#bill is here but does it really count when its only like halfway. just one eyeball | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

biletdoux · 4 years ago

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temporary bliss | j.sc

Member | jung sungchan (nct) + female!reader Rating | m Genre + Tropes | idol!sungchan, asssistant!reader, fwb!au, romance (smut, slight angst) Warning(s) | explicit language, sexual content (pwp, oral [m +f receiving], nipple play, face fucking, doggy, cowgirl, missionary), sungchan is a fuck boi and reader is dumb smh Length | 4.1k+ Prompts | ‘After Midnight’ by WayV for the Event # 3: Song Association - Risqué hosted by the Neo Smut Collective network! Please go check out the other wonderful works in the event and check out the whole network if you get the chance <333 Playlist | After Midnight - WayV // Temporary Bliss - The Cab

Summary | The closest you can get to Jung Sungchan being yours is after midnight.

(Or; when it comes to Sungchan, you take what you can get.)

Note: hi!! it’s a bit late, but it’s here !!! this is the i’ve never really written super explicit smut before, so this is by far the filthiest thing i’ve written ;; i originally wanted to do some sort of cinderella!au or something, but i couldn’t think of a sufficient plot, so i came up with this instead haha. maybe i’ll visit the cinderella!au in the future. please let me know what you think! it would mean a lot to me haha

It’s late when you’re finally able to call it a day.

Your muscles creak and ache in ways that it shouldn’t for your age and your feet hiss from the constant running around to tend to errands and preparing props and make up. The elevator of your apartment complex has been down all week, so you’re forced to trudge the three floor trek against your will. When you finally make it to your door, your phone buzzes with a text notification and you’re tempted to toss it over your shoulder. It’s been a long day and you want nothing more than a hot shower before flinging yourself onto your bed.

You want to ignore it, but you know the photoshoot is coming up soon and everything is on a tight schedule. The slightest mishap will throw everything out of order and since you’re at the bottom of the totem pole, you know the magazine editors and photographers will take out their wrath on you.

You heave a sigh and jam in your apartment key with misdirected anger as you open the text.

[23:41] 0XX-XXX-XXXX: you free tonight?

It’s an unsaved number, but you know exactly who it is. You suck in a deep breath in spite of yourself. Your body is prickling in anticipation as you mindlessly scroll up through the past text history with the number.

It all unfolds the same. He texts first and you reply each and every time. You’re not proud of yourself, but you can’t help it. Tonight is no different.

Your fingers dance across the keyboard on their own accord and you bite your lip thinking about how you have to be at the studio tomorrow at 06:00 sharp.

[23:43]: yeah.

Yes. It’ll be fine. You can make time. You always do.

The little grey text bubble with the three flashing dots pop up immediately and you find yourself feeling embarrassingly giddy at the sight of it.

[23:44] 0XX-XXX-XXXX: cool. same place, same time?

So much for a hot shower and much needed sleep. You waste no time in replying. Playing hard to get and coy with him gets you nowhere and you’ve accepted it.

[23:45]: works for me. see you there

A bolded ‘Read at 23:45’ appears in the corner of your message and you don’t get another reply from him after.

You quietly make your way to your room, as to not wake up your roommate, and you beeline straight for the shower. The hot water trickles over your body and you swear you can melt entirely, but you don’t allow yourself the luxury of enjoying it. The motel is a twenty minute walk from your place, so you need to hurry. You spritz on perfume before throwing on a quick outfit and a cap before you grab your keys and make your way out for the night. You used to put much more thought and care in your wardrobe when it first started, but you realized the clothes you meticulously picked out never stayed on long enough to be appreciated anyway.

The night is chilly and you adjust your mask for a more snug fit over your face.

Late night texts and substandard motels are not things you would expect to be associated with Jung Sungchan, but here you are making haste across dark alleys underneath a starless Seoul skyline.

It was just a few months ago when the two of you were strangers.

Jung Sungchan was the latest model for the pictorial your mentor was spearheading for Allure in partnership with Dr.G. You were a newly hired assistant with only a few months time of wetting her toes in the magazine business. The work was tough and the pay abysmal. There were more menial tasks, such as fetching coffee and ordering lunch, than you’d like, but you understood the industry and knew how competitive it was. You were young and you were willing to bite your tongue in order to climb to the top.

It was his first real third party photoshoot, so he was stiff, but still polite nonetheless. His skin was alabaster and he towered over the bustling staff who were in charge of styling and make up. He was very handsome, but you weren’t exactly swept off your feet at the sight of him. Working with various models day in and day out made you immune to a pretty face, no matter how pretty Jung Sungchan’s was.

At least that’s what you thought. You didn’t realize how taken you were with him until the celebration party after the successful shoot. The shoot took close to 20 hours to finish in its entirety and everyone was in a drinking mood. The party was at rented loft and spanned the entire night. Three hours and multiple bottles of soju in, you found yourself next to the man of the hour.

It’s a little hazy, but somehow after exchanging conversation and a few, okay, maybe a lot more, drinks, you found yourself in bed with him. Jung Sungchan was a little too charming to resist and before you knew it, the two of you crossed the line.

You were sure you’d be in the biggest of trouble, but all the staff was plastered and you thanked every higher being that you could think of for getting away unscathed. Your indiscretion would stay nothing more than just that, and you could go back to living your life as if you hadn’t just bedded one of the new members of NCT.

But here you are, at said motel where you’d agree to meet Sungchan the first time after that night and the very same motel where you two have agreed to meet at every time.

“Is the queen suite available for three hours?”

The man at the front desk didn’t even lift his eyes from the computer screen to meet yours. “Yeah, you know the hourly rate right?”

“I do.” You say as you handed over the appropriate amount of bills.

He counts the bills and finally hands over your room key when satisfied.

You make your way to the room, the path practically muscle memory at this point. The room is moderate sized with scant decorations, but the mattress plush and bathroom clean. That’s what Sungchan likes most about this place.

You plop yourself on the mattress after placing your cap and face mask on the nightstand. The neon green of the clock reads ‘00:19’ and you know he’ll be here soon enough.

This relationship, no, this arrangement the two of you have is dangerous and you’re not stupid enough to not know. The risks involved far outweigh any possible benefit, but the one benefit was being close to Jung Sungchan, so you allow yourself to play with fire a little longer.

You were never one to mix business with pleasure, but a random text a few weeks after the Dr.G shoot has you biting your words. Now you’re at the whim of Jung Sungchan. He texts. You answer. You two meet up at the same motel. You usually pay for the room, but he’ll pay if he gets there first. You two fuck. He leaves first. He always leaves first. It’s the same song and dance, but your heart cracks just the tiniest bit each time, but when he texts, you answer.

The clock reads ‘00:24’ when you hear a quiet knock on the door. You take a quick breath to steady yourself before opening the door. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen him and the sight of him at the door frame of a dimly lit motel is no less breathtaking.

Sungchan wastes no time when he sees you. He pulls you in for a rough kiss and you stumble slightly before steadying yourself against him. He haphazardly closes the door and locks it clumsily without ceasing to kiss you once.

This is how it is with him. All efficiency and no pleasantries. Jung Sungchan knows what he wants and gets it.

He backs you on to the mattress and you fall back, the mattress sinking with your weight and some of his as your hair is splayed back on the white sheets. He gives himself a moment and drinks in the sight of you before diving back down and kissing your neck.

“How long did you reserve the room for?” He asks between kisses as he makes quick work of your clothes.

You grab at his shirt and try to unbuckle his belt before answering, “three hours.”

“Hm,” he pulls back to take off his shirt. Your shorts are halfway off at your knees and your shirt’s gone too, your bra is exposed to his appreciative gaze. “I have an early start tomorrow. I have to leave earlier than usual.”

“That’s fine.” Disappointment pools at the bottom of your belly and you grab his face to pull him into another kiss. It’s wet and unrestrained, your tongue against his, but it does little to dispel your negative feelings. Sungchan groans against you, deepening the kiss while absolutely clueless to the sinking feeling in your body.

You want to yell at him and kick him out. If he couldn’t stay long then why come at all. Why text you in the first place. You had an early start too. You just finished a 18 hour work day and you’re fucking tired too. You want to scream and shout, but you don’t.

You’re nothing more than a coward, so you bite his bottom lip in frustration, but that just gets him more riled up and you feel his growing erection strain against his jeans.

“Fuck,” he lets out. “You’re so sexy today.”

You’re a little annoyed that he’s enjoying it, so you grab his head by the hair to be at eye level with him. You’re careful not to pull too hard despite your anger. His pretty face and every pretty little hair on his head has always been your weakness.

Sungchan stares back at you, eyes brimming with unbridled lust and your resolve falters just the slightest bit, but you bite it back.

“Eat me out.” You demand.

His eyes are unwavering as pulls you in for another rough kiss. When you start to match his rhythm, he abruptly pulls back. You’re embarrassed at the way your neck arched toward him to chase his retreating lips.

“Sure,” he says as he completely pulls off your shorts. “I’ll gladly eat you out.”

Your panties are soaked and it may have been because you were so excited at the prospect of seeing him for the first time in a while after weeks without hearing from him, but you’ll never admit it out loud.

“Aw babe,” he teases with a quick swipe of his finger over your aching folds. “Look at how wet you are. All wet for me, right?”

You look away as you keep your mouth sealed. You’ll never let him have that kind of satisfaction over you.

Sungchan chuckles to himself at your little show of defiance before he gets to work. His tongue laps at your core and he switches up the pressure just the way you like it. He eats you out like a man starved and makes his hand useful by stimulating your clit simultaneously. Your hands are threaded through his locks and your toes curl. Sungchan knows exactly how you like it from your many hook ups and he has you seeing stars in no time. Your body writhes underneath him, but he’s unrelenting against your pussy. He doesn't stop fully simulating you until you’ve fully ridden the extent of your climax.

Your chest is heaving and your skin sticky with a slight sheen of sweat.

“So fast today,” he mutters. He makes direct eye contact as he licks his fingers dry.

“Shut up, I’m just pent up that’s all.” You snicker.

“Did you miss me?” he asks before capturing your lips for another kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, but you pay little mind as you match his fervor. His lithe finger works hard to unclasp your bra to have you entirely exposed to him. He admires your body in all its beauty and places a peck over your collarbone. “Just admit you missed me.”

“I didn’t.” You lie. Your body is sensitive from your high and you flinch as his hands ghost over your torso. He peppers kisses all the way down to your breasts and skillfully takes a nipple in his mouth and rolls the other between his fingers. You gasp out loud and your body arches to meet him. You can feel him grinning against you and you kind of hate yourself.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” His words sound as if he’s hurt, but his cheeky tone is impossible to miss. “Cause I missed you, babe.”

Your throat goes dry and he moves his mouth over the other nipple to give it the same treatment. You decide to say nothing and just allow yourself to give into his ministrations. By the time he’s done, your nipples are sensitive to the max and your core is aching.

You kiss him again, wanting nothing more to be close to him and he kisses you back greedily. It’s messy with no hint of grace, but it gets the job done. Sungchan pulls away first, his words raspy and strained. “Suck me off.”

You want to argue, but he’s already taking off his pants and urging you to get on your knees.

Sungchan is sitting on the edge of the bed with you snug between his legs. His cock stands stiff and proud as he looks at you expectedly. You act annoyed, but you do as he says regardless.

You start with a quick kiss on the tip before making long drawn out licks on all sides of his cock. Once satisfied, you decided to take him in. You bob your head along his length and alternate between taking it in and pressured licks. You grab his balls and fondle him gently where he likes it. You also learned what he likes from all the clandestine escapades you two shared.

You also learn that Sungchan is loud in bed.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He grips your hair tightly as he guides your head and whenever you do something he’s especially fond of, he likes to stroke his thumbs against your cheek in praise. “You’re always so good, babe.”

His words edge you on and you find yourself wanting to please him more. You’re more turned on than ever and you use your free hand to finger yourself. You feel tightly wound and crave some form of release.

“Oh my god,” Sungchan rasps. “Are you touching yourself right now?”

You take him all the way in as a reply. His dick is touching the back of your throat and you firmly make a fist with your thumb wrapped around your fingers to suppress your gag reflex. You take him as far as you can and your nose just misses his navel by the slightest bit. His hips buck against your mouth and you do your best not to choke.

“Baby,” he hisses against you as he holds your face in place. His hips are moving again and you feel tears prick your eyes as drool comes out from the both sides of your mouth. “You’ve always looked the prettiest between my legs with my dick in your mouth.”

He fucks into your face for just a few more strokes before pulling you off. “I want to come in your pussy, babe.”

Sungchan’s words have a wild edge to them, but you can barely register them as you’re coughing. Your throat feels raw and you wobble at your feet as you make you way back on the bed. He’s putting on a condom as you get into position. You know he always likes to take you from the back first, with your face in the pillow and your ass up in the air.

You grab a pillow to prop under you for support and you allow yourself to slump over for a few seconds of rest. Just a moment later, you can feel Sungchan looming over you.

“I love how you know just what I like,” he hums as his tip teases the edge of your lips. “Saves so much time.”

“Just fuck me.” You’re exasperated and so desperately horny for him.

He does what you say. Sungchan sinks into you and gives you just time to adjust to his length. You’ve been too busy to even play with your toys, so you haven’t had any stimulation down there at all. You feel stretched out, but in the most delicious way. Sungchan starts moving before you give him the okay, and normally you’d be pissed, but god does it feel so fucking good.

His grip is tight and painful as he holds onto your hips while he rams into you. His pace is intense and delicious. You drown yourself in Sungchan.

“Shit,” you moan. You don’t like to stroke his already massive ego, but he has you feeling delirious. “So good. Feels so fucking good.”

“What was that?” He taunts. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“Fuck you.” you spit.

His pace halts to an aching stop and you feel like crying. His cock is all the way in and he leans over your body. His hand reaches over to play with you clit as he whispers in your ear. “That’s not very nice. I just couldn’t hear very well, that’s all. No need to be so nasty, you know it hurts my feelings.”

You try to buck against Sungchan, but he uses his free hand to keep your hips in place and his other plays with your clit even harder. He bites your shoulder blade and you think tears really are going to come out.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” You cry. “Stop being such a fucking dick and just fuck me until I can’t think.”

Sungchan freezes against you for the slightest bit, before you can feel him slide out of you. You expect him to ram into you and fuck you senseless for being so disrespectful, but you feel the mattress shift as he lies down next to you.

“You really are so mean, babe.” His eyes twinkle as he looks at your confused face. “I don’t think I’m really in the mood anymore, you really hurt my feelings this time.”

Your mind goes blank at the loss of his heat. It’s a lie of course, his dick is ramrod straight and aching to fuck you again, but fuck you’re just too damn horny to think straight.

“I’m s-sorry” You splutter. It’s pathetic how easy you give into him and fall into his traps. “I said you’re good, so fucking good. So don’t make a liar of me and just fuck me.”

“I will,” You sigh in relief, but you jolt up when he finishes his sentence. “But only if you ride me first.”

The shock you feel leaves you speechless and he eggs you on even more. “What is it, babe? Don’t know how to ride a dick?”

You know exactly what kind of stupid game he’s trying to pull, but your pussy desperately needs to be filled, so fine. You’ll play his game and beat him in process.

You climb on top of Sungchan, your knees on both sides of his hips as your dripping pussy hovers over the tip of his cock. You can feel him twitch in anticipation. He’s looking up at you with a cocky little smile, but you can see the dangerous glint in his eyes that’s full of need. You had more fight in you, but his look erases it all. You take your right hand to line up his length at your entrance while your left hand steadies your body. When you sink on his dick, the both of you groan simultaneously.

You rock against him slowly as you experiment where to put your hands to maximise your control. Once you’ve settled into a steady rhythm that has the both of your going crazy, you’re relentless on top of his cock. He has one hand on your hip to guide you while the other plays with your clit.

All types of noises and expletives escape your mouth as you near your high. “Yeah,” you pant. “Just like that, Sungchan. Keep touching me like that.”

He groans under you and grips your hip even harder as you reach your second orgasm. You slump over his body, your hair stuck against your slick back. You roll off his body out of breath and Sungchan sits up over you to kiss you. It’s leisure and languid and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer. He allows you to do as you wish, but he pulls back shortly after.

“Ready for more?” He asks.

“What?” Your mind is a little slow after two orgasms.

“I didn’t come yet.” He reminds you.

“Right.”

Sungchan takes off the condom and strokes his dick slowly. It’s still stiff and you realize you don’t mind another round.

“Yeah, sure.” You agree.

“I’ll give you a treat for riding me, babe.” He grins as he puts on a fresh condom. “You can pick the position.”

You mull over your choices. Your body is sensitive to the max right now, so you don’t need that much more stimulation. You finally decide. “Missionary.”

“Sure.” He says while setting up a pillow for you. You lie down slowly as he moves to position himself.

Sungchan enters you with ease and once he’s all the way in, you wrap your legs around his waist. He grabs the other pillow and motions you to raise your hips before placing it under your hips for a better angle. He rocks into you at a moderate speed before picking up his pace. There are other positions that make you see stars, but nothing beats the intimacy of missionary. Sungchan is the closest to being yours in this position, so you allow yourself to indulge.

