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passivenovember · 3 years

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Chapter Six of : If Snow Loves the Trees and Fields

Billy goes home less than an hour after Steve suggests they play operation. When he looks at Billy with eyelashes Neil Armstrong could see from the moon and suggests they cozy up among the coffee table books to do some lasting good in the world; get the tooth out of that guy's dick for him--

Billy has to get out of there.

It was too much.

The house. The colors. The fabric. The smell of Steve's shampoo, which is less like peeled lemons and more like funeral flowers, the longer Billy sits around getting sunburnt under the intense light of a man who wasn't interested in him beyond starched collar friendship.

And he's not mad at Steve. Isn't on his way to punch a hole in his drywall, or anything, but he's mad at himself. Mad at his heart for kicking up a cloud of pink smoke when Billy stands and says he'd better get going.

And Steve's face falls like snow that covers Billy's driveway, that glues his feet together.

"Papers." Billy says quickly, searching for the coat he knows he didn't bring up the drive.

"Newspapers?" Steve goes along with him, adjusting the yellow bandana behind his ears. He turns with a swoosh of his orange rug robe to dig through the shelves on the wall. "I have some here. Old ones, new ones. There's an edition from 1985 about the mall burning down, it's pretty interesting. Would you like that?"

"Sure, I'll, uh--" Billy takes the yellowing pages from Steve without really thinking about it, jerking away when Harrington lands too close. Close enough that Billy can see the specks of green in his eyes. "I meant. Teaching papers. Assignments." The newspaper smells old. Like books and dust, and faintly of spilled bong water from the pipe of a baghead teenager long ago. "I have to grade papers."

Steve doesn't take it back from him. "I thought you taught kindergarten."

"I do."

"Kindergarteners write papers?" Steve's hair flops across his forehead. Like big, wavy puppy dog ears on either side of his face.

Billy has to force his tongue to stay in his mouth, his eyes to stop staring. "I meant, like. Spelling. Numbers. Rudimentary bullshit." Billy shakes the newspaper at puppy dog Steve. "Declan Parks can't even tie his own shoes, so--"

"Alright. Okay." Steve says sweetly, pushing Billy's hand back to his own chest, fingers wrapping around his palm. "Take it with you. There's a lot of history in this town, mythology and folklore--rumors of bloodsucking aliens and evil scientists camping out under the power plant." Steve doesn't let go of Billy's hand. He grins instead, dimples popping like fireworks on his face. "We're a regular Twin Peaks ripoff. Read about it, let me know what you think." And.

Steve doesn't back away. Doesn't back down.

"I'll give you a ring sometime." Billy says suddenly.

"Okay."

"Yeah, alright, uh." Billy backs toward the front door, two finger salute making pink skies land on Steve's face. "Thanks for the grub. I'll see you in the driveway, or--"

Steve laughs, following Billy to the door.

"Around. Yeah, Steve, I'll--"

Steve places a hand on Billy's shoulder and the world stops spinning. Melting right off the bone. Billy fights to get air in his lungs as Steve brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, fingertips lighting Billy's skin on fire.

"See you around, neighbor." Steve says.

And Billy knows, feels in his bones, that he'd do better moving across town.

It keeps snowing.

Morning noon and night, wood nymphs piling on ice and hail down on a town of 36,000 people until Billy feels alone. Like an animal trapped in a beige house on a white street that exists in a bubble. A snow globe immune to light and sound.

There's a period of days where school is cancelled and Billy runs out of things to keep himself occupied. All the books have been read and returned to their place on the shelf. All the films watched and replayed until Billy draws his own conclusions, until the characters feel like his own.

On the first day Billy feels like he's losing his mind.

He orders groceries. Picks up some thermal socks. Considers making a pie or something from scratch, like his mother used to do before Neil went missing on Christmas Eve, but. He doesn't have a rolling pin.

On the second day he drags a chair over to the window and stares at the warm, peachy light from Steve's upstairs window as it shine on the drifts that gather and climb toward heaven. Billy thinks about that living room as if it were a vision from some other planet. A universe crafted in the image of virality.

Billy thinks about Steve and wishes he could be like that.

Wide eyed. Free.

On the third day, Megan says Billy should begin preparing for spring.

"We're snowed in." Billy mutters, cleaning up the polish on his toes. A gorgeous matte eggplant color that proves--spring isn't on his radar.

"You're getting bogged down with the ice and snow," Megan reiterates, pen scratching across the page so loudly that Billy can hear it with the phone on speaker. "Before long the flowers will bloom again. The sun will shine, it's something everyone has to prepare for. Rebirth, growth--"

"I don't have a garden."

"Don't be a shitter, Billy." Megan sighs, but he can hear the smile in her voice. "We can work with that. Would it do some good to plant one?"

Billy starts painting his other foot. "I don't want to stay in Hawkins forever."

"That's understandable."

"And I have plans this spring." Billy twists the cap onto the nail polish, swinging his foot around in the air as if that'll make things move faster. "Max and I want to go hiking back home. I'm supposed to help my mom get the boathouse ready for the summer, and I don't want to start something permanent in a place I can't see myself settling down in--"

"A couple marigold bushes are not permanent, you could kill 'em off with a single neglectful week in the summer and you know it." Megan falls silent, only the click of her pen left behind. "This move has been rough on you, and it's been rough on your body, and it's been hell on your space."

Billy shrugs. "It's been fine on my space."

"Have you even finished unpacking?" Megan demands, strictly business.

"I don't want to set down roots--"

"You've lived in Hawkins for two years, Billy, and you haven't finished unpacking."

A lump appears in his throat, just like that, just. Choking the air from his lungs. Megan must hear Billy swallow, or sense the shift in the air because her voice goes soft around the edges. Pliant. "It's a new cycle."

Billy tries not to think about Max. "Alright."

"Time to blow the cobwebs away."

"Dust the spider houses." Billy says to himself. He tries not to think about their garden back home, the fertile smell of fresh Earth somehow finding its way to Hawkins despite Billy's efforts. He misses Mammoth Lakes. He tries not to think about it. Then; "Max is coming down for my week off."

"That's not until March."

"So?"

Megan sighs, like Billy should get it by now. "That's way into the spring season, what you need this year is to get a head start." She scribbles something down on the page again. "We've been through this before. You're beyond me spelling out what you need. You've been my client long enough to know the type of person you are, Billy."

He smirks. "Yeah, and what kind of person is that?"

"Someone who likes to open his doors and let in the fresh air." She moves some papers around, voice firm. "Bright colored walls, and bird baths littering diverse lawns even though they turn to green slime when not filtered properly. The kind of man who likes to shop second hand because 'everything has a soul--'"

"Are you reading from my journal?"

"Need I go on?" Megan lets Billy mull it over for a moment. Lets him draw is own conclusions. When she speaks again it's like Billy already knows what she wants to say. Already believes it himself, but. That's never stopped her before.

"We were just talking about Steve last week."

"We're always talking about Steve," Billy snaps. "Last week, and the week before that, and yesterday and tomorrow--"

"Perpetually." Megan teases. "I know. But you said you liked his house. That's what we discussed last time; not Steve or his hair or how embarrassed you are about the rats--" Billy wishes everyone would let that part go. "But his house. The way it made you feel."

He can see it in his minds eye--Megan leaning forward, legs uncrossed on her big hammock chair, blue and gray glasses catching the glint in her eye as she pokes through his spirit and lands at the root.

The bone.

"What is it you liked about Steve's place and what is it you hate about your own and where is the through line?"

She gives him homework. Student and teacher.

Billy hates homework, but. He jots the instructions down in his notebook anyway and wonders, distantly, if the skies will continue to open above his head and if he'll ever learn to accept it.

On the fourth day Billy's power goes out.

Just like that.

With no bang or whimper it's just there one moment and gone the next.

One minute he's watching Wayne's World, wrapped in five blankets and eating soup from one of those bowls with the built in straw, and the next he's submerged in darkness. Looking around the living room like a startled chicken, still slurping down tomato soup and hoping it's just a surge.

It's not.

Billy finishes his soup.

He manages to keep the feeling in his toes even as he wanders around the house lighting every candle he can find, sticking towels over the cracks in his front door and remembering to turn the faucets on drip so the pipes won't freeze overnight.

Outside the storms keep raging.

Billy can't see the end of the front porch, so he grabs his blankets and heads to bed. Remembers to plug in his phone, on the off chance that the power will come back on while he's out, and Billy feels good about himself for a lot of reasons. For remembering his Midwestern Winter Survival Skills, and buying thermal socks when he went shopping last week, and as the temperature keeps dropping Billy feels himself drifting off.

Warm and safe in his cocoon of blankets, he wonders if the power has come back on when someone bangs on his bedroom window.

Billy sits bolt upright, hissing as cold air manages to snake in through an opening near his feet. The knock comes again, louder this time, and Billy thinks about what he read from that article in the Hawkins Post dated July 5th, 1985.

"Billy?"

Harrington is wrapped in a blanket.

That's all, just a knitted monstrosity of orange and green draped across his shoulders, paired with a black hoodie and the care bears scarf that haunts Billy's dreams. He's got yellow gardening gloves on his fingers and, over his head of wavy brown hair, a pink beanie that reads, If I Die of Aids--Forget Burial--Drop My Body on the Steps of the FDA, in teal block letters.

Steve Harrington could break hearts.

Billy's heart is floating through the air, just. Decimated. As Steve smiles and taps on the window. "I tried the front but I figured you were asleep." He says.

And it takes Billy a minute to find his voice. He opens the window, grimacing at the snow on the ledge that topples in. "What are you doing?"

"I cleared a path. Around the house. By the propane tank." Steve says, gesturing with his stupid little gloves. "I took care of the driveway for you. And put some ice melt down, brought some firewood up to the door."

"Wait, what?"

"I just picked some up from Melvalds yesterday, it's no biggie--"

"The powers out." Billy grumbles, using the corner of his blanket to scrub at his face. "Shouldn't you be stock piling layers, like the rest of us?"

"'S not so bad at home."

"It's colder in here than it is outside."

Steve jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "Mr. Bane's auditioning to be a starfish on my mattress."

"Push that little fucker over the edge."

Steve leans back, gripping the window ledge with an easy smile. "I could never do that. We have a system--I let him sleep on my bed every night on the condition that he doesn't shit in the hallway anymore." Steve lifts one hand and taps his forehead, pleased as punch. "Work smarter, not harder. Right?"

And that makes Billy blush. Either from the image of Steve's fat Mainecoon running the show or the fact that Steve lets it happen, even on the coldest night of the year.

It's sweet.

Steve's sweet. Like sun tea with extra sugar, just--

"So where does that leave you?" Billy muses, picking at a loose thread on his pillow case just to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. "It's too cold for the floor, and the living room's gotta be drafty, right?"

Steve shrugs, leaning against the window pane and looking over his shoulder, as if daring the ice to fall again. "I have an extra blanket or two, should be alright."

With his head turned that way Billy can see moles--dozens of little chocolate kisses sprinkled over Steve's skin, swirling and disappearing under the hood at his neck.

He's beautiful.

Billy thinks the moles could taste like cinnamon or nutmeg. Hot chocolate with little drops of citrus enriching the flavor--

"You could sleep here." Billy's mouth says.

Steve stares at him, eyes wide, but. Not surprised. Not mean. "Really?" He asks, folding his arms on the window pane and studying Billy's face. Forehead and eyelashes and back again, like maybe this is a joke. "You'd let me sleep on the couch?"

"Sure."

"What makes you think your places' gonna be any better?" Steve demands.

Light.

Teasing.

Billy shrugs again and his stupid blanket slips off one shoulder, revealing a strip of hoodie that may as well be his bare fucking skin, the way Steve's eyes track the movement. Filing it away for some unknown purpose even as Billy rights himself again. He feels every bit like the heroine in those shitty dieback erotica's his mom still reads every Saturday morning. The window lets in gust after gust of frigid air and Billy decides that he isn't going to beg.

"I'm not going to beg," Billy reiterates, though he doesn't sound convinced. "Come sleep at mine or don't, that's--"

"Unlock the front door," Steve says, and then he's gone, rainboots leaving a trail of footprints to show that this was real.

That one night, with ice covering the trees and fields like a blanket of hope, Steve was real.

#harringrove #jaz speaks #it feels good to be writing this one again #I love writing things that have callbacks to weather #it's such an important #often overlooked part of our daily lives #anyway #i hope you enjoy this part!!!

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sign-from-god-complex · 4 years

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Self-Control

Summary: The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and though Virgil has come all this way he’s suddenly struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other—so much can change in 15 years; so much has changed in 15 years.

Though, maybe things haven’t changed quite as much as Virgil thinks.

(AKA, a past-punk moxiety AU)

Pairing: Moxiety!

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, smoking, homophobia and nondescript injury. Vague allusions to past abuse (or at least mentions of terrible parental figures). Brief discussion of a parental figure having died.

AO3 Link

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It isn’t at all the place Virgil imagined for him. The flower pots all sit in a row on the steps, red ivy climbing up the fence like spider webs and a garden hose curled up on a perfectly manicured front lawn. Everything about it is picturesque—almost to the point of insanity—and as a butterfly floats by and lands delicately on a ladder leaning onto the fence from the backyard, Virgil wonders what in the world could have changed Patton so drastically to have led to this.

There’s an image, in his head, of teenage rebellion—of 2 am milkshakes and stolen bicycles, of broken glass and laughter, so much laughter, as they took advantage of what time they had left to live. It doesn’t fit in with this pastel blue sky in this pastel blue neighbourhood full of pastel blue people but he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew things would be different.

Though, that doesn’t make it all that much easier to comprehend.

Vaguely, Virgil hears the sound of excited squeals coming from the yard and he ducks his head over the fence just a bit, catching sight of a young girl flying off of a trampoline at a hundred miles an hour—hair a mess and grin bright.

The kid must be Patton’s—it’s unmistakable, that dark skin and reckless look, like she’s ready to take the world on at any moment—and Virgil can’t help but remember the nights the two of them spent drinking and talking and vowing to never tie themselves down to anyone or anything.

He supposes no one really does know what they want when they’re young.

It takes Virgil a while to gather up the courage to knock—he’s all too aware of his leather jacket and patches, his dyed hair and piercings. He couldn’t feel more out of place in this suburban neighbourhood and he hadn’t thought that around Patton he could ever feel out of place.

In the end, though, the choice is taken out of his hands. The young girl throws open the door, clearly looking to haul ass across the street to the park—the kind of place he and Pat would have smoked, once upon a time—but is stopped short as she notices Virgil standing in her way. There’s a moment where he’s afraid she’s going to scream or cry or something else he would have no clue how to deal with but instead, she just grins cheekily.

“Dad!” she yells, barely turning her head to face the soft white interior of the house, “There’s a man here for you!”

The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and for a moment Virgil is so afraid that he’s gotten the wrong house or that Patton won’t want to see him and though he’s come all this way he’s struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other; so much can change in 15 years.

“Riley, what do you mean? What ma-”

And then, there he is.

His face is void of any of the makeup he used to wear, his hair faded from turquoise to its natural black and left curly in a way he wouldn’t have been caught dead with once. And, over the top of a graphic t-shirt displaying some characters Virgil doesn’t recognise and unripped light-wash jeans, Patton had thrown a familiar blue flannel.

Virgil remembers that flannel, worn under heavy coats to help fight the evening windchill, tied around Patton’s waist as they scaled fences just to see if they could and left in a pile on the floor in his room as they finally escaped back to comfort and warmth. Honestly, he’s just surprised it still fits.

Patton does nothing but stare at him for a moment, his lips parted in shock and his eyes big and wide and god, looking at him now is like falling in love all over again.

“Virge?” he breathes, a melody of disbelief in his voice. Virgil can’t exactly blame him—it isn’t as if he’s someone Patton was expecting to see.

Virgil rubs over the fabric of his jacket, a nervous tick he’d had even back then. “Hey, uh… surprise?”

And in an instant, has Patton pitched forward right into his arms. Virgil catches him—of course, he catches him, he’ll always catch him—and Patton laughs, displaying some level of joy Virgil hadn’t known he’d needed to hear until now. He can feel Patton breathing against his neck as they hold each other and, distantly, the sound of light footsteps echoes away and up the stairs.

They pull apart, eventually, the separation like trying to peel a sticker off of a concrete wall—the easiest kind of graffiti to enact while still being tricky to remove. The distance Patton puts between them seems almost reluctant and Virgil wishes he had the courage to tell him to stay.

“What are you doing here?” Patton asks. It’s soft, like the white fuzzy carpet of his new home and Virgil realises suddenly he’d been so caught up in him that he’d forgotten that this him wasn’t the same.

Patton had always been soft but not soft like this. He’d been soft in redirected conversation and distractions, in Virgil’s favourite TV show on in the background and stolen chocolate bars in his pocket, guiding hands mimicking steady breathing. This Patton seems soft around the edges—worn down, almost—and Virgil feels those 15 years as more of a lifetime.

He doesn’t answer the question—truthfully because he’s not sure how, not sure where to start with the mess of events and near-misses and regrets that finally brought him here to Patton’s doorstep—and instead replies with one of his own.

“My mom died. Did you know that?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, they hadn’t spoken to each other in 15 years, there was no way he could have known. Virgil asks it all the same though. “I have her money now. Didn’t write me out of the will even after everything we went through. Guess she didn’t want how much she hated me and my “lifestyle” to come out even after she’d kicked it.”

Patton just looks at him. There’s something sad in his eyes, maybe, something regretful or sympathetic, something holding years worth of apologies and love confessions in not so many words that every night they'd pretended they hadn’t said.

Maybe not, he isn’t sure. He’s never been very good with stuff like that.

“You owe me a party,” Virgil continues impulsively. Patton grins and shakes his head and the urge to kiss him is so strong for a moment Virgil can’t breathe. “You promised me when she was dead and I didn’t have to worry about her anymore we’d have a party. With cheerio sausages and expensive liquor and-”

“Sparkling juice and bad karaoke,” Patton interrupts, “I remember.”

Nobody speaks. Patton doesn’t invite him in and Virgil doesn’t ask for fear of being turned away.

He knows there’s an element of worship in the way he looks at Patton. It’s worship like the way farmers pray for rain in a drought, worship like how sailors are drawn to the rough turn of the sea and worship like teens relishing in the night when they’re bored and alone and angry, yearning for freedom that only comes in years they feel they don’t have left.

But now, dark eyes gazing at him and breath catching in his throat, Virgil thinks maybe he isn’t the only one who feels it.

“I have a kid now, you know?” Patton asks and Virgil knows instantly that question isn’t about the party but everything that comes after it—all of the hundreds of possibilities that stem from this decision that neither of them can quite voice out loud, “Single parent. I made a lot of bad choices in those 15 years—gave myself away to a few people who didn’t deserve it, maybe—but she’s… helped. I want to be better for her.”

Virgil nods. It’s a little hard to reconcile teenage Patton with this one but he tries anyway. He has to; he owes him that much.

(In truth, he owes him so, so much more than that but right now this is all he feels he can give.)

“Yeah, uh, Riley, right? Seems like a sweet kid, if not a bit mischievous.” Virgil smirks slightly, somewhere between teasing and nostalgic. “Kind of like you were.”

At that, Patton grins and he laughs and it feels right—feels like early morning rainfall and crackling log fires, like the burning in your lungs as you run and the way your eyes slowly drift shut against your will when you’re up too late, like every ending and beginning in just a moment.

He shakes his head again, almost affectionately chastising and there’s a stuttering of Virgil’s hand as he goes to reach out, to brush a strand of hair away from Patton’s face but stops himself halfway through.

Patton doesn’t seem to notice. Virgil once thought Patton never noticed—never saw the longing in his eyes and the flushed red of his cheeks as they sat side-by-side on a park bench in the middle of winter, running from the heat of harsh words and high expectations.

He wonders if maybe that was naive.

“Well, I’ve gotta make sure to raise her right,” Patton jokes and his smile is amused—fond and familiar like the worn leather of Virgil’s jacket between his fingers, “If she’s not questioning authority and getting me called down to the office at least once a term then I’m doing something wrong.”

With that, there’s a flash—just a moment—of principal visits and angry rants, of cutting class to sit with the other in the silence of the school office and knowing, that outside of the two of them, there was no one else to come. And he thinks of Patton—this Patton, not his Patton—taking up the empty space of that office with kind reassurances and defensive words, protecting and protecting and protecting, fighting for Riley the way he had Virgil.

Parenthood suits Patton more than he’d first thought, perhaps.

“Ah, office visits.” Virgil nods sagely and can’t resist the quirk of his lips as Patton giggles. “A hallmark of a punk child. Next thing you know she’ll be dyeing her hair, running off to the park in the middle of the night to meet up with boys.”

It’s obviously a joke but still, Patton quietens, taking on a more contemplative look. It seems as if he’s remembering something and Virgil needs, all at once, to make sure he’s more to Patton than simply that expression on his face in the midst of just another day.

“Yeah,” Patton finally says, “Yeah, she was thinking purple actually.”

Virgil doesn’t reach up and drag a hand through his own purple hair but it’s a near thing. He hums—soft and low. “Good taste.”

A heavy silence rings in his ears—an echo of all the memories they share and all the memories they don’t, a collision of black and pastel blue on a canvas already painted with teenage angst and first love—and Virgil can't stand the way it feels like it may be too much to overcome. It isn't; he won't let it be.

He takes a step closer and Patton doesn’t move away, just lets Virgil crowd him against the doorframe till their chests are pressed together and each shuddering breath is a joint effort.

“I’d like to get to know her. If you’ll let me,” he murmurs and he’s so close that he can hear Patton’s heartbeat pick up as he slides a hand up to brush at the strands of hair against Virgil’s neck.

The air between them is tense and pulled tight—gazes tracing over freckles and foundation, their skin warm with each point of contact and the rushing of blood in Virgil’s ears drowning out the pounding of his heart. Each second that goes by without comment feels to Virgil like sinking into quicksand, like fingers losing their grip on the edge of a building and threatening to let him fall.

