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obsessive-ego · 3 years

Text

Just go with it

Musical beetlejuice x reader

Lewd mentions

Beetlejuice needs you to pretend to be his fiance or he's in trouble

"Babes?"

...

"Babes, wake up"

....?

"Y/n wake up"

What?

Was your first thought as you are shaken awake by the ghost who has made your home his, you mumble out something unintelligible as you grope around for your phone, you cringe as the bright light of the screen blinds you, as your eyes adjust to the light you groan, 4am.

"Beetlejuice, what-"

"Okay, babes, no time to explain but I need you to pretend to be my fiance" despite the odd statement beetlejuice sounded a tad worried.

"What?"

"Long story short I may have said a few things to some guys, and if we dont pull this off I will be dragged back to the netherworld" the ghoul whispered dragging you out if bed.

"Oh" was all you could muster is your drowsy state.

"So theres a suit from the netherworld waiting to meet you, in your living room, now" beetlejuice continued rubbing the back of his neck.

You sigh and shuffle about your room, slipping on slippers and giving your hair a quick once over, as you reach for your housecoat beetlejuice swats away your hand.

"Bee-"

Beetlejuice drops his jacket around your shoulders "this will work much better babes, we need to sell this"

You groan, you were too tired for this, thank god you didnt work in the morning, who knows how long this shit is gonna take, but as tired as you were you couldnt let whoever take your ghost back to the netherworld.

"Okay you're my fiance, I proposed a week ago, and you're head over heels for me, that last part wont be hard to fake huh doll?" The ghoul gives you a wink, you sigh.

"Wait, almost forgot" the ghoul snaps his fingers, you feel a light squeeze on you right handed middle finger.

Upon your finger appears rather tacky, pretty ring, the band was black and white, and resembled a snake, the gem was a brilliant green, you honestly felt your heart squeeze when you saw it, to be honest staring at the ring felt like a dream, maybe because you just woke up? It was beautiful, and the idea of it being for real kinda hurt knowing it was for pretend, but those feelings didnt matter right now, Beej needed you to help him avoid being dragged back to the netherworld, you can think about those depressing emotions later.

The two of you leave the bedroom, beetlejuice takes the lead as you shuffle behind.

As the two of you enter the living room you could help but pause and stare at the 'suit' beej claimed that was waiting for you.

In your little arm chair sat a fairly tall skeleton man, his bones a blueish hue, wearing a lime green suit that looked fresh off the rack, guess not all dead guys wore dirty clothes, in all honesty this was your first time seeing another dead person aside from the maitlands and beetlejuice, they were human, beej was humanish, but this guy looked like he walked out of a cartoon.

"Sorry for the wait, you know breathers, they need to sleep" beetlejuice cackled snapping you from your thoughts "well there's y/n, theres the ring, and theres the door, feel free to use it" beetlejuice snears, wanting to get this whole thing done with, yes he adored messing with you, and with different circumstances this could have been funny, but too much was on the line for him and you were an awful liar, he loved you sure, but theres no way you could pull off lying.

"Y/n I presume?" The skeleton gestures to you, completely ignoring beetlejuice, you nod "its pleasure to put a face to the name, I apologize for the rude awakening, when you've been dead for as long as I have, you tend to lose the meaning of time, my dear this wont take long, we just need to clear up some loose ends then you can get back to your rest" the skeleton gestures you to sit on the couch next to beetlejuice who has already made himself comfortable.

You gently sit down next to BJ who was quick to drape an arm over your shoulders and pull you into his side.

The skeleton pulls out a clipboard from his jacket and flips through the pages

"Lawrence B Shoggoth, y/n m/n l/n, I have requested an audience with you two to clear up some issues with Lawrence's recent updated paper work, not to mention a handful of rumours that need to be put to bed" the ghoul flips through the papers "it says here the y/n you are Lawrence's spouse, is that true?"

You nod

"You see y/n, Lawrence here cant be trusted at face value, so that is why I must converse with you on the matter, so you are his fiance correct?"

"Yes"

"I see, now how long have the two of you known each other?"

"About a year or so" you shrug

"Mmmhmm" the ghoul scribbles down something and continues "now when did he propose to you?"

"Last week" this was so anxiety inducing, for a man with no eyeballs it sure felt like he was staring into your soul.

"Now what drawn you to such a, oh how do I put this, such a man?"

You hear beetlejuice huff out as if he was insulted.

"Well, beetlejuice may be rough around the edges, and can be a dick at times, but he's great company, hes funny, witty, has great taste in movies, and he makes me smile, hes also, well, he's also good looking too" you look away from both parties, as you were clearly embarrassed over what you said, it was the truth, but it still made your face burn.

Beetlejuice leans forward, looking in your direction, eyes wide and mouth a gape, his hair now a bright pink.

"Mr Shoggoth, you look surprised at y/n's words" the ghoul grabs Beetlejuice's attention.

"Heh, you see y/n is the shy type, hearing that type a thing is rare and ALWAYS gets my attention". Beetlejuice slicks his hair back removing the pink and resetting it to its default green.

"Mmmmhmmm" was the ghoul's only response as attention was drawn back to you.

"So y/n you truly are betrothed to Lawrance, you want to be wed to him on purpose?" The skeleton's tone was almost surprised, as if beetlejuice was the most revolting creature in existence and you wanting, out of your own free will to be bound to such a thing, was the most insane thing he has ever herd.

You nod, beetlejuice gives the skeleton a smug toothy grin.

"This isnt a joke, nor is he blackmailing or threatening you?" His tone sounded desperate, as if he needed to prove beetlejuice was lying for his own good.

You only shake your head, while beetlejuice surpresses a laugh

"Ya see bone head? I'm innocent~" he chuckles, squeezing you close to his side.

"Y/n you are aware of what you're doing for Lawrence correct?" The skeleton sounded almost smug, you only stare back, waiting for him to elaborate.

"You see y/n, you are doing Lawrence here a huge favor, when the dead marry the living, they are able to walk the earth like you do, you are granting him life, something he has never had, this is why we must confirm with you, that you understand what he's doing" the skeleton gestures to beetlejuice, the demon only rolls his eyes in response.

"I know"

Attention is drawn to you

"I know all about that life giving thing, beetlejuice told me about it"

"Well you see y/n, this isnt the first time Lawrence has-"

"I know, I was told, by him and the person he tried to marry the first time, small world huh"

The skeleton pauses for a moment then coughs into his fist, as if to regain his composure after being surprised, he continues "I see, Lawrence has been honest with you, I didnt think he had it in him"

Beetlejuice snarls at the comment, tips of his hair turning red.

"Just a few more loose ends y/n then you can return to your rest" the skeleton flips through his papers "ah, Lawrence, y/n may have been couched, and since you seem so eager to speak, I do have a few things I need to clarify with you, if the two of you are in love as you say and this isnt a farce, you would know plenty about your future spouse, when was y/n born?" The skeleton snears as if hes caught you two red handed

Beetlejuice snorts out a laugh "easy *birthday day and year* hell I woke them up with some early morning birthday head"

You cover your face in embarrassment at that comment, yet you were surprised he knew the year.

"Correct, and might I saw congratulations on a LEGAL partner this time"

Beetlejuice rolls his eyes at the low blow before grumbling "it was a green card thing"

The skeleton ignores Beetlejuice's comment and continues "what drew you to this breather? And please keep it out of the gutter"

Beetlejuice huffs "spoil sport, y/n here is one of the kindest, sweetest, softest breather I ever met, they let me do whatever I want, they want me around, no stings attached, they got great taste, just look at the company they keep, and let me tell ya, the first time we met they sucker punched me in the jaw for scaring them, and I've been dreaming of that swing ever since"

You just stare at the ghoul, he remembered that? He remembered how he first met you? When lydia locked you in the basement and he jumped out at you, successfully scaring you but earning himself a fist in the jaw, wow. Your face felt hot remembering that, what a frist impression.

The night droned on and on with dull questions the suit had lined up to prove beetlejuice was lying, but every question had an appropriate answer, and the skeleton knew he could not prove anything as the night went on.

Low on patience and time he decided call it quits.

The skeleton pushes his clipboard back into his jacket and sighs "I appreciate your time y/n, thank you for your cooperation, and Lawrence, I look forward form your departure of death, a short vacation from you is the pick me up I deserve" the skeleton raises up from your chair and walks over to a wall on the other side of the room, you watch him draw a door, and knock 3 times, you're livingroom wall opens up to the netherworld. You freeze at the sight, you always felt uneasy seeing the netherworld portal open up, maybe it was a living thing? As if beetlejuice felt your discomfort he pulls you into a side hug, grounding your anxiety, you give a sigh of what feels like relief.

The skeletontirns to face the two of you "Before my departure, y/n I do have one final thing to ask you, can you kiss Lawrence for me?"

"What?" You gawk in confusion

Beetlejuice snorts out a laugh "what? You the type of guy who gets off on watching others get hot and heavy, I mean I feel ya, but if you insist, I can help a guy out" beetlejuice is quick to cup your face "give daddy some sugar~" he purrs puckering up to go in for the kiss.

"Lawrence you misunderstand me, I ask y/n, if you two are truly betrothed, shy or not, y/n shouldnt have any issues kissing their lover" the skeleton gestures to you, without eyeballs or eyebrows he sure wore a smug face, as if he found you two out.