You wrap your arms around his neck for another kiss and this one is soft and sweet. Sungchan returns it in the same manner and you allow yourself to think of him as your lover and your lover alone in that brief moment.

“I’m about to come,” he grunts against your mouth. “Can I come?”

You nod and he hugs you tight before bucking his hips in a near frenzied pace. You can feel him reach his high as his body stutters against yours. Sungchan collapses on you shortly after and you both heave your chest in synch. You revel in the post-orgasm bliss with Sungchan, but it never lasts long.

He moves to extricate your sweaty bodies and you want to ask him to stay in bed a little longer, but you don’t. He removes the condom and makes a little knot before tossing it in the trash bin.

“I’m going to wash first, ‘that cool with you?” Sungchan asks as if you have a say in the matter. As if he isn’t already in the bathroom and turning on the shower as the words leave his mouth.

But you know your role and you play the part. “Go ahead.”

You know Sungchan can’t hear you anyway because he shut the bathroom door before you can reply.

The sound of the shower fills the room as you look up at the ceiling. You allow yourself to rest for a few more minutes before rolling over to see the clock reading ‘01:59.’ You take a complimentary towel to give yourself a preliminary clean before your turn in the shower. He’s never asked to shower together once.

When Sungchan is done, he leaves the shower looking fresh, but smelling of cheap motel shampoo. It’s another thing that you’ve come to associate with Jung Sungchan.

He gathers his things from the nightstand and you make your way to the shower.

“Hey,” Sungchan calls over his shoulder just as you reach the bathroom. “I’ll see you again?”

No.

This isn’t any good for you. You can’t just keep crawling back from for a quick climax and a few minutes of intimacy. You can’t let him use you in whatever way he wants just in exchange for a few kisses. You can’t keep being at his beck and call and drop everything to give him a quick release. You have your own life and schedule too. You want more than what he can give, so stop doing this to yourself and cut it off.

“Yeah, just text me.”

masterlist.

#neosmutsongs #neosmutcollective #neowritingsnet #cznnet #nctcreations #nct scenario #nct fanfic #nct smut #sungchan scenario #sungchan fanfic #sungchan smut

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glitterge1pen · 4 years ago

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Have You Ever Considered Craft Supplies Instead Of Drugs? Then This Might Be For You.

Kyōtani Kentarou x reader, sfw, fluff, 1,691word count

His room for the most part was clean. It’s main function was for sleep though. This was apparent. His clothes, which were mainly basketball shorts and blank t-shirts, were scattered about in a way that told you he threw them there when going to bed.

Kyotani had told you to give him a few minutes, while he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth and struggling with the cap of his eyeliner pen. You felt comfortable enough in his apartment to check the fridge and see if anything was worth your while. But still you felt a bit like an intruder in his bedroom, which is where you had wandered off to.

The walls were white, mostly bare. There was a poster up for some band you didn't recognize, and another one advertising the Sendai Frogs that looked like he had ripped it off one wall to get onto his. You smiled at the thought of him stealing the poster from the grocery store display window or stadium parking lot.

You give his room one last once over before turning to leave. On your way out you trip over a shoe box. You would have just ignored it but a few tufts of paper flew out from the lid. You bend down to collect them but find that these aren't just trash from the shoe box. Quietly, and with a tinge of guilt, you kneel down to gently put the papers back in the box. The little scraps of paper you had found were actually sticky notes, you couldn't decipher the writing on them because of how faded and old the paper was.

You get one quick glimpse inside the shoe box on Kyotani’s floor. There are dozens of papers, printed photos, receipts, tickets, and what you assume are old keys. You feel like you've seen something very private of Kyotani’s and when you turn around to find him standing in the doorway, you gasp in shock.

“What are you doing in here?”

He seems more concerned and confused about you versus the fact that you are in his room. You decide sarcasm is the best choice of action.

“What? You embarrassed about me being in your bedroom?”

“Shut up and get out!”

Kyotani puts his hands on your shoulders and tosses you out into the hallway.

“Hey, hey, what time is it because we might actually be late to the movie now,”

You say pulling out your phone to get a glance at the clock. There was only twenty minutes before you were supposed to be at the theater.

“We’ll be fine, the trailers always play for too long anyways”

He says leading you out the front door.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

When the team wins a game and you head out to eat with the guys afterwards, your eyes don't usually follow Kyotani’s hands so closely. You hope that no one else has picked up on your new habit. But last week's venture into his bedroom has left you reeling in thought.

Kyotani doesn't really like to be hugged. During movie nights he sits separate from the pile of pillows and bodies. He tolerates head pats and high fives. When he hangs up the phone you can feel how difficult it is for him to say something like “bye I love you” platonic or not.

You hadn't really considered it before, at least not so intently in relation to Kyotani. Most people were easy to understand in their affections and how they garnered it. Or if they weren't so obvious, they made some sort of distinction, a simple “I don't like when people do this” or “I prefer this”.

Being friends with Kyotani you had assumed that he was content with what people gave him because he never asked for more. He didn't hug you when you two parted ways, and you never forced him to. He didn't ask or push on others boundaries but now after seeing that shoe box you wondered why he had never advocated for his own. You thought perhaps it wasnt that Kyotani disliked those other forms of affection or care, but rather he didn't regard those other acts as affections at all.

The sounds of the restaurant fade back in as your thoughts simmer down. You feel Tsukishima and Yamaguchi next to you. Enthralled in a conversation about some show they had been binging together. Apparently Yamaguchi had watched a few episodes without Tsukishima and everyone found the annoyed, bitter expression on Tsukishima hilarious, the table erupting in laughter.

“You good? You've been staring at nothing for five minutes,”

Kyotani said to you before taking another bite into his food. He sat across from you, his elbows propping him up over his plate of food.

“Yeah, just tired today,”

You say shaking your head as if trying to wake yourself up.

As the evening wears on, your eyes still follow Kyotani’s hands. Trying to catch the moment of thievery in action. To see if your contemplations are grounded in Kyotani’s actions or rather thoughts with nothing to hold as they pass you by.

But as everyone files out of the restaurant, the bill already split, the copy of the receipt abandoned on the table, you watch as Kyotani lingers for just a moment, to pocket the slip of paper.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

You couldn't remember the last time you had attempted to burn a CD. Was it you who did it or a friend? It was years ago though that was for sure. You had made three playlists on spotify, checking and double checking that they were private playlists. After arranging them and finding the songs that fit just right with each list you started finding youtube videos of each song. From there you converted the links to MP3 audio.

While your computer whirred and the audio filed loaded onto the disk you thought about decorating the CD cases. Of course covering the clear plastic case with glitter gel pen and cute stickers was very tempting. But you weren't sure that was Kyotani’s style. At the same time this was supposed to be a gift from you. You met yourself halfway. Decorating one CD case like how you would have wanted, and the other with more of a Kyotani flair, the third somewhere in between the two.

When the CD’s were done you carefully placed them into their new plastic homes. Grabbing a black sharpie to scribble the playlist names onto each. You felt like wrapping them would be too extravagant so you settled for tying a ribbon around the two.

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

“What the hell do you want?” Kyotani says as he pulls up next to you on the curb outside your place. You had texted him earlier while he was at work, asking if could stop by after he got off. He has the window rolled down and you take it upon yourself to unlock the passenger door and climb inside.

"I wanted you to test these out"

You were hoping that you had done everything right with the computer.You hand him the CD's, he flips them over in his hands inspecting them.

“Is it cool if I take these ribbons off?”

You nod and he turns the car radio on to insert the CD’s. As the first song starts playing you turn to him.

“This is that band you like right? The one on that poster in your room?”

Kyotani is visibly flustered by this.

“Yes? Did you...did you make these for me?”

You throw your head back in a laugh.

“Yes, I made them for you,”

“Oh,”

He says in a rather soft amazed tone.

“Look, I didn't mean to, but when I was in your room the other day I tripped over that shoe box you have,”

You keep your eyes trained on the street outside the dashboard window. Unsure and a bit nervous to see what Kyotani is thinking. Tempted by curiosity though, you do look at him for a brief moment, only to find him also intensely staring off into the street. His face lit up red with embarrassment.

“I’m glad that I saw it though. Because that stuff is important to you and I want to know what you think is important”

The air in the car feels like it is clinging to your skin with tension. You think the pressure will start to crack your bones when Kyotani’s voice splinters the suspense.

“It's easier to feel something when its tangible, when you can hold it, it's why people still buy polaroids and go to museums and shit”

You nod, a jovial ease overcoming you as he continues to speak.

“I don't really like, uh, I guess physical affection or even talking or it’s not like talking, people call it words of affirmation or whatever,”

You hold the smile of your lips down, you don't want him to think you’re teasing him in this moment. You're just happy that he is comfortable enough with you to say such things.

“I know lots of other people like to have those types of things though, and I worked really hard to get used to stuff, but I don't know, this is what I like,”

He says gesturing with the CD case to you.

“I mean so like, birthday cards, post-it notes, bus transfers? Things that are directly attached to memories and people? Anything else you want me to know about?”

While it hurts a little that he’s struggling to talk about this matter, you can't help but revel in the unusual brash shyness of Kyotani. He does mutter something, but when you lean in closer to signal that you didn't hear him the first time he repeats himself.

“Event pamphlets. I know it's trash but I like it”

“Promise you won't get mad?”

You drawl your voice out and make it sweet so he knows you're messing with him.

“Hm?”

He says, eyebrow quirked in question.

“I think you'd be really into scrapbooking”

“Shut the hell up before I kick you out of my car”

☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N: Took a break from my current writing obsession to spit this out .

#kyotani x reader #kyōtani kentarō #kyoutani kentarou #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #kyoutani kentarou x reader

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

Text

Walking Home (v)., the Tourniquet

For you @thursday-knight. Lysm

They’re going to let Billy out of that horrible, gray padded room on Tuesday, which Steve snorts at over the phone.

“What, you think that’s fuckin’ funny or something?”

“No, It’s just.” It’s kind of funny. Steve wraps the phone chord around his hand. Nice and tight, like a tourniquet. “Tuesday’s weird.”

“Tuesday’s...weird?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can hear something, like. The clack of a pen. It’s a common nervous tick, a way to cope, but. Steve’s never seen any one hold a bic the way Billy does.

Barrel in his palm. Clicking the register with his pointer finger, like. He’s pressing Reagan’s Big Red Button. The one to blow up the world.

“What’s so weird about a Tuesday release, man?”

“Ruining the start of a week by spending it in the hospital and then having to use the rest of it adjusting to life outside?” Steve shrugs, remembering that Billy can’t see him. “They could at least give you a Friday. Then you’d have the weekend, right?”

Billy’s grin is somehow manifested in the honey drip of his voice. “Been locked up for six months, Harrington, what’s two more days?”

And that could be true.

Steve doesn’t feel like so much time has passed. The rise and fall of the moon, the turn of the seasons, the way Billy has to wear fuzzy socks with those little grips on them to stay warm in beige corridors, have been lost on Steve.

Tainted. Wrapped in paper the exact shade of survival. Surgeries and afternoons carpooling the kids to Hawkins general, paying Barry Mildred to do Billy’s algebra homework for him, and.

Convincing everyone.

Himself, too.

That Billy would be alright. Steve had to do everything he could to get Billy ready for the world, or.

The world ready for him.

“Has it really been that long?” Steve wonders.

And Billy laughs. “Maybe not for you, King Steve. Some of us had to spend the whole of it in one room.” It doesn’t sound as painful as it usually does.

Steve just nods again. To himself.

He remembers the leaves changing around the time Billy learned to walk again. Halloween. Bringing left-over contraband to spoil Billy’s strict diet of organic bullshit while his body healed itself. Amber leaves complimenting blue eyes as they made unsteady laps around the courtyard together.

Steve holding his arm out time and time again, and. Billy taking it.

Christmas. Snowball fights with the kids, crystals on long blonde eyelashes while that stubborn mouth fought to return every smile Max threw his way. Those very same lashes, wet with tears, when Billy opened a vintage copy of Cider House Rules, on Christmas Eve.

All, you really shouldn’t be spending the holiday in a psych ward, Harrington.

But they held hands for the first time that night. Steve said, where else would I want to be?

And Billy, just. Took what he could get--nothing more.

Steve remembers a lot of things. Happiness. Rocky, at first, unearned, a slide into friendship which turned into peachy cheeks that rivaled the setting sun.

Summer, Fall, Winter, and.

February.

Steve must have missed it. All of it, while he was busy being grateful that Billy was alive.

He checks the calendar.

“You’ll be out in time for Valentines,” He says. Because that’s important, somehow. “Got any big plans?”

“Oh, for sure.” Billy clicks his pen. One-two-three. “Got a girl waiting for me on the outside, thought we could catch a movie.”

Steve knows.

He knows it isn’t true, that Billy’s just yanking his ridiculously short chain, but. Steve’s heart beats in time with the click of a pen. Advancing and overtaking the tempo to orchestrate a symphony of worry.

Of fear.

It used to taste like copper. Black slime and dirty snow, but now it tastes like mashed potatoes served on a hospital lunch tray. Contraband sweets. Change and forced endings and--

Steve chokes on something. A laugh that falls wrong halfway through, like a sob colored to fit summer days. “What are you doing after?”

The clacking stops. “Just fucking with you, Harrington.”

“I know.”

“Was a joke, I’m not.” Billy clears his throat. “Everyone who matters came to see me while I was here.”

Steve just nods. Frantically, because he hears words that aren’t there. Meaning that couldn’t possibly color his life in broad strokes. He thinks about what Billy’s saying, what he really means.

Everyone who matters.

“Where are you staying? Like, when you get out,.” Steve mutters. The chord is wrapped around his hand again. He leans against the wall, wincing as the pins from his bulletin board pinch his shoulder blades. “You got a place to crash?”

Billy doesn’t say anything.

Steve clears his throat. “You aren’t going back, right? You’re not going. Home?”

“To Neil’s?”

And Steve gets the distinction. Feels it settle like an axe between his first three ribs. “Yeah.”

Billy sighs. “No, fuck that. Figured I’d ask around. See if there are any beds open at RCA.” Recovery Centers of America, that’s.

“That’s in Indianapolis.”

“Yeah,” Billy says flatly. Steve thinks, distantly, that he sounds almost. Annoyed. “Owens says there’s a car. It’ll take me wherever I want, long as I stay in State.”

“You want to go away?”

“Sure,” Billy says bluntly. “Wouldn’t hurt to leave this place behind, you know. Maybe go somewhere new--”

“Stay with me.”

Steve’s heart is beating in his eyeballs.

The world falls silent. Only for a moment, for as long as it takes for Billy to drop something on the ground and then swear under his breath. His voice shakes, like strands in the wind. “What?”

“At my apartment,” Steve clarifies. He untangles the phone chord which has somehow worked its way to his elbow. “It’s small and shitty, and the couch only has three legs, but.”

Steve closes his eyes and hopes against hope, praying to every god who has ever existed since the beginning of time and everyone who will come after, that Billy can hear every meaning, every hidden word.

“You could.” Steve says softly. “If you wanted to.”

The clacking starts up again, slow and measured. Steve can hear Billy’s breath. The ragged intake of air that sounds painful, like a boy clinging to life in smoke filled memories. Holding on to his hand, saying, I don’t want to die, Steve, please.

It plants Steve’s feet in an ambulance. It tips the string of a tourniquet, bloody and wet with slime in his hands. It makes him remember.

Pull it tighter, kid, come on.

And.

He’s losing a lot of blood.

And.

Steve, we’re losing him.

And.

Kid, step away from the body.

Billy clears his throat. “You mean it?” He asks, and.

Steve lets go of a breath. “Of course I do.”

“You’ll get tired of me.” Billy’s voice, it sounds like shattering windows. Steve doesn’t say anything. Can’t respond, because. Nothing in life is more impossible.

The world falls silent.

Only for a moment, as long as it takes for Steve to close his eyes. “I can’t watch you get in that car and walk away, Billy.”

It’s nothing. Only a part of how he feels. Only a drop of what he wants, but. It sets things in motion again.

Billy clears his throat. “Alright,” He says. “Give me the address.”

Steve wants it to be something other than what it is.

He buys new sheets. Fern green satin, five-hundred thread count and worth a third of what he has in savings.

They aren’t what he’d usually go for, color or texture, but. The lady at the department store says muted colors are good for preventing overstimulation after trauma and satin is gentle on the skin. Warm, too, which is always a good thing.

Billy says it feels like winter, now. All, I’m a goddamn human snow globe.

Buying sheets on Valentines, it.

Makes Steve hope that this is something else.

That Billy will insist on putting his new sheets on Steve’s bed instead of the couch in the living room. That they’ll sleep together here, just how they always did in Billy’s hospital bed.

Chest to chest.

Billy’s head tucked under Steve’s chin, but.

Mostly Steve being eaten alive by the guilt.