But, before he can draw away, throw up his walls and stumble his way through apologies like they’re nothing more than kids again, Patton tugs him forward and, softly, he brings their lips together.

The kiss is a teenage fantasy come true, the culmination of every moment—under streetlights or under blankets or under nothing more than the cover of night itself—where Virgil longed to reach out and tell Patton that he wanted to kiss him until the world faded away and all that he could focus on was the taste of cherry red lipstick and the joy and love pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat.

It's the comfort in late-night knocking, Patton taking Virgil in and patching him up and holding him as he cries because he has a mother that doesn’t love him and a father that’s always absent and a world that doesn’t care, muttered reassurances a quiet backdrop to his sobs.

It's the warmth in drinking their way through meagre retail paychecks, Patton’s soft touches like fire against his skin and the thread of restraint holding Virgil back from blurting out a love confession worn down to something as thin as a spiderweb and just as delicate.

It's the exhilaration in grocery store runs with no money and bags filled with spray paint cans, their gloved hands clasped tight as they race against the biting evening wind, giving in to the urge to let out a cry of victory that bounces off the empty alley walls.

So, yes, it’s the culmination of years of pining but it’s more than that too. It’s an apology, it’s acceptance and it’s an offer of a future, to stay here with them.

“I think I’d like that,” Patton gasps as he pulls away and Virgil’s so enamoured even after all these years that he barely knows what to say, “For you to know her, I mean. She’d like you. She’s like you, or at least the way you used to be—always a bit loose with self-control.”

Virgil doesn’t tell Patton that all his self-control had been going towards keeping himself from telling him he loved him. He doesn’t think he’d know how.

Slowly, Virgil blinks and he nods and it’s all he can do to keep himself standing as Patton beams up at him with a smile reminiscent of stars colliding—bright and beautiful enough to take his breath away. And suddenly Virgil feels like maybe he can fit in here, that maybe he can fit in anywhere he needs to if Patton keeps looking at him like that.

He smiles back, smaller than the one he’d received but the way Patton’s eyes light up makes Virgil feel like maybe that doesn’t really matter. “Okay, yeah. I want that; I want to stay.”

“Okay,” Patton parrots and he’s barely holding back giggles, Virgil can tell. It’s okay though because he feels it too—that sense of happiness and disbelief that has almost no other way to present itself—and giving in feels more like an inevitability.

So, laughing and hands joined together, Patton pulls Virgil inside to the soft white of his suburban home. And he closes the door.

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Taglist: @mutechild @super-magical-wizard @shadowsfromthesun @teadays @sandersships @camcam774 @autism-goblin @deadlyhuggles6 @romanthestarstruckqueer @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear @rainboots-are-for-snobs @welpweregonnadie @spirits-in-my-thoughts @hold-my-hat @goodandbadisallmadeupnonsense @stop-it-anxiety @figurative-falsehood @jadedfantasies231 @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @poisonedapples @sanders-screams @another-sandersidesblog @do-not-just-see-observe @mychemicalpanicattheemo @harleyquinnamiright @localtransgrape @fandomsofrandom @gattonero17 @airiervessel @ollyollyoxinfree @tired-and-probably-crying .

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #moxiety #patton sanders #virgil sanders #lo can write #blease read this guys I worked really really hard on it #they're just. soft and in love #virgil has Many Feelings

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hopelesshawks · 3 years

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Official Accounts Part 34 (Bakugo Route)- Together

Summary: (y/n) was perfectly happy remaining anonymous, even if her best friends were all pro heroes and she worked under THE Hawks. Handling the technical aspects of hero work from the background suited her just fine, thank you very much. That goes out the window when suddenly her twitter blows up thanks Denki and the famed no. 2 hero is asking her to run his own official twitter as a result

If you don’t want to see Official Accounts content blacklist #hopelessoa

Masterlist

You’re nervous too. The information crashes over Bakugo like a wave. You’re nervous too. You’re nervous too. You’re nervous too.

Granted there are a million reasons you could be nervous. You could be nervous about going to such a formal event. You could be nervous about mingling with so many top heroes. You could be nervous because it’s such short notice. But you could also be nervous because it’s him that invited you. You could be nervous because this feels like something more. You could be nervous for the same reasons he is. Maybe, just maybe, Hawks had been onto something. So for the first time in five years Bakugo allows himself to hope.

Hawks’ teasing grin softens. If anyone got to take advantage of his missed shot he’s glad it’s Bakugo in all honesty. “Don’t be. I’m almost positive she sees you the same way,” he assures Bakugo and he watches some of the tension ease out of the other man. Hawks likes you a lot, don’t get him wrong. Given enough time and healing he thinks he could’ve loved you just as deeply as Bakugo must. He doesn’t yet though, and the part of him that already loves you platonically couldn’t justify making you wait around for the romantic side to catch up when there was a perfectly good man right in front of you who already looks at you like you hung the moon. “Hey Bakugo,” Hawks pipes up, causing the other man to turn to look at him, “she’s lucky to have you.” Bakugo blinks at him in surprise a few times. “Thanks... For everything I guess,” Bakugo replies. Although he doesn’t look Hawks in the eye as he says it, Hawks knows it’s genuine all the same.

Before the two can exchange any more words, Mina exits from your bedroom and quickly closes the doors behind her. She gives Bakugo an appraising look. “You clean up nice, I approve,” she decides causing Bakugo to roll his eyes. “Whatever Ashido,” he retorts back. “Ohhh using my last name instead of a nickname huh?” she teases. “He must be really nervous,” she whispers conspiratorially to Hawks. “He is,” Hawks whispers back. “I’m right here,” Bakugo huffs, causing both Hawks and Mina to laugh. “Mina can I come out now or what?” you call from the other side of your bedroom door. Bakugo’s grip around the flowers tightens imperceptibly. “Ok, ok one second!” Mina calls back to you. She throws a wink Bakugo’s way and then grabs hold of one of the door handles. “Now presenting, as styled by Mina Ashido and Momo Yaoyorozu, the stunning (y/n) (y/l/n)!” Mina announces as she opens the door with a flourish.

You finally step out of your room in a long silver dress and Bakugo is literally speechless. He always thinks you’re stunning but wow. You are absolutely radiant as you enter into the living room, spotting the flowers still clutched in his hand. “Aww you remembered my favorites!” you grin as you step towards him. “Of course I remembered dumbass,” he scoffs, trying to cover his reaction to your entrance although the blush on his cheeks gives him away. You gently take the flowers from Bakugo’s hand and he tries to ignore the way his heart races in his chest when your hands brush. He needs to get a hold of himself, but he just can’t seem to. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants to hide their slight trembling. “You ready to go or what?” he asks. “I’m ready!” you grin as you hand the flowers to Mina. “Hawks and I will hold down the fort, you two have fun!” Mina tells you as you wave goodbye and you and Bakugo make your way out of the apartment.

“Is that a fucking limo?” you ask incredulously as you and Bakugo step out onto the street. Sure enough a long black limo is parked in front of your building and as the two of you approach a driver steps out and opens the door for you. Bakugo looks back towards your building to see Hawks and Mina giving him a thumbs up from the balcony, causing him to roll his eyes. “Should’ve known bird brain was gonna be extra when he said he had our ride handled,” Bakugo huffs. “May as well enjoy it then, cmon Kacchan!” you grin as you grasp hold of Bakugo’s arm and drag him into the waiting limo. You let go once both of you are safely seated inside but he can feel where your hand was like a brand. He must admit your excitement is infectious and it’s starting to erode away the nervousness that’s been dancing under his skin. You always have had that effect on him and god how he’s missed one on one time with you like this. Training isn’t the same. Those early mornings together the focus is on improving your control of your quirk, not catching up or recounting how your day went. He distantly wonders if maybe he should’ve been a little less focused during those morning training sessions. Or maybe he should’ve come up with an idea like that sooner. Could he have avoided you dating Hawks altogether if he had? Would the two of you be back together by now?

He’s pulled out of his musings when the limo pulls to a stop outside the event venue and the sound of the paparazzi is loud outside the car door. “Sounds like a lot of press out there,” you note somewhat apprehensively. “You gonna let some idiots with a camera scare you off?” Bakugo scoffs. “To be fair some idiots with a Twitter account got me kidnapped,” you point out and Bakugo visibly winces. “Yea, well, this time you got me to protect you alright?” Bakugo encourages as he extends a hand out to you. “Alright,” you smile. He laces your fingers together and as the driver opens up the car door again and the two of you step out, he doesn’t let go for even a moment, instead keeping you close and shielding you from the paparazzi as much as possible. Whenever one of them shouts a question at you that Bakugo deems inappropriate or too personal, he fixes them with a glare that could kill, his crimson eyes hard and threatening. He promised to protect you and damn it he meant it. He doesn’t yell or scream or get violent, just delivers a silent promise with his eyes. It’s one the reporters instinctively know he’ll make good on.

When the two of you are finally inside the venue and safe from prying eyes Bakugo turns back to you and looks you over to make sure you’re ok. You watch him in almost wonder as he frets over you. It’s not as if any of them had gotten anywhere near you, there was no way you could have been physically injured. So why then are his eyes roaming so worriedly over you? It occurs to you then that he isn’t looking for physical injuries, but rather the physical manifestations of emotional ones. He’s checking to see if your hands are shaking or if your knees are looking weak or if tears are collecting in your eyes. When your gazes lock together you find yourself sucked into the carmine depths and are a little shocked by the softness you find there. “You’re different now,” you find yourself saying. And it’s true. He is different. Some of his edges have softened over the years. He’s still blustery and his temper is still a force to be reckoned with but there’s a lot more control now. He’s more cognizant of how his temper affects those around him. “That a good thing?” he asks, and you’re surprised to find he seems nervous of the answer. “Old Katsuki would’ve blown some of those reporters sky high,” you reply by way of explanation. “Not too late for me to.” “No, no I prefer the death stare method.” “You noticed that huh?” “Of course I did. I always notice the stuff you do for me.” “Oh.” “Yea. Now come on before we miss the festivities,” you say as you drag Bakugo to the elevators by your still intertwined hands.

The actual event is a little intimidating. Pretty much everyone in attendance has been in the hero business far longer than Bakugo has. Some of those in attendance were already top heroes back when you and Bakugo were just middle schoolers. Bakugo wonders if you’re as keenly aware of the fact the two of you are still holding hands as he is. He wonders if it’s as grounding for you as it is for him. He knows it used to be. You used to always make him hold hands with you when you were feeling nervous. He took it for granted then, always too stubborn to admit he loved it and kicking up a fuss. Sometimes he wonders if it’s not a miracle you didn’t leave him sooner. Even as Mirko and her girlfriend find the two of you and invite you back to their table, Bakugo stays caught up in the mistakes of the past. He thinks back through every misunderstanding, every fight over the course of your relationship, and he wonders if he isn’t a little naive to think he has a shot at rekindling what the two of you once had. There’s a brief pause in the conversation he’s been paying almost no attention to so he uses the opportunity to excuse himself to the bar. “You want anything?” he asks. “I’m good. Everything ok?” you ask, your eyes brimming with concern. You always had been able to read him well. “I’m fine idiot, just gonna get a drink,” he assures you before giving your hand once last squeeze and heading over to the bar. Once there, he flags down the bartender to order, and then promptly sighs, hanging his head as he leans his forearms against it. He knows he’s killing the mood. He should be focused on showing you a good time but he can’t stop reliving the past.

“Kacchan?”

Bakugo looks up at the sound of a familiar voice. “Deku? What are you doing here?” Bakugo asks curiously. “All Might didn’t feel like coming so he gave me his ticket instead. You?” he replies. “Same deal but with Hawks.” “You two must be getting along well then.” “Yea, he ain’t half bad.” “That’s surprising coming from you.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means even if you think that I’d never expect you to say something nice about someone pursuing (y/n).” “He’s not pursuing her anymore,” Bakugo admits and Midoriya’s eyebrows shoot up in response. “Really now?” Midoriya asks. Bakugo nods as his drink arrives before elaborating. “He actually gave me these tickets explicitly to bring (y/n) with me. She’s over there talking to Mirko and her girlfriend,” he explains with a nod over in your direction. “If Hawks is playing wing man,” Bakugo rolls his eyes at the pun but that doesn’t deter Midoriya, “and (y/n) is here with you right now, then why are you here alone at the bar looking miserable?” “I’m not looking miserable.” “You’re definitely looking miserable. You should be ecstatic, isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for for the past 5 years?” “It’s not that simple dumbass.” “How so?” “Maybe I don’t deserve a second chance,” Bakugo admits, and there’s the root of the issue. It’s the thought that’s underlaid all others he’s had. He finally has his second chance but what if he’s just destined to hurt you all over again. You deserve better than that. Better than him.

“You’re fucking kidding me right?” Midoriya asks incredulously and Bakugo blinks over at his friend in shock. He’s almost never heard Deku swear. The profanity almost sounds wrong coming from him, but Midoriya presses on anyway. “You have been calling me up on and off talking about what you’d do in this exact scenario almost our entire careers and now you’re going to blow it because, what? You were an asshole five years ago?” “Well, I-“ “Kacchan, the you of five years ago never would’ve admitted to me there was even a problem. You’re not the same person you were then, you certainly aren’t the same person you were back in UA. I’m sure she’s not the same person either. So you gonna let past you hold you back or are you gonna get your act together so you can finally stop drunk dialing me whenever you get emo?” “When the fuck did you get enough of a back bone to talk to me like that?” “That doesn’t answer my question.” “Fuck off you shitty nerd, I’ll talk to her after this stupid event,” Bakugo grouses. “Or you could talk to her now,” Midoriya offers. He loudly calls out your name to grab your attention. “What the fuck are you doing?” Bakugo hisses. “I’m doing you a favor,” Midoriya grins as he waves you over.

You excuse yourself from the table and go to where Midoriya is flagging you over. “I was wondering what was keeping Kacchan! Long time no see Midoriya,” you greet him with a grin. “Good to see you too! How’s work been going?” he asks. “A rollercoaster but good,” you laugh, “what about you? You’ve been climbing the charts like crazy haven’t you? Congrats!” “Thanks! I actually should get back to my table, the speeches are about to start, I just wanted to say hi.” “What speeches?” “A few of the heroes are gonna talk about the glory days.” “Oh joy...” Midoriya laughs at your unenthusiastic reaction before giving Bakugo a mischievous look. Bakugo’s answering glare is a warning that Midoriya happily ignores as he turns back to you and says “I have an idea. If that sounds boring you and Bakugo should check out the roof. You have to take the emergency stairs up but I hear the view is gorgeous,” Midoriya suggests. Your eyes light up as you turn to your date. “Ohh that sounds so much better. C’mon Katsuki let’s go to the roof!” you beam. “I don’t know,” Bakugo hedges, determinedly ignoring Midoriya’s judging look. “Come on please?” you beg and immediately Bakugo crumbles. “Ok, ok we’ll go to the roof,” he cedes but it’s worth it to see your smile grow even wider. “You two have fun,” Midoriya says cheekily as he waves his goodbye and turns to go back to his own table. “Bye Midoriya!” you call back before latching onto Bakugo and dragging him towards the exit. “Let’s go slow poke get moving,” you whine as you tug him. “Fine, fine relax,” he huffs as he finally starts moving at a pace you approve of towards the emergency exit.

The night air is crisp as you and Bakugo step onto the roof. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, letting the cool air fill your lungs before exhaling and feeling the tension leave your body along with your exhalation. You open your eyes, step up to the edge of the roof, and gaze out at the cityscape. It’s just as beautiful as Midoriya had promised but as you turn back to Bakugo to say as much you realize his gaze is fixed entirely on you. “Ok spill it,” you tell him. “What?” he asks, his tone slightly defensive as he shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches forward. “You’ve been off all night Katsuki. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” you tell him. He thinks carefully over his words for a moment before saying “I never apologized to you.” “What are you talking about?” you ask. “I never apologized for how things went down between us,” he sighs, his eyes trained on the ground to the left of you. “Wha- that’s what you’ve been in your head about? Katsuki you don’t need to apologize for something that happened years ago.” “Just because it happened years ago doesn’t mean it’s unimportant.” “You’re right. But it still feels weird for you to apologize for it now.” “How so?” “Well for one I forgave you a long time ago. And two because like I said downstairs you’re different now. It almost feels like you’re apologizing for something someone else did.” “But it wasn’t someone else it was me.” “I guess that’s true. Well fine if it will make you feel better, I accept your apology.” “Don’t patronize me.” “I’m not patronizing you!” “Yes you are!” “Are not!” “Are too!” “Are not!” “Are too!” “You’re impossible oh my god,” you laugh incredulously, turning back to face the cityscape once more. “Too impossible?” he asks hesitantly, moving closer towards you. “Never too impossible,” you confess, eyes still trained on the lights in front of you.

A thought crosses your mind and you smile to yourself. There always has been one sure fire way to show Katsuki just how much you trust him. Maybe it will also show him you’ve meant every word you’ve said tonight. “Hey Kacchan?” you call, your back still turned to him as you stare out over the city. “What?” “Think fa-“ your words are cut off by a hand on your mouth, your forward momentum off the edge of the building halted by Bakugo’s arm around your waist. He hauls you back against his body, simultaneously turning you to face him. The two of you are so closely pressed together there’s nowhere else for you to look other than into his scarlet eyes. It’s been a very long time since you’ve seen That Look in Katsuki’s eyes. You’ve missed it. That look of fondness and care and love. “Not this time idiot. This time, we fall together,” he whispers into the limited space between the two of you.

Then he makes good on his promise and steps off the roof with you wrapped up safely in his arms.

Author’s Note: FINALLY GOT THROUGH IT! I’m sorry this one took so long. Life got kinda hectic and writer’s block was dragging on me too but I’m glad it’s finally here and I hope it’s worth the wait. Just like in the Hawks route there will be both a SFW and NSFW version of the next part which means it may take a little longer to write especially since I need to write the next part of physical fatality now BUT WE’LL GET THERE I PROMISE

Taglist [open]: @maltese-sparrow @someweirdshitman @oliviasslut @captaincyberqueen @ladyzayismultifandom @pixelwisp @cathy8taffy @itskindofafairything @larkspyrr @thatonegeekchick

#hopelessoa #bakugo smau #bakugo x y/n #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki

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stardancerluv · 4 years

Text

Is Immortality the Ultimate Gift?

Part Three

Summary: Being together...

“My little lambkin.” He whispered. As you looked above his shoulder, you noticed the sky was beginning to change, dawn was not far off.

“I have to go.”

“Why?” You could see his confusion

“Dawn, is approaching.”

“Oh.” He exhaled. “I probably, have no place to ask this; but can I come with you?”

You had not expected that. “What about her?” You tilted your head towards the bar.

“I’ll talk to her.” The smile he gave you, had always made you forget your worries. Though, you were no longer that girl.

“You do that and I’ll go pay the barman.”

******

His warm, very human hand grabbed you by the wrist. You could feel his worry before he spoke.

“Oh! You’re a block of ice. You should have ordered a shot to warm you up.” He let you go, but he gave you a warm smile.

“I am always this cold.”

Pressed his lips together, nodding. You had the impression someone close to him was also cool to the touch.

“They are known to be particularly violent.” He gestured to Thomas. “They shoot people out of hand. None of their crimes ever stick.”

You sighed. “That bad?”

He nodded. “I heard him talk to her. He has quite the mouth. He deserves to get the smirk knocked off his face.”

You could smell as drew close to you again.

If only you knew, you mused. I am more lethal, than these two. A caring human, how touching. “Thank you.” You smiled and pushed the money towards him. Turning, you watched as Thomas approached. “I’ll be careful.” You said, looking back at the barman.

“Shall we?” You nodded, letting your attention go back to Thomas.

“Yes.” You followed him out.

“Should we take my car?” He gestured to the red Bentley.

“Sure.” You crossed the street to the shiny red car.

You could, hear the sloshing of her organs as she ran over to the two of you, her stench easily reaching your nose.

You turned to face her. “Yes?”

She stopped mid-running, completely flustered, she struggled to find the right words. Then she found them. “He’s mine, I am only letting you burrow him.”

You grabbed her by her throat. Squeezing, she could not scream. You smiled, as she gasped. “Now, you listen to me.” You spat out. “I fed you tonight. Want to test me? Go back to the bar and look in the ladies room. Understand?”

She nodded, barely but she managed. “Good. Now, the only reason why I am not snapping your throat is because of Thomas. But if you continue to irk me, I will not hesitate to end your rotten life. So stop yapping at me like a small dog.” You dropped her.

She spluttered about before standing holding her throat. It wasn’t the first time, a ghoul had such anger in their eyes.

******

“You live here?” He cut the engine, after he parked along side your building. He looked up at it through the windshield.

“Yes, but let’s avoid the bar. I need to go to my quarters.”

You knew you had made your place sound proof, but you could only hope that if anyone smelled Thomas they’d assume you merely found yourself a ghoul to take care of your whims.

******

Once on your floor, you put the code in to lock the elevator in place.

“What’s that for?”

You turned to him. “Safety.”

“But,” His brow wrinkled.

“I’ll be sleeping soon, its the only time I am vulnerable.” You took his hand. “I also don’t want anything happening to you while I sleep.” His warmth was beginning to fade.

What really worried you was you’d go to sleep and wake up; only to realize all of this had been nothing more then a dream. If it ended up that way, perhaps you would finally allow the sun to kiss your flesh.

He squeezed your hand and gently let it go. He reached behind him. “That is why I have this.”

He revealed a small hand gun. One sniff, and you smelled the mixture of a very hard wood and lead. You stepped back.

Something, came over his face as he stepped closer. He put the gun down on a table before coming all the way over to you. “You don’t think I would ever hurt you, do you?”

You realized, your instincts that had kept you alive for so long could cause pain in the man you had once loved and realized could love again.

