#it’s almost empty and wasting space in our cupboard | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chocosvt · 4 years ago

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⚬ pairing: joshua x reader ⚬ word count: 5040 ⚬ warnings: mentions of alcohol ⚬ genres: FLUFF, shallow angst, guitarist/bandmate!joshua, some annoying neighbour tropes, a little bit of pining, wintery pizzazz, joshua is a hopeless romantic :(

✧✎ synopsis: somebody new just moved into the upstairs apartment. they’re loud, irritatingly sweet, and unfortunately, very pretty. but you’re not looking for a new relationship, even if it comes in the form of joshua hong.

✧✎ a/n: oooUUooouu YES! this is a gift to my lovely secret santa, @luvshuas !! ♡ in my first ask, i learned that dani liked using paint by numbers, AND I THOUGHT THAT WAS ADORABLE so i helped use it to create this fic! dani, you are such a joy to talk to AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS XOXOXO !! :D

Last week, someone new had moved into the empty apartment one floor above yours. You didn’t know who. Not their name, not their face, just that they occupied the once vacant space of room 24D. Supposedly, their next-door neighbours had already brought them some housewarming gifts. A watering can filled with flowers, a wreath of white candles, and an old sewing tin now converted into a container for oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

All closely resembling the gifts you received during your first week at the apartment complex. It made sense though, considering most rooms were home to very elderly couples. At first, you planned a brief gap in your day to visit this stranger and welcome them to such a small complex. Find out if they were old or young, endearing or irritable, sensible or flat out crazy. But you never visited room 24D, because you were currently in a moat about your ex-partner.

An extremely deep, inescapable moat.

Not only had they broken up with you on the day you planned to introduce them to your parents, they decided it would be most efficient to do so through a stupid text message. From Monday to Friday, you’d been moping in a curled-up ball on the couch, blowing into tissues and flicking through the holiday romcoms even though they were all so cookie-cutter and dull. To make matters worse, it had been snowing all week, shutting you indoors as a draft built up outside the windowsills.

You had completely forgot about the newbie who’d just moved in upstairs. Until one day, when they decided to make their presence known in the most jarring way possible.

That particular morning, you were finally feeling stable enough to not eat dry, stale cereal straight from the box. You were feeling well enough to avoid another twelve hours moulding into the couch. While a cold wind blew against the windows and rattled the glass, you poured yourself some tea with the new teapot your mother parceled as an early present. And that’s when you heard it: an eruption of electric sound from the floor directly above yours. It sounded like a guitar, if that guitar were plugged into a massive amp and its chords were being plucked by one thousand fingers.

Coincidentally, you spilt tea, scalding and runny, all over the countertop. It started dribbling down your cupboards and creating blotches on the tiled flooring. At random, the sound stopped.

By lunchtime you were unwinding in the shower, your eyes shut as the water poured onto your face and streamed toward the drain. When you squeezed out some shampoo onto your fingers, you heard the chord progression again. This time louder, if that was even possible. The bottle flung from your wet hands and crashed against the floor, startling you half to death, a trail of wasted shampoo then painted to the wall. But the sound didn’t stop immediately. Unlike last time, the stranger railed on their guitar for half an hour at least.

Yet the last straw didn’t come until evening.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a water jar next to your elbow, you were using your new paint by numbers kit. You had been waiting all day to try it, brushing in the mesmerizing colours of a watery-purple landscape. For the last time that day, you were jolted by the riff of an electric guitar, causing you to jerk a huge, thick streak of black paint right across the paper, effectively ruining it. How horrible. How Terrible.

And you were not going to let the incident slide.

Room 24D.

The room directly above yours. After banging your fist rather inhospitably against the door, you couldn’t lie that the face which greeted you was a definite shock. A young man probably in his early twenties, with curly, brown hair styled neatly yet in disarray, and these wide, glass-like eyes that felt so penetrating you were afraid to glare him down. In fact, you were a bit nervous.

“I don’t know where you stayed at last, b-but at this complex, people don’t usually slam on their electric guitars.”

But so what if you were nervous? You had grown accustomed to sharing this complex with seniors. The thought of someone this young (and admittedly – quite beautiful) had somewhat stunted your brain. The stranger looked at you as though he had nothing to say. He started bobbing his head and shrugged.

“Yeah, well, I’m guessing it doesn’t happen ‘cause everyone here is over seventy and crochets scarves until bedtime. It’s not my fault you’re the only one who’s still got decent hearing.”

Your eyes narrowed; your brow heavily creased.

“What’s your name?” You asked.

He hesitated at first, then replied, “Joshua.”

“Okay, Joshua, I’d rather have everyone in this building crocheting scarves out the damn window if it meant not listening to a stupid electric guitar all day. You ruined my paint by numbers kit.”

Joshua laughed. “Your what?” He then flashed a grin which suggested he was holding back a satirical comment.

“My paint by numbers kit!” You repeated, feeling your nervousness dissolve into irritation. “It’s ruined, and I’m blaming it on you because it’s your fault. My whole week has been awful and you just made it even worse. So there. I hope you’re happy.”

For some reason, Joshua leaned his shoulder against the doorframe like someone who had all the time in the world. He appeared way too comfortable. Something about it irked you while simultaneously pulling this weird, fuzzy string in your chest. The boy folded his arms and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Why was your week awful?” He questioned.

There was a sweetness to his voice which hadn’t been there before, and you absolutely weren’t going to fall for it, even if it sounded like he ate a spoonful of honey and might taste just as good.

“No. Forget it,” you sighed, waving a dismissive hand, “I said what I had to say. Just be quieter, please.”

You turned around sharply, making your way toward the elevator based at the end of the corridor. Those magnetic eyes of his seemed to be glued to your backside, an almost palpable feeling.

“Okay!” He called out. “Great chat! Nice to meet you too!”

The boy was being wholly sarcastic of course. After returning to your apartment, you cleaned up the kitchen table, sweeping away your paint by numbers kit into a drawer just in case you were one day struck with the motivation to fix it up. Probably not.

“Uh—excuse me? You called me, remember? So don’t go shifting the fault like always. I just can’t believe how immature you are! And, you know what, I’m hanging up now! Don’t call back!”

Smashing your finger against the phone screen, you ended the call, silencing the aggravated voice that had pounded through the line just a second before. An unfortunate misdial resulted in your ex phoning you at the supermarket. The interaction immediately turned south, prompting you to hurry outside into the snow, wedging the brown paper bag of produce underneath your arm and against your chest, all while you barked into the phone with the other hand.

Snowflakes were brimming the edge of your wool hat; your fingertips numb and stiff. Your pacing, impatient footsteps were stamped across the white ground. Things had been difficult enough without your ex invading even the most boring parts of your life, and now a mundane stop at the market had left you intensely unsettled.

As you huffed a web of your breath into the air, you spotted something unexpected: Joshua helping Mrs. Akané load the groceries into her small silver-bullet car. She lived alone on the bottom floor of the apartment complex, one of the kindest old ladies in the whole building. Every winter she had knitted you a pink pair of mittens. When Joshua opened the car door for her, she gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder and her patented rosy-cheeked smile.

Since you scorned him for his abrasive guitar playing, it only happened less often, though it was never any quieter. You realized that he belonged in a band. From time to time they would take the stage at the downtown bar, engendering a space so packed it was nearly impossible to wriggle to the counter for a quick drink. Joshua invited you to his Friday night gig – which was tonight – and while you had contemplated the decision to attend, the disheartening encounter with your ex had officially soiled the mood.

Joshua noticed you, probably looking cold and mad.

“So,” he began, “are you coming tonight?”

Adjusting the groceries underneath your arm, you shrugged, meanwhile the hollow nature of your eyes screamed a blatant no. If anything, you wanted to be back on that living room couch, eating an entire tray of frosted shortbread cookies and dabbing at your tears.

“Seriously?” Joshua frowned. “You’re gonna pass? It is ‘cause you’re still mad about the guitar playing? I’m sorry, okay.”

“No,” you shook your head, “no, no. It’s not because of your disruptive, loud guitar playing. I’m just not having a good day.”

Bits of snow began to powder Joshua’s brown hair. His cheeks were blushed and his nose rosy.

“No offense,” the boy laughed, “but it seems like you’re never having a good day.” He then shook his head, scattering the snowflakes from between the fibres of his hair. “How about you come to our little concert shindig thing, listen to our set – which is great, I promise – then we can talk about it, back at my place.”

For a moment, you paused, and this perplexed expression briefly eclipsed your features. Did he just subtly attempt to persuade you into some sort of… Date? No, it was too soon for anything like that. He was probably joking anyways (despite his straight face).

“I don’t know… I’m tired. Maybe another time.”

You started carrying the brown bag of produce to your car, parked just down the street. Joshua chuckled and tagged along at your side, the snow crunching softly under your feet.

“When’s another time?” He asked.

Throwing open the car door and sliding the bag inside, you sighed. “Another time is another time. It’s self-explanatory.”

“So you’re not coming?” Joshua questioned in finality.

“No.” You replied, rubbing your cold fingers together, attempting to spark some warmth. “I’m not.”

It was then that Joshua took your hands in his, a gesture that completely flicked you off your axis, and started to squeeze them, kneading your skin with his thumbs until you felt the uncomfortable stiffness gradually wear off. He brought your hands close to his face, pursed his pink, very pretty lips, and started to blow on them. A sensation fizzled to life in your lower tummy. Not only were you heating up significantly, but you felt too hot. Scary hot.

“That’s a shame.” Joshua said, releasing your hands carefully, like he’d just touched gold. “But I can wait for another time.”

You couldn’t sleep that night.

Most likely because you were regretting the decision to not attend Joshua’s gig at the bar. The fact that no matter how hard you pushed, memories of your past relationship would still linger like a heavy mist, preventing you from being happy, from detaching, from forming new connections. Wet drops of snow tapped against your window. And then, at around one in the morning, you heard a knock at your apartment door.

Joshua. Evidently intoxicated. His guitar case slung over his back. A foggy sort of look disrupting his usual countenance.

“Hey there,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eye, “couldn’t get into my room. Think I could crash—” the boy stopped midsentence to yawn and hiccup, his face flushed pink, “crash here?”

“Did you walk home from the bar?” You asked, disregarding his inquiry.

“No, Jihoon drove me.” Joshua answered, bracing his hand against the threshold. “Pretty please? Can I stay?”

“Fine.”

You took the dark green guitar case from Joshua’s back, stamped with numerous luggage stickers that made it seem as though he’d flown all over the globe. After settling the case beside the couch, you helped Joshua lie down, though he flopped rather ungracefully with his face squished into a pillow.

For an awkward moment, you were just standing there, twiddling your thumbs as Joshua squirmed onto his back.

“Do you want a glass of water?” You proposed.

Joshua carded a hand through his brown locks and further dishevelled them. His face seemed to glow and the manner in which his eyes softly shut had you feeling oddly sympathetic. Like you needed to take care of him.

Rather than answering your question, Joshua sighed.

“I can’t believe you flaked on me.” He said. “I looked forward to seeing you there all week. I told my friends about you.”

Your toes dug into the carpet; teeth fastened into your bottom lip. You couldn’t tell if he was rambling drunken nonsense or being wholly truthful. Joshua titled his head to the side, nestling his cheek comfortably against the pillow.

“Like I said, there’ll be another time.”

“Can I have a blanket?” He mumbled sleepily.

Disappearing into your bedroom for a moment, you grabbed Joshua a spare blanket which often lied next to you on the bed, just in case it got a little too cold at night. Your heating was fairly shabby.

“Here you go.” You said, dropping it on him.

After pulling the fabric up to his chin and spending a minute getting comfy, Joshua started smiling, lashes long against his cheeks.

“Appreciate it.” He replied. ”Kick me out early if you want.”

When Joshua scheduled his next gig at the bar, you made sure to be there, settled near the back at the cocktail counter. As you anticipated, the space filled up quickly, and you kept tucking in your legs whenever someone scooted by to use the washroom or find a better vantage point. You didn’t mention that you were coming. It was supposed to be a surprise which had oddly excited you. Like you were someone important to him, even though you probably weren’t.

You enjoyed his band’s performance. While sipping at something syrupy and a little too cherry flavoured, you couldn’t help but smile behind the glass, shake your foot even, as Joshua strummed down on the electric guitar. There was a pink-haired drummer seated behind him, and a bassist with a dashing, heavenly smile. Eventually, the tone of their music shifted near the end of the set. Joshua exchanged his electric guitar for the acoustic one kept in that dark green, stickered case. And when he started to sing a slower, more sentimental song, you felt something cotton-like in your chest.

How could his voice be this soft? How could it turn so sweet? How could his eyes switch from a powerful ripple to calm water? And why were you heating up all over? The glass hit your knee as you continued to watch Joshua sing, as though you’d fallen into a trance, like a sailor caught by the lullaby of a siren.

But then, as your eyes scanned the crowd for a brief moment, they attached to some who looked awfully familiar.

Goddammit. Of course.

Why did your stupid ex have to be everywhere?

Why did they have to invade every aspect of your life? Especially the enjoyable parts? Once the stage ended and Joshua began thanking the crowd for an energetic reaction, they turned around and grabbed their friend excitedly. Yet, the thrill on their face disappeared the second they noticed you, glaring bitterly, angrily, still clearly hurt. That’s when you decided to leave.

You were halfway down the block when you heard your name being shouted. Pausing beneath a street lamp, you attempted to peer through the heavy flurries sweeping down from the night sky. A silhouette began to take shape. Joshua finally pressed through into the light, without his jacket, his equipment, or even a damn sweater.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” You questioned him, wondering how cold he must be feeling in that white t-shirt.

Joshua took a few more steps forward. “I saw you there,” he replied, still trying to catch his breath, “but then you just stormed out. I nearly threw myself down the back entrance trying to catch up with you, y’know. How do you walk that damn fast?”

“I just—I wanted to beat the crowd home.” You lied.

Joshua took in another big breath, then nodded his head. “So, what did you think? You like the music?”

“It’s cool… Why did you leave without a jacket? I mean, it’s snowing like crazy. You’re gonna get hypothermia or something.”

“Well, I didn’t want to let you get away.” The boy laughed, brushing off some flurries compiling on his shoulder. “It was great to see you there. But, why didn’t you tell me? Why the secrecy.”

You shrugged. “Why should I tell you?”

At that, you weren’t expecting Joshua to have a response. Maybe he’d be a little puzzled and have to think about it. Instead, he seemed to be formulating a surprise of his own.

“Because I have a song for you,” Joshua revealed, “I wrote it with Jihoon. It’s an acoustic thing. But I could turn it hard rock too.”

It felt like someone had turned the table. Ironically, you were the one struggling to reply, your brow furrowing in the dim light as you stared at this boy with his glowing cheeks and his hair disrupted by the flakes of snow. You sniffled, cold air hitting your lungs.

“Why would you write a song about me?”

No one had ever done such a gesture for you before. Not that you had been acquainted with many musicians or lyricists. You felt strange, but also warm, and heart-fluttery, and like you were possibly falling for someone harder than ever before. Joshua approached you tentatively and grabbed your hand, his eyes soft.

“Probably because I like you.” Joshua murmured. “A lot.”

Your heart started to pound, and it felt like someone was banging their fists against your chest. Even if you had denied it in the beginning, the truth was that you liked Joshua too. And yet, those reciprocating words somehow fell to the bottom of your feet. Because as much as you wanted it, you still weren’t ready for someone new.

“Joshua…” you squeezed his hand and looked into those endearing eyes of his, “I-I can’t right now. I was in a relationship not too long ago, and now that’s over, but I’m still trying to get over it. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

The boy shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry.” Joshua answered, running his thumb between your knuckles. “You’re not ready, I get it.”

Breathing out slowly, you smiled at him.

You were yanking open all the drawers in the kitchen, trying to remember where exactly you had stuck that little metal whisk. A bowl of unmixed cupcake batter was waiting to be stirred. Each year that it was open, you signed up for the Complex Gift Exchange, and it just so happened that sixty-five-year-old Miss Dupont really liked vanilla cupcakes. You pulled out the drawer that had been hiding the ruined, stained paper courtesy of your paint by numbers kit.

Rolling your eyes, you slammed it shut, only to realize you’d left the whisk sitting behind the big bag of flour on the counter.

Even though you had turned down Joshua that one night in the snow, he didn’t act spiteful or weird about it. And somehow, you two had grown closer since. Joshua was very easy to talk to. He was a good listener. No matter how many times you ran into each other on the elevator, or at the supermarket, the letter boxes in the lobby or at the car lot, Joshua always made time to listen to whatever mishap had bothered you that day. He still railed on his electric guitar every now and then, though you were beginning to accept it. Baby steps.

Apparently, one of his bandmates was visiting today.

You knew exactly when he’d arrived too, because as soon as you pulled the cupcakes out from the oven to cool, this wave of intense sound; drumming, symbols, guitar, everything, exploded from the floor above, like someone had just thrown a clump of instruments into a hurricane. You stared up at the ceiling winsomely and sighed.

Dressed in a long, thick winter coat, you went outside the complex to visit the garden, now blanketed by snow and sparkling white. You brushed off the bench that had once sat before a fiery pink row of petunias and took a seat. It was much quieter.

“Hey!”

Or so you thought.

Turning around, you gazed up at the apartment complex, spotting two familiar faces hanging out from a fourth story window.

“What?!” You shouted back.

Joshua grinned, then cupped his hands around his mouth as an amplifier. “Were we being too loud?!” He asked.

“Yeah!” His friend yelled. “Were we too loud?!” You had learned the other face was Jihoon, the band drummer, his hair now a rusty shade of crimson. He helped write most of their music.

“No, I’m just sitting out here in the wind and snow and below zero temperatures because I want to!” You replied at the top of your lungs.

Waving at you apologetically, Joshua kept smiling. “Sorry! I’m gonna kick him out soon!” He pointed at Jihoon. “If you want, you can come up here and listen to our last rehearsal!”

Jihoon shoved Joshua’s head out of the way.

“Don’t come up here!” The drummer exclaimed. “It’s not even close to ready yet. He’s just saying that because he’s in—”

A hand clamped swiftly to the boy’s mouth, muffling the remainder of his sentence like it was top secret. Joshua then dragged him away from the open window. Quirking an eyebrow in confusion, you stared at the vacant space until Joshua reappeared a moment later, scratching the back of his head and looking sheepish.

“Sorry about that!” Joshua called. “We’re almost done!”

“I’m in no rush!” You answered, turning back around.

It was true. There weren’t too many pressing things you needed to get done today, besides making the buttercream frosting for Miss Dupont’s cupcakes. The weather wasn’t even as terrible as you made it seem. The wind was light, and the shining sun helped mitigate the usual bitterness of winter. It was quite nice out.

Until about ten minutes later, when Joshua threw a snowball at your back. You spun around quickly, glaring at the boy who was dusting his hands clean of snow, standing near the complex doorway. In that moment, you wanted to be angry at him. But, to be honest, you felt like laughing instead.

“Shouldn’t I be the one throwing snowballs at you?”

Joshua shrugged. “If you could even hit me.”

“Keep your eyes open tonight, Joshua Hong.” You comically threatened him. “Where are you going, anyways?”

“I have to get my person a gift for the exchange thing.” He said, pulling a hat over his hair. “And a new guitar pick.”