For feeling like this is the start of their lives. That everything before now--living with his parents, fighting monsters, feeling useless in every sense of the word...

All of it was a dream.

Preparation for the day he would open the front door and find Billy there, waiting.

Steve takes the sheets back to his apartment. He makes up the living room, rearranging the furniture so Billy can have his own space. The couch as a bed and the coffee table as a book shelf.

Billy has a lot of books.

More than anyone Steve’s ever met, more than Robin and Nancy Wheeler combined and Steve doesn’t own any books himself, or. A place to put them. His apartment is the size of a shoebox.

He’ll get rid of the stuff he doesn’t use anymore.

He’ll make room.

In his apartment, in his miniscule life, so that Billy has something of his own.

And maybe after they’re settled in and the bills are paid for the month, Steve will pick up extra shifts at the video store until he can afford buy one.

A nice, big oak bookshelf for Billy to house his favorites.

He locks himself in the bathroom an hour after moving in.

Which, you know. Throws the evening for a loop.

He seems happy when Steve opens the front door, dropping his box of books by the shoe rack and toeing his boots off with a grin.

His body is loose, and. Open, Like he’s comfortable. Billy pokes around the apartment, making fun of the weird shit hanging up on the walls while Steve cooks dinner.

“You gotta get some real art in here, man.” Billy says. It sounds like he’s by the record player, digging through the stack of vinyl's Steve keeps in a shoe box by the T.V. “And some real music, holy shit. How have you been living like this?”

“I’ve been living just fine, fuck you very much.”

“You have three copies of Waterloo,” Billy snorts. As if that proves something.

He’s crouched by the mosaic of finger paintings left by Holly Wheeler, studying a particularly abstract piece when Steve hands him a glass of sparkling cider.

“Everyone’s gotta have their backup copies of Waterloo, you know, extra in case you gotta dole them out to strangers.” Steve clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.”

Billy swishes the drink around with a lift of his eyebrow. “You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?”

“It’s not alcohol.”

“Why is it bubbly?” Billy accuses, lifting the glass to sniff at it suspiciously. His nose wrinkles, like a bunny rabbit.

Steve laughs. “It’s sparkling cider. Cherry flavored.”

“Cherry?” Billy snorts, his cheeks glowing pink like little love hearts. “That’s definitely a sex flavor.”

“It’s a celebration flavor, you dick.” Steve chuckles again. He files through the records he does have, selecting one he thinks Billy can tolerate. “What do you think of Rumours?”

Billy’s wandered to the kitchen. “Hate the activity, dig the album.” He calls.

The sound of cabinets opening and slamming shut echo through the space while Steve figures out the settings for this vinyl, fiddling with the tiny knobs until Songbird filters through at a pace that seems right.

“Ice is in the freezer,” Steve announces, and.

Billy rounds the corner with a bag of chips, happy little smirk on his face. Steve frowns.

“I’m fixing dinner--”

“I haven’t had Doritos in almost a year, Harrington.” Billy says roughly. He rips open the bag, collapsing next to Steve on the floor by the music stand. Billy takes one and licks the cheese dust off the chip, holding the bag out, like. “Want one?”

Steve face hurts from smiling so much. “Nah, I’m good.”

Billy leans back against the wall, rolling his eyes. “What, don’t eat carbs after four p.m. or something?”

And Steve filters through a million answers, all of which make it sound like he’s trying to get laid, so. He settles in next to Billy, letting his eyes fall closed with the sway of the music.

“No, just. Don’t wanna ruin my dinner.”

Billy snorts, bag crinkling loudly as he dives in for another handful. “I could eat twelve bags of this shit and still go ape on whatever rich boy thing you whipped up.” Billy asses him, head cocked to the side. “Bet the cheese makes you fart.” He concludes.

Steve blinks at him. “You’re disgusting--”

“Processed cheese makes everyone shit their pants, man, that’s like.” Billy wipes his hands on Steve’s leg. “Common knowledge.”

Steve makes a noise like a runover chicken, wiping frantically at the trousers he bought at the Goodwill, just for tonight.

He wets his fingers with spit, wincing and scrubbing at the bright line of orange nacho cheese that stains his corduroy flares.

The shape of Billy’s fingers is unmistakable. “I’m starting to regret asking you to move in.”

“Thought I was just crashing here until--”

“Now that you’re here I’m no letting you leave,” Steve smiles at him, the weight of it softening when Billy’s cheeks glow pink again. He knocks their shoulders together. “You’re stuck with me.”

Billy falls silent after that.

Shoveling in handful after handful of Doritos and crunching so loudly that Steve can’t get wrapped up in the bass line on the Chain.

“Dude, you gotta chew so loud?” Steve asks, shoving Billy’s hand away when he reaches to smear nacho dust down the length of Steve’s neck. “My god, you’re a menace.”

“You love it,” Billy giggles, and.

They stare at each other for a moment. Sort of watching the brush of eyelashes against cheekbones while the music plays.

A backdrop to the start of something Steve doesn’t have a name for.

Night falls and Billy doesn’t come out of the bathroom.

The food has been stored, the dishes put away, but the light which escapes like neon strips of gold to kiss the mouth of the hall carpet never flicks off. Never giving way to rest.

Steve thinks about waiting for him.

He thinks about going to bed, jiggling the handle to make sure Billy’s okay, breaking the door down when two hours turns to three but that seems intrusive.

If Billy wanted company he would ask. And if he wanted to come out he would, right?

Steve feels like an idiot.

Pacing back and forth between the living room and the hallway, trying not to make it obvious that he’s right in the thick of gut-wrenching worry. Violent, intrusive images of brain splattered tile fill his mind.

Billy could be hurt, or. Asleep in the bathtub. Maybe he slipped out the bathroom window while Steve was turning down the couch for him, making the space comfortable.

Maybe he was never here to begin with. Maybe Steve dreamt him up.

Steve paces back and forth, back and forth, wrestling with the urge to call Dr. Owens and ask what he should do, until the clock above the stove reads 11:34 pm and he has no choice but to call it a night.

His knuckles sound like a machine gun when he taps on the door.

From behind the oak barrier, Billy makes a noise like he was startled out of sleep. Steve can hear him moving around, when he asks, “You okay? Been in there for a few hours.”

Billy opens the door.

His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks a little flushed, like.

“Have you been crying?” Steve doesn’t want him to cry. Tears and hallow feelings, they have no place in the stretch of nightfall that Steve has built for them.

He feels himself reaching for Billy on impulse, trying to pull their bodies together, but Billy steps back.

Away.

To make room for Steve in the bathroom or to make a run for it, Steve isn’t sure. He knots his fingers together for safe keeping.

“Of course not, don’t be fucking.” Billy’s voice cracks right down the middle, like. A loaf of bread that has been in the oven for far too long. His eyes are glassy when he looks up, and.

Distant.

Steve feels like an asshole. He leans against the door jam. “I can call Dr. Owens, if you want.”

Billy stares at him. “Why would I want that?”

“You just seem--”

“I seem like what, Steve?” Billy spits. “You gonna psychoanalyze me too, huh?”

Steve grits his teeth against the urge to. Fight back. “It’s just when I started getting the couch ready, you seemed.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, choosing his next words carefully. “Nervous? Afraid, maybe, just a little. Which is alright. It can be scary sleeping alone in a new place, and--”

“I’m not five years old, Harrington, I can handle a sleepover at my friends house.” Billy snarls. He pushes against Steve’s chest until there are rivers between them. Mountains and oceans.

It’s the first time since Starcourt that Billy seems.

Like himself.

The old self, the one that used his fists to keep wandering eyes from getting too close. Figuring him out. If Steve were a younger man he’d fall for it, hook and line, but.

He knows better.

Six months and a lifetime with Billy Hargrove have taught him a thing or two. He nods, stepping back down the hallway.

Billy’s eyes track him. Wide and nervous and so, so blue.

“‘M going to sleep, dude.” Steve waves a thumb over his shoulder, taking a deep, needed breath. He calls over his shoulder to give Billy some space. “Come to bed when you’re ready. I’ll leave the light on.”

Billy’s footsteps don’t pass his bedroom door until Steve is settled under the covers.

He’s starting to think Billy won’t show.

The t.v. is on in the living room, tinny sounds of Yogi Bear filtering through the wall and Steve wonders if he made a mistake in assuming, that.

Look.

Just because they slept together, like, actually slept together while Billy was in the hospital doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe Billy is just scraping the bottom of his energy reserves. Maybe he’s getting to the end of the rope when it comes to his friendship with Steve, and didn’t want to move in but had to.

For lack of better options, and like.

Income and shit--

“Scoot over.” Billy says.

Steve jumps, poking his head out from under the covers to glare wildly at him. “When did you--”

“Move over.” Billy insists, eyes burning like flame in the darkness.

Steve does, all, “Jesus Christ, you’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t ya?” But there are butterflies in his tummy. Gently flapping wings that turn into stinging wasps when Billy manhandles his way into the bed, yanking one of the extra pillows out from under Steve’s legs to punch into shape on his side of the bed.

Steve squawks. “I was using that.”

“It was under your knee caps, dork.” Billy mutters, bullying his way into Steve’s space like he did so many times on warm summer nights at Hawkins General, stiff as a board on his government issued mattress.

Steve’s bed isn’t anything like that, it’s like. A marshmallow. Swallowing the two of them whole when Billy presses his face into the length of Steve’s neck, legs coming up to pin him in place.

“I got weak ankles.” Steve pouts.

Billy doesn’t say anything as he goes limp and heavy on top of his human pillow. Steve instantly feels like he’s over heating; the guy’s a fucking furnace, but.

Billy’s eyelashes are tickling his collar bones.

His breath fans out over Steve’s skin, like cool breezes on summer nights, and. When he starts crying Steve is there.

Like always, Steve sings him to sleep.

#harringrove #valentines day #billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington #please enjoy my trash

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litafficionado · 4 years ago

Text

Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites. --------- Q. You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A. I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish. I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career. Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick. I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next. He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say. I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write. I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.

Q. You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A. I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it. Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six. But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway). There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay. I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den. It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a dollar-store stockroom.

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A. I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.” That has always sounded like the best advice. And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints. Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore. I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning. Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way. I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means. And every now and then I’ll read a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving. It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most. A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q. I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A. I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair. At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to. I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure. The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August. It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language. A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection). I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.

#Garielle Lutz #lit #Worsted #Moyra Davey #Ben Marcus #Gordon Lish #Anna DeForest #A History of Present Illness #Greg Gerke #In the Suavity of the Rock #David Nutt #Summertime in the Emergency Room

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fweasleyswhore · 5 years ago

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Who We Are - F.W.

Chapter Five: Your Facade

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four

a/n: its really outta pocket how late this is, but, i am sorry depression been hittin hard lately im going to try and upload around every three days now !

word count: 2.2k sorry short

warnings: none! just fluff and a tad of uncomfy a lot of ground work for next chapter also this is a series specific taglist just as fyi

tags: @you-make-children-cry @bohemianspacebabe @levylovegood @louist-pics @rochellestark @hufflepuffzutara @weasleybeb @whoreforfredweasley @fortheloveofthecharacter @ayesha-mae @ma0422

“Darling! How I am so excited to meet you!” Before I could reply I was pulled into a bone-crushing hug by Mrs. Weasley. I was quickly pulled out of the train by the twins, barely able to tell Lee goodbye before I was being surrounded by redheads. If I didn’t know who they were I would have felt like I was being circled by vultures. Placing names to the faces I saw wasn’t so difficult, I knew all of the family from my time at Hogwarts, the only thing I didn’t know was who the two taller men behind Mrs. Weasley were. I only got a glance at them, they were both redheads, obviously of the Weasley clan. One had a dangly earring with longer hair that reached his jaw, the other was slightly taller and stockier, his hair wasn’t as long as the others but had more of a curl to it. They were engaged in a conversation I couldn’t hear or focus on as I was being pushed out of Mrs. Weasley’s arm’s. She held me at arms length smiling.

“Thank you so much for letting me stay with you, it really means a lot to me,” I spoke softly, bringing one of my hands up to squeeze hers that rested on my shoulder. She nodded enthusiastically. She opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by Mr. Weasley. “No problem, not at all.” He said nodding down at me. He extended his hand which I shook gladly. “Oi stop coddling Y/N!” George spoke up from behind me pushing next to me. “Yeah we want to spend time with her too.” Fred said linking his arm around my shoulders. George let out a chortle that pulled my and Fred’s attention toward him. “I meant for mum to coddle us, you know, because we are her kids.” I felt Fred’s arm drop from around me and I glared at George who smiled wide and looked between us. “Alright children let's get going.” Mrs. Weasley clapped, pulling all of our attention towards her. I let out a short sigh and grabbed my trunk. The ride to the burrow was uncomfortable. I sat in between the twins in the backseat with some extra luggage. Fred started to rest his head on my shoulder around the halfway point which would have been cute if I could relax into it, instead it just made me feel more cramped. I shut my eyes, trying to relax my breathing as my nerves took over me, counting my breaths until we were there. Getting into the Burrow was a flash, moving bodies tumbling up the winding stairs. The house truly was a beauty to behold, seemingly stacked and held together by magic, the outside was remarkable. The inside felt like an ever present hug, little nooks filled with cushions and blankets could be found in nearly every room. It truly was cozy and everything I longed to feel in my own home. Home was void, it was a place where I stayed but it never made me feel the way the Burrow made me feel. “Now Y/N, go put your stuff in Ginny’s room, you and her will be staying together and with Hermione later when she joins us.” Nodding along to Mrs. Weasley’s words I followed Ginny to her bedroom. It was cute there were posters on the wall for quidditch and on her dresser she had a few stuffed animals, they had their fair share of tears and missing buttons but I’m sure that was just from use. “So what’s it like?” She asked as I set my bag down on the cot set up opposite her bed. “Being Fred’s girlfriend of course! Mum’s ecstatic, this is the first time one of the boys have brought someone they are dating home.” I felt heat and embarrassment crawl up my neck like a ferocious fire breathing dragon until my entire body felt hot head to toe. “No, we are just friends.” “Are you sure?” “Very.” “But George said-” “Kids! Dinner is ready!” Mrs. Weasley’s voice flooded the house and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding in. “Go ahead, I’m going to change.” Ginny nodded and left, shutting the door lightly behind her. Did the family think me and Fred were dating? Did Fred think we were dating? Multiple questions raced through my mind, each one making me grow hotter, but I couldn’t quite place why. I decided against my winter apparel, opting for sleep shorts and an oversized shirt. It wasn’t the cutest but it was the coolest thing I packed and knowing how many people were down stairs I could only assume how much hotter the air would get. Winding my way down the stairs and through the rooms I finally found the one filled with people. The family was surrounding a table where it looked like there was a feast right out of the Great Hall spread out.

“Ah! Y/N, come! Sit sit, um here.” She pointed to a chair on the far end of the table, on each side were the two men I saw from before but didn’t know. Feeling nervous I nodded and went to take my seat. Luckily Fred and George were across from me and that calmed me a bit knowing the meal wouldn’t be met with awkwardness. Soon my plate was full and the entire family seemed to be going in between a big conversation and small ones on the side.

“You must be Y/N.” Said the man on the left of me.

“Yes and you are?” He chuckled and sent a confused look to the twins, I followed his gaze and saw Fred looking rather displeased, sending him a glare.

“Charlie, and that’s Bill.” He pointed around my shoulder to the man on my right. I smiled warmly and waved and he nodded with a sly wink.

“I’ve heard about you two, you’re the oldest ones right? And you are in Egypt most of the time?” I asked Charlie in between bites of beans.

“No I’m usually in Romania with Dragons, Bill is in Egypt working with his voodoo.” Placing my attention on Bill, silently asking him for confirmation.

“I don’t do voodoo, Charlie is just being an ass, it's his specialty.” He was cut off by Charlie laughing, rolling his eyes he started again. “I’m a curse breaker, I work for Gringotts.” My eyes widened as I felt curiosity bubble up within me. If I had to guess I would have assumed that Bill was the one working with dragons, his hair pulled back into a ponytail, his tooth earring, leather boots, it just felt more fitting. Charlie's build definitely proved his occupation; I just would not have guessed it.

“What does a curse breaker do exactly?” I asked. “Well obviously, you know, but are there any cool perks?”

“Yeah Bill what are the cool perks?” George asked with a sly smirk, his eyes danced between Fred’s hostile gaze and his older brother, chuckling to himself.

“Yeah other than getting sunburnt.” Fred groaned. I sent him a look but he missed it too busy prodding around with his food angrily. George had an amused look on his face, obviously directed at his twins behavior but I couldn’t place why.

“He knows nothing about burns, trust me.” Charlie piped up. He rolled up his left sleeve which held a scar that curved and danced up his forearm and around his elbow.

“Baby Chinese firebolt, I was trying to put it into the incubator when it realized I wasn’t mama.”