You closed the distance, moving fast as you had in the bar. Grabbing, his gun you put it into his hand and you brought it to where you heart slumbered for so long.

His hand shook, he stepped backwards when he realized what you had done. Looking around he put the gun back onto the table. You, noticed he could be fast when he wanted to be too. He grabbed you by your upper arms and leaned in close. “Why, why would you do that?”

“I needed you to know that I trust you.” As you looked into those blue eyes again, old emotions swirled to the surface.

“What, if something happened? What if my finger had slipped?”

“I lived a good life. It would be a gift to die by the man I only ever loved.”

His hands squeezed harder, his strength sent a flutter through you. You thought ghouls were weak.

When he let you go, you almost fell down. The sun continuing to rise as your strength continued to dwindle. He turned away. “You really loved me all this time?” He didn’t face you.

“Yes.” The sun was beginning to slid into your place. “We can talk later. Now, please follow me.” As you practically, ran down the hall. Making, it your bedroom suite you went to the panel in the wall. Putting in another code and as soft as a whisper, sheets of metal locked into the window sill, and so as to not be completely hideous eye sore, drapes followed them and were pulled close.

“That is a very keen idea on blocking the sun.” Half of his mouth twisted up, as he nodded.

“Yes, I have mastered techniques on avoiding the sun over the years. Wavering, on your shaky legs you slipped free of your heels.

The sun continued to rise and the weaker you became. “You are not locked in. So you can do as you wish while I..” You hugged your sides, before you crumpled to your knees.

He rushed to your side. “Y/N,” His blue eyes filled with unease. His voice speaking your name echoed sweetly, in your mind. Tears, prickled your eyes. “Let me help you. Tell me what I have to do.” You distantly heard him.

Looking, at him you were barely able to focus. “Get me into my bed.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He picked you up and brought you over. With one hand he pushed aside the blankets. You pulled them back.

“Are you ok, tell me you are ok?”

“I am, its just time for me to sleep.” You found his hand. “Please be here when I awake. Please be real.”

The velvety blackness of sleep enveloped you. Your maker and no one else for that matter knew why it was like this with the sun. Perhaps, it was the exhaustion of immortality.

******

Your small hand dropped from his.

“Y/N...Y/N?” He sighed. “I’ll be here. I promise.” He put your hand beside the other one.

He sat there looking at you. Your hair and features were all the same. Your hair and eyes, were richer in color perhaps, that was a vampire thing. He brushed, aside a few strands of hair from your face.

You were no long the young girl who had been his wife. He enjoyed seeing, how you handled Cammy. Being, a ghoul was terribly lonely. He had grown used to it. Occasionally, when meeting a fellow ghoul you stuck together.

In the end, their selfish desires grew tedious so he’d go off on his own again. That’s what had happened with Cammy only, she stuck around after he saved the two of them from a vampire.

As he looked down at you, he could not believe you were here before him, damn. Getting up, how much later he didn’t know. Time for a ghoul, he mused also didn’t matter, it all blurred after awhile. He realized how lucky he was to be able to go out into the sun.

Everything, he would imagine the dark paneling, romantic carvings for the headboard and rich vibrant colors, was you. It reminded him of the bedroom, the two of you had.

Once, in the foyer he slipped off his leather jacket and reaching up he took off the fangs and bullet. He tucked them into one of the pockets of his jacket.

Walking around, it was interesting to see what you had made of yourself with immortality. It was nice. Everything, was different from what he had been around recently. Cammy was a mixture of the sixties and eighties, vary garish colors and patterns.

Spotting, books he wondered what you read. He smiled fairy tales and stories of adventures, that were written while existence was stretching out along aside them. He wondered if you had met any of the writers. The books looked very old.

Seeing, the kitchen intrigued him. Going over to the refrigerator, he opened it. Seeing the bottles, he realized that was how you stored your meals. Some of the bottles, had years scrawled on some labels. Not a bad idea. The amount of glasses you owned made him smile.

Coming, back the living room the over stuffed sofa called to him. Sitting down he sighed, it was incredibly comfortable. Pulling, off his boots, he reclined.

Looking, up as he relaxed, a painting of you caught his eye. The painter, caught all of you. Your delicate beauty and the soft lines of your curves. Looking, over the beauty of the details tiredness was finally, took ahold of him and soon, his mind brought him to when the two of you met

******

It was a warm summer’s day, the sky had been a brilliant shade of blue and the sun made him squint. He trotted down the dirt path at decent pace on his trusty horse. Stopping, he took a moment to have some water from his water-skin. Rubbing his brow, he was certain that village he needed to go to was just over this next hill. Looking up, was when he spotted you. He smiled.

There you were sitting, under a large tree. As he slowly approached, he noticed you were fast asleep. Your features were soft.

Your eye lashes, laid like butterfly wings on your cheeks, your lips a gentle pink reminding him of flower petals. Your hair, unlike girls in the city was laying around face and shoulders gently. His fingertips had tingled, never had he wanted to touch a girl as much as he wanted to touch you then. He wanted to know if you were as soft and delicate as you looked. The thoughts sped up his heart.

You stirred and he was embarrassed that you had caught him looking at you.

“I dreamt of a sweet and kind prince, is that what you are ?” Your voice was a gentle as a bird song.

“Sorry. Young maiden, I’m not. Just the son of a simple merchant.”

You stood up then. “Oh, well you resemble how a prince should look.”

He had been taken immediately by your imagination. It was sweet. “You are far too kind. Are you from the village; that I believe should be nearby?”

“Yes, I am. Are you looking for an inn while on your journey?” You gently, fluffed your skirt out.

“Yes. More importantly, I am looking for the blacksmith. I heard he makes wonderful pieces.” As he spoke he saw a huge smile curl those petal like lips.

“Sir, he is my father. I can take you to him.”

“Oh, well isn’t that great. I would love that.”

You drew close. “Will you help me onto your horse?”

He was taken aback. “You ride like a man?”

“Yes.” You looked down. “I’ve raced my brothers.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that in the city, we don’t know many ladies that do; and if they do it’s side saddle.”

You smiled. “It is ok. Being the girl with lots of brothers riding side saddle you realize is very hard.”

“I can only imagine.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Come on up, and bring me to your father’s.”

You took his hand and helped you climb up. His heart began to race like his horse at full speed. You wrapped your arms around his middle.

He cleared his throat, “So where to?”

******

Sleep had been incredibly deep, and fulfilling. Your dreams had been like scattered photographs, as they swirled around you.

His particular scent lingered. So you knew he was still there. You were grateful for whatever blessings you still had, that finally brought the two of you together.

Wanting, to look and feel as fresh as you could; you polished off a bottle you always keep in your night stand. After tidying your bed, you took a bath.

While in the tub, washing with sweet smelling French soap, the tears finally came. Hugging, your knees to your chest. You finally cried. Why, oh why did he have to make him a ghoul.

The two of you were no strangers to differences. He was city folk, you a country girl. Your families had not been so inclined, but in the in the end, the love you shared won out.

Being his wife had made you so happy. You remembered, how the two of you were rarely ever apart.

It was his warm blood you had gulped down greedily. Your need to feed, had been so strong that to this day, you never had felt anything that strong.

*****

Calming down, you finished washing and dried yourself off. Slipping into some fresh clothes, you followed his scent till you found him.

You smiled, seeing him half on, half off your sofa, with one foot resting on the coffee table. Somethings, never changed. He had always loved stretching out as much as he could.

Tucking one of your legs under yourself, you managed to sit in a small spot between his legs. As he slept, you looked at him closer. You noticed, the leather rope that had been around his throat was gone. Had he really taken it off for you?

Curious, you reached out but then stopped and pulled your hand back. Feeling, silly you reached out again and you laid a hand on his chest. There was a very slow, heart beat.

“Yes, Y/N it still beats. Sometimes it beats faster.” His voice was thick, one of his cold hands went over yours. He pressed it harder against where his chest.

“I’m glad it still beats.” Your eyes lingered on your hands; before glancing over at him.

“It’s one of the things I am glad is still part of me.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Since, we’re together, I’d rather be awake.”

You placed a hand over his. “Thomas, where’s your trophy?”

“I put it away.”

“You didn’t have to.” You slowly began moving, your hands back

He grabbed your hands. “I saw your face, when I told you what it was. I don’t want you to have to look at it when you look at me.”

You watched as something shifted in those blue eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“I am so glad, I smelled that meal. All I thought would happen was I’d get a meal in, have a few drinks and maybe have some fun.”

You remembered the bartender’s words as he spoke.

“I remember that look. What are you thinking”

“The bartender warned me about you.”

His mouth curled into a smirk. “Oh did he?”

“Yes.”

“Cammy and I, are known to be notorious.”

“What is existing, without dabbling into some fun?” You said, swallowing down the anguish that grew in, as he mentioned him and that screecher. Her words, “He’s mine. I’m only letting you burrow him.” Echoed in your head.

He smiled, “That’s how I feel.”

“Thomas?” How could you tell him? The idea of her being with him, while you suffered all these years. The anguish continued to grow.

“Yes, little lambkin?”

You suddenly felt horribly silly. You shook your head. “Nothing, I need something from my kitchen.” You got up, turning away. You couldn’t look at him.

He stopped you with one of his legs. “No, you don’t. You are flushed.” There was an undercurrent to his voice. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. And yes, I do.” You practically leapt over his leg.

Tearing, open the refrigerator the glass bottles clinking as you did so. Pulling the cork out of one, you up ended it.

You were almost five hundred years old and you wanted to rip her heart out. The thought of him with her filled you with sadness that was only equaled with your rage.

He was there in the space of a few hearty gulps.

“Tell, me what’s wrong?” He squeezed the words came through gritted teeth.

Finishing, the bottle you it down and licked your fangs.

“Are those your fangs?” Moving again, he barely left any space between the two of you. His cold fingers, cupped your chin. You nipped him. He snatched his hand away and shook it. You licked your fang, you were curious. His blood was like a jolt, you trembled. Your body remember when it first saved you.

“Hey!” He shook his hand but grabbed you chin again. “No nipping.”

You smirked, blood rushing through your system always gave you a bit of a high. As you began to feel better, your desire to rip her heart out grew stronger. You were beginning to feeling things, you thought had died with your human side.

As he stepped closer to you, he put a hand on either side of you on the counter. You felt as his body, pressed against yours. There was no space between you. He looked right into your eyes.

“I am not the same man, I played so many fucking games over the centuries in order to survive. I never played any with you, I don’t want to fucking start now.”

You could not even imagine what he must have done.

“Alright, you to want know?” You growled back, your faces were inches from each other.

“Yeah, tell me.”

“When you said, ‘Cammy and I, are known to be notorious; I wanted to rip her heart out.”

@shantellorraine @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @mac-n-cheesie @fandomgirl800 @vcat55 @pooshnulooshnu @greybeardthetotallylegalpirate

#ewan mcgregor #cold war tales from the cyrpt #cold war #ford x y/n #ford x you #ford x reader #is Immortality the Ultimate Gift #part 3

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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years

Text

“Be Mine”- A Sunshine AU Drabble

F/M Pairing: Y/N x Han Jisung (Stray Kids)

Word Count: 2,500

Warnings: Language, some mentions of smut, it’s mostly cute

Genre: Married Life AU

Notes: Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!

“Is that the best you can do?” I groaned, fixing Hyunjin with what I hoped mimicked the effect of Jeongin’s notorious puppy dog eyes.

Instead, my best friend and business partner scoffed, grabbing a towel to wipe away the flower painting the side of his cheek. “What the hell did you expect? You tell me to bake your husband a cake an hour before we’re supposed to close!”

I winced at his tone, realizing that Hyunjin's frustrations were completely warranted. But I was growing increasingly desperate, especially while the clock continued to tick away in the background. Because, like the forgetful idiot that I was, I totally missed the giant heart circling today’s date on the calendar in my bedroom.

In my defense, I was completely disoriented after Jisung woke me up between my legs this morning, tongue circling against my clit with urgent movements. It was the first sign that I should’ve been paying more attention as opposed to losing myself to a well-deserved orgasm. "Happy Valentine’s day, Y/N,” Jisung said with an arrogant smirk, clearly proud of his early morning efforts.

Of course, there was also the additional surprise of pancakes waiting for me in the kitchen. My plate was stacked high with the doughy breakfast food shaped into misformed little hearts. Bless his soul, but Jisung was definitely inept when it came to cooking.

I ate quietly, trying to ignore the way Jisung watched me from the counter, cheeks squished between his palms. “It’s good,” I lied to him, trying my best not to choke on the burnt edges, but it was worth it to see Jisung’s face light up with his beautiful smile.

“Baby,” Jisung had finally stopped me on my way out the door, pulling me into a passionate kiss. “I’ll see you later tonight. I have something special planned for you.”

Fuck. My. Life.

“Hyunjin, I’m so screwed,” I groaned, pulling the tiny cake closer to me. “Thank you for this.”

“Y/N forgot Valentine’s Day again,” Hyunjin sighed, reaching behind him to undo the strings holding his apron together. “What a surprise.”

I glared at him because I was determined not to make a repeat of last year when Jisung had spent a fortune on a new pair of earrings to offer as a gift for the cheesy Holiday. I remember accepting them hesitantly, wondering why my husband felt the need to buy me jewelry. “What’s this for?” I had chuckled, feeling my heart sink in my chest when I recognized the familiar look of disappointment in Jisung’s eyes.

“It’s a stupid holiday,” I muttered. “I don’t understand why Jisung even likes it so much.”

“He’s a hopeless romantic,” Hyunjin said, tone rising dramatically. “But yours truly will celebrate at home. Alone. With a case of beer and a bag of stale pretzels.”

“Good for you, Jinnie,” I teased him, patting his shoulder while he glared at me from the corner of his eye. “Close up shop, yeah? I have to run through the streets begging someone to sell me some flowers.”

“Whatever, Y/N,” Hyunjin said. “You should be more grateful that you have someone to celebrate this hellish day with.”

“I’m beyond grateful,” I said, rolling my eyes as I dismissed him curtly, wrapping my jacket tighter around my shoulders when I walked outside.

I felt like a complete imbecile driving through the empty streets of the city, looking out my windows for any familiar sign of those ridiculous flower stands that popped up rampantly around this time every year. Yet, another obvious warning that I had blatantly ignored which could’ve saved me a lot of grief when it came to pleasing my husband. For once in my life, I’d like to feel more prepared for Valentine’s Day because Jisung enjoyed it so much and I always felt obligated to entertain the things he liked even if I didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“Aha!” I cheered triumphantly when I spotted a bright neon pink cart set up outside an empty diner. I parked my car as close as possible, locking the door behind me before approaching the stand with determination.

“Evening,” the owner greeted me with a faint hint of amusement which I chose to ignore as I scoured my few pathetic choices.

“I guess I’ll have those,” I said, indicating my hand in the direction of a modest bundle of flowers that definitely had been turned over by countless other patrons who had probably enjoyed a much more vibrant selection.

“Of course,” the man agreed. “That’ll be fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars!” I exclaimed, frowning at the wilting bundle of roses. “What the hell?”

“Valentine’s day is almost over,” the man shrugged. “It’s about time for the really desperate ones to come out.”

“I’m not desperate!” I lied, muttering under my breath as I reached into my wallet. “Just give me the damn bouquet.”

The man smirked, snatching my money while handing me the saddest excuse for Valentine’s Day flowers I had ever seen. Still, at least it would be something thoughtful to give Jisung as I hurried back to my car. I had about half an hour to make it home since my husband had insisted on making dinner for the two of us, something I protested whole-heartedly because Jisung was a nightmare in my kitchen. However, regardless of my protests, nothing could stop Jisung when he was set on doing something. I could only hope that he managed to keep the heat on medium when he was cooking Ramen.

I reached back into my coat pocket for my discarded keys, growling when I realized that a parking ticket was stuck underneath my windshield wiper. “Fuck,” I cursed, groping for the door handle of my car before gently placing the flowers down in the front seat. I glared at the ticket before tossing it on top of the dashboard. “Who the hell is patrolling the meters this late at night?”

Of course, there was nobody present to address my grievances, leaving me to stew quietly by myself as I maneuvered my car onto the highway.

Ever since I could remember, my husband always insisted on celebrating Valentine’s day with the most passionate displays of declaring the modest “I love yous” we always shared on our way out the door in the mornings. I had never properly understood his obsession with the Holiday as I made no secret of my own dislike for the commercialized occasion. I mean, who does Walmart actually think they are by charging over three dollars for a box of marshmallows with chocolate on top?

Distracted by my unpleasant brooding, I turned off the exit ramp without remembering the brand new traffic light the state had recently built to control rowdy teenagers who liked to handle the curve at maximum speed. The bright red of the light caught me completely off-guard and I slammed on breaks instinctively, realizing too late that the jarring movement had sent my precious cake careening into the floorboard.

“NO!” I cried, resisting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel when I looked down and saw Jisung’s cake had tragically been completely destroyed, flowers joining the terrible mess that would be impossible to clean. “What the actual hell,” I bemoaned, searching for a spare tissue to try and at least clean the icing from my leather seats.

When the light turned green, I eased out into the intersection knowing that I now had nothing to give Jisung for Valentine’s Day. The thought was rightfully sobering and I pulled into our apartment complex with a heavy heart because there was no back-up plan waiting to save me. I was left with nothing and my husband would suffer the consequences of yet another year of my poor planning.

As soon as the ignition was off, I did my best to reform the cake and gather the flowers together. It was pathetic, both their appearance and my blatant disregard for appropriate planning. “I’m sorry, Jisung,” I whispered into the cold night air, holding the pathetic excuse for a cake tightly in my arms as I entered our building.

I wrestled with my keys at the front door, managing to catch the lock before using my foot to help me inside with what was left of my Valentine's Day surprise. With a deep sigh, I placed the cake and flowers on our side table, studying them as I tried not to imagine Jisung’s reaction to my gifts. “Y/N!” he sang, peeking his head out of the kitchen wearing an adorable smile. “Guess what?”

“Hmm?” I feigned noncommittally, hanging up my coat before fidgeting with the cake and flowers on the side table.

“I made dinner!” Jisung said. “And I didn’t burn the kitchen down.”

“I’m proud of you, babe,” I told him sadly, wondering if the Universe was conspiring against me in its determination to ruin my marriage on the one day of the year meant to celebrate love.

“How was your day?” Jisung asked from the kitchen.

“Fine,” I grimaced. “What about you?”

“It was interesting,” Jisung said. “Come here for a second. I want you to look at the cards my kids made for me.”

I put on my best smile, accepting a kiss from Jisung before my husband was ushering me against the counter. “Aren’t they adorable?” he asked, shuffling through the tiny Valentine’s cards decorated with a variety of familiar cartoon characters.

“I Dumble-ADORE you,” Jisung giggled, handing me the Harry Potter themed card. It reminded me distantly of my own childhood where I would drag my mother through the grocery store, determined to find the best box of childish cards for my classmates.

“To the most handsomest teacher,” I read, offering Jisung a mischievous look. “Does this little Sarah have a crush on you?”

“She’s just a kid,” Jisung said, fingers nimbly massaging the skin at the back of my neck.

“It’s okay,” I grinned. “I understand her opinion.”

“Is that so?” Jisung questioned, pulling me in closer from his grip around my waist, offering me a searing kiss that ignited a familiar desire to bend over the nearest piece of furniture for my husband. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, releasing me despite my whine as he started to arrange our plates. I wasn’t surprised to see that Jisung had created a romantic set-up in the dining room complete with a pastel-pink tablecloth decorated with our finest wine glasses and cutlery. There were even a few lit candles arranged with the centerpiece.

“You worked hard, I see.”

Jisung offered me a sheepish smile. “Do you not like it?”

“Of course I like it, babe,” I said, taking a seat next to him at the table. “I know you did your best.”

Jisung filled my plate with a steamy offering of whatever delicious concoction he had somehow created. “It’s some kind of pasta.”

“You don’t know?” I questioned, enjoying the way Jisung’s ears turned red at the accusation.

“Changbin might have helped.”

“Hmmm,” I giggled, reaching for the wine bottle. “Does that really count, Sungie?”

“Well, I bought the wine myself.”

“And I’m so very proud of you for it.”

I carefully poured us both a glass, sipping the delicate liquid. “An appropriate choice.”

“Yeah? Minho recommended it.”

“Jisung,” I laughed. “I feel deceived.”

“Don’t worry,” Jisung reassured me. “Your present was completely my idea!”

I stuffed another bite of food into my mouth at the mention of a gift. “Oh?”

“I think you’ll love it,” Jisung said, obviously very excited at whatever thoughtful present he likely purchased for me again this year. Unlike my unsuitable offering still sitting on the side table.

Jisung continued to fill the majority of our conversation, talking about a new assistant principal at his Elementary school. Meanwhile, I tried to maintain a neutral expression, hoping that Jisung wouldn’t notice how nervous I was about whatever he had planned to give me that would pale in comparison to my wrecked cake and dying flowers. But I was naturally a bad gift giver, you could ask any of our closest friends. They would all recount a similar nightmarish scenario involving my inability to understand the basic mechanics behind the concept of exchanging gifts.

“Join me in the bedroom,” Jisung eventually said, gathering our plates together while I tried not to hyperventilate.

I stood up to fix my skirt, returning to the foyer to find the cake and flowers waiting for me mockingly. I grabbed both meager selections, managing the walk of shame to our shared bedroom at the other end of the hallway. Soft music played from inside and I briefly entertained the idea of a fully naked Jisung splayed out across our bed like some kind of filthy pornography.

But I probably wouldn’t get laid after Jisung saw my cake and flowers.

“Sungie,” I said, stepping inside the room only to find Jisung fully-clothed and waiting next to our dresser with hands behind his back.

“Babe,” he said, smile contorting into a frown as he realized what I was balancing precariously between my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I sighed in defeat. “I got you a cake and flowers but they didn’t survive the trip home.”

I gently deposited the cake and flowers on our desk. “Y/N...”

