#and eventually its just two people throwing shade back and forth about how the other is 100% wrong actually

[joontier]

Subliminal in Scrubs | V2; report xiii

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, workplace relationships

warnings: swearing 

word count: 1.8k

g/n: decided on a bit of a filler for this one as a sort of prelude to future scenes 👀👀 ((likewise manifesting my plan to post another chapter this week))

[taglist]:  @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07 @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle @btsmakesmehappy @stargukkie @moonchild1​

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) |  navi. | m.list

Jungkook locks his apartment door behind him, jiggling the doorknob afterwards for ‘double security’ as one would usually call it. He grabs his backpack from the floor and places one of the straps on his shoulders and heads on his way. As he passes by two of his neighbors who live in the same floor, he nods at them, adding a brief hum in greeting. 

“Hey man!” One of the men, Jikwang (as what Jungkook believes this man’s name was), calls out just before Jungkook reaches the elevator. “There was this hot girl asking about you last night.” 

Jungkook raises a brow. He hadn’t really met anyone recently, besides that one cute law student who was looking for a new tenant - and eventually turned out to be your neighbor this whole time. She was cute and all, but she didn’t seem like the type that was ‘hot’ to these types of people. 

Jungkook racks his brain for anything, trying to remember the very few number of his one night stands.Surely,none of them would have gotten pregnant with protection on….surely? On top of that, he hadn’t really disclosed his address to a lot of people too, so there was no way someone would be looking for him, all the more a “hot” woman,as these two would claim. 

“Did she say what her name was?” 

The one beside Jikwang shakes his head, adjusting his beanie. He’d seen this dude a couple of times hanging around, but he never actually got his name.  “Nah bro, I don’t think you’re the commitment type of dude…” he comments, dark eyes looking at Jungkook from his head down to his toe. Who was this guy anyways and who was he to judge whether Jungkook was the type to enter a committed relationship or not? 

“She just...looked rich, rich. She had a driver... who helped her come down from a nice Benz.” 

Jungkook feels his heart drop to the ground. No way in hell. 

“I think her name was Hee something...Junghwa? I dunno man, I’m not good with names. But it sounds similar to that…” 

“Was it Junghee?” 

“Yeah I think that’s it…” bonnet-dude replies, tapping a finger against his chin as he approaches Jungkook. “You think maybe you can set me up? With you know…” 

Jikwang knocks the back of bonnet-man’s head. “I got dibs first, shithead. “If she’s not already yours though,” he adds, delivering a wink aimed at Jungkook. “Her friends will do.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at the duo. “No. She’s my sister. And she doesn’t have any friends.” A chill courses through his spine as he replies, wondering how she managed to find out where he lived, and why would she even reach out? Why now, when she had so many years to do so? 

Beanie guy simply laughs at him - if it was even considered laughing, when he was practically splitting his sides with laughter - like the thought of having a sister was hilarious to him. “You’re real funny, man. There is no...way...in hell… that that lady was your sister.” 

Ah yes, this man is a health vice personified. Jungkook notes the discoloration of his teeth, the god-awful odor coming from his mouth, and they both reek of alcohol and drugs combined. From a safe distance, Jungkook watches their amusement over the subject that is his sister, thinking about why he even indulged these two in the first place. For all he knows, they might have been shitting on him the whole time. 

“Sorry man. I mean...she’s rich and hot… and you?” Jikwang shrugs his shoulders. 

‘And he?’ What about him? 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

Jungkook clicks his tongue silently, clearly taking full offense with Jikwang’s statement. Did they just imply he didn’t look rich and hot too? Well, compared to them though, they’ll obviously have way longer to go. 

Jungkook blinks before equally returning their level of disbelief. “For real, bro?” These men diss him, won’t believe he has a sister whose aura dwarfs his by a million percent, and now they want him to set up a date with her? He shakes his head. Only crooks like these would say insane shit like this. 

If only this wasn’t the cheapest and most convenient apartment he could find to accommodate his daily hustle, Jungkook would have moved out of this crap excuse of an apartment building a long time ago. 

“Keep dreaming man.” 

“Hey, this is what I get for selling you my bike for a good price?” Jikwang eyes Jungkook, taunting him. 

“I owe you nothing. I paid for it ages ago.” Jungkook turns on his heel, leaving the two in the crusty ass corridor of their apartment building. He needs to get a new place. Quickly. 

With a sigh, he pulls on his down jacket, keeping himself warm as he walks to the garage. 

‘King Auto’ 

There’s a certain warmth that envelops Jungkook whenever he sees the garage, a place he’d rather call home than his terrible apartment building. It sits right at the corner of two busy streets, just six blocks away from his apartment. 

Funnily enough, it wasn’t him who first found out about the garage but the other way around. Well, technically, the owner did. Lee Dongmin, owner and manager of ‘King Auto’ repairs and restores almost all types of cars and bikes alike, occasionally servicing high-end cars on lucky days. 

Dongmin would usually see Jungkook pass by the garage in the morning on his way to the university or his part-time job.Well, being located at a busy street in the city of Seoul, there would normally be a lot of passersby but Dongmin knew these people either worked or lived around the area; Jungkook, however, always lingered when he walks past the garage. 

It had come to Dongmin’s knowledge a few months later that Jungkook purposefully used a longer route on his way, walking two extra blocks just so that he could pass by the garage. Dongmin hadn’t initially done anything about it, as he thought Jungkook simply took interest in cars - especially when the shop had its fair share of servicing cars from the western market. 

There was this particular day though one summer, that their paths would finally cross. Jungkook’s bike, the same bike he bought from sketchy Jikwang, broke down. Coincidentally just in front of King Auto too. Funnily enough, no one in the garage was familiar with fixing up bikes, but Jungkook simply asked if he could borrow a few tools and he’d fix his bike himself. 

Ultimately, Jungkook became part of the King Auto family. He’d spend his spare time in the garage when he’s not busy with his part-time jobs and on occasion, Jungkook gets to keep a tiny commission whenever he helps out with the repairs. 

Jungkook goes through the front door greeting the new receptionist, Clark, a good morning before heading straight to the garage. Jungkook spots a familiar shade of blue peeking through the scissor lifts, just by the end row. He practically dashes to the car in excitement, too thrilled to greet his favorite car he had worked on previously. 

“My baby!” The boy exclaims as he rests his chin on the Porsche Panamera’s roof. “Kook! Get your hands off that! I just had it cleaned!” gruffs Mansik from the other side of the car, flinging his towel at Jungkook who mumbles a sorry but continues to cradle the car, a little more gently this time. 

“If you continue doing that, you know a towel isn’t the only thing Mansik is going to throw at you.” Lee Dongmin’s voice is low, careful that the man he’s referring to won’t hear his words. “I’m glad he hasn’t resorted to tools yet...just a couple of smelly socks and a t-shirt that smells like it hasn’t been washed for months... “ 

“Fuckers.” True to Jungkook’s foreboding, Mansik does throw a sock ball from out of nowhere, one which barely misses Jungkook’s face. Dongmin simply shakes his head at his workers, who he has considered family at this point, Jungkook included. “I’m just glad none of that fell into my first coffee of the day.” Dongmin observes, drawing himself father from the Porsche and any flying objects later on. 

“By the way, the owner is actually here to pick up the car. I may or may not have mentioned your infatuation with it.” 

Jungkook almost instantly jumps to his feet, searching for the owner inside the garage, but disappointingly ending up with all the familiar faces at the garage. “Chill, kid. He just grabbed some coffee down the street,” Dongmin mentions as he takes a sip of his own. “Ah, speaking of the devil,” the latter states, nodding his head towards someone behind Jungkook. 

“Seokjin-sunbaenim?” 

“Oh hey! Wasn’t expecting to see you here...Jungkook, right?” 

“Yes sir!” Jungkook’s pupils shake, animatedly looking back and forth between the garage owner and his upper-level resident. “So...you’re the one who owns this Porsche?” Seokjin raises his cup, adding a small nod in Jungkook’s direction. He internalizes his excitement, before confessing his love for Seokjin’s Panamera. 

“And so, Dongmin here mentioned. Also said you were the one who fixed her up. Thanks man!” 

Dongmin looks at the two of them, eyebrows creased in the middle. “You two know each other?” 

“Seokjin-sunbaenim is a senior of mine at Woocheon.” Seemingly shellshocked at the new piece of information, Dongmin turns to Seokjin, “You’re a doctor?” The owner of the Porsche rolls his eyes fondly, “Yes, Dongmin. We can have lives outside the hospital too, you know.” 

“Anyways, ‘Mera’s ready to go yeah?” 

“Of course. Kook fixed it up just fine.” 

“Alright. Got a shift today man? Need a ride to the hospital?” 

Jungkook is tempted to give in, but merely fixing Seokjin’s car is enough honor for him and he can’t take advantage of his generosity. “No thank you, sunbae. I’ve already got a ride to work today.” Jungkook points to his bike on the other side of the garage. 

Seokjin tuts his disbelief. “You’re kidding me right? In this weather?” The older doctor points outside, then rubs his palm against his down coat. “No way in hell, kid. Get in the car.” 

“Really?” Jungkook mumbles, dimple on display as his lips form a thin line. Seokjin makes a hum of approval as he takes off his jacket while Jungkook dashes back to where he’d left his backpack. “He’s a good kid, Jungkook. Can be a bit of a delinquent sometimes, but he’s good. Take care of him, yeah?” 

“Huh,” Seokjin smirks, “this handsome face got nothing he can’t handle.” Dongmin rolls his eyes this time, “Seriously doubt we’re the same age honestly.” 

Jungkook returns to where the Porsche is parked, and Seokjin gets a spur-of-the-moment idea. The surgical resident throws his keys to Jungkook before settling inside the passenger seat. Jungkook, surprised as ever, simply stands there in surprise. “Well?” Seokjin asks, ducking towards the dashboard so he could take a look at Jungkook, “We’re gonna be late!” 

© joontier 2021

[moonbeambucky]

Hey Neighbor (Part 21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 3841 Warnings: fluff, angst

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: Here we are... the aftermath.. Feedback is always appreciated!

HEY NEIGHBOR PART 20 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

Sunlight streams down, shining in between gaps of the branches of the large tree you’ve nestled under, keeping cool under the shade as you turn the page of your book. The crisp spine cracks as you adjust your grip, taking a break to sip an iced coffee. You rest it carefully beside you, in the groove of the large root breaking up from the surface.

Central Park is active for a late morning, the chatter of people passing by, the carefree laughter of children playing in the distance. You wish you were as carefree as them. The book you’re attempting to distract yourself with is not working but still you force it, needing anything to take your mind off the events of the past weekend.

Normally you would be at work but an early email from Tony Stark alerted you to him being called away for the day and generously granting you a paid day off to “enjoy the weather.” You wish you could have appreciated it, having the chance to sleep in but doing so would mean you might run into Bucky and you couldn’t have that happen.

Instead you left for work as you normally would, stuffing a tote bag with a large book and a blanket. You treated yourself to breakfast, stretching the time out as much as you could before grabbing an iced coffee and finding a large tree to plant yourself under. You check your phone for the time, making sure you wouldn’t be late for your internship but no, you weren’t; in fact time was moving so slow you thought you gained an extra hour.

It isn’t fair that Tony Stark was so generous. You’d rather be working and had you known in advance you could have possibly rearranged your schedule with Elena but you weren’t the only intern so you had to wait.

And wait...

and…

wait.

A text from Wanda distracted you for a moment, though it really didn’t. Asking how you are only reminds you that you aren’t okay. You spent Sunday night crying your eyes out in her arms, wondering why you were so stupid to think Bucky could actually like you. You weren’t special, you were just a stupid girl who thought she could actually change someone; that somehow Bucky would veer from the path he’s always been on just for you!

What a joke. You cringe when you think about how pathetic you are. It was just sex, nothing more. Wanda was right, he’s probably wanted to fuck you from the start. The Music Man was an apt nickname for the man that played you like an instrument, knowing the perfect keys to hit, the chords you thought were opening your heart but really opened your legs.

Friendship never mattered to Bucky, no– James, the man who hid himself from the start, a dollar store recorder masking himself as a flute, whose only goal was to get laid.  

Coming home that night your eyes were so swollen you could barely see. You huffed up the stairs not wanting Bucky to hear the ding of the elevator as it opened on your floor. You even separated the key to your apartment so the jingling didn’t alert him of your arrival home. The last thing you wanted to do was see him.

You turned your phone off long ago, not wanting to even see Bucky’s name flash on the screen let alone hear any of his excuses. He probably wanted to smooth things over just enough to keep things peaceful between you, hoping that if you were dumb enough you would forgive him and fall in line with the rotation of other women he fucks.

Well you weren’t going to be like any of them. Desperate women, running over the moment Bucky texts before they lose their chance. Throwing themselves at him, hoping he’ll change their mind and love them just like you thought he could love you. But there is no room for love in Bucky’s cruel black heart.  

The following day at work you tried to hide your emotions. With makeup you camouflaged the swelling and painted on a smile but you couldn’t hide the truth from Steve. He sat with you over a tear filled lunch as you told him everything, making him swear to you that he would not talk to Bucky.

There may have been some guilt tripping involved reminding him how you wanted to confront Lillian after she cheated on him but you didn’t because Steve asked and trusted you not to. He suggested speaking to Bucky. “It doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.” Steve’s voice echoes in your head. “He’s your neighbor, you’re going to see him eventually. Wouldn’t it be better to work this out?” Steve might have a point but you’re not interested in hearing it right now.

He invited you to stay for dinner, and that night he and Peggy helped keep you distracted for a few hours. Only they and Wanda knew what happened and you wanted to keep it that way, not wanting to cause friction within the group. Thankfully Sam was working an overnight shift on Sunday because had he been there things would have escalated.

Sam is persistent and though he always means well you knew he would have tried to patch things up between you and Bucky on the spot. Knowing how you are you would probably have lost two friends that day, lashing out at their “help” so thankfully it hadn’t come to that.

You’re not even sure why you’re keeping this a secret. For all you know Bucky may have blabbed to everyone about what happened, and if he didn’t yet he probably would soon enough. For now, you decide not to share it with anyone else, burying what happened into the back of your mind, sealed by the iron door that should have been there to protect your heart.

The book holds your attention by gossamer strings as you reread the same lines over and over, lifting your gaze up to stare comfortably at the brightness of the world around you; bright green grass with pops of yellow and white dandelions sticking up, a cloudless sky that in no way reminds you of someone’s eyes. Looks like it’s time to go back to reading.

You ignore the sound of a guy yelling– nothing unusual especially for New York, but as the sound of his voice grew closer you decided to look up. Your eyes widened with shock as it was just in time to see what he was yelling about. It was too late to move so you braced yourself, the book dropping as a giant brown pitbull jumped into your lap, its bright pink tongue wildly licking your cheek.

“Get back here!” the owner huffed, finally catching up to the dog, grabbing the leash he had accidentally dropped. “Groot! I said get back here.”

He pulled the playful dog off you, sternly telling him to sit. “Groot, sit down, I mean it.” The dog stared back at his owner, tilting his head with innocence. The man rolled his eyes quickly before kneeling in front of you. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry about that.”

His eyes were as green as a picture perfect meadow as he stared back at you, with soft pink lips that turned down into a worrisome frown. He was handsome, sun kissed skin and golden brown hair, with the hint of dark stubble peppering his sharp jaw.

“I’m okay.” You choked on your words, finding it hard to stop the smile that was pulling at your cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I know he looks intimidating but he’s a sweetheart, I promise.” The man smiled, looking back at his dog, panting with its mouth open. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

Your name floated from your lips to his ears and Peter smiled, a boyish grin that flashed pearly white teeth. “And you’ve already met, but this is Groot.”

The sound of his name made the dog perk up and rush forward towards you. Peter caught him in time before he could assault your face with his tongue again but he couldn’t stop Groot from spilling your coffee.

“Aww Groot! Come on buddy!” Peter whined.

“It’s okay,” you laughed, picking up the overturned container. “He wanted to say hello again.”

You stuck your palm out low so Groot could easily sniff it and quickly his jaw fell open with a grin, his wide tongue soaking your hand as he lapped at it. He nudged your hand with his large nose asking to be pet and you happily complied, scratching under his chin as his tail wagged back and forth.

Groot nuzzled into your lap, his heavy body rolling onto you in a plea to be pet more. Peter huffed in frustration, looking to pull his dog off you but the smile you gave him said you didn’t mind. Both hands worked on making Groot happy, scratching his ears and rubbing his chest. Peter joined in too, rubbing Groot’s belly and softly slapping his side. Your fingertips touched briefly, electric tingles racing up your arm.

Peter cleared his throat of the nervous lump that settled there, tugging gently on Groot’s leash to get off you. When he saw you began to get up Peter offered his hand. There was little hesitation when you took it, feeling his slightly calloused palms against yours. You looked away from him when you were standing, brushing off some dirt from your thighs.

“I’m sorry, again,” Peter grimaced, your clothes were dirty thanks to Groot’s dirty paws. “I feel terrible, can I buy you a cup of coffee… to make up for what Groot spilled?”

Maybe it was Peter’s big doe eyes anxiously awaiting your answer or Groot’s beaming smile but you said yes, picking up your things and walking with them a few blocks to an outdoor cafe. On the way you learned that Peter was a firefighter and looking at him you didn’t doubt it. He was tall (taller than Bucky), with a broad frame (bigger than Bucky) and large bulging biceps (also bigger than Bucky’s, though his came close).

You shake away thoughts of Bucky because you do not want to think about him. And why should you have to? Not when a very cute firefighter with an even cuter dog was pulling out the chair for you to sit down as you got to know each other.

He grew up in Missouri, raised by his mom up until she died from cancer. He was eight at the time but the slight crack in his voice he tried to clear away as he talked about her let you know how much she still meant to him.

“She called me her little star lord ‘cause all I talked about was that one day I was gonna be a space pilot.”

“So how’d you go from space to fighting fires?” you asked, smiling at him as you leaned in closer on the table.

The wait for an answer was interrupted by the server bringing your orders, another iced coffee for you, coffee with a shot of espresso for Peter and a big cup of whipped cream for Groot. Peter held the cup in his hand as Groot swiftly lapped away at his sweet treat.

“There was a fire at my grandparent’s house. I was about fifteen, sixteen at the time. I helped them get out and ran back to grab my mom’s old walkman. It’s all I had left of her.”

Peter paused, almost anticipating a comment about how stupid it was to do that but you were quiet, listening without judgment and understanding. He lifted his lips with relief and explained that after that happened he knew what he wanted to do, hoping he could save people and the homes that hold things dear to them.

“Plus my grades could probably never get me through the door at NASA,” he joked.

You and Peter spoke for the next hour, telling him about your jobs and interests. He was really easy to talk to, with no lulls or awkward silence in your conversation, and he made you laugh a lot which is something you sorely missed these past few days.

When it was nearing time to leave for work you exchanged numbers, giving Groot an enthusiastic petting and letting yourself be enveloped by the warmth of Peter’s arms for a big hug goodbye.

You were surprised to find yourself thoroughly distracted the rest of the day, with Peter in the forefront of your mind, your heart swelling with joy as you read a message he had sent while you were working.

Peter: Hey Y/N it was really great to meet you. I have another day off before my shift and was hoping we could talk again… maybe even see each other. It’s for Groot’s sake really.. I think he likes you.. 😉

A smile reached your ears and you were quick to respond. Yes, you think you liked Groot as well…

Messages exchanged back and forth on your way home and throughout the dinner you were preparing yourself. Your phone buzzed with Peter calling, preferring to talk as Groot decided to lie on top of him like a log, and it was hard to reach around him and type. You spoke until well past midnight and for the first night that week you fell asleep with ease.

Peter stayed in touch throughout the next day and asked you out to dinner. It was last minute but you didn’t mind, the less time you spent at home the better. You decided to meet at a casual spot for burgers. The place was small with limited seating but you managed to grab a table on the end of a long row so you didn’t feel completely claustrophobic.

You didn’t mind sitting close to Peter, apologizing when your knee kept banging into his under the table, getting to see his big smile up close as he told you not to worry about it. He looked great, removing a sanguine red leather jacket for a form fitting dark t-shirt, smelled even better, like almond blossoms in the rain.

Peter was scheduled to work tomorrow, a typical 24 hour shift so he ordered his burger without fries not wanting to feel weighed down by the extra calories. The golden steaming potatoes tempted him from your plate and even though you offered him to have some he declined.