Beej snorts out his nose, great, he's fucked, theres no way you could sell this now, the ghoul had to take the lead and try to steer this away from what this bureaucrat wants "Shy or not, my little sex pot here isnt too keen on others watching, believe me, I tired, the only thing they wont do in the bedroom-"

"Bee, it's fine" you interject, gently grabbing the demons sleeve, he looks at you mouth agape, green slowly blossoming into pink in his face and hair.

"You mind leaning down honey?" You ask softly, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, yes beetlejuice has kissed you more times then you could remember, and yes, youd be lying if you didnt enjoy them, but taking the lead? That was new, and to have someone watching? Not to mention if you dont make this look good he's gonna take beetlejuice away.

Beetlejuice on the other was practically glowing pink, and vibrating with excitment, not to mention drooling.

You gently cup the demons face, running your thumbs across his stubble, you swore you could hear the demon purring, you take a deep breath through your nose before closing the gap between the two of you.

Beetlejuice's hands find homes for themselves, on in your hair, the other on the center of your back. Your hands move from the demon's face and bury themselves in his messy hair, gently giving his head a scratch, you squeak with surprise as the ghoul lifts you up from the ground, instinct kicks in nd you wrap you legs around his waist, lips still locked with his, you feel his tongue probing at you mouth, begging for your permission to enter, you oblige, his tongue wasnt new to you, you felt it a handful of times, running up the side of your face when the ghoul was trying to get your attention mostly, but in your mouth?

It was long, and big, and kind of cold, it easily took the lead, exploring your mouth.

You push on Beetlejuice's chest to notify him you needed to breath, the two of pull your lips part from each others, a thin line of saliva still connecting the two of you.

"Oh Lawrence" you sigh

The demon now completely electric pink, still holding you up growls before asking "couch?"

You hum out "yes"

Before the ghoul flops backwards on the couch, having you sit on top of him, you give his tie a quick yank and he groans in response.

"Oh doll, you're lucky you dont work tomorrow, cuz I want you to ride me all night~"

"Ahem!"

The two of you freeze for a moment, beetlejuice snickers at your face, clearly embarrassed, you pause for a moment, swallowing your shame before addressing the ghoul who was still here

"You're still here?" Was all you manged to breath out

"I mean I'm into it, but y/n? Not so much, and they clearly arent into you watching so" beetlejuice snorts, trying to wave the skeleton off so the demon could relax.

"I see, y/n you clearly are attracted to him, and understand all the consequences of marrying the dead, I declare that Lawrence B Shoggoth was, in fact, telling the truth, this should be a holiday, such a rare occasion" the skeleton trailed off as he walked into the netherworld, you only watched as he vanished and the walls of your little apartment rearranged themselves like it never happened.

You sat top beetlejuice for a moment, sighing over dodging the bullet of losing your, very dear friend, you may or may not be head over heels for.

You're reminded of where you were sitting with a familiar pinch on your butt.

"Hey honey~" the ghoul purrs

You jerk up at recalling the situation you're in, beetlejuice groans at you movement

"Careful sweets, keep moving like that and you'll turn this semi into a boner" he snorts out a chuckle.

You're quick to get off the demon, though he did grunt in protest, before sitting back up and pulling a couch cushion over his lap, despite how crude he was, he did have SOME common courtesy.

As much fun as it would have been for the demon to tease you on your rather hot actions, he noticed how your attention wasnt on him, rather then you were staring at the wall that was once the door to the netherworld.

"So we did it?" Was all you seemed to whisper

"Yup, I got to hand it to you babes, you did quite a good job fooling that stiff"

You turn back to the demon and give him a soft smile feeling completely relieved.

"You know it's funny y/n, you're a terrible liar, and you sure as hell cant act, you got way too many tells, but yet, I didnt see a single twitch nor did I hear a single stutter, why's that?~" you knew that tone oh too well, it was the 'I know something embarrassing about you' tone, it was smug yet made your legs turn to jelly.

"I guess when it comes down to really important stuff i guess i can-" you stammer while fiddling with the hem of your shirt

"I dont think so dolly" beej was quick to interrupt "babes, you've been wearing my jacket the whole time, I've seen you keep glancing down at the ring, and fuck me, the amount of fire in that kiss, someone like you cant fake that"

You refuse to look his way, this was one hell.of a way to come clean with your feelings, a heavy silence fills the room, though you're pretty sure beetlejuice could hear your heart pounding away.

As if the ghoul could sense your discomfort, he sighs "ya know babes, it's pretty late, and breathers need to sleep, so how bout you head back to bed and I'll finish grilling you in the morning"

Glancing back at beetlejuice you could see the flicks of purple appearing in the pink mess of his hair, you give the ghouls half hearted smile, as you go to take off the jacket he raising his hand motioning you to stop

"Its gonna be cold tonight babes, how bout you keep it warm for me?"

"Oh, alright, night Bee, glad I could help you" you wave off as you head to your bedroom to over think what just happened.

Beetlejuice groans when he hears the familiar sound of your bedroom door closing, he was so close to getting a real confession out of you, but tomorrow morning is gonna be pretty dangerous for you, he sighs removing the pillow from his lap, he had a more pressing matter to attend too, and with your taste on his tongue and the beautiful imagine of you on top of him yanking at his tie, this 'problem' wont take long to deal with.

Bonus

The next morning was quite awkward, beetlejuice wasnt kidding about grilling you in the morning, but at least what felt like an interrogation last night, now felt like childish teasing

"Bee, can I ask you something about last night?"

The ghoul beams with excitement at your question "anything you want babes"

"If we would have failed, what would have happened to you, you said you would have been dragged back to the netherworld and" you pause hoping the ghoul would fill in

"Oh, yeah, if we would have got caught I would have had to spend a week in the netherworld with my mother fixing this paperwork and just being chewed out, a nightmare babes, we dodged a bullet" he raises his hand for a high five as if to congratulate you on helping him out

"What, I'm sorry what"

Beetlejuice lowers his hand and frowns at your response

"Beetlejuice I was worried sick, I thought they were gonna take you away forever, i was terrified if i fuck up I'd never see you again, like what am i supposed to do without you?! I dont want you to leave me" you practically screamed

Beetlejuice only started at you, slowly soaking in what you said

'I dont want you to leave me'

His blank stare slowly shifts to a smile, flicks of pink appearing in his hair "dont worry sugar, you're stuck with me"

#beetlejuice x reader #muscial beetlejuice x reader

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starlightinhumanform · 3 years

Text

Friday Night Lights: Chapter Two

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ship: Romantic Prinxiety, Platonic Sleepxiety

Summary: Roman and Virgil play opposite positions on their rival high school football teams. It’s the Homecoming game and tensions are high. Neither are willing to lose but one must rise above the other...

Warnings: Descriptions of pain/injury, Moderate language, One mention of drinking (Please tell me if anything needs to be added)

Genre: High School AU, Rivals to Lovers, Fluff

A/N: Well... nearly a year since the first chapter came out I’m finally writing again!!! I really love this AU (even though I know very little about football lmao) and I have a lot of ideas about how I would like to include more Sanders Sides characters into this world. If I can get some more of my unfinished fics done, I really want to expand this series. Until then, I hope you enjoy! Love you all 🖤✨

Chapter One Ao3 Fic Masterpost Fic Request Info

The first play passed by in a blink. Most of the guys at the front went down quickly, even the largest crumpling under Prince and his brigade. Somehow in the chaos, the ball had been passed to Remy instead of Virgil and the fullback was tackled to the ground.

Virgil rolled his eyes at Remy as the team fell back into formation, only a few feet forward from where they had begun, “Dude, why’d the fuck did it get passed to you? It’s not like a knucklehead like you would know what to do with it.”

Remy huffed a laugh in response, “I have no clue. I’ll make sure it gets to you this time… hopefully.”

He glanced over in the direction that Remy was grimacing. It was Prince, of course, lumbering toward his position with what seemed to Virgil to be nothing but brutish arrogance. Roman acted like the entire game was about him; he acted like it was West Shore Vs Roman instead of West Shore Vs Knights. He probably didn’t even care about the game— it was all about showing off.

Crouched in the back of the formation, it was hard to see anyone at the front but he could picture Roman, somehow managing to smirk behind his mouthguard. Virgil hoped that Remy would rub his face in the turf.

—————————————-

Roman prepared for the second down, glad to see that the jock in front of him wasn’t looking nearly as confident as he had at the first down. Knocking someone to the ground always seemed to do the trick.

The ball was hurled straight back to Tempeste and the bitch who had growled at him earlier didn’t even try to block Roman. Good. All that was left between him and the weird little halfback was Remy Ristretto.

Roman tried to steady himself before the expected slam, but Ristretto’s tackle hit him low in the stomach, managing to knock him off balance. From the ground, he could just barely see the purple form of Tempeste weaving down the field and avoiding every single one of the Monarch Knight’s defense.

Roman tried to throw off the weight of the boy on his back but found himself thoroughly pinned down. His mouth was filled with the taste of plastic turf and dusty rubber and almost the entirety of his vision was blocked by the grape juice flavoured uniform on top of him. It was humiliating. And Tempeste was still running, reaching the end zone without being touched by a single Knight. It was like his feet didn’t even touch the ground, flying across the field.

The West Shore team were given the chance to make a field goal, and made it, but Roman hardly noticed. He was too busy grumbling about how he was going to get back at Tempeste the second he got the chance.

—————————————-

By halftime, Virgil felt like he had been driven over by a steamroller. Multiple times. A steamroller covered in baseball bats.