“I ruined it again,” I cried, falling back against the bed before he could finish his sentence. “Jesus, Sungie, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I tried so hard to make this special for you, but I always manage to ruin everything.”

“Baby,” Jisung said, crawling onto the mattress next to me. “What are you talking about?”

“The stupid cake and flowers!” I exclaimed, covering my eyes with my hands. “I just don’t understand,” I sighed. “I mean, I guess it’s alright, but I don’t really get why you love Valentine’s day so much.”

Jisung smiled, thumb brushing across my lower lip. “February 14th,” Jisung said. “The day Y/N told me that she loved me for the first time.”

I froze at his unexpected explanation, my next deprecating sentence dying as soon as my lips were forming the words. “What?”

“Babe,” Jisung sighed fondly, leaning down so that we were at eye level. “I don’t really care about the gifts, but I always make a big deal out of Valentine’s Day because it means so much to me. It would be enough for me if we just sat together on the couch all day and watched those sappy soap operas you like.”

I didn’t realize I was crying at his tender resolution until his fingers were carefully capturing each successive drop. “Jisung, why the hell are you determined to turn me into mush?”

Jisung chuckled, kissing my forehead with affection. “Honestly, it wouldn’t be Y/N if she was actually organized,” Jisung said, fingers carding through my hair while I leaned against his chest. “And, for the record, I actually like the cake and flowers, even if they weren’t necessary.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I mumbled against his shirt. “They’re both terrible.”

“I would never lie to you,” Jisung gasped with feigned outrage while I rolled over on top of him, planting my hands on either side of my head. “Are you interested in what I got for you?”

I nodded eagerly, allowing him to rise slowly with one hand maintaining a grip around my waist. He reached behind him for the discarded box and held it out for my awaiting hands. I gasped when I realized what was waiting inside, shimmering brilliantly under the lights. “It’s sort of like a replacement,” he said, nodding to the wedding ring I wore on my finger, compliments of a very nice discount Jisung received at the pawnshop. He had been so embarrassed when he offered it to me back then, promising to find something better in the future. But even now I made sure to tell Jisung that I loved both rings equally because they came from him and that’s all I cared about. “Beautiful,” he declared when I slipped it on next to my other ring. “Happy Valentine’s day, Y/N,” Jisung murmured soothingly.

And I sighed happily in return. “Happy Valentine’s day, Sungie.”

#mostly competent #han jisung #han jisung fanfic #han jisung imagine #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #happy valentines day

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Humans are Weird “Plus One”

Thanks for reading everyone, Hope you enjoy please feel free to ask questions or give ideas :)

Krill was very interested, if there was one thing he didn’t understand about humans, it was their mating rituals; he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know about their mating habits, but the process of attracting another human could be interesting. Understanding what went into a human monogamous marriage was shaping up to be rather difficult. From what Krill understood so far, the most complex human process involved a serious set of complicated rituals involving a lot of symbolic traditionalism. These included a specific style of dress only for the couple about to be married and all of their guests as well. This ceremony was to take place at a specific time and place and last for a very specific amount of time. Specific words were supposed to be said, and then afterwards there was supposed to be a massive party which included a very specific type of pastry and very specific types of food and human music. Humans were generally obligated to give each other gifts during this time.

Krill, as it turns out was friends enough with Vir’s brother that he was to be one of the “groomsmen.” Or one of the specified group of people important to the groom. Vir had been chosen as the best man which seemed to Krill to mean that he was just the favorite groomsman, of which included Krill and the other brothers. However, due to the nature of the wedding women and men had been included on either side, so that count also included Vir’s sister, and another woman Krill did not recognize.

Captain Vir burst into the room just then wearing one of the special human outfits, a dark blue suit and mat tie with a peach colored flower at the breast pocket. “Damn dude, you look like shit.”

Across the room David made a rude human gesture by raising both his middle fingers, “F*** you, Adam.”

“That’s incest.”

From where she stood, next to David, Vir’s sister gave him the evil eye, “Be nice, Adam. He’s just nervous.”

“Not nervous enough to throw up all over himself, so I don’t feel sorry in the slightest.” He said walking over to help his brother with his tie.

“Didn’t that happen to you once?” David wondered clearly trying to keep his mind off what was going on.

Vir sighed and glanced longingly up at the air, “Airman Mariah Alvarez, I was so nervous I spilled my drink on her and ended up throwing up…… first and last date I ever had.”

David laughed easing some of the tension in the room, “Ok, yeah, I’m not that nervous, and I’m sure Jordan is doing just fine.”

Vir snorted, “Doing more than fine, though I can’t see why he consented to marrying your dumb ass.”

“Least I actually managed to get a date.” His brother snapped back.

“You better be nice to me, I’m the one giving the toast at dinner tonight, and you don’t want me to tell them about the time you-.”

“Ok…. Ok, you made your point.”

Krill wondered quietly if the humans were always this vicious to each other. Vir insisted that it was a human way of showing affection to each other, but he had a hard time believing it. It just wasn’t logical. Why would you intentionally be an ass to someone you like?

Vir finished with his brother and took a step back, “Stop frowning and you might actually look presentable…..” He paused, “Are you sure you’re ok with Sunny being my plus one?”

David rolled his eyes, “For the last time Adam, I don’t mind Sunny. In fact, I like her and she has good taste in music, so YES I’m fine with her coming. Just…. Keep her in back where mom can’t see her for the time being.”

He chuckled, “Alright, now come on, they’re ready for you.”

Krill followed the humans out into the sunny afternoon and onto the spreading grassy park before them. Distantly a glittering blue lake sparkled in the light of the sun. It was an almost perfect day, a very slight breeze, just enough to keep cool in the mid-summer heat pushing the grass to the side in slow undulating waves. The guests were all already seated as David took his position at the front with Vir standing to the side. Sunny stood at the back of the group and, to Krill’s amusement, she was covered in the same peach-orange flowers that decorated the rest of the venue.

The sun shone down from the sky as Krill watched an unknown human larvae make its way up the isle throwing the flowers left and right seeming to be having a very grand time of it. Other humans appeared, and finally the last human wearing white, or some other light color Krill could not identify , moved up taking David by the hands.

There was quiet music playing in the background, and Krill had to try his best not to fall over. Kimber showed up a few minutes later, hair in long golden curls around her tiny shoulders wearing a sharp black suit and shiny black shoes.

She was carrying a ring.

Krill had trouble making out the words that were spoken. Then, the humans kissed and the entire venue erupted into applause. Two weird human things krill would never understand. Humans seemed to enjoy touching each other’s mouths with their mouths, and screaming and hitting themselves to show how pleased they were. It didn’t make much sense.

The sun had just begun to by the time they made their way onto a covered outdoor patio where the party was to take place. Earth’s sky was plastered with vibrant hues of delicate orange, yellow, pink and deep purple. Camera lenses flashed, and small lights burst into existence all around the dance floor. More human music began to play. The new human pair stepped out onto the floor and began to dance. Off to the side Krill could see Sunny watching in focused memorization as the humans spun back and forth, around and around. After dancing alone for a song, other humans slowly began to join them. As seemed traditional, the Vir would have to dance with the second human accompanying the opposite partner.

Krill caught the conversation.

“So do you want lead or follow, not sure how this works…. Rock paper scissors?” Krill was just beginning to notice that very specific types of humans tended to dance with other very specific types of humans. A smaller, curvier human, with a larger square human. Vir and the other were about the same height, build and clothing style.

He wasn’t able to watch for very long as Kimber found him, and with a big grin, she dragged him, floating, onto the dance floor and proceeded to spin them both round and round until Krill was convinced he was going to go right ahead and die.

He finally managed to get away shaking off the spinning confusion as he watched as the party slowly began to ramp up. At some point Vir approached Sunny and held out a hand, “What do you think Sunny, want to dance?”

She seemed pleased and excited, and they did dance, a seven foot tall Drev, and an above six foot human coaching the Drev through simple dance steps. Slowly spinning across the dance floor.

The sun had finally set leaving the covered patio as the only source of light in the dark night. Food was being brought out and the people had taken their seats. The containers they were using the carry the drinks were in odd shapes, Sunny didn’t seem sure how to hold it, but she did enjoy the salad.

There was a sharp chiming sound from across the room, and Krill looked over to see that Vir had taken to his feet and then to a chair, much to the dismay of his brother, and everyone at the party that knew about his prosthetic, “Alright, alright, quiet down everyone… you see, my brother made the mistake of allowing me to make a toast at his wedding…. In front of all you people, so I’m trying to figure out the most embarrassing story I have about him.”

David was still smiling but the look on his face. Krill wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to expect….. With Vir things could go either way.

“But, since it’s his wedding, I’m going to be nice and short so we can all get back to eating and getting sloshed.” He glanced across the table, “Sorry mom.”

“I know everyone says something super special ad mushy about the couple, about how they are meant to be together, and how everything is perfect and no one is surprised, and, while all of that is true, the important thing to me is how my brother saved my life…. It wasn’t’ so long ago that I was in a really dark place, and my brother had to come dig me out. And Jordan was a saint the entire time. Even when my brother had to skip out on meeting parents, and date night, and dinners, and a WEEK long vacation they had spent months planning, Jordan never once complained, never got mad. He was only understanding. The pair of them together are the best people I know. I owe everything to my brother, and by proxy I owe a lot to Jordan too, and the only complaint I have….” A pause, “Is that these two waited this long to get hitched.”

The room broke out into a burst of more humans screaming and hitting themselves. Sunny took up the custom clapping both her upper and lower hands together.

A few more toasts, a few more things to say, and then David stood, “Alright, while we appreciate all the gooey stuff you guys have to say, this is supposed to be a party, and I expect to see you guys do some wildly stupid stuff. So get going.”

***

He would not be disappointed.

Krill ended up under the table at some point as the humans stomped and cavorted around the room knocking over chairs running into each other and dancing wildly with the thudding thrumming beat which had taken over from the delicate dance music. And when he said dancing, it wasn’t the kind of dancing that Krill had become used to, it turned into the humans wildly waving their arms around stomping their feet and rolling in unknowable patterns and confusing circles like ribbons of silk ripped in the wind.

They lifted each other into the air, and threw flowers until there was barely any ground left.

Drunken and confused, the humans stumbled into each other and passed out under tables. Sunny vanished some time during the evening as the party grew even rowdier. He cowered under the table.

Watching from where he was, he saw Vir dancing with the other humans surprisingly sober compared to his friends. One of the other humans in a rather flowy blue garment ended up close to him. The human had a drink in their hand and they looked rather glazed in the eyes.

He didn’t hear their conversation, but he watched Vir turn and then immediately stumble backwards crashing into the floor before scrambling on hands and knees through the dancing figures and then out of sight.

A chair crashed to the ground next to his table, and he yelped in surprise scooting even further towards the center as a couple of humans hit the floor next to him.

He hid there until morning light danced delicately across the floor casting rays over humans passed out from their late night drinking. Many of the humans had left, but many still remained collapsed others sitting at tables in various states of sleep.

Krill quietly crawled from under the table and went floating around the party not recognizing any of the humans until he moved onto the grass outside of the patio and found Sunny and Vir asleep next to the tent covering. Sunny lay flat on her back in the grass head lolling to the side with Vir tucked against her side under one of her arms head resting against her armored plates. His suit jacket lay over him like a blanket and his tie lay in the grass to the side.

Krill sighed and rolled his eyes looking back at the horrifying aftermath of their party. The collapsed humans, the strewn bodies, it looked like a warzone.

He almost wondered if the Drev way of fighting each other to submission would be less barbaric.

#humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #Earth is space Ausralia

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sselkie · 4 years

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C H A R A C T E R S T U D Y ⇁ ( 1 / ? )

They never knew who to blame it on. The gender. The sex. Perhaps the doctor was the best choice. He had always insisted that it would be a boy; a strong, healthy baby boy that would make his parents proud. He would play football, listen to classical music, become a lawyer. God was sending them a saint. The perfect son. Except you were not a saint, or a son for that matter. Someone had to paint the crib pink and buy some dresses. In fact, all the pants would have to go. Even the binkies and the bibs were the wrong colors. And they certainly couldn’t name a little girl Penley. Only a monster would do that.

The first words that graced your ears were from that of the doctor, a statement twisted into a question. “It’s . . a girl?” Then your parents had clamored, began panicking. “Wrap her up in a pink blanket! Get rid of the blue — you told us it’d be a boy!” A baby girl. What a nuisance. They’d raise you as their daughter, and what would you do? You’d just take someone else’s name in the end, continue on a different person’s legacy. Bullshit. Total bullshit. But what could they do?

Yet, they took you home. Long, sleepless nights exchanged between your parents. It should come as a surprise that they refused to hire a nanny with their deep pockets. Part of you might always wonder how they could want you and care for you as a child: screaming, helpless, annoying.

II.

For years, they kept telling you a baby brother was on the way. Their expected prince. But for years they couldn’t seem to make it happen. The longer they failed, the farther pregnancy seemed away. Your hopeful little smile dipped farther from returning each time the announcement was retracted. Nonetheless, your father would go out and buy a bouquet each time he’d think they’d done it. You’d sit by them for a few hours each day, memorizing the different colors and the droop of the petals, until eventually you couldn’t help but touch them. The velvety petals would roll between your clumsy fingers and if you didn’t accidentally take one off, then the next morning you’d return and they’d have retracted.

It tended to be those same days your parents would get into a heated discussion — the doctor informing them that no, they were not pregnant though you’d tried your best to beg him for a different answer. You would proceed to coax the flower back out, talking till your throat was raw, and your mom peppered you with kisses to inform you that bedtime had arrived. The connection was simple to reach for, but you’d always eventually give in and feel the petals between your fingers. You’d certainly love a baby brother with golden hair like yours, but he was not here and you could not solve that. You loved the flowers, and it was too trying not to strain for their embrace.

Other days, Mama would set up a picnic out back, the woods edging against your backyard and the wildflowers calling you from a distance. Those were the times that Dad would be at work all day. You’d fill your mother’s antique tea-set with your special punch — melted popsicles, and sip away under the Indiana sunshine. She’d let you run free, go screaming victoriously into the forest. Those were different times. Sometimes you’d come back without a shirt, your skirt riding high in all your childhood glory and she’d lift you up into her arms and chastise you with a smile. Then, you’d both disappear in the forest looking for the lost articles of clothing as she talked about how children of God were supposed to wear clothes and that you were not a witch, not like the people far down the street.

III.

The news came too soon. Father fumed for days, raving on and on about how that this wasn’t his fault. Given, you didn’t learn till years later that it truly wasn’t. There was no chance for that baby brother you and your mother dreamed about aloud on sunny, summer days. Hope lay stagnant between your parents, but hidden in your underbelly waiting for a new dream to arise. Dormant, realizing that they had hit a wall, Mama and Dad never recovered. Weekends spent watching reruns of Tom and Jerry interchangeably with them were warped into something else. A nightmare you never understood of vodka, rum, wine, beer, anything really.

Being perfectly honest, the difficult part was never tucking yourself in at night. It was that you still loved them when they would not give in to your childish pleas of coming home, going inside, and just falling asleep. So that your worrying may not warp your dreams into nightmares. From there, alcohol was the easiest thing to erase from your future.

But with fifth grade arrived a project. It hadn’t seemed significant at first, just wasteful. You didn’t want to spend the time prepping a tri-fold when you could be running rampant in the woods outside or riding your bike to the park or painting. At some point your parents had even cracked and bought you an easel once they’d tired of constant finger-painting. Of course, you’d rather be tracing dandelions than doing homework. With topics being plucked up within days of the two week assignment, you scrambled for whatever was thrown your way. That was when you knew what you wanted. The job fair had gone smoothly; the idea of being a real life police officer racing through your mind. That concept, the possibility of helping people snagged under your skin.

IV.

Teenage years passed as a blur in your peripheral vision. They were years of confusion, certainly. You definitely weren’t interested in sex, though you assumed you’d just wait till you found the right person. Additionally, you never bothered dating; you’d rather ignore how you’d always need to strike up a conversation with Jen from physics.

Eventually, your parents gave up on trying to sell you the life of a florist as opposed to that of a police officer. In fact, they struggled for anything else they could get you to do. A nurse. A mother. A teacher. A waitress. A secretary. “Please, anything, but a man’s job.” Your mom was known to beg and for a while you had made them happy as a waitress, saving money and waiting till you could move out.

It was no big shock to most in the church community when you were offered a job. You still do not understand your parent’s complete disdain. Many people aren’t thick-skulled. They had accepted the possibility of a woman working a man’s job. Still, the offer was huge to a girl like you. It has been what you’d wanted since forever. You’d have to attend the police academy, not too far from Wheeler, but not within the town limits. In return, you were promised a job at the Wheeler Police Department and half of your tuition paid for.

You accepted without hesitation and with a noticeable lack of any conversation exchanged with your parents on the topic. Inevitably, the good news couldn’t be stifled for long. Believe it or not, you knew right when they knew; father insisted you were to leave. Your mom, as always, only offered a saddening smile behind his back. You took what was important: your flower pots, bed, bike, clothes, painting supplies, and toothbrush. And in a fit of frustration and rage, you dumped their wine stand onto the floor. The glass and alcohol pooled into a mosaic; one that you can still remember, a message from God no doubt hidden somewhere in it. But you were gone, sprinting out the door and swinging into your friend’s pick-up before it could speak to you. As far as you know it still sits there, waiting to be translated.

Two and a half years passed quicker than you expected and graduation occurred late April. It was the ceremony that churned by in two and a half years rather than two and a half hours. You achieved near two disembodied claps after your name rang across the stage. There was no “that’s my girl” or cowbell echoing distantly.

Within the week after, you had your hand on the bible and an apartment. The week after that, your first day on the job. An early birthday present, better than lamenting in the Chinese restaurant for the third year in a row.

Soon though, it seemed that with your hiring came an avalanche of horror. Cassie Klein’s disappearance. You’d broken down in the brush behind the Klein’s house less than an hour after arriving on the scene, praying to God that he need not do this. This karma was reserved for you, not a child. And yet, it appeared he hadn’t listened, not since you had cried till utterly raw with blood dripping from your nose.

These mental breaks were never supposed to become ritual. But ever since her disappearance (one year exactly), you cannot catch a break. You want to do good so badly that maybe you don’t know when to quit, but you’d like to learn how to do better.

#TW: alcholism #TW: sexism #& . ( i could have been a great many things. ) / * bio.#& . ( hearts like flowers cannot be rudely handled but must open naturally... ) / * aesthetic.

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flowerconcept-blog · 7 years

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forever, endlessly [m]

pairing: yoongi/reader genre: soulmate au!!!!!!! fluff!!!!! fluffy smut!!! bad writing!!!!!! length: 3.9k notes: this is a thank u to my sweet followers for continuing to follow me etc. etc. and also a celebration of the comeback! i really love u all and even though i’m not good at longer stories i hope that this is okay i just wanted to post something :( i hope to post some more stuff soon :( also the smut is like the last 1.5k words so if u want just the sfw stuff you can stop before the last section!

Your mother never had a mark.

When you were young, you didn’t understand why. You had a mark, your strange twisting line on the inside of your left forearm. Your best friend Seulgi had a mark. Your uncle and aunt had marks, twin ones on their palms that met when they held hands.

“Where is your soul mark?” you asked one night, curled into her warmth as she read your favorite story to you, her fingers carding through your hair.

“I don’t need this, sweet pea,” she said, tapping her blank arm, “because I have you, and you’re all I need.” Her smile was soft, and kind, and you stared at her with big eyes.

“When will I meet my soulmate?” you whispered, tugging your quilt closer to you. You tried to imagine the meeting: the summer sun beaming down in the middle of a park as he approaches, flowers everywhere, the wind rustling his hair. Would he have black hair? Brown? What color would his eyes be? What would his voice sound like?

“I don’t know, honey, but I’m sure you’ll be very happy when you do.” She leaned down, then, to kiss your forehead, and walked to turn off the light.

“Good night, darling.”

“Good night,” you replied, voice small. With the dim light of the moon pouring in your window, you thought about your soulmate until you slipped into sleep.

The party is stifling.

You’ve never been one for crowded places, and this is undeniably crowded, full of people dancing and drinking and laughing. You press yourself against the wall, waiting for Seulgi to return with your drinks and staring at your phone every few seconds to look busy. When your Economics study partner Namjoon had suggested you come to the house party he was throwing, you had been reluctant, but between his wheedling and Seulgi’s insistence that “you need to go out more,” you had caved.

It wasn’t like you hated parties, it was more like you never knew what to do with yourself. Even now with a few drinks in your system, the faint buzz of alcohol wasn’t enough to drown out your nervousness. You knew Namjoon had friends, but you didn’t know he had these friends, these cool, attractive friends like Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook.

“At least try to look like you’re having fun,” a voice drawls by your ear and you start, turning to see Namjoon grinning at your surprise.

“Don’t scare me like that!” you glare, punching him lightly. “And it’s not my fault your apartment reeks. I can’t have fun when all I can smell is your dirty laundry!”

“Hey!” he exclaims indignantly, as Seulgi comes back and hands you a refilled red solo cup. You see her soul mark, three crescent moons in the crook of her elbow, and swallow hard, thinking of Joohyun’s matching mark. Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of all the couples in the room. How many of them are soulmates? you think, and then shake the thought away.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Seulgi teases Namjoon, and at the same time Taehyung calls his name from across the room and he backs away, winking at you before he leaves.

“Duty calls!” You scoff at his words and take a sip of your drink, wincing a bit at the vodka. Seulgi starts talking about a new cafe down the street from your shared apartment and you nod along, staring out at the room before your eyes catch on a figure entering the room from the kitchen. His hair is grey, you note, and then he turns your way and you make eye contact and you swear for a moment the world stops turning.

You look away, cheeks flushing. When you look at him again, he’s still looking at you, and your mark aches, a sharp pang that you’ve never felt before.