“I feel bad since you’re sticking with water,” you remarked, as your drinks arrived, his water with lemon looking a little boring compared to the iced cold beer that was brought for you.

“Don’t, it’s fine,” he said. Leaning closer the words fell from his lips in a low purr, “Besides I can always taste it from your lips.”

Fire erupted on your cheeks and luckily you were with the perfect person to extinguish the flame. You saved making out with Peter until after you left the restaurant; standing outside of your building with your hands scratching through his hair as his tongue caressed yours.

His lips pulled away with your soft moan still lingering on them, and as much as he wanted to continue this Peter knew he had to get some sleep as did you. Without any haste your hands let go of each other’s, fingertips still gently grazing as you pointed your hips towards the front door. Before you lost contact Peter grabbed your waist to pull you in for another kiss, because a few more wouldn’t hurt.

The elevator carried you upstairs even though it felt like you were floating and as you reached your door the bubble you were in burst immediately as Bucky’s door creaked open. You couldn’t open your door fast enough so you were stuck having to hear him call your name, a desperate sounding cry that reeked of insincerity.

“Can we talk?” he begged.

Through a narrow eyed glance you turned to face him, lips pursed tightly as you looked him up and down. Bare feet stuck out from the bottom of dirty sweatpants, his t-shirt was worn and wrinkled, and if you were being honest he didn’t smell great. Bucky’s hair was an unkempt mess with strands sticking up wildly in all directions and a thick shadow of stubble on his face.

For a moment your heart broke for Bucky until you remembered it already broke because of him. Ice set into your veins again as you stiffly replied, “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

The vibration of your phone in hand rescued you from a conversation you didn’t want to have in the first place. Seeing it was Peter your face softened with a smile that was once reserved for Bucky.

“I gotta take this,” you said, opening your door without giving Bucky the chance to say anything else.

His shoulders slumped, sighing defeatedly as Bucky trudged back into his apartment. It didn’t help that he could hear you through the wall, your voice light and bubbly. He crawled back into bed, past the instruments left untouched for days because the thought of creating something was hopeless; a daunting task that required Bucky to give part of himself but there was nothing to give.

Part of his soul died the day you walked away from him, not letting Bucky explain the horrible coincidence of running into a person he never intended going on a date with in the first place. You ignored his calls, didn’t answer his texts and probably rappelled up the side of the building into your apartment to avoid running into him.

If you did answer, Bucky would have told you the truth, that he did make that date long ago, that he made a lot of dates he cancelled because no one was you. He would have told you how he stopped setting up dates, that he cancelled all the ones he remembered before deleting his dating app, how it had been almost two months since he had sex and how none of that mattered because all he wanted was to give you his heart.

Everything he said over the weekend was true and he hates the fact that you won’t give him a goddamn second to prove how much he means it. Bucky rolls over, pulling the blankets above his head. He clutches a pillow close to him, a poor comparison to the way your body fit perfectly against his, shutting his eyes tight as he hopes sleep will come for him.

Friday passes slowly, the hand of every hour moving at a half-dead snail’s pace. Bucky waits to hear you coming home, having missed the opportunity to speak to you in the morning because as the sun was rising in the sky his eyelids were finally shutting. He anxiously waits for the ding of the elevator, rushing to his door to open it ajar.

His heart races as he hears the sound of keys jingling closer, pulling his door open with all his strength he’s surprised he hasn’t ripped the hinges off. But instead of seeing you approach Bucky shrinks, deflated and embarrassed to have Shuri, the teenager that lives at the end of the hall with her family, see him looking disheveled. He smiled, giving a half wave, swearing he could hear her call him a “broken white boy” under her breath. He shut the door only to wait again.

When Bucky did finally hear you come in it was late and he was a second too late, opening his door as you shut yours. He sent a text hoping you would respond to no avail. He heard you through the wall, the sound of your closet opening, the creak of the mattress as you get in bed. Bucky’s palm presses against the cold wall. It hurts knowing how close you are and yet you’ve never been further apart.

It’s a beautiful Saturday but Bucky can’t enjoy it. He paces the hallway in front of the elevator and stairwell; he is not going to miss your arrival. It’s nearing the time you normally get home from Metro-General and he prays to anyone listening that you aren’t making any stops along the way.

He needs this. He’s desperate to tell you what happened, so you could see the truth flow from his lips, the tears fall from his eyes as he begs for forgiveness of the misunderstanding.

The elevator soon grants his wish as the doors open revealing you, like the lustrous pearl of an oyster and Bucky can’t help but smile. You on the other hand were not expecting to see him. Bucky was in the same clothes, his hair a little greasier, with stubble that had grown in more. The brighter lighting of the hallway did him no favors, accentuating the deep purple bags that settled under his eyes.

He starts off right away, begging for a moment to hear him out but you strode past him, ignoring the way Bucky ran up beside you like a lost puppy looking for a home. Realizing you weren’t going to stop Bucky ran ahead, blocking your door with his body as he implored you to listen.

“No!” you barked sternly. “Get out of the way Bucky.”

He didn’t move and both of your frustrations grew. “You need to listen to me Y/N, you’ve got– ”

“Don't tell me what I need to do Bucky. You need to get out of the way.”

Not only did Bucky not move but he tried to grab your hand. You snapped it away, gritting through your teeth about how serious you were. You didn’t want to raise your voice and cause a scene with your neighbors if you didn’t have to.

“I just want to talk.” His voice was tight and Bucky fought hard to stop the tears from burning their way to his eyes.

“Well I don’t want to. Move. I have a date to get ready for.”

You stood firm, wondering if you would have to resort to having Clint come down and make Bucky leave, or worse, Natasha, but Bucky stepped aside, letting you enter your apartment without another word.

The slamming of the door masked the sound of the bubbled cry he let out, tears streaking down his cheeks. Hours later he heard a voice at your door, devastated to know you were telling the truth about your date, and dying inside at the sound of lips smacking together. He gave it a moment and opened his door quietly to see you walk hand in hand with some guy down the hall.

Bucky goes back inside, back to the safety of his bed, where he swallows Benadryl and soaks his pillow with tears as he falls asleep.

He dreams of better times, of your smile, of your touch, of all the days you spent together because in his dreams is the only place he’ll have those again.

He’s lost you.

PART 22

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

[sepublic]

Ant-Watching

           Y’all ever watch ants?

           That’s what I just did. I came back from running an errand for someone else, and I decided to go visit my local gas station, right near where I live, just to see if there was anything I wanted to pick up. But, my attention was quickly piqued by a long line of ants, strewn across the sidewalk surrounding the gas station. I was of course intrigued, and tracked them from one end up the brick wall of the gas station, and into the tiniest possible hole there. I’m not sure where the hole led, it seemed so tiny, and I’m not sure how such a small, precise little tunnel could form in the seams between the bricks, leading all the way into wherever it was, within the gas station.

           Tracing the other end of the line, I saw the familiarly-textured dirt of an ant colony, nestled within beneath the local, obligatory bush placed next to the parking spaces. I’ve gotta admit, I have to hand it to whichever Queen Ant established this colony, she chose the perfect spot… Or not. Being directly next to a gas station, in the patch of dirt and shrubbery as close as possible to it, that’s an amazing source of endless, reliable food right for this colony, so close and convenient!

           On the other hand, I could see the proximity to the gas station leading to the colony having an exterminator called upon it. I’d be sad to see it go, but alas, such is life. Ants keep making do regardless. I wonder what happens to ants who survive the destruction of their colony, the eradication of their queen- Do they just blindly wander until they starve to death? If you introduced an ant to a new colony, would that colony accept, or instead reject and kill, the poor little creature?

           I went inside the gas station, did some snooping. I couldn’t find where the ants were, but if I had to guess, directly on the other side of the wall they were crawling into; There was a countertop with a trash area underneath. Is this where the ants were getting their loot- Some small tunnel outside, leading directly into the inside of this dark cubby where all of the trash and food was dumped? Either way, it was such a jackpot for them, I felt weirdly proud of them despite having nothing to do with it.

           I went back outside, and I noticed on my way back to the line, bristling and bustling with ants crossing by one another in opposite directions, that there was a dead bug. Quite a bit away from the line of ants, it was the dessicated corpse of… A cockroach? A beetle? I wasn’t sure what. Regardless, I wondered if the ants could make use of it; Or if they already had, the corpse seemed not much more than empty, chitinous shell, which might’ve been too hardy for the ants to break apart. Or, maybe they hadn’t bothered because it was too far away…

           To test my theory –because I honestly didn’t care if people were watching, I was allowed to do what I wanted, and as corny as it may sound, I think Dana Terrace and The Owl House helped me develop the bravery to be as weird as I wanted in public, and it’s enriched my day greatly for it- I skidded and lightly kicked the dead bug, all the way to the ant line. And, success! They seemed attracted to it, and next thing I knew the bug was bristling with shiny little ants; I’d accidentally overturned it while moving the dead bug, and exposed its much softer underbelly, ripe for the taking and picking! Now I felt proud, and this time it felt earned because I DID contribute, I did help with something the ants couldn’t have done on their own! I did good.

           So, I’m getting a bit existential about the life of ants. How it’s all long, thankless, endless work, as they drag food back, go on an arduous trek that for us giants, is just a few steps. Rinse, repeat, help feed the young, and so forth; Survive, but for what purpose? There is no downtime. Such is life, it’s interesting how we developed from just basic propagation, to really enjoying the fruit of existence; But only after we ensured it’d last, that we had reliable stuff to keep going on through. In the meantime, I decided to go back to the brick wall. There was another, tiny little hole, and I could see what looked like the tiniest little… egg shell? It was a shell of some sorts, gradually being dragged through, as if unclogging this second hole.

           I was half-tempted to help the ants with it, but I decided not to interfere, in case I did something wrong, or if I misunderstood what they were getting at. But, I later checked, and indeed they had dislodged it, and were now moving down the length of the wall with it! It was a roly-poly shell, I wonder what killed it- The ants, its own natural lifespan? But as I checked, I noticed this one particular ant, hauling a crumb of food bigger than the others I’d seen. While other ants returned from the gas station with tiny little beadlets of food, this ant had a larger, misshapen, yellow-ish grain of something. I wasn’t sure what, but it seemed an arduous and difficult task to handle it, to get it down the side of a vertical brick face.

           But, when I checked on the ant again- It succeeded! It was on the ground, scooting the grain, one gradual, agonizing millimeter at a time. I turned back to the dead bug, thought about helping the ants by pushing it all the way, right next to their nest; I grabbed a dead stick nearby that seemed sufficient, and for a moment I reveled in the power I had. I was no longer a child who’d be grabbed along by my parent and told not to mess around- I had the freedom and autonomy to observe insects, however I wanted! So I used the dead chip of wood to try and scoot the dead bug along…

           Alas, the wind came and it scooted it past the ant line, back upright. I tried again to scoot the dead bug back to its trajectory, but then some ants crawled up the stick, and onto my hand! I panicked for a bit, I think one might’ve bit me… But I brushed them aside. Eventually I settled for righting my previous wrong, by overturning the bug and returning it back to the line; I’d just settle for that, for now. No time for ambitious projects on behalf of the ants…

           Though, I DID consider buying just a little bit of food, and maybe scattering a piece or two by their nest, to see what the ants did with it! Ant feeding… Imagine that, like throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons, except I’m throwing tiny scraps of food to ants, diligently tearing apart and working, hauling, etc. Breaking it down bit by bit to divide the work, the power of infinitesimal hands amounting to something huge! I ultimately didn’t buy anything, alas, but it’s a fun thought, and I might try it another day and opportunity.

           Anyhow, I watched the ant struggle with its lone yellow grain; Somehow, likely because of the wind, it had gotten separated from the line, its grain moved away. I felt some compassion, and I grabbed another tiny dead stick-chip, and pushed it back to the line; This was much more successful, and the ant began moving the grain along the line, once more. I kept watching, and got tired of crouching upon the balls of my feet, so I just went F it, and sat down onto the concrete.

          THAT was much more relaxing, and for a while I enjoyed and watched and marveled, mesmerized at the coordination and moving patterns of it all, the shiny ants, how some had tiny little beads in their mandibles, etc. At one point I looked back along the line, closer to the nest, and I saw a tiny roly-poly, a living one; Nearby, stumbling across. In morbid fascination, I checked to see what would happen; Would the ants pursue and harass it, or was the reliable source of inanimate food, more preferable than taking on live prey?

           Thankfully, despite bumping into the ants at the line, the roly-poly was unscathed and ignored. It departed from the line, and headed elsewhere along the patch of dirt where the shrubs grew, the patch where on the edge dwelled the ant colony. I turned my attention back to the ant with its large grain. By this point, I was used to the hot sun beating down on me, but it wasn’t unbearable, and I felt gratitude for the brief periods of cloudiness and shade. Agonizingly, I watched the ant make its progress…

           At one point, it actually veered off-course, as these ants seem wanton to do, for some reason. I couldn’t let that happen again, so I grabbed another of my dead, discarded sticks –the ants ignored the cellulose they seemed unable to work with- and pushed it back on course. To my delight, the ant kept working, and I internally cheered as it pushed the grain up the slope of the driveway, surprisingly more easily than I’d anticipated, and much faster too! At one point, a kind passerby asked if I had a flat tire; To him, it must’ve looked like I was staring at the tire of the car parked in the space right next to the colony, as the ant line passed nearby. I said no, and he went on his way.

           The whole time, some other people went on their way, passing near me. Nobody stopped to look or notice, at least as far as I could tell; I was much too engrossed in these ants. I’m glad nobody stopped to bother or harass me for it. Eventually, the lone ant began transporting the grain into the final stretch, in the seams between the blocks of concrete, right before the colony itself! There were points where it seemed like other ants were helping with the burden, perhaps other ants took over for the original. I thought about how this lone ant likely went through all of this effort, took it upon itself without any thought, and would get no recognition for it.

           It didn’t think about it, it just did it; It saw something to be carried and worked with it, no thought about how hard it was, no consideration of letting someone else do it. It found something and grabbed it and moved! Marvelous. The ants kept moving the grain, at one point I lost it beneath a wood chip wedged in the concrete, but the ants succeeded in moving the grain past the chip, beneath and over as needed. Finally, right before the grain reached the colony, right before it arrived at the entrance to be dropped down, I hastily took a photo;

           And at the last possible second! I’d fumbled with the perspective, zoomed in, tried to figure out where my camera was looking at, before re-orienting and focusing on where the ant and its grain were, and finding it. I’d planned this for a while, a victory photo for when the grain had reached the colony, and I’d barely snapped my picture before the grain dropped in, out of view! I felt oddly triumphant; But then again, I HAD contributed, hadn’t I? I felt proud of these ants, of the ant- They’d finally done it! This long, agonizing work… The grain would make good feeding for the young and everyone else.

           And then, likely- The ants just went on! They went right back to work, always focused in the now. Never wondering, never questioning, such a simple existence. No higher thought nor reason besides doing what needed to be done, no particular selfishness, no shirking of the work, they just did it. It was almost robotic, although I knew that ants didn’t have any actual hive minds; They merely coordinated well. As one person said, if a giant watched us humans work and collaborate together, WE’d look like the hive mind! I’d sat and watched for a while, taking different positions, sitting and crouching and kneeling in various ways; But after faithfully, diligently watching this one particular task and its undertaking, more or less the whole way through, until it was finally finished…

           Well, I felt finished myself! And so I headed inside the nearby dollar store to cool down with its AC, near the frozen section, before getting back into my car, and heading home- Where I’ve since sat down to type this all out. I dunno, something about watching the ants in nature… It just gets to me, I think I ended up kinning a couple of ants along the way. Very wondrous stuff, and time really passed by; It was so much more fun, engaging, and unique, than what I usually did to pass the day along, whenever I drove out. 10/10, would do it again, Ants are wonderful and would recommend!

[deviltrs]

Hear me out: Reddie on a “date” to a fair (it’s a date in eddies mind but richie is clueless) [i will die on the Richie being clueless on occasion hill if I have to ]

i see you AND i hear you, anon. 100%

tbh i HC richie is pretty oblivious when it comes to dating, dates and eddie’s blatantly obvious feelings for him LMAOO 

so i kinda set it in HS?? and its like 1992-1993, so they’re about 16-17. 

i hope you enjoy anon! i’m sorry if it sucks a little bit (or a lot)

i haven't written anything publicly for a HOT minute and definitely need to brush up a little bit on my writing skills

and i’m also sorry if they’re really OOC, i’m still learning and trying my best.

NONE OF THIS WAS PROOFREAD SORRY LMAO

---

Eddie invites him to the towns annual fall festival. Just the two of us, he’d said on the phone yesterday.

Richie could never deny Eddie much of anything, so he immediately agreed. The idea of the two of them hanging out alone, oddly enough, makes him feel like there are butterflies in his stomach. He shrugs it off, as he’s done for the past three or four years, and he goes through the rest of his day, anxiously awaiting the next. 

And that’s where he is now. With Eddie, at the festival. 

Everything’s fine, so he doesn’t know why he’s freaking out so bad. Honestly, everything’s more than fine. Richie buys him an ice cream, and for once, Eddie doesn’t go on a full-blown rant about Richie spending his money on him when he’s perfectly capable of paying for himself. 

Eddie doesn’t shrug his arm off when Richie throws it around his shoulders while they’re walking towards the games, either. He leans in a little closer, actually, which feels like it sends a jolt of lightning straight through every fiber of Richie’s being. 

He’s just... all smiles, no rants, no freak-outs. A few insults or two, though, because that’s just how Eddie is, and Richie wouldn’t have it any other way. But... it’s weird not to see him reaching for his fake inhaler to ease his nerves, or thoroughly sanitizing his hands after he touches everything. He’s been like that all day, too. Didn’t even complain about the god awful mess in Richie’s car when he got in.

Now, as it begins to get darker outside, he’s sitting down right across from him at a picnic table, sharing a funnel cake. Their hands have brushed once or twice, and Eddie’s even wiped some powdered sugar off of the side of Richie’s mouth, and he isn’t even going to think about how red his face fucking got when that happened.

“Earth to Richie!” he hears Eddie yell.

He blinks once, twice, three times, trying to rid his mind of the thoughts that kept him so in his head, and turns and flashes a big smile in Eddie’s direction.

“What ‘s it, Spaghetti?” Richie replies, reaching for several pieces of the funnel cake and plopping all of them in his mouth at once. “‘S there anything you wanna do?” he asks in-between chewing, and Eddie visibly grimaces.

“Say it, don’t fucking spray it, dickwad. You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” Eddie complains, and Richie would’ve laughed if he wasn’t chewing his food. “And chew with your mouth closed! Jesus Christ, who taught you your table manners?”

After Richie swallows his food, he takes a large gulp from his Coca Cola and shrugs. “I was raised by apes, they taught me everything I know about manners, Eds.” he teases.

He gets a small laugh out of Eddie at that one, along with an eye-roll. “Very funny. And don’t call me that, Richie!” Eddie replies, reaching across the table to give Richie’s shoulder a small shove. Richie laughs, now that his mouth isn’t full, and shakes his head.

“Don’t lie, you like when I call you Eds.”

Eddie blushes? Richie thinks he is, anyways. But why the hell would Eddie be blushing?

Eddie’s voice snaps him out of it before he can dwell too much into it. “Whatever you say.” he grumbles, reaching and grabbing the last piece of their shared funnel cake. He grabs a napkin and wipes his mouth when he’s done, and he doesn’t even give Richie time to speak before he’s talking again.

“Do you want to get on the ferris wheel? It’s getting darker, so we can see all the lights better.” he speaks hurriedly, pointing over towards where the ferris wheel sits, spinning as they sit a little ways away from it. The lights are coming on, now, on all the attractions. Shades of pink and purple, red and blue, green and yellow. They’re bright, but they light up Eddie’s face in just the right way to make Richie think god, he’s beautiful.

“Sure, let’s get to it, Eduardo!” Richie replies, loudly, standing on his feet. He grabs their trash and throws it away in the nearest trashcan, and walks back over towards Eddie, who grabs his fucking hand and starts walking towards the ferris wheel.

He starts to wonder if this is even Eddie, because it dawns on him that Eddie doesn’t even like festival rides. They’re covered in bacteria and germs, dumbass, he’d usually say. But that isn’t the case this evening, apparently, because Eddie is smiling as they approach it, grabbing his tickets from his back pocket and handing two to Richie. 