As the marching band paraded past where Virgil was sitting, he wondered vaguely about the operability of a steamroller that had baseball bats attached to it. Maybe the hit he had taken to the head earlier in the game had been harder than he thought.

Remy sat down besides him, “What’s going on in that big old head of yours?”

“Uhhhhh, a lot of cartoon gong sound effects. Now that I think about it, that might just be the band.”

Virgil looked out across the field as the marching band made their final pass around the turf. The sky was completely dark by now but the stadium glowed bright as day under the huge lights. It was always wonderfully surreal to Virgil, the time of night when the field became its own little world still holding onto the glory of day. He hoped glory was still how he felt about this field by the end of the game. The alternative would be shame; the alternative would be defeat.

And defeat was not an option for a game right before homecoming. It’s not that Virgil particularly cared about the school dances, quite the opposite in fact, he hated them. They were crowded, noisy, and you had to wear uncomfortable clothes and stand around with a bunch of people you don’t like instead of being at home watching scary movies and eating pizza in your pajamas. But there’s only one thing worse than going to a school dance— going to the a school dance after losing the biggest game of the season.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?” Remy’s voice broke through Virgil’s thoughts, “Well stop it. We’re ahead of the Knights—“

“Barely.”

“—you’ve made some great runs so far—“

“I’ve gotten blocked plenty of times too.”

“—and you’re always at your best in the second half of the game. Now stop putting all your energy towards making the little hamster wheel in your brain turn faster and go use it on the field. C’mon man, the third quarter is about to start.”

Virgil shook his head as if to dislodge the distracting thoughts, letting his purple bangs fall in front of his face for a moment before brushing them back and putting his helmet on. Remy was right. Virgil had started football as a way to channel his anxiety, not to cause himself more. He just needed to get on that field and start running.

He jumped up and started bouncing on his feet, letting the adrenaline flow through his body until it felt like he was buzzing. Virgil was ready to win.

—————————————-

Roman was ready to win.

He could feel it boiling in stomach, the drive, the push to alway be the best. The teams had been neck-and-neck the entire game but West Shore’s grape-coloured menace had managed to scrape by with a slight lead by the end of the second quarter. Roman had no idea how Tempeste could even run that fast; he had short little legs and was about as delicate as a twig. Maybe West Shore just hooked him up to a car battery and gave him 20 energy drinks before every game.

However they made it happen, the kid could run. He didn’t look like he belonged on a football team, more like a trackstar or even a dancer. Roman knew he looked like a football player— tall, with broad shoulders and a thick waist, his extra weight part of what made him such a good defense. But Tempeste... he was like no player Roman had ever seen. Maybe that’s why Roman couldn’t beat him like any other player.

As the teams fell into formation, Roman looked across the row of helmets and accidentally made eye contact with Virgil. His stare burned with intensity. Roman hated to admit it, but he liked that about the rival school’s halfback, the feverish energy that seemed to storm around him. In fact, if Roman was being really honest, he loved playing against the West Shore because he loved playing against Tempeste. The energy was infectious. Playing against him made Roman want to run faster, hit harder, be better.

Roman smiled behind the mouthguard that rested on his bottom teeth. Maybe he did know how to beat Virgil; maybe he had to be just as crazy and vicious as his opponent.

—————————————-

Virgil knew what it felt like to get tackled. In his high school career he had gotten jumped on top and thrown to the ground by various sweaty, muscly dudes more times than he could ever dream of counting or would ever care to. He had been dragged to the ground, sat on, and pushed over from every angle and in every way.

But he had never, never felt a tackle like Roman’s in the beginning of the third quarter of that game.

He saw it coming, practically in slow motion, before Prince actually hit him. The boy’s shoulders were nearly twice as big as Virgil’s even with all his gear. He came charging towards Virgil head-down like a bull, his bright red helmet set with a direct trajectory to Virgil’s solar plexus.

Virgil tried to sidestep, skirting just past the moving wall of Roman Prince, but somehow Roman was moving simply too fast. The impact struck just at his core and a deep kind of pain, like a bruise that goes all the way to the bone, resonated outwards through his entire body. A vibration ran all the way to his fingertips.

Virgil could see the crowd going wild, booing and cheering and maybe just screaming with no inflection, making noise for the hell of it. He couldn’t hear any of it. Maybe the entire world had been put on mute or maybe the ringing in his ears was drowning it out.

He fell backwards and Roman flew over him, momentum carrying him forward. When he landed— and boy, did he land— he fell on directly onto Virgil’s chest. Virgil thought Roman had knocked the wind out of him by hitting him in the sternum. By landing flat on his chest with the entire bulk of his body, Roman found another ounce of breath left in Virgil’s body to shock out of him.

His vision and hearing tunneled out, focusing on the one thing capturing his entire attention: Roman. The boy on top of him was heavy, crushing Virgil through his thick shoulder pads. The heat of Prince’s body spread through his gear as well, although, based on the sweat damping his hairline, Virgil really wasn’t one to talk.

Roman was strong, stronger than him. Virgil tried to squirm away but he could feel Prince throwing his weight downwards and his arms straining to keep Virgil caged to the ground.

Just as intense as his physical strength, Prince’s eyes seemed to burn. Before, they always seemed to be depthless, simply dark and brutish like a bear. Now, breathlessly close, there seemed to be a light behind them, a thousand times brighter than the stadium lights. Gold tones shining through the dark brown of his eyes. It was the most beautiful thing Virgil had ever seen. It was also easily one of the most terrifying things he’d ever seen.

Virgil kept the ball close to his chest. As long as he could keep it, the West Shore team would still have possession and could continue to move forward across the field. They could still win.

—————————————-

Roman had Tempeste pinned to the ground and somehow it was the most exhilarating thing he had ever done. Which isn’t to say he had never tackled the halfback before— they had been playing against each other for several years now— but this was different somehow, more personal.

Tempeste growled beneath him, wriggling to escape the tackle like water slipping between his fingers. Roman push down harder, refusing to let him go.

Footsteps pounded behind them, turf crunching under the stampede of Knights quickly charging forward. Roman braced himself for the pile-up he knew was coming, over a thousand pounds worth of his team jumping to join the tackle.

One guy slammed into Roman’s back then another, then another. The pressure of the game must have been getting to them as well because they threw themselves at Roman and Tempeste like a pack of wild animals.

It felt like every single Knight, including the offense players, were joining the tackle. And feel was the correct term. He could hardly see anything besides Tempeste’s face within his purple helmet. But he could feel everything, every hit of his teammates as their full weight fell against his back. Beneath him, Tempeste’s breath began quickening, like he was sprinting again. But of course he wasn’t, he was pinned down just like Roman was.

Roman glanced down into the depths of Virgil’s helmet, searching past the grill. Shining in the dark, his eyes caught a small reflection of the stadium lights. They were large, startled, and obviously panicked. He looked like a trapped animal and his breathing only continued to become more rapid.

Their eyes met as Roman looked down and he realized this was the first time he had ever seen Virgil look really, truly afraid. He had seen Tempeste in the fourth quarter, 20 points behind and looking as determined and fierce as ever. He had seen Tempeste sprint across the field, followed by the entire Monarchs team, with a huge grin on his face like there was nothing he would rather do than be hunted after. He had seen Tempeste stand toe-toe-to, small chest puffed out and jaw set confidently, with some guy over a foot taller than him because he tried to mouth off about Virgil’s ability. He had never seen him like this.

“Hey, it’s going to be ok,” Roman set his helmet grill against Virgil’s. He knew Virgil couldn’t hear him and probably didn’t even know why he was putting his face so close. Hell, Roman didn’t even know why he was doing it. There was something about Virgil’s genuine fear that he felt the need to comfort him, tell him that it was just a game, that he would be alright.

The weight of another player hit him and Roman was slammed against Virgil’s chest. The sudden shift forced Roman onto his wrist, the small joint carrying him and the entirety of his team. Something cracked. He gasped sharply as pain struck every molecule in his body. Roman’s vision went black.

—————————————-

Virgil sat in the locker room, staring vaguely across at the rows of blue shelves in front of him as he held a pack of ice against his shoulder. The nurse said that it might have been dislocated in the pileup.

He wished he could blame it on Roman, that oaf was the one who had tackled him to begin with. He couldn’t though. It was Roman’s job to tackle him and that’s exactly what Roman had done and as much as it confused and somewhat infuriated Virgil, he also knew the other boy had protected him from the blunt force of his teammates. Why? Why would he do that?

Dull pain throbbed through the entirety of his body, clouding his mind. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what had happened.

Virgil was pretty sure Roman got hurt too. As he had walked off the field, gritting his teeth, he caught a glimpse of Prince cradling his hand as he walked in the opposite direction.

It was one hell of a pileup; four years of football and he had only been in a tangle that bad the first time he had played against the Monarchs. Maybe he and Roman were just destined to create disasters.

Virgil grimaced as his mind kept wandering back to Roman. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help but worry if Prince was alright. Virgil had no idea what was going on in his mind, or on the field, or in the locker room on the other side.

—————————————-

Roman was bored. He sat on the bleachers, watching the game drag on ahead of him as he held a pack of ice to his wrist. The nurse had told him it was probably just strained but Roman wasn’t convinced. He could feel the ache throbbing up his arm with every beat of his heart. Between the pain and the pressure spreading out from grinding his teeth, Roman’s head was trapped in a haze that he could barely see through.