Your mouth goes dry.

“Who is that?” you murmur to Seulgi, nodding at him as he makes his way towards Taehyung and Namjoon. “The guy with the grey hair?”

“Hm?” she says, and then she nods in recognition. “That’s Min Yoongi, I’m in Politics with him. Why? Are you interested?”

“I’ve just,” you pause and blink, unable to deny it. “I’ve seen him around.”

You can’t get his face out of your mind.

Was that him? Was that your soulmate? You touch your soul mark softly and stare at the ceiling, disbelieving. Was that how you met the love of your life? Not even met, just saw, in a crowded room at a house party. His eyes had been so sharp.

You’ve never felt that pang before, but no one had ever said anything about it, either. When you asked Seulgi about Joohyun she said she knew the moment she saw her, but what if you thought you knew and you were wrong?

What if he’s dating someone else? What if he already found his soulmate? What if he didn’t feel what you felt? Your head is spinning.

You had thought you had given up on soulmates. People put too much stock in them. You were happy without your soulmate. Your mother was happy without any soulmate, and you had friends who were dating people who weren’t their soulmates, or who had no marks. You were happy. Sometimes a little lonely, but that had nothing to do with your “missing half.” You were complete, soulmate or not. But –

It felt like something had clicked when you saw him, something deep inside of your heart. There was something more in that moment: it was like you knew him. Like you had met him before, in another world, or somewhere, but you were sure you hadn’t. You touch your mark again.

There’s no way someone so beautiful is my soulmate, you think, and bury your face in your pillow.

After you first see Min Yoongi, you start seeing him everywhere, and every time you see him, your heart does this tiny duh dum that you wish you could ignore. In the cafeteria, in the library, and in the hallways. usually with headphones on, sometimes with Taehyung or Jimin or Jungkook. It seems that he’s beautiful no matter what, sleepy eyed or wide awake, dressed in jeans or sweatpants, under fluorescent lighting or in bright sunlight.

Not that you’re paying attention.

But you only see him from far away, and sometimes you catch yourself wondering what his eyes look like up close, or his lips. Self indulgent thoughts that you keep to yourself, trying to come to terms with the fact that you’ll never know the answers to your private questions. Until, a week after the party, while you’re struggling to study for economics with Namjoon, Yoongi and Jimin sit down across from you.

The duh dum is much louder now. “Hey, guys,” Namjoon says offhandedly as he stares at elasticity curves, taking a moment before remembering to introduce you.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Yoongi says, and then he says your name, and your eyes meet, and again your mark pangs where it’s hidden under your sweater. Your lips part, almost instinctively, and then you shut your mouth immediately to avoid gaping like a fool. Is his heart beating this fast, too?

Distantly, you recognize Jimin echoing his words, and you look at him, too, but you only vaguely realize it.

“It’s nice to meet both of you,” you say, before Namjoon breaks your trance with a question.

His eyes are brown.

[07:16] Namjoon: we’re throwing a party tonight, u should come

You stare at your phone for a good minute before releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in.

You want to go. You really want to go. He might not be there, you rationalize. Is it really worth dressing up and going all the way to Namjoon’s on the off chance that Yoongi is there? Just to see him, even when you probably won’t talk to him?

You know the answer immediately.

[07:22] You: i’ll be there :)

When you arrive you half hide behind Seulgi and Joohyun as they walk in ahead of you, suddenly self-conscious. Now that you’ve officially met will things be different? That’s stupid, you think, but your heart is caught in your throat. Too distracted by your own thoughts as you trail behind Seulgi and Joohyun to grab a drink, you don’t notice Jimin nudging Yoongi and pointing at you, and you don’t notice Namjoon walking over until he’s right in front of you.

“Hey!” he exclaims, suddenly launching into some anecdote about the Econ lecture you had missed on Wednesday. Before long he’s maneuvered you over to his friends, the group of you cracking jokes as your limbs stop feeling so tense.

Standing so close to Yoongi, you can almost feel his body heat, and you can definitely feel his stare on the side of your face. You glance over at him, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously when he looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

As you try adamantly to keep yourself from staring at his profile, a loud crash comes from the kitchen, and Namjoon and Jimin excuse themselves, hauling Taehyung along with them.

Leaving you. And Min Yoongi. Alone. Or, well, as alone as you can be in a room of crowded people.

“You’re, um, in a Politics class with Seulgi, right?” you ask, your stomach full of nervous butterflies again. He’s so close.

“Yeah, I’m interested in music though,” he replies, and you find yourself flushing when you make eye contact. He’s so close and so beautiful and there’s something in his eyes that maybe, just maybe, reflects what he can see in yours. “What about you?”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure exactly, I’m…” you trail off, your mark aching again as he doesn’t look away from you. As if in a dream, you see his hand move to touch his mark. A strange, twisting line in the inside of his left forearm. Your mark.

“I’m…” you stutter out, fingers automatically going to touch your own mark, half tucked under the sleeve of your shirt. “You… That’s my mark.” It takes you a moment to remember how to breathe. Min Yoongi has your soul mark.

He’s your soulmate.

What feels like an eternity later, you drag your eyes away from his forearm to look at his face. His hand reaches out and pulls your sleeve up, painfully gentle. Your soul mark, the twin to his, stares up at both of you.

You can’t look away from him. He’s your soulmate. “I thought – when I first saw you...” you stammer, “it was like something changed.” You want to say more, but you can’t. The noise of the party seems to have faded out of existence. It’s just you and him, staring at each other. Hearts pounding.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. Like a secret. “Me too.”

It’s been a month since you found each other, and now the night finds you half drunk on the roof of his apartment building, your fingers laced together as you chatter aimlessly about everything and anything, his quiet responses sometimes barely audible over the sounds of the city and the quiet thunder in the distance.

When your gaze flicks to Yoongi’s face he’s looking at your lips, and familiar desire pools in the pit of your stomach. You want him, so much you can hardly stand it at times, but it hasn’t felt like the right time yet.

But now feels like the right time, or at least the ache between your legs thinks so as you study the way the light hits his face, the warmth in his eyes. His long, lovely fingers that you can rarely get out of your mind.

Before you can say anything, though, it starts raining, abruptly and heavily, and Yoongi pulls you up as you sputter in surprise and indignation. “Fuck!” You dart inside, dragging him along and he’s laughing, the sound sending shivers through you.

“That seemed like a moment out of a movie,” he smiles, and kisses you, your fingers sneaking their way into his wet hair as you sigh happily. He breaks it off too soon, your lips chasing him unconsciously before you remember your drenched clothes and follow him down to his apartment.

Inside, it’s blissfully quiet, and again you are reminded of your arousal when you think no one is here to hear us.

“Here,” Yoongi says, and hands you a t-shirt and boxers before looking away, his ears slightly pink. “I’ll change in the bathroom and be right back.”

“Okay,” you reply, a flush of your own creeping up your neck as he leaves and you pull your wet dress over your head. For a moment, you stand there, overwhelmed by the fact that you’re half-naked in Yoongi’s room, and then you shake your head, pulling his clothes on. Are you a teenager again?

There’s a knock on the door and you manage a “come in,” seconds before Yoongi walks in, dressed in sweatpants and a soft t-shirt and you are, once again, blown away by how beautiful he is.

“You… look good,” he says, eyes dark and voice strained. You can’t imagine you do, in a huge shirt with damp hair, but you smile shyly at him anyways, heart beating in your chest.

“So do you.” You want to touch him, so much you’re about to move towards him but he takes a step forward, then another, until he’s right in front of you and his hands come up to cup your face. His grip is so gentle, and you melt into him, leaning into his touch instinctively.

“You’re so beautiful,” Yoongi murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, feather-light, and you can barely breathe through the butterflies swelling in your chest. You blink up at him, wide-eyed, and his hands move to rest on your hips, burning holes through the fabric of his shirt. His eyes catch on yours and you know what he wants, mostly because you want it too.

“Please,” you breathe, and then he’s kissing you again, more insistent this time. You whimper into him as his fingers sneak under the hem of your (his) shirt to trace circles on your bare skin, pressing closer to his warmth and moving one of your hands to tangle in his hair, the other clutching at his shirt. You exhale as Yoongi trails kisses down your neck, stopping to nip at your pulse point and then, lower, your collarbone.

A jolt of desire runs up and down your spine and then settles between your legs when you realize you’ll wake up with bruises. You’re almost surprised by how intensely you want him to leave his mark on you, all over you, and you whimper when he kisses you again. You want Yoongi all over you, you want to be his. You are his. You always were.

His lips against yours is nothing new, but the heat behind this kiss is practically unbearable, and when you press your thighs together you can feel the lace of your underwear clinging to your arousal. Backing you towards the bed, he reluctantly breaks the kiss to tug off your shirt and throw it to the side. “Lie down,” he says, voice honey sweet and deep with arousal, and you obey in a blind haze, lying down on the bed. When he takes his own shirt off, your breath catches in your throat at the sight – his pale skin stretched taut over softly defined muscles, his dark eyes burning with lust, his arousal clear against his sweatpants. He looks unreal.

“What did I do to deserve you?” You ask, breathless, and Yoongi laughs, his smile blinding as he moves towards you. “No, seriously, I must have been a saint in a past life to have you as my soulmate, I don’t understand –”

He cuts you off with another kiss, impatient fingers slipping his boxers off of you as you raise your hips to help him. Pulling away, he tucks loose hairs behind your ear, smile still lighting up his face. “I could ask the same thing.”

A flush creeps up your chest to your cheeks and you scrunch up your nose at him, heart pounding. “Cute,” Yoongi remarks, smile twisting into a smirk, and then he starts to trail kisses down the line of your neck. When he reaches the top of your bra he bites gently at the skin spilling out of the lace and then reaches behind you to unclasp it. Eyes wide, you watch as he tugs the straps down your arms and throws your bra to the side, shifting backwards and looking at you for a long second. “Jesus,” he swears under his breath, and your embarrassment only intensifies at the lust in his eyes when you make eye contact.

“What?” You whisper, uncomfortable for a moment before he presses his lips to your collarbone again and one of his hands come to cup your breast, the touch making you gasp.

“You’re beautiful,” his voice comes, low and sincere, and your heart stops. “And you’re mine.”

Every atom in your body is singing. “I’m yours,” you manage, though it trails off into a moan when he drags his tongue over your nipple. Your cunt is aching to be touched, your clit throbbing, and as Yoongi bites down your hips jerk up to meet his, walls clenching around nothing. “Yoongi, please,” your voice cracks when his hand moves down to rest on your thigh, thumb just brushing against the edge of your underwear. “Please,” you whimper again, arousal so intense you’re almost dizzy with it.

He looks up at you and you can’t resist the urge to bring your fingers to trace his jaw tenderly, watching it clench at your touch. “What do you want, sweetheart?” he asks, words rough, and you pout. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you, I promise.”

“I–I need you to–” You get out, then bite your lip, embarrassed. “I need you to touch me.”

“Where?” Yoongi asks, and shifts to kiss you again. “Here?” His touch comes, barely there, on your soul mark, and a shiver runs through you. You shake your head. “Here?” Again, gently, under the swell of your breast. “No?” His smirk widens when you shake your head again, furrowing your eyebrows. “Here?” And then he’s cupping you through your underwear and your body quivers at his touch, his name falling from your lips without thinking.

“Yes, Yoongi, please,” You surge up to kiss him again, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging and his fingers are pulling off your underwear and then they’re circling your clit and your hips keep stuttering up towards him, trying to get closer to his touch. When you run out of air he’s still smirking and you would scowl if you could focus on anything but the pleasure coursing through your body.

“You’re so wet already, baby girl. And all for me.” Yoongi slips one finger into your cunt and you cry out, so wound up you feel like you might explode any second. “You sound so fucking good, and you feel even better. And you’re mine, you’re my soulmate. You’re like a dream.”

Fuck, you think, and might say, but you aren’t sure because your mind is fuzzy, your eyes squeezed shut. The pleasure in your body builds, insistently, as he adds another finger and grinds his palm against your clit, and when all of a sudden you feel his tongue against your cunt your hips buck and you choke out a scream of his name. You’re so close, so close, so close, and then you’re there, falling over the edge as you come, white exploding behind your eyelids.

For a moment, everything goes still. Then you feel Yoongi’s fingers slip out of you and you half sigh, half moan, peeling your eyes open to look at him. “Kiss me,” you say, and he smiles, moving up your body to catch your lips with his. Body loose from your orgasm, you grab the hem of his sweatpants and boxers and tug them down, hand wrapping around his cock for only a minute before he bats it away.

“I won’t be able to fuck you if you make me come too soon,” he growls into the kiss and you grin, hands twisting into his hair.

“Then fuck me.” He curses your name, scrambling to grab a condom from his bedside table in what might be the least graceful movement you’ve ever seen from Yoongi. You watch, entranced, as his lovely fingers rip open the packet and then slide the condom over his lovely, lovely cock, and when he looks to find you staring his expression melts into something between tenderness and desire.

You imagine your face isn’t much different. You smile so hard your cheeks hurt, still full of arousal but full of something else, too, something that is probably love.

In that moment, your heart swelling, you know that you love this boy more than anything else in this moment, and you know that you will love him more than anything else for the rest of your life. Your soul mark pangs, but this time it’s less painful and more of a reminder of the tie that binds you to Min Yoongi, the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen in your life. “Did your mark just sting?” He asks, quietly, as he slides on top of you, your legs curling around his waist naturally.

“Yes,” you reply, breathless, and you smile shyly at him. A month, you’ve known him, but you swear it’s been an eternity. He leans down to kiss you, one hand helping him ease his cock into your still wet cunt, and your heart stutters at the intimacy of the moment as he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip.

You can feel him inside you, over you, all around you – you’re surrounded by his body, his scent, your mind full of Yoongi Yoongi Yoongi, nothing but him. With his skin pressed to yours it feels like you’re completing each other. As his hips snap against yours you lose yourself, again, to the bliss, until with a particularly hard thrust and his hand at your aching clit you tip over the edge again and he follows after you, slowing to a stop.

Later, after you’ve thrown away the condom and he’s washed your hair in the shower and slipped a new shirt over your head and a pair of boxers over his hips, you lie next to each other under the sheets, your body tucked into his.

“Yoongi,” you say, trying to convey what you’re feeling in the single word. It’s too early to say I love you, but the words are there, unspoken. Reaching out, he traces your soul mark and then brings your arm against his mouth to kiss it. For what must be the thousandth time, your heart stops at the warmth in his eyes.

He hums your name and you press your lips against his collarbone, trying to blink away the overwhelmed tears that are threatening to spill. Around you, his hand settles on the curve of your hip and he kisses the top of your head; chaste, closed-mouthed, feather-light.

You understand, now, the wonder you used to catch in Seulgi’s eyes when she looked at Joohyun. There is something unbearable about the love that floods your body, the beat of his heart deafening. “My soulmate,” he whispers, and you feel the words more than hear them.

“My soulmate,” you say back, and the two of you stay there, content in the silence, until you fall asleep.

#bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi scenarios #yoongi smut #suga scenarios #thank u guys...ahhhh #let me know what u think??!??!?#i love u so much #also what r ur thoughts on the comeback!

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yoosungshoodie · 6 years

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bright stars.

CHARACTERS: ORIGINAL CHARACTERS. Juyeon Park, Daeshim Ryu. FANDOM: Mystic Messenger, but only mentions of canon characters like V and Rika. Not based on MM’s plot purely and diverges canon. WORD COUNT: 2.5k. AUTHOR’S NOTE: Keep in mind there’s slight abuse in this. Nothing too serious. A completely self indulgent project for an MM OC I have, intended to be V’s alternate MC but this is written in VABVerse’s universe, which is written by the lovely @fromthedeskofelizabeththird. Also including @kiserusmoke for her OC Daeshim Ryu. I’m aware I should write something about Juyeon before posting this, but I’ll save that for a later date.

Keep in mind this is a work based solely on my OC and other people’s OC’s in a verse that diverges canon.

Juyeon Park (Jenny) is a twenty-something year old soloist who drops off the map and becomes a member of Mint Eye after the death of a family member. She eventually becomes one of Rika’s "prized” expendable followers before being discarded and the cult is disbanded. This takes place before set events of VABVerse, and gives some insight to her character.

Juyeon Park did not understand the words spoken to her over her cell phone’s receiver. While her hearing was exceptional and she had a knack for creating songs, she had no longer been able to comprehend the string of words being spoken to her over the phone.

“We would need some money from you to cover funeral costs,” Her mother had told her conversationally, as if they were discussing borrowing money to buy a pair of shoes. Juyeon, from what she had seen from her mother’s social media, was a very big fan of Louboutins. “I know you were close to her, so I’m not too concerned about the cost of the funeral. I’m wondering if she had kept any extra money behind as well.”

While she had always known her mother was never much of anything besides pencil skirts and paperwork, there was an uncomfortable feeling that settled itself in her stomach when she heard of her grandmother being spoken about; almost as if she was a pet goldfish. It did not take long for Juyeon to know it wasn’t her lack of eating that had made her suddenly feel very ill.

“I understand, but I have a request to make of you.” Juyeon spoke slowly while she drummed her fingers over her armrest. “I don’t feel comfortable speaking to you directly. Handle the issue through my manager. Please know that your invitation to her funeral is pending.”

In truth, she knew for a very long time her grandmother was dying. She had taken time off to watch time serve judgement by ending a life that didn’t deserve to end, even though she could never say that out loud. As her grandmother’s health declined however, Juyeon’s fear drove her away from impending death. Knowing that she had died, as terrible as it was to admit, seemed to feel like a relief. It felt like a weight lifted from her chest, no longer in suspension and freed her tangled limbs to move forward. Perhaps it was possible that she wanted her away from the world that had been nothing but cruel. It was better for her grandmother, and better for Juyeon as well.

Cruelty, she had decided, was something that was natural in people. She had never met a kindness in her life, and despite the smiles that placed themselves on waiting faces for her gaze, there was always something shiny and inauthentic about the notion. Learning to swallow those feelings at a young age, it had not been long before Juyeon knew how to conjure up a smile of her own that read in the exact same way. Acquiring a perfectly even-sided grin which showcased perfect teeth and sparkling eyes to match, Juyeon had given herself away to the inauthenticity she swore to harbor so much hate for.

She had not considered anything different from people until she had received an inkling of something at a gallery event she was forced to attend.

“Juyeon. Fix your posture. These windows aren’t tinted.” A gauntly woman next to Juyeon spoke. Ms. Yoo was a ghostly looking woman who stood at five-foot-seven and had likely been in the same position Juyeon was, once. Despite that possibility, she had never managed to exercise much empathy towards Juyeon’s from her merciless scheduling and overnight shooting. As far as Juyeon’s thoughts about her went, she personally would have taken great pleasure in running her over with her own sickly and tacky white convertible.

If Juyeon was to be honest, though, she was watching her a great deal. It was understood that her manager was divorced at least once, judging by the wedding band she wore despite being Miss Yoo, and the equally frightening men that she lingered beside in photos stationed at her desk. She was also aware that her bitter divorce battle was something that managed to spill into her work while she was in her office, considering the thin walls of the agency. There was a time Juyeon considered leaking some of her more private matters into the media out of sheer boredom, but having a new manager was a risky move.

“You know,” Her manager had spoken again, this time her voice much lower. “I heard you went up three kilograms.”

“Thank you for worrying about me.”

“Thank me for what? That you’ve been sneaking food from the back of the building because you think they don’t have security cameras? I’m sure you already know.” “How do you know it’s me? It could be any of the other pig trainees at the industry.”

Juyeon hadn’t been looking at her when she spoke, and she could only respond with a mild yelp when she felt the side of her head shoved towards the passenger window, with a dull thump from the glass resonating between the car.

“Do you think you can slack off now because you’ve made it?” Her manager had kept her hand raised in case of retaliation, but Juyeon said nothing as she settled herself back into the passenger seat, fixing her fussed curls with a shaking hand.

“You think you work so hard, don’t you. Just because you can hit a couple of notes and you look pretty. It’s disgraceful, really.” She had gotten out of the car by then and Juyeon quietly followed suit, lips pursed into a moderate line.

The hall was nothing short of grandiose and photographers galore, possibly more than she’d seen at her usual events. The host was a man she had met briefly at another gallery showing; she could tell by his humble gray cardigan and his sideswept blue hair that he was otherworldly and alluring. It was not difficult to find that his girlfriend had been something of the same distinction, judging by her waist long waves of blonde hair and grass-green eyes.

When Juyeon had first seen them, she had thought someone ripped the two out of a perfectly curated designer catalogue book—if she didn’t know any better, she would’ve been surprised the moment they moved. She remembered being distantly envious of her kindness. Rika, if she remembered correctly, spoke in a high voice that sounded akin to wind chimes, and even though she was a virtual nobody next to Juyeon, she still found herself thankful that she now had Rika’s number saved as a contact. It was slightly humiliating to think about.

Like all events she had attended, they wasted no expense on the decor—it never mattered how things really looked if you decorated it enough—with flowers and bright white lights that seemed to fill the room. Ms. Yoo had gone off to wherever she usually went, chatting up other people while she was left to her own devices.

In her peripheral, she could tell people had been eyeing her, surveying her, and measuring her up as she walked by with a quiet grace that was beaten into her from her debut. The way men would gawk at her made her feel like a pet in a cage to be judged for her grooming, but the thought no longer bothered her as much as it used to.

She found herself stationed in front of a blown-up portrait with a long exposure shot of the stars, faint white dotting the print canvas with a skew of color variations rolling over the sky. While she examined the photo carefully, it became obvious that it was too large and held too much for her eyes to simply glance over, so her feet stilled directly in front of the photo. The gentle and cold hues of the blue and purple provoked enough thought to quiet the world around her as she goggled unabashedly. Faintly, she wished she could be as bright and unfeeling as they were.

She had felt a very particular set of eyes on her that stood out from the others for amidst her admiration, but by the time she turned around, she could only see a flash of burgundy and black that sunk back into the crowd.

