopes.
#min yoongi#bts yoongi#bts#min suga#yoongi x reader#fanfiction#yoongi#x reader#bangtan#bangtan boys#idk how to tag stuff#soulmate#chapters
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[Aoharu x Kikanjuu] Dear Goemon-san
Summary: [Midori x Tachibana]. The story of how a tech-challenged pediatrician inevitably fell in love with a young woman who earned his elusive interest, told through postcards and notes.
"I wanna see you soon, Tachibana-san!" Fujimoto Takatora looked nothing like his fear-striking alias on the battlefield at the moment. Tears and snot mixed freely on his face as The Assault Destroyer clasped the small, calloused hands of Tachibana Hotaru. He was unmindful of the airport crowd that streamed past them, some doing double-takes at the scene he was making. "B-But I know I can't wish that. You'll only come home if Papa-san doesn't get better so… so…"
The petite sixteen-year-old offered him a warm smile in return. "No matter how long it takes, we will meet each other again… and duel!"
"You're overreacting, idiot." Tossing her dark hair in boredom, Ichi Akabane looked unimpressed as usual. "You can just message her online or something. In fact, you can even do it in half a day or so."
"B-But…"
Tachibana nodded gratefully as she pressed a few keys on her mobile phone. "Absolutely! Here, let's all exchange numbers and Twitter handles—"
"Nope," the raven-haired woman was quick to retreat from the group, her ponytail bobbing along. "Any act of friendship grosses me out."
"Sorry, Tachibana-san!" The towering white-haired doctor pressed his hands together in apology. "I have her info if you want. I'm just not sure if it's updated though because she always changes her account details whenever she learns that I peeked through the personnel records for them."
"A-Ah, no, it's okay!" She beamed as she watched the nurse's diminutive figure disappear into the crowd. "Tachibana is really glad that she came to see me off, though."
Her phone's Bluetooth notification beeped.
"That's mine." Hosokawa Haruka informed her somberly, glancing up from his own device. "And that's my Nii-san's," he added when another beep sounded. "And that's his vital statistics. And his likes and dislikes. And his candid photos from my private offline collection," he identified as a series of beeps rapidly sounded off. "Make sure to remember Nii-san with all that— he will be very happy if he knows you won't forget him."
A sweatdrop formed on her head. "Y-You know, Haruka-san, Tachibana wouldn't have forgotten Haruki-san even if you didn't go through the trouble of sending all these. He is, after all..." She beamed at him. "... an important comrade of mine."
To her puzzlement, the male's brows furrowed in a displeased fashion. "A comrade? Just a comrade? Are you sure you can't see him as anything else?"
"E-Eh?"
"Maybe I should send you some more provocative pictures of him to make sure…"
"Now, now, Haruka." A grinning figure emerged from the back to tap the man's shoulder. "Stop pimping your elder brother and leave him with some amount of dignity after this."
"Midori-san!" Hotaru raised a palm to greet him. "Thank you for seeing Tachibana off as well."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." He grinned at her fondly as he handed her a gift-wrapped box. "Our farewell gift."
"T-Thank you." Her eyebrow cocked up suspiciously. "This wouldn't happen to be something that'll set off the TSA alarm when Tachibana gets to America, right?"
"You are wary of me. Good girl," he nodded approvingly at her. "But no, I'm afraid it's just a little token of gratitude from Hoshihiro— ah, you're unwrapping it already right in front of your gift-givers! Your eagerness warms my heart like so, young lady."
"If Tachibana will be caught by the airport cops, Tachibana wants to know as early as now how she can explain it to Mother— oh!" Her verdant eyes shook when she saw the familiar white naval hat that everyone in the Team Hoshihiro wore during TCG battles.
"We all think the world of you, Tachibana-san," explained Fujimoto as the girl ran her fingers appreciatively over the peaked cap fabric. "And we would have gladly stolen you away from your team if only you were less attached to them."
"But then again, that almost-naive loyalty of yours is what makes the person you are now," added Haruka quietly.
"And we'll always think of you as our honorary member, the best one we never had." With the trademark gentleness of his ward's most beloved pediatrician, Midori placed the cap carefully on her crown. "Safe travels, Tachibana-kun. We wish your father a speedy recovery."
She blinked, then grinned warmly at everyone. "Thank you, Hoshihiro!"
"Oh, by the way…" Midori stepped closer to her and crouched down till his lips aligned with her right ear. "Won't you be asking for my contact details, Tachibana-kun?"
"H-Huh?" Her hand shot up to cover her ear protectively.
"If you don't write to me, I'll get a bit lonely," he continued huskily, enjoying her reaction to his ministrations.
Her sigh of exasperation rang out clearly. "You don't even know how to text, Midori-san."
Touche. "Oh well, I'll have to settle for this then." And before she could react, he pulled the brim of her cap down until it covered the entire half of her face.
Then with the smooth soundless movement minimally expected of an airsoft elite, he bent down and planted a light kiss on the visor, just right above the small tip of her nose.
"W-What, what?" Hearing the collective gasps around her, Hotaru pulled up the cap from her eyes in panic, but only saw the doctor's grinning face. To her embarrassment, she felt heat rush to her cheeks. "W-What did you guys do now? Midori-san?"
Instead of responding, he gave her a slight nudge towards the gates. "You'll be late for your flight."
"F-Fujimoto-san!" Hotaru shifted her eyes towards her biggest ally among the group. The latter still seemed surprised, but he had recovered enough to nod at her reassuringly.
"Tricking Tachibana even till the very last moment. Really, you guys." She offered them a final wave before heading for the concourse.
"You're declaring a war against me and Nii-san, huh," muttered Haruka, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Midori let out a laugh. "What a hot-tempered otouto! This old man was merely giving his favorite protégé a proper send-off."
"You're the reason predators in the society continue to exist. Scum."'
"It's been awhile since I've last felt this truly despised outside the battlefield. Good times."
Meanwhile, Fujimoto sadly glanced back at the crowd where he was sure Ichi was, certainly watching like a silent hawk. You definitely saw it, too, didn't you, Ichi?
It was the briefest of moments, but he swore he saw it sometime before that farewell prank kiss.
Reluctance.
It was an alien notion to think of in terms of the Midori-san he knew who had painstakingly maintained the barrier between utility and attachment in all of his relationships for years. He was someone who could let go even of a soul he had once saved from darkness.
That you made him feel that way even for a moment… The kind-hearted doctor shook his head in awe. You're even more amazing than I thought, Tachibana-san.
"Look, Papa! The statue's so big!" A young girl in pigtails eagerly pointed to the postcard stuck on the corkboard. "Is it Kami-sama?"
"Young lady, that is the Statue of Liberty in America." Somewhere in the middle of looking at the travel postcards Midori Nagamasa had conveniently placed across his desk, the child barely noticed the vaccine injection that he had quietly made. He didn't even have to summon Fujimon to take on his usual role and distract his little patient.
"Why do you have Liberty-san's picture, Sensei?" asked the girl, eyes widening in curiosity.
He glanced up quickly at her to smile before resuming his scribbles on his doctor's pad. "My friend sent it to me. She lives there right now."
"Do you miss her?"
Before he could respond, the child's father guffawed. "Of course not, Baby! Sensei has many pretty nurses and mommy friends who come to his office! Ne, Sensei?" He winked at him conspiratorially, as if they were close buddies.
Garbage.
He paused from writing long enough to smile brightly at him. "Indeed. Let's especially not forget your lovely wife who visits me from time to time, begging me desperately for a Sildenafil prescription."
It was then that Ichi, with her too conveniently impeccable timing, entered the room with an airmail envelope.
"Sensei, a letter came in for you." She eyed the colorful postcards littering the board in quiet disdain before meeting his gaze.