From what he could tell, the Monarch Knights were winning. With Virgil out, Westshore’s offense had been greatly weakened. Roman hardly cared; he wasn’t out there, Virgil wasn’t out there, none of the spark was left in the game. What was the point of winning if there was no one to win against?

The crowd roared as the final quarter came to a close. The Knights won, but Roman didn’t. He felt disappointed, dejected, and like he didn’t quite understand where he was. This wasn’t his game.

The night came to an end and Roman opted to go straight to the locker room instead of shaking hands with the other team, blaming it on his wrist. Usually, he loved facing the other team after a win— admittedly because it gave him a chance to gloat over them— but he just couldn’t find that same feeling tonight.

—————————————-

Virgil leaned against a cold concrete wall of the bleachers, staring up at the stadium light’s false sun above him. If he looked far enough, he could find the dark sky and the twinkling lights of the city below him and beyond the intense glow of the school.

A cool breeze was picking up as the world shifted into night. It was beautiful but Virgil couldn’t appreciate it. He just wished there had been some sort of ending, a closure of some kind. He and Prince’s last hurrah against each other. But they hadn’t gotten a hurrah, all they got was a game that petered out and came to sputtering stop as they both sat on the sidelines. Virgil didn’t even care that West Shore lost; it was never about West Shore and the Monarchs. It was about him and Roman.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, “You mind if I join your sulking or would you rather be left alone to mope?”

Virgil spun around, his body tensing at Roman’s voice and sending a twinge of pain down from his shoulder, “What do you want?”

Roman stepped closer, “I told you, I came to sulk with you because that’s obviously what we’re both doing.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, “Yeah, right well... fuck off.”

“Man, I thought you might bite before but now I’m sure of it.”

Prince took another casual step forward as Virgil’s mind began racing. What is he doing? Virgil’s eyes swept over Roman. He had never really seen him out of his football uniform and damn. In denim jeans and a red tee shirt, Virgil was actually able to see him for the first time. Most guys were greatly exaggerated by the uniform, making them look bigger and stronger, but nope, Roman was really just built like that. His gaze reached Prince’s face. Like the rest of his body, his features looked like they had been sculpted and chiseled like some type of statue. He was reminded of how beautiful Roman’s eyes were when he actually took the time to look at them, the warm shades of brown filtering through each other.

“Uh, what are you looking at?” Roman laughed, a hint of nervousness creeping into the edge of his voice.

Virgil felt blood rushing to his face as a deep blush rose to his cheeks. He had been staring, hadn’t he? “Sorry.”

Roman stepped even closer, clearing his throat again, “I actually came over here because... I wanted just wanted to tell you I’ve really enjoyed playing against you. And it can’t just be summed up by saying ‘good game;’ it’s been a hell of a good four years... you’re a phenomenal player.”

Virgil stared down at his feet. This was not what he had been expecting, not that he had been expecting any of this, “You know... it hasn’t been easy to be the smallest person on the team— shit, I’m the smallest player in any of the district teams. I don’t think I would have kept playing, or would have tried as hard to stay on the team if I wasn’t absolutely set on kicking your ass.”

Roman laughed— a deep, genuine sound flooding from somewhere in his broad chest— and Virgil couldn’t help but grin.

“So yeah... thanks for that. And good game,” Virgil smiled up at the other boy.

“Well, we can’t exactly shake hands like usual,” Roman glanced down at his swollen wrist and Virgil’s shoulder that he was still nursing.

“Can we do something else then?” Virgil moved so he was standing face to face with Roman, his heart pounding in his ears.

Virgil could feel Roman’s breathing quicken as he reached up with his good arm, sliding his hand to the base of Roman’s neck. Put he didn’t startle, he didn’t try to move away. If anything, he seemed to be leaning into the touch.

Virgil moved forward, standing on the tips of his toes to press his lips against Roman’s. For a horrific second, he thought Roman wouldn’t return it but after a moment of apparent shock, Roman bowed his head to deepen the kiss. He tipped them forward, supporting the entirety of Virgil’s weight with his uninjured hand.

When they finally broke away, Virgil was completely breathless. He definitely hadn’t seen that coming at the beginning of the evening.

Roman looked equally surprised but he began grinning like an idiot as the realization of what had just happened settled over him, “Can we do that again??”

Virgil laughed at Roman’s eager, puppy-dog-eyes expression, “At least buy me a drink first.”

“Well, I can’t exactly do that seeing as we’re both like 17–“

“Excuse you, I’m 18,” Virgil stuck his tongue out in mock indignation.

“Yeah, well, uh, would you maybe want to go to homecoming with me?” Roman began rushing his words out, “I mean, I totally get if not. There’s absolutely no pressure. And I’m sure you already have plans so—“

“That’d be cool,” Virgil broke in, “I’d really, really like that.”

Roman’s face once again broke into a beaming smile, “Really??”

“Yeah you big idiot, that’s why I said it. Besides, it’s awful going to a dance after losing a game so I might as well bring a trophy,” Virgil slipped his hand into Roman’s and began leading them out of the stadium and into the parking lot. Nothing could have prepared him for what happened tonight. He had started the evening determined to win, but even though West Shore lost, he didn’t feel disappointed.

Virgil looked at the silhouette of Roman against the fading campus lights as he walked alongside him. Maybe he had won something even more important than the game.

if you would like to be added to the Friday Night Lights taglist, please just send an ask or reply to this post ;D

General Sanders Sides Taglist: ~ @centimeter-tries-to-communicate @bee-syndrome @fandomfan315 @cas-is-a-hunter @reggieleigh07 @endless-rain-of-words @mossdeemo @im-actually-ok @softnic @catolicabuena @queer-disaster106 @lunawolf89 ~

Friday Night Lights Taglist: @lcrnbw @amazing-creepyfloof @badluckkaren @athenashipsthings @chronophobica @icequeenoriginal @delicateherolightscissors @romano-hottopic @yourneighbourhooddisaster @sonny-ray-of-goth @itsnycto @captain-oats

#roman sanders #virgil sanders #prinxiety #romantic prinxiety #roman x virgil #prinxiety high school au #sander sides #sanders side fic #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides high school au #prinxiexty fluff #starlight writes #Friday Night Lights #did I say I was going to post this on thursday and then decided to push it until friday but then i went on a date #and absolutely did not get this posted so now I’m posting it on saturday #maybe

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kitty0boy · 3 years

Text

It’s 12:30 am, you know what time it is? Writing time! Now I want to rewrite part of the NY special again but this time it’s the scene right after Adrien gives up his Miraculous and is about to leave Paris. It might switch between perspectives which could be confusing so I’ll put a little ... when the switch(es) happen.

———————————

He had reached the breaking point. He messed up big time. He ruined Paris, had to give up his Miraculous and his best friend, and now his lady would never see him again, not as Chat Noir at least.

He felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he dragged his feet along the pavement, towards the end of his time in New York. He saw Marinette walking towards him until she stopped, several feet away from him. She looked like she was going to cry too.

Opening the car door he turned to her, putting on a smile.

“I have to go, I’m sorry Marinette. You fought so hard for me to be here. I wouldn’t have minded being stuck here a little longer with a friend like you.” She opened her mouth to speak but closed it quickly. Looking down, away from him. ‘I messed up again’ he thought sadly seeing her expression.

He opened his mouth to speak but before the words could come out, she began walking towards him.

...

Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they moved towards him. She was so tired, she missed Master Fu, Adrien was about to leave, and Chat Noir was gone. She felt so useless watching it all happen. She couldn’t repair the damages to Paris, she couldn’t make her kitty stay, she couldn’t bring Fu’s memory back. She was the guardian of a Miracle box she wasn’t worthy to own.

She knew deep down that with everything else out of her control, she wanted to do something. Which is probably why she buried her face into the crook of Adrien’s neck and grabbed the sides of his jacket, she wanted to make sure that someone stayed.

...

He was a little surprised but quickly held her, a hand on the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair in what he hoped was a soothing way, and an arm wrapping around her shoulders for support. He felt her silent tears stream down his shirt and burn a hole in his chest.

“Please don’t leave.” It was a quiet, pleading whimper, it wasn’t even loud, but those three quiet words made him breakdown. Tears rolled down his cheeks and a sob escaped his mouth. He’d thought for so long that she didn’t like him, didn’t want him to be near her but he couldn’t seem to keep himself away either. Every step he took forward she took a step back, she was so close but still out of reach, like there was an invisible wall between them.

But now, now there was a bar fence, enough space to touch her and to speak with her but there was still something holding him back. He still couldn’t quite reach her, even with his arms wrapped around her.

They dropped to their knees as it started to rain. Their quiet sobs stifling the sound of the droplets on the pavement. He could barely feel it but he still tried to cover her as best as he could. In that moment there was no car beside them, no classmates watching them cry together, no New York, no rain. Just them.

...

She knew he needed to leave, but she couldn’t bring herself to be left behind again. When you lose someone, you can either hold onto another person as tightly as you can, or separate yourself from others completely. In that moment she needed someone, and that someone was another boy who had to leave. She knew she’d see him again in Paris but she was wrapped in grief now and it held onto her almost as tightly as he did.

She felt the rain on his back, soaking through his jacket but he kept shielding her from it, like how Chat had shielded her so many times before, many hours before. The thought of that made her chest tight, she needed air but she couldn’t get any. Adrien rubbed her back noticing her struggle, even when he cried. There were was only one thing she could think to say, and it would either ruin everything or make things better.