Who wears a suit that shiny? Her eyebrows seemed permanently knit together as she considered the lack of comfort that involved putting on a suit of that caliber.

Navigating the sea of crowd that presented itself before her was a hassle in itself. People she could hardly remember asked her if she recognized them, to where she had nodded with an excitement she reserved for variety shows and live performances.

“Juyeon! How are you?” Jihong Jung’s presence was as alarming as a fireball, and Juyeon had to mentally prepare herself before he spoke any further. He was a strange man who stood at a nice six-foot-one and had a rather strange fondness of skinship, despite Juyeon only working on a song with him. While he was rather pretty, Juyeon was never fond of another person’s touch.

“Not so loud, you bastard.” A manicured finger pressed against her temple and her eyes shut in moderate annoyance.

“This venue isn’t exactly built for inside voices, you know.” He began, a hand running from her shoulder to the tip of her elbow rather slowly. He kept up this action for a while.

She scoffed. “You must live a tiresome life.”

“You know how it’s like for me, we all have an image to uphold.” Jihong’s voice lowered and he had stepped closer to her for privacy’s sake. If she was to be honest, she was glad he was at least no longer yelling in her face.

“Taking photos next to pound dogs isn’t an image that’s going to last. I mean, you could be spending much more of your time improving your craft.” She said slyly. How lazy could he get?

“True. But you’re one of the lucky ones.”

She wondered how dense he was to agree with her. Fixing her dress, she propped a brow upwards as she spoke. “I’m aware, but tell me how so anyways.”

“You can get annoyed and kick and scream all you want, and everyone would cover it up for you anyways. The nation’s princess and all. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve ever been able to be angry.”

He didn’t know how wrong he was, but she let him continue speaking regardless. A clouding look had overshadowed his features when he paused between a sentence, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “Speaking of, there’s something you need to know…”

And in the midst of his own faux secrecy he had grabbed her by the hand and pulled her close, eyes set on her while she could only return an expression that read of bemusement. Juyeon would have loved to at least pretend to feign some sort of interest, but instead she had found herself watching a very familiar figure slam something down towards a waiter and barrel out of the hall. The idea that her attention was elsewhere made her rather uncomfortable, but she was quick to deduce it down to just being tired; she usually quite enjoyed hearing about other people’s scandals.

“Speaking of annoyed, I’ve had enough. I’m bored.” She said dryly, pushing his hand away from hers as she straightened her posture. The only thing she had looked forward to tonight was being able to sleep on the car ride to her next destination, and she thought she was near hallucinating when he found a firm grip on her elbow to pull her back.

“Wait, listen to me.” It wasn’t difficult to understand that something in his eyes were different as he said that to her. A small smile pricked the edge of her lips when she watched his grip on her elbow tighten.

So he does have a breaking point. Juyeon made no point to move as she knew that people didn’t like her making too much noise, nor would anyone help her in the room as her knowing smile turned into a vague scowl.

“Miss Park, how lovely to see you again!” It’s a voice she didn’t recognize, one that was calling towards her with so much familiarity it makes her gaze falter towards the person in question.

It was instinctive for her to scowl, but she paused when she had seen exactly who had been the one calling for her. The man in the burgundy suit, who worked with V. If her brief and sour meeting from him gave her anything, it was that his name was Daeshim and he had a flair for the dramatics; his suit made it glaringly obvious. She had sworn, from the bottom of her heart, that he despised her. He had seen right through her when they first met, and it was strange to think that there was someone who didn’t find her charming. However, he was V’s PR agent. The likelihood of him meeting countless people like her before wasn’t slim.

There was a moment that she needed to register that he was speaking again. “Please introduce me to your lovely acquaintance, is he your co-star?”

What does he think he’s doing? Juyeon had never had someone intervene in situations like this before, and she had never intervened in the many that had occurred in her presence. For the most part, people ignored things like this—people who worked in the industry only gravitated towards shiny and pretty things.

It was clear he wasn’t looking for an answer to her question, because he continued to speak anyways. “Why, you’re so stunning I’m sure my client would love to have you as his next model. Let’s go say hello.”

With only her mouth hung slightly ajar, she had watched Daeshim drag Jihong further away from the scene and melt into the crowd yet again. The exchange she consequently watched take place had nothing to do kindness and brimmed to the edge with venom. While she wasn’t aware of what they were saying, it had taken her almost halfway through their conversation to realize he had saved her from something she was far too accustomed to, one she had learned to shove down her throat and normalize.

When she knew that, she began to rationalize as quickly as she could to make sense of the situation. She juggled the possibilities of him wanting her to owe him later for a favor, or maybe he simply did it in hopes of other people watching to seem like a good samaritan; but the truth was, Daeshim had nothing to ask of her and they had not attracted the attention of a single soul throughout the exchange.

A sudden detachment came between herself and the party as he let Jihong go and turned back to her with nothing more or less than nod. She had expected him to come back to her and demand compensation for the brave act, or at the very least expect something. It was the first time she had witnessed the kindness she passionately rejected the existence of, and it had been enough to keep her deep in thought for the rest of the party. Somehow, she felt that he would be something significant—to her or the world, she wasn’t quite sure yet.

#juyeon park #i should tag all my writing works but sig h s #that's just a lot of suffering #anyways meet my daughter she's a little shit #be warned this is almost entirely about an oc so lmfao

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aelin-and-feyre · 7 years

Text

Belladonna Farm (Part 1)

Yay! The first part of my new Nessian series! This will be a seven part fic and will have a couple aesthetic boards to go with it.

Fun Fact: The setting for this fic is a real place that I have been to and took pictures of for the aesthetics. Everything about it is 100% true except for the mountains (which I added because Illyrians).

Please let me know what you guys think!

Tagging: @aelinxfeyre @rowanismybae (let me know if you want to be added to this tag list!)

Aesthetic Board 1

‘belladonna’

noun

1. also called deadly nightshade. a poisonous plant, Atropa belladonna, or the nightshade family, having purplish-red flowers and blackberries

2. Italian for ‘beautiful lady’

...

Saturday

Nesta checks her phone again, squinting as she tries to understand the directions the stupid GPS app is telling her. She is pretty sure that it is completely wrong. After all, the last town is twenty miles back, and all around her are corn fields, with a small mountain range situated behind them. The road she is currently driving on is paved, but has many potholes, and the closest neighbors are several kilometers apart. Surely her late Aunt Ripleigh - who had loved to talk all day if she had an audience - wouldn’t want to live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, that may as well have been Nesta’s city heart talking. She could never imagine staying in a place like this for a long period of time, corn fields surrounding you, the sun beating down constantly. As it is, she has the air conditioning blasting in her car and the humidity is still getting to her hair. Not that she has anyone to impress. Nesta briefly feels a bit grateful for a week with no one around. Maybe she won’t even do her makeup while she’s staying here. Wherever here is.

As she continues to drive down the dull, straight road, Nesta once again curses the circumstances that put her here. Of course, she has no one to blame, because she can’t very well blame her dead great aunt for naming her in her will. Although Nesta fiercely wants to be angry that Aunt Ripleigh had decided that she should be the one given the farm house at the base of a mountain.

Meanwhile, Nesta’s sisters, Elain and Feyre, had inherited money. Loads of it. Aunt Ripleigh had been exceptionally wealthy, and it turns out that the Archeron sisters were her only living relatives left. There had been a couple other names in the will as well, but none that Nesta had recognized. The only reason Nesta could think of for why the woman had left her the property in the middle of nowhere, was that one time Nesta had mentioned that she would be interested in seeing it. And that was just because she was being polite!

But now, with an absolute mess of a situation going on at her job, Nesta has to take a week off to settle the papers so that she can sell the house and wipe her hands of the whole matter. Elain and Feyre had briefly attempted to convince her to keep the land, but they all knew that it was a lost cause. The eldest Archeron sister is married to the city life, her job at the company, and the society that comes with neighbors right next to you and loud noises all through the night. And seeing how out of the way this place is, Nesta is all too sure that she is making the right choice.

Her GPS starts to recalibrate, shaking Nesta from her thoughts and forcing her attention back on the road. It is a good thing that no one else is around, or she might have very well crashed. The corn seems to grow taller with each passing mile, and the mountains in the background go on forever. Her phone beeps and Nesta glances over to see that it is directing her to turn left in a half mile. She must be close.

With less than half a mile to go, Nesta sees a inlet in the road ahead. She turns on her signal, even though there is no one to see, and swerves onto a white gravel road with a strip of grass down the center. A driveway. She pauses briefly to glance around. A mailbox sits at the edge of the driveway, empty. Fields of the same tall corn border either side of the long gravel path. A sort of archway made from two trees frame the entrance, two signs are posted to the tree on the right. One reads ‘15 mph’ and the other dictates how she is entering private property, and there is absolutely no trespassing.

With one last look at the road stretching behind her in either direction, Nesta takes her foot off the brake and rides up the driveway, doing the instructed speed limit. It is just like Aunt Ripleigh to tell her visitors how fast they can drive while approaching her house. There is a bend in the road a little while in, turning onto a perfectly paved driveway that goes around the back of one of the corn fields. Perhaps the white gravel was just for show. Nesta is not surprised when she finds a gate a little bit farther in, as Aunt Ripleigh was always strict about security. Although whomever would makes the trek all the way out here and then venture down the mile long driveway just to steal from a little old lady surely deserves to get something for his efforts.

She fishes through her phone for the passcode and leans out the window to push it into the small keypad along the side of the road. Automatically, the gate creaks open and Nesta ventures through.

The gate, and the tree line beside it, turn out to be hiding a wondrous property. Nesta slowly drives the last stretch of driveway to the enormous house standing in the center of the nine square acre piece of land. She gawks at her surroundings unabashedly. Nesta has never particularly liked nature, but the open space before her is just enough to slightly take her breath away.

A large meadow takes up about a third of the square, huge round bales of hay the size of her car dotted around it. She spots a small orchard of trees along the far edge, tiny specks of color betraying that they are bearers of fruit. A barn stands tall and large in one corner and Nesta can see the beginnings of a small lake as she drives. The sun high in the sky casts beautiful rays on light across the property. A soft breeze makes the flowers in the meadow sway.

Pulling up to the house, Nesta parks outside of the garage and slowly gets out. The humidity is awful and without the car’s air conditioning, her hair is frizzing in all sorts of directions. She’s already starting to feel sweat leak through her sheer blouse. Nesta thanks whatever gods are out there that no one can see her in this state.

As she walks further around the garage, the lake becomes clearer, positioned about a hundred meters from the house, it is shaped like an oval with a couple different openings to small rivers at the far end. A fish house and pier sit comfortably on the shore. Nesta decides that she will enjoy getting a nice tan while she’s here. As long as the bugs aren’t too bad, that is.

To say that she is shocked would be an understatement. Never in a million years would Nesta think that a place like this would exist in such a spot, surrounded by corn on all sides and mountains looming overhead. It truly is extraordinary. No wonder Aunt Ripleigh barely ever left.

Her great aunt was a sophisticated woman, who loved the outdoors and everything it had to offer. This place would fit her perfectly. Nesta can practically see her sitting at the small table on the pier, sipping sweet tea and enjoying the sun on her face.

Lost in her own thoughts, Nesta wanders through the gate that leads to an enclosed portion of the yard, surrounded on three sides by a white fence, the fourth side being the back of the house. Nesta is so deep in thought that it isn’t until he starts waving at her that she sees the man standing on the other side of the fence. A very shirtless, very sweaty man.

Nesta screams. She grapples for her purse, trying to find her pepper spray and realizes with unending dismay that she left it in the car. Backing away hurriedly and trying to ignore the confused expression that crosses the man’s face, Nesta’s breath quickens. Who is he? Why is he here? What does he want? Why is he without a shirt?

While attempting to open the damned gate again and get back through, she distantly hears her name being called. “Mrs Archeron! Mrs Archeron, please I didn’t mean to startle you!” A deep voice yells as the young man hops over the fence and starts walking rapidly towards her. He has is hands up in a nonthreatening manner but Nesta does not take that as a sign that he is indeed not a threat. In fact, after living in the city for so long, that almost guarantees that he is.

Finally, she gets through the gate and bolts back to her car, throwing the door open and grabbing her phone. She holds it up to him warningly. “Stop right there!” She says, trying not to let her fear taint her voice. The man stops with one foot outside the gate, breathing heavily. “Tell me who you are and why you are on this property this instant or I am calling the police.” No matter that they wouldn’t get here in time. This man could kill her five times over before any kind of law enforcement official could reach the house. Nesta focuses most of her attention at calming her breathing at that thought. If there is anything she learned in the city, it was to show no fear.

The man keeps his hands raised, palms towards her, demonstrating that he has absolutely nothing that may harm her. Although looking briefly at the corded muscle along his biceps and the six pack he sports reveals that he probably doesn’t need any tools to torment her. Nesta quickly averts her eyes back to his own gaze.

“I’m Cassian,” He states slowly, his voice rough and seemingly hewn with mountain air. It sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. It is impossible not to notice the swirling black tattoos that litter his chest and down his sides, disappearing over his shoulders and below his waistband. Nesta’s hand tightens on her phone as she concentrates on not ogling him and focusing on the matter at hand. “I’m the caretaker of this property,” Cassian continues, “I worked for your Aunt Ripleigh for more than a decade,” He takes a hesitant step towards her and Nesta tenses again. “Mrs Archeron, I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Please just lower your phone and we might be able to talk in a more civilized manner.”

Without taking her eyes off of the stranger, Nesta clicks her phone off and slides it into her pocket, still in easy reach. “Miss,” She responds, crossing her arms.

Confusion once again mars his sweaty face. “Excuse me?”

“Miss Archeron,” Nesta corrects. “I’m not married.”

A devilish smirk spreads across his features. Cassian runs his hand through his long black hair and Nesta has a feeling that she is not going to like whatever he says next. “Well, Miss Archeron, lucky for you, I am not married either.” The sideways smile on his face makes her blood boil.

“Lucky for me?” She repeats, trying not to grit her teeth. “Why, Mr...”

His smirk widens slightly. “Just Cassian.” He supplies.

“Well, just Cassian,” She practically spits the name. “I have known you for barely thirty seconds and I already know that all women are lucky that you are not married yet, as we would feel obligated to end the torture of our fellow female who was unlucky enough to end up with you.”

Unfortunately, her biting comeback does not have the desired effect. The corner of Cassian’s mouth twitches a little in amusement, and he says nothing for a few seconds, surveying her from head to toe. Nesta resists the urge to fidget under his gaze.

“Can I help you with your bags?” The man asks eventually, startling Nesta.

She sputters a few times as he walks past her towards the trunk. She can do it herself, she knows she can, but as long as he’s offering she’ll take him up on it. He’s a strange man in a property that now belongs to her, but he definitely does not seem like a serial killer. Cassian heaves the large suitcase from the back of her car and begins to lug it towards the garage door. “We can go through here, I’ll show you around the house.”

Nesta reluctantly follows him, only now realizing that her hair is still all out of sorts and she’s sure her blouse must be spotted with moisture. Staying behind him, she sneakily attempts to pat down the frizz and fan her underarms that the evidence of her sweating might not be visible. Of course, he is sweating like a pig. And rather dirty now that she looks at him. His jeans are caked with dirt and grass, patches of mud sticking to his sides. He’s also still shirtless, gracing Nesta with a view of his toned back.

However, as he opens the door into the house and she actually looks at the fine muscles and shoulder blades, Nesta is briefly taken aback by the two mottled scars that run on a slight diagonal down his back. She blinks at the image and quickly has to school her features into neutrality as he turns around to glance back at her, a mocking smile playing at his lips.

“Coming?” He asks, one eyebrow raised.

Questions swimming through her head, but also the knowledge that this man - this stranger - owes her no answers nor does she owe him any sympathy, Nesta nods once and steps over the threshold.

...

As they venture through the house, Cassian gestures towards doors, explaining how this one goes to a bathroom, or another to a laundry room, another to the pantry, another to the screen porch, and so on. Nesta is amazed at how modern everything is. The kitchen is large and spacious and the appliances are wonderful. Aunt Ripleigh was a fine cook, and so is Nesta. She is excited to try out the space this week.

There ends up being six bathrooms, three bedrooms, a sunroom, screen porch, wrap around porch, 4 fire places, two laundry rooms, and various gathering spaces. All this house for one person. Or two. Nesta still isn’t quite sure what Cassian’s deal is.

Dropping her suitcase down in the upstairs master bedroom, Cassian dusts his hands - which Nesta notices are rather grimy and cringes at how the handle of her bag must reflect that now - and looks at her. “So, when are the rest of your things getting here?”

Nesta blinks. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

His brows furrow. “Well this can't be all of your things. I mean, yeah this bag is heavy but I’m sure a respectable lady like you owns more than what can fit in a suitcase.”

“Of course,” she replies, “I have an apartment in the city. But all my stuff isn’t coming here.”

Cassian raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Oh, you’re going to maintain both of your properties then?”

Nesta just stares. What is he talking about? Then it clicks. “I’m... not keeping this house, Cassian. I’m selling it.”

The man’s mouth immediately forms a grim line. “I see.”

“I’m sorry if you were under the impression that I was moving in, but frankly, I’m not a nature person. I’m a city girl and a house in the middle of nowhere?” She gestures around herself vaguely. “Definitely not my thing.”

Cassian’s expression does not waver. His voice is devoid of it’s previous joking nature. “So, how long will you be staying here before you sell?”

“A week. I have some people coming in to investigate the territory. If they can find it, that is,” she adds quietly. “I only asked off of work for the next week and then I have to head back.”

The change in atmosphere is palpable and Nesta feels nervous all over again. She does not know how this man reacts to bad news. She suddenly chastises herself for entering an enclosed building with him in an area where no one can hear her scream nor does she know if she has cell coverage or not.

She also never even considered the possibility that someone else might be living here. So she has no idea what he will do when the house goes on the market. Not that it matters much to her as long as it doesn’t interfere with the sell. She doesn’t like to admit it, but Nesta kind of needs the money. Another reason why she’s mad at her aunt for leaving her this place instead of a cut of her fortune.

Cassian takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the action and drawing Nesta’s gaze. He is probably one of the most intimidating men she has encountered, excluding Tomas. She quickly blocks the thought before it goes too far. This week is supposed to clear her head, not force it in the wrong direction.

“Very well, Miss Archeron,” he says at last. “I didn’t finish in the garden yet, excuse me.” He brushes past her and out the door. She listens as his heavy gait descends the staircase, and the beep as the security system sounds through the house when he opens the door. Then the screen door slams shut and she’s alone.

Nesta runs a hand down her face, thoroughly irritated with the events that just unfolded. She has no obligation to this man whatsoever. He is inappropriate and odd and frankly, should definitely wear a shirt more often. Nesta hopes that he does not live on the property or she might die from the torture of having to spend the next week with him and his mood swings.

Fetching her phone from her pocket, Nesta checks to make sure that she has signal. She does. After sending a quick text to her sisters letting them know that she made it safely, Nesta begins to wander.

The bathroom connected to her room is wondrous, with a clawfoot bathtub, large shower, and a balcony coming off of it overlooking the lake. Curiosity getting the better of her, she steps out onto the small terrace and admires the grounds. The lake is much bigger than what she could see from the garage, multiple streams branching off and turning back, perfect for rowing through. A couple islands and peninsulas intersect the water as well. The barn stands two stories tall and takes up much of the southwestern corner of the property. She notices a track running around the lake that must be mowed regularly, and used by the golf cart she noticed when they passed through the garage.

Glancing almost directly down, Nesta finds a garden, two of them actually. A small house stands between them, Nesta hoping that it is just a garden shed and not Cassian’s abode. Said man is currently hacking away at some wood next to the shed, still shirtless. His long hair is pulled back into a bun and even from the balcony, Nesta can see the sweat glistening off his back, as well as the twin scars that run there.

She turns away from him and towards the meadow, which she can only just see from her position. It has an assortment of wild flowers in it, as well as tall grasses and brush. She notices that there is one flower though that pops up all over, both in the meadow, along the islands and peninsulas, on the sides of the driveway when she had been coming in, and even one in a vase on the nightstand beside her bed.

Nesta snaps a picture of the plant and sends it to Elain, knowing that the middle Archeron sister will know exactly what kind of flower it is. Elain’s answer is almost immediate. ‘That’s a hardy amaryllis,’ she says. It means nothing to Nesta so she shrugs, slipping her phone back in her pocket and cringing at herself in the mirror. Perhaps a soak in the tub or a nice shower would be a good idea after such a long drive.

Firmly shutting the door to the balcony and pulling down the shade on the window just to be sure, Nesta decides to do just that. It’s Saturday after all, and she has a week here before she has to head back. She might as well enjoy it.

Masterlist

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passivenovember · 3 years

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Snippets of partially written fics that will never see the light of day, part one!

He keeps a battered spiral notebook in the back pocket of his Levi’s like some sort of behavioral scientist. Life Among the Gorillas, Jane Goodall through and through, beginning when the car is parked on Cherry lane.

Billy considers the slopping roof, the screened in porch, and the cracked pavement that proves the house has never seen a family from the west.

That’s the first fact in his notebook, the holy grail Billy will share with the world when he journeys back home again; houses in the Midwest are not equipped to care for families that were born near the sea.

Families where children are born with boards nailed to their feet. The surfing and skating kind.

Billy doubts they’ll be doing much of either, here.

“It doesn’t look that much different from home.” Max clutches her regulation board to her chest. The world’s most awkward and uncomfortable teddy bear, wheels poking and prodding skinny arms as she glances over, worrying the skin of her lip. “Do you think it looks different?”

Billy thinks it does.

He hates it. Everything about it; the brown house, on its brown yard, next to its brown driveway. Pancakes and hash browns. Grass as far as the eye can see.

Max worries the skin of her lip.