“Have fun with that.”

Then, waiting for him to turn around, you hastily packed together a snowball and threw it against the back of his coat.

Miss Dupont somehow figured out who was responsible for her gift. She asked you to give her the cupcakes early, because she swore, she was had been able to smell them baking through the air ducts. Maybe you added too much vanilla. Everyone was supposed to exchange their gifts tomorrow, leaving them by the door or delivering them in person. You didn’t have a clue as to who could be preparing your gift. As long as it wasn’t another candle wreath to collect dust in your closet, you figured you’d be fine with it.

Tonight would be your last opportunity in a long while to watch Joshua’s band perform at the downtown bar. You’d missed their last show, ruminating over the possibility of encountering your ex again; feeling those horrible emotions which were nothing more than poison in disguise. After the New Year, Joshua was planning to visit South Korea with his bandmates for a few weeks. It would be awfully strange to not hear another symphony from his electric guitar, or Jihoon’s drumkit. Jeonghan never really stopped by much.

It was at least an hour or so before Joshua was scheduled to perform. So, you decided to walk down the street to the lane of trees now wrapped and curled with lights. There were small, twinkling white lights. Large, blue lights shaped like hanging icicles. Some blinked in a specific pattern while others morphed colours. At night, it made quite the spectacle. Many people had stopped, much like yourself, to admire the aurora and pull their significant other a little bit closer. You huffed, hating this lonesomeness inside you.

But then you felt a quick pair of fingers dance up your back, and immediately recognized his eyes shining like stars.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you at the lights.” Joshua remarked, zipping up his jacket. “They’ve been up for a while now.”

“It’s always a magnet for couples.” You told him, glancing around at all the handholding and heads leaned adoringly on shoulders. “And I am—well, I was, standing here alone.” Inside your coat pocket, you played with a piece of lint, realizing that perhaps you finally felt ready and significantly healed to consider another relationship.

Looking at you from the corner of his eye, Joshua nodded.

It seemed as though the lights were a place he visited frequently, even amongst all the couples. To you, Joshua seemed like someone who was inspired by love. The not so subtle nature of awkward yet enamored eye contact which made people giggly. Holding onto the very tips of someone’s fingers because you couldn’t let go of their hand even for a second. Pressing an ear to a comfortable chest, listening for a rhythmic, thumping heartbeat. You bet he liked kisses too. Quick kisses on cheeks and gentle kisses on noses and slow, warm kisses to the mouth which could set a fire in your belly.

Out of the blue, you asked him something personal.

“How fast do you usually fall for someone?”

Joshua’s eyes traced the twinkling lights of the tree, all the way to the very top.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it.”

Kicking at a lump of hard snow, you sighed. “I think I fall too quickly. Maybe that’s why my last relationship ended the way it did. I just… I don’t know, it could be that I jumped in without knowing what’s beneath me. I don’t want that to happen again.”

The boy glanced at you, snowflakes already beginning to stick in his hair. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with taking things slow. I mean, there’s always going to be some chance in a relationship. You don’t know until you’re in it.”

“I guess so.” You replied. “When I think about it, anything’s better than getting text message-dumped right before a family dinner.” Joshua wasn’t a stranger to the humiliating affairs of your past relationship. One night, after one too many beverages at the bar, you introduced him to the entire story.

“Bad luck.” The boy said.

“Bad taste, more like.” You sighed. “I mean, what was I thinking?”

Joshua shook his head, his hand rubbing your shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. Seriously, the right person will come along.”

Short laughter burst through your nose, and you looked at him with a knowing, lighthearted grin. “Are you supposed to be that person, Joshua Hong?”

“I’d like to think I am.” He chuckled, his cheeks getting rosier. “But I know you’re not ready. I can be patient, though.”

“So, you’re going to wait for me?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joshua nodded. “For you, and you only? Of course.”

At that, something deep in your chest began to stir. The feeling robbed you of your words and left you breathless. Afraid of what you might do in the silence between you, quickly, you changed the subject.

“Am I going to hear that special song you wrote? Or have you scrapped it already?”

“You’ll hear it.” Joshua said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an ivory guitar pick. “Save your applause for the very end, though. I know you might be tempted to start cheering, come up on stage in front of everyone and try to kiss me or something.”

Rolling your eyes, you started to laugh, your breath becoming a thin cloud in the still coldness of winter.

“You wish, Joshua Hong.”

He sighed, a faint smirk on his lips. “You’re right. I do.”

At approximately five o’clock in the morning, you were awakened by a fist banging at your front door. For a moment, you believed it was nothing more than part of a fuzzy dream, and simply tossed over in bed as your arms dug further under the pillow. However, the banging resumed almost instantly, and though it was very muffled, someone was calling your name.

Groaning, you dragged yourself from between the sheets and into the washroom, taking a quick sip of water before splashing some to your face. In a loose pair of shorts and a poorly adjusted tank-top, you stumbled to the front door, throwing it open while yawning.

“J-Joshua?” You mumbled, rubbing circles to your eye.

He stood on the opposite side of the threshold with a glimmery-red gift bag in his hand. For some reason, he was dressed in his jacket, those dark brown locks of his seeming damp or partly soaking as they were brushed back from his forehead. His cheeks and mouth were rosy, eyes glistering, and he was breathing deep.

You thought he looked gorgeous.

“Hey!” He exclaimed a little too loudly, as though he’d forgotten how early it was. “So, uh, weird news. Turns out we’re leaving for South Korea today, and we have to catch this seven-am flight. We’re kinda pressed for time. Jeonghan’s been helping me throw all my shit into these suitcases and—anyways, besides the point.” Taking in another breath, Joshua then held up the pretty red gift bag. “I got you for the Gift Exchange. Well—not really. But I made Mrs. Akané switch with me. This is for you.”

The sudden splurge of information had for feeling even more disorientated than when you first awakened. Joshua had to leave already? Had he been packing ever since you walked home together from his show? He pulled strings to get you for the Gift Exchange?

Reaching into the bag and pushing around some tissue paper, you pulled out a rectangular-shaped kit. It felt fairly heavy.

And then you realized just what he’d gotten you.

“Really?” You smiled, letting the bag drop to the floor because all you cared about was the project in your hands. “Another paint by numbers kit? I didn’t even know they sold these here!”

Joshua nodded, brushing some melted drops of snow off his cheek. “It wouldn’t have arrived on time if I ordered it online. Trust me, it was a process. I had to get Jeonghan’s grandma to make some calls because she’s friends with this craft store lady.” He half-sighed, half-laughed. “I just remembered you were so upset about it when I met you. About a lot of things. And I never stopped feeling sorry. I know I laughed at it and everything, but I thought it was cute.”

You brought the project to sit on the dinner table. Looking outside into the street light, you were shocked at how heavily it was snowing. Huge, fluffy clumps. No wonder Joshua’s hair was so damp and his skin so flushed. You couldn’t believe that just a few hours ago, you were sitting on that barstool near the back of the dim room, listening to him sing and feeling like you were starting to love all over again. Now, Joshua was being whisked away.

“I should really get going.” Joshua said, rubbing his pink nose, “Jeonghan and Jihoon are waiting for me down there.”

“W-Wait!” You exclaimed before the boy could disappear.

Joshua paused, though you could read the look of urgence coloured to his face. It was merely a few seconds you stood in that spot, fiddling anxiously with your fingers and struggling to take another step, yet it felt as though time had stretched itself out like plasticine.

And even though it was slightly terrifying, you had never felt so warm and full of thrill until you had crossed the space to kiss him. Your hands pushed against Joshua’s chest, searching for stability, as you experienced the soft sensation of your lips pressed so desperately to his. Joshua grabbed your cheek in his cold hand to tilt your head a little more left. He stared at you with a hazy, sort of dreamlike look, just for a moment, before kissing you again.

“Am I making you late?” You laughed breathily in between the heated breadth of another kiss.

Joshua shook his head, taking your face in both his hands, moulding his mouth against yours in a smile.

“They can wait just a minute longer,” he answered, “I can’t believe you’re doing this right when I have to leave. You’re really screwing me over, here.”

“Then finish it when you get back.” You smirked.

This time, you were certain of something: you hadn’t jumped too soon. You weren’t going to crash. You were falling in love.

✧✎ a/n: the end the end!! happy holidays !! <3 honestly think it’s kind of the dream to get joshua as ur apartment neighbour xoxo. HOPE U LIKED THIS DANI AND THAT IT GAVE YOU SOME SMILES heheh. i actually haven’t written for joshua in quite a while so i rly appreciated getting to experiment with this. i also love the idea of joshua in a band and being a sappy romantic who always writes abt his future muse ;_; i’m not a huge fluff person BUT I WILL GLADLY GIVE UP EVERYTHING FOR THAT!

#caratwritersclub #joshua scenarios #seventeen scenarios #svt fanfic #joshua fanfic #joshua hong #seventeen fanfic #svt fluff #joshua fluff #svt x reader #joshua x reader

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nsheetee · 5 years ago

Text

Love Again

Pairing: Jisung x Reader Genre: Fluff, slight Angst Length: 3.2k Summary: You and Jisung are stuck in his family’s old beach house because of an unexpected storm, and are forced to confront what happened between you two six months ago. Key: section in italics indicate the scene happened in the past A/N: this is for all of my followers who cried over 20cm haha, I hope you all enjoy ♡

Love Again is the epilogue to 20cm, please read that story first before continuing

December 12th, 4:34pm

Jisung quietly walks along the shore of the beach, cold sea breeze blowing against his side and sand shifting with every step under his feet. He sniffs and looks out to the water, digging his hands further into his pockets before stopping completely. To any other person, this would be just a random spot on the beach, an area that looks identical to any other along this long coastline, but to Jisung this would be a spot that is forever remembered in his heart.

This is where he kissed you for the first time.

The memory is imprinted in his mind. It replays during his most vulnerable moments: before he falls asleep, the days he feels like the world is against him, the times when he thinks of his first love. The memory is so sweet yet so bitter that Jisung can’t help but keep it close to his heart.

He sighs heavily while looking around the empty and cold beach, as if waiting for something that will never happen, and then turns around and walks back to the beach house.

This house had so many precious memories, not just of you, but of times he spent his childhood here. Every summer he would look forward to spending time at the beach and wasting the days away in the warm sun. Now, his parents have decided to sell the beach house, and Jisung volunteered to drive over and pick up any of his family’s personal belongings before the new owners arrive.

Jisung had a reason for volunteering; he hoped that picking up all of his belongings could be a way of closing the part of his life that lived here. He wanted those memories to only live in his head, not out and about in this house.

He digs out the old keys from his pocket and unlocks the front door, walking into the empty beach house. The dim weather outside permeates in, and dust floats in the air and makes Jisung cough a bit. The ocean is so close that Jisung can hear the thundering waves hit the shore from the storm brewing on the horizon of the ocean when he opens the back patio doors.

He lets fresh air in and looks around the dining and living room area, unsure of where to start packing, or if he even has any energy to do anything from driving all the way from the city. Before he can think too much, he hears a car park outside and then a car door open and shut. Jisung tilts his head and walks to the front door, wondering who just pulled up.

He pulls the front door open, his grip loosens on the door knob when he recognizes who is standing on the other side, the door hitting the wall with a loud bang as Jisung stands in shock.

“Bumble bee?” He asks in disbelief. You’re still standing outside, the screen door separating you and Jisung from each other, but you can hear him. You have the urge to get back into your car and drive away, but your shock keeps you from moving.

“What are you doing here?” Jisung realizes how cold his words sound only after he utters them, and he doesn’t miss the way your lips purse at his tone.

“Your mom called my mom. There’s some of our stuff here, too… from years ago.” You explain, still awkwardly standing on the porch while Jisung is inside. Drops of rain start to fall, making you tilt your head up to the sky and watch the dark and overflowing clouds drip down onto the earth. “I’m sorry, I thought you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow. I’ll just come back in a few days-”

“Wait.” Jisung hasn’t seen you in almost six months, but you haven’t changed much. Your hair grew a little longer and your face shrunk a bit. Jisung wonders if you’ve been eating well. Despite what happened the last time you saw each other, Jisung’s heart still races and his head gets a bit fuzzy at the sight of you.

Is Jisung stupid for still harbouring feelings for you, especially after you hurt him and didn’t contact him for almost six months? Maybe, but he’d be stupid for you any day.

“It’s supposed to storm soon, you shouldn’t drive back in the rain. Just… stay here for the night.” Jisung hates how he sounds like he’s pleading. More than anything, he wants to feel that rush of adrenaline from when you touch him, he just wants to be loved by you again like you did the last time you two were in this house. He craves that feeling, and he craves it only from you.

“Is that okay? Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, and long as you are.”

Just as the rain starts beating down, you step into the house and shut the door behind you. Jisung walks to the back patio door and closes it before any rain can get inside. You two stand in silence in the house, not sure about how both of your existences can fit into such a small space again. Your eyes looking everywhere but at each other.

“I’ll go find our stuff and start packing. I can use those boxes, right?” You point to some cardboard over on the left side of the room. Jisung meekly nods, watching as you put together a box and walk upstairs. After you leave, he mingles by the patio door and wonders about how everything went so haywire.

You were best friends for so long, confining in each other and having fun together. He misses that, too. Not just the deeper feelings he shares with you, but he misses the fun he has with you; how everything feels exciting when you’re around. He feels comfortable with you, as a person, friend, and lover. Jisung feels bitter about how he lost something as precious as that in his life.

The house is quiet as you two gather up your belongings and pack them into cardboard boxes. The storm outside shakes the house every once in a while, and Jisung catches glimpses of the roaring ocean whenever he looks out a window. Jisung isn’t sure how much time has passed, but it’s definitely night time when the lights and power turn off.

“Bumb— Y/N? Where are you?” Jisung calls out in the house when the flickering of the lights stops and the whole house is covered in darkness.

“Master bedroom.” You call out, not moving from your spot to avoid stepping on something and hurting yourself in the dark. Jisung walks in with a flashlight and lights the way out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen.

Now that the lights are off and the heat in the house is slowly diminishing, the storm outside is scarier than before. You tug your cardigan around you to keep some body warmth when the landline phone in the kitchens starts ringing. Jisung shines the light for you to walk over and answer it, watching as you listen intently and then hang up.

“That was the power company. They’ll have the power back on before midnight.” Jisung nods, and you both promptly jump when lightning strikes outside and thunder follows it shortly after.

“So, do you want some hot chocolate?” Jisung asks, being able to see you tilt your head thanks to his flashlight.

“How will we boil water?”

“The stove has gas.” Jisung shines the light over to the stove. “It’s an old piece of junk but it works without electricity.” Jisung shines the light back to you, his heart skipping a beat when you smile at him for the first time this whole day. You still don’t answer his question, wrapping your arms around yourself and biting your lip awkwardly.

“Hey, we can’t pack in the dark, it’ll get cold soon, and I don’t think I’ll be able to go to sleep with the storm happening outside. Let’s just have some hot chocolate.”

A few minutes later, the kettle on the stove is screeching for attention and you’re looking around the kitchen for some candles to light the kitchen table. Jisung brings the mugs full of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows on top over to the table as you’re igniting a match and lighting the two candles you found. You sit next to each other, the view of the dark and angry ocean visible through the patio doors from your spot.

“Are these the mugs we got at Disney World?” You comment, looking at your own cup and then glancing at Jisung’s. You remember several years ago when your families went to Disney World for a vacation and you bought mugs as souvenirs, but quickly misplaced them and wondered where they went.

“Yeah, I found them in the back of the cupboard. Do you remember when we bought these? Our parents gave us cash to buy toys or stuffed animals or whatever, and they looked so shocked when we brought back two matching mugs instead.” You do remember, and the memory makes both of you laugh, reminiscing about how your parents called you and Jisung “strange” for not getting toys with the free money they gave you.

For a second, you and Jisung just live in the present, laughing at old memories and not worrying about the situation you’re in. Jisung loves how no matter what is happening, you can make him forget it all and just focus on you. The thunder from outside brings you two back to reality. You sit in silence, for a few moments and watch the waves hit the shore outside, the view slightly altered by the rain drops that managed to land on the clear patio door.

“Why didn’t you call?” Jisung doesn’t know what prompts him to ask the question, other than that it has been on his mind for ages. He watches you slowly put your mug down and look at him, eyes wide and calculating, like you’re thinking about how much you should tell him. You’re remembering the day that Jisung left, when you sobbed about your bitter first love under your oak tree and then walked inside of your house in tears.

“Y/N!” Your mother called out, watching you walk into the house from the porch door and stand in the middle of the kitchen, clothes dripping and boots muddy. She rushes to the cupboard in the hallway and pulls out a few towels, wrapping you in them and making you sit down at the kitchen table to take off your muddy shoes.

“Goodness, I said you would get caught in the rain, but no, you didn’t listen.” She tuts, patting you dry and tossling your hair. You don’t think she realizes that the wetness on your face is from your tears and that your eyes are red from crying, but maybe it’s better that she doesn’t ask questions about that. Despite her fussing over you, you still see the piece of paper lying on the kitchen table next to you.

“What’s that?” You ask, eyeing the paper with digits scratched on it in familiar handwriting.

“Jisung came back in before he left. He wanted to give that to you, but you already left for Uncle Henry’s.” Picking it up, your pruney fingertips leave the paper wet but still readable as you look at the numbers.

“Ugh, and look at my floor! Y/N, you’re mopping this up after you go take a warm shower.” Your mother sighs, but you barely hear her as you look at the piece of paper.

This is your one way of connecting to Jisung. You could call him tomorrow and hear his voice. You could call him next week and apologize. You could call him in a month and make a plan to meet up. There is so much you can do with this phone number, but you can’t find the will to save it.

The last words you said to Jisung ran through your head, “I’m sorry, Jisung. I think fate is pulling us apart. Who are we to go against that?” You hurt yourself just thinking about how ruthless you were to someone who just confessed their feelings to you.

You got up and walked to the kitchen, opening the trash can and taking one last look at the piece of paper before throwing it away. You can’t bring yourself to imagine that Jisung would still want to talk to you after all the things you said to him.

“I- I didn’t know what to say to you.” You finally answer Jisung’s question after a moment of silence between you two. “Like, ‘Hey, remember me? The girl who broke your heart and didn’t say goodbye to you? Yeah, wanna talk?’ That just… isn’t right.”

“I was waiting for your call. I answered every random phone number that called me because it could’ve been yours.” Jisung laughs, “I got put onto so many spam lists.” You smile at him, but it pains you to know that Jisung was patiently waiting for you when you never even thought about calling him.

You turn back to your hot chocolate, unsure of what to say. Jisung finally understands what is keeping you back; what is making you look so small and awkward in his presence.

You feel guilty.

It’s not a doubt that you broke his heart by using an excuse as silly as fate to justify your fears. But unlike Jisung, who has accepted your words, you seem to still live in the past, those words you told him still haunting you. Jisung doesn’t want you to be stuck in that time, he wants you to face the moment and figure things out now.

Jisung scoots his chair closer to you, the side of his face illuminated by the candles that are quickly dimming out. It brings your attention back to him as he tries to put his words together.