"Thank you, Ichi. You can place it on my desk."
"Yes, Midori-sensei." She immediately did as told.
"Do I still have patients waiting outside?"
"None. Your next appointment is after lunch."
"Perfect." He smiled pleasantly at her. "I will be taking my lunch break."
Whether conversing with the nurses or taunting a target in a no-freeze arena, Ichi knew that the good doctor wore basically the same genial expression on his face. She wouldn't have felt offended at such fact if only her devoted attention to him did not reveal a grand exception to this rule— and that was his young penpal from America. The fondness he had solely for her was undeniable.
"Please excuse me." She bowed at him and his patients before heading to the door. She's been away for a year, but he hasn't lost his interest in her yet. With much more force than usual, she flipped the "The Doctor is In" sign on the door and reveled in its surprising loud thud.
What sorcery does she hold over him, really?
.
.
.
Dear Goemon-san…
Nearly all her letters started in a similar fashion, save for her very first mail. He could still vividly recall his pleasant surprise when Fujimon handed him the postcard of the NYC skyscape a month after Tachibana Hotaru had left the country.
Granted that it bore merely a generic stream of pleasantries, he was glad that she still chose to indulge an old fogey like him and wrote to him after all.
So as his way of expressing his gratitude, he wrote her back using the return address of her dormitory, along with a little care package.
Her reply came in sooner than expected, delivered to him by his trusty Fujimon. And this time, instead of a polite "Dear Midori-san", what he got was this:
Dear Goemon-san,
Thank you for your package. However, a female student has no use for a wall calendar of half-naked AV idols who can't hold guns properly to save their lives. Tachibana has promptly shredded it and tossed it in with this week's trash.
Hope you and Team Hoshihiro are well.
Signed,
Tachibana
He had spent that afternoon in a strangely good mood that even his patients had taken notice of it. That very evening, he wrote her back.
Dear Tachibana-kun,
I am relieved to hear that you still recall the proper gun grip. I also agree with your assessments and have forwarded your concern to the entertainment group handling these irresponsible campaign models. As a medical professional working in the pediatrics field, I agree that the children of Japan deserve better gun education than this.
Do you still get an opportunity to play survival games there? It pains me to imagine a bunch of unworthy creatures of mediocrity becoming on the receiving end of your glorious bloodlust.
My team is doing well. We have won a million yen for the nth time, so I have elected to fill my bed with bills that I can roll around on when I am feeling rather uninspired. It would have filled the hole in my heart if only I've been bestowed with one in the first place.
Hope you are adjusting well to your new life in the States.
Signed,
Your Fellow Advocate for the Proper Demonstration of Gun Holding Among Sexy Idols
P.S.
Why am I suddenly christened Goemon-san?
It didn't take a month to hear back from her again. Turning over the postcard showing the landmark 19th-century Brooklyn Bridge, he read her hastily scribbled note.
Dear Goemon-san,
Thank you for enlightening Tachibana as to why an invitation from an entertainment group to watch the next year's shoot of their "Guns x Babes 2018 Artbook Collection" came in the mail.
Tachibana must also confess to asking Matsuoka-san about your home address so Tachibana can provide that information instead for their "Guns x Boys 2017" calendar + artbook bundle offer.
Between spending time with Dad, a part-time job, and schooling, Tachibana is hardly able to find time to play survival games. Tachibana does watch war game clips online during the commute, and that helped tide things over for the time being. Nonetheless, thank you for asking.
Signed,
Tachibana
P.S. Tachibana talked to Fujimoto-san about it, and he agreed that it is best to minimize references to you as much as possible.
That gave him an idea as to why she did it, which was confirmed by Fujimon when he asked the next afternoon.
"She has to use an alias so the hospital staff won't gossip about a fully adult physician exchanging non-academic notes with a high school student overseas… or so Tachibana-san says."
A child twelve years his junior knew more than him regarding the conventional boundaries he was expected to set. But more importantly, he appreciated that she, with her naive blazing sense of justice, resorted to this silly act in kind consideration of his request that she write him, too.
That night, he wrote her back.
Dear Tachibana-kun,
I look forward to receiving that literature you so thoughtfully ordered for me. I can't wait to peruse through them and see how well they can challenge my current limits of taste and preferences. You alone can be so considerate to such extent of my circumstances— whether it be this or everything else.
Thank you. I am honored to accept the name of the gun you first bought (under my auspice, of course. I have excellent taste, don't you think?)
I have enclosed videotapes of my Matsune and his friends playing in the outdoor field. I can send you more if you want— I have an enviable network I can tap on anytime to do my bidding.
Signed,
A Future Fan of the Guns x Boys Franchise
A week after he received the artbook and wall calendar, he heard back from his benefactress.
At the back of a lit-up New York City nightscape postcard, she had written:
Dear Goemon-san,
Please don't send Tachibana any more photos or videos of everyone back home. It's difficult as it is. Tachibana will only miss everyone more.
Signed,
Tachibana
Despite himself, he felt anxious at the almost-curt length of the message. Excusing himself from the rest of his shift, he hurried to the postal office the same day to send a priority mail to her.
Dear Tachibana-kun,
When not on the battlefield, I endeavor to go against the little, excited voice in my head and refrain from causing anyone pain. If I caused you such with my previous mail, you have my utmost apology. I went too far with that one, I believe.
Write me back?
Signed,
Your Foolish Old Man Penpal from Japan
He quietly waited with bated breath for her response. It came in two weeks after, via a postcard showing a beautiful fountain and statue amidst the greenery. However, it was inside a bigger envelope, which had a slightly longer letter with it.
Dear Goemon-san,
This is the Angel of the Waters. It is situated in the Bethesda Terrace in the Central Park. A city guide said that an angel was said to have blessed the water and healed the sick, like it did for the cholera-stricken city many centuries ago.
Tachibana learned that Bethsheda's word origin can either mean a place of shame or a place of grace. It reminds Tachibana of you. You are both an angel of healing in the hospital and an angel of shaming in the battlefield. Tachibana accepts both faces because they both belong to a good friend. If you go over the line at either end, Tachibana will fight to bring you back.
What Tachibana is trying to say is… thank you, apology accepted, and Tachibana looks forward to receiving a new mail from Goemon-san.
Signed,
Tachibana
Only then could he let out a huge sigh of relief. For what, he did not endeavor to determine. All that mattered to him was that their flimsy connection— whatever it was— had not been severed.
He went on to pen his response, in what inevitably would be one of the many more letters they would exchange over the year and the months beyond.
.
.
.
Nagamasa Midori deftly opened the US-postmarked envelope with a paper knife. To his surprise, inch photo slipped down the table. It was a photo of Tachibana Hotaru together with a couple that he assumed to be her parents due to the unmistakable resemblance.
Ah, so this is how the young lady would look like had she been blessed with more calm and finesse.
Despite the bony, devastated tautness the advanced stage of his disease brought to him, the Tachibana patriarch's inner peace blossomed through. He knew first-hand the therapeutic impact having one's family close among even the illest of his patients.
The mother, on the other hand, was a rock of stability and principled righteousness. He had no question anymore as to where Tachibana-kun derived her convictions from.
And speaking of Tachibana…
She had grown out her hair, huh? Wild tufts of light golden tresses escaped from her slipshod attempt at a low ponytail, but he found them all endearingly true to the young lady's quirky personality. The months had also lent a touch of curves on all the right places, and he mused that the next time she competed in the TGC, she wouldn't get away with her disguise as easily as she could before.
After spending a few more moments appreciating the photo, he reluctantly let go of it to read the accompanying note.