“You know I have my own, right?” Richie asks, but Eddie just shakes his head. 

“You used at least ten tickets on that darts game until you won me that stuffed Kirby. Shut up and let me be nice to you.” Eddie retorts, and Richie does as he’s asked. He mimics zipping up his mouth, locking it and throwing the key away, which gets a small chuckle out of Eddie. He counts that as a win, so long as he sees Eddie laughing, at least. 

Spoiler alert: he doesn’t shut up. He doesn’t know how.

Eventually, after bickering back in forth in line about everything they could think of, they’re finally getting on the ferris wheel, being seated and secured in before they take off and are stopped again.

Eddie turns to Richie, his hands on the handlebar, looking as content as ever. “Thank you for saying yes when I asked you out on this date. I know it was kinda stupid to ask you over the phone, but-- whatever. Thank you, asshole. I’m having a great time.”

Richie feels like his jaw has dropped. 

Asked him out on what?

“You-- me-- date? What? Since when?” Richie stammers, and Eddie’s brows furrow. His face becomes redder than the top of the haunted house’s tent.

“You didn’t know this was a date?” Eddie asks, and Richie shakes his head repeatedly.

“No! You didn’t say anything about a date!”

“I literally fucking said it was!”

“No, you said ‘Hey, do you want to go out with me to the festival tomorrow, just the two of us’ and that is not asking me out on a date!”

“I said ‘Do you want to go out with me to the festival tomorrow, just the two of us,’ emphasis on go out with me, and that was literally me asking you on a date, dumbass!”

Richie processes. 

And processes.

And processes some more.

“Holy fucking shit, I’m on a date with you.” Richie says, blank faced. On the inside he’s screaming with absolute joy.

“Yeah, you are, dumbass. You-- forget I said anything--”

Richie interrupts him, quickly, “No, no! I’m not like-- freaked out about it or anything. I’m happy to go on a date with a cutie like you, Eds!” he says, leaning towards Eddie and pinching his cheek affectionately.

Eddie swats his hand away, blushing and grumbling, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “Do you-- fuck, do you like me, Rich? I mean, I-- I’m obviously into you.”

Richie nods, very enthusiastically, and smiles wider than he ever has when one of Eddie’s hands come off of the handlebar to grab one of his. “Absolutely, Eds, I mean-- how could I not? You’re my best friend. And, also, you’re so easy to piss off and rile up. It’s fuckin’ cute!” he says, smile never falling from his face. 

“I am not easy to rile up, you dick.” Eddie argues, but his tone holds no distaste or actual anger within it.

So Richie, being Richie, shakes the passenger car they’re in as soon as the wheel takes motion again to prove a point, and Eddie screeches. “You fucking dick! Why the hell would you do that? Do you know how many deaths have happened because of people rocking these fucking things?” he yells, and Richie lets out a full belly laugh.

“Oh, it’s so fucking funny, isn’t it? Do you want to die on a ferris wheel in this shit town? Do you--”

Richie finally makes a move, and decides to shut Eddie up with a kiss. 

It works.

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 6

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. Death rattles behind drawn curtains, expletives are spat over set bones, and shots are taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths to release the night’s chaos, still lodged deep in her throat.

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation—a leap into the procedural dance, a temporary loss of oneself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures.

But eventually the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a complimentary meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in?

Point proven: Our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory.

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls.

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie is no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, "Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero," on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb.

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.)

Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways. “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.”

“Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the the bin had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway, a soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, isn't he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew and the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

Joe nods, consoling, before he turns to answer an intern's cries for help.

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—Did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. It is something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, this almost-Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips are on the sting, and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl; no citrus kisses in a molting New York.

Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. Back at home, he had led her to the bedroom and its king-sized bed, had slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $15 for subscriptions and scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry.

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things.

GE: Oh yes, certainly. But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest?

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press.

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always desperate for crumbs. But they never fill the belly, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no.

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:          

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)

_______

I have very few comments about this one, but I will say A) Jamie’s POV comes much more naturally to me—probably because I, like Jamie, love Claire so frickin’ much—so writing this was like pulling teeth. And B) As I was writing this chapter, I knew it was time to bring Jamie and Claire back together. Even I was rooting for them to reunite.

I love Joe and Claire’s friendship, and I wish I’d shown more of it in this fic (although what’s here I think fits pretty naturally). And I have to say...I love Geillis—or the idea of her: witchy, feminist, and confident—a whole lot, despite her Voyager crimes. Here, she is my Outlander version of Harry Potter’s Rita Skeeter, and I could write an entire fic from her voice any day.

[ourimpavidheroine]

You've given us your favorite records, so how about your favorite movies?

Okay, sure! Under a cut though, because it’s long.

In no particular order!

Strictly Ballroom (1992)

Oh my god, one of the funniest movies ever made. Every single thing about this movie makes me laugh out loud - in fact, I laughed so loud in the theater when I saw it the first time I’m surprised they didn’t kick my ass out. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched and re-watched it. My late wife and I used to quote this film back and forth to each other all the time. 

“Arms, Clary!”

“That was unexpected.”

“I’ve got my happy face on today!”

There’s a lovely little romance going on and a quote that I live by:

A life lived in fear is a life half lived.

Thank you, Baz Luhrmann. 

Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Screwball comedy romance with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. Still funny, over 80 years later. Mistaken identities, a harrassed archeologist and a clueless rich girl, so on and so forth. If you watch it, you will see shades of Wu and Sayuri in Susan, for sure. (And some Zu in David.) The comedic timing of this movie is sheer and utter perfection. Not a single beat wasted. Brilliant, the entire thing.

Moonstruck (1987)

God, what isn’t there to love about this movie? CHER. A woman coming up on middle age who has settled into widowhood without a whimper decides to marry a man she’s fond of for no other reason than she thinks she should meets the fiance’s younger brother and her entire life goes, as her Italian Catholic mother says in the middle of church, “...down the toilet.” This movie was handled with so much love and care, it deserved its Oscars. If you’ve never seen it, you should.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

I saw this movie the one and only time I visited the States after I moved to Finland. I had left my wife here in Finland but had my 20 month old autistic twins along and my mother was being beyond horrible to me and I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. There was one afternoon where my favorite uncle came to me, gave me his car, and told me he was going to watch the kids and for me to go out and have a breather. I decided to see a movie - I can’t remember which one - but the paper had gotten the time wrong and it had already started by the time I got there. I asked the woman selling tickets what she recommended that was coming up and she very fervently told me to go and see this one.

Still one of the best movies I have ever seen. The acting is so subtle, so beautiful, and the scenery! The ending broke me, just shattered me into a million pieces. Years later, when my wife died, I knew exactly that feeling of desperately wanting to go back in time and somehow do it all right and all I can say is, both Michelle Yeoh and Zhang Ziyi get all of my love forever for doing it the way they did.

I bought it when it finally came out on DVD with English subtitles and I made my late wife watch it with me and she sobbed at the end and told me I was cruel for making her watch it. (Guess what, babe? You were crueler for making me live it.)

The Handmaiden (2016)

Normally I am not all that keen on books being made into movies. I fucking loved Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith and wasn’t sure about it being taken out of its Victorian England setting into 1930′s Korea but oh my god I have never been happier to have been proved wrong in my life. THIS FILM. Listen, it is one of those rare times when a book and an adaptation can stand next to each other, equally as good, equally as strong, despite the differences. There is so much to unpack about women’s experiences with sex and how that compares to how men dictate those experiences to them and the movie never drops the ball with this. Frankly, I had seen Oldboy and Snowpiercer (among others) and I really did not think Park Chan-wook had it in him and shame on me for that.

Warning: this movie is HOT.

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

This is a damn good movie. Charlize Theron elevates anything she is in, and as Furiosa - dirty, grim, disabled, clinging on to tattered hope with desperation - she just takes this film to another level. Plenty of other good performances - including Tom Hardy, who’s never afraid to drop himself into a role - and some frankly astonishing editing work by Margaret Sixel as well as a male director who understands, deeply, how to film women without subjecting them to the male gaze. This is not a schlock film, despite the franchise it belongs in. It’s good.

I saw this film the night before my wife died; the last time I spoke to her on the phone I told her that I’d take her with me to see it again, I knew she’d like it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to separate this film from that loss, but that’s how it goes sometimes. Still wish you could have seen it, babe. You would have loved it.

The Great Race (1965)

Is this a great movie? Not critically speaking, although Jack Lemmon is brilliant, as he almost always is. Rather, it was a movie my father and I loved together, and I have so many good memories of watching it with him whenever it would play on TV (these were the years before VHS even, never mind Netflix) and eating popcorn and laughing together.

We loved the huge pie fight scene so much that on my 16th birthday my father bought 3 dozen store bought pies, defrosted them and/or baked them (with the help of our neighbor, who was in on the secret) and he woke me up that morning, told me to get dressed and come outside, and he got me with a pie to the face right as I walked out the door and the two of us chased each other, throwing and dodging pies, making an unholy mess, slipping and sliding all over our deck and driveway, stumbling and laughing hysterically.

It is one of the best memories in my life. How many other girls can say their fathers gave them a pie fight for their sweet sixteen? This movie makes me laugh and, more importantly, remember my father with so much love.

The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)

I did love all three of these films. Were they perfect? No. (I am still salty about Faramir’s entire movie arc and the fact that Merry was just Pippin 2.0 instead of the distinct character he was in the books.) But they were made with so much love and heart by people who loved and cared deeply for the source material. And they were astonishing in scope as well. Just glorious to see in the theater.

I first read those books when my father lent me his copies when I was eight and they were a vital part of my growing up; to see Peter Jackson and his entire cast and crew love them as much as I did was genuinely special for me.

The other two films are just as good with some astonishing moments (Billy Boy’s last minute song in The Return of the King still gives me goosebumps) but this was the first one, and just remembering holding my wife’s hand as we both gasped together over the scope of it was a memory I will keep with me always.

When my wife and I went to see this one here in Finland I was pregnant with my twins and I was like, oh my god, please die already Boromir because were twins on my bladder and I knew if I didn’t get to a toilet soon it was going to be all over. (It was a long movie without a pee break for a pregnant person, let me just say.) I was never happier for a tragic end to a movie in my life, LOL.

The Matrix (1999)

Dude. Dude. Just the concept of this movie. The Wachowski sisters have never limited themselves and that’s what makes them so different and so exciting. One of the greats of Sci Fi and, as far as I am concerned, one of the greats bar none. Yeah sure, I know it isn’t a critical darling but lord, I am not a film critic, just someone who loves movies. And I love this one. 

(And excuse you, Elon and the rest of you alt-right men’s groups, you dicks, for appropriating the whole blue/red pill thing: it’s a concept from two trans sisters, so fuck right off with that.)

My best friend, who saw it with me the first time (I took my late wife to see it later in the year when she arrived in the States) laughed at the whole little kid with spoon scene. That’s like listening to you, she said. I never know what is going to come out of your mouth or whether I’ll understand it in the moment but it will eventually make sense to me. Which pretty well sums me up, I think. And this movie as well.

The Piano (1993)

There is a moment, in this gorgeous, deeply beautiful, aching film, where Harvey Keitel fingers a small hole in Holly Hunter’s stocking and it is the most erotic heterosexual thing I have ever seen. Trust a woman director to understand why women would love this. There’s Harvey Keitel’s character: older, soft around the middle, barely literate, covered with traditional facial tattoos. He’s nobody’s idea of hot. But he understands what this woman in particular needs, understands what she is telling him without words, and that’s what he gives her and it is erotic beyond measure. It’s not about what he looks like; it’s about how he understands her.

Holly Hunter does this movie without speaking a single word or getting any subtitles and short of a few brief translations by Anna Paquin playing her young daughter still manages to express herself. It’s brilliant acting. (And look, I know - today we’d look for an actress who was mute to play the role, and rightfully so. It still doesn’t take away from Hunter’s performance.)

Ada drowned in the original script but Jane Campion changed it at the last minute when filming and it was the right choice. The absolute right choice. Ada deserves her freedom and her chance to pursue her own happiness.

[ellewritesathing]

Ten Things    III

Summary: If there’s one thing you have to know about Harvey Kinkle, it’s that he rarely thinks things through. So when he meets (and falls for) Sabrina Spellman on his first day of Baxter High and finds out that she can’t date anyone until her tempestuous sister does, it seems like the obvious solution is to get someone to date her so he can go out with Sabrina. A not so obvious choice for the challenge is Caliban, but, hey, it’s not like Harvey thought that far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 3

Word-count: 3.2k+

A/N: i’m like ridiculously excited to write the next part for this series but we needed some build up!! enjoy!! 💕

The more Sabrina thought about it, the more she convinced herself that Harvey's plan wasn't all that bad. She did, however, feel even worse about lying to you. She kept telling herself that it would work out because Caliban was a good guy at his core and you just didn’t know how to make the first move. All you needed was a push in the right direction, and she and Harvey were … well, more of a shove. But still. It would work out. 

It had to work out.

Sabrina cast her ill-placed optimism aside as she thought of how bad it would be if this didn’t work out while she and Harvey dug through your room in search of things that you and Caliban could bond over. She suggested one of the bands from the posters on your wall, Harvey said Caliban would never see any of them in concert. Harvey suggested paintballing, Sabrina told him that you’d shoot Caliban somewhere he probably didn’t want to get shot with a paintball. 

The back and forth kept going until the two of them were lying on your bed, staring up at the ceiling and talking quietly about the few options that were left. 

“They could … I don’t know,” Harvey said with a quiet sigh, waving his hand at the ceiling. “Burn down the chem classroom?” 

Sabrina smiled to herself at how much you would actually enjoy that. She could just picture you running away from the burning building and Caliban driving the getaway car. “I was thinking of something slightly less illegal.” 

“Oh, right,” Harvey mumbled. Sabrina laughed at how defeated he seemed and absentmindedly reached for his hand. She ran her thumb over the side of his hand as he, very awkwardly, said in a voice a few octaves higher, “Uh, so where is your sister anyway?” 

“Skatepark by the mines,” Sabrina said with a sigh before rolling onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow. “She goes there almost every day after school.” 

“She does?” 

Sabrina lifted her other hand and moved some curls out of Harvey’s face. “Mm-hmm.” 

“You know…” Harvey said slowly as he tore his eyes away from the ceiling to look at her. It was such a small, sweet moment. “That could work. Caliban could go there and then they just happen to run into one another.” 

“I don’t know. My sister’s not exactly the coincidence type. She might run him over with her car,” Sabrina said hesitantly. But at least if it was purely ‘coincidental’ then she wouldn’t feel so guilty about it. She let out a breath and collapsed back onto the bed. “Don’t you think this is all a little weird?” 

“Super weird but-” Harvey reached across the space between them and held Sabrina’s hand again. “But I think you’re worth a little weirdness.” 

“Oh, am I now?” Sabrina laughed, rolling over again to face him. 

Harvey was so much sweeter than she expected. He had a good heart, and he was going to absurd lengths just for the chance to go on a date with her. She had never even told him if she’d say yes. 

Sabrina’s breath hitched when Harvey rolled onto his side to look at her. It felt like he was going to kiss her and, as much as she wanted that to happen, she wasn't sure if-

“I think you are,” Harvey said quietly. He started leaning in slowly when the door to your room burst open and he jumped sky high and off the bed. 

“Cousin!” Ambrose said with a wide smile as he sauntered closer. He tilted his head as he looked at Harvey. “And friend.” 

Sabrina let out a sigh and got to her feet. “Leave him alone, Ambrose." She wasn't sure Harvey could survive an encounter with Ambrose when he was already so flustered. "What do you want?” 

Ambrose to his eyes away from Harvey to dramatically turn back to Sabrina. “Our dearest Y/N is should be home soon and I wasn’t sure you wanted her interrupting your canoodling.” 

“We weren’t canoodling,” Harvey said awkwardly. 

Ambrose gave him a knowing smile. “I’m sure, friend.”

“Okay.” Sabrina took a step closer and put one hand on Ambrose’s shoulder and held his hand in her other as she started guiding him out of the room. “Thanks for the heads-up, Ambrose, we can handle it from here.”

Ambrose made a few more comments as she shoved him out the door, but it was nothing Sabrina couldn’t handle. Harvey, on the other hand, was five shades paler when she turned around again. 

“I think I should go,” he rushed out. “This has been really good though! I’ll be sure to tell Caliban about the skatepark.”

“Okay,” Sabrina said quietly. Her small, sweet moment was long gone.

As Harvey dashed out, he stopped momentarily in front of her. Sabrina didn’t move as he did, unsure about what he was doing. He only stopped for a second, but in that second he leaned down and kissed the top of her head before letting go and running out of the room, leaving Sabrina alone in your room and extremely confused. 

A few seconds later, she heard a horn honking in the driveway and went to the window to check it out. Harvey was apologizing frantically as he tried to run across to his truck, and you were yelling something at him from behind the wheel of your car. 

Sabrina hoped this would work. 

---

“Do you just assume I know how to skateboard?” 

Caliban was sprawled on his usual bench as Harvey paced around him, telling him everything that happened between him and Sabrina during their recon mission. His hair was in a messy ponytail today, but pretty much everything else Caliban wore was messy as well. Somehow - for a reason Harvey didn’t quite understand - every girl that walked past was still checking him out. 

“No, I’m just telling you what we think will work,” Harvey said as he stopped in front of the bench, blocking off Caliban’s sun. After fifteen minutes of Harvey’s rushed talking, that question was Caliban’s only response. “She might be nicer on her own turf.” 

Caliban let out a breath as he stopped squinting at Harvey to roll up to a sitting position. “I’m touched by your concern for my well-being, but I think I can handle myself.” 

“Okay, dude, whatever you say.” Harvey sat down next to Caliban and started bouncing his leg almost immediately. 

“Alright, what’s the matter with you?” Caliban asked. He rolled his eyes when Harvey looked over at him with a frown. “Something happened that you're not telling me. You look like you’re about to throw up.” 

Harvey started stammering out excuses but eventually just took a deep breath and started from the beginning. For the second time, but much slower, he told Caliban about how Sabrina held his hand and teased him without being mean about it. He mentioned how she smelled like the woods but in a good way, a sweet way, and her shampoo was some fucking lavender flower scent that he couldn’t get out of his mind. And then he told him about how he kissed her. 

“-On the top of her head! Like who does that?” Harvey finished after another ten minutes of uninterrupted rambling. “Not her forehead, by the way. Like the actual top of her head.” 

He groaned and fell back onto the bench as Caliban laughed and patted his chest in what Harvey assumed was an attempt to comfort him. 

“Harvey, settle down.” That’s all Caliban said for the first few seconds as Harvey calmed his anxiety to a silent bubble inside him. “Now that you’re getting some oxygen to your brain, listen here. People eat that cute affectionate shit up.” He held up a hand when Harvey started sputtering out protests. “Think about it: If Sabrina kissed you on the head, how would you feel?” 

Harvey was quiet for a second as he thought about a non-lame answer. He doubted Caliban would be impressed by his honest answer, so after a few minutes, he mumbled, “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“Well, there you go. She doesn’t hate you; she just thinks you’re not so bad,” Caliban said with a tricky smile and another pat on the chest. 

“Thanks.” Harvey rolled his eyes and adjusted as the weight of messing things up with Sabrina before they even started rolled off his shoulders. “So, uh, do you?” 

Caliban turned to face him with narrowed eyes and a set jaw. The slight scowl didn’t intimidate Harvey like it did that day outside of Ms. Wardwell’s office anymore. “Do I what?” Caliban asked. 

“Know how to skateboard.” 

“Oh.” Caliban let out a breath and shrugged as his face shifted back to its usual state of cool indifference. “I know enough to get by.” 

“Uh … okay.” Harvey didn’t know what to say to that. He scratched his head slightly as the two of them sat there for a few seconds. “She also doesn't date smokers." 

"So I've been told," Caliban said with a sigh, looking down at where his cigarettes used to live in his jacket. "Would it be weird if I said good luck? I don’t know what this situation calls for.” 

Caliban let out another laugh as he got to his feet. He messed up Harvey’s hair as he walked around the back of the bench. “Don’t worry, Harvey. You’ll get your date with Sabrina Spellman.” 

Harvey didn’t say it, but that wasn’t what he was worried about. He knew you couldn’t be all bad since Sabrina loved you so much, but his mind kept going back to you yelling at him to ‘remove his head from his sphincter, then cross the road’ and he worried Caliban might be a little out of his depth. 