“I love you.”

The roll of thunder rang out.

...

The thunder seemed to send his heart racing. He didn’t even understand what she’d said at first, maybe she didn’t mean it. But the way she held tighter to him assured him that she wasn’t lying, she hated liars after all. He didn’t know what to feel or think, he wanted to keep her safe and happy but he didn’t know how without telling half the truth. It’s true he’d always felt something for her, he saw her differently than his other friends. Maybe that’s why he’d say she was a friend so often, he didn’t want to accept that she was more than that because his lady was there.

But she wasn’t anymore, he left her. He might never know who she is, they might never defeat Hawkmoth together, they might never get to jump across Paris together, save people together. But Marinette, they have years to spend together, they’d have the chance to be together, whether they were friends or more than that. Who knows how many more months or even years he could be with her, but he was still stuck. The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it hurts. He wanted to be with Marinette, but the thought of Ladybug kept that fence between them.

“I-I d-“ he choked, he needed to tell her how he felt but he couldn’t get the words out between sobs. He didn’t know what words to use in the first place. How do you tell a girl that you want to be with her but you just lost another girl that you’ve loved a few hours ago.

“It’s ok, I just wanted you to know.” She was the one consoling him now. Her hand came up to play with his hair which he just noticed was sopping wet. Her hair was lose, her hair bands discarded on the pavement.

She pulled back and smiled, a sad smile yes, but a genuine smile. Her hand reached up to wipe the tears from his face, and he did the same. She broken into a sort of sad chuckle which, for some reason, made him feel better.

(This part is optional, it depends on if you want a reveal or not.)

“I’m always going to be here.” She whispered, reassuringly to him. That was exactly what he needed to hear. He didn’t know why, but that was what he knew she needed to hear.

“Me too, princess.” Someone might as well know. He wasn’t going to get Plagg back anyways, someone needed to know. He looked into her shocked expression, her eyes widened, her mouth hung open. It was quite comical, she looked like a cartoon character. She grabbed his hands but couldn’t feel a ring, she looked again and he smiled sadly at her. She turned to her purse and pulled something out, grabbing his right hand she slid his ring onto his finger where it was meant to be.

—————————

Thanks for reading. I couldn’t decide if I want a full reveal or if Marinette had somehow made him believe that she got the ring from Ladybug so just left it at that. I personally feel like a half reveal would be a better move. Which move you ask, I have no idea! I really don’t want a Chat Blanc kinda situation where Adrien immediately pursues Marinette when he finds out she’s Ladybug but I also want a “Adrien secretly watches out for Marinette at school while he hangs out with her as Chat Noir”.

So I don’t know, maybe once reverse love square happens, then I want a reveal but until then, I think this much progression is ok.

#new york special #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug tales of ladybug and Chat Noir #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #marichat

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oddlyunadventurous · 3 years

Text

bands to be embarrassed of

i saw this question in a forum thread (a friend posted it) and it really set my mind racing. thought i’d post it on my blog to reach a wider audience because if you listen to any of these bands it might be something to think about next time you’re about to bring them up in conversation, or even if you’re just thinking of listening to any of them in private.

they might be giants haven’t heard most of their music tbh but it's too long of a name for a music band. elements of style, you know, Strunk Jr et al, you've GOT to be more assertive, so on, so forth. i think a simple, declarative "giants" would've fit better. you ask a guy at a party and he says "oh yeah i listen to GIANTS", man, you tell yourself, that's a big guy that listens to some big music. as it stands you really can't bring this up to anyone without loss of social standing the decemberists this band is pretty cool all in all if you know a little bit of russian history so you get the reference. decemberists = revolutionaries = a real go-getter attitude is what you're imagining when you hear the band's name. the thing though is their music is all funeral marches. i've not really listened to them, either, but just the two songs i heard felt samey. if you're at a bar and you're talking to someone who's not, like, oh, I know tzar nicholas, tzar chaikovsky and whatever, the "i majored in history" types, they'll just think of their shittiest winter when you tell them about the band, and imagine playing something from your ipod right after and it just sounds like wind going through dead trees and maybe wolves howling. i don't think they literally have songs like that, i'm not that stupid, but you know. evocation, program music. you can do that kind of stuff with a guitar or a flute. point being, you're not taking the conversation anywhere. sewerslvt i love good adult humor every now and then (the name i mean) but there really isn't much to talk about here. "oh this artist is really tragic" well okay cool but there's a time and place. i'm not at a greek theater. you know, the greeks, they were like "music is the most abstract form of art" and you're bringing up all this concrete stuff and i just wanna listen to a 4/4 beat. now, i'm being hyperbolic, of course i'm not a philistine, i can handle some pads, i even think putting a dial-up sound in your song is fresh and irreverent. but you listen to some of those songs and theres NO playful attitude there at all. you'd just sour the mood if you ever brought up sewerslvt and everybody would rather you didn't. the my little pony score i guess this is various artists technically, but nevertheless winter wrap up was my jam in 2015 or so. now i'd never admit to it because of certain things that happened to the fandom (too many to enumerate), but i'm bringing it up here for illustrative purposes. it's not because it's from a kids cartoon or anything, but when a fandom becomes embarrassing to be a part of, the "cringe" also bleeds onto the object of fandom (word in quotes because it itself has become "cringe" to use, i don't really want you guys to think i use it in earnest). i didn't explain it that well but i hope it helps. anyway if i think of any others i'll let you know.

#music #cringe #blogging #shitpost #not art #text post

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brawltogethernow · 4 years

Note

How much can you tell about a fan from how much they like Raimi Spidey

Who you are based on your Raimi Spider-Man opinion:

1. The best Spider-Man adaptation! You don’t like new things and don’t adapt to change well. You’re probably an older Millennial or Gen X. You respect an iconic scene and cheesy drama and don’t retract your enjoyment of something when the pressure is on you to do so. You like adaptations of superheroes more than the comics.

2. The most comic-accurate Spider-Man adaptation! You have never read a comic these films were based on. You may have never read any comics. You read or heard this opinion somewhere and are parroting it, and may think you can verify it’s true because you read one Avengers issue from after 2002 where Peter Parker cameos. You have high potential to become a deep comic nerd someday who will be embarrassed you ever said this so watch out for that.

3. Revolutionary for its time, paved the way for later comic book films, pared down the source material out of necessity - respect without enthusiasm You’re a little jaded but you’re trying not to let it get you down. You’ve gained immunity to MCU hype. You were happier before you did, but you can never go back. Analyzing fiction is second nature to you.

4. I just hate them Toby McGuire is consciously on your list of celebrities who could not get it. You turn over interests fast and see disliking things as its own activity, a dark mirror of fandom. You have strong negative opinions of properties you have not personally checked out and you’re happy that way because dissing stuff with people makes for good conversation.

5. Must a movie be “good” to like it? Is it not enough to have colors moving on the screen very fast. I respect you. You’re the better timeline version of the first category. Self aware and witty, a little insecure.

6. They’re bad because [thirty minute list of flaws] Wow you’ve thought about these movies a lot. You like review and analysis series like CinemaSins. (You may have a flaw list for CinemaSins specifically: It’s just an example.) Possibly an aspiring writer. You’re very plugged into pop culture and it doesn’t really occur to you to avoid media just because you don’t think it’s good.

7. I liked the first two when they were newer but they didn’t age well. Your persona is very go with the flow, not very opinionated. You consume media casually. In school you liked whatever bands your classmates did.

8. I have a soft spot for them but the effects are bad. You like MCU Spidey. You overestimate how empathetic and discerning you are. You don’t judge quickly but you do judge heavily.

9. I can’t hear you there’s only room for one Spider-Man movie in my brain WHAT’S UP, DANGER?

10. The third one ruined the whole trilogy! THAT’S what ruined it for you? You’re not wrong but your taste is unreliable.

11. I love [ship]! You’re very resilient. The weird kid. You glom onto stuff you like and don’t let go. Natural resilience to acting because of peer pressure, though you can take emotional hits from it. Probably internet friends with the three other people as deeply invested in this version of this ship as you are. Excitable in both positive and negative senses. You still use ff.net a lot. Above average vintage and otherwise lesser known comic knowledge but your attention is divided. The rare media targeting you is the 2017 cartoon if you’re a Parksborn and the Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane comic series if you’re a PeterMJ.

12. Uh I saw one or two in theaters? I don’t really remember them. You only read this list this far down because you like seeing people discuss their pet topics regardless of whether you understand them. May have to hit up a search engine to be sure what “Raimi” is.

13. Directly responsible for a lot of bad 616 trends, weird storylines, and character assassination. You’re a dyed in the wool comics nerd. Don’t get so mad you forget why you even like superhero comics. Go drink some water. You pirate media because capitalism can’t sustain how much you read.

14. Directly responsible for a lot of great 616 storylines!!!! Also a dyed in the wool comics nerd but all your favorite storylines are in the early aughts (and maybe late nineties), which was a formative time of your life. You like dropping niche comic trivia as talking points, also from this era. You not only actually go to comic shops but also have a pull list. Pour one out for the Ultimateverse amirite?

15. Peter sure turned into a giant spider and gave birth to himself because of this movie lmfao. You embrace the humor and weirdness in situations to stay sane. You know weird history or science facts and like to pepper them into conversation. Your ideal history rant is arranged to be reminiscent of that meme with the guy knocking over a giant domino with a row of successively smaller dominos. You feel the most enjoyable parts of comic community are online. You might be on Twitter. You could beat the above category in a trivia-off but would probably flub the execution due to being put off by them. You vibe with nihilism memes but you care just under the surface.