Dear Goemon-san,
Tachibana is not a fan of taking pictures, but since Mama and Papa insisted on one, things ended up with you holding one of the copies Tachibana made.
Papa is having trouble sleeping lately and he has lost a lot of weight. But Tachibana knows Papa is fighting to stay here with us. As a physician, if there's any other advice you can share to make sure Tachibana cares for Papa well, please let Tachibana know.
Signed,
Tachibana
P.S. Tachibana will get you a proper postcard the next time she goes sightseeing in the city. Tachibana really misses Japan.
The doctor picked up the photo once more, gazing thoughtfully at it. Then carefully he picked it up and tucked it in his wallet, along with a few choice possessions he had that held great value to him.
He then exited the clinic and headed for the nearby tourist shop.
.
.
.
Dear Tachibana-kun,
Your father has done very well. But things will only become more difficult from this point on. Just stay by his side. No matter how scary or bleak things can be, don't waver your eyes away from his…
Tachibana Hotaru sank on the grass-carpeted ground that enveloped the cemetery, sobbing and unable to continue reading the postcard anymore. Her mother had left right after handing her a priority mail from Japan.
Even without looking, she knew her mother's face bore the stony impassiveness concealing the grief in the widow's heart. The woman responded to the death of her childhood love with a steely determination to be their daughter's rock no matter what it takes.
It took a few minutes before the insistent sound of her ringing phone registered in her ears. Taking a few shaky breaths, she struggled to calm herself as she answered the call. "T-Tachibana here."
"Tachibana-kun?"
A wave of surprise shook her to the core. Rubbing her eyes quickly, she called out, "M-Midori-san?"
She heard him pause uncertainly, and then, "My postcard didn't make it in time, I suppose?"
"T-The postcard is beautiful," she replied, a tad too quickly. Then with a defeated sigh, she continued, "P-Papa would have loved it."
"I'm sorry, Tachibana-kun."
The uncharacteristic concern in his voice choked her up. "T-Thank you. He passed away three nights ago."
"I see. It must have been hard."
She shut her eyes tight, involuntarily recalling her father, who was in pain all day and night but was blessed to go when he was peacefully asleep. "Tachibana… Tachibana didn't waver from him… "
His silence told her to go on. So she did.
"It was frightening every time Tachibana thinks that Papa is surrounded by all these medicines and doctors but no one can do a thing for him… it was frightening to feel so helpless for the first time in life," Heartbroken sobs threatened to snatch her voice away but she soldiered on. "T-Tachibana... Tachibana did her best to not look away…"
"Good girl." His voice was silky smooth and soothing. Peculiarly, there was a complete absence of the usual mockery in his tone."You did well, Tachibana-kun." No words felt like a better balm to her broken soul than hearing his words of quiet support and pride.
She wiped her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her palm. "Tachibana and Midori-san had the same idea in the end, huh?"
"Loss is a universal human experience," he replied solemnly. "But it makes me happy that you think that way, Tachibana-kun."
"Thank you for calling, Midori-san." Only then did she recall to check her screen. "Is this a long-distance phone call?"
"I had Matsune share your phone number," he explained swiftly. "Looking at your father in the photo you sent, I felt I had to get in touch with you sooner."
"M-Matsuoka-san gave it to you?" She was aware of how her teammates and friends at Toy Gun-Gun can become extremely protective of her.
"Yes, but his four-eyed buddy made sure to threaten the very fabric of my existence before giving in. Needless to say, I was thrilled beyond words."
"No doubt you were, Midori-san." She clasped the phone close to her ears, suddenly recalling how the doctor had spoken to her that day at the airport. "You should go. It must be late at night where you are right now. Plus, calls like this can get expensive."
"Don't look down on a grown-up's finances, young lady."
She managed a small chuckle at his playfully cocky reprimand. "Well, maybe a one-time overcharge on the phone bill should be fine, even for an adult who spends a fortune on his toy guns."
"Ah."
Her forehead creased at the odd sound she heard from the other end of the line. "Midori-san?"
"I was thinking… if you're still seeking revenge against me on your friends' behalf, the best way is to attack my wallet."
"H-Huh?"
He spoke hurriedly— which was quite unusual for the calm, easy going king of the survival game scene in Japan. "What I meant is… you can keep accepting these expensive international long distance calls from me so I will be left with little budget to live on."
She scratched her cheek. "Midori-san, as you once told Tachibana in your clinic, people must separate their lives on the battlefield and in real life. Tachibana does not wish anything else for Midori-san anymore except for him to be well always."
To her surprise, he let out a sigh of resignation. "You're one tough customer, you know that, Tachibana-kun?"
"I-I don't understand…" She must have been utterly confused that she inadvertently slipped out of referencing herself from an outsider's perspective.
"Well, I don't mind. The prize is worth the chase." His tone sounded final as he spoke, as if he himself had realized something and had come to peace with that epiphany. "Get some rest, Tachibana-kun. Your father will want you and your mother to be well, at any cost."
"Thank you, Midori-san."
"I'll call you again."
For some reason she couldn't fathom, his earnest-sounding promise made her heart skip a beat. "Suit yourself. But if you do, you should hook up with a phone subscription so you can get discounts."
He let out a hearty laugh. "This is the first time that I've spoken with a woman who ended the calls with budget tips instead of erotic plans for the evening."
"Well, Tachibana cannot be compared to women like them because you see all of us differently."
"Indeed," he agreed smilingly. "My lady is incomparable to anyone else."
.
.
.
"It has been two years, huh, Midori-sensei?"
"Hmm?" Nagamasa Midori carefully dabbed the corners of his mouth with a lunch napkin and offered his attention to his trusted nurse and combat sniper, Akabane Ichi. Beside her, Takatora Fujimoto and Hosokawa Haruka paused from their respective meals and turned to her as well.
"Since that girl left."
He smiled pleasantly. "Ara, has it been that long?"
"You had to buy a bigger board to accommodate all those postcards," chimed in Haruka.
"You've racked up quite the bill monthly on Skype and online airsoft equipment deliveries," added Fujimon, bless his helpful little heart. He made a silent note to deal with his subordinate's talkativeness later on.
"Interesting," remarked his nurse. "You haven't participated in the TGC for the past two years."
He shrugged. "What can I say? After competing against Tachibana-kun, pretty much no other player can excite me enough to play."
Ichi sighed. "If she's your yardstick, then I'd say you'll have to hang up the laces of your training shoes. No one else will come close to beating her in your scale."
"I suppose." His phone rang, mercifully saving him from his team's pointed interrogation. One look at his phone screen and a genuinely fond smile broke on his face. "Excuse me." He hurriedly got up the table.
The trio watched their departing leader with looks of wonder and exasperation.
"It's her." Haruka bit on his muffin soundlessly, venting his ire on the pastry. "That disgusting expression on his face says it all."
"He's always had a soft spot for Tachibana-san," gushed Fujimoto, a happy nostalgic tone in his voice. "From the start, I've seen how hard he subconsciously tried to show her his gentle side. Usually, he wouldn't have been moved to do that for anyone. But she has always been different from the rest of us."
I know that. Ichi glumly chewed on her sandwich. The only person to draw out a tapestry of emotions that otherwise she wouldn't have known had existed in him— it couldn't be anyone but her. And despite herself, she couldn't deny her gratitude to Tachibana Hotaru for bringing out that beautiful side of the man she had loved one-sidedly for so long.
"Cheer up, Ichi!" The ash-haired doctor beamed at her sympathetically. "Yukimura-san says you have ample assets that men and women can easily fall in love with— AAARGH! GRAAAAAK! HARUKA-SAN HELPPPP!"
Haruka carefully slid away from the brutal slaughter happening beside him. He was too busy finding a suitable match for his brother in the dating app to bother himself with trivial matters such as the life and death situation of a co-worker.