---

After their little chat, Caliban blew off the rest of his classes to head to this mystery skatepark by the mines. As far as skateparks go, it wasn’t anything spectacular but he could see the appeal of the rough, dug out holes and all the stray scaffolding. There were a few proper ramps set up and some of the old mining holes had been smoothed out and converted to the necessary quarter or half pipes. It had a dilapidated charm. 

As he walked around, he saw some kids doing tricks on the scaffolding and others sneaking off into the mines. Some people had climbed to the top of long-abandoned structures and were either making out or playing chicken. Caliban couldn’t see you, though, no matter how hard he looked.

Deciding he should probably stop being a creep, he took his board and went to one of the ramps. He started messing around to get the feel for skating after weeks of not practicing, relieved that you only showed up after he’d stopped falling down. 

You didn’t have a skateboard or rollerblades, just a messenger bag and a precariously stuffed notebook. You seemed surprised to see him there, but Caliban pretended not to notice. All you did for the first five minutes was stand there and watch him with a glare and clenched jaw, so Caliban did his best to gradually up his game. 

Something he did must have caught your attention because you settled on the edge of the ramp, one leg dangling off the edge as you balanced your notebook on the other and started writing. Caliban made no attempts to come any closer than when he skated up the side, and even then he didn’t speak to you. 

He didn’t notice at first when you put away the notebook and repositioned yourself to focus on him, but his heart stuttered when he did. It was disgusting, really, that you had that effect on him but he squashed those feelings under his wheels as he rode up the side of the ramp, twisted, and landed next to you with a small thump as he caught his board in his free hand. 

Caliban gave you an easy smirk as you stared daggers into his heart. 

“I haven’t seen you here before,” you said when the stare-off started irritating you. Caliban figured that was because you were used to winning them, so he didn’t take your irritation personally.

“A little puppy-dog told me about it,” Caliban said, moving his board from his lap to the space behind his back and stretched out his hands behind him for good measure. He was the picture of easy confidence as he sat on the edge with you, looking out at the almost setting sun. “It’s not bad.”

You rolled your eyes and adjusted your hold on the strap of your messenger bag. “Glad it meets your standards, Sparky.” 

“A bit defensive, are we?” Caliban asked, even though he smiled at the nickname. You scoffed but didn’t respond, so Caliban popped one of his earphones back in. He’d been listening to those bands Harvey said you liked all afternoon, and they weren’t nearly as bad as he expected. 

It took a few minutes before you reached over and yanked the earbud out of his ear and called him rude, but Caliban held in his snark long enough to hold out the other earbud to you. You took the earbud from him very apprehensively and popped it in, but you didn’t say anything after your momentary surprise. 

The two of you sat, joined by the cables of Caliban’s earphones, and watched the sunset without saying anything. You looked at Caliban every now and then, doing your best to hide your curiosity, and Caliban looked at you a lot more, not bothering to hide anything. 

And then the album ended. 

You pulled the earbud out and dropped it in Caliban's lap with a polite smile before gathering up your stuff and getting to your feet. 

“Hey, where are you going?” Caliban asked, lifting up his head to frown at you. 

“Home,” you said with the closest thing Caliban had seen to your smile. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I thought we were having a moment,” Caliban said, tilting his head even more. 

You crouched down, leaned in slightly, and tilted your head to match Caliban’s movement. “Moment’s over,” you said in a low voice. Your eyes dropped to his lips for a second and then you were on your feet and walking away. 

You didn’t see the kids skating out of the mines, but Caliban did and he was on his feet and racing to get to you before the collision did. 

---

One moment you were walking back to your car, and the next you were on your back and in the dirt with Caliban on top of you and some very concerned rollerbladers torn between asking if you were okay and skating away as fast as they could. They decided on skating away when you yelled at them to get away from you or you’d shove that rainbow skate so far up their asses that they’d need a dentist to get it out. 

You were still yelling when Caliban started laughing, bits of his stray curls tickling your face as he did. You weren’t sure if your chest fluttered because he looked really pretty when he laughed or because you were still pissed that he’d knocked you to the ground and then laughed at you. 

“Stop laughing or you’re next,” you warned. 

Caliban did his best to stop laughing, but he made no attempts to hide his smile. “You can’t threaten me. I saved your life.” 

“You crushed my spleen.” 

“It’s a nonessential organ.” 

“I will crush one of your nonessential organs.” 

Caliban started laughing again and you had to decide whether he was pretty or you were pissed. You decided it could be both, but you were still leaning towards threatening him again despite his prettiness. 

“You can get off of me now,” you snapped when pretty started creeping up on you. “Those scary fifteen-year-olds are long gone.” 

“Are you sure? I think we should wait it out some more.” Caliban smiled and lifted his hand to wipe some dust off your face. His hand was warmer than you expected, softer too. He was different than the first time you met, but you couldn’t figure out what it was.

“If you don’t move,” you said in a voice soft enough to match the feel of his hand on your face, “I will bite you.”

Caliban smiled, no doubt another witty retort on his tongue, but he didn’t say anything as he rolled to his side and got to his feet. He held a hand out to help you up, but you were still mad at him and his amused face. 

You pushed his hand away and gathered your things. Luckily for him, nothing was damaged, but that didn’t stop you from arguing with him about the collision and your nonessential organs. 

“Perhaps-” Caliban interrupted after you started running out of steam. He took a step closer, dropping his gaze for a second as he did “-we could settle this over dinner.” 

“Dinner?” You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. “Why should I go out for dinner with you, Sparky?” 

Maybe the amused smile made him prettier than you cared to admit, but the fact that Caliban was amused by you annoyed you even more. He took another step closer. “Because I saved your life and you hate feeling like you owe people,” he said. Another step closer. He dropped his voice to say, “And, deep down, I think you’re more interested in how this would turn out than you are mad at me.”

“I think you’re underestimating my ability to be mad at you,” you said, looking down at his lips for a second as they curled into another smile. 

Your eyes snapped back up after Caliban started talking, knowing full well that he noticed you looking at his lips. “Oh, no. I know you can be plenty mad at me.” 

“Did forget that I don’t date smokers?” you asked, hoping it made up for your momentary loss of snark. 

“I quit. Turns out they’re really bad for you, who knew?” 

You felt yourself laughing before you could stop it. Shaking your head, you took out a step closer to Caliban and put a hand on his chest. “One date, Sparky. Then we’re even.” 

“One date,” Caliban repeated. 

He didn’t move from his spot and you weren’t sure what else to say. Agreeing with him was something you hadn’t expected, and neither was him being so annoyingly agreeable. You bit the inside of your lip as you stewed over this new development. 

“Well, I should be off,” Caliban said quietly when the sun was almost completely over the horizon. “I don’t want to be around when those fifteen-year-olds come back.” 

“Don't worry, Sparky, the scariest thing out here is me," you said.

"I have no doubt about that."

Caliban let out another laugh and shook his head as he took three steps backward before turning and walking away. He lifted his hand and waved at you without turning to check how you reacted, so confident that you were watching him go. 

Well, he wasn’t wrong. You were watching him, trying to convince yourself that you were still more pissed than he was pretty. 

Part 4

Tagged: @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e​  @miss--moose​  @marrypuffsstuff​  @harryscarolinaa​  @igorsbby​​  @foji2000​​  @hxlalokidottir​  @artaxerxesthegreat​​  @thxmagic​​  @strawberriesandknives​​  @xealia​​  @hotmessindisguise​  @acciomaximoff​  @reheated-coffee​​  @shelby-x​​  @perseny-blog​​  @millie-753​​  @luneerius​​  @shizzybarnaclee​​  @lettherebelovex​​  @throughparisallthroughrome​  @ietss​  @thebookwormlife​  @mechanicalanimalz​  @mariamermaid​  @nqbmf​  @caliban-is-my-girl  @shephard17895​  @music-movies  @clockworks-world-to-fandoms​  @luquincy  @marina468​  @olivia-west-allen  @drrramaaaqweeen​  @roxytheimmortal​  

[ineffable-endearments]

Under sun and shade alike

Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: Explicit Words: 2069 Content Notes and Warnings: explicit NSFT, he/him pronouns for both, the narrator addresses the reader for some reason, p-in-v intercourse, semi-public intercourse, fluffy and plotless Beta’d by Euterpein. Thank you very much!

=

It’s the future now, dear reader.

Set the scene: an early May morning, bright and sunny. A charming little Brighton inn, just a short drive from an old, half-maintained apple orchard. Inside one of the rooms, an angel (who you might not recognize as an angel if you haven’t heard the history yet) stands at the mirror, adjusting his bowtie with a prim enthusiasm that should be contradictory but somehow isn’t.

“I don’t suppose you’d be open to going for a walk,” he says, turning to his companion, who has his sunglasses on already and has returned to the bed for a good sprawl. (Though he’s much more shady-looking than the other, you would most likely not assume he’s literally a demon on first sight, either. He is, though, literally a demon.) “I did spot that nice orchard on our way in last night,” the angel adds.

The impulse to snarl about how demons don’t go for lovely walks in orchards has not gone away, no matter how retired he is. But the deep-down truth is this particular demon doesn’t, at heart, have a problem with orchards, or sunshine, or gentle outings with angels who are overexcited about springtime. And it’s their first vacation together under this...whatever sort of arrangement you’d call it when an angel and a demon cuddle on a regular basis and occasionally engage in the pleasures of the flesh.

So they head out.

The impending summer is an excited whisper among leaves in the apple trees, the sweet scent of their bloom lingering in the air. Amid a rather overgrown patch of especially verdant trees is a shed of some sort, bleached from the elements, apparently not in use by anyone except the two entities having an intimate moment against it.

Normally, the sight of a couple passionately making out in a relatively public place would draw negative attention, and maybe even the police as well, if they went at it for this long. You might cringe and wonder how people could possibly lose themselves that way in public. Aren’t they even a little self-conscious?

But, in addition to letting this happen in a locale that isn’t currently busy in the first place, these two are particularly good (supernaturally good) at not being noticed. So you wouldn’t, in fact, have any thoughts about them at all if I weren’t telling you all of this. They are surrounded by a vibrant Earthly beauty reminiscent of the very place where they met - and they can safely consider themselves alone together.

Continue on AO3 or read more below!

After a bit of hinting (“Let’s have a look at that quaint little building. Is it an abandoned shed?”) and a few shy gestures (the brush of their hands together, an intertwining of fingers and a gentle meandering toward the right spot), Aziraphale has finally got Crowley pulled in close to him. (It’d been Crowley’s idea to use the shed for support, nudging the angel against it as they kissed. Even in the haze of desire, as Crowley had removed his sunglasses for a better snog, he’d caught Aziraphale hastily double-checking their chosen spot for debris that might rub off on his precious coat; thankfully, he’d found none.)

“Positively delightful to be out here with you,” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s lips.

“Mmmmm, yes, the weather is nice, isn’t it.” Crowley lets his lips pull back in a smirk, just for a moment.

“You know full well,” Aziraphale says, before capturing Crowley’s mouth again, licking his way in with playful ferocity, “that I’m not talking about the weather.”

“Ah. Got a different kind of spring fever, have you?” Crowley nods vaguely downward, where Aziraphale’s been pressing his hips into Crowley’s, probably thinking he’s subtle.

“Angels don’t get any kind of spring fever.”

“And yet.” Crowley rolls his hips once.

“Just helping you blend in, my dear,” Aziraphale croons, almost effectively disguising the hitch in his breath with an arch of his eyebrows. “Springtime cavorting is a time-honored tradition among humans, after all.”

There is a grain of truth here. Though Crowley could never have said he understood it before they’d tried this together, and he still doesn’t understand how out-of-control some of the humans seem to get, they did throw a lot of “fertility festivals” around this time. At the very least, he now understands why a lot of people seem to like physical intimacy so much, and as he considers the metaphor, he can grasp why the sensual pleasures of the weather heating up and the flowers bursting open could pair well with the sensual pleasures of-- well. Of fucking.

Then again…

“Oh, they’re always looking for an excuse. Could there be someone here who’s got that in common with them?” Crowley teases, stroking his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls.

“Hardly my fault,” the angel murmurs against his lips, “when I’ve got the world’s first and best tempter here, always asking what I’d like.”

Crowley growls happily, pressing Aziraphale’s whole body against the wall as they kiss before trailing his way down Aziraphale’s throat. His kisses, punctuated by a gentle graze of teeth, draw forth the most sublime sounds from the angel, although he can’t help answering with his own sounds of enjoyment.

Crowley is excellent at reading desires. Right now, judging by the way he’s being pulled close, how he’s being caressed up and down, how Aziraphale’s hands go from playing with his hair to running along his spine to grabbing his arse and then back again, like he can’t decide where to settle, Crowley believes that maybe what Aziraphale wants is to be held in as many ways as possible all at once.

As many ways as possible.

And moreover, dear reader, while our demon is carefully conditioned to never, ever articulate such sentimentality out loud, he can empathize with what he very well knows our angel is looking for deep down: unconditional belonging, importance, adoration. Well, you can’t give those to somebody with sex alone, but you can make an example of it, and Crowley suspects a good orgasm would also be a welcome experience, if the heat being pressed against his crotch is any indication.

When he speaks, Crowley’s voice is a little rough, perhaps a little broken.

“Would you like,” he begins, kissing and nipping Aziraphale’s lip some more to stall. “Would you like it if I took you inside me?” And he strokes his fingers over the straining erection in Aziraphale’s trousers. Truth be told, Crowley’s own body is already hyper-receptive, as if making room. He can think of nothing but being filled.

Aziraphale hums. “Mmmmm, yes, please…”

Their clothes are barely even a thought at this point. The removal thereof could be narrated, but aside from Aziraphale’s vague understanding that he will eventually regret it if they don’t stay clean, our lovers have no interest in them. There’s no point in describing any of the garments they hastily push down and shove aside until they’re both exposed, Aziraphale leaning back against the shed and Crowley wrapping one very flexible leg around his hip, so they can press their naked parts together.

Aziraphale closes his eyes for a long, slow blink and takes a deep breath, which stutters on its way back out.

“Everything okay?” Crowley asks.

“Many times better than ‘okay,’” Aziraphale says. “Would you mind if I moved a little?” He places his hand on Crowley’s thigh, nudging his hips upwards by the slightest bit.

“You’re not even inside yet.”

“Oh, but it still feels exquisite. You’re so-- you’re so warm, Crowley, and soft, and,” he bites his own lip this time, “you’re sopping wet.”

Crowley is outright aching now, yearning to surround Aziraphale, to take him in and be the place where yet another part of him belongs. He circles his hips to rub his wet slit over Aziraphale’s arousal, provoking a delicious groan from the angel and very nearly moaning himself. “Well. Maybe it’s time to start in earnest, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale breathes, running his hands along Crowley’s thighs.

Keeping one arm around Aziraphale’s back, holding him tight for both love and stability, Crowley uses the other to reach between them, takes Aziraphale’s cock in hand, and rubs the head along his slit to get it all slick, nearly loses himself lingering against his swollen clit. The sound of his name spilling from Aziraphale’s mouth like pure gratitude refocuses him, reminds him he’s on his way to surround, to hold, to take in, to embrace.

Crowley poises Aziraphale at his entrance, his labia around the tip of the angel’s cock as if giving a kiss. “Angel,” he whispers, their eyes locking, and he pushes his hips forward, his welcoming cunt engulfing Aziraphale from head to hilt. “Oh, angel.” He sighs, lightheaded with Aziraphale’s hooded gaze only a few inches away, with the hot stretch of his girth satisfying the ache deep between Crowley’s legs.

Aziraphale’s eyes slide shut and he tips his head back. “Ooh. Crowley, I--” He pauses to gasp, grabs at the fabric over Crowley’s back. “I can’t last long.”

“You don’t worry about that,” Crowley says, voice low. He winds both arms and the leg he’s raised for access around Aziraphale’s soft, warm body in a tight hug, nibbles tenderly at Aziraphale’s earlobe. “Jusssst do what feels good,” he hisses.

It’s a good thing Crowley’s spine has such a fluid relationship with physics, because it allows him to thrust his hips in delightfully long, slow sweeping motions over Aziraphale’s length while holding him heart-to-heart, while drinking in kiss after kiss. Aziraphale graces Crowley’s lips with a series of soft, beautiful “oh”s and “ah”s, running his hands down Crowley’s back again to grab his arse and meet each of his thrusts, pushing as deeply inside his cunt as he can, murmuring the occasional compliment: “How lovely, to be inside you…oh, my, Crowley, you are exquisite…”

And Aziraphale was right - it isn’t long before he climaxes. The rest of him goes still as he spills, and Crowley reaches down to finger his clit until his own orgasm builds to a fluttering crescendo around Aziraphale’s still-twitching cock.

Their pleasure sounds quiet into slowly-calming breaths, eyes closed for several seconds before their taught corporations relax and both settle down together, Crowley’s forehead against the shed over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“You do, occasionally, come up with a surprise,” Crowley says at last.

There’s a secretive glance from the angel. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sex in a public place, Aziraphale. In case you hadn’t noticed. How premeditated was this?” Crowley is sure his delight is palpable; he can feel it beaming from his face as he pushes off the wooden siding. Aziraphale follows.

A snap of fingers and the two of them are all tidied up again, a dusty, prim, and proper bookseller and a maybe-former-rock-star in expensive sunglasses strolling in tranquility under the apple trees. If you stumbled around the corner at this moment, you would likely not suspect they’d known each other for over six thousand years, and while you might detect some flirtatious tension in the air, you probably would not assume they’d just been furiously rutting each other into the throes of orgasm against the side of the undisturbed old shed.

Aziraphale sniffs. “It’s doubtful whether it counts as public if humans are incapable of noticing us.”

“It’s the...oh, fair enough.”

“Besides, I said I was tempted, remember?” After this, all of the smugness melts off the angel’s expression, and he’s left with a tender look that isn’t, theoretically, supposed to turn the insides of demons into a mess of pure sugar. “By the very best. Come along, let’s finish our walk.”

And this, reader, is where our story leaves off for now. Take this idea with you, if you’d like…

Two beings, not completely like or unlike you and I, once reached across the gulf between Heaven and Hell. They shared secrets in the Garden of Eden, just as the first rain began to fall and humankind, too, was falling for the first time ever over the consuming of a forbidden apple. More than six thousand years and story after infinite story later, the very same pair has found the freedom to choose Earth and each other. They’ve just paused to make love in an apple orchard of humankind’s cultivation, and then set out together to continue on their way under sun and shade alike.

[kbstories]

Axiomatic

ax·i·om·at·ic (adj.)

Self-evident; unquestionable.

The best part of battle is the afterparty.

(Or: Remember that banquet Luffy promised? This is it.)

Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Partying

Set in Wano. Spoilers for all of Wano. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

“What do you think?”

Lipstick glides over thin lips, the wax malleable and smooth as it leaves a coat of rusty red in its wake. Killer makes sure it’s perfectly even before he glances elsewhere. In the mirror, Kidd’s face is all scowled impatience.

One last run-down – eyeliner, mascara, lipstick: done, done and done – then Killer grabs the mask waiting for him. “Alright, let me see.”

Their eyes meet and Killer sighs. Metal over skin-and-bone, Kidd’s arms are crossed; his shaved brows push together further. As if Killer doesn’t indulge his every whim by the regular.

“I’m looking. Show me again.”

Kidd grumbles, “Watch.” He opens his arms, reveals an unbuttoned shirt tucked into his favorite patterned pants, glinting gold over black under a double-belted cinch at the waist. So far, so very Kidd.

No, the point of discussion is the frankly massive coat slung across his neck: Nice soft-looking suede on the outside and glossy-grey fur on the inside, it hugs Kidd’s shoulders in all the right places to then cascade down his back in a display of near-ridiculous opulence.

Extravagant, over-the-top, flashy. It’s hard to tell which type of animal had to die for this. There must be a lot less of ‘em now, with this monstrosity in the world.

Kidd is swiveling it back and forth with critical glances to the mirror, the coat wooshing with the motions. Killer takes in the fluid glide of fur over Kidd’s exposed chest, the contrast of impeccable couture against jagged scars. Loses himself for a moment or two imagining how it would feel like to run his hands over both.

An appreciative hum. In Killer’s educated opinion, Kidd looks damn near sinful.

“Yeah?”, Kidd asks and Killer nods. “Yeah. Heh, told ya the detour’s worth it.”