“Call me an idiot, but I still have feelings for you.” His sudden confession makes your eyebrows rise and your heart jump into your throat and then plummet down into your tummy. “When you said that we shouldn’t try to make this work because fate wasn’t on our side, it hurt, I’ll admit that, but it didn’t stop me from feeling love towards you.” You feel stupid for the tears coming to your eyes and you look away to wipe them. Jisung lightly places his hand on the side of your face and brings your gaze back to him.

“Don’t look away. Don’t hide your tears from me.” He wipes away the wet stains on your cheeks. “It’s okay if you still think we shouldn’t be together because fate doesn’t want us to. It’s okay if you still think we should go to our own lives and stay that way. But it’s not okay to think that I feel any less about you because of what you said to me. You’ll always be important to me. I’m so in love with you that I’ll do anything for you at this point.”

You feel like you just won a marathon, or like you woke up without an alarm clock for the first time in your life, or like your favorite song came on shuffle just when you were thinking about it; all of those feelings multiplied by a thousand. You feel energized and excited and so deep in your feelings for Jisung. How did you get so lucky to have someone like him in your life? You’re not sure, but one thought comes to the forefront of your mind as you look into his sincere eyes: You never want to let him go ever again.

“I love you, too. I never got to say it before. I’m sorry. I love you, too.” Jisung didn’t even realize you never said that phrase back to him, it just felt as if the fact didn’t need to be put into words to be known between you two. But now that the words are out, Jisung feels himself turn soft with adoration for you. He leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, the weather outside no longer bothering you as you sit in the dim candlelight. No more words are needed to express how gratifying and nice it feels to sit next to each other, reconnected, once again.

Jisung wakes up the next morning with the sun in his eyes. He digs his fingers through his hair as he sits up and stretches, and then immediately looks at the spot to his left. The area where you had fallen asleep last night is empty, and Jisung stays quiet for a moment to hear if you’re moving around the house.

When he hears nothing, he pushes the blankets off of him and gets up from the bed to wander down the stairs and to the kitchen. You’re nowhere to be seen and Jisung begins to panic, until he catches a glimpse outside of the patio doors of someone standing on the beach, facing the water.

“Y/N!” He calls out against the harsh wind as he walks through the sand towards you, meeting you and tugging a jacket over your shoulders. “You need to wear this, it’s too cold out.” He keeps his arms around you, holding the jacket over you. His chin rests on your head as you both cuddle against the cold winds, the shining sun doing nothing to heat you up. With the calm waves hitting the shore, no one would believe there was a bad storm here just a few hours ago.

“I thought you left me.” Jisung whispers as he leans down, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You two had spent the night in the same bed under the excuse that it would be warmer than sleeping alone, since the power had not yet turned on when you decided to sleep. In reality, you just didn’t want to leave Jisung and he didn’t want to leave you, not when you just got each other back.

“Never. I’ll never do that again.” Your answer fulfills his comment, but it also answers what you were talking about last night. It’s scary to look up at Jisung and think about how much unknown is ahead of you, but it’s comforting to know that Jisung is the one that will be there to jump every hurdle with you.

Keeping the zippers of your coat in his hands, Jisung turns you away from the water to face him. He remembers how timid and shy he was the first time you two were staring at each other like this, in this exact same spot. Now, he feels that same bashfulness possess him, but the fondness and love for you over powers it, making him lean in and connect his lips with yours for the second time in his life.

He kisses you sweetly, warming you up from the inside out, making you feel like you’re in an oven rather than on a cold beach in December. Soon, his kisses turn needier and he pulls you closer, chest to chest and noses scrunching together. You both smile, scared and in love and awaiting your unsure future together. You never imagined being stuck in a beach house during a storm could bring you to your senses, and could bring your lover back to you.

Maybe that’s what fate had planned for you all along.

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cuteandtwisted · 5 years ago

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are bfyt isak and even living together at this point? miss them xx

i miss them too 💛. here’s what they’re up to. (i got carried away. sigh.)

“I could put my desk here.”

“Why not there?” Even points to a wider corner in the empty bedroom.

“Hm. Your desk could go there instead. It’s bigger.” Isak responds absentmindedly as he continues inspecting the walls of the bare living room.

Even’s gasp is barely audible, but Isak hears it.

He stifles his own when he realizes what he’s just said and wills his feet to remain glued to the floor. His back turned to Even. His ears and neck probably flushed already.

“My desk?” Even asks behind him, his voice soft, his tone playful. Isak knows he’s smiling. “Why would my desk be in your apartment, Isak?”

Ugh.

“I don’t know. Most of your shit is currently at Kollektivet. Figured it’s only a matter of time before you start carrying your furniture to my new place as well,” Isak responds with a shrug, then walks away to where the person showing them the apartment is standing.

Good save, he tries to tell himself. But was it? His therapist would argue that he’s falling back on his usual coping mechanisms, that he’s regressing by resorting to sarcasm and evasion tactics instead of voicing how he truly feels, what he truly wants, what he truly needs.

What I really want.

But Even understands. He’s currently chuckling at Isak’s weak and unconvincing retort to his teasing. He always does. He’s never upset. He’s never impatient. He’s always kind and forgiving. He understands that Isak’s years of social ineptitude and prickly responses aren’t just undone and done away with because he started getting professional help.

Still, Isak isn’t sure that what he wants is right, that it deserves to be voiced and spoken out loud. Because wanting something doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the right thing right now.

As though sensing the turmoil currently eating Isak up (and knowing that a touch would suffice to anchor him and bring him back), Even squeezes his side as he walks past him and absently presses a phantom kiss to his hair before continuing to the broker. An uninhibited touch that carries so much meaning, so much weight.

‘Stay with me. Don’t get too lost inside your head. Stay here with me.’

It’s so casual yet deliberate that Isak feels like melting into the hardwood floors.

“Do you have any apartment facing East?” Even asks the lady with a smile so blinding, Isak can see her blushing too. “Isak has trouble waking up in the morning if it’s not bright enough. Also counter space. Isak needs more counter space. Do you have anything with more counter space?”

Isak watches Even complain about details and nice-to-haves he would never otherwise care about to the broker and feels his chest swell, a warm and fuzzy feeling settling there and spreading down his limbs.

It’s Sunday morning and Isak can’t think of any other place he’d rather be.

He walks up to Even mid-rant about the height of the ceiling and presses a sweet kiss to his cheek, making him pause and blink, visibly flustered.

“What was that?” Even smiles, turning away from the broker lady almost completely.

“I don’t like this one,” Isak says simply, before linking his arm with Even’s.

“No?”

“No. It’s too far from your school.” Not the full truth. But a truth nonetheless.

Even just stares at him, smiling fondly like he’s keeping himself from speaking his mind. The real estate person somehow feels like she’s left the empty apartment.

“What?” Isak asks, embarrassed.

“You’re being cute. Why are you being cute?”

“Am not,” he scoffs. “I’m being pragmatic. I just don’t want to spend money commuting to you.”

“I could just get an apartment next to this one.”

“What if you spend the night here and have to commute to school or what if i want to pick you up from school?”

Even cups his face with both hands and kisses him on the lips. It’s just a kiss, but Isak still feels dizzy when Even lets him go.

“You’re being cute again,” Even says before kissing him again.

They’ve been apartment hunting for two weeks now. Separately, however.

Isak had been crashing at kollektivet since he moved back from Trondheim, and it was only a matter of time before he had to find a place to live.

But when he asked Mutta if he knew of any good options, he found out that Even was looking to move out of his mother’s house as well.

It was rather embarrassing to hear it from a third party when they spent every single night together, either in Even’s bed or latched onto each other on Eskild’s couch. (Isak secretly loves the latter sleeping arrangement the most. He loves not having to justify curling himself around Even and molding into him like he can’t bear being apart from him).

“Heard you were looking for an apartment.”

“Heard about you, too.”

“Maybe we can go to places together. Share one broker. Save time. We’re probably looking for different things anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

But they’re not looking for different things. They hate the same living rooms and fall in love with the same bedrooms. Isak thinks about where Even’s desk would fit and Even complains about Isak’s counter space and sun exposure. Even wants a large bedroom that can fit a king sized bed, and Isak wants a living room that can fit a couch big enough for two tall men. Even thinks about the distance to Isak’s lab and Isak thinks about the one to Even’s uni. They bicker about hardwood floors and appliances, and somewhere along the line, their broker stops asking who the apartment is for, a quiet and knowing smile on her lips.

It’s the perfect apartment.

Isak can just picture where everything would go. All of Even’s film equipment and art supplies. All of the little props he takes to the kindergarten where he’s completing his training. He can tell where Even’s drawings would go on the walls, where he’d leave his backpack as soon as he enters through the door, where Isak would find his socks crumpled on the floor. He can see himself on the kitchen counter, legs spread for Even to fit in between, their heated kisses filled with laughter and ease and ‘scientific’ foreplay. He can see the cupboard they’d keep forgetting about and against which Isak would hit his head every time Even kisses him too deep. He can see where Isak would retract to brood when Even calls him out on something. He can see where Even would nap and where Isak would just perch up to watch him, happy to just be able to watch him.

It’s the perfect apartment.

“I might as well put an application down now, right?” Even grins at him, seemingly agreeing with Isak’s entire train of thought and reminding him that he’s the one who found this apartment.

“Right.”

Even talks with the realtor about faucets and finishes and where the washers and dryers are located in the building while Isak recoils into himself.

They walk out into the night after Even fills out an application and Isak feels a lump in his throat.

“What’s up?” Even asks, eyes curious and pensive.

“Nothing.” Isak shrugs.

“You’re quiet.”

“It happens to me sometimes.”

“Oh does it, now?” Even laughs.

“Ugh.” Isak laughs too, shoving him playfully.

“Are you upset I found an apartment before you?”

No.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Isak considers his next words carefully. He could say how he truly feels or he could go down the pragmatic route.

“Iss?”

“I just don’t think it’s a very economical decision,” Isak huffs out. His therapist would be so disappointed right now.

“Huh?”

“The apartment, I mean. The rent, for starters, it’s too high. I mean where are you gonna get all that money every month? It feels like a waste because, well, it’s too big, honestly.”

“Are you telling me to find a smaller apartment?” Even muses quietly. He doesn’t sound irritated. He’s smiling, like this is amusing to him.

“No! No. The apartment is perfect. Like it’s actually perfect. I’m not saying that.”

Even furrows his brows in confusion. Frankly, Isak is confused by his reasoning, too.

“Hm. Are you trying to steal my apartment by any chance? Is that what this is about?” Even laughs.

“No. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then what is it?”

Isak looks up at him then. Even is smiling. And he’s so self-assured, so present, so intimidating like this.

“I’m saying we can both have the apartment,” Isak blurts out, his heart pounding hard in his ears.

“Hm. And how would that work exactly?”

“We’d call the lady and ask her to add my name to the application,” says Isak. “I’d fill out my part and that way we’ll have more chances of actually getting the apartment with our salaries combined. Not to mention that we’d pay half the rent. And half the utilities! Half the electricity and heating bill! We could share groceries that way food doesn’t go to waste. And we won’t even have to spend money commuting from each other’s places. It’s perfect.”

Isak’s face is flushed by the time he finishes his rant. He’s beyond embarrassed. Even is probably fighting a smirk right now.

“So this is a money saving strategy?” Even asks. He’s still smiling.

“What?”

“You want us to share an apartment to save money?”

“No. Not just money. I mean, it would be energy, too. Right? We’d lower our carbon footprint. We’d share one fridge, one radiator, one set of lightbulbs. We’d only have to use the vacuum once at a time. We could even share laundry cycles. It’s quite the responsible choice actually.”

“So.. you want me to be your roommate to fight climate change?”

“Not roommate.”

“I mean it sounds very close to what you were doing with Eskild.”

“I never showered with Eskild!”

“Oh, we’d be sharing showers, too. To preserve water. Of course.” Even laughs, but Isak doesn’t feel like laughing.

“Even. This is not funny to me! I’m serious!”

Oh.

There it is. A crack. A small crack. Isak raising his voice and being visibly upset because he is. Because he feels cornered. Because he doesn’t know how to say what he truly feels, what he truly wants.

And it hits him then. The reason why Even didn’t tell him he was looking to move out of Julie’s apartment in the first place. The reason he never brought up the fact that they spend every single night together and that it doesn’t make any sense that they’re looking for two separate places.

It hits him then: Even doesn’t want this. Even doesn’t, because Isak doesn’t give him enough.

Isak doesn’t tell him that he loves him very often. He writes it. He implies it. He traces it on his skin, presses it against his lips, whispers it into his neck late at night. But he doesn’t say it. And while Even is kind and patient, he probably wishes Isak were more open by now, more normal. Isak wishes he were, too.

Even is getting sick of him. Even doesn’t want-

“Isak? Isak, hey, stay with me.” Even brings him back with both hands on his face. A sweet touch, the most comforting touch. Isak will never stop burning for his touch. “I’m sorry for teasing you. It’s not nice. Forgive me.”

I should be the one apologizing.

“Come on, let’s go back to my place and talk about this later. Yeah? Don’t worry about it.”

“But-”

“No buts.”

It’s late and dark. It’s past midnight. They’re in Even’s bed at Julie’s apartment, sleeping. Even spooning him. But Isak can tell Even is awake too, his breathing too shallow, too uneven.

“Even?” Isak asks, his voice a whisper.

“Hm?”

“I don’t want to share an apartment because of money.”

Even tightens his arms around Isak’s stomach.

“What about climate change?” he asks, making Isak elbow him lightly.

“Don’t be a dick.”

Even laughs. They both do. Then it’s quiet again.

“Why do you want to share an apartment then?” Even asks then, his voice wavering with nervousness.

It’s late and it’s dark, and Isak can feel Even’s heartbeat against his back.

He turns around in his arms and tangles their limbs again. He can almost see the blue in Even’s eyes, even in the dark.

Even is scared, Isak realizes. He’s holding his breath and he’s scared.

“Because I love you.” Isak says simply. It’s simple because it’s true.

Even lets out a soft but heartbreaking sigh. Isak wants to hold him until he knows. Until he knows just how deeply and impossibly Isak loves him.

Isak wants to tell him so much. The words tumble inside his brain while they hold each other in bed rather desperately for a warm night in June.

I want to share a home with you because I want you around. Because I love hearing you put on clothes in the morning when I’m still sleeping and I love the sound of you unzipping your jeans after a long day before you proceed to sing terribly in the shower. Because I love having you around and watching you make art or marathon some pretentious show or simply take a nap in the middle of the day.

“Because I’ve never had a home until I had you,” Isak confesses with a tremor to his voice.

Even kisses him then, and it’s wet and salty and desperate.

Isak can’t tell whose tears he’s tasting.

“Odd night to get emotional about climate change,” Even sniffles with a chuckle when they finally part for air.

“Ugh. Fuck you.”

“Ugh. I love you, too.”

They kiss again and again and again.

“My home. You’re my home, too.”

They move in together a week after that.

#someone teach me how to answer an ask in 200 words or less #bfyt #isak x even #skam fic #ask #evak fic #ehhh

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aaetherius · 4 years ago

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@againthemartyr asked:

“ tell me what you dream of. ” - from nier

Poetry Prompts || Accepting (feel free to turn into threads)!

★ ☆ ✮ ✯ ―☼ ― ★ ☆ ✮ ✯

The gentle rush of water as it fills the delicate cup serves as background noise to the otherwise silent night. It’s only company the soft tap of porcelain clicking together when the steaming mug is set upon a small saucer, and the natural whirl of the ship’s engine as it sails quietly through the night sky. At this hour, much of the crew has retired to their rooms - even those who struggle to sleep usually keep to themselves in the safety of their own walls. He’s typically the same. Having not required sleep to survive for many millennia, he often finds the act of doing so difficult, at least when he’s alone. And his usual worry when the current Supreme Primarch is away makes him all the more restless. He finds the time passes easier when he’s in the cafe making coffee where the scent of almonds and roasted beans and honey clings to the air, and feels his lungs with every breath he takes. Though the space is almost always empty at the hour, he can waste time cleaning and preparing supplies for the following day so he’ll be ready for the orders that will come as the sun begins to rise. Sometimes he rearranges the table, or shifts the chairs about - moves the flowers to different spots, and cleans out the cupboards - only to put everything back exactly how Sandalphon had it before he returns from the mission or errand he had been sent on. It’s a harmless task that occupies his mind, and keeps him busy. He’s grown tired of being left alone with his thoughts after two thousand years of having nothing but them to fill up the space he occupied when he wasn’t engaged in something dire. One grows weary of their own head after such a long time. So, it’s not terribly strange to find him making coffee in the cafe at an odd hour of the night when the one he spends most of his time with is away. It’s more unusual; however, for him to have company.

Company, at least, that doesn’t include the flowers he occasionally strikes up conversations with or the coffee grinder he admired every time he gets the chance to use or the moon that glitters just outside of the window in the back of the cafe that allows glitter and stardust to fill the room to the point where its light alone is enough to prevent the room from falling into utter darkness. He doesn’t know the young man well, but has been told of his circumstances in passing by various other members of the crew attempting to help him return to the world of which he belongs to. And, he knows, as well, that accidental visitors to these skies aren’t the strangest things contained within them - he had fought with other worldly beings for countless years, after all, and seen the rifts that had formed as a result of their meddling. From what he’s overheard from the crew, as well, this is far from the first time they’ve encountered such an unfortunate traveler to have gotten mixed up in one of them. He harbors sympathy for the other - to be pulled away from his loved ones and everything he knows is an uneasy and dreadful feeling. And it’s easy to tell there’s constantly something on his mind, alongside his desire to return back home. So, it had only seemed right to invite him to the cafe for a cup of coffee when he had spotted the other out and about as he had been walking down the hall. At the very least, it would prevent Nier, as he’s come to learn is his name, from being left alone with the anxiety that he imagines is welling up within him for being away from where he wishes he was.

Softly, he sets the saucer and cup down in front of the other where he sits at one of the nearby tables before taking his own cup and sliding, gracefully despite the wings that extend from his back and seem to glow in the moonlight, into the chair across from him. The steam from the freshly brewed coffee warms his skin, and he wraps his hands around the hot cup as he waits for it to cool for just a moment. He’s always believed coffee is best enjoyed when it’s burning hot, even if it means stinging the throat and tongue just a bit. But it’s late enough, at the moment, that he lacks the same willingness to burn his throat on the drink that he would have had it been the middle of the day or first thing in the morning. So, instead, his fingers knead gently against the mug as he watches the smoke rise and then slowly dissipate - the whimsical, willowy tails traveling carelessly through the air. “I hope it is to your liking,” he begins in order to fill in the silence that prevails not that the water is no longer running. He’s always enjoyed conversing with the crew, and with Skydwellers in general, even if the chance to do so was rare. While he is often overly formally, it’s rare for him not to be able to find something to talk about or ask after. And he does his best to ensure the conversation doesn’t travel into unwanted or uncomfortable territory. He doubts the other wants to speak much of his own world, even if he does wish to learn about it, and, so, he doesn’t bring it, or the other’s current situation up in hopes it might help soothe his worries for a short time. Though, when Nier does ask him in a question instead, he’s met with a slightly tilt of Lucifer’s head - brows furrowing ever so faintly as he thinks about it.