.
.
.
"Tachibana is so sorry for disturbing you at work, Midori-san. Were you with a patient?" asked Tachibana Hotaru nervously as she leaned back against her bed's headboard. Behind her, the neon lights twinkled sharply against the velvety darkness of the midnight.
"Not at all. I was having a meal over a little inquisition." He leaned back against the endlessly white hallway outside the lunchroom.
"An inquisition, huh? About what?"
"About a topic I hold dear."
"Torture?"
He let out a loud entertained laughter. "Heavens, have I made quite an impression on you, huh?" Still chuckling, he asked, "So to whom do I owe this honor of being called on by my lady?" She found that he had long stopped calling her 'young lady', perhaps in recognition of the fact that time does move even for the likes of her.
"Tachibana… uhm, Tachibana has just been informed by the school that she's graduating with honors so… well, Tachibana wanted you to be among the first to know." She clasped the phone closer to her ear, wondering if she was acting too conceited, calling an accomplished physician like him in the middle of the day to brag about her school feats. She imagined the corners of his mouth twisting sadistically as he mouthed off a few choice shades on her. She only knew too well how capable he was of that.
But to her utter relief, he sounded nothing else but genuinely delighted. "Congratulations, sweetheart! That is excellent news!"
She silently castigated herself for getting beside herself upon hearing his word of endearment. "T-Thank you, Midori-san. After graduation, Tachibana plans to visit Japan for a month in order to prepare to go to a university there. Mama has reclaimed our old home from our relatives, so it should be okay."
"Ah, so you're coming home. Finally."
The words sounded so sweet coming from a man she least expected them to come from. "Y-Yes. We can finally test all that airsoft equipment you've been dumping at our house."
"As a matter of fact, they are yours, my lady."
Her hackles rose. "NO WAY! Tachibana refuses to accept them unless you let her win it by gun testing just like before!"
"Fine, fine." He sounded like a doting father indulging his favorite princess. At that thought, a feeling of disappointment surged through her. But just as quickly, she shook her head vehemently, as if clearing away these unreasonable feelings.
"B-Besides, d-does Midori-san…" She gulped inwardly, wondering if she had the guts to continue her question.
"Hmm?" He sounded lighthearted, and she could almost imagine him grinning innocently before him as his brain cooked up a dozen ways to skin her alive. "I've just been through an interrogation, so one more question from my lady will not bother me terribly."
Er, good? She bit her lower lip. "Does Midori-san… treat all his female friends this way?"
"Ahh," she heard him say, and she could practically see a light bulb popping over the man's head. "You sound interested, Tachibana-kun!" he drawled in a honeyed tone, making her blush from the roots of her hair to the tip of her toes.
"M-Midori-san!" Her face felt positively hot at that moment. "T-Tachibana just doesn't want you to be misunderstood by other girls. Y-You can be someone's friend without spending an inordinate amount of money!"
"So friends don't spend money on their friends?"
She clutched her phone tightly. "O-Of course!"
"So if I'm spending money on you, what does that make you then?"
She felt her heart pound. "Uhm… s-someone taking advantage of you?"
To her surprise, he let out a now familiar resigned sigh.
"I-Is Tachibana wrong?" she asked nervously.
"No, my lady. Like many others, you have won me over with your noble sense of justice. Or at least mellowed me to some point." He let out a low, husky chuckle. It sent excited shivers throughout her body, especially with the phone pressed so close to her ear. "I guess I'll just have to keep on trying until you finally understand."
"U-Understand what?"
"In any case, I will see you soon, my Tachibana-kun," he promised meaningfully.
.
.
.
Tachibana Hotaru did not expect him to keep his promise so soon.
Standing some distance away from the graduation venue was Midori Nagamasa himself, donning a dark coat over a pair of equally dark trousers and a maroon dress shirt. He was holding a bouquet of assorted carnations.
Beside her, she felt her mother stiffen. Tachibana Kane had not been introduced to this older, bespectacled man yet. Her motherly instinct told her though that this man's presence was not good news for her.
"Good evening, Tachibana-kun, Tachibana-san." The male bowed politely before them before offering the flowers to the younger woman. "Congratulations to the graduate."
Despite her bewilderment, she went ahead and took the flowers from his waiting hands. "T-Thank you, Midori-san. But why are you here?"
"I promised I'll meet you soon, did I not?" He flashed her a grin innocently.
"B-But…"
He bowed once more to the matriarch. "My name is Midori Nagamasa. Your daughter and I have played together in the TGC a few years ago."
The woman eyed him suspiciously— one of the rare times that a woman did not immediately become smitten with him. Truly, the Tachibana women are most formidable beings, he thought with a grin. According to Matsune and his buddies, Tachibana Kane's sadistic tendencies matched his point-for-point.
"So you live in Japan," the woman said slowly, gauging his worth all the while. "But you are here in New York because you are interested in my daughter, is that right?"
He pushed the bridge of his glasses back up his nose. "That is accurate, Tachibana-san."
The younger Tachibana exhaled sharply, not expecting his words.
Kane, on the other hand, scowled in utter displeasure. "And how old are you? Twenty-five? Twenty-seven?"
"I've turned thirty this month, Tachibana-san."
Both women's eyes widened at how deceitful a handsome man's appearance could be.
"My daughter has just turned eighteen," she hissed, recovering from shock. "Do you intend to take away her future because of your selfish desire—"
"M-Mama!" Hotaru stepped forward between the two. "M-Midori-san likes to kid around, d-don't you, Midori-san?" She grinned forcibly at him, begging for his cooperation.
He smiled brightly back at her. "I was Tachibana-kun's first kiss. It happened in a—"
"GRAH! She slapped her bouquet-holding hands over his mouth to stop him, but felt herself do a double take when she realized that after two long years, he was finally right in front of her— in the flesh. And she was touching his skin once more.
In response, the man clasped both her hands and planted a gentle kiss on her fingers. The momentary contact nearly set her whole body on fire.
M-Midori-san! To do this in front of my mother… From the corner of her eye, she stealthily glanced at her mother and braced herself for the latter's reaction.
Watching them warily. Kane stepped back with a shrug. "From the looks of it, 30-year-old-san, my daughter seems to be quite taken with you, too." She started to walk away, waving a hand. "I have reservations in the nearby restaurant at 8. I'll see you both there."
"Thank you, Mama!" It was the doctor who spoke with utmost cheerfulness.
"Midori-san!" She forcefully snatched back her hands away from his. "Seriously! There should be a limit to your pranks, you know!" she cried as she lowered her heels to the ground. Yet despite her high heels, the man was still impossibly taller than her. Even with the gap of two years, she had a long way to go before she could catch up with this nettlesome man. "Mama might misunderstand."
"So your mother is faster on the uptake than you?" he asked softly, caressing her cheek with his hand. It was not the first time he had done it, but it was the first time that this gesture had caused her heartbeat to race this abnormally fast.
"You… you can't expect Tachibana to believe that you… you…" She struggled to piece together her thoughts as his face slowly lowered towards hers.
"Yes, sweetheart?" he murmured, his breath fanning her face. She could see the tiniest teasing twitch on the corner of his mouth.
"... you like me?" she managed to ask before their lips could touch. She unwittingly shut her eyes tight, not daring to look at his expression should he announce that it was all a joke she gamely played along with.
Instead, she felt a momentary silky whisper in her ear.
The voice of the man who handpicked her H&K G3SAS High Cycle after becoming the first one to figure out who she was.
The man who mentored her unconventionally through a mix of harshness in the battlefield and gentleness in real life.
The man who praised her for giving her partner weapon a cool name.
The man who received her first kiss.