Perhaps it was, although sifting through Onigashima’s treasury whilst bleeding all over heaps of shiny expensive everything might’ve been a case of skewed priorities. There’s no need to talk about what-could-have-beens, though – they’re here, they’re rich and they’re long overdue at Strawhat’s banquet.

Killer’s practically done, tight jeans under a shirt that’s done up to the third button and left to flare open otherwise. It’s not his old favorite (that one stopped fitting him a good year ago) but similar enough, patterned in geometric black-and-white shapes. Definitely one of his fancier ones, not that anyone will care one way or the other where they’re going.

It’s… been a while since it’s been anyone other than them and their crew. Pirates are pirates, allied or no; Killer eyes the scythes neatly stored next to the bed.

Kidd is touching up his lips one last time, the same shade as Killer’s. “Bring ‘em. That Roronoa guy keeps throwing you weird looks and I’m not allowed to kill him.”

Yet goes implied. Killer isn’t wearing his mask and so he doesn’t roll his eyes. “He’s got every reason to”, he reminds his captain, focusing on the heavy clasps of his weapons to keep the memories at bay. The red mark on his chest stings, stuck in the limbo between a healing wound and a fresh scar for a few days still.

A testament to his failure that Killer won’t hide. If Zoro hadn’t stopped him that day his hands would be stained with blood that cannot be washed off, not entirely.

Kidd’s eyes are on him, dark. “I don’t care.”

Resentful as always. Killer reaches for him, digs his fingers into the fluffy lining of that coat and oh, the fur is as soft as it looks. “I do, though.” A firm tug, one Kidd follows until Killer can kiss him, careful not to smudge anything.

“No killing of allies today, ‘kay? We just came back from a war. The crew’s tired. I’m tired.”

“Mh” is all Kidd has to say to that, a grumpy huff against Killer’s lips more than anything. Kidd does give him a proper kiss, however, and Killer knows he won this one.

All he can ask of Kidd is to try, anyways – with two equally hot-headed captains and a whole host of morons around to rile him up, there’s bound to be blood eventually. The trick is to make sure everyone’s drunk enough not to take it too personally.

A pinch to his ass tells Killer he was caught scheming. Kidd smirks, tells him, “We’re getting wasted tonight”, all triumphant like it’s the best idea he’s had all week, and Killer doesn’t miss the emphasis on we.

“Two Emperors down! Strawhat better bring the good stuff tonight or this alliance is over.”

Killer groans, “Kidd”, but he’s smiling, too. Before he can be called out on it, Killer shoves his mask into Kidd’s hands, metal clanking against metal. “Make yourself useful. We’re late.”

Kidd’s laugh is more of a cackle than anything else – “Yes, darling”, said in that sarcastic lilt Killer knows all too well – yet Kidd complies. His hands, organic or otherwise, handle the mask they’ve built with care and precision. Soon, Killer’s vision is narrowed down to dots, the audio filter of his helmet kicking in soon after.

Killer rolls his neck and hums, satisfied. “Ready?”

Kidd throws a final look at himself in the mirror, grinning into the collar of his new coat.

“Hell yeah. Let’s go.”

*

The banquet is a sprawling, messy affair that swallows the entirety of the ramshackle village the Strawhats picked as their home in Wano Country.

From the moment the Kidd Pirates get there they are surrounded. Wherever Killer's eyes roam there are knots of people drinking, eating, laughing and crying, sometimes simultaneously – there, at the heart of it all where the crowd is thickest, burns the largest bonfire Killer has seen in a while, perhaps ever. Smiling faces all around and for once, it doesn’t make Killer’s stomach drop because they’re genuine.

Survivors of SMILE just like him, caught in the rush of real emotions for the first time in who knows how long. Killer has a pretty good idea how that feels like.

Next to him, Kidd is so tense he’s stalking, gaze intense, oozing Haki to keep people away; Wire’s hand is clenched to bloodlessness around his trident while Heat exhales a bit of smoke with every breath and yeah, Killer gets it. Can’t help it himself, either, scythes kept close to his sides to make sure they’re there.

The thing is: They don’t do these kinds of things. Parties, yes, many and often but not like this. Killer can count on one hand the amounts of times the population of any island was actually happy to see them, much less willing to send them off with one big feast.

Actually, he wouldn’t need to count at all because it’s simply never happened. Even filtered by his mask it’s… a lot to take in at once.

The entire damn country is here, it seems, all breathing a collective sigh of relief so monumental the air itself carries their joy. For all that the Kidd Pirates were in this for revenge and glory, Killer can’t deny it’s rewarding to see a nation so ravaged by an Emperor’s greed do whatever they want for the first time in decades.

Finally, a few familiar faces start popping up. Some of the samurai greet them with nods of their heads, overly formal like the people from Wano tend to be; here and there they spot the distinctly branded yukata the members of Trafalgar’s crew are wearing and, rarer but all the more noticeable, those animal people Strawhat dragged along from somewhere.

Minks? Or something? Killer is inclined to say it doesn’t matter if they didn’t have the habit to jump on them out of fucking nowhere. Looking for bone-crushing hugs and wet-nosed kisses, of all things, and– Oh no, he did not sign up for this.

Much less for whatever that group of cat minks are gearing up to, staring at the holes in his mask with eyes nearly swallowed by black, round pupils. Killer is absolutely, solidly convinced he doesn’t even want to know what that’s all about.

“Captain.”

And yeah, his tone is a little more alarmed than he truly means it to be. It gets Kidd’s attention, though – himself having fought off a dog mink enamored with his metal arm not too long ago – and he barks a laugh even when he ramps up his presence to an almost stifling degree.

“C’mon, I feel Strawhat up ahead.”

To nobody’s surprise, they find him smack dab in the middle of everything. Strawhat and his crew are lounging around the bonfire, there’s no other way to describe it: All broad smiles and flushed faces amidst the chaos, completely in their element, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the closeness to the bonfire or the vaguely impressive amounts of empty bottles lying around already. They’re certainly boisterous enough for it to be the latter, even Jinbei.

And no, Killer hasn’t quite processed that turn of events yet. The strangeness of seeing someone of that caliber wheeze into his mug with laughter as his (new?) captain takes a disturbingly big bite out of an even bigger chunk of meat is… not helping things, in that regard.

What a bunch of weirdos. In the safety of his mask, Killer allows himself a small smile.

From here the flames seem to reach for the sky, tinged in warm pinks and oranges by the sinking sun and there, very faintly, Killer can make out the first stars. He can’t remember ever seeing them, not with the factories running over night as well.

“Spikey!!”

Ah. Killer’s head turns with Kidd’s and it’s a good thing, too, because there’s a stretched arm coming for his captain – Kidd bites out, “Nope, no, Strawhat”, red eyes going wide – and Killer manages to side-step it in the last possible second. One, twice it wraps around Kidd, fancy coat and all, and then the rubber recoils.

“Killer!”

Oh my, Killer thinks mildly as he watches him go. Behind him, half their crew is flabbergasted and the other half is in stitches. “Captain’s gonna be in such a mood”, Heat says to Wire, and it just sends them into another fit of chuckles.

For Killer, finding a drink becomes his top priority. So much for keeping things peaceful.

>>Chapter 2.

[disparition]

Staves of Smoke (Text Version)

I. ash falls on tile, on paper, on skin ash enters our windways as a poison, and enters the earth as a nutrient carved stone sculpture of an open hand, embers collecting in the palm they spin and rise walk among ashes as though in a sacred courtyard – unarmed, naked, empty of song or idea walk among ashes as though barefoot into the wetlands, sinking and becoming the ending and beginning of the worlds in their millions, ashes rise from the ground in a cloud, the cloud fades into the sky and pulls back into the distance the shapes and forms that emerge into visibility are shaking, secretly and inwardly nervous, unsure how to approach clouds that choke and clog our passageways with memory. once, from distances, this scent could pull us for miles towards the solace of warmth and comradery. In the age of paper the scent is mixed with fear and imbalance. the clouds grow. we walk by day in ochre and fall to stillness as the veil disintegrates around us, asleep in beds of amber, washing up on their shores. II. He bought the little glass jar at a tourist trap in the Temple Pass, the tiny city they used to call Casa de Fruta and then the Nine Times City. Yes, the place where Faita’s Kite still lies in pieces up on the hillside. Yes, the same place where they still fly in the night. That place. The little glass jar was etched with the image of a poppy. Yes, that poppy. He filled the little glass jar with soil from the shore of the ancient resevoir, a thin column dry and loose at the top, wet and dense at the bottom, he spread it out upon his tile and ran it through the sieves before funnelling it into the little glass jar with the etching of the poppy. He was heading east against the flow, a direction that called attention, all the way across the valley he kept his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his robe, his head low, his thoughts a pure reflection of the landscape and vibration in the area immediately surrounding. A slow and silent mirror creeping along the overgrown upper paths of the Eightyway, he encountered few – and those he met, or rather saw, seemed as eager to avoid the mark as he. And so they passed each other with no acknowledgement, each giving wide berth and then erasing all shade and memory of encounter. Still, without quite realizing it, he had one set of fingers tightly clutched around the little jar full of earth with the etching of a poppy. They stopped him soon after he entered the foothills. He had left the road by then but it didn’t matter. From atop a low ridge he had stopped to watch figures throwing logs across the way at Clipper Gap as travellers lined up outside of a tent by the side of the road. On the approach to Applegate they surrounded him in a clearing, a pickup and SUV in front of him and another pickup behind. They poured out of the vehicles. He took his phone out of his pocket – yes even at that late hour he still had a phone. A gloved hand grabbed it and threw it into the field while someone pinned his arms from behind and then kicked his legs out from under him. Then another hand forced his face into the ground and a voice was calm and close in his ear : “you can simply dissappear”. More hands pulling at his robes, tearing it from his body and then ripping the pockets open. Someone picked him up so that he was kneeling but kept a hand on the back of his head, forcing his to the ground. They were going through everything and setting certain items aside on the hood of one of the pickups – even in this chaos he was attuned to the sound. The small leather tube containing the writ, the cutter, the digger, his canteen, the small glass full of soil from the ancient resevoir, the sieves, the tile. One of them gave a stifled yelp. They had found his eggs. He expected them to smash the eggs in an act of mocking cruelty and was surprised to see shells fall silenty to the ground as the eggs were eaten quietly and hurriedly by whoever spotted them. As he watched the shells fall he noticed their bootprints on the ground, the cross at the center of the pattern, and felt a cold dull pain rising at the base of his spine as his stomach began to churn. Wolves of Honor. He thought he had steered well north of their territory but things changed fast and information wasn’t what it used to be. All of the old maps were dead. Silent but nearly paralyzed with fear, they walked him over to the SUV and strapped him into a hard fiberglass seat in the back. He didn’t know much about the Wolves of Honor, but he had seen comrades with that cross pressed into their face or back, seen the broken hands and missing fingers, he’d heard the rumours about what had they had done to Jesse, what they had done in Truckee. That was enough. They were in motion almost immediately. The straps made it hard to turn his head, and a bare wooden board seperated him from the front of the cab. With pressure he could twist and see partially out of the window to his right, where the trees were getting thicker and the sky darker. Soon they were climbing steeper hills, winding back and forth into the Sierra, and he had to face forward to keep from getting sick. Eventually, he closed his eyes. They stopped at a low, small building on the edge of a small and steep ravine. When they pulled him out they light was almost gone but he could feel the form of the land, run himself over the jagged stone hidden beneath soft layers of life and death. They brought him into a small gray room partitioned by crude brickwork and thick, dull glass. In the tubelight he could see their piecemeal uniforms, the longrifles on their backs, their pins and patches, wolves and stormclouds, eagles and runes, the flag of the old empire with the five bars and the stars replaced by a cross. Two stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. Three sat at an ancient folding table. Through layers of glass he saw several other figures crowded into a tiny room at the far end of the building, shrouded in white, their movements hindered by some binding he couldn’t see. The blur of the glass masked their faces but they looked like elders, and they were swaying gently back and forth. The Wolves pushed him down into an old school chair that was bolted to the floor and bound him to it. Someone came in holding what was left of his robes and a duffel bag. With gloved hands they slowly removed his belongings and placed them on the table, the sieves, the tile, the cutter, the digger, his canteen, the small glass full of soil from the ancient resevoir, the small leather tube containing the writ. One of the soldiers behind the desk produced a clipboard overstuffed with white, yellow, and pink papers and carbon sheets. Yes, the triplicates of legend. In hushed tones they debated intracacies of the paperwork among themselves. He could hear them but their jargon was impenetrable. One by one they picked up the items, gestured at the forms and eventually filled out various sections, their tone and faces muted with boredom. When they came to the leather tube, they stopped as if afraid to touch it. Then one of them slowly stood and ambled outside. A heavy space lay on the room and all inside its partitions. The drone of the tubelight was the only sensation. Even the prisoners had stopped their swaying. The remaining Wolves stared ahead, eyes dulled. He scanned the walls, the ancient forms and notices still held up with tape, indecipherable graffiti in three languages, a crude drawing of Mia Marisol with her eyes crossed out and a snake coming out from her mouth. Could have been done by the Wolves or by any number of previous occupants; her name had been anathema in this part of the mountains long before their arrival. The wind began to pick up outside. A sound of leaves and creaking branches filtered through the brick work. Then the door opened quickly and a group of soldiers came in. They wore the same patches as the other Wolves but their armor was more uniform, they were heavy with clinking gear, they smelled of woodsmoke. One of them picked up the leather tube from the table and popped it open, then held the writ close up to their face, folded it in half, and stuffed it into a pocket. “Outside, and bring all his shit.” Two of them got up from behind the table, languid, slow, one of them pausing to stretch. They unstrapped him, lifted him roughly from the chair, rebound his hands behind his back; three went outside and then the two behind pushed him, following. Outside the dark was total and the wind strong. A floodlight above the door of the building shone on the gravel drive and reflected off of parked trucks. They all stopped just a few feet in front of the door. The soldier who had taken the writ was addressing the others: “He’s got a Writ of Gomez. Do you guys know what that is?” almost yelling to keep above the wind. “You should know what that is because we signed this. In fact, every chapter of Knights on the coast has signed it. McCora signed it, I was there when he did, and that means us. Now, I want to show you guys something. I’m going to show you how these people work and how to turn their own snake language against them.” The soldier turned to address him directly: “Gentle traveller, do you know the meaning of the term ‘to abide’?” In the silence the wind grew stronger. “You see in this writ it says that you are to ‘abide’. Specifically it says you are to abide by the structure of those realms you cross. Realms. Well, we aren’t a realm we are a republic, and in our republic we abide in Christ. Don’t worry, I already know you don’t. I already know that. But it says you are to abide by our strictures, and it turns out you don’t even abide by your own. How do you think we found you? Take a wild guess.” From the same pocket in which the writ was folded, his phone was produced. One of them must have gone into the field to find it. “I don’t know a lot about how you people do things but I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to have this. You don’t look like a Bubbler to me. And you definitely aren’t supposed to have it here.” The phone went back into the pocket. “And so we have you. Now, I know, we all know, what it is to trespass – because we are all sinners. The most we can do is ask forgiveness. To ask forgiveness, you have to accept Christ into your heart. Only then can you begin to abide – only then will it be in your nature to abide. Please kneel.” Someone kicked him hard in the back of the legs, heavy hands on his shoulders forced him down. He whimpered as his knees were driven into the gravel, the first sound he made in their presence. With his hands behind his back he couldn’t balance on his own, the two behind him holding him semi upright. The wind had grown stronger. Dry needles and small branches were blowing across the drive. One of the Wolves had gone back into the building and returned with the duffel bag, then one by one began tossing the items onto the ground. The sieves, the digger, the porceilein tile landed on a corner that chipped off. One of the sieves rattled as it rolled away down the slope. “Here’s our solution, and you don’t know how lucky you are that we’re in the middle of something right now. So, it’s simple. You will open your heart and accept Christ, you will abide in Christ so long as you remain on our land, we will let you take your little witch toys and walk away because they don’t do shit here. The illegal spy device that you brought into our republic will be cleansed and destroyed by the proper method, the writ of Gomez we will keep until we have observed you leaving our territory – it will then be sent to your superiors, the old way, and with our seal attached. Now, to show our faith we will unbind you so that you may place your hand over your heart. Please do so.” At that moment the little glass jar landed badly on a rock and shattered. Immediately the wind picked up the dust of the ancient resevoir, it circled in the air around the drive and fled into surrounding the darkness. It was then enough confidence returned and, triggering an aged memory, enough power entered him that words rose quitely in his throat and flew into the air: “may you sit for all of your days in the southwest corner of every room with a northwest wind blowing dust in your eyes.” They had not yet unbound his hands and they never did. One of them punched him hard in the stomach and then again in the chest. He struggled to breathe. They forced him upright, marched him back into the building, opened the layers of doors to the tiny room with the elders shrouded and white, and threw him to the floor. His hands still bound behind his back, a boot pressed down on them, then kicked him in the lower back, then stopped. They were furious, but hurried – there was something odd about their speed. They closed and locked the door and then shut off lights in the outer rooms, then there was another clanking of bolts as they locked the last door from outside. Then the sound of engines and the crunch of wheels on gravel as they left. And then the wind outside, the breaking of branches, the hum of the one flickering tubelight they had left on in the tiny room. As his breathing regained some normal rhythm and the pain began to subside, he managed to turn himself onto his other side. He had thought the room crowded with prisoners but it must have been some trick of the glass – there were only two. He recognized them immediately, the ancient teachers who had wandered the valley of Joachim and the Sierra in the chaos and the liquid days. One of them came from Fresno, the other Chico. As soon as they saw the recognition in his eyes, they looked at one another and, as though he were not present, began their Discourse. Outside, the emberse had already begun to fall. “Was this wise, what our young traveller has done? Look where he finds himself – bound and defeated. If one is caught in a current, it is unwise to swim directly against it” said the Teacher of Fresno “You must have failed to look into the eyes of our captors” remarked the Wise One of Chico, “our traveller has spread a fear into them. The fear will take them – maybe not this moment, or this day, but it will be their defeat.” “It wil not be the defeat of all of them. These people, these Wolves, they are a hairs breadth from the witch burnings and pogroms of old. To use such a curse, is to incur a debt. Howsoever that fear is spread, it will return upon him and not just him, but on all of his people, on those who are bound to him by love and knowledge, and on those who depend on their kindness, and so on across the webs between us all. Not every seed takes root but the one that does will break all the soil and drink all the water of the field” responded the Sage of Fresno. “And that of which you speak is that which must be done, the soil wil be broken and the water will be drunk, as we leave from the age of fields and enter into an age of the forest” opined the Aged One of Chico. “Does this transition need to occur without wisdom or foresight?” asked the Learned One of Fresno “and with such dire consequence for those caught in the margins? Those with less power will suffer for what he has thrown into the wind. To move from one age to the next is unavoidable, but is it so much to ask that this be done with sensitivity, and with precision? As reality shatters can we not watch our step, that we are not cut by the flying shards?” To which the Elder of Chico responded “Look down on the forests of tomorrow, which grow as did the forest of yesterday. Do you see it placed upon a grid?” The teacher of Fresno was consumed in a pillar of light. The teacher of Chico faded into the ether. Outside, the windws carried ash and ember and the distant sounds of chainsaws and of logs being thrown across the roads. III. There will come a day when you look up to find the sky full of machines – heavy and strange, objects that don’t look like they should fly. Like pieces of them are breaking away and falling slowly, drifting down like steel feathers. There will come a day when you condense all of your feelings into your fingertips until they glow and you will scrape them against the air leaving bright traces, and you will be unable to hide those traces before you are seen – was that the first time? Think back over the dreams you have had throughout your life. Focus on what you have seen again and again. Not the people, not the events, not even the feeling – not exactly. Look around you. Circle around and above. The room, the space, the architecture, the geography, the design, the living and unliving things and the balance between them. Focus on where you have been again and again. What are the settings you return to in dreams that you have never seen in the life you call “real”? The intersections, the hallways, the parks, the transit systems, the view out of and into windows. Focus on what you have seen again and again. Do not let yourself be led astray by the temptations of literary symbolism – the roads and bridges that we see in dreams are not metaphors, they are infrastructure. These are the marches, the borderlands, the high and distant domes of our temples are held aloft by pillars of smoke. That which happens here echoes and ripples. Currents wrap themselves around you. Focus on where you have been again and again. How is it possible that these memories have entered so deeply into you, the details of places you have never physically entered, this sense of routine and repetition How is it possible the drone of machines and weight of their distance, their journey across the upper atmosphere has covered you in your sleep like a blanket all these years Think back on the dreams you have had over and over in your life, and think on the dream you are in now Invisible and floating in a photonegative world, awake and waiting the painted masks, the order of keys, the pulling line. Three blue diamonds buzz against glass in the light of dawn. There will come a day when you glide just above the fields and the ground will drop from beneath you, the valley and its twisting currents far below, shrouded in mist. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For the one word asks - Peter + "drift"

CW: Whump involving a minor (character is 16) - although no direct physical harm is done to him during the drabble. Sickness, isolation, referenced shock collar. Captor bonding. Referenced abuse at the end.