Billy thinks it looks different. Thinks it looks like hell, like wastelands and flood lands and miles of isolation, but. “Nah.” He shakes his head anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Feels different, though.” Billy rolls down the window, plugging his nose dramatically. “Smells different, too.”

Max snorts. “Shut up.”

Small victories.

“It does, it smells like cow shit.” Neil and Susan are still a ways off, pulling the Ford behind the moving van. Billy figures they have time, before.

Things change. Before boards are exchanged for Nike shoes and wool coats in the fall.

Billy digs around for his lighter. “Wonder what the locals do about the stench.”

“Maybe they plant flowers.”

“Impossible,” He says, taking a pull from his smoke and stretching his legs where they sit. It’s been a long drive, but. He’s not ready.

Not yet.

“Maybe they have massive green houses and everyone buys crates of lilies and sunflowers when they seasons change.” Max fiddles with the wheels on her skateboard. “Maybe their living rooms are full of yellow petals. Maybe they only eat sunflower seeds.”

“Sunflowers don’t smell like anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“They don’t, that’s why the factories cover them in barbecue sauce. To make ‘em smell good.” Billy watches Max filter through a series of expressions before she lands on her favorite.

Irritation. “Just because you’re my big brother--”

“Jesus, don’t call me that?”

Max blinks. Wide and owlish. Wet. “How come?”

And Billy doesn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. Doesn’t want to start over at all, but. That’s what this is. Endings and beginnings and relationships that crumble and turn to dust before siblings rebuild them out of clay, into.

Something shiny.

And new.

Billy tugs the collar of his jacket up and around his ears, frowning. “Makes me sound old.”

“You are old,” Max says lightly. “You know too much random shit not to be old.”

“Like what?”

“Like,” Max adjusts the skateboard, running her hands across the etched and worn surface. “How to change a tire. Where to find the best hiking boots. How to roast a turkey--”

“‘S not my fault your mom can’t cook for shit.”

“I know that.” Max says. “That’s what old people do. Complain about how their recipe for peach cobbler is better, and the local youths are ruining the duck pond, and like. Brag about shit they know how to do.”

“Oh yeah?” Billy counters. “And what kind of shit is that?”

Max shrugs. “Survival.”

She opens the car door after that, placing the skateboard on the pavement and testing the waters. Billy rolls her window down for better driveway vision.

“You think I know how to survive.”

It doesn’t seem possible.

“Yeah, you know.” Max gets a little more confident after her feet plant themselves on the board. She maneuvers pretty well over the cracked pavement, a kick flip here, a slash turn there. “ You understand lots of stuff. Maybe everything.”

“Everything, huh?”

Billy watches with glee as she falls on her ass over the fist split in the concrete. Max looks up at him, scowling when he can’t quite swallow the laugh working its way up his throat.

“The jury’s still out on that one.” She says stiffly.

Billy doesn’t buy it for a second. “Whatever, shithead. I’m your big brother now, and I know everything. Remember that the next time you’re trying to get your way.”

Max flips him the bird. Billy leans against the hood of the Camaro, eyes tracking the movement as Max tries the turn again.

If nothing else it feels good to stand on his own two feet.

Everyone in the Midwest leaves their clothes out to dry in the afternoon sunlight, and the only reason Billy knows this is because Steve Harrington’s clothes smell like warm sugar and daffodil blossoms.

Billy thinks it might be the detergent his mother uses.

Maybe the uber expensive, hyper polyester blend that makes up the polos Steve swaps out for gym clothes at basketball practice, but when he finally works up the courage to do more than sniff, Steve looks at Billy like he’s gone insane.

“You actually have dryers on the west coast?”

Billy frowns. “Of course we do, what is this. Little House on the Prairie?”

Harrington balls up his gym shorts, tossing them at Billy’s head. “The next time you wash your sheets, hang them outside.”

So Billy does.

And the next time he crawls into bed Billy realizes that sun bleached fabric does more than block out smells it creates a fortress. A barrier. Warm afternoons and the smell of oak leaves wrapped in his own little world.

From somewhere, through a haze of smoke and the wafting grasp of day old pizza, a needle tore a hole that felt like a bee sting. Painful in the way his feet would sometimes burn on the Middle School blacktop during summer.

Nancy yanked on the yellow rubber-band, letting it fall back in place. It slapped thickly against the meat of Steve's arm, and.

He was hanging in a butcher shopped. Ripe for sale. Wrapped from head to toe in caution tape, and.

Radioactive.

"Ow." Steve hummed distantly, fingers moving to rub. To soothe.

Nancy slapped his hand away. "Stings if you do it like that."

"Stings now, holy shit."

"You gotta let it heal."

Steve frowned. "I didn't think that was the point."

Which made Nancy giggle. "What, not to let it heal?"

"Yeah, I thought." He licked his lips. Once. Twice. It was like seeing God. "I thought we were supposed to let it bleed."

#harringrove #billy hargrove #max mayfield #steve harrington #jaz speaks #I dunno man

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btsinwonderland · 7 years

Text

Coffee & Wine - Ch. 2

An Exo Story...

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Full Chapter List

-------------------------------

The coffee heated up her hands and her face with it's hot vapour. The warmth felt good against her skin. She sat hunched over her chair with her elbows resting on her knees as if ready for a huddle. One sip two sips. Her body shivered at the warm liquid going through it. It was the one comforting thing in the desolate waiting room of the hospital.

Black chairs were lined in rows of two and along the wall. On them were gaudy patterns of basic shapes that she traced with one finger beside her thigh. She kept the coffee close to her nose to mask the smell of cold sterility. She stared at a generic painting on the wall. It looked as though the artist had walked all over it several times and dragged a rake across it for added emphasis. The faded pink ridges of paint on the canvas made her want to touch it to see if it was real.

The doors burst open beside her and a man in scrubs came out. He had his face mask hanging from his ear and an unreadable expression. He exhaled and looked around the room when his stern eyes rested on Mina.

She jumped up when she saw him. “Did you work on my dad?”

“Jihyun Lee?” Said the surgeon.

She nodded vigorously and awaited his response. The man looked down for a moment and pulled off the mask. He held it in his hands and looked at her with eyes full of routine sympathy.

“We did our best, but there was a complication,” he said.

Her stomach dropped at his words. It took all she had not to collapse right there.

“He is stabilized…But he's in a coma.”

Mina's face wrinkled into a sob as she gripped her chest. She held it in and felt like she might shrivel into nothing. The doctor gave her advice but it blurred into a buzzing sound. She could no longer process anything he was saying. Nodding every few sentences was all she was capable of and when he finally left she collapsed onto a chair.

They rolled her father out and her heart broke when she saw him. He laid on the bed with several tubes connected to his body and several pieces of wheeled equipment. She walked with the staff as they took him to his room. There was one other bed in the room but the curtain was drawn. The nurses hooked up her father to the necessary apparatuses that would give him life support and gave her a briefing. She did her best to be as attentive as possible and sighed exhaled loudly when they left the room.

She sat in a chair next to his bed and stared at him. He laid there looking like an alien creature. She did not recognize this man. This man had no twitch in his finger, no fluttering of his eyelids, and barely had the sound of real breathing. This man contained no dreams. His face was warped and was a perversion of the happy wrinkly eyed man she recognized. As she thought of the way he smiled at her and the way he cloaked his eyes when lying, fresh tears fell from her face. She put her head in her hands and wailed freely. She wrapped her arms around her body before she fell into oblivion. Her fingers clawed into her sides as she let the sobs violently escape her body.

Only when she finally calmed down did she hear someone clearing their throat. Puffy eyed she turned to look at who it was. A man stood at the doorway she did not recognize. He was older, around the same age as her father. He wore a brown suit and had polished shoes. His hair was neatly combed to the side and he had deep set kind eyes. Wrinkles lined his forehead, mouth, and eyes, much like her father’s.

“Who are you?” She said distantly.

“Mina...my my, you've grown so much,” said the man as he walked in. He gave her a gentle smile and it faded when he looked upon her father. “I'm so sorry about Jihyun, this is an untimely and terrible situation.”

Mina quietly listened to him and waited for his answer to her question.

“You probably don't remember me, I saw you last when you were about two years old. Your father loves you greatly,” he paused to grab something out of his pocket. “I'm here because I received an emergency call, your father and I are old friends you see, and I owe him a favour.”

She looked up at the man curiously.

“Mina, we don't know how long your father will be in this condition, and I know it's hard to think of the practicalities but we have to. You cannot handle things on your own. You have a life to live and school to finish, that's all he wanted for you. I have already done the paperwork, you're being transferred to a new school as the new semester will start next week.”

Mina almost got up in alarm. “What do you mean transfer? Why do I have to move? I can go to school and manage the store! I can take care of him!”

The man smiled at her. It was not one of mocking or condescension. It was a kind of tired respect. “I know you don't want to feel any more burdened than you already are, but truly I am only doing this based on the agreement your father and I had. If anything were to happen to him, it is my responsibility to ensure you receive the proper care. Please let me fulfill my friend’s request.”

Mina remained silent. After a while she decided to agree just so the man would leave. The worst had already happened so she felt no need to resist. He handed her something and when she turned it over in her hands she saw that it was a business card.

“Mina, don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything,” he said. He bowed to her and then turned to her father. He stood there with a lingering gaze and bowed to him as well.

When he left she turned the card around in her hands. It was black and blue with familiar looking swirling letters. Her mouth opened slightly when she saw what was written on it:

Han Bin Ahn

General Manager

Kim Technologies Co.

She looked back at the door the man had come through and wondered if he had really shown up. How had her father known someone from Kim Technologies? She looked back upon her father and wondered what other secrets he kept. She stared at his chest moving up and down. The crinkly hospital gown looked uncomfortable. Though the breathing apparatus looked much more uncomfortable as it went from deep inside his throat into a large machine.

After a few long hours she realized that she needed to go home to get her things. All she had was a long expired lunch of yogurt and a sandwich. She hoped the sandwich might still be good though it had been sitting in the basket of her bike all day.

She gave her father a kiss on the forehead before leaving. When she went outside it was completely dark. The sun had set so quickly though it felt like she had been in that building for days. A part of her wanted to check out the garden the mysterious man had told her about but it was too dark for that. She simply climbed onto her bike and kicked off.

The evening was cool and though it was dark there were several cars on the road. The trees along the bike path loomed overtop of her. The soft whooshing sound of the wind against the canopy eased her thoughts. She was lulled into a numb state of action. The seat of her bike felt no more comfortable than usual and she she gripped the rigid handlebars tightly.

When she was home she packed a bag full of items. She looked through the drawers and picked out the most practical items of clothing. A few pairs of shorts and some shirts. She then went to the cupboard to get some food and snacks. There was a tray of yogurts in the fridge that would expire in a few days. She took the whole tray and planned to finish it before it went bad. She paused at the front of their desk which sat beside the door. There was a framed picture of her father and her which she grabbed and put in her bag. She was almost out the door when she put a hand over her heart reflexively.

“Oh!” She had almost forgotten.

She ran inside and pulled open the drawer of the desk. In it there was a small ring box that was worn out on the outside. The blue velvet had worn out at the corners where the base layer of grey showed through. She took it and stuffed in the pocket of her jeans. With one final glance at the room they called a house she shut the door and stuffed the items in her basket.

Her stomach was growling at the halfway point. She halted her bicycle in the middle of an empty street and pondered going to a convenient store. There was one a couple blocks away that was in the corner of the club district. The dark streets held a tinge of blue as she rode along the edge of the street. A few cars honked by, she had forgotten it was a weekend night. There were parties all over town. She wondered what her and her father might have done. Maliciously her brain jumped to the memories of her waiting up on him while he gambled. It was saved by the countless memories of their game nights at home, where he brought back sweet kettle corn from the stand across the street from them.

In this part of downtown all the buildings were mid sized, there were no tall skyscrapers like the dead center of the city. She saw various windows lit up with incandescent lighting, a warm tone that shone through the tall square blocks like a checkered pattern of light. Stringed lights hung from the restaurant patios on each side of the street. On any other night she might have stopped to look at the beautiful summer night setup. Any other night.

She parked her bike in front of a small park and walked across the street towards a row of benches. It was a courtyard with a bed of flowers and grass planted in a rectangle. A small gazebo stood in the centre with vines running through the basket weaved walls. Tray of yogurts in hand, she walked over to a bench and sat down. She sighed and cracked open the first one. It was down in seconds. The taste seized her mouth in a tangy and sweet mango flavour. She swallowed a few times to get it down. Only about six more left. She cracked open another. And another...

The restaurant crowd had thinned out in this area so the sudden sound of shrill laughter made her jump.

“Ahhhh oppa, you’re so funny! See Lisa he didn’t even like it!”

“No oppaaaa! You said you liked my birthday gift…”

“Ladies please, lets just enjoy our evening…” He said with a playful chuckle.

Mina looked ahead to see a group of three ostentatious looking people walking through the park. One girl had black stiletto boots that ran up her leg in leather ripples. Her dress was a short crimson number with a black fur throw hanging from her shoulders. Her hair cascaded in elegant curls and framed a long face that matched a magazine cover she had seen a few days ago. The second girl wore a longer dress with a dangerously high slit on one side. It was sequined with gold and blue gems that swirled in carefully crafted patterns. Her hair was done up in a sweeping bun and her slender face was also that of a model.

The two women caught her eye at first but when she saw the boy in between them she could not help the instinctive fluttering feeling in her stomach. He wore a delicious dark green suit that fitted him perfectly. His hair was parted in the middle and dyed a ridiculous shade of pink. Somehow this made him look unbearably handsome. She was witnessing the presence of a fairy prince as he descended into their world with two angels at his side.

Mina looked away when he caught her eye. She held her yogurt cup with both hands in front of her hoping to blend in with the bench as much as possible. To her dismay she was not as camouflaged as she had thought. One of the girls started laughing shrilly again. Mina sipped on her yogurt until she realized they were staring at her.

“Eomeo! Looks like we have a freak here, what’s with all the yogurt?” The leather boots said.

The gold dress laughed obnoxiously, Mina thought it bordered on a cackle. “Sweetie you really shouldn’t be out here like this...You’ll scare the kids!”

They both wailed with laughter at this point. Mina knew they were both drunk but their laughter still bothered her. She looked at them both, downed her yogurt, and set the empty bottle down. She grabbed another one and cracked it open. The girls stared at her barely concealing their laughter.

“Some kind of circus animal?” She heard leather boots say to gold dress.

Their beauty seeped away before Mina’s eyes. She saw the transformation clearly, one second they were demi goddesses and slowly with each word their fingers turned into claws. Their faces turned into badly painted masks and their hair became baskets of improperly woven wool.

“May I have one?”

She blinked a few times before she realized what was happening. It was the fairy prince. He was still a prince. And he had walked closer to her and held out his hand. His face was impeccably smooth and he had a small smile on his face. It took her a few seconds to process his request. She gave him a strange look and handed him her second last bottle of yogurt.

The shrill laughter echoed through the air again. “Ew! Oppa don’t take that from her what if it's poison!”

He turned his head away for a second though his body was bent towards Mina. “I don’t think this girl would be sitting here drinking a bunch of poison, would you honey?”

She blinked a few more times when she realized he was looking at her again with an expectant face. All she could manage was a slight shake of her head. He seemed to accept that answer and nodded. With a wink he said thank you and walked back to the others.

They playfully hit him and laughed as they walked away. She saw him crack open the yogurt with ease which surprised her given that he looked like most of his life was spent being fed with a silver spoon. The interaction left her feeling a bit odd. When she finished her last yogurt she bent over and moaned at the nauseating feeling in her stomach. That was better than wasting it. She held down a burp and walked over to the convenient store. With a few packets of ramyun in her basket, she raced off to the hospital.