The man she drew strength from as she tried to come out to her friends one more time.
The man who Fujimon said collected all her postcards and lit up whenever they came in the mail.
His voice spoke to her softly. Sincerely.
"Like you? I am in love with you, Tachibana Hotaru."
Her eyelids fluttered open in surprise, but they closed just as quickly because he was done with speaking. His mouth finally, hungrily claimed hers in sweet longing and desire.
.
.
.
Matsuoka Masamune threw his phone down on the couch in disgust. "Ugh. The moment Midori-san first learns how to send a chat message, he sends THIS." He was referring to the photo of the doctor giddily embracing their blushing little Hotaru who was garbed in her graduation gown.
He turned to his bespectacled best friend peering down at his phone with an equally dark expression. "He sent you the same thing, didn't he, Yukki?"
"Yep." The erotic manga author inspected the chat window. "Us and all his four hundred contacts including the hospital staff, his patients, and everyone in the TGC."
Masamune crossed his arms over his chest. "You think he made a noob mistake? He had never learned to use apps till now."
"Nah. That guy's definitely rubbing it to our faces. That bastard."
THE END
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food truck au 1/??
(inspired by my earlier post)
Anyone who knew Jack Zimmermann would laugh at the idea of him even being able to remember the login for his Twitter account.
No one, not even his parents, would ever suspect that he checked his feed every single morning.
Jack didn’t care much for social media; he was too private a person to ever want the world to know where he was or what he was eating at any given moment. In fact, he only followed three accounts: his mother’s, the official Falconers’, and that of Li’l Dicky’s Southern Comforts. The latter was the only one he actually cared about.
See, Jack Zimmermann had a deep, dark secret -- he was in love with the mini apple pies that were sold daily at Li’l Dicky’s. It was the only dessert he ever indulged in on a regular basis, and said indulgences were a secret he would take to his grave.
Every morning, Li’l Dicky’s posted their location for the day. Jack knew the general schedule by heart at this point, but some days the truck switched things up, due to weather or construction or event catering, and Twitter was the only way for Jack to know if he would be able to get his apple pie fix.
It didn’t hurt that Eric Bittle, the owner of Li’l Dicky’s, smiled at Jack like the sun shined out of his ass every time he came by. But really, it was the pies Jack couldn’t enough of. Mostly. Probably.
“Morning, Bittle,” Jack said as he approached the truck window.
“It’s noon, Jack,” Bittle chirped, wiping his hands on his apron. “The usual?”
“Please,” Jack said. “Not too busy today, eh?”
“Mm, no, the lunch crowd around this area doesn’t pick up until 12:30 usually,” Bittle said. “One or two pies today?”
“Just one,” Jack said. “But the biggest one you have.”
“One day I’ll get you to try something else on the menu, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle said with a playful smile. “I’ve been told my chicken fried steaklets are to die for.”
Jack shrugged. “Do you have chicken fried chicken?”
“No,” Bittle said with a sigh. “Fry Guy is one of my biggest competitors, and they specialize in fried chicken. It’s just not cost effective to offer it daily, even though my moomaw’s recipe is far superior to that bland, Yankee nonsense.”
“Chicken tenders are my favorite food,” Jack said. “I’m...kind of picky.”
Bittle shrugged. “I can’t say I understand; I’ll eat literally anything at least once. But you’re a man who knows what he likes. Just promise me you’ll never eat at Fry Guy’s truck. I couldn’t handle that level of betrayal.” He clasped his hand to his heart dramatically, and Jack laughed.
“I promise,” he said, glancing over the large chalkboard menu on the side of the truck. Chicken Fried Steaklets, Deviled Egg Trio, and Chicken n’ Dumpling Cup seemed the only substantial items. Everything else was loaded with carbs and cheese and so much sugar it made Jack’s teeth and stomach ache. “You need more protein.”
“What?” Bittle tilted his head in confusion.
“Your menu. It needs more protein options.”
Bittle snorted. “Most of my customers aren’t professional athletes, mister. They come here for delicious treats, not tofu-quinoa-whatever.”
“I like tofu,” Jack said, almost defensively.
Bittle’s smirk turned soft. “So do I. But it doesn’t scream bonafide southern cookin’, now does it?”
“True,” Jack said. “I bet you’d be able to do something with it, though.”
“Charmer,” Bittle said, looking a little smug. “Oh, there’s a line behind you. Here, let me grab your pie.”
Bittle all but shoved the paper to-go bag into Jack’s hand, smiling widely. “See you tomorrow, Jack.”
“Bye, Bittle,” Jack said, moving away from the truck.
“Y’all come back now, y’hear?” Bittle called after him, laughter in his voice. Jack chuckled and started his jog home, bag clutched tightly in his hand.
When Jack woke up the next morning, he pulled up Twitter like always. His mother had retweeted several political articles, plus random pictures of dogs, and the Falconers were promoting some upcoming event. He scrolled down a bit further and found Li’l Dicky’s typical morning tweet.
We’re at Hope St Farmers Mrkt today! Come try the daily special: CHICKEN TENDERS + MASHED TATERS
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. This had to be because of their conversation yesterday. There was no way Bittle would risk competing with Fry Guy’s unless he was doing this for Jack. Jack shook his head and frowned; Bittle was only doing this because he’d been inspired by their conversation. It was vain to assume a near-stranger had created a special just for Jack.
Either way, Jack knew how he’d be spending his day off.
Jack loved going to farmers markets. Everything about them was soothing: the smells of fresh produce and cooking food, the shoppers milling around in the cool, morning air, the handmade signs and brightly colored booths. It was one of the few public settings that didn’t totally set his teeth on edge. The abundance of dogs roaming around with their owners certainly didn’t hurt, either.
Li’l Dicky’s was parked between Coat and Thai and Sue’s Snow Cones. There was a short line, so Jack stood behind a harried-looking mother of three small children, watching with amusement as they all sang Disney songs off-key. Eventually, the woman was able to buy her mac n’ cheese cups and herd the miniature a capella group off to the picnic tables set up nearby. Jack stepped up to the window, and delighted in the way Bittle’s face lit up when he looked up from his money box.
“Saw my bat signal, didja?” He asked with a wink. “You ready to branch out, Mr. Zimmermann?”
Jack grinned and nodded. “I mean, I sort of have to, don’t I?”
“That’s the spirit,” Bittle deadpanned, wandering off to the other end of the truck to throw food into one of his signature metal buckets. “These have been selling like hotcakes all morning. I think I’ll have to bring them back again soon.”
With a dramatic flourish, Bittle presented the bucket of chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy to Jack. Jack took it with a grin, then fished in his pocket for his wallet.
“Oh, no, no, sir,” Bittle said crossly. “These are on the house.”
“Bittle, I can’t let you do that-” Jack started, but Bittle cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“My truck, my rules,” he said cheerfully. “Tell you what. You like ‘em, I get to name ‘em the Jack Zimmermann special. Deal?”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Okay, fine, deal. But I expect first dibs whenever you serve them.”
“Sure, I’ll text you,” Bittle said easily. “Here, let me just-”
Biting his lip in a way that made Jack feel a little dizzy, Bittle grabbed a sheet of the checkered paper he used to line his food buckets and scribbled on it with a Sharpie. He presented the paper to Jack with flushed cheeks, and as Jack took it he saw it was a phone number.
“Thanks, Bittle,” he said softly. “I’ll, uh, go try these and let you get back to your customers.”
For once, Jack couldn’t even berate himself for being so awkward, not when his chest felt so light. He had Bittle’s phone number. Bittle had made chicken tenders for him. HE HAD ERIC BITTLE’S PHONE NUMBER.