Dinner went on, Fred didn’t utter a word for the rest of dinner, just poked his food with a grimace on his face. I didn’t let his sour mood ruin mine, I was divested in conversation with Bill and Charlie, learning all about their jobs and travels. Bill told me about an old woman who made jewelry in the center of the town in Egypt where he stayed, he told me about how she imbued each item with a different magical property, some were protection charms and others were sister pieces used to send messages between their owners. Charlie taught me about the different types of dragons and what it was like to work with them. They were both so kind, answering each question I had with a smile on their face. I was so divested in whatever Bill was telling me I didn’t notice everyone had left the table at that point.

“Why don’t we move into the living room?” He asked looking around, I followed his eyes, noting the once lively table empty. In a weird way it made me feel cold, a shiver tore through me.

“If you don’t mind I am going to find the twins.” I spoke getting up. He smiled understandingly. “I think Fred might be in their room, second level first door on your left.” I nodded, sending him a small smile as thanks.

“Wait I said twins, not Fred.” I looked back to him, his smile evident as if he had just caught me.

“I know.” He said, cheeky grin never leaving his features. I felt my cheeks heat up, turning on my heel I left and found my way to the stairs. Harry was watching Ginny and Ron play wizards chess in the kitchen, Charlie and Percy were arguing in the living room about the ethical uses of dragons as means of labor while their parents were both reading. I didn’t see George or Fred and took Bill's advice and bounded up the stairs.

Knocking lightly on the door I was met with no response, tried again, nothing. Despite my better judgement I pushed the door open. The room is exactly how you would expect it, slightly messy with blueprints and products strewn about. On each side was a twin bed, one with green covers and the other with blue. On the right side Fred was laying on his stomach, head facing his wall and limbs falling off the sides. George wasn’t in sight.

I tiptoed around the things on the floor and found his side, sitting down gently in case he was sleeping. There was a tension in the air that made me uneasy and I wanted it gone. I just wanted to spend time with him, I didn’t want to feel like I had to hold my breath.

I ran my fingers through his hair, unable to hold myself back. I felt him let out a sigh under my touch. He began to shift, picking his head up and adjusting himself so he was facing me.

“Hey stranger.” I said softly, sending him a smile. His face was unreadable, part way between smiling and frowning like he was fighting himself inside. He scanned me, up and down like he was trying to read my intentions by a quick look.

“What are you doing up here?” He asked. His voice held no emotion and it stung slightly to see him be so blank with me.

“I want to see you, we haven’t been able to hang out all day and I missed you.” I kept my head down as I spoke. A beat of silence rang throughout the room. I looked at him for an answer, my eyes met his and I watched the resolve fade away, like a barrier breaking beneath his exterior, his eyes lost their cool touch and they warmed up, returning to their familiar honey pools I know.

“Get in here.” He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me down to his level. I helped him, situating myself around him, tangling my legs with his and putting my hands on his chest. Both of his arms were around me, pulling me into him like he hadn’t seen me in months, he buried his head in my neck, his hair fell across my face making my giggle at the feeling, realization struck through me as I evaluated his movements in his head.

“Freddie are you ok?” I asked, my voice was more serious now but his behavior was just hard to read, it felt like since I met his family he had pulled back, the back of my brain was telling me it was because I did something wrong.

“Yeah I just,” He paused holding his breath. “Please don’t let me go.” His words vibrated against my neck. I felt his arms tighten around me as he spoke, like he was in a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

“I wouldn’t dream of it Freddie.” I whispered back, deciding not to push it. Leaning down I placed a small peck to his ginger locks. I felt his mouth curve into a smile against my skin and it made butterflies erupt in my stomach. I felt giddy and drunk, being wrapped up in his arms, smelling, holding, being held by Fred. It was intoxicating and I couldn’t possibly wish for more.

#fred and george #fred weasley #weasleys wizard wheezes #george weasley #harry potter #fred weasley x reader #weasley twins #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley fic #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagine #george weasley fic #george weasley fluff #fres weasley series #harry potter fanfiction

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gohyuck · 5 years ago

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part 1 is out now! here

pairing: greaser!jeno lee x rich!reader; ft. brother!johnny

genre: greaser!au; runaways!au; criminal!au; angst/fluff/smut

word count: 2k

warnings: none

a/n: this is just a prologue (but you should still read it 😉) and it provides some context for the events of the main story... part of the criminal collaboration by @neovisioned

let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

April 13th, 1956

There’s a couple of lilies in a transparent vase, half filled up (half emptied out? you ponder this in an attempt to keep your mind off of what is right in front of you) with water that likely hasn’t been changed since before the weekend. Jojo, the class pet, runs on his wheel, keeping a surprisingly steady pace for a hamster. He pays no mind to his surroundings. What it must be like - to be completely and utterly unperturbed and unaffected by those around him. Maybe you’ll be reborn as a hamster in your next life. A quick glance (your fourth in maybe three minutes) around the tense room at the rest of your classmates and at the teacher leaves you hoping.

The clock’s ticking is louder than usual - though that may just be your mind playing tricks on you - and the room seems to be holding its breath as a singular entity rather than a whole composed of twenty-three individuals (one of whom is the teacher himself), or parts, within it. The whole situation is like a suspenseful movie scene - you know something big is going to happen, and soon - it’s just that none of you have any idea of what it’ll actually be. All eyes are focused on one person - a person who’s up on his feet with a previously pristine stationary-based letter crumpled between his fingers and who is staring holes through the teacher up front, who just so happens to be the sorry individual who had handed him said letter. The teacher, a man whose knuckles have more hair than his head, is trying his best to stare back. He can’t quite match the student’s gaze.

You glance down at your desk at the wrong moment. Before you can even register that anyone has moved, the distinct sound of a textbook hitting the floor startles you. A chair follows it. Before you can look up, the classroom door shuts with a resounding bang. The crumpled up letter is on the floor by the door. Mr. Simmons, in all his balding, middle-aged, beginnings-of-a-beer-belly glory, stands in front of the chalkboard, mouth open in a comically wide look of shock.

After what has to be more than just mere minutes, your English teacher decides that the lesson must go on, and in the midst of telling the class (now with twenty one students and one teacher) more about Shakespeare’s specific usage of language in The Taming of The Shrew, he subconsciously wipes his chalky hands on the front of his pressed khakis. You wince. That’ll be hell to wash. A girl behind you snickers behind her hand to the boy beside her that it looks like Simmons does cocaine. Somebody wonders aloud, though in a quiet enough whisper that Simmons himself can’t hear, who would sell a man like your English teacher coke.

A smart-mouthed class-clown type in the back heaves a cough that sounds oddly like “Jeno Lee”. laughter ripples through twenty seniors. you don’t join in.

Jeno Lee.

You hadn’t even caught sight of his scuffed black Chuck Taylors or the back of his hand-me-down leather jacket when he’d stormed from the room. There was no glint of his pocketknife, either. You’ve come to see all three as hallmarks of his persona.

There’s a lingering smell of smoke in the air, though. His seat, after all, is only two over from yours to your right, and you’ve always been unlucky with inhaling his secondhand smoke. Rumor has it that he smokes two packs a day.

Somehow you doubt that, though.

Maybe you’re naive, but, after all, nobody with a smile like that can plow through 40 cigarettes in 24 hours.

♕ ♕ ♕

April 16, 1956

That's the last class you ever have with jeno. His desk is noticeably empty the next day, and the next, and the next after that until your teacher finally - though with an air of relief you find at least mildly despicable - lets his remaining students know that Jeno will no longer be attending your high school, or any high school at all. You don’t pretend to understand - there’s only about four weeks left until you’re all set to graduate, anyways - but you also don’t pretend to be surprised.

The recycling bin hasn’t been emptied for days. In what’s far from your proudest moment, you stay after class - waiting until Simmons himself walks out to check on what sounds like a hallway fight between two boys - to dig through it, trying to hide your triumphant smile from your own self when you find the crumpled paper Jeno had discarded on his last day here. It had very obviously made him angry, angry enough to drop out, and the wonder of what might be in it is killing you.

After all, he’d been good eye-candy in class, at the very least. You kind of miss him being there, even if you’re the only one who does. You squint, trying to make out what the ink on the paper says.

It’s a letter - specifically it’s a letter from the Neo Institute of Technology, easily one of the most difficult universities to get into in your state. Your fingers twitch as you battle internally over whether to open it or not - rejection is hard to deal with, even if it isn’t your own. Your school sends hardly two or three people to NeoTech per year, and there’s no way someone like Jeno could’ve gotten in. Eventually, your curiosity wins over, though not before Simmons walks back into the room and you find yourself telling him that you’d tripped and fallen near the recycling, all while hiding Jeno’s letter behind your back.

♕ ♕ ♕

Your brother, home from college for the weekend, is lying languidly across the couch, hand in a bag of chips when you walk in through the front door. You aren’t surprised - you’d seen his prized red Chevy Bel Air convertible parked out front when you’d stopped to pick up the mail. You realize fairly quickly that he’s the only one home - your mother must be at a book club meeting, and your father is still at his 9 to 5. it’s just you and the devil himself.

Johnny raises one chip-dust covered hand in greeting before turning back to whatever old western rerun is playing on the TV. For your part, you pay him no mind, dropping the mail - some bills, a... magazine, a reminder card from the dentist - on the kitchen counter while shouldering your backpack to keep it from falling.

“Hey, John?” You finally call, already halfway up the stairs.

He grunts in response, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You consider not telling him for a moment, but then realize that you really don’t want to witness the screaming match your parents will have with him if they get to it before your brother does.

It, of course, being his not-so-guilty pleasure.

“This month’s Playboy came in. it’s on the counter.” You finally say, though not before throwing him as disgusted a look as you can muster once you see the way your brother perks up immediately. Pig. He drops the chip bag onto the coffee table, scattering bits and pieces of food across it. You don’t hold out hope for him to clean it up. You also don’t wait around to watch him grab his magazine, instead making your way up the stairs and into your room, finally free to be truly alone for the first time all day.

You shut the door, making sure it’s locked properly, before dropping your backpack on the floor and jumping backwards, bouncing once, onto your bed. The letter’s been in your hand since you’d found it, and you can’t help but feel mildly excited - and also, of course, just a little bad - as you smooth it out in your lap against your plaid skirt. Slowly, very slowly, you pull it open, bracing yourself for what you know you’ll see.

Dear Mr. Jeno Lee,

Once again, on the behalf of the admissions board at NeoTech, I extend a hearty congratulations to you for being accepted as a member of the class of 1961. The School of Engineering looks forward to witnessing your growth over the next four years, and we know that, upon your graduation, you will make us proud as an alumnus. However-

You pause in your reading, blinking rapidly in mild disbelief. Jeno - Jeno Lee, known for being a greaser and a hooligan, a threat and a terror - had gotten into NeoTech? The realization shakes you, causing you to blow air out through your lips before you continue reading.

However, we find that we will have to rescind your full scholarship. I understand that you may find it difficult to pay tuition, but there just seems to be nothing we can do: we request a disciplinary record for each student, and yours is riddled with fights and altercations with both students and teachers, especially one Mr. Richard Simmons. Typically, this would be grounds for rescission, but considering how stellar your grades and essays are, we will allow you a probationary semester.

You will still have to pay your tuition in its entirety. The first semester payment of $1,200 is due by Friday, April 20, 1956. If you cannot pay it, I’m afraid that we will be unable to take you on for the fall semester.

Best regards and congratulations once again,

Sooman Lee, Neo Institute of Technology President and Board Chairman

Although you’re still surprised at him having gotten in - internalized prejudice, your brain whispers to you, and you hate that it’s right - your heart twists as you read the letter over and over again. $1,200 is steep for a college, and you know that there’s no way in hell Jeno can ever fork that up. Of course, you realize, heaving a heavy, heavy sigh as you do, he no longer can guarantee getting a high school diploma anyways. His rescission from NeoTech must be on its way to his mailbox already.

Before you can think too deeply into Jeno Lee and his now-precarious future, a loud knock interrupts you, causing you to swiftly slide the letter underneath your bed. You never know if Johnny’s going to try and pick the lock on your bedroom door or not, though you’re glad to see that he stops short of doing so this time.

“What?” You ask, your tone as annoyed as possible.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me, shithead,” Your brother responds, throwing your tone of voice right back at you. “Mom’s back, wants your help with dinner.”

“Why can’t you help for once, you ass?” You snark, sliding off of your bed regardless. The door swings open just as you unlock it, revealing your brother smirking down at you in a way that makes you want to right hook him directly in the face.

“Men aren’t made for the kitchen.” Is all he says, stepping back so you can get out. Before you can reprimand him, threatening to kick his patronizing and patriarchal ass, Johnny disappears into his own bedroom, slamming the door shut.

“(Name)?” Your mother calls, sounding displeased at having to wait for you. You groan, pulling your own bedroom door shut before bounding down the stairs. As rock-and-roll music starts pouring out of Johnny’s room, no doubt courtesy of the radio he’d gotten as a high school graduation gift, and as your mother thrusts a rolling pin into your hands while grumbling about not raising you right, all thoughts of Jeno are pushed out of your mind.

Dust starts to settle on the letter beneath your bed.

It’s no matter, though: though you believe it might very well be the last thing connecting you to the Jeno Lee, fate has other plans for you. Soon enough, the surface level image of who Jeno is will no longer exist to you, replaced by your own truer perceptions.

Of course, there’s a series of things that have to happen before that.

It all goes to shit on May 25th, 1957.

#fool's gold #nct-writers #neowritingsnet #kwritersworldnet #thekpopnetwork #jeno #jeno angst #jeno fluff #jeno smut #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct dream smut #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 smut #nct 127 angst #prologue

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adorethedistance · 5 years ago

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Encompassed by You - JJ Maybank x Reader

Requested by @obx-beach : “so I love your writing and once you get a chance you should most definitely write a jj maybank x reader soulmate au. I was reading a bunch but have run out and think that you're writing would go well with it!💕 just a thought❤”

Warnings: 1 fuck. That’s it, this is so pg.

Words: 1159

The luxury of being a kook would mean I work a part time job for a little extra cash, and not to put myself through college since my parents can’t afford all the expenses.

So here I am, the summer before Junior year, finding myself blending apples and juicing lemons, and scrubbing the countertops of a smoothie shop off of figure 8. Don’t be fooled though, working for a dollar above minimum wage isn’t as luxurious as it sounds. I’ve barely reached $3,000. That’s at least textbooks, right?

“Rhoda, I’m not gonna find my soulmate in high school. Do you know how rare that is?” I say to my coworker as I scrub harder on a spot of dried honey.

“My parents met in high school!”

“Well, I’m not your parents,” shrugging sarcastically, I slap the counter with my damp rag. She looks up, unamused, from the spot in front of the counter that she’s mopping.

“All I’m saying is, it’s not impossible.” Rhoda was lucky enough to meet her soulmate last week at the ripe age of 20. I think my parents met at 28, and the average meet-cute age is 27 according to google, so Rhoda got really lucky. I hope I’m just as lucky.

“So what was his symbol?” I ask. Lifting her sleeve, she reveals a blank musical staff that is sitting slightly under her right palm.

“It was seven notes to a melody of the song that was playing when I saw him at the party!” She gushes recalling the night fondly. On a closer look, I can see the time signature reads 6/8 and it sits in the key of E flat.

“That’s seems like it would be an oddly common combination--sheet music--what was the song?”

“Flicker by Niall Horan! Isn’t that just precious?” she says caressing her soulmark in awe.

Glancing down at my own soulmark, the tiny compass frame sits open, sits empty. The center is blank, perfectly framing the ordinary skin of my wrist; the needle and cardinal directions are nowhere to be found. Its position is identical to the image I had 15 minutes ago. Identical to the image I had 15 years ago.

“What if I just never find him? What if my soulmate is halfway across the world, and he doesn’t speak English and he doesn’t have the money to travel to the freakin’ outer banks of all places.”

“Aw, cheer up, buttercup. You’re gonna find your soulmate one day, I promise.” Rhoda’s smile is unfairly contagious and mysteriously always brightens my day. “Who knows, he could be the king of a country- and you could become even more of a queen than you already are!” She cheers. Always looking on the bright side.

When Rhoda finishes her little spiel of excitement, the brass bell above the door rings signifying a new customer. Looking up from the last of the counter-honey residue, I see JJ Maybank. We were table partners for the first week of freshman year environmental science before he was moved to sit directly by the teacher’s desk. Other than that we haven’t really talked ever, which I realize was a mistake, seeing as puberty has done him extremely well.

His blond hair is permanently disheveled, making him resemble Sonic the Hedgehog in the best way. His blue eyes are strikingly contrasted with his sun-kissed skin, no doubt a result from all the time he spends on the open water.

“Oh, I’m sorry we’re closed for the night.” Rhoda looks at me like I’m crazy before stepping in,

“It’s fine, sugar. We can make an exception. What can I get you?” Stepping behind the counter, she logs into her POS and takes down his order. He asks for a medium ‘ocean breeze’ which is coconut water, piña colada syrup, ice, and mango juice concentrate. A fairly simple drink for its price.