16. My blurry half-remembered impression of them isn’t negative You’re nice. You like cute desserts. I feel like you had an anime phase and go to cons.

17. Garfield Spider-Man sucks!!!!!! That’s not actually a Raimi opinion but you think it is. Low humor is just humor to you and you don’t see that as a problem.

18. I’ve been waiting for you to PRAISE the Amazing movies actually? You like Taylor Swift and would be super down for it if Kindred turned out to be Gwen Stacy. You’ve been screaming for years. You don’t like the Raimi films but don’t have time to get down on them while defending your own maligned property. You know Fant4stic was objectively not great but you’ll defend it. Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield live in your head rent free. You like to curl up and watch some good looking people having a tragic romance okay.

19. Spider-Man 3 is a cinematic masterpiece. You like shock humor and stoke attention from internet trolls on purpose. You discern your own opinions and don’t give a damn about anybody else’s.

20. I’m very two cakes meme about Spider-Man content! Raimi good! MCU good! Webb good! All the cartoons are good! I see a red mask and a thwip and I riot. A pure soul. I don’t understand you, but that doesn’t reflect well on me.

#raimi spiderman #spiderman #horoscopes #spidey #marvel #i'm a 3 with a little 6 13 and 15 #mirrorfalls #asks answered

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tmntgirlie · 4 years

Text

TMNT Universe!Reader x Turtles 3

You tried to mentally prepare yourself for the questioning you knew would ensue as soon as you left the safety of your room. Keyword is ‘tried’.

It seemed that they had been preparing lists of questions, and immediately shot them your way as soon as you exited.

“Whoa, whoa-” you exclaimed, your eyes wide. You could barely distinguish one voice from another, though it was obvious that Mikey was the one speaking the loudest. And had the most unusual questions.

How do you like your pizza? Really? That’s the question you go with?

You silently wondered what questions didn’t make the cut to be first in his mind.

“One at a time, guys, no need to crowd her. Sheesh.” It was Leonardo who stepped forward, holding an arm in front of his brothers as if to keep them from going any closer to you. “I’ll start. You’re not from around here. Where are you from?”

Oh, that was a loaded question. More loaded than a farmer’s gun in the south.

You know what, never mind.

“Do you want the long answer or the short answer? Neither of them include how I got here, still figuring that out,” you said, blinking a few times.

Were they all this absolutely ripped last night?

You swore you were not attracted to these turtles. That would be weird.

Right?

“Whichever one is more exciting, please!” Michelangelo almost sounded like he sang his request, putting his three-fingered hands together in a prayer-like manner.

The brother let you get settled in what you only could assume was their living room before you began the tale. It reminded you of the setting in the movie where they were situated most of the time. It wasn’t too complicated a layout, but you instinctively looked around for the Hashi room. That scene always cracked you up.

“I’m not sure how I got here,” you started, staring into space. There was no way you could just keep looking at them. You’d start to feel things. “Where I’m from, you guys are fictional.”

You remembered them referencing some popular Sci-Fi and Marvel from the first movie.

“Like how you know about X-Men and the Avengers. You guys were just made up.”

“We aren’t real?” Mikey gasped. “Like, legends?”

“Kind of?” You shrugged. “You definitely have a lot of fans. I think that it all started with comics about you guys, then movies and cartoons came out. I’m not really sure. I mostly know about you from these movies- the same guy who directed the Transformers movies directed your movie, actually- and from a few other sources.”

“How much do you know about us?” You could feel Raphael staring into your very soul.

“That depends?” Your voice raised as if asking a question. “There were a lot of different continuities. I mostly know the most recent movies and some profiles from a more recent animated series. I could be wrong, but I think there were… Four? Four animated series that were all similar, but targeted different audiences.”

You were absolutely not about to admit that all you really knew about those animated series were from gifs on Tumblr with no context. It was just better that way.

It took no time at all for each brother to individually attack you with questions about each of their characters. You answered them as best you could, but honestly, some of your answers you pulled out your ass. There were just so many different versions of them.

If this ever ended (and you prayed it didn’t), you promised to yourself to indulge in each continuity.

Once each and every brother became satisfied with your answers, you finally felt yourself relax. They took this surprisingly well. You couldn’t imagine someone suddenly popping into your life and telling you that they’ve read about you in books and were a fan of you.

Your life was way too boring for that. You were barely your own main character.

“We know that the technology for teleportation exists,” Donatello said. “It would only make sense that if that exists, it’s also possible for a device that can cross through dimensions exists as well.”

As he rambled on, you found yourself lost amid the scientific jargon he spewed. You clearly knew words like ‘the’ and ‘and’, but the words enveloping them? Not so much. You were never the best student in science class.

Although, you admitted to yourself, this was far beyond that. And to think he had no technical training.

“Does that make sense?”

“Hm?” You blinked, looking back up at the purple-banded turtle.

“I’m thinking it could have been an accident. I’m not sure if it had anything to do with the Purple Dragons, but you somehow got caught in them after transporting here,” he said thoughtfully. “You weren’t involved in any technological experimentation, correct?”

You blinked again. “Not that I was aware of. I have an uncle who is a rocket scientist, but I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Donatello sighed. “Until we can find out exactly what brought you here, there’s really nothing we can do. There’s not much to go off of. You weren’t involved in any experiments, you say you were sitting at your home- what were you doing at home? Did you get struck by lightning?”

“I was indoors,” you stated. “Watching a movie by myself. Alone.”

That did sound pitiful.

He made a face. “Right. As I said, until we figure this out- you’re stuck here, Y/N.”

You sat quietly on the couch, looking down at your feet. This wasn’t exactly the best-case scenario, but you were convinced this wasn't the worst-case scenario either. You could have been dropped into the live-action Avatar The Last Airbender movie. That would be the absolute worst.

“So what now? Do I go up top and find a job, get my own place, start a life here? Do I stay down here hoping to help you guys figure out what got me here? What?”

Your first option didn’t sound like something you wanted. You were suddenly given this opportunity to not have anything expected of you. You could live in secret, or as secret as the turtles allowed you to be. You didn’t want to feel like a freeloader, but also figured that one extra mouth to feed wouldn’t be a huge stretch for them. You knew how they ate already.

Man, you would not keep your figure on their diet.

It was Leonardo that spoke up. “No rash decisions yet. We’ll take every day as it comes. You can get a job or something if you want, but I’m almost nervous that who or whatever brought you here might be looking for you. They might be angry that whatever happened possibly happened wrong.”

Good point, good point.

“So I’ll stay down here until further notice,” you concluded, leaning back into the couch. You certainly didn’t expect it to go as far back as it did, and you ended up laying down with only your legs not on the actual couch. This was very smooth of you. “Huh.”

You could barely see Leonardo tilt his head in your direction. “You alright there?”

“This is a lot to take in.”

“We’ve seen some pretty strange things, but this might top it,” Raphael said. You couldn’t see his face, but you could almost hear the smirk. “At least we got a fangirl.”

You sat up slowly, rattling your brain for a witty remark. When none came to mind, you settled on sticking your tongue out. You might not be a teenager anymore, but there’s always that inner-child inside of you.

Being with these four, and Splinter, was something you had dreamed about years ago when you first saw the 2014 movie. Now that you had calmed down (for the most part) and ‘grown-up’, it was bringing back the memories of dreaming how something just like this would go. Who you would possibly end up with. How you would get along with the others.

You weren’t sure if you were excited or terrified that those dreams actually come to fruition.

111 notes · View notes

joongtreasure · 4 years

Text

Hello Stranger || Street racer!Hyunjin + Car mechanic!Hyunjin

Hyunjin street racing au + car mechanic au

Genre: Fluff Pairing/s: Hyunjin x Reader

Warning/s: illegal street racing, slight making out

Word count: 4.9k

I was listening to Hello Stranger while writing this

Jisung blankly stared at the last card on the discarded pile. The red color seemed to glare at him in return. Changbin, Felix, and Jeongin waited for his move, wishing for the suspense to be over. They followed Jisung’s gaze as he looked alternately between the discarded pile and the last card that he was holding.

Felix grumbled. “We don’t have all day.”

Jisung scoffed before putting his last card down, revealing a wild draw four card. “I win!” Jisung threw his fist in the air before breaking into a mini dance.

“That’s not how you win in Uno!” Felix retorted.

The four got into a heated discussion about the rules of Uno. It was a typical Saturday in Chris Bang’s Garage. While some of Chan’s friends work for him, others would just laze around on the second-floor lounge. Almost every day they would hang out there, which Chan didn’t mind.

A voice interrupted their petty banter. “Hey, this is a garage, not a living room,” Hyunjin called from the work area. He gave them a pointed look before referring to the customer at the cash register. The customer was waiting awkwardly by the counter to pay for the repairs he requested in Chan’s garage. Felix scrambled from the couch to attend to him.

Hyunjin shook his head before laying on the car creeper. He rolled himself under the car that he was tending earlier. It also became part of his job to reprimand Felix to focus on his work rather than getting distracted by their friends. Chan's business was booming and they need all the help that they can get.

For Hyunjin, the garage is basically his home. It all started when he kept losing in his first few races. He needed the money so their family could get by. When Chan found out, he offered Hyunjin to work for him in the garage. He even offered to train him to be a better racer. Hyunjin readily agreed. He poured great efforts in working efficiently for Chan. In the end, not only did he become one of the greatest racers in the streets, but he also became Chan's right-hand man in the garage. He loved what he was doing. Now, he couldn’t imagine a life not surrounded by engines and the like.