Jack barely tasted the chicken tenders, he was so distracted by the paper in his hand. They were delicious, of course they were, and the mashed potatoes were fluffy and delightful. But Jack couldn’t appreciate that right now. He scarfed the food down, as hot as is was, and hurried to bring back the bucket to the truck window.
Bittle seemed surprised to see him again. “Oh, Jack, you’re already done?”
“Yeah, they were really good,” Jack said, handing over the bucket. “You can use my name. We could, euh...we could take a selfie for the Twitter, if you want.”
A broad grin spread across Bittle’s face. “A selfie huh?”
Jack shrugged, cheeks burning. “If you want.”
“Let me just grab my phone,” Bittle said. Jack watched as he plucked the Square from the phone jack, tossing it to the side, and leaned as far out of the window as possible. He tugged Jack close and held up the phone to frame both of them in a shot. “Smile,” Bittle sang, snapping a couple photos.
“The Jack Zimmermann Special,” Bittle said as his thumbs danced across his phone screen. “Brings all the boys to the yard.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “I’m only seeing one boy in your yard right now, Bittle.”
“Oh, chirp, chirp, chirp,” Bittle huffed. “Do you even get the reference?”
Jack grinned. “Don’t need to to chirp you.”
“Hush,” Bittle said, fighting a smile. “I have customers to attend to, Mr. Zimmermann. But, um, text me. If you want to get chicken tender updates.”
“Right,” Jack said. “And if I wanted to text you for non-chicken purposes?”
“Well,” Bittle said, playing with the ties of his apron, cheeks pink. “That would certainly be alright by me.”
“Great,” Jack said. “I want updates on the apple pies, too.”
Bittle laughed, loud and clear, and swatted at Jack’s shoulder. “Get outta here, mister. Go enjoy the market. I’ve got a special to sell.”
“See you around, Bittle,” Jack said. “I hope you put Fry Guy out of business.”
“The dream,” Bittle said with a sigh. “Bye, sweetheart.”
Jack felt his face burn as he left, and his cheeks ached from smiling so widely. He stopped about ten feet away from the truck and pulled out his phone, tapping out Bittle’s number and a quick text.
I hope I’m the only one getting a special named after him.
The reply came ten minutes later, when Jack was examining a booth of homemade soaps and essential oils. Of course, Jack. There’s only one boy I want to bring to my yard.
Jack huffed a laugh and pocketed his phone. Despite how full he was from lunch, Jack was suddenly craving a mini apple pie...
(PART TWO HERE)
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Fic, Mute
like the idea of Anxiety forcibly silencing the others or otherwise physically affecting them, and there are some ideas based off of my own social anxiety I’d like to explore. So, here it is.
Tip Jar
Warnings: Bad social anxiety, forced silence, and negative self talk.
Abstract: Anxiety is a disorder. Something that seeps into everyday life. It is always there, even when you’re having a good day.
Thomas was in a crowd. A very large crowd. Anxiety forced him to squeeze and fold his arms and make himself as small as possible. Sometimes this comforted Morality and made him feel okay, even when Anxiety wouldn’t be quiet.
That didn’t work this time. Morality felt uneasy. Anxiety’s words echoed through his head and made him extremely uncomfortable. He felt like he was being squeezed from the top down, like there was a weight pressing on his head. It was getting harder to keep smiling.
Logan’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“There is nothing to be fearful of. This is an ordinary situation. Nothing disastrous has...”
But then his voice petered out.
Thomas had to force himself to move through the mental block. Just keep going. Just keep going.
“There are too many people. They’re looking at you. They’re looking,” Anxiety hissed. “Go home. Go back,”
Roman was holding Patton up. Or perhaps it was going both ways. They supported each other.
Anxiety was afraid. He really truly was. He didn’t actually mean to silence the others. Okay maybe he meant to silence Logan, but that was so Thomas would listen to him. Logic did have a nasty habit of making him go away for a while.
There were just so many people. So many. Maybe they didn’t have to go out to eat tonight. Maybe eating leftovers would be alright.
Despite his best efforts to fight it off, Thomas gave in. He turned right around and got out of line. Everyone, including Anxiety, had hoped this would calm him down. No such luck.
“That looked weird, Thomas. They think you’re weird now,” Anxiety said. “You blew it. You blew it.
Logic wanted to say something. He wanted to talk. He could point out that they would probably never see any of those people again, and people leave lines all of the time for various reasons, but he couldn’t say anything. He was mute.
Prince sat in the empty hole that was forming around the three of them. He couldn’t bring his hands to sign. They were shaking. It hurt to try to talk. Somehow, Morality was still standing.
He stood as firm as possible, despite the crushing weight he was feeling. His voice came out shaky and hoarse.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” He managed.
“No its not,” Anxiety insisted. “Thomas looks like a complete moron. There are too many people. Everything. Went. Wrong,”
Nobody could move from that dark little area of the mind palace. Nobody could go to their area of the mindspace or run. Frozen. Frozen in fear is what they were. Stuck in a hole, and 3/4 of them completely mute, unable to even get their hands to work.
Thomas got back to his car as Anxiety relived the fast food incident over and over again. His words floated around and echoed until they just became floating feelings without meaning.
Soon, just his presence was weighing down on all of them. The car nearly ran over a dog. That distracted moment and nearly killing an animal only made Anxiety more powerful.
Roman was stuck in a dark hole now. He fought to stay conscious as the pressure Anxiety was both purposefully and unintentionally putting on him fought him. Eventually, the pain and energy that came from fighting Anxiety became too much and Prince Roman was passed out on the ground.
Anxiety started chewing on his finger. This was becoming too much, even for him, but it was still satisfying. Getting his way, making the others shut up for once. There was nothing half-hearted about what he was doing this evening. The comfort bubble would not be popped.
At home, Patton still tried to smile as Thomas ate leftovers straight out of the plastic container, but it was still hard. Hard to smile, hard to move, and impossible to say anything. He wanted to give words of comfort so bad, but no words came.
Logan was annoyed beyond reason. He sat on the ground trying in vain to get his hands still enough to write something legible. His left hand shook and the pen only left scribbles on the notepad. He even tried with his right hand, but the non dominant hand wasn’t any less unstable. He threw the pen and notebook into the blackness of the mindscape where something swallowed them up.
Nothing made sense. There was nothing to be afraid of. If only he could attempt to express that without it feeling like there was a red hot knife twisting around inside his windpipe.
After a quick check in on Twitter and a couple episodes of Avatar, Anxiety was beginning t regret the decisions he had made, which meant Thomas was also regretting them.
“You just always seem to make the wrong decision,” Anxiety sighed as Thomas imagined him sitting on the couch next to him. “I always screw things up and they never say the right thing, and then crap hits the fan. Why are you like this?”
A small voice that was very scratchy said “It’s okay,”
Patton was still trying. It was working, apparently. He was starting to get his voice back.
“That’s uh, only gonna make it worse if you talk,” Anxiety said.
“Can I go to bed now?” Thomas asked sarcastically.
“I don’t see what’s stopping you, Thomas,” Anxiety scoffed.
“You, obviously. I didn’t listen to Logic. He was right. There was no reason to leave. And now, there is no reason to dwell on it,”
He took a deep breath. “Maybe you should go, Anxiety,” Thomas said.
“Not yet,” Anxiety said. “You can’t always talk your way out of my influence, Sanders. That’s not how it works,”
“Well, it was worth a shot,” Thomas said to the empty room.
Roman was still asleep and would be until morning. Logic gained the ability to whisper quietly in small doses. Patton got his full voice back in the morning.