As she gives him his total, I turn around to make the drink but I’m stopped by Rhoda grabbing my arm. She gives me a look before suggestively glancing between me and JJ. He doesn’t notice because he’s taking out his wallet-thank god.

She lets go of me and mouths ‘talk to him’ before not-so-subtly throwing me forward towards the register. Then, she heads to the back to grab the ingredients from the fridge and begin preparing the drink. ‘Just because we have destined soulmates doesn’t mean I can’t date around for fun’ was Rhoda’s mantra for the first month and a half that I started working here. College boys are a challenge that slowly changed her mantra over time, but it was still enthusiastically enforced on my life because I ‘don’t have to deal with college boys yet’.

“Uh, 4.09,” I mutter as he hands me a $5 bill. I practically avoid eye contact as I double count the change and hand it to him.

As I reach my right hand forward, I place the change in his left. Our hands brush gently which makes my face heat to 1000 degrees. Why am I so awkward? Pulling my hand back to close the register, JJ’s right hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. The action scares me and I gasp lightly due to fright.

With furrowed brows and wide eyes, I look up to see JJ staring at my wrist. Specifically, at my soulmark. Studying it without a trace of emotion. Following his gaze, it leads to my wrist in his calloused hand. He then hesitantly releases my right arm, and uses the offending hand to pull up the long, white sleeve that covers his own wrist. JJ is probably moving at a normal pace but the tension he’s exuding makes his movements feel like time has slowed to ¼ of it’s normal speed.

He places his left wrist next to my right, connecting them like puzzle pieces. His skin is hot against my cooled arm that hasn’t yet fully recovered from reorganizing the fridge 15 minutes ago.

“What the fuck,” I whisper in disbelief.

JJ’s arm parallel to mine allows me to see his soulmark, as clear as day:

A needle, surrounded by the different markings of the cardinal directions, pointed directly at me in stagnant accusation.

I look up to meet JJ’s crystal blue eyes. He looks calm, at rest, until he sees my shock-consumed expression. His face barely morphs into something like confusion at best. My lips are parted slightly as a remnant of my surprise, but his face does not waver. Neither of us will to speak.

“Alright, we’ve got one ocean bree-” My head snaps to look at Rhoda. When I see her, her jaw is slack on the floor and her eyes are practically bulged out of her skull. She rapidly looks back and forth between my face, our paralleled wrists, and his face.

“Holy shit!” She squeaks nearly dropping the drink. JJ laughs in disbelief as he looks back down to our corresponding soulmarks,

“Fuck man.”

__________________________

A/n: while I love soulmate AU’s this is probably only going to be a 2 or 3 part series just cause I’m focusing my efforts toward YFNS primarily. However, I don’t see why this couldn’t develop into a full series once YFNS is no longer my primary fic. Who knows wtf will happen in the future?

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isis-astarte-diana · 5 years ago

Text

Milk and Honey: Day 1

Day 1 ‖ Day 2 ‖ Day 3

Summary: “I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.” You aren’t thrilled when the Doctor asks you to observe a wounded Missy while she heals, but in close quarters you see a side of her you’d never expected.

Warnings: Mentions of injury, blood and gore, but nothing too graphic. Sexual tension and a teeny tiny bit of non-sexual nudity. Missy is her own warning (I’m going to start using an acronym for this because it comes up far too much). SFW. Very, very soft.

Word Count: 2820

NB: This ran away from me so badly, so it will be continued! I read the whole Wiki page on Gallifreyan physiology for this. They really do have orange blood, and they really can’t take aspirin. I also took the liberty of throwing in the “only one bed” trope and making it gay.

“I don’t even know first aid.”

The Doctor scoffs, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t help much anyway. Very different anatomy.”

“Doctor, I’m serious. My Nintendogs all ran away from neglect. Every Tamagotchi I’ve ever had has starved to death. I can’t keep a houseplant alive, never mind a Time Lord.”

“Time Lords are easier. They tell you when they need feeding. Look,” he reaches out to touch your arm, his voice lowering. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t need to. I can’t monitor the vault all day while I’m working, and somebody has to keep watch while she recovers. Bill doesn’t have her own place and Nardole is... Nardole. She doesn’t need medical care; she’ll heal on her own in a few days. She just needs observation.”

You cross your arms tightly and throw a glance at the closed bathroom door. “Observation while she rips my throat out?”

“Don’t be like that. Missy gets on with you. Besides which, she’s in no condition to cause trouble.”

“Okay, see, that?” You point an accusatory finger at his chest, close to yours where you stand in the narrow hallway of your flat. “That sounds far too much like tempting fate.” He takes your hand in both of his. The pleading look on his face makes you soften. “What happened to her, anyway?”

“Ah. Silurians, apparently. Stabbed in the back. They fight dirty.” He chuckles. “So does she.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t need stitches, or anything?”

“No need; it’ll take care of itself. Temporal platelets. Ad-hoc regeneration.” Sensing your confusion, he explains, “surface wounds heal quickly. It’s probably already scabbed over. It’s the internal damage that takes time.”

“I just don’t know if I’m the right person to do this.”

“You are.” It’s heavy with sincerity. “There’s nobody else in the universe that I would trust.”

You scoff. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Of course it will.” He grins and gives your hand one final squeeze before dropping it. “I’ll come and check in on you both tomorrow, alright? I’ll drop some things off for her.”

“Yeah, alright.”

He’s halfway out the door when he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t give her any aspirin. Incompatible with Gallifreyan physiology. It works like rat poison.”

“Duly noted.”

+++++

You’ve been standing outside the bathroom door for the best part of two minutes now, trying to decide whether or not to make your presence known.

Inside, over the sound of the bath running, you can hear Missy swearing. She’s always had a more colourful taste in language than the Doctor, but this is something new. There are choice words that you recognise and strange sounds you can only assume to be Gallifreyan expletives, all strung together in a near-constant stream of profanity.

You jump back when there’s a loud thud against the door. It sounds like she’s slammed her hand into it. Already wincing in anticipation, you reach out and knock tentatively.

“Missy?” Your voice is apologetic. “You okay?”

Silence. The door cracks open just enough for you to see her face, still stained with dry blood. Her eyes are red and puffy.

“Could you give me a hand?” She winces like it pains her to ask. “Please.”

You think it might be the first time you’ve heard her say that.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. What- what do you need?”

“I can’t- I’m having trouble with my laces.” A half-smile as she tries to claw back the power she’s unused to handing over. “On account of the whopping great stab wound, and whatnot.”

“Yeah, those can be inconvenient.”

She pushes the door wider and lets you into the bathroom. Your eyes are drawn to the pile of white and violet on the floor, her discarded skirt and blouse. Her cameo brooch is balanced on the sink. Its ivory face is obscured with smears of orange.

“I just need somebody to loosen them,” she continues, turning to show you her back, mercifully ignoring the way your gaze flits about the room and tries to avoid settling on her. “Unfortunately I’m very good at tying knots.”

For some reason, that makes your mouth go dry.

“I’ll do my best.”

She’s facing away from you, towards the mirror. Her hair falls down over one shoulder, already brushed conveniently out of your way. The chemise she wears is thin, pale linen, stiff and brown in places with dried blood, pinned in place beneath the corset she can’t remove herself. It curves under her bust and across her back.

From here, you can see how the knife must have entered between the laces in the small of her back, caking them with blood. The tight bow is undamaged. You begin to pick it apart, trying not to touch her, as much in modesty as for fear of aggravating the injury.

“Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Hmm.” She grips the sink, angling her body to give you better access. Drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, you focus on the knots slowly giving beneath your fingers, trying in vain to ignore her closeness and the way her hips are just barely touching your own.

You’re glad of the cacophony of rushing water from the tap. The pressure of your pulse in your throat is almost painful. Sweat beads at your temples. Steam. It’s a hot room. That’s all.

“Okay.” The laces fall slack in your hands, the bow finally coming apart. “Just- loosen them?”

“Please.” There it is again.

“This might- you know-”

“I know.”

Her hands tighten on the sink when you hook one finger beneath the first row of laces above her waist and tug, drawing slack from the loose ends, releasing some of the tension. When she doesn’t make any sound of protest, you move higher up and repeat the motion. It’s not until the entire top half of the corset is loosened that she lets out a slow, shallow breath you hadn’t realised she was holding, shifting her position.

“Okay?”

“Fine.” It comes out short. She makes an effort to soften her voice. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll carry on.”

You know that the other side will be worse. The wound is just lower than where the bow had been, and the stiff garment has probably held it closed quite effectively. Removing it is unlikely to help the pain.

Sure enough, when you pull on the first lace Missy makes a low noise behind her teeth. She’s white-knuckled on the edge of the sink, threatening to crack the cheap porcelain. You imagine explaining that to the landlord and try to hide an inappropriate smile.

“Keep going,” she prompts tightly.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

You work as gently as you can, but it’s clear that even the smallest motion is painful. By the time you reach the bottom of the corset, her breathing is ragged and her eyes are screwed shut. You feel profoundly guilty.

“Can you- take it off, or should I?”

“Could you?” She gestures to her stomach and quickly steadies herself again. “Clasps are at the front.”

“Sure.”

Swallowing thickly, you move closer to reach around her waist. The backs of her thighs press against you from the position. When your hands land on her stomach, gripping the starched material at the bottom, you can feel her four-beat pulse through the panels. Your fingers are trembling.

The hooks and eyes slide apart with a chorus of metallic clicks, leaving just the top fastenings still holding. She grunts, twitching, pushing back against you. She’s warm.

“Almost done.” It’s as much for your benefit as hers. You follow the material upwards, drawing back as if burned when the fabric of her chemise brushes your fingers, and release the final two clasps. She lets out a heavy exhale in relief, glancing up from the sink, and for a long moment she catches your eye in the mirror. Her features are strained from the ordeal, messy hair in her face, lips parted as she catches her breath. You look awestruck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into the reflection.

You pull back too quickly, dropping the corset to the floor with her other clothes and reaching over awkwardly to turn the tap off. The bath is full.

“I’ll put you some clothes ready,” you say hurriedly, nearly tripping on the pile of laundry in your haste to leave the room. “Just shout if you need anything else.”

Back in the kitchen, you wash the orange-brown stains of Missy’s blood from your hands. When you drag them harshly down your face, trying to steady yourself with a splash of cold water, they smell like pennies.

+++++

“Don’t laugh.”

“Jesus!” You nearly jump out of your skin, dropping the butter knife you’re holding and throwing a hand up to your pounding heart. “Don’t you make any noise when you walk?”

“Not if I can help it. Which I can.” Missy pauses. “What are you doing?”

“Making toast. Pretty standard human stuff. Breakfast? Toast. Flu? Toast. Tonsils out? Toast. Mortally wounded?” You shrug. “Toast.”

“I’m not mortally wounded,” she snaps. “You have to be mortal for that. I’m temporarily, slightly incapacitated.”

“Oh, of course,” you concede, looking back at her over your shoulder. “Luckily, there’s toast for-”

Your voice catches in your throat.

She’s obviously found the clothes you set out for her; an oversized tee shirt that swamps her frame and a pair of pyjama trousers. Her dark hair falls in a thick, wet braid. With her face clean you can see for the first time where she’s injured.

There’s a graze on her cheek, spanning across her nose, pink and sore-looking. Her bottom lip is swollen and split on the same side. A long, dark scab bisects the patch of rough skin, reaching from her jaw up towards her eye. It looks like her face has been slammed into the ground repeatedly.

You’ve never really seen her without her trademark boots and careful tailoring. She’s shorter than you imagined. There’s a soft, feminine curve to her stomach that’s usually concealed by the corset, and a faint musculature to her biceps.

“You look-”

“Don’t,” she cuts you off sharply. “Don’t say it. Let’s not add insult to injury.”

“I was going to say that you look nice.”

“Oh.” Her face softens. Some of the tightness leaves her brow. “Nice is fine. You can say that.”

It’s true, but the unsaid hangs heavily between you. She looks human. Hurt and freshly showered, standing in your kitchen in a pair of your pyjamas and with fuzzy striped socks on her feet, she looks so... soft. Touchable. Loveable.

Wait, what? Where did that come from?

The toaster pops and you turn to it, infinitely grateful for the distraction. You can feel her eyes on the back of your neck.

“Anything I can do?”

“No, I’m good.” The words come out too quickly. You throw her a weak smile. “I’ve got this. Thank you. You sit down.”

“Matron knows best.”

Her fingers brush over your elbow as she turns to leave. It could be a thank you. It’s hard to say.

+++++

You’ve been to other planets. You’ve travelled in time. You’ve seen cyborgs, and dinosaurs, and aliens of every description; but nothing has ever felt more bizarre than sitting on your sofa beside Missy, having tea and toast, watching a soap opera on a Thursday evening.

She’s leaning against an armrest, two pillows propped behind her back, keeping her weight off the healing wound. Her bright eyes are fixed on the television. She’d actually requested this programme, finding the endless human conflicts relentlessly amusing.

“He’s buried under the allotment.”

"Who is? The brother?”

“Definitely.” She sips from one of your prized novelty mugs. It’s purple and shaped like a cartoon octopus. “It was his wife. She poisoned him.”

“It’s always poison when it’s a woman.” You munch at your toast. “You know, most poisoners are men.”

“Most murderers are men, love.” The endearment nearly makes you choke. “You’re privileged enough to be sitting next to one of the minority.”

“Girl power,” you mutter around a mouthful of crumbs. She laughs. There’s something warm and genuine about it that makes your heart clench. You finish eating in companionable silence, watching as Missy’s prediction is revealed to be true just before the credits roll.

“Told you.” She leans in to set her empty plate down on the coffee table on top of yours. As she moves, she winces and lets out a soft sound of discomfort. One hand reaches back to press against the injury. You frown.

“How’s it feeling?”

“Quite a lot like I was stabbed, actually.” She rubs her forehead. “I think I need to do that thing. What’s it called? Like a healing coma, but less.” Glancing sideways at your furrowed brow, she prompts, “you know. You do it all the time. Eight hours a week, or something.”

"Sleep?”

“Sleep! That’s the one. Clever girl.” You can’t supress a shiver at the way she rolls the ‘r’. “Been a while since I’ve done that.”

“That would explain a lot.” You move the dishes, leaving them for the morning. “Just let me get changed and grab a blanket. You can take the bed.”

“Oh, no need.” She waves you away. “I’m perfectly fine here. Think I was in the desert, last time, so this is a step up.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you to sleep on a sofa when you’re recovering from a stab wound, Missy, Gallifreyan constitution or not. Besides which, this is a particularly bad one to spend the night on. Believe me, I speak from experience. The desert may actually be preferable.”

“I’m not throwing you out of your own bed,” she snaps, so harshly that it makes you flinch. “I’m enough of a nuisance as it is.”

Here we go.

Wounded pride is something you’ve dealt with from the Doctor time innumerable, but you’ve never had to address it with Missy before. You realise how difficult it must have been for her to ask for your help with the corset and wonder how much pain she’d put herself through trying to do it alone. For the first time, you imagine the conversation she must have had with the Doctor before he brought her here. How long did she fight him on it? How long did she insist that she could cope on her own in the vault? You’d assumed that he wanted to keep her supervised in case the injury didn’t heal well, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe he just didn’t want her to be alone.

“We could share.”

She lifts her head, setting those ancient eyes on you. “Share?”

“Share the bed. It’s big enough. No point in one of us being uncomfortable if we don’t have to be. Bill and I share when she comes over.” You feel like you’re babbling. This may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.

“Do you?”

“Course we do. Friends do that.”

Friends. She blinks a few times.

“Well then. When in Rome, as they say.” She rises unsteadily to her feet, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa. “Although apparently, that doesn’t mean that you can crucify someone for stealing a mule. The Doctor was so cross with me that weekend.”

+++++

“You’re going to fall off the bed.”

Missy’s voice is muffled by the pillow jammed awkwardly under her cheek. She’s lying on her stomach, arms under her head, her face twisted towards you so that she isn’t leaning on the injured side.

You wince at having been caught out. You’re as close to the edge as it’s possible to be, balanced uncomfortably on your side with your back to her. Even so, you can feel her behind you; she has no such qualms about taking up space.

“I’m not contagious, you know.” In her exhausted state - she’s been half-asleep since her head hit the pillow - she actually sounds insulted. “There’s no epidemic of knife wounds.”

“Please don’t jinx it.”

She snorts. Suitably chagrined, you squirm back towards the middle of the bed, settling into your usual sleeping position. You still make sure to keep your face turned away. There’s an odd feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. You can’t shake the idea that if you roll over and look at her face, the cuts and grazes there cast in sharp relief by the thin light of the bedside lamp, something terrible will happen.

You reach for the switch. “Light off?”

Her leg brushes against yours, warm even through the pyjamas, and your heart skips a beat. “Leave it on?” She sounds so small in the dark. You pause for a second before tucking your arm back under the duvet.

“Of course.” It sounds rough. You clear your throat. “Goodnight, Missy.”

“Night,” she murmurs back, already thick and drowsy.

Sleep comes easy to you both.