There was an ache that settled into the boy’s bones and resolutely refused to leave. It dug itself into the marrow and lived there, a pounding, throbbing pain that was with him whether he was shuffling through the hallways with a handler at his side or curled up in his room praying to fall asleep just so he didn’t have to feel it hurt any longer.

He went to training, and the scrubber and broom seemed to fall out of his hands, and he kept missing when he tried to pick them up. They punished him for it, in all the ways they punished the ones like the boy, with their black sticks and the shock collar around his neck and with their hands at his hips and his face pressed into the floor, but the pain inside his bones was worse, after a while, than the pain they could inflict on him.

Eventually, they left him in his room.

He was dragged out to the bathroom and the showers, but left otherwise to lay on the cold tile shivering in his thin white shirt and black shorts, curled in around himself as tightly as he could get to stay warm. 

Handler Todd was the first one to care that he was sick.

Todd had been gone for two weeks, on vacation with his daughters - he told the boy all about it, they took a trip to Yosemite National Park, and the boy didn’t know what that was any longer but the words sounded sort of familiar, anyway. The boy got sicker and sicker and while he was sick, he thought about Todd, and how much he missed a kind touch and a nice voice, and he hoped Todd would show him photos when he got back, the way he’d shown him photos of Disneyland.

When he heard the soft beeping and the ssshhhh-click of his door unlocking and opening up, the boy didn’t move. He didn’t look up - the white light hurt his eyes now, and he kept one arm over his face all the time, desperate to find some kind of darkness to hide in. 

“435689, you up?”

It didn’t matter. When handlers spoke, you were awake, whether you actually were or not. The boy made a soft sound that he’d meant to be words but the words didn’t come, and stirred a little, keeping his hand shading his eyes as he slowly looked up, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his head. 

“Oh, shit. You okay, kiddo?” Todd glanced over his shoulder, then shut the door behind him, dropping down into a crouch near the boy. “You look like hell.”

Did he? The boy hadn’t seen a mirror since he’d been brought into the Facility. He didn’t know what he looked like any longer. His eyes felt like sandpaper and he knew he’d been sweating, off and on, sick-sweat smell that needed another shower but he’d already had his shower, he wouldn’t get another one for a couple more days.

When Todd took his hand and slowly moved it away, the boy’s fingertips dropped onto the cold tile, and he sighed in relief at the press of Todd’s hand to his head.

Oh, sweetie, you’re burning up. No school for you mister, it’s cartoons on the couch and some good old-fashioned chicken noodle soup. Get the Tylenol, Greg-

He groaned at the spike of pain in his head. 

“Kiddo?” 

“Mom, I don’t feel good,” The boy said, softly. His voice sounded weirdly far away to him, as if hearing himself from a distance. “I think I’m sick.”

There was a silence, and Todd withdrew his hand.

The boy whimpered and tried to grab at it, to pull it back. No one had touched him in days because he might be contagious, and he was alone in his tiny white room until they used the catch-pole to make him go to the showers or the bathroom and he just, he missed it so much, he just missed someone touching him even just a little bit.

Even the ways that hurt would be better than being alone in here hurting by himself. 

“Stay right here, kiddo. I will be right back, I promise. I promise you.”

Todd pushed to his feet and was gone, and the boy’s pleas for him to stay were ignored and then unheard.

The boy drifted, for a while. The world was flat white light and white floor, white walls. He was sweaty but he shivered at a cold that would not cease, drying sweat on his skin only for it to grow clammy and gross again moments later. His hair stuck to his forehead, flopped around in greasy clumps. He couldn’t curl up tightly enough to be warm. He couldn’t cover his eyes well enough to make it dark. He couldn’t sleep or stay awake, and all he could do was drift.

Don’t you worry. I’ve already called the doctor, we’ll get you in by noon. I’m sure this is just some kind of flu or something, honey, I’m sure of it. But you have to eat something.

When was the last time the boy ate? He had no idea. He’d started throwing up the Facility shakes and they’d stopped giving them to him. All he got now was water. At least the water stayed down.

He had no idea how long Todd was gone.

He was pretty sure Todd was probably just him seeing things from the fever, anyway.

But then there was the ssshhhh-click again, and Todd came in with a bag in one hand and something big rolled up in the other. He let both hit the floor and dropped back into his crouch. “Okay, kiddo. Can you sit up for me, please?” He reached out, hands on the boy’s shoulders, and with effort they got him back up, leaning his back against the wall, tears running down the boy’s face from how much it hurt to move. 

Greg, I think he needs the ER, he’s really badly off. What’s our copay?

“Mom, I n-need a doctor,” He groaned, and cool hands settled his head back a little bit, let it rest against the wall. “I’m so sick.”

“I know you are, kiddo,” A voice sound, not his mother’s voice. He remembered her smell and her voice and her hands, but he couldn’t remember her face. “I know. Look, medicine first, yeah? Just drink what’s in this little cup.”

He drank. It tasted like flat grape soda made thick into syrup and he nearly gagged on it, but the hands gave him water to wash it down with. Then he was dipped forwards again, and he cried more at the ache, but something infinitely soft and warm wrapped around him and then was pulled together at his front, and he managed to crack his eyes to look down.

A blanket, soft fleece, and already he felt warmer in the chill air in the white room. The boy ran his fingers back and forth over it, looked slowly up through eyes bleary and blurry with tears and the ache, and saw Handler Todd watching him with concern and what the boy thought must be real affection on his face. “I can have this?”

He’d never had a blanket before.

Never been good long enough to earn one.

“Sure you can, kiddo. Just til you heal up. Now, you’ve got medicine - that’ll take down your fever in a little bit. Then I brought you what I give my little girls when they’re sick.” He pulled a six-pack of something out of a bag, and the boy stared at the little blue bottles. “It’s not… great, but these have a bunch of vitamins and shit, you need that. Technically it’s kind of a nutrient shake for toddlers who won’t eat, but hey, food is food. And also, this.” He pulled out another six-pack, and the boy knew Gatorade even though he couldn’t remember having had any in his whole life. He felt a thin smile find its way onto his face.

“You brought so much for me,” He whispered. “Is it, is this just for me?”

“Just for you, kiddo. I ran home and picked it up from our food stash in the house.”

“Cool. Th-thank you,” The boy said, and took the Gatorade the man offered him, drinking its cool sugar-sweet flavor in little sips that somehow, miraculously, stayed down like water. “Can… can I see a doctor?”

Todd sighed and sat down next to him. “I asked, they said no. Not sick enough.”

The boy blinked at him, still sipping the Gatorade, holding it in both hands like it was precious. “If I… if I get sicker I’ll be dead,” He said, softly.

“No you won’t, you’re probably past the worst of it by now.” Todd shrugged. “Just keep hydrated, and try to drink two of those little Pediagrow things each day. I’ll get you some peanut crackers once your appetite’s back. Just takes time, this flu is all over the place in the Facility right now.”

The boy wanted to argue, but he’d used up all his energy in the words he had already said. Instead, he pulled his blanket closer and leaned sideways until his head rested on Handler Todd’s arm. 

They sat there like that for a while, until Todd said, “Want to see my pictures from Yosemite?”

The boy smiled and looked up at him, grateful Todd had come back, that he cared that he was sick, that he had had fun on his vacation with his family. The boy didn’t have one any longer. It was nice that someone else got to.

“This is what you do for your kids when they’re sick?” He asked.

Todd laughed, pulling up a photo of the sunrise over mountains. “Sort of. My babies lay on the couch watching cartoons all day.”

“I think I got to do that, before,” The boy said.

Todd glanced at him and then shrugged. “Maybe. But you don’t remember any of that, right?”

There was a warning in his voice, an edge. Todd was still a handler, and memories weren’t allowed. The boy quickly shook his head, and settled in to look at the photos Todd had taken of places that looked so terribly familiar but the boy could not remember ever having seen.

***

Later, when he is sick - the whole first year he was sick all the time - he’ll lay on his mattress on the floor in the tiny little room he calls his own, and Dex will be the one who sits with him. 

The room isn’t any bigger, but it stays dark when he needs it to, and it’s his own. The sickness lasts just as long, but there is medicine right from the start, and there are other people who care.

Peter knows to be grateful for this, even when being sick doesn’t stop her from leaving bruises on her bad days.

When Peter cries for Todd in his sleep, Dex holds his hand and knows it is a handler he is calling for. It is Dex who combs his hair back from his forehead and lays the blanket over him when he kicks it off. It’s Dex who tips the little cup of syrupy liquid to his lips. It’s Dex who feeds him Gatorade and saltine crackers and Sebastian makes him chicken noodle soup to sip from coffee mugs he can barely hold in shaking hands.

Still, he cries for Todd, in his sleep.

He can’t remember if there was ever anyone who cared before him.

[tessadoesstuff]

Run It With Love - Chapter 1

For the KOTOBER event from Tumblr!

For Day 1 - Beast

Next Chapter!

A non-linear story of Bly, Aayla, and Quinlan in the time of the Knights of the Old Republic games (about 3,800 years before the prequels) designed to be read without any knowledge of that game or time.

This story will eventually use all of the prompts from KOTOBER, although for the sake of my sanity I will be posting around 3 prompts a week rather than one a day :D

Thank you to LadyVadar and GoBayern for betaing this fic for me!

Aayla fiddles with the gloves she is wearing, even as she sends a cocky grin over to the crowded sidelines of the racing track. She scans the mass of sentients gathered at the dusty, questionably legal, sandy swoop-racing track until her eyes find where Quinlan has chosen his space. Aayla’s master is about 100 yards past the starting line, leaning over the edge of the track to wave at her. Mission has perched on his shoulders, cackling at something Quinlan must have said. The 14-year-old twi’lek is gripping Quinlan’s shoulders with her legs, her hands in the air, waving at Aayla. Admittedly, that was a very good way to get her attention and make sure she spotted them. Mission’s bright blue skin stood out from the dusty shades of green and brown worn by most of those local to Tatooine.

The organizer of the day’s races, Motta the Hutt, begins speaking over the intercom. He announces that the race would begin soon, which draws Aayla’s attention back to the track ahead of her. She tunes out the fake voice that one of the announcers is putting on – if she had to guess she would put her credits on the twi’lek girl trying to play up the stereotype of the weak, pretty female twi’lek. Whoever the announcer is, they’re repeating the fake backstory Aayla produced when she found herself in this time, declaring her the rookie racer this swoop-racing season.

A second, male announcer takes over as the start light ahead of Aayla starts to power on. She listens a little closer when the announcer mentions the time to beat. 23 seconds doesn’t seem too bad – she had watched racers on Taris do much better when she had watched the season opener. Although to be fair, that had been an entirely different track on a different planet.

Aayla flips the lever on the side of her speeder – no, they’re called swoop bikes at this point in time – to turn on the bike’s custom accelerator on and feels it hum to life beneath her, the extra power surging through the bike. As the lights begin to count down to the start of the race, Aayla wraps her hands around the throttle and brake controls attached to the handles of the speeder. As the go light turns green, Aayla slams the throttle trigger to the handlebar, squeezing it tight, and the bike leaps into motion.

Immediately she shifts to avoid the huge pile of debris in front of her, dodging left towards one of the ten acceleration pads placed along the track to give a boost of speed to a racer. As she passes over the pad, she slams her left handlebar forwards, releasing the speed that her accelerator has been building up. Combined, the two speed boosts send her shooting ahead. Through the air, she can feel the vibrations that mean the male announcer is commenting on something, but only barely.

Her lekku stream out behind her as she hits another speed panel and dodges between two more piles of the Hutt’s junk out on the field, the wind rushing around them as she gains speed until the only vibrations she can hear are the ringing songs of the air. She speeds over two more speed panels placed back to back, releasing her speed from the accelerator again as she hits the second pad, and its ever-so-slight slope is enough that she gets a fair amount of air as she does, and she sails over the ridge of sand left in the track by a previous racer. If her count is right, she’s ten seconds in, and almost halfway there. Her count has never been wrong in any of her practice runs.

The following pad is on the far side of the wide track, and at her high speed she only manages to clip the corner of it, but that sets her up for the next one. She squeezes between a rock arch and an artificial obstacle for a straight drive at the oncoming pad.

She takes a deep breath, and just as she reaches it, she slams both her handlebars forward to activate all of her accelerator’s speed, and then adds just a touch of brakes and twists the handlebars the way Anakin would twist the steering wheel when he pod-raced in the lower levels of Coruscant with her, and the bike shoots into the air, clearing two obstacles and sailing for a good hundred yards, despite the fact that the swoop bikes were clearly designed to hover at less than knee height above the ground.

In the air, Aayla sails over another speed pad without activating it, but the next two are in a straight shot to the finish line. On the ground, Aayla would have to dodge several obstacles to get to them, but airborne, she is able to sail right to them, landing on the tail end of the first and shooting straight at the second and final speed pad, releasing her accelerator’s speed for the last time as she shoots across the finish line.

In the end zone, Aayla lets go of the throttle, which she had been squeezing at max since the start of the race, and eases into the brace as she loops around the circular end zone. When the swoop bike finally comes to a rest, she hops off the bike and looks over to the entrance to the end zone. The gate slams open, and three figures come bounding through into the end zone.

“Bly!” She cries out, throwing her arms around her boyfriend, who gives a chuckle and hugs her back. “How did I do?” She asks. She had been moving too fast to hear when they announced her time. Bly gives a dopey grin back at her.

“22 and a half seconds. You did it! That gives you the top time today unless there are any late challengers.” Aayla grins, still full of the adrenaline from moving that fast. She can see less than half the track from where she’s standing. She leans forward and kisses Bly on each cheek, right on top of his golden tattoos.

“With a race like that? There won’t be any late challengers.” Sam comments from where they’re leaning against their swoop-bike, the Jedi checking the ignition and the accelerator on their swoop bike.

“I know! You were incredible!” Juhani adds. The cathar has one of the biggest grins Aayla has ever seen on her face, and the ponytail that is perched on the back of her head sways back and forth a little as the Jedi padawan bounces up and down a little.

“Oh please, my bike was incredible. You were okay.” Sam comments as they bang their lightsaber against the brakes. Aayla giggles, even as Juhani and Bly make twin noises of protest. “We should start heading back – we agreed to meet Master Vos and Mission outside the swoop offices,” Sam adds, and Aayla waves over one of Motta the Hutt’s employees to take Sam’s bike back to the swoop offices on one of their trailers, now that Sam has given it their thumbs up.

Once the bike was all loaded up, Aayla loops her arm through Bly’s and ducks out of the gate onto the path through the sandy Tatooine wastelands. Sam and Juhani follow one step behind them, the sand crunching under their feet as they begin their trek. The sun is beginning to set, so it is only horribly hot out, as opposed to the nearly deadly heat it had been when the races had started.

“When did you and Juhani get here, Sam? I thought the whole point of me riding this race was that you were going to be busy with our side project.” That gets a sigh out of Juhani.

“We hit a dead-end for today. Mission’s brother definitely came here with his girlfriend after he ditched Mission on Taris.” The cather offers, but that was hardly new news. They had heard as much from said ex-girlfriend when Mission had run into her on Dantooine.

“And Lena’s theory was definitely right – after she dumped Griff, he was employed by Czerka Corp for a while. Unfortunately, he’s missing right now, and the Czerka representative is being dodgy about answering any questions about him.” Sam adds on.

“The more I hear about Mission’s brother, the less I think he’s half the man she thinks he is,” Bly adds. “I mean, he was already on thin ice for abandoning his 12-year-old sister on a planet where the system is designed to oppress and marginalize non-humans like her. But every time I learn something new about him, he still manages to surprise me.” Bly grinds out. Aayla can feel his indignation strong in the force. Bly takes being a good older brother very seriously.

“And, the Czerka representative expressed that while they are too busy to look into it now, if someone were to, say, deal with their Sand People problem on the West Dune Sea, they would be more than happy to help. Not that they would be able to pay the said person.” Sam adds.

“You got to love casual, openly corrupt businesses, don’t you?” Aayla chimes in, and gets snorts of laughter from the others, so she considers it a success.

“It’s horrible. I can’t believe the things Czerka gets away with.” Juhani responds, her disapproval filling the force.

“So, what’s the plan? Do you need us to distract Mission again while you guys keep hunting down this lead?” Aayla chimes back in.

“If that’s possible? That would be ideal.” Sam responded, and Juhani nodded.

“Of course, it is. There’s another race tomorrow.” Aayla smirks.

“Maybe Mission will manage to drag Zaalbar to the race with her this time.” Bly offered, a fond smile on his face.

“I doubt it. I bet sand is a pain to get out of Wookie fur.” Sam chimes back in.

[six-of-woes]

The Clown and the Potato Sack ch 3

Chapter 3/?: The Reluctant Prisoner

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24533863

Previous Chapter:https://hi-im-a-salty-human-being.tumblr.com/post/620071535133278208/the-clown-and-the-potato-sack-aerin-x-mc-chapter

Tags: Tags: @what-do-you-mean-theyre-evil @theclowneryqueen@findmeafterlife @0oi-io0 @thatgirlbuhle @mirabelle-choices@souhmhey @king-erzsebet @vlastomilsworm @diamonds-and-decorum @xsweetnspookyx @ernest-harrington @walkerswhiskeygirl @gela-mndz  @piinkheart @jaxsmutsuo

Author’s Note: Heyy sorry this one’s a little shorter but like motivation’s been a little low lately. Promise it’ll pick up soon tho

“God, these potato sacks are really heav—SHIT!”

Cassia stifled a laugh as she watched Kade practically roll down the stairs, followed by many a loose potato. His journey to the bottom of the stairs ended with a resounding thud.

“FUCK!” Kade yelled. “I am in more PAIN than I’ve ever been in, and I was TORTURED for months by the SHADOW COURT!”

Before Cassia could retort, hearty laughter echoed throughout the dungeons. 

“Ha ha…HA! Oh gods! I haven’t laughed like that in a good long while!”

“My pain is funny you, Aerin? Wait…what am I saying, you called yourself the prince of darkness! Of course you find my pain funny!”

Cassia scampered down the stairs to find scene that only had her about 25% surprised. Kade was laying face down on the ground, surrounded by the potatoes that had fallen out of the sack during his tumble: Expected. She watched him fall. Aerin was laughing his ass of: Kind of expected. Obviously he would find the pain of other people funny, hells, even Cassia wanted to laugh—however, Aerin was showing emotion that wasn’t Brooding Bitch. 

There was one thing, though, that caught Cassia completely off guard…that being the lack of guards and magical barrier. There weren’t even any unconscious bodies laying on the ground in front of the cell. All that was there was Aerin, Kade, and potatoes.

Eventually, Aerin stopped laughing, and promptly shot Cassia a scowl.

“I see you’re still trying to “save” me,” he spat.

Cassia scoffed as she crouched down to help Kade back to his feet. “And I see that you’re still Prince Bitch.”

Kade dusted himself off. “She’s trying to save you because apparently, you’re a good kisser,” he mumbled.

“That is absolutely not the reason, Kade,” Cassia said, dropping the two sacks of potatoes on the ground, “I already told you, <em>I’m bored<em>!”

“…and horny.”

“KADE!”

Cassia picked up a soft potato and chucked it at her brother’s head, only for him to duck out of the way, letting the potato splat against the wall.

“Gods,” Aerin groaned. “For once I agree with Cassia on the fact that neither of us want to acknowledge our ehm—<em>history<em>. It was a moment of weakness for both of us that we would both rather <em>forget<em>.”

“I—yes,” Cassia muttered, pulling her sword out of its hilt. “What happened between us is something to be forgotten.”

Of course it is, Cassia. He’s evil. EVIL! He only used you to gain an ally. He could care less about what happened between us. Why is this a surprise? It shouldn’t be…but…he actually believed us when we wanted to join him. It had to have meant something, right? Wait. Why does that even matter?