“These days,” he pauses for a moment to glance down into the dark liquid of his cup, and takes a sip; savoring the bitter flavor of the coffee, and the heat it gives off. “I find that I have many dreams.” More than he’s ever had before, and more than he had ever imagined he would. The list in his journal only seems to grow with each passing day, and there’s no longer an end in sight. Yet, often, one of the dreams he had added to that list seems to come true, and he’s ever grateful to be where he is now. To have this second chance at life is a blessing, even if he feels unworthy of it, and will likely spend the rest of his existence attempting to find ways to atone for past mistakes. Death, he has since learned, isn’t the atonement he had once thought it would be. So, now, he searches for ways to make things right. Sometimes that comes in the form of doing add chores around the ship or staying up well into the morning with someone who might simply just need someone to speak to. And he can’t begin to claim he believes himself good at anything he’s attempted, but he never gives anything less than his entire core to those he meets. “Some, I imagine, might seem strange. For example, it is a dream of mine to share a cup of coffee with every member of this crew. It is also a dream of mine to one day assist Sandalphon in opening a cafe of his own, and to raise another garden with him. Just as it is also a dream of mine to read all of the books I have been given by Skydwellers on this journey, and to memorize the recipes for all of the new blends of coffee they have come up with in the time since I had first introduced it to them many centuries ago.” He smiles softly at the other, rubbing the handle of his mug. “Sometimes the most worthwhile dreams are the smaller ones we have overlooked in our desire to pursue something larger. Do you have any dreams of such a nature; smaller ones that might seem mundane to most?”

#againthemartyr #| ☩ Cradled within the gentle breeze ☩ (ask) |#| ☩ And once again the sky rises; sincere and melancholic ☩ (IC) |#| ☩ A faint dusting after sunset ☩ (verse: AU - Post) |#{ Thank you for sending this! }

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halothenthehorns · 4 years ago

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All in the Family

Chapter 9: The Potions Master

"Oh this is perfect!" Peter burst out with surprised laughter the moment he'd caught his breath back from the stone room spinning about. "Slughorn's office, couldn't have asked for better!"

"What were you two talking about over there?" Sirius demanded with a slight pout, rubbing furiously at his head and so looking more cross-eyed than anything when he saw Regulus nodding appreciatively at their surroundings as well.

"Where are we?" Remus noted as he began looking around in detail, stretching and sitting up with a small frown.

The office wasn't designed to have eight random students be plopped into it, and those were the most obvious at first. James had landed in the chair with such force he toppled it over, sending the robes that had been hanging on the back to pool beneath him but doing nothing to cushion the fall. Evans had landed hard on the desk and upset a bottle of ink, while the other six had simply crashed to the ground in the little available walking space, Alice nearly in the fireplace with a hateful mutter, "this isn't feeling any better every time!"

They all got to their feet though with more winces to see what Remus meant, and found the not so subtle signs. The desk took up the majority in a spacious room, so it looked more menacing than any office they'd been in. The walls were lined with jars full of pickled things, Lily immediately identifying four of them. They were clearly somewhere in the dungeons with no natural lighting, the place echoed with almost as much emptiness as the immense hall before.

"I think we're in Snape's office?" Regulus said, having to dig the book out from under the desk and flipping to the next chapter.

"What do you mean he got an office?" Sirius scoffed.

"Do you expect them to give him a cupboard when he became the Potions teacher?" Remus rolled his eyes for that one.

"Or how about asking, so we're really traveling through time?" Frank muttered clearly to himself. The Dursleys house before had been ominous but still something outside their world, this was a place in their school that should not exist yet.

"Next chapter's all about him, so it looks like we'll find out," Regulus inserted when he read as much, and even Alice and Frank couldn't garner up any kind of good mood at the idea of this, but at least their slight grimaces were kind to the other four making exaggerated, pained expressions.

Lily simply looked radiant, wondering if she could convince the little Black to give this chapter up, but he was already going.

The start wasn't as bad as they would have thought, listening to Harry go through his classes for the first time was something they all knew well so it was much like their experiences with the last few chapters. It came to no one's surprise gossip was following Harry around, and James at least was excited to hear, whether intentionally or not, of Harry trying to get into that forbidden room just to find out himself what was in it, and they all had a good laugh at the bits Filch made an appearance in.

Most of the classes were as unmemorable as their own firsts after so many years, the only highlight being they all laughed at McGonagall still showing off to the first years, though she'd switched from a cow as in their year to a pig this time.

The Marauders couldn't help but give a mocking laugh to the idea it had taken Harry so long to get down to the Great Hall without getting lost, while Frank made a face in sympathy for the kid as it had taken him a week.

Lily couldn't help a pleased smile that Hagrid was still giving Harry such attention even in school, though she wasn't quite sure what the motive was for this considering Harry clearly now had a friend. She tried to tell herself she was acting paranoid, but it wasn't helping her feelings of unease grow worse when Regulus got to the last class.

For once, James wasn't paying much attention to her, especially her growing frustration at someone other than him for once as he watched his friends. Sirius was shuffling his feet with guilt the moment Snape appeared properly in full detail, but at least Remus was frowning at him rather than avoiding looking at him.

"I thought you two had cleared the air on this?" He muttered, unsure how much of a wasted effort that was and if he was going to be heard anyways.

Clearly thinking of the same, Remus chose his words carefully, "we, made our grievances clear, and it, ah, made some other things come out that we needed to talk about-"

"Look Remus," Sirius' impatience pushed through Remus' awkwardness, "I did a stupid thing, and I apologize. Now you are very well aware I didn't mean it, and clearly it's had no impact on this gits life," he finished with disdain when Regulus just kept dishing out the snide comments from Snape in this future.

Remus nodded his agreement to this, giving him an awkward smile and James hoped they were done lingering on this already. "Was that really all it took for you two?" He couldn't help but mutter in exasperation, but honestly he was more than happy seeing the two smiling at each other again, he just wanted things back to normal.

It helped that Peter chose that moment.

Nothing so grandiose as some of their setups they'd done in the past, but Peter wasn't doing this to impress anyone either. He just hadn't quite decided Sirius needed to be let back into the fold without some kind of revenge, so in perfect synchronization as if they'd planned it, he and Regulus raised their wands and intentionally combined two perfect spells that had a pipe line above Sirius temporarily dump down onto him.

There was a blast of icy cold water that sprayed only him, and then it was repaired as suddenly as it had started, leaving Sirius apparently one who'd rolled around in half cleaned seaweed on its way to the lake.

"Thank you Wormtail," Sirius said as it continued dripping down him, he even had to spit a bit of it out of his mouth before he could continue, "for finally getting that over with."

"You knew I was going to do that?" Peter protested.

"You are many things my friend," Sirius rubbed carefully to get a particularly slimy chunk of green out of his eyes, "subtle is not one of them."

Peter raised his hands in surrender but went over and offered Sirius the robes which he gratefully accepted to start wiping at his nose.

When he sneezed and a bit more flew out, Lily couldn't suppress it anymore and burst out laughing.

James looked over wildly and found her leaning up against the farthest shelf, her face bright red and holding her sides.

"Oh, so you do think we're funny?" He eagerly jumped at the chance to parlay with her in such a suddenly good mood.

She didn't answer for a moment even as her giggles subsided, nor did she plan to as she'd rather swallow that nasty concoction rather than admit why she'd laughed so hard.

It should have been impossible, it certainly made no sense to her to hear the way Sev was treating a kid, no matter who Harry looked like. She'd been growing steadily more outraged at the treatment of these children, and the blow he'd dished out to Neville just now in making it his and Harry's fault for a potion exploding was honestly the worst thing she'd ever heard any person do, let alone her best friend!

She'd wanted to scream, she wanted him in her face right this second to explain that this was all just a cruel idea of a joke and he was going to turn into that kind and attentive friend she knew so well any second, she'd had so many things building up in her for a solid few minutes that when she'd watched a genuine act of merriment even being played out amongst idiots who caused her more grief than anyone, she'd finally released it all.

Potter seemed to realize he wasn't going to get a response, so finally sighed and turned back away to continue smiling and laughing with his mates like old times while Alice sidled up to her again, holding her nose but frowning for a wholly other reason. She stood awkwardly there though, unsure how to reach out to Evans this time and offer anything when honestly the lot of them were just seeing more of the same Snape they saw every day, hearing those nasty rumors of the rest of the friends he hung out with. Frank hadn't said anything to her, but she could tell he was uneasy about Evans and much she associated with those nasty pre-Death Eater's just like the rest of the school.

"I don't suppose it helps at all he's treating all the kids like this, not just Potters," she tried anyways.

"Nope," Lily's icy, one word answer was enough that Alice got the mood and left her to stew in silence and sidle back over to Frank, who was scowling hatefully at this all as well.

"If Potter doesn't dunk his head in a vat of boils when we get back I will."

"Frank, that's not like you," Alice reprimanded quietly as she took his hand.

"Well I think it's high time I should be like that," Frank took her hand quickly and gave it a squeeze as he kept hearing what Neville was going through. "I've been growing sick for ages watching all these bullies run the school, now it turns out one of them's going to be given a position of power by Dumbledore himself and he's still abusing it. I've been saying for ages I want a way to fix this Alice, got to start somewhere."

"Turning into the monster only creates another," Alice quoted with a heavier frown.

"What would you have me do then?" he sighed, easily backing down from the threat as he looked to her bright amber eyes. They hadn't even realized they'd both wanted to be Auror's last year when he'd offered to study their OWL's together, each finding out it was the others desire as well only at the beginning of this year and they'd started dating that night. It was a purpose that they were sure would have drawn them together no matter what in the end, a fight they knew they were going to get involved in with the coming war and looking to meet it head on.

"What you always do Frank, use your head," she tried to chuckle, though it didn't last long as Regulus described Harry's mores mood upon going to Hagrid's, it admittedly hadn't been the best end to his first week.

Yet they were all caught off guard by Harry easily piecing together what they honestly hadn't given much thought to. What was Dumbledore moving around that was so important then? Regulus was so involved thinking about it, it still didn't occur to him to give them warning when he finished.

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #Marauders #Wolfstar #James Potter #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Peter Pettigrew #Lily Evans #Regulus Black #Alice Smith #Frank Longbottom

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promethes · 5 years ago

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a hasty hazy short story written to sza

Oh shit! You’re dead. What are you going to do next?

Your eyes, you think, have been stretched like taffy and lumped back together again. Not that you can feel them, of course. Of course. You look around. Up. You think. You’re not sure. For now, you know your neck cranes and that’s enough.

You worry you’ve wasted the best of you.

The world (what’s left of it) is hazy and blue. Is this your own personal corner? Is this where we go? Sequestered into a space so vast you worry you’ll never find a place to rest. A space that is somehow smaller even than the cupboard you would squeeze into during childhood games. Then, the pressure was comforting. A wall on each side, the promise of being found. Knowing that you weren’t really hiding. That everyone else was well aware of your little hideaway. The inside was made of wood though the counter placed directly overhead was tiled in green. Your cupboard.

Here, you blink through eons of matter. You can’t even flutter your lashes from the weight. You close your eyes for a moment of peace. Your lids take years to fall.

You used to be silly with your friends at the grocery. Did you know that? Do you remember? Sneaking into the cereal aisle an hour before close. When you were younger and more reckless you’d tear open the boxes looking for grand prizes. You never found one, but by that point, it had become a sport to the four of you. Once you’d tire you’d plop yourselves down on the linoleum that was practically begging for a cleaning. You’d shake your bottoms. Get good and comfortable. The butt of your jeans have traveled further than most and have the dirty tracks to show it.

No one was better at solving those little cereal box puzzles. You would dominate the word search and crush the riddles with ease. Do you think that was your peak, those nights with the flickering lights and the free almost-expired-but-not-quite-yet milk? I don’t think it was your peak. I don’t think your kind has peaks. I think you just build on what came before. What I think doesn’t really matter though.

Looking back now you wonder. Why was there a close? It was a 24-hour store. Maybe no one cared. It was such a small town. They knew everyone’s routine. There really was no reason to have employees working at 4 am when the only people conscious were the first responders and the whisper-quiet man who lived down the street.

You worry you’ve wasted the best of you. I’m not sure I even know what qualifies.

Starting at the beginning, I think, is a waste of time. What is there other than an opening and a cry and a good hard slap on the behind? Maybe if you were born quiet. If you were born to some kind of tragedy. OF some kind of tragedy. No dice. So it’s a waste of time.

Your mind still rests on the memory of your birth. I wonder if it’s because of the novelty of the whole thing; you were never able to access it before. It really was an average becoming. Belly, hospital, push, out. Nothing to it.

You replay the look on your mother’s face when she first rested her eyes on you. She must have seen something in you. It’s the only way to explain that look in her eyes. You still worry that you’ll disappoint her. You worry you’ll let her down. You worry that you’re wasting her worry. You want to succeed. For her.

Personally, I don’t see the point in all this ping-pong worrying. You’re already dead. The story has long since come to a full circle close.

I apologize, screaming here is a difficult task. If you can get in that breath of air (you can do it if you try, though you may struggle quite a bit), letting it back out is another animal to tackle. However, I see you are very determined to do so. Would you like to be provided a microphone to echo it out? If you can only do it once, I’m sure it’d be nice to have that once count. You wonder if you have enough substance left in you to make a wave in your hazy new blue home.

You have all this space pocket for yourself! Enjoy it. Drink it in. Look to your left. To your right. Here, you will find all of our various amenities… just a touch of humor there. We have no amenities. I’ve been at this a while and after the first few I get a little restless. You understand, don’t you? It’s only human nature to crack a few jokes when you’re feeling antsy. Well. I’m not quite sure about that first part. Maybe I should just say nature. No need for another identifier.

Worry worry worry. Do you have any other modes of being?

What is your best, really, when you yourself have embodied so many throughout your life? I think (I know, it doesn’t matter what I think. However, we have all the time in the world, and really it wouldn’t hurt you to hear a little from me. Would you like to hear what I think?).

I think that people are never their best. You worry that you’ve wasted the best of you. I say you do not possess your own best to waste.

You. You have been your mother’s best. Your sister’s best. Your teacher’s best. Your second grade best friend’s best, the one who would bring bright pink bubblegum tape to school to chew up and stick in her hair just below the level of her perfect haircut. You were her best. You people, you go through cherry-picking from each other and build yourselves from the bests of others.

Let go of this thought that you had the power to misplace yourself. You’ve long since gifted that control to others. You are dead. I think your best lives on in someone else.

Oh? So now it matters what I think?

Your mind never seems to empty. From you, I learn why they call reminiscing “reliving”. Does it make it easier? Or is it your own special brand of self-torture? It’s no use doing that here. There is no bargaining.

If time moved faster down here, I think a tear would be making its way down your cheek.

It is a bit of a blessing, this return of mind. You lose your life, but in a way, it comes right back to you.

You walk yourself through your first swing. Looking back, you wonder how you ever made that silly mistake. Now you know that fingers stay interlocked, wrists locks, head stays down as you twist your body back and hold your arms out. It’s all in the technique.

You know you’re reliving the past. That it can’t be changed. That doesn’t stop you from saying a little prayer every time you revisit the way you’d swing down. That split second of letting gravity take over and releasing inhibition. That is our gift to you. It’s so vivid you can almost feel a beat in your chest.

I may have been right when I said your memories were your suffering. The energy you exert avoiding her is astounding. Subconsciously, you know you would give the world and then some to go back. Your will is not strong enough to avoid that. It may be cliche but that doesn’t stop you from replaying her eyes twinkling over and over and over. You watch her crack that smile until it makes you dizzy.

“I am, myself, three selves at least.” You don’t know who wrote that but it rests in your mind in that odd way that thoughts rest in your head these days. You never were one for poetry. You don’t know who wrote that. (I do. It was Mary Oliver.)

At present, you are maybe a quarter of a self. Half at most. Where have you gone? You ask the question as if I have the answer. You worry you’ve wasted the best of you. I worry you’ll never stop.

You live in the past. Don’t you know there is no past here, no future or present? Here, you just are. Is that enough?

If you have wasted the best of you, comfort yourself knowing what you wasted it on. There’d be no use hanging on to it. It’d be of no use to you here. We have no best or worst. Was it really a waste of your best to have it be used in the one life you’re awarded? You may not be one for poetry, but I value word choice. Your use of “waste,” I’m afraid, will not do. If we are to spend Now together, that is my ground rule. I don’t have many. Careful with your words. They are all we have down here.

No, there is no poetry in the afterlife. You worry (again?) that you aren’t well-stocked. You did not take precautions. Made minimal preparation. You have only your mind and me to keep you company.

You forget Mary Oliver rests on your brow. Here. I will give you a bit of a push. Don’t tell, now.

How I linger to admire, admire, admire the things of this world that are kind, and maybe

also troubled – roses in the wind, the sea geese on the steep waves, a love to which there is no reply?

Finally, the world goes dark. You’d almost forgotten the journey your lids were taking. Don’t open your eyes back up just yet. Take a step back. Get some air now. Let yourself rest. You have time.

#the formatting is weird but idc #goooooood night #i know it's bad but i really do not have the energy to think abt it for even one more second #essays #og

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anartic-monkeys · 5 years ago

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[fanfic] opiate this hazy head of mine (chapter 1 of 2)

Summary: The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

TRIGGER WARNING: Character is diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). If you are triggered by mentions of suicidal thoughts, depressive episodes, panic attacks, or even medication, please skip this story or proceed with caution.

Title is directly lifted from the lyrics of Medicine - The 1975

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413189

FFN Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13537767/1/opiate-this-hazy-head-of-mine

CHAPTER 1

la douleur exquise: the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable

August 4, 2002

He knows for certain that she’ll be leaving soon.

The timepiece on his wrist tells him it’s well past one in the morning, but he keeps his eyes open and trained on the woman lying next to him. Hermione Granger’s face is peaceful in sleep, the lines that usually mar the space between her eyebrows hidden from sight. He wants to touch her, her cheeks and the exposed skin of her shoulders, but he’s terrified of waking her up.

He knows that once those eyes open, she’ll realize what a colossal mistake it had been to sleep with him, then she’ll be gone from his life.

Forever.

So he stays still, tries to keep his breathing as even as possible so as not to rouse her. Just minutes ago he had been drowning in a sea of her—her eyes, her warm heat wrapped around him, her hands everywhere, her lips leaving marks that are not his to keep. Now he’s lost, the constellation of freckles dancing across the skin of her nose and cheeks drawing him in deeper into what would be very dangerous territory.

He has never been this close, despite the many cruel efforts on his parts to be physically near her.

The taunting.

The dirty looks.

The insults thrown at her face, right at her face, allowing him just a moment to be that close to her face.

Tomorrow she’ll be gone, but for now he allows himself to live in the reverie that she is his.

He wakes and feels his chest constrict in panic, his breath catching in his lungs and his limbs freezing up. In the back of his mind, he imagines that this is how it would feel for her to wake up the morning of their N.E.W.T.s, realizing that she had fallen asleep in lieu of studying. The space beside him is empty, only the ruffled sheets and some stray strands of hair on the pillow serving as evidence that Hermione had spent the night with him. He had meant to watch her to the very last minute, savour the very last moment before she’d leave, and he had fallen asleep instead and wasted precious time. He doesn’t even try to get up, choosing instead to close his eyes and will the sharp pain in his chest to fade into a dull throbbing. He doesn’t know how much time passes but he finally moves his head to face the other way, discovering a kink in his neck.