#roman wrote a thing#anxiety sanders#morality sanders#patton sanders#logic sanders#logan sanders#prince sanders#creativity sanders#roman sanders#forced mutism#forced change#lack of consent#anxiety#fan fic#fan fiction#fanfiction#thatsthat24#thomas sanders sides#mircheckthisout#violence#sanders sides
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DAY6 Imagines: Once is enough. Twice is too much. [Once is a coincidence. Twice is not: Sequel]
Pairing: Brian x Reader (Fluff)
Word count: 3,221
Prequel: Once is a coincidence. Twice is not (Please read it first)
“So, are you coming?” your friend queried after clinging to your arm. You’re in the usual café reviewing for a test tomorrow. Lie. You’ve been just absentmindedly staring at your notes for half an hour now.
“Bob asked if we’re coming” You shifted your gaze from your notebook to your friend, unconsciously frowning, while she’s giving you a knowingly look “Stop being disappointed because it wasn’t Brian who asked”
“I’m not!” you retorted “Why Bob anyway? Not Jae?” Your friend raised an eyebrow and hissed at you for changing the topic. Both of you got close to the band after what happened couple of months ago.
Things changed. But not really—you just gained new friends, became closer with Brian as a friend, too. Or that’s what you’ve been trying to tell yourself. But Brian has been really a pain. You couldn’t tell if he really likes you or he’s just like being himself, sweet and kind. Flirt K as you call him, while others refer him as Young K. You crinkled your nose at that thought. You’ve never really called him that. Besides, his friends don’t call him that either.
Not to be rude by calling him flirt but he’s a natural flirt. It’s not his intention to do so but his actions are just… You sighed and shook your head to forget all about it.
“What’s really going on? Did you guys fight?”
“No,” you deadpanned “Why would we even fight?”
She just gave you an askance look before shrugging her shoulders. You both turned your head when a familiar song played and you felt the table vibrate. Jae’s name was displayed on your friend’s phone screen.
“Just go there without me, ‘kay?” you licked your lower lip before making an excuse “I just really need to review right now”
She raised her brow before leaving you and answering Jae’s call. You went back to your notes only to unconsciously scribble his name. You hastily scratched it as you recall what happened a month and a half ago after the first phone call.
“But I like you, though” he blurted making your heart halt. The sound around you seemed to dwindle and all you can just hear is your heart beating loud and hard as if it want to get off your chest. You stood still with mouth half-open as you stare at his eyes pierced through yours.
You swallowed the lump in your throat as you mustered some courage to speak. You opened your mouth, ready to let your voice out when you heard someone else’s. Not long enough you see Wonpil’s back in front of you, blocking Brian’s body. You heard Jae screaming his name and Dowoon’s laughter that followed.
“W-what are you doing?”
“I’m hiding because Jae’s gonna kill me”
Brian knit his eyebrows before putting his arm around Wonpil’s neck “Jae!” He exclaimed “I got Wonpil”
You heaved a sigh and next thing you saw, the boys are running and goofing around.
So much for getting confessed to.
Next day, you wondered if what happened was a confession or just another misleading action. You mentally groaned in frustration after hearing him say “Oh, love you, too” on the mic when someone squealed “Young K, I love you” from the crowd.
They’re not just a band in school but also a local band that’s starting to get some recognition when one of their songs was used in a reality game show. They get invited for gigs and in other schools for school events.
“Are you coming, Y/N?”
You snapped back to your senses and faced Sungjin with a questioning look. “W-where?” You’re in the cafeteria having lunch with your friend and the boys with Brian seated beside you, Dowoon on the left and the rest are seated across you.
“I think we need to find Y/N’s mind first.” Jae butted in “Hey, Bri c’mon!” you gazed at him blankly and showed a lopsided smile when your friend pinched Jae and hissed at him.
“You okay?” Brian queried worriedly “Do you want something? Water? Are you not feeling well?”
There he goes again. You plastered a half-smile before shaking your head, saying you’re fine. They were talking about an event they were invited at together with some bands that are also starting to get some recognition and some big-time bands.
“They’re gonna shoot a somewhat teaser for it, too.” Dowoon uttered “We’re doing it this weekend.”
“They’ll play it on digital billboards and the event will be shown nationwide” Wonpil added.
A week after your discussion in the cafeteria, you heard your friend squealed from the living room.
“Y/N! Get your ass here real quick!”
You dashed from the kitchen to the living room only to see a commercial of the teaser that Dowoon was talking about. You felt your cheeks heat up at the sight of Brian. You feel... you don’t know what you exactly feel but somehow... you know you’re proud. But the last part of their segment was so uncalled for. Hearing his “mwa” when he went near the camera and pursed his lips as if giving a kiss.
You bit your lower lip as you rushed back to the kitchen before your friend notices your tomato cheeks. It’s as if there’s a race going on in your chest. You put a hand on it, trying to calm yourself as you try to even your breathing.
That will be shown on digital billboards? What the--? You massaged your forehead. He’s such a pain. Really. See? How could you trust his I like you when he acts like this? He says I love you back to every girl who screams I love you to him... or them.
That’s normal. They’re getting recognition now. Soon enough they’ll be more known--popular. Your mind asserted making you groan in frustration. “Shut up!”
“W-what?” you saw your friend’s shocked face, hands raised in surrender “I just got here. I didn’t even say something” She passed by you and went straight to the fridge for some water.
You suddenly felt an arm rested on your shoulder as you walk to your class one day. You looked up to only see the sun who always bright up your day. In short, Brian. “I’ll walk you to your class” He’s smiling widely and his eyes sparkle as he laid it on you. It made you think... does his eyes sparkle like this only to you and when he sings?
He turned his head and saw two girls whose eyes are glued on him. He waved at them and made a heart-shape using his fingers which earned suppressed squeals from them.
Probably not. You let out a sigh.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” he winked with his smile still in place. You just nodded and went straight to your seat, not looking back to check if he’s still in front of your classroom’s door.
It’s Friday and Friday means half-day. You stood up and swang your bag to your right shoulder, ready to walk to where your friends are usually at only to find that Brian is waiting.
“You didn’t have to wait for me here. You could’ve just waited for me together with Bob and the others”
“Why is it always Bob?” you gazed at him confused. He’s looking straight ahead and not at you “Bob and the others. Said Bob. Bla bla Bob. Bob here. Bob there”
Is he jealous? You brushed off the thought before you could even ask
“He’s like a brother to me, you know?”
“Brian, Y/N will melt if you won’t stop” hearing Jae’s remark, you moved your head only to see Brian staring at you, chin rested on his hand, elbow on his knee.
You are all seated under the shade of a big tree near the soccer field. You heard Sungjin whistled, Dowoon and Wonpil’s teased but you didn’t bother to look away like you always do. He didn’t move an inch either.
“Get a room!” your friend exclaimed
“Dowoon, you need to cover your eyes they’re eye--ouch”, Jae chuckled. He must’ve been hit by Sungjin or something was thrown at him.
“Why are you staring?” you finally managed to ask
He continued staring for a whole minute before answering. “I’m thinking about what you said 2 months ago” You raised a brow to query “You said, it’s hard for you to accept or acknowledge someone’s feelings when he’s surrounded by people; when he’s nice to everyone because you don’t know how you are different from them.” You felt your throat starting to dry “And you think that everything I do to you and for you is just normal because this is me. But I said-”
“Brian,” you cut him off and took a gulp from continuing. Is he really gonna talk about this? What happened that day is enough already. Is he planning to put you in distress of feeling confusion and frustration again? “L-let’s not--”
“I like you”
His eyes are darted on yours. His eyes were sparkling yet sincere. His expression was soft. His lips are pinkish, thin and seem soft. You blinked hastily when you realized where your eyes were focused. You gazed back on his eyes and he still has the same expression.
You smiled and chortled. “Yeah. Yeah. I like you, too” you uttered nodding.