Cassia shook her head and inserted the tip of her sword into the keyhole. She fiddled with it for maybe a minute or so before giving up and shaking her head.

“Godsdammit,” she groaned, resting her head against one of the bars. “Where is the barrier, anyway?”

“Blackmailed a priestess,” Kade said, picking up a loose rock and throwing it at the wall.

Cassia did a double take. “Kade, you WHAT?”

“Are you deaf?” Aerin scoffed, crossing his arms. “He blackmailed a priestess! To help break out one of Morella’s worst criminals!”

“I wouldn’t give you that much credit,” Kade joked, earning a glare from Aerin. “You were more of a minor inconvenience than anything else.”

“But—but I killed the heir to this kingdom! That’s gotta be something, right?”

Cassia shrugged as she crouched down and fiddled with the cell’s lock. “I mean, I think you did us a favor more than anything else. Not saying that you murdering your brother in cold blood was good or anything, but he was really unlikable.”

The next few minutes were spent using various items to try to pick the lock. First, Cassia’s sword. Next, one of the spikes from her gauntlet. Finally, she tried one of her arrows. It slid into the lock seamlessly. Cassia worked the arrow back and forth, until the lock eventually clicked open and the door swung open.

“Yes!” Cassia whisper-shouted, sliding the arrow back into its quiver.

“Dammit!” Aerin whisper shouted, sliding to the very back of his cell.

Cassia stood up to her full height and dropped her arms to her sides. “Oh, come on, Aerin! I thought you’d want to get out of here! See the sun for the first time in weeks, breath air that doesn’t smell like moldy nesper puke, be around other people that aren’t guards!”

Aerin turned to face the wall and rested his head on his knees. “No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because,” he started, hugging his knees. “There’s no point in it. Even if I get reformed, I still murdered the hair to the kingdom. They’re not just going to let me go free just because I wouldn’t be inclined to do so again.”

Cassia nodded her head to the side. “That could be true…but…I’m bored.” She took a rope out of her pack. “So get up. We’re going on a quest.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.

“No.”

“Could you guys either shut up or make out?”

Cassia turned a deep shade of red before silently entering Aerin’s cell and tying his wrists together with the rope. She wasn’t unaware of how close she was to him as she tied the knot, but tried to ignore the sensation of his unusually cool breath on her skin.

“You know,” he started, gazing at the intricate not Cassia was tying. “You say you want to help free me, yet here you are, tying me up so I can’t escape.”

A small smirk spread across Cassia’s face as she finished tying the knot. “Well, even if I’m breaking you out, you’re still a prisoner, and we can’t have you getting away and spreading corrupt

ion everywhere.”

“You know I could still walk away from you, right?”

Cassia winked and pulled a slightly longer rope out of her pack. Without saying anything, she wrapped it around Aerin’s waste and tied it into a knot.

“There. Now I literally have you on a leash.”

Kade snickered. “Shoulda tied it around is neck. I’m sure both of you’d be into it.”

Cassia scoffed and stood back up, holding the end of the rope. “You know what I’m into, Kade, and it isn’t rope.”

A beat of awkward silence passed by before Cassia took off her cloak and wrapped it around Aerin, pulling the hood over his head.

“Alright, if you keep your head down, no one should notice you.”

In retaliation, Aerin threw his head back as if he were a horse. The hood fell back and showed his sickening grin. “You’re not very good at planning things, are you?”

“She’s really not,” Kade answered. “She had no idea how she was gonna get past the guards or the barrier to get you out.”

Cassia shrugged. “He’s right. I’m more a woman of action than hindsight.”

“One time she started a bar fight just because some guy stepped on her foot during a dance,” Kade piped. He picked up the empty potato sack and tossed it to Cassia. “Cut some holes and put this over his head, that should do the trick.“Please don’t do that,” Aerin started, shrinking into himself as Cassia placed the sack over his head. “Those bags are scratchy and I can feel my own breath and quite frankly that’s just not the experience I’m looking for when I escape prison.”

Cassia smirked and out her cloak over the potato sack. She poked two holes with her index finger nails to create eye holes. “There,” she muttered, standing back up. “Now we just have to build a dummy, and we can get out of here!”

“HEY! What’s going on?”

Cassia’s blood ran cold. She turned around to see two armored guards standing over her and Aerin.

“Uh, it’s not what it looks like?”

[pockpop]

ateez reaction to their black s/o being insecure about their looks/skin tone

↬ synopsis: you’re feeling insecure about your looks/skin color and the boys are there to show you how beautiful you are.

↬ genre: angsty & fluffy

↬ requested? yes

↬ a/n: these are kinda long so i apologize haha also this request kind of hit home for me, brought back some interesting old memories and thoughts. but i’m telling yall now, don’t ever let anyone belittle you for the skin you were born with. every shade is amazing and beautiful! if someone does, send their ignorant asses my way. carry on loves :)

hongjoong ♡

for your birthday, someone had gifted you a skin care package and among the items was a skin whitening cream. at first you were pretty offended by the item and wanted to find it light hearted and hongjoong had told you to just throw it away, burn it or something but a few days later, you still found yourself thinking about it.

one night, you were just finishing up your skin care routine when you noticed the bottle and picked it up. just then hongjoong came in the bathroom to also start getting ready for bed when he saw what you were holding.

he didn’t say anything, just yanked it from your grasp and threw it in the trash.

“wha-“

“I thought I told you to get rid of that.” he looked more hurt than angry with you. when he realized you weren’t going to answer, he came up to you, grabbing your face gently, making you look at him.

“stop thinking it. your skin is glowing, that melanin is tight and right so let it be. okay?”

when you started laughing, he gave you a eskimo kiss, a warm smile adorning his lips,”okay, okay just promise me you won’t say that again.”

“what? tight and right? isn’t that what the kids say these days?!”

when you only laughed harder, he’d pout, bumping you aside so he could start his routine.

seonghwa ♡

“i don’t think that color would look good with your skin tone.”

the snotty voice made both of you look up from the velvet red lipstick box in your palm. one of the workers, a older woman, was standing near you, a fake smile on her. she reached in front you and picked up a darker color and held it out to you.

“this should..suit your skin tone a bit better i think.” you just stared at her and she tilted her head. seonghwa cleared his throat and took the box from your hand,”we’ll take this one actually.” he dug out a bill and handed it to her, “keep the change.” 

he turned promptly,placing a hand on your lower back and led you out that store. you said nothing, feeling the anger radiate from him. once you two reached the car, he was about to open your door when you spoke up.

“you know, maybe she was right.” he looked at you, his facial expression softened. “you shouldn’t have spent your money on this, i probably won’t even wear it.”

seonghwa was quiet for moment before he handed you the box,” put it on.”

“right now?”

he cracked a smile but just nodded in response. after doing what he said, he guided you to the car window and looked at your reflection. the red popped off your melanin, accentuating your full lips and bringing attention to your features that you didn’t notice before.

“that woman was wrong.you could put on green or blue or fucking neon yellow and it will still look good on you. your skin tone doesn’t have anything to do with it, she’s just being prejudice for the fun of it. i had to get out of there before i lost it on her.” you found yourself smiling a little and turned to him, “isn’t that supposed to be my job?” seonghwa bit his lip, trying not to smile, “no, more people should stand up to shit like that instead of just being bystanders. you shouldn’t be alone ever in a situation like that.”

he came closer, placing a hand on your chin, “plus, you look so fucking beautiful that i’m very tempted to kiss it all way.”

“i mean you bought it, do as you wish.” he didn’t waste another second before kissing you passionately, not giving a damn who saw.

yunho ♡

being in a foreign country, you were used to the stares, or at least you thought you were. you thought that no one really noticed you anymore and that you were finally getting adjusted. but your day was going horribly. a man spit on your shirt while you were walking to the store, a old woman refused to let you sit beside her on the bus in the only empty seat and she called you something hateful that you were happy you didn’t understand well due to wearing headphones. to make it worse, it was one of the first days of wearing your natural hair out and you had been so happy that morning.

when you came through the door that evening, yunho was in the kitchen humming away. you could smell something good being cooked and he happily turned to greet you, his face fell seeing your solemn face.

“hey baby, what’s wrong?”

you slumped into his arms, feeling so heavy and tired. he rocked you back and forth, pressing kisses from your head down, giggles escaped you as he kissed both of your eyelids,the apples of your cheeks, your nose, you cupid’s bow before finally reaching your mouth. the kiss was sweet and sensual, a warmth spreading through you instantly. he pulled away slowly, resting his forehead on yours.

“can you tell me what happened today?”

you tried to pull away from him but he started pouting so you stayed put but didn’t meet his eyes.

“i was so excited to wear my hair like this and finally just feel whole, but i guess everyone else wasn’t ready for all this i guess... i don’t know, i’ve enver felt so low in my life, so...black.”

the word came out of your mouth so harshly, your heart burned in response. yunho pulled you closer, the closest he could.

“what are you doig?” you said with a breathless laugh and he started rocking you again, “trying to engulf you in my love, just let it happen.”

he leaned his cheek on the top of your head and you settled finally into him, that comfort overcoming you again.

“people are hateful and gross. and you know, that’s okay cause guess what? they don’t get the pleasure of your company, but hey that means more for me!”

when you laughed again, he kissed your head and pulled away, “now get changed, i made your favorite and i would love to serve my beautiful queen.”

yeosang ♡

you had recently met yeosang’s family for the first time and you thought it was all going well until you overheard his father asking yeosang why he couldn’t have brought home a good korean girl or even a white girl. you didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation. after he dropped you off at home, you barely talked to yeosang and it’s almost three days later and you’re still being distant with him.

you were kind of sulking around your apartment, you knew it wasn’t healthy but your mind was filling with old demons, insecurities about whether you should stay with him anymore, if maybe he could find someone more worthy for his father’s liking. these thoughts were haunting you and left you watching ‘friends’ reruns but not actually paying any attention.

but then your doorbell rang and when you opened the door, a distressed yeosang was standing there. he walked in, running his fingers through his hair.

“you haven’t been returning any of my calls, or texts, ignoring my facetimes. is something wrong? did i - did i do something? did you meet my parents too soon what-”

 you started shaking your head, “no, no you didn’t do anything i just -” you kicked the door closed and avoided him, going back to your spot on the couch, “I've just had a lot on my mind.”

“like what?” 

you shrugged, now fidgeting with your fingers, “like maybe we should break up?”

“Break up? he asked in disbelief and you shrugged again,” i mean it would make your dad happy right? to see you with someone...more suited for you. someone korean you know.”

but yeosang was shaking his head sharply,”how can you say something like that? do you see how crazy i went just from you ghosting me? why would i want anyone other than you?” he moved to sit beside you, grabbing your hands in his.

“i don’t care what everyone else thinks is better for me, i know what i want, i know who i want to be with and that’s you,” he reached over caressing your cheek, and out of habit, you leaned into his touch. “just you” he finished softly.

“okay?” he asked and you nodded, letting him lean over to kiss your forehead.

san ♡

it was hot. though it was nearing the end of summer, it was boiling even inside the house, even with the ac on blast. san was complaining the whole day about going out to the beach and it was a perfect day to soak up some sun.

he had been blabbering on and on about why you two should go out that he almost missed you mumbling about not wanting to get any darker.

“what did you say?”

“I don’t know... some people have been making some comments about how dark my skin already is and how I’m getting darker. maybe I should just stay in today? you go ahead, call the boys, I’m sure they want to go.”

but san wouldn’t have any of it, kneeling down in front of where you sat on the couch just so you could be eye to eye.

“you know one of the greatest voices of all time once said the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice.”

you had to laugh a bit, him smiling at seeing your face brighten.

“what? you’re quoting Tupac songs now?”

“it worked didn’t it!”

you grabbed his face in your hands then shook your head, “nah”

he’d scream and spend his whole day trying to show you that your skin is gorgeous no matter what it looks like. when you eventually go out to the beach, he purposely forgets to bring your wide brimmed hat and even the sunscreen, but that was an accident that he would regret later after the sun burn he endured.

mingi ♡

dating mingi had its pros and cons. of course, the pros outweighed the cons. but there were some days when you just couldn’t handle it. it had already been a rough week, your boss being nothing short of a dickhead and to make matters worse, the cyber bullying from unsupportive fans were through the roof.

it was expected after announcing you and him were officially dating after it being rumored but these comments were becoming malicious. picking at every single thing they could find, picking at every single insecurity.

you had spent the night scrolling through your mentions and they were just as bad as they were earlier that day. mingi was obviously a bit clueless, not aware of the fact you were getting bullied and he believed his fans were angels. you didn’t exactly want to ruin that image for him.

but the next morning, you stood in the mirror, your makeup laid all out in front of you but all you could do was stare at yourself.

maybe your skin was too dull, too dark. maybe your nose was too wide and your teeth were too yellow. maybe your thighs were too chubby, maybe your torso was too long.

a deep sigh escaped you as you let their words get to you, eating you from the inside out. mingi came in the bathroom, rambling and excited about your day together but he stopped seeing tears streaming down your face.

“baby, baby what’s wrong?” you didn’t say anything but instead just unlocked your phone to show him everything. you watched in the mirror his happy face turn stone cold, his jaw clenching and his body stiff.

“how long has this been going on?” he asked but didn’t even let you answer before he said, “no fuck that this is some bullshit.” he put your phone aside and turned you towards him, instantly reaching up to wipe your tears away.

“you are stronger than what they say,they are only speaking from hatred and jealousy okay?”

snifffling you shook your head, “I mean some of them are right, how could someone like you end up with someone like me?” even you hated hearing those words come from your mouth but nothing prepared you for seeing mingi’s eyes visibly express his heartbreak.

“if anyone is lucky in this relationship, it’s me. you are the prize, the golden ticket, the treasure I’ve been searching for forever.” he sighed deeply, leaning his forehead against yours, “please believe me when I say I love you for all of you and I wouldn’t want anyone else standing here, understand?”

when you nodded in understandment, mingi grinned and kissed you swiftly, “now come on! we have a date to get ready for!”

wooyoung ♡

you watched from afar as wooyoung laughed with her, his cheeks heated and his eyes bright. next to each other, they looked perfect, like they belonged together and not one person missed the cameras and media loving it.

you only agreed to go to the event because he begged you to but all you wanted to do was curl up in bed and disappear. while many had complimented your shimmering gold dress, it was her who had the spotlight and now touching your man’s arm.

you jumped a little when a man appeared at your side, you recognized him as one of their group’s associates. you had offered him a polite smile but his gentle smile did nothing to hide his venomous words that came next.

“people say they are gonna be the next couple. Korea’s next favorite couple, what do you think about that?”

when you just stared at him, he was about to continue but you excused yourself from the group you had been hanging with and walked across the room to where wooyoung and her were conversating, as you were walking past them, you buy him on purpose and don’t even apologize or glance back as you stormed off.

you had just stepped outside, the cool air comforting your heated skin when you felt a familiar grip on your arm.

“hey, where are you going?”

“I’m going home, woo, if you don’t mind.”

“without me?” he said with a laugh but seeing your expression, his laughter died down.“what’s wrong? did something happen? did someone try you?”

“yeah, you did. and I’m sure she’s still waiting on you.” you tried walking away again only for him to grab you again.

“my love, you know it’s only business.” he tried to say softly, but you shook your head, holding back tears.

“just tell me wooyoung, would you rather it would be her you were taking home? the way you looked at her...”you shook your head again and shrugged, “I felt invisible with her in the room, I had to bump you in order to get your attention! do you want to leave me for her? is that it?”

when he tried to touch your face, you stepped back, your vision blurring.

“I’m sorry okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”he continued to repeat, his hands reaching for yours and this time he kissed each one as he pulled you back to him.

“I got caught up in the conversation, I wasn’t trying to ignore you or make you feel invisible.” he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb before cupping your cheek. “forgive me, i am truly sorry. why in the hell would I ever think of leaving you? especially for a girl who wouldn’t grease my dry ass scalp.” he mumbled and you rolled your eyes.

“boy bye, I can’t with you! and also, you can’t give me those puppy eyes and expect me to just give in, you know it doesn’t work like that.” you teased but still kissed the inside of his palm.

“well damn at least let me try!”

jongho ♡

he’d be so confuzzeled. he seriously thinks your skin is one of your best features, and also your butt but he wouldn’t tell you that. so when you’re complaining and ranting about having to get a summer foundation and how your skin just keeps getting darker and about staying indoors for the rest of the year, he’d have to laugh a bit.

“nothing’s funny jongho! I’m serious! some old lady today called me darkie today! i was just seconds from cussing her ass out.”

he’d come up behind you to where you were standing by the vanity, wrapping his arms around your waist. he’d wait until you met his eyes in the mirror before saying, “You could be blue, green, periwinkle, fucking velvet and I’d still hit it.”

you gasped, turning to his chest but he only laughed keeping his hold on you.

“jongho!”

“I’m serious too! you should love your skin no matter how dark or light it is, it’s beautiful no matter what. it makes you, it’s illuminating and always smells amazing, like that shea butter stuff!”

your pout left your bottom lip sticking out and he leaned around to kiss it before whispering that you’re so so so beautiful over and over until you were a giggling mess.

[jackbabewang]

New to this

Pairing: Jaehyun x Reader

Genre: Basketball au, College au, Fluff, Romance, Tropey scenes

Word count: 5,400

Basketball has never been your thing, but now it shall be, and will be. Since the player himself has become your thing.

June is named as the ‘sports month’ where intercollegiate athletics will be conducted. It has gotten lots of immediate word of mouth, people keep talking about it every week, especially the high profile or “big-time” prestige or elite sports of men’s basketball. Unsurprisingly, your institution is hosting the ever nerve-wracking game, moreover competing against its ancient rival in the finals. Such resentment and bad blood between the two universities are not unknown in the communities as well as to the public. Which makes everything quite a huge deal. Even amidst the heat of war, you belong to the minimal percentage of students who give no signs at all of being interested. Yet when the day comes, your friend is quick to latch on to any opportunity to drag you away from where you are supposed to be.

On both sides of the court, bleachers full of fans screaming with a lot more of them opting to stand around the perimeter of the field. Green means calmness; you are feeling all sorts of its shade. Red means tension; which you are unrelatable to the latter. Among the young people, even lecturers can be found standing in two rows one behind the other. A sigh of relief left you at the absolute certainty that you are guilt-free about skipping class. This will be your first and last time. Attendance is not something you want to risk anyway.

Thud Thud Thud

The pinging thuds of a dribbled basketball, counterpointed by shoes chirping on the varnished floor. Growing roars now filled up your ears as your friend somehow managed to squeeze into a place on the front row. You know little or nothing about basketball, and have never contemplated the possibility of knowing more about it. You have no idea what the referee signals mean, why are the points accumulated in two or three, why is no one blocking that one guy from shooting. According to your enthusiastic friend, it is called a free throw. And you still have no idea why it occurs so often, why is it this guy instead of that guy. With all of these questions floating around in your head, you have a good sense to keep your mouth shut though.

The team that currently has the orangey brown ball in hand breaks into pairs and scatter along the sideline while passing back and forth. A freakishly tall guy sends the ball flying across the court, like a zap of lightning it directs to a dumbfounded you. Your body shutting down in a position of freeze, feet seemingly cemented into the ground beneath you. Panic swiftly moves up from the pit of your stomach, lodging in your chest and makes breathing difficult. You clearly did not sign up for this. The next moment, you are welcomed with another heart stopping shock. An almost deafening smack rippling out as the ball collides with a hand which shoots out in quick reflex to block it from knocking you off. Tiny droplets of sweat from that arm fling onto your face in the meantime. Despite being grateful that he came to the rescue, you are kind of disgusted with the perspiration, much of which is not needed.

That guy with jet-black hair raises an arm and calls for timeout. Immediately both teams gather at the bench with respective coaches, addressing their tactical problems and deciding on another approach. Throughout that sixty seconds, he keeps turning his head towards you but it goes unnoticed until your eyes meet directly. As if he is checking up on you to make sure that you are still in a clear state of mind when you literally just got the shock of your life. And also you are finally able to identify the players with their names printed on the backs of their jerseys. The culprit being Johnny Seo and your savior, Jung Jaehyun.