“Draco, are you awake?”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he imagines that his body visibly stiffens.

“Do you mind if I use your kitchen to make breakfast?”

He rises slowly, leaning on his elbows, and finds her sitting on the wide windowsill. He swallows at the sight of her wearing his shirt, a book propped open on her exposed legs. For a moment, he entertains the idea of sleep-induced hallucinations, wracking his brain for an explanation for the anomaly that is Hermione Granger.

He opens his mouth to ask her a dozen questions, each one an attempt to explain why in Salazar’s balls she's still here in the poor death eater’s lair, but his mind blessedly decides to kick in before his mouth can do any damage.

She had said his name. His given name.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says instead, swinging both legs off the bed and turning away from her for a moment to search for his pants. Only half-naked, he takes note of the time and beckons for her to follow him into the kitchen.

She doesn’t move from her spot (he has no idea how many hours she’s been sitting there but he knows for certain that it couldn’t have been long enough for it to justify him referring to it as her spot) and the minutes tick by with the two of them merely staring at each other. She would never hear it from him, but he would much rather stare at her than cook breakfast. A few heartbeats pass and then she’s pushing off the ledge, raising her eyebrows at him and he answers the unvoiced question with a roll of his eyes. “I can cook.”

“Here, I’ll give you your shirt back," she replies, ignoring his declaration.

He shakes his head, not even trying to hide the appreciate way his eyes roam over her body. He doesn’t know why she decided to put his shirt on, it doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he wants to keep her in his clothes for as long as possible.

Maybe then her scent would be permanently engraved into the fabric.

She says she wants pancakes and Draco pretends he’s not thankful that she chose something he actually knows to make. He doesn’t burn anything, even when he feels her eyes boring holes into the back of his head, but he barely stops himself from going overboard with the blueberries.

Little triumphs.

He’s plating up a high stack for her, ignoring the curious stare she’s been maintaining ever since he poured her a cup of tea. He wants to run away from the scrutiny and jumps on the opportunity once he hears a light tapping sound coming from the window. His owl delivers him letters that he leaves in a drawer for later and a copy of the paper that he brings back to Hermione, wordlessly handing it over to her just to get her to stop studying him.

“Do you have powdered milk?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just,” she pauses, glancing up from behind the face of an elderly wizard being tried for tax evasion. “I usually put some powdered milk on my pancakes, but these are fine. You’re surprisingly good at this.” She makes a show of taking a rather large bite that has him hiding a smile behind his tea.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger,” he says, not without irony. She catches on his meaning and then they’re sharing a smile, an inside joke that only the two of them know, and Draco wonders at what exact moment did the universe tilt the wrong way and allowed him to have this with her.

To have her.

“This is odd,” she finally says, looking at him in a way that tells him its not his culinary skills she finds bizarre. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she means them, that she means it’s odd that she had slept with him and him with her and that he had made her pancakes with far too many blueberries and she had just shared a smile with him that made the darkest parts of his mind recede for a moment—

“Don’t overthink it, I can hear the cogs in your brain turning all the way here,” he responds, hoping against all odds that he sounds as nonchalant as he wants to be about it. He knows for a fact that if he wants to keep her from finding out the mess that is his thoughts around her, he best start putting up the occlumency walls he had so carelessly torn down last night.

He tells himself he will, in a minute, when she finishes her pancakes and she’s had enough tea. He’ll put up the walls when she stops looking as if she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t hate that she had fallen into bed with him, doesn’t hate that he’s standing shirtless in front of her because she’s wearing his shirt.

He tells himself he couldn’t have expected her to stay any longer. She has work, she tells him, and he doesn’t tell her that of course you’re working on a Sunday. He watches her tiptoe her way back to his room and he watches her emerge once again dressed in her own clothes, her healer robes tucked in the crook of her arm. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed when she only kisses his cheeks, tells himself he doesn’t feel his fingers warm when she tells him that she had a good time, that she’ll see him around soon.

He tells himself it’s not the hope that she would come over again that has him purchasing the tin of powdered milk from the muggle pharmacy. It sits in one of the cupboards, right next to the tea that she had picked out.

February 11, 2000

Draco grits his teeth, mentally listing off a number of hexes that he could fire at the beady-eyed wizard sitting in front of him.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, struggling to keep the drawl in place. To the untrained ear, they would hear an almost bored quality to the question. To anyone who pays attention, they would hear the unnatural lilt that his voices takes on right at the beginning.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, we need to perform legilimency on all ex-Death Eaters wishing to apply for a job at the ministry,” he eyes Draco, one hand coming to scratch at his whitened beard. “Of course, everyone knows you’re a skilled Occlumens, which is why we’ve prepared a special potion that will ensure you do not… keep things from our knowledge.”

Draco feels a muscle twitch somewhere on his jaw. “And why exactly would such a thing be necessary in the first place, if I may ask?”

The veil covering the cruel sneer falls away and the man in front of him openly shows him just what he thinks of Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, you can’t honestly expect the ministry to let you work here without the reassurance that you do not have any ill plans tucked away that mind of yours. Think of it as a way of earning your future employer’s trust. That is, if we do end up hiring you.”

Draco has no response, choosing instead to steeple his fingers against each other and stare back at the other wizard. When the silence stretches on, with no attempts from Draco to end it, the other man speaks up in a tone brokering no argument, “This is an absolute requirement. If you do not wish to go through with it then I will be bidding you farewell.”

“When?” he asks, feeling the last dredges of his pride slipping away from his grasp.

A healer performs the spell. When it’s over and he feels like his mind has been repeatedly stabbed by a blunt knife, he turns away from the judging eyes staring right at him. There’s a flurry of papers and the sound of a book rapidly being flipped through. The healer furiously scribbles on his chart while Draco awaits the verdict.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Here’s a prescription for anti-depressant pills that you are to take if I’m to clear you for work at the ministry.”

He turns back to the healer with a deliberate slowness, as if reducing the speed of his movements could aid his brain in keeping his mouth from falling wide open. “I beg your pardon?” he finds himself asking for a second time that day.

“Mr. Malfoy, you have suicidal tendencies—”

“Harry Potter has suicidal tendencies, did you also diagnose him with depression?”

“We value patient confidentiality, Mr. Malfoy, I assure you. You won’t be hearing about Mr. Potter’s medical business as he won’t be hearing about yours,” the healer states this with a pointed look, no doubt alluding to the fear she saw in Draco’s head about his thoughts becoming of public access. Draco takes little relief in this.

“I also know for a fact that when you say suicidal tendencies, you’re referring to the things he did during the war,” the healer continues. “Unfortunately, that was a case of reckless heroism, not a sign of depression.”

Draco raises his eyebrow at this, finding that the comment made him like his healer infinitesimally better than before. “I’m not depressed.”

“Would you like me to read to you all the signs I just picked apart from your mind? Aside from constantly thinking about your own death, you have severe insomnia, you have very little interest in doing things you like, you have virtually no appetite to speak of, you’re conflicted between the belief that your mother would be better off without you and the guilt of leaving her now that your father is gone—”

“Enough.”

The healer pauses, adjusting the spectacles that had started to slip down her nose. “As you know, depression is not something you need to be ashamed of. You’d be surprised how many of the British wizarding folk have been diagnosed with various mental health issues following the war.”

For the second time that day, he chooses to answer with cold silence. The healer meets his gaze and wordlessly hands over a small sheet of paper. Draco takes it and his eyes drop to read the messy scrawl. His eyebrows draw together at the unfamiliar words staring back at him. “This is muggle medicine.”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

The question catches him off-guard and he looks up, realizing his mistake a second too late. The potion hasn’t fully worn off and he is unable to build up his occlumency walls in time to counter the healer’s legilimency.

Scared.

Don’t know how to buy these.

Don’t know where to go to get these.

Not depressed.

Can’t be depressed.

“Stop,” he finally grits out, turning away from the healer and finally breaking the spell. He wants to scream, wants to get up and run away from the room, job at the ministry be damned. He almost does the latter when he hears her ripping out a small piece of parchment.

“This is the address of a pharmacy I frequent. You may think of it as a muggle apothecary of sorts. Just hand your prescription over and make sure you have muggle money on you.”

Draco takes it, hating the trembling of his fingers as he fights the urge to crush both pieces of paper in his fists.

“Come back with the filled prescription and I’ll give you your medical clearance. Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy.”

He likes to think he makes a graceful exit, but he knows that he all but stumbles out the room and into the lit hallway. The walls, white and suddenly so oppressive, seem to close in on him as he feels his breathing grow laboured. A panic attack, his mother had described it on the one occasion he had been weak enough to show her that he wasn’t as put-together as he would like everyone to believe. She had scoffed at him, her aristocratic face wet with tears, and had pulled his head to rest on her shoulder.

Now he thinks the healer would have listed off sporadic episodes of panic attacks if he hadn’t interrupted her.

His legs miraculously carry him towards the floo networks and he struggles to fight off the last vestiges of the potion remaining in his system, already working on constructing the ever-trusted wall around his mind. His throat has gone dry, all moisture seemingly travelling to his now-clammy hands, and his vision starts to blur when he’s only steps away from the floo that would get him away from this wretched place—

“Malfoy?”

Fuck.

If someone were to slice his ears off, damage the sensory organ enough that he would only be able to hear anything if one were to use a sonorous charm and shout directly into the mangled hole on the side of his head, he would still be able to recognize that voice. The last time he had heard her, last time he had seen her, was during his trial shortly after the culmination of the Second Wizarding War. He had been more surprised to see her than when he’d seen Potter, more surprised to hear her testify for him than when it had been Potter doing the same thing.

His hands had been bound before him, but his heart had soared at the sight of her then. He had been so certain that he would never see her again, not when he had been on his way to be locked in Azkaban. He had barely paid attention to the words she was saying, his focus trained on the sound of her voice, the fire in her eyes. Not once during her speech did she glance at him and he had only been given the chance to look into her eyes when she had been about to exit the room.

He had sworn that day that he would never forget that image, would hold on to it through the horrors of Azkaban. When he’d been told that the Wizengamot had decided to put him under ten years of heavy probation instead of 10 years in Azkaban, he had let himself foolishly hope that he’d be able to see her again under different circumstances.

Nearly two years later and he finally gets his wish, but the circumstances are only marginally better than before. He attempts to take a steadying breath and only succeeds in affirming that he still can’t breathe quite properly. The last of the bricks fall into place and he turns to face her. A lesser witch would see nothing amiss, only an ex-death eater making a hasty escape from St. Mungo’s, but she’s no lesser witch.

Hermione Granger takes one look at him and the suspicion in her eyes is replaced by that of concern and he fucking hates it. He pretends to appraise her, feigns the slightest bit of shock at her healer robes, only enough that she would think he had failed at trying to hide his surprise at the knowledge that she works here.

Of course he knows she works here; he had almost worked himself up into an early panic attack worrying that she would be assigned his healer.

“Granger.” He notes that there’s only the slightest bit of a tremor to his voice and he imagines his godfather would have been proud. Still, he keeps his hands behind him where she won’t be able to see how badly they’re shaking.

“Malfoy, are you—” she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing at him. “Are you okay?”

He manages a smirk and a slight inclination of his head. “Never better. Goodbye, Granger.”

“What?” is the indignant cry. He’s already stepping into the floo and tossing down a handful of the powder when she calls to him. “Malfoy, wait—”

He doesn’t think about the possible repercussions of fleeing from a healer, of fleeing from Granger of all people, the only thought running through his head as he’s engulfed by the flames is how he needs to get away from her and her worried eyes.

He doesn’t deserve her concern.

August 8, 2002

He startles awake, hanging suspended between grappling for consciousness and holding on to the last images of sun-kissed skin against his tongue. He blinks away the fog clouding his mind and searches for the source of his sudden waking, feeling a throbbing behind his eyebrow that somehow falls into beat with the knocking outside his door—

He’s on his feet and rushing out of the bedroom, wand at the ready. The frontal lobe of his brain catches up to his adrenal glands just as he reaches the front door. He reasons with himself—the wards wouldn’t have allowed just anyone within 20 yards of the door, and since the knocking isn’t a figment of his imagination, he can only imagine that it’s someone from the ministry on the other side of the door. With a wandless flick of his wand, the door opens.

Draco hadn’t known who exactly to expect, but he had not expected to see her. Her hand is raised mid-knock, her hair is flattened down by the knit cap keeping her ears warm, and her eyes are wide and bloodshot as they stare back at him in shock.

He barely has time to open his mouth and call her name before her face contorts and she starts crying, right there by the doorway. Something in his chest constricts at the sight and he almost rubs at it to soothe the sudden painful throbbing radiating right above his left breast.

In the back of his mind, he suspects that it might be his heart aching at the sight of her tears.

“Can I come in?” she asks, uselessly wiping at tears that are only followed by others. She all but collapses into his arms when he moves to pull her into the flat.

He tries to lead her over to sit on the settee but she shakes her head at him, hands clinging to the collar of his shirt and effectively wrinkling the fabric. He blames the epinephrine still coursing through his blood vessels when he finds himself leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. He freezes, lips still pressed to her skin, waiting for her to shove him away for daring to do something so intimate to her of all people.

Hermione releases her hold on his collar, her hands travelling upward to cradle his face. She tugs him down until their lips meet in a soft kiss, Draco all too cautious to deepen it and risk scaring her away.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks against his mouth, breath washing over his face and leaving behind a distinct scent of chamomile and peppermint. He wonders if he’s being manipulated, wonders if he should allow himself to be manipulated by soft lips and cold hands.

Why?

“Please.”

“Okay.”

Hermione transfigures her clothes into something more sleep-appropriate and Draco slips away to prepare her a cup of tea. When he returns, she’s already settled in the middle of the bed, hands fidgeting with the edges of the quilt. She spots the cup he’s holding and reaches out to take it from him.

“Thank you, Draco,” she says, turning to him as he moves to sit net to her. “For all of this.”

He frowns down at his own hands, the adrenaline from before already well out of his system by the time he’d finish preparing her tea. Chamomile, the same thing she had chosen the last time she was there, with one heaping cup of honey and enough milk to turn the drink an ugly shade of Dutch white. She doesn’t comment on how he’s already committed to memory the way she takes her tea and he doesn’t ask her the barrage of questions assaulting his brain.

When the tears start flowing down her cheeks in a silent current, he takes the hand that’s not holding on to the delicate china in both of his. He feels foolish, offering her comfort when the whole wizarding world knows he’s the last person qualified to do as such, but she doesn’t pull away from his touch and the trembling of her lips still just enough for her to keep sipping her tea. Draco spots her wand lying on top of his bedside table and his grip on her hand tightens, the sight making him wonder when exactly he started to earn that level of trust from her.

He watches her lower the empty cup and start to pull away from him, moving to put the cup beside her wand. He vanishes the china with a wandless and non-verbal flick of his hand and allows himself to revel in the impressed look she gives him.

“Sleep, Granger,” he tells her. He moves to lie down, giving her enough space to decide the distance that would exist between them, telling himself that whatever she chose he would keep it that way all through the night. He watches her chew on her lip for a moment then promptly slide down to lie with her sides pressed against his. A few moments pass and then they simultaneously move, him raising his arm to circle her shoulders and her moving to place her head right above his erratically beating heart.

The silence stretches out long enough that he suspects she’s fallen asleep, her breathing even and her heart finally calm in its thumping. His own eyes start to drift close when he hears her soft voice whisper against his skin.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

He wakes up to lips pressed against his neck and he thinks this is how he dies, a bite to his jugular that will drain him of his pure and ancient blood. When Hermione does move to bite him, he finds himself moaning in pleasure instead of pain, his hands shooting out to cradle her head and keep her mouth firmly in place. She soothes the bite with a languid drag of her tongue.

“I thought you just wanted to sleep?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and dick already half hard in his trousers. “Granger.”

“Draco,” she responds, her own voice just the right amount of rough. Her hands move down to work on the buttons of his shirt and he finally gathers enough sense to still her movements.

“Granger,” he grounds out, firmer this time. “We can’t. We shouldn’t. Not when you’ve been crying all night.” He wants to add not when you’re vulnerable but thinks better of it, suspecting it would only grant him a hex or two.

“I’m sorry,” she says, extracting her body from his hold and completely turning away from him. She hunches forward on her sides, curling into a position that makes her look so small and makes Draco’s eyebrows draw together into a frown of genuine confusion.

“Why do I feel as if you’re under the impression that I don’t want you?” he asks, tugging on her shoulder to make her lie on her back and face him again.

“Because I am,” she responds right away. The next part comes a few seconds later, in a much quieter voice. “Because you don’t.”

The occlumency walls fall apart and he grabs her hand and places it right where he wants it, rubs himself using her palm for a few wicked seconds before stilling them both. “You’re as much of a fool as I am.”

Hermione resumes stroking him through his trousers, her eyes alight and her mouth parted. She pushes him down to lie on his back and moves to straddle him, her hand still on his cock while the other works on completing the mission of removing his shirt. She helps him out of the garment and runs warm hands down his chilled torso, leaning down to once again attack his neck with her lips.

His hands map out an exploration of their own, gripping her hips through soft cotton shorts and seeking out the skin hidden underneath her jumper. His hands reach up until the tips of his fingers tease the edges of her bra, feeling up the lace and groaning when he feels her hand leave his crotch.

She pulls back and whips off the jumper, watching his steadily darkening expression. Hermione reaches back and unclasps the final piece of clothing holding her back from being equally half-nude as he is and he watches with rapt attention. The bra falls away, tossed to lie forgotten somewhere on the floor, but his eyes never stray from the sight of her full breasts just inches away from his face. He swallows and her eyes follows the motion, smiling down at him and grabbing his hands to pull them to her chest.

The first time he had seen her tits, he had ended up worshipping them for the better part of an hour, not neglecting to tell her she had the most beautiful breasts he had ever laid his eyes on. He had been granted a sharp laugh for his eloquence, a laugh that quickly evolved into a drawn-out moan when he had wrapped his lips around one nipple and used the nail on his index finger to tease the other.

Now he holds both of her breasts in his hands, testing out their weight much like the last time, caressing the underside with his palms and watching the skin breakout in goosepimples. She leans back to rest her hands on his thighs, pushing her chest out to him and letting out breathy little moans that fill the room. Her hips start a steady grinding motion, the heat of her clothed arse rubbing against his cock enough to drive him half delirious with need.

He rolls her nipples between his fingers, alternating between slow rubbing and fast swiping. He leans forward, sitting up, and catches one hardened nub in his mouth. The answering moan eggs him on to suck harder, switching between breasts with an almost desperate edge to his movements. This close, her scent invades his senses and overwhelms the part of his brain that usually has him questioning every move, every thought, every word coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he tells her, lips pressed against a reddened nipple. She responds by further pushing her chest into his face and he is happy to oblige, continuing his ministrations on her breasts. He feels her hands fumbling to pull down his trousers and he lifts his hips high enough to assist her.

“It’s been days but I can still feel you inside me.”

Her words make him groan and he bites down on one nipple, just a light graze of his teeth. He helps her out of her shorts and her underwear, leaning back down to his original lying position with his hands firmly on her hips. “Think you can ride me, Granger?”