#missy x reader #the master x reader #mine #request #doctor who fic #whump #doctor who whump #reader insert #doctor who reader insert

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all-things-mlqc · 5 years ago

Note

The five boys react to an overweight MC that works as a nutritionist but struggles a lot to lose weight? It might be strange but it happens sometimes. PLEASE!!! Btw, I love your work❤️

This was really fun to write about. Knowing that these guys are so supportive of MC and want to help her in any way possible with whatever she’s struggling with is just so sweet.

Thank you for the love and support as well! 😭 I’m usually just memeing it up out here so writing HCs is very new for me but your support helps so much! I did meme a lot while writing this as well because what’s life without memes, so you can find all of my inner thoughts crossed out~ Hope you enjoy!

HC below the cut~

Gavin:

Gavin loves and supports MC through everything. He’s constantly watching and confronts her whenever he believes something is wrong.

After noticing her sulking at herself in the mirror, he asks what’s troubling her.

“Nothing really! You don’t need to worry about me.”

She gives him a small smile and turns away from the mirror.

He figured it had something to do with her figure given the way she was looking at herself.

He remembered her mentioning how even though she’s a nutritionist, she still struggled with her own weight.

She didn’t seem all that down back when mentioning it, but the expression she had in the mirror said otherwise.

He stood up from the sofa and asked if she wanted to go with him during his morning jog.

“Why would you want me to do that? I’d only slow you down.”

Gavin: I don’t mind. If it’ll help, then I’ll do anything I can.

This man isn’t one for small talk. He gets straight to the point. He observes, finds the problem and seeks out a solution. There was no need for MC to confirm his suspicions about wanting to lose weight; It was all in her expression.

“I don’t really want you to go out of your way for me... Besides, it’s important you don’t slack off with your training.”

Gavin: I wouldn’t be slacking off. Training with you would only make me work harder.

A NATURAL ROMANTIC BUT ALSO A FUCKING MORON WHO GAVE HER A BLOOD SOAKED LETTER. IM GONNA BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU YA DUMBASS

MC takes up on Gavin’s offer considering how adamant he was. He also didn’t seem concerned in the slightest about MC being a burden BECAUSE SHES LITERALLY THE LIGHT IN HIS LIFE AND WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HER

After they go jogging, they stop for a healthy meal of MCs choice because Gavin doesn’t know what food is. Have you seen his kitchen? INSTA NOODLES EVERYWHERE. Boy is literally the type to throw a lunchables on the dinner table and give thanks for his beloved meal. Omg nononono I’m thinking of all these sad things now about how Gavin was literally homeless for a while as a kid so he probably just got used to eating something small and simple every day. BYE IMMA GO CRY NOW

While eating, Gavin comes up with a few more ideas to help and offers to take her to his gym every other day.

They come up with a plausible schedule that could seem efficient to MC’s wish of losing weight.

This also gives MC the chance to make sure Gavin is taking care of himself as well.

Kiro:

Kiro and MC meet up when he finally has free time and manages to escape from Savin.

Like their normal days together, they end up walking around Loveland City, going to some sightseeing locations. They just enjoy each other’s company.

When stopping to buy a snack, Kiro grabs two bags of chips and beams up at MC only to see her forced smile. He immediately gets concerned given how positive she always is.

Kiro: Are you ok? What’s on your mind?

“No, it’s nothing. I’m just trying to narrow down on the amount of junk food I eat.”

Kiro: Why is that? You’ve always told me to live to the fullest.

“Well... I’m trying to lose some weight but it seems more problematic than I had originally thought.”

With MC looking ashamed of how little progress she has made thus far, Kiro places both bags back on the shelf with a bright smile.

Kiro: Well if we both work together then there’s no chance we could lose this fight! Besides, Savin has been at my throat lately considering the mount of junk food I’ve been eating recently too.

“Kiro...”

MC stared at Kiro, dumbfounded, who seemed so positive. This gave MC a boost of confidence, herself.

She quietly thanked him while giving him a genuine smile.

They spent the whole day doing fun activities. In a way, this was part of Kiro’s plan to help MC. He knew how much this mattered to her so he wanted to keep a smile on her face while secretly help her from the shadows.

It’s honestly what he does best. It’s hard to tell in the game since we don’t get to see every expression he makes or how he reacts to things, but take a good look at his reactions in the anime. You can see how serious he really is behind his happy facade.

He continues to silently help her every time they spend time together as well as send her encouraging texts and reminders.

Nobody is more positive and encouraging than Kiro~

Lucien:

Lucien knows everything nutritionists know, let’s be real. This man was a child prodigy who skipped half of his school life, going straight to college.

He knows EXACTLY what MC needs. The one problem is, so does MC.

She knows what she needs to do but doesn’t have the kind of support she needs. She easily becomes discouraged when things don’t work out after trying so hard.

Luckily, Lucien is also a wonderful supporter minus when he just “what’s a magic? Don’t know em. No thoughts. Head empty. Only science and death”. Uhu then what do you call that flying cop outside the window? Where’s your science behind that? Lucien: “Well you see, there is a certain DNA mutation that—“ DO NOT ANSWER THAT YOU FOOL I KNOW ITS SCIENCE BUT MAGIC IS EASIER TO ACCEPT RN BECAUSE MY BRAIN GO BRRR

But considering it’s MCs health, he is very supportive and even explains that many people struggle with the same problem. There’s not exactly any problem with how someone looks unless it is overall affecting their health for the worse but he will gladly help MC if she wishes to lose weight.

Knowing that Lucien views it this way immediately gives MC more confidence.

An enormous amount of stress has been lifted off her shoulders which will ultimately help her reach her goal.

Lucien comes up with a solid workout plan and diet that is easy for MC to follow and even offers to make her some special meals to help with weight loss because Bill Nye over here has the solution to everything

I also highkey imagined him whispering in her ear like the first day they met that if she follows his plan without any casualties, he would give her special rewards and yes I do mean THOSE kind of rewards because this man is K I N K Y. I don’t even like him, I blame my friend who’s constantly giving me these ideas about him. You’re lucky you’re a bitch or I’d probably be on the floor for you too.

Victor:

Victor’s biggest struggle is vulnerability. He is very blunt and says what comes to his mind without always thinking it through.

Because of this, he upsets MC when talking about her weight.

He meant no harm from whatever he may have said but notices MC’s sorrowful expression after lifting his eyes from the papers on his desk to meet her gaze.

He immediately acknowledges what he had done and puts everything away for the day, offering to take her to Souvenir.

“What..?”

Victor: I’m done for the day. If you don’t have anything else to do, you can come with me.

“But why?”

Victor: You’re still you regardless of your weight, but if it’s something you want to change, I’ll help.

The man wanted to tell her she’s beautiful and amazing no matter what, but hahaha we all know this man can’t compliment for the life of him. Jkjk he can but like I said before, v u l n e r a b i l i t y. He struggles with expressing his true feelings.

MC responds with pure shock on her face,

“Really?? You’d help me?”

Victor: Only an idiot would ask a question like that. You should count on me more when you’re struggling with something like this.

Baka this baka that. If I don’t add it somewhere, than this whole HC isn’t accurate at all. All you thirsty Victor hoes go watch his baka clip if you want more *spray bottles*

He tidies up his desk and grabs his coat, heading towards the door while MC stumbles over her thoughts.

He only stops halfway out the door to look back over his shoulder at MC.

Victor: Well?

“I— I’m coming!”

She rushes over and follows him out the door.

Victor ends up making MC a delicious and healthy meal, one he knows is a special meal for a weight loss diet.

Cooking was never that important to him. He only learned because of the little girl he once knew. But now... Now he has a new reason to continue cooking.

That girl had come back to him and he would do anything in his power to make her happy.

Shaw:

He watches MC intently as she talks about how difficult it is for her.

Right before MC finishes, he places her on his skateboard and takes off without giving her time to protest.

She shouts in fear ofc. Why wouldn’t she. I’m terrified every time the game says he puts mc on his skateboard just—

Shaw chuckles with amusement in her ear and then tells her to push off with her own feet.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” yes, yes he is

Shaw: I won’t let you fall but I won’t stop until you push.

“Fine fine!”

With the help of Shaw keeping her steady, she’s able to smoothly push off the skateboard a few times.

After getting the hang of it, there’s a slight smile taking place of her feared expression from before.

Shaw’s expression, however, doesn’t change in the slightest. That teasing smirk rests on his face as she continues to push them down the park sidewalk.

As they reach the main road, she yells back to Shaw when the skateboard doesn’t slow down.

“Shaw—!”

It’s all she managed to get out as the fear she once had returned again.

MC shut her eyes with panic as the street grew closer and closer, only to feel an arm wrap around her as the cold wind hitting her face dissipated.

When her eyes opened, she saw Shaw giving her the same mocking smirk he always wears. However, his eyes showed signs of gentleness he doesn’t often express.

He offers her one of his skateboards for workout purposes as well as being her workout partner.

MCs chuckles out of amusement from the idea of HER riding a skateboard by herself. totally a reason why Shaw made this offer. He feeds off of entertainment.

She politely declines his offer of skateboarding but hesitantly asks if he would help her in other ways.

The question needs no thought from Shaw but he doesn’t want her to know he made up his mind to help long ago. ah yes, his one weakness as well, vulnerability

Shaw: I suppose being of assistance to you may turn out entertaining.

MC: Is that all I am to you? A source of entertainment?

She pouts at him half jokingly but he pays no mind to it as he kicks up his skateboard and continues walking ahead while suggesting a few things they can do to help with weight loss. Daring but not enough to scare her away. He actually wants to help but needs her to comply with his suggestions

Shaw is the type to help those he cares for without making it obvious. He believes personal relationships is a weakness for someone like him so he always keeps people at arms length; He always wants a possible way out for when he has to push people away.

While this is true, he’s also struggled with vulnerability his whole life. Considering the type of person his father was, growing up with a man like that not only puts pressure on Shaw, but also forms this broken and terrified personality under his overconfident facade.

Someone please just hold this man, he’s trying his best and needs healing

Their solution for MC is to try some fun activities together. Fun enough for MC to believe that Shaw isn’t going out of his way for her but also not as extreme to the point where MC won’t participate.

#mlqc #mr. love queen's choice #mr. love #mlqc hc #mlqc gavin #mlqc haku #mlqc kira #mlqc kiro #mlqc victor #mlqc zen #mlqc shaw #mlqc lucien #mlqc simon #asks #thank you <333 #man may i just say that i wrote this at the worst possible time #i had EVERYTHING written out and ready to go #woke up the next morning and my phone said ‘haha Apple phone go brrr’#rest in peace 5000+ videos and pictures #all my game data #*thankfully i got most of those back*#all my notes #g o n e #it was a tragedy #but WE’RE BACK AND I REWROTE EVERYTHING SOMEONE JUST END ME ALREADY #but man im sorry this took longer than expected oTL #anywho writing kiro’s reminded me about who he really is #and probably not in the way you guys are thinking #only people with his newest rumors & secrets would know what im talking about #but damn i want more info on that and cannot WAIT for the anime to cover what most of us know

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lihikainanea · 5 years ago

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can you please write smth where tiger's having a rough migraine but she wont tell bill bc she knew he'd drop work and would be at home in a snap of fingers if she told him smth, and then when he comes home he finds her in her room with all her blinds shut and doors closed to not let the light come through bc it makes her head ache more and its hurting so much already that she had thrown up a couple of times and he's worried and upset that she didnt call him but then takes care of her?

oh goddddd nani babes this is so sweet. As a fellow migraine sufferer, god I feel junk punched by this one.

I don’t know about any of you, sometimes I can feel a migraine come on from a day or two before--something will just feel off, I’ll get a nosebleed, or I have one of those “haha I’m so stressed god it’s a miracle I haven’t gotten a migraine yet” moments and then the next day--BAM. Flattened. Sometimes too, though, they just come out of nowhere. I’ll be fine, and then my vision will skew, my stomach will turn, and I know I have about a 5-10 minute window before I’m in some serious pain.

I get all the symptoms, too. Nausea. Extreme sensitivity to light. Blurred vision, or total blackout vision. Splitting pain. If I’m lucky, it only lasts a day. I’ve had some bad ones that last a long ass time and it’s awful.

So like, look--maybe tiger feels one coming on. Maybe Bill is on set--he’s in town, just on set for 16 hours every day--and tiger has been working like the boss bitch she is. But one morning at work--she feels it. That drilling sensation above her left eye--it’s a headache for now, but the minute the vision in her eye goes wonky she knows what she’s in store for. She quickly packs her shit, pops a few really strong Tylenol in an effort to fight it off (sometimes it works), and she heads home. She has a routine, one that works half the time--some strong Tylenol, a whole bottle of gatorade, and ten minutes later--two espressos. Hydration and caffeine can sometime nip it in the bud, if she’s lucky.

She’s not so lucky this time. She gets these, usually with the change of seasons or the barometric pressure being all off. She half contemplates calling Bill, but when she squints her eyes enough to see the time she realizes that he’s only been on set for two hours, and probably hasn’t even made it out of the make up chair yet. This shoot is a short one and every hour counts, and she can’t ruin his day.

Instead she stumbles to try and get her stuff ready for the long haul--cold compresses, warm compresses, her bottle of pain meds, some water. She barely makes it to bed.

And that’s exactly where she proceeds to stay for the next 14 hours.

The poor bean, it’s awful. The pain is so bad at one point that she dry heaves. And even if she wants to call Bill now, there’s no fucking way she can even function long enough to do that. She can barely speak. She’s just curled up in bed, in complete darkness, trying to relax and not tense up, whimpering in pain.

Bill wraps around midnight--he calls her, but it goes to voicemail. He thinks maybe she might be asleep, but something doesn’t sit right because she hasn’t texted him all day--and when she goes to bed, she always tells him goodnight. It’s a sweet sentiment, but also a warning that his lanky ass better not make too much noise when he comes home, lest he wake her up. He shakes off a feeling of malaise, and heads home.

But the hairs on his neck stand on end when he pulls up and every single one of the lights inside are off. He can’t explain it, but his Little Human alert is dinging furiously and he doesn’t know why. Taking the steps two and three at a time, he swings open the door and calls out to her.

But like, listen--the door whipping open and shutting harshly after, Bill’s loud voice calling for her? Fuck man, that’s torture when you have a migraine. And all he hears is her whimper, her choking sob, and he knows right away. And while he wants to be angry, his first instinct is just...concern. Care. He heads to the bedroom immediately, trying to walk as softly as he can.

“Oh kid,” he whispers lowly. He approaches slowly, crouching on her side of the bed and putting a soothing hand on her. She’s scrunched up so small, tensed in a tiny ball, in way too much pain.

“Billy,” she croaks out, and it’s half sob, half relief, half whimper of pain.

“It’s okay tiger, I’m here,” he whispers, “I got you.”

He’s trying not to talk too much because even a whisper is too loud, and tiger is just kind of full on crying now which is no doubt causing her even more pain.

“Hush,” he soothes, “I’ll be right back.”

There are a few things that help ease some of the pain, but more often than not, she just has to let it pass on its own. He gets some room temperature water and a straw, to help her swallow some more meds. He gets some new cold compresses, and heats up her warm ones. Granny made a ginger tea, a home remedy, that used to help with tiger’s symptoms--so he makes a mug of that.

He makes his way back to the room, puts the straw to her lips for a sip. When she’s done he just gently pushes two pain pills between her lips, giving her the straw back so she can swallow.

He doesn’t want to move her just yet--he will eventually, but he’ll let the pain meds kick in a tad first. Instead he just gently--oh, so gently--replaces the warm compress on her neck, places a new cool one on her forehead. She flinches at that one, and he apologizes softly.

She can’t sit up and sip the tea, and he purposely popped a few ice cubes in so it wouldn’t scald him. But then he just real gently dips two fingers in, and holds them to her mouth. She sucks the tea off of them that way--and he keeps doing it. Just getting a bit of liquid on his fingers and holding them to her mouth so she could wrap her lips around.

His other hand is on her somewhere--her thigh, her side. He wants to weave it through her hair but he can’t touch her head when she’s like this, even the softest head scritchies would still cause her too much pain. When she’s halfway done her tea, he starts on the second part of what usually helps her--just holding her tight, giving her something else to focus on, and pressing on a few pressure points that she taught him.

“I’m gonna move you kid,” he whispers. and she stirs a little. he climbs onto the bed as gently as he can, gathering her in his arms as he sits with his back to the headboard. She lets out an agonized whine.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “It’ll feel better in a second.”

He scoots her up onto him a bit more, cradles her head to his chest. He pats gently at her stomach with one hand, using his other one to pinch hard between her forefinger and her thumb. He alternates between pressing down hard on it, and rubbing slow circles.

It helps, but nothing but time will make it completely go away.

I’ll bet he falls asleep like that, doesn't he? Because pain is an exhausting thing, and after so many hours of it, tiger’s body just kind of shuts down and knocks itself out--and miraculously, she falls asleep. He hears her breaths evening out, feels some of the tension leaving her, and he too kind of sags in relief. He doesn’t dare move once she drifts off, not wanting to wake her. He knows how painful these are for her, and he’s going to have a long talk with her tomorrow about how she should have called him. How he doesn’t ever want her to be in pain like this, for that long, alone again.