His eyebrows furrowed as if he’s trying to decipher you or something. He was about to say something when something suddenly hit your head and you squealed.
“What the?!” You picked up the stress ball that hit you and looked at your friends. “Jae!” You shouted and threw the ball to Jae
“What? That wasn’t me! That was Wonpil!” He took the ball and pitched it to Wonpil before running. You heard Wonpil said his apologies before he ran after Jae.
The next days were blur. You don’t know if Brian was mad at you or he’s just really busy. You heard they’re making a new song, so they must really be.
You busied yourself scrolling down your twitter feed when you saw his name. He tweeted last night. Why didn’t I see this?
My eyes say---
Why don’t you feel it?
“They’re new song sounded like a happy song. I don’t know, I just really love it already!” Your friend fed you with news
“You heard their new song?”
“Yup! They let me hear them play but they didn’t sing it. Must be a surprise.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Jae asked me to come”
You swallowed a bitter lump in your throat. Not long enough, you heard someone squeal his name--stage name that no one in your circle actually bothered to call him.
You took a glimpse and looked away. As usual.
Two weeks have passed and you haven’t had a proper conversation with Brian. You didn’t want to bother him, too because they were also practicing for the event. And speaking of which it’s today.
“Hey, wear this” you arched your eyebrows as your friend slipped a glowing bracelet on your wrist.
Five bands played before Brian and others did. They’re gonna sing three songs including the Eyeless which he made for you but you’re not sure about it because he’s always misleading. Besides, he just said he made it at the cafe when you were busy and he didn’t directly say that it was for you.
Brian was wearing a bandana on his head. When it was about to be in the second chorus, he dropped his bandana, covering his eyes. The crowd squealed and you heard some say “hot” especially when his head was tilted a bit upward with his mouth half-open.
The dome was suffused with defeaning screams when he let his tongue out for a second or two before biting his lower lip. He put his bandana back on his head as he started rapping and making multiple nose scrunches.
Does he even know I’m here? You asked yourself while many girls are busy fangirling over him. He didn’t even bother text me to ask but maybe Bob already told him.
The second song was Eyeless. He took his bandana off and let it hung on his neck. There were a lot of nose scrunches, as usual, and two winks. He even threw hearts again.
You overheard some girls talk about them. The other was so overwhelmed knowing them and asking who they are and some facts about them which the other one answered with legit facts. She seemed to know them already before they even got this recognition.
“Who’s playing the bass? My gosh, he’s so hot!” the former exclaimed
“He’s called Young K”
“More like Flirt K” you muttered under your breath.
Sungjin said the last song they’re gonna sing is their new one. Is this what they have been busy practicing?
Right after Dowoon hit his sticks together thrice, you found Brian staring straight at you. You just realized he made your heart unveil its hidden talent, you never knew your heart could be so talented, beating 3x its normal speed but stopping at the same time. It’s been always like that when it comes to him.
Why why why
Do I stare at the ceiling every night
Because of you
I’m just burning up
You tried to swallow as you also try to breathe calmly. You’re wondering if he’s really looking at you. It’s impossible, right?--Finding you in this sea of people. But his eyes just won’t leave yours.
I gave you so many hints
So you can notice
But you don’t
Why don’t you know? (oh no)
I really only have you
You couldn’t take your gaze off him as his darted on yours. The only moment that his eyes would leave yours is when he’d look at his fingers running through the neck of the bass or when he’d glance for a little at his bandmates. The last confession, if you may call it, flashed in your head. He was serious? As if on cue, he answered your question when he sang.
I’m serious
My eyes say that I like you
Why don’t you feel it?
My face is so obvious
That’s quite familiar, isn’t it? Yes. His tweet after that confession.
Are you gonna keep acting ambiguous?
Just laugh it over?
Is this what
You’re gonna do every day?
Please do something
To my heart that is only growing
(I can’t stop loving you)
You pictured out those moments where you thought he was dropping hints, and smoothly saying some pick-up lines but you brushed them off by laughing over it or responded a pick-up line in a jokingly way.
His eyes are still pierced to yours as if it’s only the both of you. His shoulder is dancing. His nose, scrunching from time to time as he give lopsided smiles while singing.
When the song ended, he broke his stare and waved to everyone with the usual big and playful smile. Throwing hearts through his fingers is a must, too.
When the whole event ended your friend told you to meet with them for an after party together with all of the other bands and staffs. You eyed her hand, she was holding her phone and you’re guessing Jae texted her.
You gave her a half-smile and shook your head. “I’m really tired now. I’ll see the boys tomorrow.” She still insisted but gave up, knowing this time, she couldn’t win over you.
You parted ways after you exited the dome. You kissed each other on the cheeks goodnight before you walked near the street to hail for a cab.
You raised your hand, ready to call for one, when someone took hold of your wrist to put it down.
“Stay”, a familiar voice mumbled beside you.
You felt a tingling sensation. This is familiar. Your heart melt as you remembered how you felt during your first phone call. Stay. One word. Only for you. And only you heard. Despite your heartbeat doubled, your heart still found comfort in his voice.
You grabbed some burgers and soda before walking on the seaside promenade not too far from the dome. You both had some random chit chat. Just like before. Yes, just like before.
He stopped walking so you did, too and faced him with a querying look.
“What happened few weeks ago,” he started “I—I just want to—“
“Bri” You cut him off, smiling softly “That already happened twice. Are we gonna make it thrice? It’s never been clear to us. And I don’t really know if there’s something to clarify.” You pressed your lips together, forming a thin line, before letting out a soft breath “Once is enough, Bri. Twice is too much. And I don’t want to go to that phase again; leaving me hanging; keeping my hopes up. I was contented with stealing glances, we became close and somehow… somehow I craved for more. I never wanted to be selfish. I never wanted to ask for more, and I’ll never be. Despite feeling like this, I won’t. That’s why, let’s not go there again. I never applied for this, Younghyun.”
The moon was so bright, enough for you to see his softened expression and the glitter in his eyes, mouth agape, when he heard you say Younghyun. That’s a first. He shifted, reaching for your hand. He caressed the back of it with his thumb softly and carefully. “I’m really glad you wore this” referring to the glowing bracelet. So that’s how he found me. It was a full minute of silence and your eyes were both fixed on your hands.
“I’m sorry” he paused “I never wanted to put you in that situation and I never thought you were having so much of a hard time.” He squeezed your hand lightly “I--I just had doubts, too. Every time I’d look at you it’s either you look away or you’re not looking at all. You seemed to not mind every hint I drop even when I told you I like you--twice. You take everything I do or say as a joke, you always laugh them off. You said it’s because you don’t see how you are different from them. Have you seen me put my arm around other girl’s shoulder? Have you seen me fix my eyes on them as if there’s no one else around? And I’m sure my eyes sparkle every time I lay them on you. And sure, I wave at people, show them finger-hearts but you know why... And despite all that, this--” he put your hand to his chest. You can feel his heartbeat dancing to the same rhythm as yours. “--this belongs to you. Only you.”
He put your hand down, played with it for awhile, not long enough he intertwined his fingers with yours.
“Yeah. Once is enough. Twice is too much.” He tilted his head and gazed at you with his soft eyes “Thrice is time to pay the price. And I’ll pay it” he pulled you to his embrace as you felt his warm lips meet your head “I like you” You felt him tighten his hold of you and said “I’m serious. I like you” before he pressed his lips harder on the top of your head.
One/Twice Series: Special Chapter One
#day6#day6 imagines#brian imagines#young k imagine#youngk imagine#brian imagine#brian scenario#brian scenarios#young k scenario#young k scenarios#youngk scenarios#youngk scenario#day6 scenario
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