“Ya ya ya,” Changbin called out from the lounge area. “If a nerdy-looking girl comes looking for me, call for me, alright?” He said.

“Define nerdy-looking,” Hyunjin said.

“Wears glasses, band shirts or cartoon shirts, and sneakers,” Changbin said before plopping back to the couch, not waiting for the crew to reply.

You looked at the address your brother sent you, then at the place in front of you. Chris Bang's Garage—your brother wanted to meet you here. You got into the same university as your brother, and you couldn’t wait to see him and his friends. Unfortunately, your brother had a prior commitment today, so you opted to take the bus instead and agreed to meet him in his friend’s garage.

You entered the already-open commercial garage doors. You were greeted with the sight of different flashy-colored cars. Some were hoisted on car lifts while others were being fixed on the ground. What got your attention was the debate between two guys about Uno.

“Didn’t Uno have a point system in the first place?” A boy with white hair argued.

“No!” A guy who oddly reminded her of a squirrel said. “The first person to discard all of their cards wins the game.”

You giggled at the sight before turning to the nearest person to ask for your brother, which was someone under a broken car. You hesitated, unsure if you should disturb him in his work.

Hyunjin wanted to block out their noise. He was really considering hitting them with a wrench to shut up. It wasn’t helping him concentrate on his work; the rest of the crew probably had the same thoughts. A pair of sneakers caught his attention. No one else seemed to notice someone standing by the entrance so he rolled out of the car to check who it was.

You were greeted by the sight of a blonde guy with a bandana. He was wearing a muscle tee that showcases his toned arms and work pants that had different tools in its pockets. His skin was glistening with sweat, probably from working in the garage. You suddenly became flustered as he was a sight to behold. He stared at you curiously.

Hyunjin was dumbstruck. The sunlight blinded him at first, then his eyes focused on your figure staring down at him. You looked utterly beautiful, ethereal even. You were probably a customer, seeing as the description Changbin gave didn’t fit you.

Hyunjin stood up and wiped his hands with a clean rag, wanting to look presentable in front of you. He suddenly became conscious that he was covered in sweat. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling his whole mouth go dry. He felt like he was undeserving of your presence. Why? He doesn't know.

“Can I help you with something?” Hyunjin asked, mustering a smile.

“I’m looking for my brother…” You replied, still dazed at the handsome guy.

“Brother?” Hyunjin pondered. “Who’s your brother?”

As if to answer his question, a voice yelled from the lounge. “Y/N!”

Changbin came running down the stairs, almost slipping (being the clumsy friend that he is). “It’s been so long!” He greeted you with a bear hug, swinging you around.

“Oppa, we saw each other during Christmas break.” You laughed but returned the hug.

Everyone in the garage was probably thinking the same thing: Changbin’s your brother? Hyunjin’s gaze switched alternately between you and Changbin, noting the vast contrast of your qualities. Changbin is like a demon summoned to make their life miserable. On the other hand, you look like an angel from heaven. What the hell? He thought.

Hyunjin looked at the others if they had the same thoughts. His question was answered at the sight of Jisung, Felix, and Jeongin openly staring at you. After pulling themselves together, they came down all at once, eager to meet you. Hyunjin rolled his eyes.

It’s been two weeks since your arrival, and what an excruciating two weeks it has been for Hyunjin. He can’t seem to focus whenever you’re around. One time, you just passed by and he was distracted momentarily that he didn’t notice that he stepped on a car creeper. He ended up slipping, his back landing perfectly on the ground. You were instantly beside him, but he refused to accept any help from you, choosing to trudge away in pain. Another was when you simply said hi to him. He waved back at you, but somehow the tire that he was fixing got loose and landed on his foot. He spent the rest of that day limping. So, he did the most logical solution, he avoided you.

You noticed this, of course. You find Hyunjin interesting. When you first met, you had a really good feeling about him. You felt like you could be close to him, so you tried to initiate interactions with him. But, lately, you have noticed that he’s been avoiding you. You didn’t see him anymore whenever you visited the garage, or whenever Changbin’s friends were hanging out at your place. You figured he didn’t like you so you stopped trying.

You knew Changbin was street racing ever since high school. You were the only one he trusted in the family to keep his illegal activities secret. Though at first, you didn’t like it, you knew there was no stopping Changbin. So you simply supported him, coming to his races from time to time.

You were doing your homework in Chan’s lounge while the boys were preparing for a race. You were supposed to leave in a while, but you got curious as you watched the boys doing last-minute fixes on their cars. You have no knowledge on cars, but, for you, they look really cool.

Hyunjin went up to the lounge to rest for a bit. This day was extra tiring. Felix’s job of delivering car parts to customers was thrust upon him; the younger boy apparently took a day off. Then, he helped his friends prepare for the race tonight. He was eager to get a power nap before going to the venue. Of course, that was before he noticed you on the couch. He immediately froze. ‘Would you notice him if he left all of a sudden? The stairs would be noisy.’ He thought.

You noticed Hyunjin, frozen at the topmost step. He probably didn't want to see you, you thought, so you started packing your stuff. “I’m sorry, you can use the couch,” you offered. "I was about to leave."

“No,” he said. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Really?” You chuckled. “I thought you didn't like me.”

“No, I like you.” Hyunjin winced at his own words but explained further. “I mean, I don’t NOT like you. I'm just… I'm just not used to new people.” A big lie.

“Ahh, I get it.” You nodded understandingly.

Plucking up the courage, he walked towards the couch and sat hesitantly beside you. You both were silent for a moment, the only noise you hear are the conversations among the boys in the work area and their engines. “Are you gonna watch the race?” Hyunjin asked, breaking the silence.

“Nope, I still have to study. I might leave in a few minutes though.” You turned to him. “How about you? You racing tonight?”

“I'm not sure yet.” He replied.

Another moment of silence. It wasn’t awkward. You both were comfortably watching your friends work. Though, you took the chance to admit something to Hyunjin. “I really admire you, Hyunjin.” You said. “You seem to love everything about cars.”

“What’s there to admire?”

“Well, you always seem to have your own bubble whenever you work. You’re really good at what you do.” You said.

"It's not that big of a deal." He said, rubbing the nape of his neck stiffly.

"To you, maybe," you said. "But still, I admire you."

Thank god to Chan for forgetting to change the bulb in the lounge, because he was blushing as hell at your words. He was speechless, to be honest. He never had anyone straight up tell him that, especially from the girl that he likes.

You giggled. “Let me guess, you’re also not used to getting compliments.”

Hyunjin shrugged. “You got that one right.”

You laughed. “You’re cute.” You said before standing up and getting your bag. “I should go, it’s getting late.” “You got a ride?”

You shook your head. “I’m taking the bus.”

He stood up too. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“But aren’t you going to the race?” You asked.

Hyunjin scoffed. “Nevermind, they’re gonna win anyway. Besides, it’s been a long day. I want to rest early.”

“Okay then.” You both went downstairs, shouting a quick goodbye to everyone before following Hyunjin to his car. Unbeknownst to both of you, your friends were smiling among themselves. Changbin, on the other hand, had a scowl, not sure if he likes the idea of you with Hyunjin.

Hyunjin’s car was a black and white Mazda RX7. “Sweet ride,” you said, looking at his car from top to bottom. Hyunjin opened the passenger side for you. What a gentleman, you thought. You said your thanks before hopping in. When you both were buckled up, he drove out of the area.

Hyunjin sped up as he got into the highway. “Are you comfortable?” He asked.

“Yes, thank you.” You mumbled. “You know I always wanted to see you race.”

“You do?” He chuckled. “You’d be bored.” You asked why, to which he replied while smirking, “No one would stand a chance.”

“I have never pegged you to be arrogant, Hyunjin.” You laughed. “Now I really want to see you race.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you are."

Hyunjin drove the car into the suburb on the hillside. There were perks of having Changbin as your brother: a home that has a great view of the city, an awesome circle of friends, and, the best one of all, him as your chauffeur in a cool car.

The hill was quiet. Only a few houses lived on this side of the city. The road was basically dead, so you thought of something that could be fun for both of you. "Is it difficult to race uphill?" You asked.

"No," Hyunjin smirked. "Why?"

"Oh nothing," you said, acting nonchalant. "I just feel like this car is too slow or something."

Hyunjin shook his head in amusement. "Are you sure about that?" He shifted the gear and the car accelerated gradually until your surroundings became blurry. You held on to your seatbelt, anticipating the rush. You were in awe as trees blurred past you. "This is so cool." You muttered.

Hyunjin shifted gears, going faster. Normally, he wouldn't put someone in danger like that, but the way you initiated the challenge made him think that you also liked the rush. He wasn't even sure if it was okay with Changbin, but he still continued as he saw you actually enjoying the ride.

Reaching a curve, Hyunjin drifted the car smoothly until the road became straight again. The road towards your home consisted of a few more curves. Plus, it was uphill. One wrong maneuver and you might take a tumble down the hill. You eyed Hyunjin. “You can do it, right?”

Hyunjin just smirked. He drifted the car again as you reached another curve. Your worry vanished as he managed to drift through a few more curves with precision. You looked at him. Despite his cocky attitude earlier, he looked carefree at the moment. You figured that he likes racing for the thrill; that he was in it for the ride and not for the money. It really showed right at this moment. Soon, you felt the car slowing down until Hyunjin parked his car in front of your house.