Eventually your eyes pinned on him with a strong magnetic pull as the game begins once again. Like a superhuman, he dribbles confidently, dashing first to his right, then to the left. His hands taking swats at the ball, his body cutting off direct lines of attack and his shot percentage stays at hundred. The game goes neck and neck with both teams trading wins, having everyone biting or picking their nails. The intensity now ratchets up a notch. All eyes are fixed on the time clock maddeningly counting down to the last minute of play. No one moved; no one blinked. Well, of course, besides you.

Ten— Nine— Eight—

Jaehyun has possession of the ball and in the last few seconds, he desperately throws it in, at half-court. He turns and shoots.

Four— Three— Two—

The ball makes it into the hoop with a three-pointer and the buzzer goes off. It is all over! The crowd storms the court as the game comes to an end and that is only when you learn that your varsity team has won the championship. In three straight years. Besides dominating the athletics, Jaehyun has also won the Finals MVP Award with his impressive achievement. A couple of members have hoisted him onto their shoulders as they chant their team’s victory song. In moments like this, the ladies cannot be missed out. They swarm around the players like bees to honey and in particular, the hero.

While everyone is overjoyed, discussing the happy turn of events, your friend has disappeared without a trace, vanished into thin air. And you realize there is no point of staying besides getting yourself suffocated through the heat, giving up hope of finding your missing friend as well. Just as you are about to leave, someone has caught your wrist and the least expected person holds your gaze.

“H-hey… Are you alright? Sorry about what happened back there.” Jaehyun points his thumb towards the court, reminding you of the almost ugly situation.

Minutes ago, he has been searching through the crowd for you. Though you are simply clothed in white T-shirt and hip-hugging jeans, he remembers your face vividly from those brief exchange of glances.

“Mm…” The words in your mouth seem difficult for them to be perceived correctly. Mayhap you finally understand the reason behind those chicks who love basketball albeit the only thing they know are winning and losing.

You have not been running around the court like he did but your skin clammy as Jaehyun’s has been. Fine sheen of sweat misted your forehead. Naturally, he reaches over and dab off the salty drops with a cotton cloth that has been draped around his neck. Which, in turn, earns himself a contorted face that you are not even trying to hide at this point. He immediately retreats and thrusts the towel into your hand instead. And once again, you cringe at the damp fabric. It is not completely your fault that you are a bit of a clean freak.

You are quickly becoming the center of attention at his unhesitant manner. Hearing a whole lot of tittle-tattle and gossip behind your back that makes you vaguely uncomfortable.

“Who is she?” “Is that his girlfriend?” “I didn’t know he has one…”

Jaehyun, of course, feigns innocent ignorance and then uses the lamest lines around as he says, “I’ve never seen you before, never heard of you and don’t even know your name. What is your name?”

“You don’t need to.”

“Awww—” He moans like a scolded puppy, “That’s kind of unfair.”

“I’m sorry but I have to leave now…”

“Wait! I- You look pretty nice. You’re kinda cute, in fact. I just thought we should get to know each other better.”

Jaehyun does not even have to try. He never needed either because he knows what he is capable of. Yet he appears to be needy right now.

What on earth does he want from me?

You give him a noncommittal look and without an answer, you turn to walk away. With a snap of the finger, your guilt coming off in stinky waves like a cartoon skunk. You are never the kind of person to turn down someone, the kind to have a hard time rejecting unwanted offers. ‘No’ seems to be a word that is omitted from your dictionary. And so you come up with a cowardly solution that is silence.

You should have known better that it is a no win situation and miraculously, Jaehyun’s appearances at the campus are getting noticeable to you that you are beginning to doubt the size of this property.

Everyone knows you go to the library. The whole world knows you go to the library every day. Though you are a little surprised that Jaehyun is able to find you at the further end of this wide space. You are not so happy with this less than familiar guy slipping into the seat across you. Of all the booths available, he chooses to stay at yours, that you kind of grasp his intention very well.

“All these bookmarks, but we still not on the same page.”

It is difficult to resist the urge to roll your eyes now. You shift on your seat, wanting to bury your face between the pages at how he is staring at you. He has an elbow propped on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. He grins mockingly, his eyes holding a mischievous edge to them.

“You are distracting.” He is disturbing. You say without thinking. But as soon as the words left your tongue, that smirk of his grows even wider and his eyes twinkle in perfect timing with it.

“In a good way?”

“No.”

His fingers drumming on the table like the hooves of a galloping stallion before quietly reaches over your neglected phone. He steals your phone, steals your number. With a ping coming from his own, your head shoots up to find him waving your device, smugly.

“What-”

“Sorry not sorry,” he asserts, “Wish I can stay but gotta go. I’ll text you later, sugar.”

Mission accomplished. Jaehyun pumps his fist in the air, whooping with glee as soon as he left. Yes!

And in the course of the next few weeks, your phone blows up with text messages from him. Each night, you massage your temples, longing for relief from the bombardment. His persistence adds on to your continuous torment by demanding assignments and midterm exams. Those messages are always preserving the same objective, only implementing his approaches very differently—

“Roses are red, violets are blue. I can’t rhyme but can I date you?”

“The weather’s great today. Let’s go out.”

“Me, you and food?”

Maybe that is what you call creativity at its best.

Jaehyun paces back and forth in the empty hallway outside the lecture hall, alternately running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his chin. He then crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall, striking a casual pose. Perhaps a seductive one will do?

Click

The door opens. He instantly drops his stance when the first person who exits the class just looks at him weirdly. He coughs to clear his throat and regains his composure while craning his neck, staring into the faces of people, in search of someone.

“Hi.” A tall figure steps directly in front of you, blocking your way. There is no difficulty in recognizing the guy when you smell that particular cologne. It is a pleasant fragrance to be frank. Jo Malone, I guess?

He snatches your belongings from your arms and grabs onto your hand firmly enough to make you understand he is not letting go. “You are coming with me.”

“Hey!”

The crowd parts in front of his long, determined stride as he escorts you to God knows where. You tap along in double-time beside him, struggling against his grip every step of the way. “Let me go. This is kidnap. You’re keeping me against my will. I’ll sue.”

“Sue away, sweetheart.”

He keeps right on walking, ignoring your protests, ignoring the curious stares and pointing and laughs that has part of you wilt inside.

“You are no gentleman, you know that?”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Is that any way to talk to a lady—”

A short distance later. You finally come to a complete stop at… The basketball court? He flashes you a smile that will have been charming if you have not wanted to punch him in the mouth so badly for manhandling you into this. You give him the most scolding look you can.

“And you, miss, are no lady.” Taking your nose between fore and middle fingers, he pinches hard. “All these books, but you still left me on read.”

You watch the pages flap, flap, flap in your face before he tosses the research materials away onto your backpack that has been dropped to the floor. You hiss internally at the thought of carelessly crumpled, creased or wrinkled papers.

“What do you want?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve made my terms clear from the start. Are you just being obtuse on purpose?”

“I just-”

You cross your arms and huff. Now he lifts an eyebrow, as if your “I don’t need a date, I just want to focus on my studies” will convince him in some sort of way, as if your reasoning is not pure bullshit.

“Fine. We’ll put an end to this,” an involuntary sigh escapes him, “It’s why I brought you here anyway.”

“Let’s make a deal.” Suddenly this basketball comes out of absolutely nowhere and he twirls it on the tip of his finger. “If I win I’ll have you.”

“And if I win?” you press, even though the chances are unlikely. For fuck’s sake, Jaehyun is the basketball star.

“If you win, I promise I’ll stop bothering you.”

“B-but… You have the upper hand. Obviously.”

“Darling, have you accepted your defeat already? Tell me. That you secretly want me too?”

His claim provokes scoffing disbelief.

To make this two-player fair and square, he grants you the possession and plays the game one-handed. Each time you attempt to score, he comes up from behind and takes you around the waist as he lifts you off the ground, swinging to the opposite direction. Laughters like sunshiny, yellow bubbles danced and floated and bounced. The two of you running around, chasing one another in circles like little puppies chasing their tails.

“Yes!” You throw your arms in the air and squeal for the sheer joy of making your first ever hoop. “Jaehyun, I made it!”

Your heart races and continues to pound inside your chest, cheeks flushed with the activity. You turn. And his face is too close, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on you. Close enough that you can see a kind of heat kindling in his eyes.

“Yeah, you made it.” He somehow manages to mix enthusiasm with sadness in his voice. But he smiles encouragingly and gently squeezes your waist, staring back at you for several seconds before letting go. “I guess that’s it then.”

You finally got the peace and quiet you have been praying for. You no longer have to deal with flooded messages or the unwanted attention whenever Jaehyun is with you. In short, your uninterrupted solitude has been restored. But for tonight, while you are all alone, there is a cold empty feeling in your chest. Loneliness seems to be inevitably uncomfortable, which you ask yourself how it has been viewed as a positive emotion all along. And you realized that it is impossible to touch yesterday. So why the heck are you letting it touch you? Your own eyes are lost elsewhere and your mind wanders, wanders over everything Jaehyun has so unhesitantly offered up to you the day before. You will never possess the words to describe how he made you feel, because words were not your strong point. However if you have to—the exultation you felt, was a burst of raw, pure joy you felt.

“Are you a textbook? Why are you so proper?” “I am trying to spice up your life, bunny.”

He has got a point there.

You reach for the nightstand, check the screen of your phone. Again, and again, every day for two weeks. A buzzing in your pocket got you sitting up enough that you pull out your phone, only to discover a new text message from the civilian service provider. Any sense of excitement and anticipation has died down immediately.

Ten minutes into the game, yet Jaehyun cannot focus. Cannot even feel the intensity, though he knows it is all around him. It is like someone has dropped a curtain between him and the rest of the world. Still, he is the captain, he has the responsibility to lead the team and to win this game. So he takes his handoffs and runs as hard as he can.

“You guys are better than this!” His coach roars, “You are better than they are! You have the speed, the agility, the guts. What you don’t seem to have is the desire. Do you want this or not?”

He wants it and he won it. Sort of gotten used to it, he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of the gleaming gold medal. Another cheesy pun of his pops into his head along the lines of—“All these medals I’ve won, but I still couldn’t win your heart.” His joy and happiness are of short duration as he remembers the heartbreaking truth. And his smile falters, though it does not disappear entirely.

“Hey, you good?” Johnny appears at the right yet wrong time. The question itself as if harshly rubbing grime into his face so he has to surrender and admit that he is clearly not okay.

“Yeah… It’s just too good to be true.” He pats him on the shoulder before leaving the arena, “You guys have done a great job. Rest up tonight.”

As soon as he got outside, a breath of fresh air does him good but his mind is still reeling with madness. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He might be going insane. Insanity. His face creases with anguish as he runs his shaky hand through his hair. When he is about to take his frustration out by kicking over the nearby garbage can, a familiar tune stops him from committing the act of vandalism. He freezes, recognizing the notification ringtone. The special one reserved for you. Though he has yet to read the message, it does magic to his body and soul. In his excitement, he runs back to his dormitory.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” You bet, he is squealing like a pig.

Call it a second chance or what. He makes a mental note that he must not screw this up. 

Your reply comes almost immediately. Perhaps, you have spent much time considering and pondering, waiting for it.

How badly you want to hit your head against the wall, or with a hammer. It is something you have never done before then.  

“Fuck, yes!” He chortles. That will supposed to be his answer.

Is he trying to put you to open shame right here? That is definitely a big fat no. Who on earth in this campus does not know the great Jung Jaehyun. He has made himself immensely known in the universities. Heck, he probably has a fan club of ladies with raging hormones who circle the table and admire his every move. You are only digging your own grave and weaving your own shroud if you were to agree to that.

You are texting and texting and the night drags on and on and finally you fall asleep and when you wake up the sun is streaming in the big bay windows. Jaehyun has his ways of lengthening the conversation while you are naive to fall for his flirtatious trap, and the bargain is sealed with a selfie of him as your lock screen, reluctantly. Hundreds of photos sent through. How shameless, but cute. Yet you are avoiding any chances of unlocking your phone in front of your friends or whoever it is.

“Bitch, what is this?”

The worst has come, you are bound to get caught anyways. This striking and ironic reversal, in which you once protested to watch the game with your friend but now you are having one of the players, a prestigious player, to appear instantly on your display screen with just a press of button, moreover such exclusive photo. You are more embarrassed than you have ever been in your life before.

“I can- I can explain!”

“Be honest with me. Are you guys a thing?”

“No… We’re not…” With your eyes averted, your voice timid and defensive.

“Then what? You joined his silly fan club?”

As if a perfectly set-up drama, you receive an incoming message from the one and only that leaves no room for any kind of explanation.

“Tonight at eleven.” She reads. “I knew it! My sixth sense never failed me! That boy has been eyeing you since that day. Do you know how many bitches are dying to be in your place?”

You feel as though you have just been scolded by a parent. “How am I supposed to know that…”

“Whatever it is, I’m so happy for you! Of all these years, you’re finally off the market— Ooh, maybe we can go on a double date—”

“No! It’s not like that!” It is just too complicated and ridiculous even to tell.

Voila!

You are at the basketball court. Again. Why is it the settings with Jaehyun are all at the same place, the same reek of sweat, the same squeaking of shoes on vinyl floor and the same dribbling as he leisurely throws a shot while waiting for your arrival.

“You made it!” He jogs over with his arms wide open and pulls you into a sweaty embrace. He must have just finished an intense training session.

“Oh my God, no! Get off!” You squirm as your clean-freak gene ekes in while another reason being that the affection is still foreign to you. And that provokes him to nuzzle further into your hair.

“I got us pizza.” At this hour?

You feel his fingers brush yours for a moment, and then, very naturally, he grasps your hand and holds it as though he has been doing it all his life. The fluid gesture elicits jealousy.

After all the effort, a ton of irksome pesters and desperation, it comes down to this: sitting cross-legged in the centre of the basketball court eating the oily cheesy goodness.

“Thought you’re gonna settle with something fancy…” You have no problems and do not have any complaints either besides the lack of ventilation in here.

“Fancy can only be defined as who I’m with in this very moment,” you scowl at the smug grin on his face, “But seriously, eating pizza in this place is a whole level of fancy I’ve never done before.”

You wonder what goes through his mind to come up with so much of the random and unexpected. This interesting trait, combined with his sense of humor, lends him an attractive air that someway, somehow, put you at ease. Headstrong is a nice word for what he is, which part of ‘no’ does he not understand, in what language does he need to hear it from, till he finally got what he wanted in the first place.  

“Hey, are you listening?” He waves his hand in front of your face. “I was getting into the best part of my story though…”

Whatever you are playing, game of seven or twenty-one questions, he seems genuinely interested more than you do.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

“No.”

GASP— He clamps his hand over his mouth right after sucking in air, looking generally surprised when you tell him of the new information that you never think is a big deal. In fact, you are almost proud of it.

“HOW?!”

You shrug. “I don’t know, never asked, never got asked.”

“But you’re beautiful,” he mutters under his breath, a mantra he often whispers to himself.

“What?”

“What?”

“I wasn’t looking for love. I wasn’t needy.” You pull your knees up to your chin, wrapping your arms around them. “Well, I’ve become used to being single, independent, and self-sufficient. Nothing extraordinary seems to convince me that I need a significant other in my life.”

But as you wait for a reaction, a reply, the air in the room becomes charged with another energy. For a second, which seems like a century, a heavy silence fills the air. It is so pervasive that you can hear the whirring sound of electric fans spinning round and round as it cools every corner of the space, the muffled steps of someone walking along the corridor, and the still breath of the objects adorning the court. Your eyes scan the floor, afraid that you have said something with unintended offense.

“You know… There are a lot I want to tell you…” He looks smaller somehow. His shoulders slumped and he rubs his eyes several times before speaking. “It may seem like I’m a sarcastic asshole, but I’m actually half of it because at night I actually have feelings.” Then he chuckles, his chuckling gives way to a self-mocking laugh.

“I’m listening.” You encourage, though you wisely know where he is heading to. Your heart beats fast, your nerves are wire taut. As you nibble on the crust and gooey cheese, the marinara sauce smearing over your lips at how you are pursing them in a thin line.

And there he goes.

“About the bet we had weeks ago. I didn’t want it. I never did. You’re so stressed out lately and I just wanted to help, but I’ve realized that I may have been part of the weight on you so I thought I should stop, everything.”

As impassive as his features are, his voice croaks with repressed emotion. “I have to admit that I was testing the waters at first.”

Ouch.

“Then I found myself looking for opportunities to talk with you, wanting to see your reaction or simply having you close. I tried different approaches, and not all of them work. You just seem to not care that I’m interested in you. And then this happened. So, what made you cave in?”

Boy, the emotional roller coaster he has been riding was taking its toll. You have been kneading his heart like a dough into any shapes possible, tugging on his heartstrings and almost making him capitulate.

“I did not cave in.”

“Do you hate me?”

Do you? ‘Hate’ is a very strong word, one that shall not be in our vocabulary. There is no closest word you can find to describe the feelings towards him. Your silence evokes only a tiny fraction of deeper emotions you are unaware of. He has been guileless tonight meanwhile you are swerving lanes, dodging questions that may call yourself out.

“Honestly, when you texted me that night I nearly ran to your place and just wanted to take you out right then and there.”

Go ahead and say that he is crazy, that is what you made him. Crazy enough to be crazy over you.

He twiddles his fingers allowing his fingertips on each hand to touch its counterpart on the opposite hand in a nervous gesture.

“Now to my last questions.” There are two left. Or have you lost count of it.

You heart still racing, blood pumping in the throes of an adrenaline rush. I can’t handle this.

He draws a deep breath, pauses while he gathers strength before he speaks again. “This will be the last time I say this, I just want to give it another try. I know it’s gonna be difficult at first but can you give yourself a chance to like me back? Be my girlfriend?”

The lights above reflected in his dark brown eyes staring at you, holding you captive. At that moment, he thinks that attraction is mutual until you break off to look to the side.

‘Please, please, please’

The desperate cries in his chest audible in your mind, in his voice like it is real.

You parents warned you about the drugs in the streets but never the ones with russet eyes and a heartbeat. Your pique towards him has long evaporated, and since then, it has been replaced with warm interest.

When did it happen? How did it even happen?

After what feels like a very long time, you nod. Jaehyun breathes a huge, loud sigh of relief. A very huge, loud sigh. The wild exhilaration tearing through him cannot be stopped, he cannot stop smiling like the fool he is for you.

“Fuck, I really thought you’re gonna say no.” His arms slip around your waist as he draws you into his embrace. “Thank you.” His hand cups the side of your face, pinning your ear against his heart. You can hear the uneven thud of his pulse. It feels so incredibly good to be in his arms. You feel secure and at peace. Good to be with him… bad for you emotionally, for fear you might come to depend on him… Confused, you have no idea what to think anymore. All you know is that you are so drawn to him to break away, so hopelessly attracted.

Simply to restrain himself will likely prove difficult. He leans down to press a quick, impudent kiss to your cheek. He does not want to make you uncomfortable by noticing the inevitable blush that graces your cheeks. He is delighted though in embarrassing you with another smooch dangerously close to your lips. Before he does it again, right on the spot for real, you wrench yourself away from him, hands covering your mouth in defense. Your skin touched with a ripe flush and a glint of panic flickers in your eyes. Just how easily you were about to lose your first kiss.

“Gotta get used to it now, girlfriend.” The last word sings with tremendous emphasis. He then draws back with a cheeky expression and wry smile as he says, teasingly, “Cause I looooove kisses.” Well actually, he loves kissing you though he has never been, and the idea of you kissing him back sounds even better. He is already imagining it. 

You did not fall in love with him. You walked into love with him, with your eyes open, choosing to take every step along the way. He is annoying, he is hilarious, he makes you want to scream, he drives you crazy, he is out of his mind and he is everything you want.

The first time you both met at this sweat or waxy polish smelling basketball court was not all that pleasant, remembering feeling sorry prior to being a straightforward, flirty, asshole, remembering feeling guilty over the wordless rejection. And tonight has changed everything. This is the start of something new.

“Now, get up! Get up! We’re burning these calories intake!” Loud claps bouncing off the four walls and he starts acting like the rude coach he is. He attempts to pull you on your feet but your lazy, determined ass stay rooted to the ground, as if you are growing right into the earth. This is like a nerdy fight with you arguing that strenuous exercising after eating can be hazardous to health. He proceeds to drag you around like a heavy sack of potatoes, your shoes screeching and sliding across the floor forcibly.

All those bookmarks, you are finally on the same page. And all those medals, he has finally won your heart.