But for that night, he drifts off real soon after she does. Propped up against the headboard like that, her all curled up in his arms.

#BFF!Bill #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard drabble #soft bill

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19mrs-barnes17 · 5 years ago

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Redamancy

Summary: Bucky Barnes to the rescue, much to your surprise.

Part: 1/1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: stood up

Word count: 1,902

A/N: enjoy another match of dialogue prompts and character pairings given to @cantnkrusshedevil to match up. This is 3 of 9.

Dread begins to fill your gut as time slowly ticks by, tick by tick. The only thing keeping you there was denial and guilt, so desperately clinging to the benefit of the doubt. Your date was kind, intelligent, and fairly handsome. He had bumped into you at a cafe and thrown the line that he owed you a cup of coffee. It had been ages since someone had flirted with you, so you played along and let him buy you a new drink. He was funny and charming, completely sweeping you off your feet.

Tonight was the night he had asked to see you again. This was the diner he had asked you to meet him in because it was close to his home and his favorite, a place he wanted to show to you. And the time? Well, it was 40 minutes past the time he had given to you, and 20 past the time that you had sent him a text asking if he was still going to make it. You were growing impatient.

The waitress had a sympathetic look as she placed a slice of pie in front of your coffee cup, whispering that it was on the house with a wink. Somehow the gesture made it all the worse, reminding you of the most likely truth.

You take a bite and slide your phone from your jacket pocket.

This is bogus.

What is?

It's been 40 minutes and he’s a no show

You serious?

They gave me a free slice of pity pie

Ouch. I’ve got you, rescue is on the way.

You’re the best Nat

Duh.

Feeling a little better you slid your phone to the side and began working your way through the pie slice. Pity or not, it was delicious.

In the next ten minutes you sat scrolling through your phone and sipping coffee, doing your best to try and salvage the night. At least Nat would arrive soon and turn this into a girls night. She had done this a few times now, always able to turn the night around and make you forget. If not for her superpower you would have lost a lot of time to Netflix and your fridge.

Your gaze snapped up when the bell chimed and the eyes you met surprised you greatly, their crystal clear color setting you at ease. He made his way to your booth with a sympathetic smile and you threw a sugar packet at his face. Perplexed, Bucky cocked his head and furrowed his brow with an incredulous smile tugging at his lips.

“If I get another sympathy smile or look of pity, I swear.” He shook his head and muttered an apology, before flagging down the waitress. “What are you doing?”

“You haven’t eaten right?”

“Only a slice of pie, glad your date finally showed.” The waitress gave Bucky a look before turning to you for your order.

“Oh, he’s not my date.”

The waitress smiled apologetically, scribbling down the order as Bucky began to read it.

"What are you doing here?"

"Nat sent me to be your date like she usually does." You arched a brow and shook your head.

"We make it a girl's night, not a date you goof." He face palmed.

"She set us up." You laughed, shaking your head again.

"Me and you? No way, if she wanted that she would have shoved us at one another a long time ago." Hell, she would have done it freshman year of college when you two met him.

"Wait. Think about it, she was the one who introduced us. I had met her that morning." Your eyes widened as your mind began to run through all the scenarios in which the three of you always seemed to end with just you and Bucky.

"She's the one who invited you to that camping trip, knowing full well I was the only single."

"And whenever we drove anywhere she always had me drive-"

"And wanted me to sit up front!" Both of you looked like crazy conspiracy theorists the way you were pointing at one another bug eyed. "She must have hit her breaking point."

"What makes you say that?" You poke at at his face with a scrutinizing look on your face.

"I know there's a brain in there, it got me through Calculus." He grabs your hands as smile tugs at his lips, you feel a strange flutter from the combination.

"I mean it, what makes you think she's had one." Your hands are still in his grip and your brain is on the fritz. "Y/N?"

"I-uh, it's just a bit on the nose isn't it? She tells you it's a date and all she texts me is that my rescue is on the way?" The food arrives and it's in that moment Bucky realizes he still has your hands in his. "Its a blatant set up, she's usually more subtle."

"Well she was going out with a guy tonight, so maybe she had no choice but to go big or go home."

"What a sneak, we'll have to retaliate." Bucky froze as he held up a fry, a mischievous smile stretching across his face.

"Send her a text."

"Saying?"

"Here let me." Bucky maneuvers himself to your side of the booth and pulls up Nat's contact.

Are you sure you sent the right diner?

Yes, why?

She's not here Nat

What do you mean?

The place is empty, I asked the waitress if they saw her and they said she left not long before I got here

Don't fuck with me Barnes, is she seriously not there?

Nat the place is a ghost town

Your phone begins to ring but Bucky snags it and answers.

"Well this isn't a good sign." Bucky holds a finger over his lips, smirking at you while Nat's voice slips into a panic. "Oh there's no need to go to the police."

"What the hell do you mean? She's out there alone and without her phone!" Bucky sighs before handing the phone over to you.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have set her up right after she was stood up. "

"Oh that's it, you're both dead when you bring her home." She hangs up and immediately the two of you are giggling like idiot's.

"Well, what should we do before death row?" Bucky wiggles his eyebrows which only prompt more laughter.

"Well if we're supposed be on a date… take me to your favorite place. This was his." You gesture to the diner vaguely before slumping back in your seat.

Wordlessly he slips some bills onto the table, taking your hand in his before leading you out the door. You silently allow him to drag you around before stopping at a pier.

"I can't take you to my favorite place because it's in Brooklyn and closed at this hour. But I can show you this place."

He sat on the edge of the pier and you followed suit, watching as the sun finished setting. A golden light fell over the two of you, basking your skin in a glowing tone. Bucky's eyes fluttered shut as he took in the light, the curves of his jaw and the chestnut hues in his beard highlighted by the rays of sun. He looked ethereal.

He peeked out of one eye, glancing to the side where you sat watching him rather than the sunset. He smiled softly before closing his eye and tilting his head back. His hand rested atop of yours, a smile tugging at your lips as an idea popped into your head.

He was in the water so fast he had not time to react, other than a surprise grunt as he tumbled forward. You were quick to stand so he couldn't reach you to pull you in. Bucky held onto the dock with one arm, the other reaching out toward you.

"Not even gonna help me up? The water's freezing." You shake your head smiling down at him.

"Ouch doll, really hurting my feelings." He pulls himself from the water but you're already running. He's faster.

It's seconds before he catches up, arms wrapping around your midsection and you squeal at the cold touch. Bucky picks you up bridal style and runs to the end of the pier before jumping as he tossed you. You scream in delight before coming in contact with the icy water.

"I guess that's what I get for having the habit of leaving phones on shore." Bucky shakes his head, his hair whipping water as it moves. You squeal as it hits you in the face, giggling as you send a wave that hits him.

"Guess so. But you were right, this is cold as hell." Bucky pulls himself out and kneels down extending his arms to wrap around you. He yanks you from the water and falls onto his back, head smacking into the wood with a groan.

"Are you okay?" You turn his head, parting his hair to check for injury. "Just a bump."

When he rolls his head over you notice the proximity between you, eyes stuck on his bright blue irises. Both leaning in at the same time, lips meeting halfway before moving together. Your hands cupped his cheeks while his hands held your dripping hair out of the way.

"Guess Nat was onto something." Bucky smirks up at you.

"God she's never gonna let this go." You mumble against his lips, an excited spark igniting in your chest as you kissed him.

It was beginning to get very dark out, Bucky growing tired of waiting to air dry and starting to walk you to the street. He pauses before glancing down at you and smiling softly.

“To make this an official date, I’ll walk you home.” You knit your brow and gave him an odd look.

“Was that not originally part of the plan? Because if so… rude.” He playfully shoved your shoulder before reaching for your hand and leading you home. “I guess I won’t be needing another rescue anytime soon.”

“I’ll try not to be offended if you do.” You smack his chest, leaning into his side while he wraps an arm around your shoulders and your head rests against him.

“Wait a minute. Does this mean I finally get to ride on your motorcycle?” Bucky stops for a moment to look down at you with the most perplexed expression.

“You could have done that before…”

“What?!” You tilt your head back to look him in the eye. “James Buchanan Barnes, does this

mean that I am the only one who hasn’t been on it?”

“Frankly, I’m not comfortable answering that question with us standing on a bridge. But, yes.” You gasp and detach from him, hand over your heart. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Nat told me you only let your girlfriends ride with you!” Bucky chuckles, leaning against the rail with his hands in his pockets. “You owe me a ride.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Something about the way he said that, his tone and demeanor, just sent a shiver down your spine. One that had your knees turn weak and your heart drumming.

Walking up to him you grabbed a hold of his jacket, pressing your body up against his with a wicked smile as your lips found his and your tongue slid inside.

This was going to work out just fine...

Tags: @qtmeryr @broken-hearted-barnes @asphalt-cocktail @gstran18

#marvel #bucky #Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #dialogue prompt #match ems

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omniswords · 5 years ago

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Chronicles of a Parisian Dumbass 8

now that La Joconde is over, i can give a lot more attention back to Chronicles. i know we’ve been wicked overdue for an update, so thank you so so so much for being patient with me as i’ve been working through it. i really hope you like today’s update, and that you can give it a reblog if you enjoyed it so other people can too 💙🎶💖

boy i sure hope these orders didn’t have one of those “send your cutest delivery boy” requests

i mean, on the one hand, i’m flattered and my boss is absolutely right

but the things you do for Bread, smh.

It was bound to happen, Luka keeps telling himself as he loads up his bike, and as he straps on his helmet, and as he rides over bridges and through busy streets to get his work done. His stomach’s been turning ever since he checked the delivery tickets, and every anxious feeling’s been flitting under his skin, and it was only a matter of time before he’d have to make a delivery to Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s literal, actual, entire house.

(Well. It didn’t actually have one of those “send your cutest delivery boy” requests. But it did ask for him by name. And he’s barely been able to keep still, with his name in her voice buzzing in his head, ever since.)

The other households don’t do much to ease his mind. At best, the rides and the thirty-second interactions numb him, but only for a short moment. Every time he mounts his bike again and pedals away, he’s reminded that he’s one step closer to her place.

It shouldn’t even get to him as much as it does. He’s been doing this job for ages now, in spite of what little upward mobility there is. It gets the bills paid, and he’s good enough at what he does that the place gives him steady hours, and admittedly, it’s nice to peek into the lives of strangers for all thirty of those seconds. The birthday party he’s accidentally interrupted, where he’s suddenly hailed as a hero because he’s got pizza. The post-breakup night in, where a guy he’s never even met sounds like the screeching drag of a bow across a violin bridge. The family who’s too tired to cook because the mother has cancer and the father’s tired of barley soup and pasta and the daughter, who’s still living with her parents in her late twenties because she has to, only just got home from a bit of overtime.

(Most of these are just fancies, of course. He’ll be the first to admit he lets his imagination run away with him sometimes. But he’ll also be the first to say that someone in the world must be living like that. To someone in the world, that has to be real.)

Besides. He’s been to the bakery plenty of times before, knows well enough that the Dupain-Cheng family lives just above it, which is just about as fanciful as he’d expected. He’s spoken to Marinette a handful of times. He’s been on the business end of her witty words, wherever she got them from. Hell, he even gave her the note.

It’s just that… that’s the bakery. Not her house.

He’s never peeked into her story. Never even thought beyond what she’s allowed him to have. And he knows that whatever he sees will be real.

Luka’s mostly running on auto-pilot by the time he makes it to Tom and Sabine’s, and part of him has to wonder if it’s because he’s been at this job for too long, or if he’s been to the bakery too many times for his own good. (Honestly, he’d wager it’s a bit of both.) The bakery is closed for now, so he texts the number on the ticket—maybe Mr. Dupain’s, maybe Marinette’s.

He’s never texted her before. He doesn’t even have her number.

Should he ask for her number?

Would she even want his? Or would she feel like the creep because he’s the one on the clock?

Before he can ask himself any more questions, the light to the bakery turns on, and the front door opens, and the tinkling of the bell grabs his attention. And there’s Marinette, in a camisole and heart-patterned sleep shorts and slippers. And there’s black, and there’s a little lace right on the neckline, and—

And he’s staring.

And she’s starting to blush.

He tries his best to cock his brow, and holds up the delivery box. “You rang?”

God, he wishes that could have come out smoother.

At least Marinette laughs. Even if it might have just been a pity laugh. “Papa,” she says, trading the box and the paper bag for a few bills. “I guess he knew you worked there or something. He, uh… suggested. Very… very firmly. That we order from this place, once he found out we were considering it.”

“We?”

A whistle interrupts them, soft and low and sounding halfway impressed. Luka catches the glint of glasses and a flash of reddish hair as Marinette whips around and hisses, “Would you go upstairs? You’re supposed to be picking a movie!”

“Are you kidding? This is the movie!” The redhead, whoever they are, calls out, but the sound of footsteps receding tells him it isn’t long before they’re in the clear again. Just the two of them, caught in an interaction that probably should have already ended. And he’s stuck wondering if she doesn’t want it to end, either—because maybe they’re not quite in the clear, or at least, she isn’t yet. She’s got a whole best friend upstairs, probably waiting to grill her on every little detail.

(Every little detail of what? It’s just him…)

Marinette rolls her eyes and shakes her head as she turns back to him. “Sorry. Best friends, right?”

Luka manages a shrug and a weak laugh of his own. He doesn’t much feel like talking about how his best friends are his literal blood and the thing almost constantly strapped to his back. And that most of the people who approximate friendship are on the other side of a screen and will probably never see him in real life, whatever that is. “How long have you known her?”

“Long time. Since she moved here from Martinique. We were basically attached at the hip in like, middle school.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot; to Luka, it doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s hard for us to meet up anymore—travel journalism, studying abroad, all that stuff. We only really get to FaceTime these days. Other than that… it has its hiccups here and there, but I love her. You know? And sometimes she can be a little, uh… overzealous? In what she does?”

“I heard that!” a voice comes from the stairwell.

Marinette doesn’t even have to turn and glare for the rest of the footsteps to fall away. “Sorry,” she mumbles again. “You didn’t exactly come here to hear chunks of my life story, did you.”

“I don’t mind your life story,” he says, thumbing through the bills to count them. “With a job like this, I get to carry a little bit of everybody with me, and hearing about your best friend beats the eightieth guy trying to tell me about his divorce and how women are just trying to suck us dry.” Then his brow furrows, in spite of his own sarcasm, and he looks up. “You gave me extra. Like, way extra.”

“Oh, uh…” Marinette laughs nervously. “Yeah, I guess that’s a habit I picked up. Tipping is a thing in the States. People think you’re a jerk if you don’t do it, so my brain sort of… went on autopilot.” She rubs the back of her neck, maybe out of modesty, and Luka can’t tell if it’s because of the amount of money she gave him, or because of the experiences she’s had.

“Well…” He counts out the extra bills. “Here, you should take these back, then—”

“No, no.” She shakes her head, gestures as if to push the money back towards him. “Don’t worry about it. Keep it.”

“As what? A souvenir from New York?”

Marinette grins. It’s slow, and lazy, and it might make his heart thud in his chest at a hundred kilometers an hour, and he’s definitely thinking, don’t look at the lace, do NOT look at the lace. “Think of it as me making up for all the times I could’ve let you have a napoleon on the house, but didn’t.”

Luka blinks at her a couple of times. More than a couple of times. Too many words are bubbling in his throat and behind his teeth, desperate to get out, but his brain can’t catch up with any of them, and he doesn’t even know what order to put them in besides. Part of him wants to figure out something smooth to say, part of him wants to laugh like an idiot and thank her, and part of him wants to take the worst leap possible and ask what she’s doing on Saturday. But before he can prioritize any of them and put his dignity even more at risk, a holler comes from upstairs—”Marinette!”—and he jolts back in attention. He crumples the money in his fists and swallows his heart back down into his chest, and if he looks closely, Marinette’s cheeks are turning bright red, and her teeth are sinking into her lip as if… holding something back.

“I better go,” she says, nodding toward the stairs and taking a step back. She’s standing on the sides of her feet, and it’s honestly adorable. “Keep the change. I mean it, okay?”

Luka wants to protest—wants to say something about how his mother always told him never to take a single euro he didn’t honestly work for. Instead, he crumples the money in his fist, nods dumbly, and pockets it. “Hey,” he says, just as he senses she’s about to turn on her heel and speedwalk back up the stairs.

Marinette looks at him, and in the moment he gets that bubbling-word feeling in the back of his throat again. At least the mortifying thought of asking her out has died down, but it’s been replaced with something worse: the reminder that, for some reason, she and his sister know each other. Is it weird? he wants to ask. Are you sure it’s not weird seeing me? Is there something going on? Did Jules do something to you? Did you do something to her? Are you mad that I didn’t say anything? Are you okay?

Are you okay, Marinette?