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where-ls-my-mlnd · 4 years

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“Well…there is a reason. As nonsensical, unfair, and sometimes downright cruel the world can be, within it’s burning core always remains a reason and…I think you know it.” No. No, shut up. I don’t know shit. I don’t know anything. What are you talking about? I don’t - I don’t. Don’t talk like that, J, jesus fuck, stop it. Don’t accuse me of knowing something, you know I don’t - you know that I don’t know what you’re talking about. Okay? I just don’t know. I don’t fucking know, so just - fuck off with that. I don’t know the reason, as you so ominously put it. I don’t! ...Or at least I don’t want to admit that I do. Fear grips my stomach hard at that awful thought. It claws at my chest, snakes around my throat, crushes down on my windpipe, making it harder to breathe. Distantly, I can hear that J is still talking to me, and I want to be present, I want to be with him, I really do, but I can’t be. His voice slowly fades out like the end of a song, filling my head with dreadful white noise as I start to pace around again with my hands on the back of my head and my mind hopelessly stuck on that one line. It’s so ominous, the way he said it. It carries such a heavy sense of doom, oh god. Like a final warning. I think you know it. I REALLY think you know it, S. And if you say that you don’t, something fucking awful is going to happen to you. I’ll make sure of it. But you were supposed to be my friend. Why would you want to force me to accept something I’m not ready to? You and I both know what the truth is, but that doesn’t mean we have to say it. When you say it out loud, it becomes real. It all becomes real. This depressingly dark, endless night becomes real, her stupid fucking text becomes real. Her abandoning me, our relationship completely disintegrating into pieces, me making a massive fool out of myself and losing the only woman I’ve ever loved in the process, it all becomes real. I’m not ready for it to become real, goddamnit, J, why can’t you see that? Why can’t you let me pull the veil over my eyes a little while longer? Please don’t make me do this. J, please, I can’t. I’ll do anything. What do you want? You want free drugs? I’ll give you free drugs. I’ll give you all the free drugs you want. You want me to go away? I-I’ll go away. I’ll fucking go away forever and never bother you again, I promise. You want me to get down on my hands and knees and fucking beg you? Is that what you want? I’ll do it. I’ll go that far to make you stop, I will. But I don’t need to. He keeps talking, absolutely oblivious to my internal screams for him to stop, each new word falling from his mouth sticking another knife into my gut, but none more painful than when he finally utters what I feared to be true. “You two are not meant to be.” It’s not even my heart that breaks, it’s my fucking soul or something. It feels like my own soul is withering and dying deep in my chest. Like my heart is falling into my stomach. It’s the worst aching physical pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And jesus christ it’s embarrassing, so motherfucking embarrassing, but my eyes blur with tears almost as soon as he says that, and I have to look away, have to try to swallow down the excruciating lump in my throat and blink away the tears that are stinging my eyes. But there’s no use in even trying, I discover. When you’re in that kind of hysterical pain, it consumes you, it swallows you whole whether you want it to or not. There is no blinking the tears away. There is no choking down your heartache. It is going to fucking brutalize you, even if you try to will it away; in fact, fighting it will only make it hurt worse. And it does. It hurts even worse for a lot of reasons, but it’s mostly shame that seizes me as the tears roll down my cheeks, scalding my skin and burning any respect J ever had for me down to the ground. I try to play it cool, since I’m fucking delusional; wipe them away with the sleeve of my hoodie, pull some fuck-ass maneuver so it looks like I was merely scratching my face, mask a sob with a cough. But every time I think my eyes are dry, I feel them start to well again, and then I’m not even crying because I can’t be with Lyd, I’m crying because I fucking hate myself, and I can’t stop hating myself. For crying, for being such a burden to J, for fucking up the only good thing in my life, and most of all, for not being able to drown out the voice in the back of my head, the one that sighs at me and says of course you had to go and fucking cry. God, what the fuck is wrong with you? You’re not even the victim in this situation, you pathetic piece of fucking shit, how do you always manage to twist every situation so that you are the one who’s been wronged? You just like to cry, huh? Just like to sit around and feel sorry for yourself? Figures. Go ahead, cry some more, you fucking loser. Cry like the bitch you are. Leave me ALONE, I don’t even let myself cry that often for fuck’s sake— Miraculously, it is at that moment, that J’s voice hits my ears again. It echoes through my head as if it was never really gone, and I swallow hard, looking back at him, relieved to listen to someone else’s voice. Especially his. “She knows what you want and if she couldn’t give that to you ten years ago and couldn’t give it today, she’s not going to give it to you tomorrow either. The only thing that’s gonna change is when you realize that Lyd the majestic fucking angel is a joke that you don’t have to keep falling fool to. You shouldn’t have slept with her last night and she shouldn’t have slept with you either, you’re both wrong and you’ve both been wrong. You’ve come full circle. We can sit here for another two hours and agonize over how shittily she’s gone about it, but the fact is that it was honest. Brutally honest, but that’s become her specialty. At least it’s clarity. She’s decided to move on and, if you want to finally break this long and suffocating chain, you should too. No one person is worth that much pain.“ And I hardly realize I’m even doing it. It’s involuntary, the way my head shakes, over and over, like if I do it enough times, he’ll suddenly take back what he said, take back the you should move on and replace it with you should go ahead and keep loving her as long as you want. Like I can physically shake off my sadness this way. It doesn’t work. It never fucking works. “Please no.” I whisper, pleading with my eyes, and with the pathetic break in my voice, for him to tell me there’s another way, to tell me he wasn’t entirely correct when he said we aren’t meant to be, and alter the truth a little bit, and just fucking absolve me of my sins without taking away the only thing that makes me happy. This is J after all. His word is gospel. If he says I must move on from her, I must move on from her; but likewise, if he says I don’t have to move on from her, I don’t have to move on from her, and fuck, I want that more than anything, want him to lie straight to my face and tell me that this is just another bump in the long road of our relationship and we’ll end up fine and we’ll be happy together like we were last night, someday soon, again, because we always find a way to be happy, don’t we? We always find our way back to each other. We always find our way back. But that isn’t in his nature. If J is a God, he’s a merciless one. Ruthless, even, the greatest gift he could ever impart on his disciples being the gift of knowledge. Honesty, the kind you can’t get anywhere else. He does not coddle. He does not hold his followers close. He tells them the brutal, ugly truths they need to hear, expands their minds, and then sends them on their way, and trusts that they’ll be able to thrive all on their own, now that he has prepared them for the harshness of life. And now is no exception. “Yes.” He says, and it makes me instantly slam my eyes shut, cringing at the sound of that one word. It sounds like an ending. It sounds like the whole world crashing down on me. It sounds like desolation. “Quit second guessing yourself. You know what you need to do and the sooner you do it, the sooner the pain can at least start to cease. Everything has come to an end eventually, no matter how wonderful or terrible it might’ve been, and it’s clear that this relationship is begging for it’s merciful out. All you have to do is let it happen.” Well, I won’t. I will never fucking let it happen. I will sooner die than let it happen. What the fuck does that even mean? “Let it happen?” That implies a greater level of ease than is actually there. You know what - that implies a level of ease, period. There is nothing easy about this. Let it HAPPEN?! You say let it happen like it already was happening, like it will continue to happen whether I want it to or not and that’s - that’s not true! Me and Lyd, we’re not...our relationship was not already on its deathbed, for christ sake. It didn’t take its last breath last night. Fuck, that was...that was supposed to be its first breath. We were on the edge of something miraculous last night. We were about to bloom, like flowers during spring, we were about to start something new and fresh and different, so much different than any of the other times we’ve tried to merge our separate lives into one. We were about to make it. We had never made it before. We were going to make it. ...But we didn’t. We didn’t fucking make it, did we? No. No, jesus christ, look around you, Stephen. If the two of you made it, why are you by yourself? If the two of you made it, why aren’t you with her right now? If the two of you made it, why are you crying in a dark, empty park, with nothing to comfort you but the moon and the steady, reassuring presence of your friend...ish? If the two of you made it, why the fuck are you heartbroken? And if Lyd is so pure and so good, why do you end up heartbroken every single time you get involved with her? Something pops into my head, then, and it’s so ironic, I have to smirk. I just have to. This particular line that J said, one that had initially gotten lost amongst the others. It enters my mind and stays there, making itself at home until all I can hear and all I can think about are the implications of that sentence. Lyd the majestic fucking angel is a joke that you don’t have to keep falling fool to. Ha. Hey, angel. Last night was amazing. Angel my ass. She’s about as angelic as I am mentally stable. But I still can’t let her go. I don’t care if she’s a bad person. I don’t care if she hurts me. I don’t care if she lies to me, leads me on, dismisses my feelings, or straight up laughs at them. I don’t care if she can’t give me what I want. I can’t leave her. At the end of the day, my heart belongs to her. I am bound to her, in a way that is unshakable. We have so much history! I’ve known her for so fucking long, how could I leave her now? I cannot...I cannot just erase her like that. I owe this to her. I owe her my devotion, it’s been this long. I truly don’t fucking care how tumultuous and downright toxic the relationship is - if you make it to nine years, you fucking stick it out. What am I gonna do? Be like my dad? Leave her because she couldn’t give me what I wanted? Let sex destroy every relationship I’ve ever had? No. I am fucking indebted to her. I have to stay. I’m not going to leave her. I don’t leave people. I don’t do that. Even if it’s painful, even if it’s hard, even if it destroys me - I fucking stick it out. Quite literally, until it kills me. But that’s okay. I don’t mind being hurt if it means I can save another person from getting hurt. Look, love is exhausting. Love is...endurance, above all else. It’s staying, even if it makes you unhappy, because your feelings don’t matter when you’re in love - the other person’s do. It’s keeping quiet about all their wrongdoing. Lighting yourself on fire to keep them warm. It’s about sacrificing. It’s about sacrificing almost everything, but it’s okay, because you’re in love, you’re happy. You’re happy just to have someone who wants to be around you. It’s okay; they don’t need to be perfect. You can make them perfect. I’m never going to be able to make Lyd perfect, but it’s okay, she won’t have to be perfect if I’m only keeping her at an arms length. I can accept some distance. I can accept a lot of distance. Just no absence. Her absence is always the loudest to endure. And maybe, you know, maybe I don’t want to watch her walk out of my life again. Maybe I’d let myself get ruined for just a little bit of her. Maybe I can’t imagine a life without her. How could I? Our lives have become so intertwined these past few years, it’s like we...we’ve become tightly tangled threads in the same tapestry. How could I cleanly remove her from my life? I wake up - and I think of her. I go to school - and I see her. I get high - and I get high with her. I see something funny - and I laugh about it with her. I get bored - I text her to tell her I’m bored, and then suppress a smile when she texts back that that’s not her problem. I spend days planning out a shoot in my head - I pop by her place to see what she thinks about it, and if I should stick with it or go with this idea, or that idea, or should I just scrap the entire fucking thing, it’s not good enough! I get sad late at night - I call her, not to tell her that I’m sad, but to just hear her voice. I watch TV - I wonder if she likes this show, too. I listen to music - I wonder if she’s ever heard of this band. I go to sleep - and she’s the last thing that I think of. Every fucking thing I do, I do for her. She’s family, at this point. She’s more than that, she’s...the very oxygen that I rely on for survival. The very air that makes my lungs ache with satisfaction, the very essence of my existence. I could never be able to survive without Lyd, even if I wanted to. It’s like there’s this painful tug at my heart that constantly has me in her path of direction no matter what. It’s almost more painful than knowing she doesn’t care about me as much as I care about her. Almost. Come to think of it, I don’t know if anything could ever be as painful as that knowledge. Why don’t I allow myself to feel that? Why am I agonizing over how to let her go without hurting her when she never shows me that same courtesy? Why do I give a flying fuck about her at all? She certainly doesn’t give a flying fuck about me. That much is obvious from the way she’s treated me. It’s like J said; she knows what I want, and she refuses to give it to me. Why? Because she doesn’t care about me. She couldn’t care less if I lived or died and all I’ve ever tried to do is make her happy. What kind of a person is able to remain that apathetic? What kind of a person is able to inflict pain and suffering on someone over and over and feel nothing? I think you know damn well what kind of person that is. Starts with s, ends with h? Sociopath? Yeah, you know, I know a thing or two about those, Lydia. Don’t forget what my daddy did to my poor innocent mom. And me. And my brother. You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I can’t figure out when a person is truly evil? Try having a serial adulterer for a father. I observed that motherfucker up close, I watched him day in, day out, I saw what kind of a monster he was, and that’s why I didn’t feel a thing when he died. I see you, Lydia. I see you for the fucking scum you are. I didn’t always, but I do now. It was all in my head. You were never mine. And I am beyond grateful for that. You wouldn’t have treated me well, if I was yours. It all would have been just another part of the game to you. Maybe this was all a part of the game to you. Maybe...you came to my place for a reason. Maybe it was meant to be just another one of those hazy, forgotten nights, huh? Maybe you were looking for an antidote, and sex was it. Maybe you had been carrying that thought in your head the whole time, maybe you had been sitting there, lusting after me in the same way that I lust after you; silently, and with only a vague awareness of it. Maybe you only took responsibility for your actions then because you knew I wanted you to, knew I would do anything you asked as long as you acknowledged the pain you put me through. Maybe...you only said sorry so you could slip between my sheets. Maybe you preyed upon me just as much as I preyed upon you. I’m definitely not the picture of morality, I shouldn’t have gotten in bed with you after you had endured something so horrific, but...I mean...who the fuck has sex right after a huge, cathartic, emotional talk? Do you get off on that?! Did me talking about my youth and how I used to shoot meth until my veins collapsed turn you on? Come on, now. What the fuck is that? What the fuck do you have, a degradation kink?! Does talking about all of the awful things you did to me do it for you? What, were you hoping I’d punish you for it or some shit?! ‘Cause let me tell you, I am not used to being on that side of that coin. Did you want me to call you a terrible human being? I could’ve. I could’ve done that but I didn’t want to. Kind of feeling like it now, though. Kind of seeing what you meant when you said you used to be awful. Except you got the tense all wrong. You’re still awful, always have been awful, always will be awful; only reason you’re able to get away with it is ‘cause you won’t admit to it. Won’t admit to fucking anything! You won’t even admit to fucking me! You just let that slip under the radar and shoved it in the and stuff folder! And fucking STUFF? WE FUCKED! Were you not present for that part of the night?! Are you not aware that we had sex? Did you forget what sex entails? IT’S JUST ONE MOTION REPEATING FOR THE ENTIRE ACT! IN, OUT, IN, OUT, MOTHERFUCKER! IT IS LITERALLY THE SAME ALL ACROSS THE BOARD! STRAIGHT, GAY, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHO YOU ARE, YOU NEVER FORGET HOW TO THRUST IN AND OUT FOR A MAXIMUM OF THIRTY MINUTES TO AN HOUR. FUCKING SHIT! I’M PRACTICALLY A BORN AGAIN VIRGIN AND EVEN I REMEMBERED HOW TO FUCK JUST OUT OF MUSCLE MEMORY! AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO FUCK ME BACK! YOU’RE HOT ENOUGH THAT YOU CAN JUST LAY THERE AND DO NOTHING! DID YOU FORGET HOW TO DO NOTHING?! FUCKING HELL... God, you have any idea what that does to a person’s psyche? Being treated like someone’s shameful, dirty little secret? Being drug out of the dark every now and then whenever you decide you want my attention? And then, for the other 99.9% of the time, being told to keep quiet, to not disrupt the peace, to not upset you by simply being honest about what has transpired. Oh, but we don’t talk about that. You can fuck me when it’s late at night and your first and second choices aren’t awake, but you can’t talk to me about it. You know, you hide me just like Keith hid you. Can’t let the wife know about the pretty young thing he fucks on the weekends. Yeah, did you forget about that, Lydia? How it feels to live in secrecy? How it feels to have the person you want be so deeply ashamed of you? Jesus christ, is that all I’m good for? What the fuck is so awful about me that you can only stand to be around me when I’m in your bed? And what the fuck is wrong with me that I let you do it? Do I not value myself? Is this how it’s gonna be for the rest of my life? I’m just gonna throw myself at whoever gives me a second glance? God. No wonder you think you can use me and get away with it. I’ve been letting people do that my whole life. But I won’t anymore. You know, I think I may have loved you, but I just need to...let it go. This is so obviously not working. And it’s sad, and I’m sorry that it took this long, that it had to get to the point of total devastation before I realized we are never going to be able to revive what we once had. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me, because it hurts, it hurts more than you could ever imagine to be in the thick of it all as it happens. Our love lies bleeding, and all I can do is watch. And just because I know I’ve got to let you go doesn’t mean I don’t take it as a personal failure. I take all break-ups as a personal failure, god, Lyd, you knew that, and you knew that I would still feel that way even though this isn’t a break-up at all. It makes me look at myself differently. Makes me feel unlovable and inherently bad and scared, scared at my own behavior. I will never examine myself more closely than I do after I’ve gone through a break-up, and I hate it, hate that part every time because holy fuck my patterns of behavior are so disturbing. I think that’s why I cried when J told me you two are not meant to be. I’m never meant to be with anyone, am I? I can’t fucking make it work with anyone. I self-implode and then all of my relationships have to deal with the aftershocks. How is it so fucking hard to love and be loved? The very basis of humanity is connecting with other people and I’m still figuring out how to do that at twenty four. Will I ever conquer love? Will I ever even deserve it? Was what you and I had love? Did I ever really love you or did I just want my youth back? Did you ever really love me or did you just love the way I made you feel? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll never know the answers to those questions. All I know is this: you got my hopes up, again, and now you’re gone, again, and you’re never, ever coming back. You left. What a surprise! Wow, you’ve never done that before. And now J’s probably going to leave me too, even though there isn’t anything to fucking leave because we aren’t friends! He’s still going to leave, though, because I was deeply reckless with his time and forced him to come all the way out here even though he doesn’t know me like that, and unloaded all of my emotional baggage on him, and cried in front of him and oh my god, now I’m starting to cry thinking about how I cried in front of him, and fuck this night has just been so hard. All of it has just been so hard. With a sigh that comes from deep within my chest, I slowly make my way back to the bench, slumping down onto it and burying my head in my hands, not even giving a damn about how I look, or that I’m in tears, or that the air is actually starting to get pretty stuffy and gross from the rain, or that J is still lost for words beside me. I don’t give a damn about any of it. I really just fucking don’t. “God damn it.” I choke out, gasping a little to catch my breath. “I’m really gonna be alone for the rest of my life, J.” And there’s not a single thing I can do about it.

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chasingthecosmos · 4 years

Text

By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: G Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 4/26 Read on AO3 here.

��Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that’s what was happening …” A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? Rating may go up as the story continues

"Clara Oswin Oswald!"

Astonishment and excitement flitted across the Doctor's face as he stood and stared at Rose, seeming to vibrate with barely-contained energy.

"No, it's ..." she muttered breathlessly. Rose! It's me, Rose! she thought desperately, but the words were choked off in her throat, refusing to be spoken. How could she possibly tell him who she really was? How would he even believe her, when she could barely believe it herself? How could she explain what she barely understood?

"Clara. It's just ... Clara," she finished lamely, blinking hard and forcing herself to focus. She didn't really want to lie to the Doctor, but until she had a better understanding of what exactly was going on, Rose decided to play her cards close to her chest. After all, she didn't even really know who this man was anymore - she had no way of knowing how many years had passed for him between their last goodbye on Bad Wolf Bay and now.

"Do you remember me?" he asked eagerly, seeming to be oblivious to her internal struggle. The Doctor's hands were fidgeting restlessly as though he longed to reach out and grab her.

Rose watched him with a guarded expression, wondering how exactly she was meant to answer this question. Yes, she remembered this new Doctor - but she had only ever met him in dreams before. And the "Clara" that he had met back at the dalek asylum and in nineteenth century England wasn't her, either.

"No," she replied awkwardly. "Should I? Who are you?"

"The Doctor!" he insisted, stepping through the threshold without being invited and smiling at her as though he expected her to suddenly catch on and throw herself into his arms. "No? The Doctor?" he continued, his grin falling into a look of confused hurt as Rose continued to simply stare up at him in disbelief.

He was so close to her, his eyes scanning every inch of her face for even the slightest hint of recognition. Rose wondered if his refusal to respect personal boundaries was a thing that he did with everyone now, or if it was just her. And if it was just her, then was it Clara or was it actually her? Rose had so many questions perched right on the tip of her tongue, but she had absolutely no idea how to begin to give voice to any of them.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, finally settling on the question that seemed the safest.

The Doctor flashed her an odd look before taking half a step back and exclaiming, "Well, I came here for you, of course! You phoned me - you were looking for the Internet."

"That was you?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Of course it was me," he answered with a shrug, his hands never once stilling as he continued to fidget restlessly before her.

"What, you've got a helpline number?" she insisted dubiously. Blimey, had he changed that much?

"So what if I have?" he asked defensively, giving her another strange, hooded look. His jaw was working as though he were slowly chewing over his next words before he finally asked, "Are you sure you don't remember me?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Rose lied with an easy shrug. She flashed him a teasing smile as she added, "I think I'd remember a chin like that."

"Oi!" he bit back defensively, giving her a look of mock offense as he rubbed his hands over said chin before narrowing his eyes at her once more. "Fine. If you're so sure, then I'll just be on my way, then."

Without hesitating, he flashed her his trademark, manic Doctor-smile and then turned around in a flurry of brown robes to head back out of the doorway that he had so rudely barged through just a moment ago.

"Wait!" Rose called after him, not really sure what she was going to say next, but knowing that she couldn't just let him leave like this. "Doctor ..."

But her words melted away as Rose took in the sight of the big blue box parked in the grass right outside of the front door of the strange new house that she had woken up in. The Old Girl looked bigger than what Rose remembered, but it was hard to tell if that was because Rose's dreams had never really been able to do her justice, or if she actually had grown a few inches in either direction.

The Doctor, however, ignored Rose's call and subsequent slack-jawed expression as he swung through the doors without a backwards glance and disappeared into the depths of his old time ship.

Rose didn't realize that she had unconsciously moved closer until her fingertips grazed against the bright blue wood and she gasped out loud as a song of elation and welcome immediately erupted in her mind.

"Oh!" she sighed, letting her eyes slip closed and basking in the warmth that the TARDIS was projecting into her head. "Hello again," she murmured.

The TARDIS's song swelled until it felt as though it would shatter her skull with its magnitude and Rose became distantly aware that she was losing consciousness once more. She didn't have time to open her mouth and ask what was going on - she barely even had a second to register that something was happening before her legs buckled underneath her and she collapsed to the ground.

The only thing that she could remember was that there was a whisper in her mind - a faceless, feminine voice singing softly to her as she slept. Welcome home, the voice sighed happily. At long last, welcome home.

--------------------

When Rose woke again, she half-expected to be back in the universe that Doctor had once dubbed "Pete's World", with nothing but an old, weary body and a house that was too large and too empty.

Instead, she awoke curled up in a bed that she had been in just a few hours before with an aching head and a few new, hazy memories. Rose blinked hard and forced herself to focus on the nightstand before her eyes as the room slowly came into focus. She couldn't remember if the vase of flowers had been there before, but the plate of biscuits and the glass of water were definitely new additions. Had the Doctor put them there?

The flowers sparked an old hurt deep within her as Rose remembered her husband and the way that he would constantly find excuses to spontaneously leave her little gifts when she wasn't paying attention. Sometimes, they were just a few scrawled notes on a scrap of paper. Sometimes it was some small gadget or bauble that he had fashioned together by hand. More often than not, though, he liked to leave her roses.

These flowers, she noted, were not roses - and she wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse.

Rose sighed as she forced herself to sit up and rub the sleep from her eyes. There was still an odd humming going on in the back of her mind that she couldn't quite seem to shake. She subconsciously allowed herself to be led forward by it and ended up coming to a stop at a small window that was in the wall at the foot of her bed.

Her gaze immediately settled on the familiar blue box that still sat parked exactly where she had last seen it, and the man sitting in a folding chair just outside of it. It seemed that the Doctor had exchanged the monk robes for dark trousers, a white Oxford, and a dark coat that looked faintly Victorian. There was also a bowtie hanging just under that iconic chin of his, but Rose couldn't decipher its true color due to the dim lighting of the dark street outside.

All in all, she thought that the new clothes suited him much better than the robes did, and Rose took a quiet moment to examine this (new, new) new Doctor while he sat there, bent over and fiddling with something in his lap that she couldn't see. His face was even younger than the last one she had seen, but she could tell that he had seen more than his fair share of added years during his time apart from her. But to someone just walking down the street with no idea of who (or what) he was, he would simply look like a handsome (if odd), young bloke.

Rose found herself grateful (not for the first time) that the Bad Wolf had gifted her with her own new body as well. This way, they at least looked equally matched, even if he still had over nine decades on her.

"Hello ...?" she finally called down to him, her voice slow and hesitant as she decided to put an end to her musing and get his attention.

He blinked up at her in surprise for a moment before jumping to his feet and greeting her with a wide, infectious smile. "Hello!" he answered cheerily. "Are you alright?"

"I'm in bed," she stated flatly.

"Yes!"

"Don't remember going ..."

"No."

"What happened?"

"Ah, well, you seem to have lost consciousness outside of my fantastic blue box, here," the Doctor explained, gesturing to the TARDIS at his back and flashing her a teasing smile. "It was a bit odd. Most people wait until they get on the inside to do that."

"Right," Rose replied, her eyebrows drawing together in a confused expression. "Sorry."

"Nah, happens all the time," the Doctor scoffed, gesturing wildly with his hands as he easily brushed off her apology. "I do a lot of traveling, you know - been through my share of rough trips. Losing consciousness tends to happen every now and then."

"And ... what are you doing down there?" Rose asked, pointedly nodding to the folding chair behind him.

"Just working," he replied lightly. "You know - keeping an eye on things."

"'Things'?" she repeated dubiously, raising a teasing brow at him.

"Yes, 'things'," he agreed.

"You mean me?"

The Doctor lowered his gaze, then, and his suddenly sheepish expression made Rose smile. However, he had that strange, suspicious look in his eye once more when he finally looked up at her again, and she could feel her self-satisfied grin instantly fall into an expression of confused concern.

"Yes," he finally replied, his voice low and dangerous. "Among other things."

"Why?" she insisted curiously.

"Because you ask the wrong questions," he answered simply, turning his back on her and hunching back down into his folding chair with a heavy sigh.

It was Rose's turn to narrow her eyes in suspicion as she silently watched him for a few moments. However, it was soon made clear that she wasn't going to be able to get any answers by yelling at him from out of her window (was it her window?), so she quickly shut and locked the latch and raced down the stairs once more to join him.

He was bent over in the exact same position that she had left him in, fiddling with something in his lap again. Rose thought that she heard a familiar whirring noise, but it cut off as soon as she stepped closer to him and he stashed the thing away in his jacket pocket before she could get a better look.

"What do you mean, I 'ask the wrong questions'?" she asked him quietly.

"You know, I've been bouncing around this planet for over a thousand years," the Doctor mused out loud, "met a lot of humans in my time. Most of them don't just accept my name, though. It's always 'Doctor who', and 'that's not a real name', or something like that. But you ..." He turned to flash her a weighted expression out of the corner of his eye as he slowly regarded her from top to bottom. "You insist that we've never met, and yet you just accepted it, no questions asked."

Rose opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off as he jumped to his feet once more and began pacing dramatically around the TARDIS. "And this!" he exclaimed loudly, rapping his hands against the blue paneling for emphasis. "What about this, eh? Great big blue box parked right outside your house with no explanation as to how it got there. Strange man goes inside and comes out wearing a completely new outfit." He tugged his lapels and straightened his bowtie as he flashed her a teasing, challenging grin before asking, "Not even the slightest bit curious?"

"Hold on," Rose insisted, bringing her hands up as though to grab him and force him to be still. It seemed that this version of the Doctor could be just as exhaustively energetic as the last one she had met. "Did you say ... 'a thousand years'?" she asked slowly.

The Doctor blinked at her for a moment before another wild grin stretched over his young new features. "Ah, there, you see? Now you're getting it," he stated brightly. "That's the right question."

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