She takes his cock into her hand and the shock from the difference in body temperature has him biting down on his lip. She smiles at him, teasing her entrance with the tip of his length. “Not if you keep calling me that.”

“Hermione, fuck, Hermione,” he gasps, the syllables of her name rolling from his tongue with practiced ease. The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

He watches her sink down on him, her heat engulfing him and obliterating any coherent thought he was previously capable of making. His muscles burn from the effort it takes him to not move, to keep still and let her do everything in her own pace. He thinks his grip on her hips may leave bruises in the morning, but he allows himself the selfish thought, forgives himself when he doesn’t loosen his hold on her.

She stops when he’s fully inside her, their skin flushed against each other, chests rising and falling in tandem. Hermione leans down and kisses him, her face overheated and her lips slow and wet against his. He lets her take charge of the kiss, following her lead, matching her peck for peck, tongue for tongue. When she pulls back, he catches a glimpse of the scar on her arm and he’s immediately overwhelmed with the familiar feeling of guilt. He swallows, hoping to physically push back the thought.

“Take what you want from me, Hermione. Take what you need.”

For a moment she looks like she’s about to cry, but she swoops down and kisses him with ardour, catching his bottom lip in between her teeth and giving a painful bite that she quickly soothes with a swipe of her tongue. She doesn’t break the kiss when she starts moving, moaning against his lips with every thrust.

He kisses the side of her mouth, making his way down to the spot beneath her ear that had her screaming his name last time. She whimpers when his lips touch the sensitive skin, her hips picking up speed. Her mouth attaches itself to the back of his neck and he feels her sucking, biting, leaving marks that he won’t hide with a concealment charm. The forward-backward canting of her hips transforms into a circular motion and he knows she’s close. Aside from the constant assault of his mouth on her neck and his hands groping her breasts, he keeps still, feeling her walls clamp down on him and her teeth press down on his neck almost hard enough to break the skin.

She lifts her head, kissing him while riding the waves of her first orgasm for the night. Her body collapses on him and he pulls out of her, still painfully hard, and moves her to lie down on the bed. Even in the dim light of the room he sees the flush of her skin, the light sheen of sweat on her chest and on her legs. He kisses her face, pushes away the curls stuck to her forehead, kisses the arch of her brow, both of her cheeks, the tip of her nose and the dip of her upper lip, and kisses his way down her body.

She shudders when he takes his time kissing her shoulders, biting and sucking and selfishly leaving marks that she’ll have to hide with a concealment charm. Her hands shoot out to tangle in his hair when he reaches her breasts, torn between pulling him away from the over-sensitive flesh or pushing him to keep sucking on the spot just centimetres from her right nipple. He promises to worship her tits later, when he’s inside of her again, and begins to move further down her body.

As he draws closer to her centre, her scent grows stronger. He kisses her inner thighs, careful not to touch the swollen folds of her cunt. Hermione has grown progressively louder as he grew progressively bolder in his exploration, his tongue dipping into her wet hole. They moan in unison and he thinks he may get drunk on her taste. He fucks her with his tongue, letting her grow accustomed to the feeling, waiting for her to come down from the high and demand for more.

When the last of the tremors from her orgasm fade away, his lips find her clit and he sucks the sensitive nub into his mouth. Her hold on his hair borders on painful, her hips bucking up into his face. He pushes her down with his hands, keeping her in place as he uses the flat of his tongue to massage her clit.

He alternates between swiping and circling the kernel with his tongue, using two fingers to fuck her hole. He feels her walls tighten around the appendages and he withdraws them, determined to make her cum using just his mouth. He sucks on her clit, pulling her impossibly closer to him and allowing her to mindlessly fuck his face. When she comes for the second time he barely hears his name pouring from her lips, her thighs clamping down on his head and effectively blocking out the world.

He doesn’t give her time to ride out her orgasm, pushing into her in one swift thrust. He makes good on his promise, kissing her to let her taste herself on him then moving down to worship her breasts once more. Draco only half recognizes the things she’s saying, a mix of familiar swears words and his name and then things his orgasm-deprived mind just can’t seem to put together.

“Your cunt feels amazing,” he replies when she tells him how good he feels inside her. “You feel so goddamn good, Hermione.”

“Harder, Draco, please,” she mewls, fingers clawing down his back and leaving even more marks for him to keep. “Please, please, I’m going to come again.”

She comes a third time, not nearly as intense as the first and the second one, but enough to pull him spiralling into his own orgasm. He spills himself inside of her, the euphoria of his release settling deep into his bones. In those blinding seconds he forgets that they’re former enemies, that they were only tentative acquaintances before this whole fling started, forgets that he doesn’t understand her motivations and forgets to question his own.

He doesn’t pull out of her, remembering how she had asked him to stay inside of her the last time, and he’s rewarded with a smile and a tender kiss. He moves them so she’s half-lying on top of him, the sheets shielding their naked bodies from the cold. He’s internally debating with himself on whether he should go back to sleep when she makes the decision for him.

“Sleep, let’s give it another go when we wake up.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He only nods, moving to gather his clothes from the floor. He finds his trousers first and slips them on, facing away from her.

“Not yet,” she amends, as if she had somehow known her response had hurt him. “In the morning, I will.”

He doesn’t point out that it already is morning. They had woken up multiple times during the night and had satisfied each other countless times. The first time he had been the one to wake up, pulling her warm body into his arms, kissing her shoulder as an overwhelming feeling of gratitude took over his heart at the sight of her still curled up beside him. She had taken it as him initiating and things had quickly escalated from there. That had been followed by more sleep and even more sex, and now the sky is tinged with a warm orange and he can’t bring himself to feel regret at the prospect of being sleep-deprived at work.

He looks down at her and catches her watching him, his shirt from last night hanging open on her shoulders. He wants to know if this is her own cruel way of revenge—false hope, a taste of what could have been and what may be but will inevitably never happen. He wants to know why he’s been allowed to feel as much as he has only for it to be violently taken away from him in the end.

“Come back,” she says, delicate hand patting the empty spot beside her on the bed. “It’s far too early to get ready for work, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you breakfast later. Get some more sleep.”

He retrieves a fresh shirt and leaves her alone in the bedroom, not turning around to give her a chance to seduce him back into his own bed. He waits by the door for a few seconds, listening for any tell-tale signs that she’ll follow him out, and breathes a sigh of relief when his ears are met with silence. The papers he had been reading before turning in for the night lay abandoned on the coffee table, the sight of them prompting images of Hermione stumbling upon them and asking him questions he can’t and won’t answer, even for her.

His legs carry him to the sitting room and he hastily shoves the papers into the drawer, eyeing the half-empty bottle of pills staring back up at him. He grabs it, pops one pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, then tosses it back in to join the papers. The drawer is locked with a flick of his wand and he starts to breathe easier.

There are many things he doesn’t know about whatever it is going on between them, but one thing he is certain of is that she must never find out about his depression. The thought that she had only slept with him four days ago out of pity had plagued his mind during the interim between then and now. It had taken him every logical cell in his body to convince himself that the impossibility of her finding out about his illness came second only to the impossibility of her sleeping with anyone out of pity for their mental predicament.

He had spent hours every day thinking about what had happened between them, thinking about how and why it happened, how he wanted it to happen again. He wouldn’t go as far as deluding himself into thinking that he was anywhere near done thinking about it, and her showing up in his flat and then fucking him senseless for hours certainly did not offer any help.

What he didn’t have any problem accepting was that there wouldn’t have been a repeat after the first time. Another thing he had been certain of—that Granger would never set foot in his flat again, that it had been a one-time thing. Then last night happened, and now she’s in his bedroom, possibly sleeping, and he’s in his kitchen preparing the ingredients for pancakes.

He’s finally going to put that tin of powdered milk to use.

Draco suspects that it’s the smell of food that has her emerging from the bedroom, his shirt buttoned up around her form and her hair resembling a nest of some large bird species. He’s torn between the desire to fix her hair for her (with his hands, not using magic) and the desire to see if it would be possible to mess it up even further. He slides her a plate of pancakes and pulls the tin from the cupboard, presenting it to her.

“Is that… did you get me powdered milk?”

His brain tells him to lie, to downplay the gesture, make up a story about seeing it during one of his grocery runs and purchasing it out of curiosity. He knows she would stop believing him the moment he tries to pretend he does his own grocery.

“Yes.”

She stares at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and he braces himself for the questions to come. “I have so many questions about that, but I must admit I’m more hungry than curious.”

It’s his turn to gape at her. The many years between them has given him the privilege of knowing enough about her to know that she must be burning to ask him, to clarify, to make sense of whatever it is that isn’t making sense to her brilliant brain. He watches as she pops the lid open and spoons out a generous amount of the milk, pouring it all over her pancakes. The sound she makes when her lips close around the first bite is devilish and he feels his face heat up.

“Here, try some,” she says when she catches him still staring at her. She catches him by surprise when she leans forward to feed him off her own fork. “Go on, it won’t bite you back if you bite it first.”

The milk is too sweet and it dries out the edges of the pancake. He tries to hide his grimace by drinking from his tea but she catches it and openly laughs at his reaction.

“Bit weird, is it?” she asks him, still eating the ruined cakes. “My parents made me these, but they had forgotten that we’d already run out of syrup. They were arguing about it, so I just grabbed a tin of milk and poured it all over my pancakes so they would stop fighting about the bloody syrup.”

He finds that he’s at a loss for words. He’d heard about what happened to Hermione’s parents, what she’d been forced to do to keep them safe from Death Eaters, from people like him. The sweetness from the milk turns sour in his mouth and he feels his hands begin to tremble. Once again he’s left wondering why she would ever associate herself with him, why she would ever trust herself to be vulnerable in his presence, why she would look at him and talk to him like he isn’t scum on the bottom of her shoe.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. The words are inadequate, useless, but he continues to speak. “I’m sorry about your parents. I’m sorry you had to do that. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear this from, but I’m so sorry about everything that happened to you during the war. I’m sorry about everything I did to you, every nasty word I told you before the war. I’m sorry, Granger, I’m sorry I stood by and did nothing but watch when my demented aunt did that to you—”

“Draco, shh.” He hadn’t even realized his voice had risen and had taken on a hysterical tone before she was suddenly standing before him, his face in her hands. “It’s okay, Draco, I forgive you. I’ve forgiven you. We were children. I don’t blame you.”

“Well you should,” he says, stepping back from her reassuring touch. “I was your bully, I was a Death Eater, I let those people into Hogwarts and let them torture and kill children. I called you that word, that fucking word, for years.”

She looks like she’s ready to argue but he doesn’t let her, speaking over her attempts to placate him and tell him he’s not a monster. “I let her do this to you,” he says, grabbing her arm and pointing at the word engraved there. The letters are still an angry shade of red against her skin, framed by other tiny scars that have already faded. “You lost your family trying to hide them from us, from me. Many people hate me, Granger, but none of them should hate me more than you.”

She looks like she’s on the verge of tears and he doesn’t know which one of them is shaking harder. He thinks she might slap him, maybe wake up from whatever delusion she had the he could be someone she should be sleeping with. Whatever they had, surely she’s going to end it now that he’s talked some sense into her.

“Are you sorry?”

The words are spoken so quietly that he half believes them to be a figment of his imagination. He stares down at her, into the fire of her eyes and the set of her shoulders. Forget a slap, he thinks she might punch him.

“More than anything,” he replies.

“Then I forgive you,” she tells him, moving to wrap her arms around his waist. With her head pressed against his chest, her voice comes out muffled when she adds, “And don’t you dare presume to tell me that I shouldn’t forgive you. That’s for me to decide.”

He doesn’t doubt her words, doesn’t doubt for a second that her Gryffindor heart has forgiven him. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if she’d forgiven him before he asked for her forgiveness; it’s simply her character to be the forgiving one, to be the person to look for the good in people even when they’ve been swallowed whole by the bad. He allows himself a moment to embrace her to him, pull her body even closer to his and kiss the top of her wild hair.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet her gaze. “Eat your pancakes, Granger.”

She’s redressed in her old clothes and about to floo in to work. He wonders if she’s not worried about people commenting that she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday sans the knit cap but decides to keep his mouth shut on the matter. There’s a myriad of questions in his head that he’d much rather voice but, just like the last time, he chooses to savour the last moments. He doesn’t know when he’ll see her again, but he knows last night had only been another moment of weakness on her part. She had been emotional over something and for some twisted reason he had been the one she sought comfort from.

It’s never going to happen again, he knows. A one-time fluke that just so happened to be repeated a second time, but he wouldn’t dare raise his hopes up for a third. The world simply does not work that way.

She looks like she wants to say something, her brow furrowed and her bottom lip caught in between her teeth. She looks up to meet his eyes and they just stare at each other for a few moments, her working something out in her brain and Draco just waiting for whatever it is she’s going to say.

“I never got to tell you,” she finally says.

“Tell me what?”

“I never got to tell you what happened, I said I would in the morning,” Hermione explains. There’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips but she looks nervous and he immediately regrets asking in the first place.

“It’s okay, Granger, I won’t pry into your personal business,” he says, feigning boredom. He sees a flash of trepidation in her eyes and wonders if he could fuck things up any further than he already has.

After a few terse moments, she seems to come to a decision and clenches her fists at her sides. “Would you like to talk about it over dinner?” she asks, her chin raised and her eyes staring directly into his.

He feels his mask slipping through his fingers, the surprise showing in his face and fuelling her confidence. His mind is reeling with about a dozen thoughts per second. She looks less scared and more determined, and she looks beautiful like this. She looks beautiful brandishing her Gryffindor courage. She looks beautiful in old clothes and with her hair smelling like his shampoo. She looks beautiful standing in front of his floo, standing inside his flat, she looks beautiful wearing his clothes—but she’s not his and why is she asking him out to dinner?

“Why?”

“To eat and converse, obviously,” she replies, her cheeks coloring. He thinks she looks beautiful like that too, flustered and annoyed at him. “Do you not want to, then?”

Draco decides then and there to stop trying to pretend that he would ever understand the inner workings of Hermione Granger’s head. He knows very little about her—she’s the most brilliant witch of her age, she eats her pancakes with powdered milk and takes her tea with one heaping cup of honey topped with an obscene amount of milk, and she uses about half a dozen drying charms on hair. She’s the poster girl for all Gryffindors, she’s a reluctant war heroine, she’s a healer and she probably overworks herself to near death. She’s the only girl he’s ever been in love with and she can never be his but there she is, asking him out to dinner.

“I would like to have dinner with you. When and where shall this take place?”

She giggles at his words and he decides that when she leaves his life for good (in the very near future, he knows) he would endeavour to keep the sound of her laughter playing in his head.

“Would tomorrow work for you? I have the day off,” she says, still smiling up at him. “I’ll bring takeout here.”

He realises that it’s only to be expected that they would have dinner at his place, not outside, not where people can see them and judge her for her choice in company. Whatever they are, it could never become public information, which is why he nods his head even though he doesn’t have the slightest idea as to what takeout is.

Her smile grows bigger and she also nods. She seems to hesitate for half a second before pushing on her tiptoes and kissing the corner of his mouth. The contact only lasts for a few blissful moments but it’s enough to leave him the slightest bit breathless.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

#dramione #harry potter #hp #harry potter fanfic #hp fanfic #hp fic #dramione fanfic #dramione fic #draco malfoy #hermione granger #my writing #my fanfic #smut #angst #hp angst #dramione angst

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venmomejoy · 5 years ago

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The Lucky Ones- pt. 3

ugh writing is so hard sometimes why do i do it

hope you guys are liking the fic so far! feel free to drop any comments, i love hearing from you all :)

part one / part two / part four

read it on AO3 here !!

The studio was huge.

Neil expected it to be big, but this was incomprehensible. It would take him days to map this place out. It made Neil nervous; his mother always took care to keep them away from large buildings- there are too many places for someone to hide in a big space, too many nooks and crannies he might not know about where someone could lurk. Smaller places were far easier, where you could check the entire space for attackers in a matter of minutes, where no one can sneak up on you, or catch you by surprise. He tried to absorb as much of the layout as possible, retracing every turn they've taken until the building starts to take form in his head, vague and nondescript as it may be.

Neil couldn't figure out how to hold onto his bag without raising any more suspicion than he already had in the car, so when Dan showed him to his trailer, he took care to hide it in the safest place he could find. Given, that was the cupboard underneath the bathroom sink, so Neil didn't exactly feel secure in his location of choice. He made sure to lock the door on his way out, but the thin metal sticks in his bag reminded him that locks can easily be picked. He was reluctant to leave when Dan beckoned him on, deciding they had spent time enough on the trailer and that they needed to move on if they wanted to see the whole studio before midnight, but he relented before anyone could notice his hesitance. Throughout the whole tour, every set and editing room and lounge, Neil felt the faint thrum of anxiety never leaving his skin, even as he focused on all the new information he was receiving.

The tour took more than a few hours, Dan and Matt talking extensively on every area they stopped at. Seth and Allison hadn't acknowledged Neil much, besides the casual glares Seth threw at him, too wrapped up in each other. Renee had the occasional soft-spoken comment, but for the most part left the talking to Dan and Matt. Neil appreciated all of the tips, a mix of things he already knew and things he made sure to store for when they began filming, but the influx of information was a little overwhelming. Throughout it all, a thought kept pressing his way to the front of his mind- his mother would be so disappointed in him.

Not just disappointed. No, she would be livid. She dedicated her entire life to keeping him safe, and he had thrown it all away. In all their years on the run, she had always put his safety first, had always made the hard decisions to keep him protected. Even when she was fatally shot, she kept pushing for his sake, not even letting on how grave her injury was until they had gotten to safety. But by then, it was too late. And all of the promises he had made her as she took her last breaths, all of the promises he had made to himself as he threw a match in the old car and watched it burn into ashes, taking her body with it, were destroyed. She had given up her life to keep him safe, and he answered her sacrifice with disrespect, practically spurning the freedom she fought so hard to give him.

Neil could feel his throat closing in. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he panted, willing his hands to stop shaking. Neil quickly excused himself as he rushed to the restroom, but not before he saw the concerned faces of his castmates. He would have to deal with their prying questions later, but right now all he could think about was his mother, how she would hate him, how he couldn't breath-

Neil braced his knees on either side of the toilet as soon as the stall closed behind him, the restroom blissfully empty. His stomach heaved, but he couldn't throw up food he never ate, so Neil sat and heaved and gasped until his heart stopped racing, until his breathing became even again. He didn't have time to panic. Panic left you vulnerable, and wasted precious minutes. So he pulled himself up and rinsed his mouth out in the sink, even though no bile had come up, expertly avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

When he left the bathroom he walked straight into his castmates, almost bumping directly into Matt's chest. It looked as if he had interrupted their deliberation session on whether to come in and check on him. He's glad they didn't. He doesn't need his new coworkers to see him like that after knowing him for one day. Neil pulls on his calm and collected face, though he's sure the remnants of his breakdown are still visible. Let them come to their own conclusion about what went on in there.

"Neil, are you okay, man?" Matt asked, the concern on his face mirrored by all the others, excluding Seth. But it wasn't just concern- there was pity there too. Neil didn't know how much Wymack had shared with them of the little he knew himself, but if his backstory was set in context to this, he was making a sorry first impression.