Instead, he clears the words out of his throat, and shakes his head, and he hopes Marinette isn’t running a million worst-case scenarios in her head the way he does when someone looks or sounds even mildly displeased. He hopes she isn’t blaming herself the way he does when someone looks like they have something to tell him and then… don’t. “Next time I swing by,” he says, “will that napoleon be on the house?”

Her expression doesn’t take very long to go soft, even though her grip on the delivery box tightens. “Who knows?” she murmurs, and it’s… strange, how the tongue-in-cheek traces in her voice comfort him more than they put him on edge. “Guess you’ll just have to come back and find out.”

Then she turns on her heel, nearly bumps into the counter on her way to the stairs, and—and she really does spare him one more glance, the kind that says she’d wave good night if her hands weren’t full. Without much thinking, he does the waving for both of them, with a smile he knows is nervous and crooked spreading across his face. And then he’s the one to bump backwards into the door, the bell above giggling and announcing his clumsiness, before he stumbles to his bike and speeds away. He knows better than to text and bike, even if he could brag that sometimes he’s halfway decent at it, but at least he waits until he gets to the Canal Saint-Martin so he can have that silent-screaming moment alone.

so not only did I get that bread today, i got a whole fuckin sandwich. if we’re going by that whole metaphor i mean.

speaking of figurative language, you know, that thing i never thought i’d use once i graduated from high school… dear CBG: when i told you i hope you found all that money on the ground, i didn’t mean GIVE IT TO ME.

#miraculous ladybug #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #fic: chronicles of a parisian dumbass #hey i'm thriving #please enjoy and drop a reblog if you can <3

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nitrateglow · 5 years ago

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My god-tier Audrey Hepburn movies

I just realized I’ve technically seen all of Audrey Hepburn’s movies-- or rather, all the movies in which she was given star billing.

So, because I’m bored, here’s a list of my top ten personal favorites of her films. The criteria is simple: 1) she had to have starred in it, so nothing from her pre-Roman Holiday career counts nor does 1989′s Always, and 2) this is based on my level of enjoyment of the movie in question.

1. Wait Until Dark

Wait Until Dark possesses many merits, but Hepburn is one of its key strengths. For me, the most interesting performances are the ones able to balance seemingly opposing elements of the character in question. Here, Hepburn balances vulnerability with inner strength, insecurity and terror with courage, angry frustration with budding confidence. She makes her character seem like such a real, vital presence, like someone you would know. Also, having someone as sweet as Hepburn as the target for the cruel mind games and brutal violence of the villains makes the horror all the more terrifying.

Beyond her performance, this movie feels like it was tailor-designed to appeal to me: an intelligent and formidable villain, the everyday setting juxtaposed with a menacing atmosphere, scary scenes that don’t rely on gore, eccentric criminals, dark humor, a tight script without an ounce of fat on it. But you’ve heard me go on, so I’ll leave it there.

2. Charade

Charade is a prime example of how to mix suspense and comedy. The mystery at the heart of the movie is very clever, with twists and turns every other moment, constantly keeping the audience on their toes. Best of all, the film holds up after repeat viewings because of the delicious chemistry between Hepburn and Cary Grant, and the witty screenplay, which has such an elegant and tight structure that I seethe with envy as a writer every time I revisit this glorious thriller.

As in Wait Until Dark, Hepburn is concerned for her life as she’s terrorized by criminals, only here, they’re mostly more humorous in nature, sometimes even lovable (except Scobie, he can just jump off a cliff). She mainly gets to exercise her comedic chops, throwing off quips, sarcastic lines, and screwball banter with wonderful finesse. It makes me sad she never made more films with Cary Grant-- the two have a spark that belies the large age gap between them.

3. Roman Holiday

The character-building, naturalistic performances, and humor make Roman Holiday one of the best examples of romantic comedy. The film has both a gentle touch and a grounded maturity that make it more than just a remix of the earlier and quite similar screwball comedy It Happened One Night. To get a bit literary and pretentious, it reminds me a bit of Romeo and Juliet-- not because of the romance, but in how the movie starts as a standard screwball comedy and ends on a lyrical, wistful note you might not have expected.

Even though this was her first lead role in a feature film, I think Hepburn’s performance as Ann remains one of her strongest. Ann feels regal and dignified while also possessing the naivete and restlessness of a teenager on the brink of adulthood. It’s as fabulous a star-establishing movie as anyone could want.

4. How to Steal a Million

How to Steal a Million is pure fun. Not a moment of this caper comedy is to be taken seriously (which makes it the perfect quarantine movie if you need something to de-stress with). I always regard this movie as Charade’s even frothier spiritual successor: both films are playful, stylish, funny, and packed with romantic banter, plot twists, and colorful 1960s fashions. The main difference is that in this one, there’s no mortal threat involved and the humor gets a little more risque though not crass.

Also, how nice is it for Hepburn to be paired with a leading man closer to her age? Peter O’Toole was only three years younger than Hepburn when this was filmed. The two of them have glorious, cute chemistry.

5. The Nun’s Story

I hate the question of “objective best” anything, but if you put a gun to my head, I would say The Nun’s Story is features Hepburn’s most impressive work as an actress. For those who accuse Hepburn of being too affected, of being a mere clothes’ horse, here she is bare-faced, dressed in a nun’s habit, and playing a very reserved character whose dilemmas are largely internal. She plays her character’s spiritual conflict with an understatement that could only be considered skillful.

The film itself will likely be seen as “too slow” by most and there are a few colonial elements towards the Congo section that date it, but the film’s strengths, both from Hepburn’s performance and the mature way it presents its individual versus the system story, give it classic status. Few movies regarding organized religion are this balanced and lacking in propaganda, either for or against it.

6. Breakfast at Tiffany’s

While still Hepburn’s most iconic role, Breakfast at Tiffany’s gets called “overrated” a lot these days and fans of the original Truman Capote novella routinely dog it for making heavy changes to the source material. There’s also the, you know, gross yellowface a la Mickey Rooney that deflates every scene in which he appears. However, is the move bad? NO. It juggles zany comedy, tender romance, and rather heavy drama too well for me to consign it to the “overrated” bin. Blake Edwards was a fine director and this movie is one of his best.

And Hepburn gives a damn good performance as Holly Golightly, even if she is not the character envisioned by Capote. This character could easily be unlikable if played the wrong way-- she’s a “phony,” rather pathetic, and self-loathing despite her wit and charm. But rather than coming off as an unbearable loser, Hepburn’s Holly is a realistic, relatable loser we all love in spite of her own delusions and lashing out. She might even hit too close to home (or maybe that’s just me).

7. Funny Face

Funny Face took a few viewings to grow on me. It was one of the first Hepburn movies I ever saw (that was back in high school) and I was initially excited because it was directed by Stanley Donen who co-directed Singin’ in the Rain with Gene Kelly, a long-time favorite of mine. I expected this movie to be just as sublime and was disappointed when it didn’t hit that high mark.

Rewatching it later, I now find it very charming. It’s incredibly upbeat and relaxing, the sort of old-school movie musical that doesn’t get made anymore. Hepburn’s singing is a bit rough in the bigger numbers, but she is very sweet, a damn good dancer, and quite attractive to the point where she just takes my breath away. Fred Astaire and Kay Thompson are also wonderful and get a lot of great moments that show off their talent.

8. My Fair Lady

When considering what would go on this list, I was honestly shocked to realize how much I like this movie. I’m in the camp that considers Hepburn miscast, I find George Cukor’s direction rather stiff, and I really don’t like how the ending is changed from the original play. In spite of all this, I still really enjoy this movie for the songs, costumes, and what remains of Shaw’s brilliant satire on class and gender relations. Those three hours go by and the movie never outstays its welcome.

While I think Hepburn wasn’t the number one best choice for the part (I don’t really buy her as a crass flower girl in the beginning), she isn’t a disaster by any means. She’s still charming and sympathetic, and once she makes her transformation, you have to wonder how Higgins held it together, she’s so gorgeous. And I love the relish with which she approaches the “Just you Wait” song or the way she delivers the “move your bloomin’ arse” line at the races.

9. Sabrina

I think producers figured because of the fairy tale appeal of Roman Holiday, Hepburn would be perfect for this modern take on Cinderella, set in 1950s New York. Just like in Roman Holiday, Hepburn gets to undergo dramatic character development and show her comedic skills. It’s a cute movie, with a very charming William Holden and gorgeous black-and-white cinematography. It’s also shockingly uncynical for a Billy Wilder project.

About the closest thing this movie has to a flaw is Humphrey Bogart as Linus, the guy who Sabrina chooses in the end. This is a role Cary Grant could have played in his sleep, but Bogart clearly is not enjoying himself in some scenes. However, he isn’t movie-breakingly bad by any means. His character is meant to be a hidden softie and far more dependable than his handsomer brother, so I can buy that Sabrina would warm to him in the end.

10. They All Laughed

People tend to argue what the last “worthwhile” Hepburn movie is. Most argue it’s 1976′s Robin and Marian, while I’ve seen some go as far back as How to Steal a Million in 1966. They All Laughed, a Peter Bogdonavich comedy from 1981, gets my vote. This is a love letter to screwball comedies much like Bogdonavich’s 1972 classic What’s Up Doc, only with a far more melancholy edge.

Hepburn does not become a major presence in the movie until nearly halfway through. However, she approaches her role with a mature dignity that makes me wish she’d done more work along this line towards the end of her career. Her character comes off as an older, sadder Princess Ann from Roman Holiday. This makes the movie sound morose, but it isn’t: it ends with life going on and the characters accepting that with grace.

#lists lists lists #charade #roman holiday #how to steal a million #the nun's story #breakfast at tiffany's #funny face #my fair lady #sabrina #they all laughed #audrey hepburn #thoughts #wait until dark #old hollywood #i'll probably make more lists like these with other actors i like #so expect a buster post guys

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halfway-happyyy · 5 years ago

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It’ll All Work Out

AN: Been a while! Got inspired to write this piece as I am currently stuck working through this mess, while my partner stays home to social distance. Hope everyone is staying safe out there! All of the fluffiness and feels.

Word count: 1499

This was never going to be simple.

You knew it from the moment he sidled in next to you at that quaint bar somewhere downtown. All of his impossibly warm skin, a cracked leather jacket, the distinguished Swedish lilt. You were good at avoiding eye contact; it was a trait you had picked up in younger years and never fully let go of. Yet you yearned to stare at him- you ached to watch the way the feint wrinkles next to his eyes grew deeper when he smiled, the way his cheeks grew pink under the influence of dark ale and even darker lights. You’re pretty sure you knew that night that you loved him. You knew because he asked you to dance with him and you said yes without missing a beat. You wandered fearlessly into his open arms and swayed with him to the live band a few feet away, oblivious to everything around you. No one had ever felt like home the way Alexander did. You were hard-pressed to believe anyone ever would again.

And then the earth made a full rotation around the sun, and the inevitable happened and he got on a plane and disappeared for four months.

You were surprised with yourself if you were being honest. Where a year ago, you never thought twice about the empty space next to you in bed, now it was all-consuming when the lights went out at night. An indent of where he used to sleep could still be found there, and quite frustratingly, you found yourself aching for him. It wasn’t just the physical aspect of his touch that you keened for, though you missed that very much as well, but it was the act of having someone take up the perfect amount of space in your life. You longed for the idle wine-induced arguments, early mornings perched on his lap at the kitchen table, pouring over coffee-stained scripts and even later evenings attending premiers in dresses you could never fathom wearing in your wildest dreams. You had watched your life intertwine with his in ways hard to explain, and yet you still let him board the plane to Iceland without telling him the truth.

You managed to miss the first phone call.

Somehow the frequency of the vibration had been a few octaves too low the first time and a second managed to rouse you from your slumber. You fumbled around in the dark for the phone next to your bed, wordlessly pressing the glowing green button before you had even worked out what to say. You scrubbed a palm down the length of your face to wake up. “Mmm, hullo?” You yawned sleepily into the darkness before you.

Alexander sighed heavily, the sound tinny and crackled through the connection of the wire. “Hi baby. I’m sorry to have woken you, but I’ve just gotten some bad news.” Your gaze travelled to the newspaper splayed haphazardly on your bedroom counter, the headline reading:

DEADLY VIRUS MAKING ITS ROUNDS IN THE NEW YORK CITY AREA

LOCKDOWN FOR RESIDENTS IMMINENT

You were pretty sure you had every idea what this was about, though you asked him to elaborate regardless. “They halted production on the film this morning and I’m currently in a car on my way to the airport.”

“When will you be home?”

Alexander hesitated before replying. “I’m supposed to land at JFK around 6:45 in the morning.”

“Alright well, I’ll pick you up-

“You can’t baby.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly void of all moisture. “I can’t?”

Another beat. You could hear Alexander saying something to the driver on the other end. “I need to… self-isolate for fourteen days upon arrival.” He must have sensed the unease on your end because he cleared his throat and began again. “Just for precaution’s sake of course. I’m all good- I feel fine. We are all fine here on set but Bill is lending me his place in the city for the two weeks while he goes home to Sweden.”

And then it donned on you. “Why aren’t you going home too?”

Alexander murmured something else to the driver and you could make out the sound of a car door closing in the distance. “Well, you are my home.” The silence didn’t settle long before he informed you that he’d made it to the airport. “I’ll call you when I’m on solid ground, okay?”

You found yourself nodding into the growing light of your bedroom. “Wait! Alex?”

“Yeah baby?”

Your heart began to hammer wildly inside your chest. “Have a safe flight home.”

“Can’t believe I get to see your beautiful face in fourteen days.” Alexander faltered before the line went cold; you could almost feel the warmth from his smile all the way in New York City.

If any of the fourteen days were going to be anything like the first one, you figured you could probably get through this ordeal relatively unscathed. Alexander facetimed you for over two hours after getting settled into Bill’s apartment. He spoke at length of his time in Iceland, and how when this was all over, the two of you would road trip around the country for a few weeks before production picked back up again. You spoke until you noticed how jetlagged he was, and you hung up on the promise of another call again later in the evening.

Day seven was rough all around. Courses you’d been taking while Alexander was away, had been cancelled in person but were to continue up online a week later. Work had sent you home a few days prior and the feeling of being trapped in your own space, by yourself had become somewhat overwhelming. “I know times are scary and unpredictable right now... but we’re already halfway there baby.” Alexander mused quietly, a glass of wine wedged firmly within his grasp.

“Not soon enough,” You groaned.

“Just think,” Alexander smirked. “In seven days, I get to finally touch you after four months away…”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the cap of the half-empty wine bottle before you. “Do not start with me, Skarsgard.”

Alexander clicked his tongue teasingly. “Of course I’m going to start with you, and then after I do that, I’m going to finish with you.”

You could only imagine the things he had planned for you; the places his lips would touch, fingers would slip, tongue would graze. Your eyes fell shut as you gave yourself over to the thought, earning a hearty laugh from Alexander on the other end. “I’m hanging up on you now.”

Day thirteen had finally arrived. You had been occupied most of the day with work, so had not had a chance to speak with Alexander until the evening over dinner. He had made himself salmon and rice with a garlic dill aioli and you opted for Asian-chicken stir-fry, which you consumed mostly wordlessly. After dinner, you chose a vinyl record to put on (Ryan Adams) and set Alexander up so that he could watch you finish off the rest of the dishes. “That’s one thing I’ve really, strangely missed since I’ve been gone,” Alexander offered up after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Doing the dishes with you.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Dishes?”

He nodded his head, a small smile pulled at the edges of his lips. “Or anything really. Dishes, reading, bickering, making the bed.”

“Grocery shopping?” You quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes! My favourite Sunday’s with you are the ones where we wake up late, grab breakfast from Frankie down the block and grocery shop.”

“Frankie does make a mean egg’s benny,” You offered quietly.

Once you had finished up the task at hand, your fingers raw and red from the water they had been submerged in for over half an hour, you took Alexander to the bedroom while you got ready for bed. He wordlessly watched you free yourself from your clothing and slip into one of his old t shirts. “Guess what Alex?”

“What’s that baby?” He yawned.

“I get to see you in ten hours.”

Alexander beamed brightly at you, the sheer force of it caused you to smile back just as big. “How did I get so lucky, hmm?” A moment passed before he spoke again. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do tomorrow morning?”

“Well, I think I might just wrap my arms around you and never let you go.” You sidled down in bed and turned onto your side. “And you?”

Alexander took a deep breath and said, “The first thing I’m going to do tomorrow morning when I see you, is tell you how much I really do love you.”

Those last five words hung suspended in the void between the pair of you; he was six blocks away but if you closed your eyes real tight, you could almost feel him next to you. “Tomorrow morning I’ll say it back.”

This was never going to be simple.

But damn, it was going to be worth it.

#phoeobe bridgers on repeat #this was not meant to make light of the current situation #more so to distract from it #hope yall enjoy #alexander skarsgard #alexander skarsgard fanfic #alexander skarsgard x reader #alexander skarsgard oneshot #alexander skarsgard fluff #fluff #writing #alex sstuff #alexander skarsgård

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