"I'm fine. Sorry for stopping up the tour." Whether they believe him or not, he can't tell, but his hard face leaves no room for inquiry.

"Don't apologize, Neil," Renee says. Neil's stomach turns at her saccharine tone.

"This was the last stop anyways. We can head home now, if you're ready," Dan notes, a look of understanding on her face. He almost laughs. There's no possible way she could understand.

"Sure, I just need to get my stuff from my trailer."

The group goes back the way they came, with significantly less talking this time, and the others wait patiently while Neil retrieves his bag, his trailer mercifully untouched.

The trip to the parking lot was filled with excited chatter, his castmates telling him about how excited they were for their character's plot this season, which couples they thought would make it to the end of the season and which would hit the chopping block, old scandals amongst the crew. Neil tried to contribute when he could, but the conversation seemed to go largely over his head, so he was content just to listen.

Matt addressed him after a while. "So, Neil, you've met the Monsters?" When Neil tilted his head in confusion at the name, he clarified. "Andrew, Nicky, Kevin, and Aaron. We call their group the Monsters, because those four are tyrants."

"Oh." After years of running from people who want him dead, Neil thought he had a pretty good radar for people that are threatening. He could understand the name for the twins, but Nicky didn't seem the aggressive type at all, and Kevin while seemed like a hardass, but he would probably roll over at the first sign of real conflict. "Yeah, I talked to them a little. Kevin and Andrew came with Wymack to pick me up, and I spoke with Nicky and Aaron for a few minutes right before I met you guys."

It was Allison who spoke up this time, the first real thing she'd said to Neil all day. "What a way to start your first job. You're scrappy-looking, but I'm still surprised that group didn't run you straight out the door."

Matt was inclined to agree. "Yeah, if I'd met Andrew on my first day, I never would have started acting. I have a good amount of experience and he still makes me question my career choice every day."

"Kevin, too," Dan says. "He's not as outwardly aggressive as Andrew, but with how hard he pushes us? I don't think I would have lasted a day if it was my first."

Renee glanced back over at him. "They're not that bad, Neil, don't let them scare you."

He was tempted to ask her if he looked scared to her. Andrew didn't frighten him, definitely not as much as he probably should. He knew Andrew's medication made him a little crazy, if not borderline psychotic. Andrew's medication was court-mandated, a sentence that, coupled with extensive therapy, allowed him to avoid jail time after he had almost beat four men to death when he caught them attacking Nicky. Neil knew Andrew probably had no qualms about hurting him, but he had far larger threats to worry about, and he had always had a hard time reconciling threat level with age. Even if he knew a younger man was dangerous, he didn't feel very frightened because he had been so conditioned to fear older men, like his father. In the same way, even obviously harmless middle-aged men put Neil's every muscle on edge.

They reconvened with Andrew's group as they made their way to the row of cars. "So, what did you think of our humble abode?" Nicky asks.

"It's huge."

"Yeah, it's easy to get lost in there for the first couple of weeks, but eventually you'll know this place like the back of your hand. We spend too much time here not to."

Neil looks back over at the building, wondering how long it would take for him to feel comfortable here. He was inclined to believe he never would. Glancing back, Neil catches Andrew's heavy gaze. Gone was the sarcastic humor and thinly veiled contempt, replaced with... nothing. Andrew wasn't glaring at Neil, but the look definitely wasn't friendly; he was just staring. Andrew's face was empty, void of any emotion at all. He must be coming down.

Without a word, Andrew turns and pulls himself into the driver's seat of an expensive black car. Turning towards the group, Neil asks, "Are we going to the cast house?"

"Yeah, it's only about a ten minute drive from here. Perfect for when your dead-tired leaving set at 4 am." Matt says. "You came with Wymack?"

"Yeah. Does he stay there too?"

They all chuckle a little. "God, no," Matt says. "He'd kill us if he had to spend that much time with us. He has his own place, but it's pretty close by."

"Oh, okay." That lifted a weight off of Neil's shoulders. He would never be able to relax if he was under the same roof as Wymack.

A honk draws their attention back to Andrew, the rest of the monsters going to join him in the car. When Neil just looks at Andrew through the windshield, he cocks an eyebrow at him silent demand. Neil knew better than to protest. "I guess I'll see you guys in a few?"

Matt and Dan both sent him disapproving looks. "Are you sure? There's space in Matt's truck," Dan says, sending a searching look towards the Andrew's car, as if she were trying to figure out why they were interested in Neil. He wouldn't mind knowing himself.

"I already told them I'd go with them. It'll be fine."

Matt shrugged. "Whatever you say, man. But that group is psycho. If they go too far, just let me know. I have no problem with kicking Kevin's ass if you need me to." He smiles warmly at him.

Neil shoots him a puzzled stare. Matt just met him, why would he be offering to stand up for him? He has no attachment to Neil. "I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."

Matt looks unconvinced. "Okay, well, the offer still stands as long as you're here, alright?"

"Okay." Neil inclines his head at the two before stalking over to Andrew's car, sliding into the backseat next to Aaron and Nicky. Andrew peels out of the lot before Neil can even buckle his seatbelt.

Kevin and Nicky fill the short car ride with idle conversation, asking Neil about what he saw in the tour and what he thought of the sets. Nicky shares all kinds of stories from when they shot the earlier seasons when Kevin begins speaking in rapid French to someone over the phone. Neil was competent in French, but not fluent, and Kevin was speaking too fast for Neil to understand anything, so he focused on what Nicky was saying instead. Neil didn't mind Nicky dominating the conversation; he didn't have much to say anyway, and he was feeling tired after spending so many hours wandering around the studio

As Andrew swung the car into the driveway, Neil admired the house from the his window. It was huge, at least three stories, with sweeping windows and a spacious lawn; the porch alone was the size of some of Neil's old homes. The blend of brick and stone made the house feel classy and elegant. Neil's gawking was cut off as Andrew drove into the garage. Nicky practically pulled him out of the car, insisting on giving him a tour of the place. The door from the garage opens into a small hallway, with a break that leads to a laundry room before opening up into the kitchen. Kevin and Aaron follow them, but Andrew disappeared somewhere along the way. "Where did Andrew go?"

"He went to dose up," Kevin answers. "If he didn't take his medication soon, he'd be bent over a toilet somewhere."

"He'll be up in the clouds when he comes back," Nicky says, a little sadly. "That's the cycle: mania and apathy."

Neil didn't know what to say, so he turned back towards the kitchen, running his fingers along the marble countertops. Nicky's phone pinged, and he glanced at it before addressing them. "Matt says their going to pick up dinner. Chinese okay with you, Neil?"

He nods, and Nicky quickly types his response before pulling a smile on again, resuming Neil's tour. The inside of the house was as luxurious as the outside, fit with plush carpet and expensive-looking paintings. The lower level seems to have an open floor plan, the living and dining rooms visible from the kitchen. A large flatscreen TV sat across from a red couch that could easily seat five people. Two armchairs bracketed the couch, a plethora of throw pillows adorning all three. The extravagance made Neil uneasy; this much money just poured into fanciful items... he couldn't fathom it. There had never been time for him to buy anything for himself. They had limited resources, his mother always reminded him. They could not afford to buy things they didn't absolutely need.

"There are two bedrooms on the bottom floor. This one's Kevin's," Nicky said, pointing between two closed doors, "and the other is shared by Renee and Allison."

"Allison doesn't stay with Seth?"

"It's like Matt said earlier, those two are really on-again, off-again. When they fight, they can't even stand to look at each other, let alone sleep next to each other. They argue so often we thought it'd be easiest to just give them separate rooms, so Allison stays with Renee when she's on the rocks with Seth, and when they're doing well, she stays with him."

Neil's head already hurt trying to understand their dynamic. "Sounds complicated."

"Just wait until you see it for yourself. Their screaming matches are legendary." Nicky chuckles.

The four of them go up the first flight of stairs, which opens into a large sitting room, two twin hallways branching from it. Down one is Nicky and Aaron's shared room, and down the other is Seth's, as well as Dan and Matt's room. Fans of The Foxes loved Dan and Matt's relationship. The two met on set during season one, Matt playing Dan's love interest, and their romance quickly evolved off-screen.

"We tried to put the two couples as far away from the rest of us as possible," Nicky informs him.

"Not far enough," Aaron grumbles. "I don't know how it's possible for Allison and Seth to be that fucking loud."

"Oh, come on, Aaron, no tolerance for young love? I'm sure Neil knows how to make a girl scream," Nicky jokes, nudging Neil's shoulder.

Neil froze. "What?" There's no way they know who his father is, now way they meant it like that-

"Unless you swing, like me, which is totally cool. Makes my job easier, anyhow." Nicky winks at him.

Aaron groans. "Jesus, Nicky, can you not be a fucking creep for one second?"

"Hey, I didn't do anything! I'm just saying that if Neil was interested-"

"He just got here, and you have a boyfriend."

"You know Erik doesn't mind-"

This conversation was giving Neil a headache. "I don't swing."

"Damnit, you like girls?"

"I don't like anything. Can we keep moving?"

They grudgingly obliged. The layout of the third floor was pretty similar to that of the second, a large lounge opening into two hallways. One held Andrew's room, the other his. Nicky led him down Andrew's hallway, showing him to space, the door firmly closed. But as they turned to move towards his room, the door swung open, a doped-up Andrew standing on the threshold.

"Oh, joy, my favorite people coming to pay me a visit! Sorry, but I'm not in the mood. Do stop by another time!" Andrew grins.

"Sorry, Andrew, I was just showing Neil around. We're heading to his room next."

"Lucky for you, I know exactly where that is! If I cared more, perhaps I'd take you there. Unfortunately, I don't." Andrew threw his head back in laughter, pushing past them as he bounds downstairs. One look at the others' face and Neil can tell this behavior is commonplace.

Neil follows Nicky into the opposite hallway, Kevin keeping pace with them while Aaron hangs behind. Kevin had been abnormally quiet during this tour; Neil felt like he was gauging his reaction to everything, trying to feel him out. He refused to balk under his scrutiny.

Nicky paused dramatically with his hand on the doorknob, as if bracing them all for a great reveal, which was just a bedroom. Admittedly, it was easily the nicest bedroom he'd ever laid eyes on, but he imagined the others were used to the luxury by now.

Neil's eyes widened as he took in the huge space, the deep wood of the four-poster bed, the dresser that was far too large for the eight outfits he owned. A door opened to an en suite bathroom with a walk-in shower. It was the nicest place Neil had stayed in his entire life.

"It's good that you are the only addition to the main cast this season, since this was the last free bedroom we have. If there were any others, they'd have to stay in the pool house." Nicky joked. A quick peek from his window confirmed that, yes, there was a pool, clear blue water glinting in the setting sun. It was large, surrounded by lounge chairs and what looked to be a volleyball pit off the side.

"How do you guys afford this place?" He had been concerned about wasting his resources on housing before, but this was worse than he imagined. The house had to be millions of dollars, especially considering Los Angeles's real estate prices. He could not afford to spend this much money, since he still had a lifetime on the run to finance after his stay here.

Kevin finally spoke up. "You'd be surprised how large a salary is for a core actor on a show this popular."

"How much do we all pay for rent?"

"None," Nicky laughed. "Allison is practically an heiress. She has so much money it's stupid. She bought the house back when we first started the show, and she pays for the whole place."

Neil tilted his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "Why would she do that?"

"Because she has money to blow, so why not?" Nicky's smile faded a little as he took in Neil’s expression.

Kevin interrupted their conversation. "Dan and the others should be back soon. Let's head to the living room to wait for them."

They found Andrew on the couch, mindlessly surfing through channels, his focus anywhere but on the TV. When he saw them approaching, he tossed the remote unceremoniously onto the cushion next to him. "Back so soon?" Andrew gibes. "There's nothing good to watch, but it seems the universe has answered my plea for entertainment! Neil, tell me some of your deep, dark secrets."

Neil was tired of Andrew's taunting. "Leave me alone, Andrew."

"Oh, come on, Neil, don't be such a downer! Tell me, which one of your parents hits you, your mom or your dad?

"Christ, Andrew," Nicky groans.

"Could be both, I suppose," Andrew surmised. Neil simply fixed him with a glare, but Andrew was unfazed. "Your old director mentioned that you liked to wait until everyone left the theater to change out of your costume, said that a lot of times he gave you the keys and let you lock up. He thought you might be sleeping there. I'll admit, the duffel bag does add to his case, but why would you need to hide your body unless someone was hurting you? And I saw you leave that night, so you obviously had somewhere to go. So who is it?”

Neil gritted his teeth. He didn't need Andrew paying this much attention to him. "Stop trying to solve me."

"You can try to keep your secrets, Neil, but I'll figure you out soon."

"I'm not a toy."

"Oh, but you are," he smiled. "I've been needing something new to amuse myself with, though I doubt you'll last long."

"I mean it, Andrew. Don't mess with me."

"Ooh, the scary face!" Andrew laughs. "Yours gives Kevin a run for his money."

The doorbell saves Neil from answering. "I'll get it," he grumbles, eyes still boring into Andrew's. He strides towards the doorway to let the others in, a few of them presumably bringing the food in while Matt parks, but the cousins start talking before Neil is out of earshot, making every bone in his body seize. It isn't the words that alarm him; no, it's the language. Because Nicky was currently speaking in German.

Neil didn't know how they could know he spoke German. His mother had taken them across the world in an effort to confuse his father enough to lose their trail. Neil spent years living in German-speaking countries, namely Switzerland, Austria, and Germany itself, and as such, became fluent in German. Neil felt frozen to the spot, his every instinct telling him to get out of there, that they know,but as he listens to what Nicky is saying, it becomes apparent that they are not addressing him at all.

"What did you and Kevin say to him before he got here? When I showed him his room there was pure panic on his face. I thought he was going to make a run for it."

Andrew only shrugged. Aaron spoke instead. "Yeah, did you see his face when he finished touring the studio? He was practically green," he scoffed. "He's not going to last a week here."

They had no idea he understood them. Neil loosed a breath of relief, resuming his journey to the door. The whole encounter hadn't lasted more than thirty seconds, but it felt like thirty years to Neil. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins. If they didn't know he understood German, he wasn't going to tell them. He needed every advantage he could find, and if they thought they could have private conversations right under everyone's noses, Neil would play along.

He swung the door open, ushering Dan and Seth in, their arms full of bags of food. Everyone made their way into the kitchen as they dumped the food down on the table, Matt hanging the keys on a small hook as they came in from the garage.

After a few moments of everyone shoving food in their mouths, Kevin addressed the group. "Neil needs to familiarize himself with the previous seasons, so starting tonight, we are all going to rewatch the past episodes together. We need to finish all of the episodes before the table read, so we're going to have to start right away,"

The proposition is met with a series of groans from the cast. They probably all have better ways to spend their limited free time before the rigorous filming schedule overtakes their lives. "You guys don't have to watch it with me, I'll be fine on my own," Neil says.

"No, we all need to review the past plot anyways," Kevin says. "You should always review what has already occurred before you start a new season to ensure you are as prepared as you can be. Not only is it possible you have forgotten little details or nuances of the characters, but being explicitly reminded of your characters' backstory, personality, and motives helps you slip back into your role after so many months. So we're all watching the show, from the beginning."

Seth shot Neil a glare, muttering something that sounded like "fucking rookies."

When all the plates had been cleared, the group settled themselves in the living room. Dan and her group settled onto the couch together, while Andrew claimed one armchair, Neil the other. Aaron and Nicky sat on the floor, their backs pressed against the coffee table. As they dimmed the lights and started up the TV, Neil found himself completely engrossed in the show. He had always loved television, had always been able to completely lose himself as he watched these characters' lives unfold. Three episodes flew by, and Neil almost wanted to protest as Kevin shut the TV off, telling them all to get some sleep. They had to be up at the studio by 10 for their session with Abby, and it was already 1 am.

Neil felt too roused to sleep, excitement from watching the show and anxiety for his meeting with Abby tomorrow keeping him alert, so he decides to go for a quick run. Slipping into his running clothes, Neil stashed his bag in the dresser and takes off down the stairs, pushing the front door open and going on his way. Neil takes this time to familiarize himself with the neighborhood, although the darkness makes it hard to discern the details. All of the houses in this neighborhood are enormous, with neatly trimmed grass and tall columns on their porches. Neil makes his way around a few blocks before turning back the way he came. He's barely sweating when he reaches the house, so he opts out of a shower, ready to collapse on his bed from fatigue. Neil had barely slept last night, and had been walking almost all day.

But when he pulled out his duffel bag to change into some sleep clothes, he stopped cold. To an untrained eye, it might have looked like nothing was amiss. But Neil knew better. Neil always folded the tags on his clothes, and as he inspected them now, every single one was flat.

Someone had been through his things.

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levirens · 5 years ago

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[fanfic] opiate this hazy head of mine (chapter 1 of 2)

Title is directly lifted from the lyrics of Medicine - The 1975

CHAPTER 1

la douleur exquise: the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable

August 4, 2002

He knows for certain that she’ll be leaving soon.

He knows that once those eyes open, she’ll realize what a colossal mistake it had been to sleep with him, then she’ll be gone from his life.

Forever.

He has never been this close, despite the many cruel efforts on his parts to be physically near her.

The taunting.

The dirty looks.

The insults thrown at her face, right at her face, allowing him just a moment to be that close to her face.

Tomorrow she’ll be gone, but for now he allows himself to live in the reverie that she is his.

“Draco, are you awake?”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he imagines that his body visibly stiffens.

“Do you mind if I use your kitchen to make breakfast?”

She had said his name. His given name.

“Here, I’ll give you your shirt back," she replies, ignoring his declaration.

Maybe then her scent would be permanently engraved into the fabric.

Little triumphs.

“Do you have powdered milk?”

“No. Why?”

To have her.

February 11, 2000

Draco grits his teeth, mentally listing off a number of hexes that he could fire at the beady-eyed wizard sitting in front of him.

Draco feels a muscle twitch somewhere on his jaw. “And why exactly would such a thing be necessary in the first place, if I may ask?”

“When?” he asks, feeling the last dredges of his pride slipping away from his grasp.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Here’s a prescription for anti-depressant pills that you are to take if I’m to clear you for work at the ministry.”

“Mr. Malfoy, you have suicidal tendencies—”

“Harry Potter has suicidal tendencies, did you also diagnose him with depression?”

Draco raises his eyebrow at this, finding that the comment made him like his healer infinitesimally better than before. “I’m not depressed.”

“Enough.”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

Scared.

Don’t know how to buy these.

Don’t know where to go to get these.

Not depressed.

Can’t be depressed.

“This is the address of a pharmacy I frequent. You may think of it as a muggle apothecary of sorts. Just hand your prescription over and make sure you have muggle money on you.”

Draco takes it, hating the trembling of his fingers as he fights the urge to crush both pieces of paper in his fists.

“Come back with the filled prescription and I’ll give you your medical clearance. Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy.”

Now he thinks the healer would have listed off sporadic episodes of panic attacks if he hadn’t interrupted her.

“Malfoy?”

Fuck.

Of course he knows she works here; he had almost worked himself up into an early panic attack worrying that she would be assigned his healer.

“Malfoy, are you—” she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing at him. “Are you okay?”

He manages a smirk and a slight inclination of his head. “Never better. Goodbye, Granger.”

“What?” is the indignant cry. He’s already stepping into the floo and tossing down a handful of the powder when she calls to him. “Malfoy, wait—”

He doesn’t deserve her concern.

August 8, 2002

In the back of his mind, he suspects that it might be his heart aching at the sight of her tears.

“Can I come in?” she asks, uselessly wiping at tears that are only followed by others. She all but collapses into his arms when he moves to pull her into the flat.

Why?

“Please.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, Draco,” she says, turning to him as he moves to sit net to her. “For all of this.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“I thought you just wanted to sleep?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and dick already half hard in his trousers. “Granger.”

“Draco,” she responds, her own voice just the right amount of rough. Her hands move down to work on the buttons of his shirt and he finally gathers enough sense to still her movements.

“Why do I feel as if you’re under the impression that I don’t want you?” he asks, tugging on her shoulder to make her lie on her back and face him again.

“Because I am,” she responds right away. The next part comes a few seconds later, in a much quieter voice. “Because you don’t.”

“It’s been days but I can still feel you inside me.”

“Take what you want from me, Hermione. Take what you need.”

“Your cunt feels amazing,” he replies when she tells him how good he feels inside her. “You feel so goddamn good, Hermione.”

“Harder, Draco, please,” she mewls, fingers clawing down his back and leaving even more marks for him to keep. “Please, please, I’m going to come again.”

“Sleep, let’s give it another go when we wake up.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He only nods, moving to gather his clothes from the floor. He finds his trousers first and slips them on, facing away from her.

“Not yet,” she amends, as if she had somehow known her response had hurt him. “In the morning, I will.”

“Come back,” she says, delicate hand patting the empty spot beside her on the bed. “It’s far too early to get ready for work, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you breakfast later. Get some more sleep.”

He’s finally going to put that tin of powdered milk to use.

“Is that… did you get me powdered milk?”

“Yes.”

She stares at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and he braces himself for the questions to come. “I have so many questions about that, but I must admit I’m more hungry than curious.”

The milk is too sweet and it dries out the edges of the pancake. He tries to hide his grimace by drinking from his tea but she catches it and openly laughs at his reaction.

“Are you sorry?”

“More than anything,” he replies.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet her gaze. “Eat your pancakes, Granger.”

“I never got to tell you,” she finally says.

“Tell me what?”

“Why?”

“To eat and converse, obviously,” she replies, her cheeks coloring. He thinks she looks beautiful like that too, flustered and annoyed at him. “Do you not want to, then?”

“I would like to have dinner with you. When and where shall this take place?”

She giggles at his words and he decides that when she leaves his life for good (in the very near future, he knows) he would endeavour to keep the sound of her laughter playing in his head.

“Would tomorrow work for you? I have the day off,” she says, still smiling up at him. “I’ll bring takeout here.”

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

#dramione #harry potter #harry potter fics #fanfic #hp fanfic #hp fic #dramione fanfic #dramione fic #draco malfoy #hermione granger #smut #angst #romance #my writing #my fanfic #dramione angst #hp angst

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youarejesting · 5 years ago

Text

Me & the Ghost in Number 23 Part Eight

[MASTERLIST]

Summary: Moving into your new apartment on the dance academy campus, you hear it is haunted. You find yourself practicing your routines with the ghoulish resident in the second bedroom. Things get heated, except you know ghosts are cold. so…

Pairing: Jimin x Reader, Yoonseok implied

Warnings: SMUT, Oral female receiving. talks about death being dead he is a ghost.

Genre: Supernatural, Mystery, Drama, Romance, Action, sexy stuff and more. HONESTLY ALL THE GOOD STUFF.

Announcement: The idea of burning the clothes for ghosts comes from the Kdrama ‘Oh My Ghost’

[Tag yourself]

The next day was Saturday you spent the morning sleeping in, finally tending to your daily needs you were able to ease your hangover. Jimin was sat at the bench playing with a bottle cap pushing it back and forth.

“Hey, Jimin are you okay?”

“Yeah I am okay, just lost in thought”

“You looked like you got a lot on your mind, do you want to talk about it?” You asked sitting beside him placing the mirror in front of you both so you could look at each other in the eyes.

The resident ghoul hung his head, his thick lips pouting cutely. “I regret so many things from my life and one of them is never having a girlfriend, never going on a date and never really having anyone to love or love me”

“You were loved, everyone remembers you” you whispered quietly looking him over.

“For my dancing, nobody knew me, that was pretty clear with how it ended. No one noticed how I felt” he frowned “I had my eyes on mirrors all day every day and I just wanted to escape”

“Only to now be sat in front of a mirror as my own means of communication”

“I am sorry” you flipped the mirror down and turned to where he was, “I never want to cause you pain, I care about you Jimin. I know you like fruit and kimchi jjigae. I know you were close to your family. That you loved to dance. That you were self-conscious of how you looked and were hard on yourself.”

“That’s not everything”

“Then tell me everything, everything you remember, tell me every birthday and school year”

He lifted the mirror and you smiled at him “You want to hear everything”

The day was filled with Jimin’s memories, laughing and crying together as the sunset slowly set. You were making dinner talking about his years in high school. Until he paused and stood up slowly. “I have to go?”

“Go what do you mean?”

“I just have to go will you wait for me?” He looked sad and a little scared as he walked to his room looking at you in the mirror by his door.

“I won’t leave the kitchen unless it’s an emergency” You held up your pinky and he grinned holding up his in return. Making a plate of food you hear water running and the sound of crying. You bit your lip nervous trying to handle the tears and you frowned switching off the stove and pulled out your phone searching for something.

He stepped out looking completely exhausted and you rushed over, he was drenched and leaving puddles where ever he went. “Jimin, let’s not have dinner, let’s go out”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to take you out on a date” The blush on your cheeks was intense. He looked down at his wet clothes and you frowned, “How do you get dry?”

“Can you do me a favor?” Jimin gave you a shy smile.

Here you were a bag of clothes in hand and running down the steps, you knocked on Yoongi and Hoseok’s door waiting for an answer.

Hoseok appeared in just sweat pants Yoongi was laying in bed under a blanket. “Y/n How can I help you?”

“Do you have a lighter?”

“You don’t seem like a smoker?” Hoseok raised an eyebrow as Yoongi grabbed some pants off the floor and slipped them on before walking over to the door with a lighter in hand.

“What do you need it for?” He asked eyeing you up and down, “you aren’t going to do something stupid are you?”

“I am burning clothes, for him?”

“What do you mean?” He leaned in his tone hushed

“He said if I burn his clothes with intentions of giving them to him, he will be able to wear them, or something, I found some clothes in a storage box under the bed.

“Wait I have something, I know he will like. It was his favorite and I took it with me to remember him with” He went to his cupboard and brought out a beautiful black satin shirt and black dress pants. “He will love this one, and um I don’t know if it works with accessories of shoes, but these are his favorite rings and these are the shoe I bought for his birthday and never got to give to him because he had left”

Yoongi looked excited, and Hoseok was shocked that he was finally getting rid of these things he had been hanging on to for years. Yoongi looked happier since he met you and it made Hoseok happy but a part of him was jealous. He had been trying every day since they started dating to make Yoongi even a fraction happier.

You smiled taking everything Yoongi was willing to part with and headed out the back of the campus dorms and lit a fire in a large metal pot from your apartment you placed started the fire with some magazines you had and imagined giving the items to Jimin as you dropped each piece into the fire.

It wasn’t long before they had burnt down and you returned back to your apartment to see Jimin grinning his damp hair slicked back, He was looking a lot dryer compared to his soaked white singlet and shorts.

Jimin looked like a suave gentleman in his classic black ensemble. He was starring at the rings and shoes confused. “Yoongi gave them to me when I went searching for a lighter. He seemed really happy, said this was your favorite outfit and he had bought you these shoes for your birthday but never got the chance to give them to you”

“Thank you so much”

“Let me get dressed and we can head out for our date” You smiled ducking into your room, why is it this casual cute puppy Jimin had suddenly transformed into a Sexy young man.

Taking Jimin’s hand but holding it inconspicuously on your side bag so it didn’t look like your arm was holding the air. You dragged him to a karaoke bar and you were amazed when he sang, his voice was so angelic.

From there, you both went to eat and you pulled out a small mirror and grinned taking a booth towards the dark corner at the back. The night was amazing you watched the stars on the Universities Track field, the perfectly Manicured lawn was perfect for resting. It was now eleven-thirty in the evening and the rain poured down, you ran to the Dance studio as it was closer than the dorms.

Smut warning below this line.

You shut the door and took off your shoes and jacket, by the door and turned ready to ask Jimin if the date went well, “Jimin, did you have f-”

His lips were on yours as he moved you towards the mirrors your eyes lingering on his face more specifically his lips which were moving roughly against yours.

He turned you around and walked you forward until your hands caught the mirror. The only thing stopping you from running straight into it. He was whispering sweetly in your ear, his breath was so cold. His hands sliding up and down your hips traveling down your thighs and back up sneaking under your dress. Squeezing your hips. He was pressed against your back and you could feel his hard length against you. His slightly cooler body temperature made you shiver against him.

“Baby, let me make you feel good” He moaned into your neck and grazing his lips slowly up your neck and along your jaw. His hands sliding up your sides, your dress bunching up and his palms cupping your breasts before pinching each nipple and rolling them in circles. Your back arched at the pressure he felt amazing. He kissed your ear, eyes locked on yours in the mirror his soft voice asking you for your permission.

“Yes please, Jimin” He wasted no time pulling your dress over your head and looking you over.

You don’t know how he convinced you but here you were straddling his face your hot breath fogging up the mirror as you watched him ravage you. You didn’t want to miss anything so you tried your hardest to keep your eyes open. He was perfect, and you couldn’t help yourself from begging for him.

You came with an echoed cry that filled the dance studio. Not realizing you had shut your eyes from the intense pleasure you were almost scared to open them, this all seems too good to be true.

Once you had calmed significantly you opened your eyes to see the space between your legs empty, there it was that was the catch he wasn’t human. Looking up into the mirror you saw him in the previously empty space smiling up at you his eyes crinkled shut.

The two of you dressed and he shed a few tears thanking you for the wonderful evening.

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noirornothing · 6 years ago

Text

The Cider Field

Word Count -- 1956

Genre – Descriptive Drama, Established Business Partners

Warnings -- Brief similies related to child abuse and spousal conflict. Allusions to alcoholism.

“Evidence is dead, Tinsley.”

It was the end of the world as he knew it.

Empty streets haunted by the reflections of what may or may not have been eyes, tracking his every move. The invisible glint of a gun barrel under the streetlamps accompanied by phantom scuffing of leather shoes on the pavement.

He ducked into an alley, back pressed against wet, crumbling bricks as he listened—his efforts met with nothing but dripping water, pooling beneath his feet. Remnants from the rainstorm earlier that day.

Convinced he hadn’t been followed, Tinsley continued down the alley, traveling with brisk steps as he traversed the near-abandoned neighborhood. It was the district that separated his office from the more upscale facilities closer to the city’s core financial sector. Essentially, it was what stood between him and the only man who might be able to save his life.

A cat hissed on his right before scrambling behind some debris, earning a gasp of surprise. Once he recovered he discovered he was almost out—the bright lights of professional buildings shining bright in the distance, despite the odd hour.

Goldsworth hadn’t answered his calls. That meant either he had returned home for the evening, or he’d been targeted as well. The latter was unthinkable, so he refocused on the former. The home of Ricky Goldsworth.

Tinsley hadn’t ever mentioned it, but he knew the address—a short three minutes from the man’s respective office. An easy commute.

He picked up the pace, crossing a wide street which signified a transition into a finer neighborhood. The street was only three blocks away and there hadn’t been any cause for concern, but nevertheless, he bordered on running. There was no time to waste in love and war.

Thankfully not long after that, the apartments came into view— nice, but not overly extravagant, offerings. He conquered the staircase in seconds, racing up two flights after crossing through the unguarded lobby. It wasn’t until he reached the door marked 214 that he stopped, knuckles hovering just over the wood. He dropped his hand at the last second, opting to press his ear against the door instead.

Muffled voices. Charismatic. Scripted.

He knocked, three swift motions, and waited. His chest rose and fell with more intensity than he would have liked, but he felt it was appropriate regarding the situation.

A shadow appeared in the space between the door and the floor. No sound or twisting of the lock meant the man was checking to see who had come to his door so near to midnight.

“It’s important,” he said, once he was certain Ricky was listening. The shadow shifted, and the knob subsequently turned. For a brief second, he entertained the idea that it might not be Ricky at the door but shoved the thought down with the rest of his worries. There was nothing he could do about it if that was the case.

Fortunately, when the door slid open it revealed a figure that was very much Ricky Goldsworth.

He was clad in partial work attire—dress shirt, pants, and shoes still on, though Tinsley suspected a jacket had been discarded. His hair was undone, and an unfamiliar set of glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. The usually sharp, coy, and cutting eyes replaced with a soft confusion.

“Better than an inquisition,” the man said, voice a bit quiet as if he were still trying to make heads-or-tails of the situation. “What is it?”

“Someone broke into my office,” he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, where to put them. All he knew was he felt utterly exposed, stuck in the hallway. “And I think I know who sent them.”

That was all he needed to say as Ricky’s demeanor switched from leniency to business in the blink of an eye. The man stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in, and locking the door behind them once he did.

It was a well-furnished place, just as the man’s office was. Neat accents tying the place together which said he had either good tastes or an interior designer. But there was no time for that.

“I didn’t stick around, in case they came back,” Tinsley explained as they made their way to what appeared to be the kitchen, “but the files on my desk were missing.”

Ricky didn’t look back at him, instead pulling a bottle of scotch off the shelf and digging two glasses out from an unorganized cupboard. It seemed to be the least orderly sector in the home, as if most else went untouched. Tinsley noted the bottle was half empty, and subsequent bottles on the shelf were in similar states.

Ricky himself seemed a bit thinner than when they’d first met a couple of years previous.

“The ones regarding our favorite law firm,” Ricky guessed, pouring the drinks and sliding one over to Tinsley.

He wrapped a hand around the glass and took a sip, casting a casual glance out the window. “The very same.”

The other man swore and looked as if he might crush the glass with his bare hands. Tinsley leaned an elbow on the counter, trying to ignore the rapidly-firing signals in his brain to ACT.

The whisky vanished down the other man’s throat, but he didn’t return the glass to the table. Instead he moved to pour another and drank that as well. Once finished, he retired the near-empty bottle to its resting place before turning to face Tinsley.

“How’d they find out it was you,” he asked, as if discussing the weather.

“It’s like you said,” he shrugged, trying to ignore the persistent heartbeat in his chest, “the PD wanted a scapegoat.”

“It’s the beginning of the end,” Ricky said with enough scorn to make him feel like a battered child, trapped in the corner beside two feuding parents.

All he could do was nod in agreement. But what else could he have done? Turned them down and risk the entire department going after his practice for to non-compliance? It was a twisted world in which he had no say in being a consultant as soon as the force decided they wanted a new man on a case. A man who existed on the outside. The farthest target at the shooting range.

Both glasses discarded, they made for the living room. A faint, colorless glow illuminated the mostly well-done room, the charming drone of reporters acting as white noise. A few papers were sprawled across the coffee table. Tinsley recognized a photograph of the police commissioner at once.

“You know there’s nothing in those files to incriminate you,” he tried, though they both knew it was a futile effort. They’d become too embroiled in the affairs of other, more important people to find themselves innocent in the eyes of those who sought to criticize them.

If they’d been in the same positions as when they’d first met, things might have been different.

He’d been working a case regarding some missing funds—by no means was he an accountant, but they were charity funds, so he had made an exception. The funds had been funneled over time by a member of the board so that he could pay off a blackmailer. At first, Tinsley had thought he could kill two birds with one stone and pin a thief and a blackmailer until he’d discovered the reasons behind it.

“Heard you’re on my tail,” the other man had flashed him a smile from across his desk, casually reclined as if he were a confident client, “you might want to think twice about that.”

The Boardman had a secret mistress. The mistress had no money and a severely ill son who bore a striking resemblance to the barely compliant Boardman. So, in a bizarre turn of events, that stolen charity money had, at least in part, gone back to a good cause.

Though, once Ricky had found out where the Boardman's money had been coming from the smile had fallen off his coy little face, along with a promise to find other means of taking care of the situation.

Tinsley had never bothered to follow up on those means once he’d received confirmation that the funds would no longer be disappearing at random. But at the same time, he’d unknowingly been added to Ricky’s long list of business contacts.

They’d shared brief communications and overlaps since then, occasionally learning subtle facts about one another. Ricky, for example, had secured his own safety outside the boundaries of the law after forcing the previous commissioner to step down and be replaced by the current.

Coming together on the Night and Co. offices had been their most recent escapade and only true cooperation. The firm had been putting a bit too much pressure on Ricky’s business, and Tinsley had been dragged in by the forces that be. So naturally, they’d done everything in their power to prevent exactly what had occurred that night.

The firm had pressed where it needed to press, likely using its resources which had greatly exceeded both he and Ricky’s expectations and found the police’s consultant. Eliminating him would be the final straw, as he was the last in a fairly long line of consultants. After that, either the force would bend to the wills of organized crime, or the city would find itself engulfed in a power struggle the likes of which it had never seen. Countless lives would be lost, and all the remaining inncoents would be left to sort through the wreckage.

Tinsley would be the catalyst, and Ricky would be a simple casualty.

“Evidence is dead, Tinsley.” Ricky draped his arm over the back of the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion. Tinsley hesitated only a second before taking a seat on the other side. “And so are we.”

“I don’t want to die,” he said so softly it could scarcely be heard above the broadcasted chatter. It was some internal voice that only emerged in times of crisis—foreign to his day-to-day identity. But, once the images of brutal killings and blood seeping through pavement cracks invaded his brain, there was little else to do. No one deserving of the firm’s wrath had escaped it, thus far. In short, it was hopeless.

“That’s the difference between you and I,” Ricky said, eyes still closed. “I’ve been faced with that possibility my entire life. I may not welcome it, but at least I’m prepared.”

He peered lazily at Tinsley, who didn’t dare to sit back so casually. Despite their acquaintanceship, Tinsley was painfully aware of some of Ricky’s more controversial acts. Ones which only bordered on justified or dove hard into the opposite direction. The man was capable of far greater evils than he.

“But you’re more than welcome to join me for the finale,” Ricky watched him, careless as if he were considering which apple to pluck off a tree.

He didn’t answer, simply tugging his coat tighter around his body as the gore dripped and crackled in his imagination. Fear, potent and real, pervasive in every breathe.

Seemingly realizing he wouldn’t get an answer, Ricky rose from his seat and stretched a bit. He cast a glance towards what Tinsley imagined was his bedroom.

“Or just stay the night,” Ricky shrugged, and took a few steps closer, pausing in the doorway. “Either way, we’ve got an early morning.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Tinsley alone and terrified in an unfamiliar house. Eventually, he sat back, feeling the fabric press against his spine as he stared at the ceiling, listening for noises in the dark.

Left to wonder what might have been if the city hadn’t curdled like milk in the sun.

#cc tinsley #ricky goldsworth #buzzfeed unsolved #the cider field #i've been reading too much present tense #take me back to the PAST #practice piece #my writing

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