You grinned. "Well, that was fun."

"Really?" Hyunjin laughed. "Are you okay?"

“Are you kidding? I can't remember the last time I've felt so much thrill in my life."

"Not even when Changbin's driving?"

"Changbin would drive like a mom when I'm with him." You retorted. "He never drives like that with me. Like ever."

Hyunjin hung his head in disappointment. "He's gonna kill me then."

"Don't worry." You giggled. "It'll be our little secret."

Hyunjin smiled, looking at your elated expression. He would do anything to see you happy again. Seeing you like this made him warm inside. That night, he changed his mind about avoiding you.

Ever since that night, you and Hyunjin grew closer. Your bond was natural; always annoying each other, always challenging each other. You started hanging out in Chan's garage more often than usual; from catching up with him in the lounge to helping him work. You actually became familiar with the different tools that he used. He would do the heavy work while you just handed him whatever he needed.

The other guys find it amusing that you were hanging out with Hyunjin rather than your brother. Changbin was quite bitter, but, in a way, relieved. Seeing you bloom in college made him happy, proud even. But, he was nervous that you would start dating guys who probably don't deserve you. When he noticed that you and Hyunjin seemed to be fond of each other, he was relieved. He trusts Hyunjin. He wanted nothing more than seeing you both happy with each other.

That's why Changbin approached Hyunjin because he trusts him when it comes to you. He'll start his internship soon. From then on, he would be too busy to pick you up and drop you at school. He knew Hyunjin’s work schedule in the garage is flexible. He’s doing this because 1) he hoped that through this, you two would finally realize you both like each other, 2) he thought that it would be good for Hyunjin to get out of the garage from time to time, and 3) again, he trusts Hyunjin when it comes to you.

"Hyunjin," he said, leaning against the car that Hyunjin was fixing. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Hyunjin rolled out of the car with a curious look. He stood up, cleaning his hand with a rag. "What's up?"

"As you know, I'll be starting my internship soon and I won't be around much to take care of Y/N," Changbin said. "I was hoping that you could drive her around to school."

"Sure," Hyunjin said without much thought.

"Well, that was easy." Changbin chuckled. "If I tell you to confess to her, would you?"

Hyunjin blushed, muttering 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

"Ya, you're so obvious." Changbin shook his head. "Just know that I'll come for you if something goes wrong, yeah?" He rubbed Hyunjin's hair teasingly before leaving the boy in a blushing mess.

Changbin told you about Hyunjin, and you were honestly happy with the setup. You would see Hyunjin more often now, even outside of the comforts of Chan's garage.

You just finished your last class for the day, and you were looking forward to seeing Hyunjin. You brushed your way past the hoard of students in the hallway. Arriving at your school's parking lot, you immediately spot Hyunjin. However, you frowned at the sight that greeted you.

Hyunjin was leaning against his car, looking annoyed as ever as a couple of students crowded him. A few guys were admiring his car while some girls were trying to make small talk with Hyunjin. Though he made it clear that he wasn't interested, they wouldn't leave him alone.

"I really like your car." One of them said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You must be really rich." Her posse giggled.

Hyunjin scoffed. 'Pretentious,' he thought. He ignored her despite her approaching figure; his sneakers more interesting than them.

The girl touched his arm and that’s when he finally had it. He moved away instantly. "Can you leave now while I'm being nice?"

You approached them, worried about Hyunjin. "Hey," you greeted.

Hyunjin visibly brightened when he saw you. He moved to the passenger side, opening the door for you to get in. You did so hesitantly, wary of the glaring eyes in front of you. Hyunjin got to his side and drove the car out of the school premises.

"How was school, princess?" He asked, smiling. His mood changed, you thought.

"It was okay, I guess." You said dryly.

Hyunjin frowned. "Is there something wrong?"

You shook your head. Maybe you were tired. Discouraged, maybe. You didn't know. You just didn't have the energy to talk at the moment.

Hyunjin was restless inside though. He couldn't stand the thought of you being down for some reason. But he respected your space, knowing you, you would eventually tell him if something's up. You both rode in silence as he drove you to your home.

Hyunjin parked in front of your driveway. He immediately got out of the car, moving to your side and opening the door for you. You chuckled. "You don't have to do this every time, Jinnie."

"I was just making sure you won't scratch my car." He scoffed.

"Right, of course, you are."

Hyunjin stared at you, and you feel yourself deflate under his intense gaze. "Did something happen at school?" He asked.

You didn't want to admit that what happened earlier bothered you. The thought of Hyunjin with another girl made your skin crawl. Your brain kept telling you to acknowledge your feelings towards Hyunjin, but you just can't, knowing he probably doesn't feel the same. And, of course, you’re worried that you were already burdening Hyunjin. He looked uncomfortable at school earlier.

You shook your head. "How about you?" You asked. "I kinda saw what happened earlier."

Hyunjin groaned. “They were annoying."

“Aigoo~” You chuckled, pulling the headband and letting it go with a snap. "No one seemed to be good enough for you, Jinnie."

Hyunjin rubbed his forehead comfortingly. You. He thought. You'd be more than enough.

"It's getting late." You said, walking away from the car. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jinnie."

"See you, princess." He mumbled, leaning against his car as he watched your figure enter your home.

You stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the wave of skimpy and lavish clothing. You had just finished your classes when Hyunjin picked you up and told you that he was going to race tonight. You instantly agreed when he asked you if you wanted to come and watch. So, there you were, leaning against Hyunjin's car as he met one of the organizers of the race.

Changbin approached you with a playful glint. "Wah, it's been so long since I've seen you in the streets."

"Someone has to be the mature one if anyone of you decided to do something stupid." You teased. "Especially you."

"Especially you~" He mocked, which made you laugh. "But now, you did not only come for me, did you? You came to support Hyunjin."

You hit Changbin in the arm. "Ya, I support all of you."

"Sure you do."

Hyunjin came back after handing his pot money. Changbin man-hugged Hyunjin, wishing him luck before leaving you two alone. "You gonna wish me luck, princess?"

"I didn't know you needed luck." You giggled. "But, do be careful."

"Always am." Hyunjin smiled. He removed his jacket, leaving him in his usual tee that exposes his toned arms. You looked away, trying to hide the flustered look on your face. You were surprised when he draped it around your shoulders. "Wear it for me?"

"Why? You'd get cold." You said.

"Just wear it for me, princess."

You sighed before putting your arms inside the sleeves. "I'll be going now," he said. "Stay with Changbin and the others, yeah?"

You nodded, watching him hop into the driver's seat. You bit your lip when you thought of something that can potentially ruin your friendship with Hyunjin. Would it? You thought. Plucking up the courage, you tapped on Hyunjin's window. He rolled down his window, confused. "What's wrong, princess?"

You gestured for him to come closer. As he did so, you kissed him quickly on the cheek. He stared at you, surprised. A kiss could be platonic, right? You thought of things that could save your friendship. Hyunjin had other thoughts though. Before you could explain, he planted a quick kiss on your lips. This time, you were surprised. Hyunjin simply grinned. "I'll catch you later." He said before driving to the starting line.

You patted your cheeks, trying to shake off the giddy feeling. You weaved through the crowd until you found your friends and your brother near the starting line. You stayed with them until the race is over.

Hyunjin felt restless behind the wheel. He already felt the adrenaline kicking in as he waited for the flagger to start the race. Not only that, the other drivers taunted him earlier, saying they'd ask your friend—you—out after the race. That didn't just make him subtly claim you by making you wear his jacket, it also made him more determined to win the race. However, after the kiss, he already felt like a winner. You meant that romantically, right? Thinking about it excited him. Feeling giddy, he hit the steering wheel repeatedly in excitement.

The flagger raised his arms and the crowd hollered. "Drivers, are you ready?" He yelled. When the drivers gave him an affirmation, he swiped his arms down, signaling the cars to go. The cars zoomed instantly through the night.

You stood between Changbin and Jisung, nervous to the death. It's been so long since you came to events like this. It's like seeing Changbin race for the first time again.

Jisung was cheering Hyunjin's name beside you. Upon seeing your face, he softened. "Hey, relax. Hyunjin's good. One of the best in these streets."

"I know," You said. "I just can't help it."

Changbin chuckled. "You should date him after this."

You hit Changbin again for the second time that night. "Shut up."

"Aigoo, is my sister flustered? Aigoo." He teased.

Slap!

Changbin rubbed his arm in annoyance, finally feeling the burn after a series of your slaps that night.

The crowd went wild as the sound of engines returned. You all saw the cars speeding towards the finish line, Hyunjin's car and a different car leading the race. You all watched in suspense as the two cars alternately surpassed each other by mere inches.

"Oh, I can't look." You said, turning around.

Jisung pulled you. "Ya look!"

You saw Hyunjin's car overtake the other car in a burst, probably using his NOS. The crowd celebrated as Hyunjin sped past the finish line first. You jumped in excitement, hugging Changbin in a tight grip. The crowd surrounded Hyunjin as he went out of his car to receive his win. Your friends bombarded him with whoops and man hugs, while you and Changbin opt to just wait for him behind the buzzing crowd. Hyunjin searched the crowd for your face. You waved from the back, hoping he'd see you. When he did, he waved back, looking euphoric.

Changbin nudged you. "Just go to him." You nodded bashfully. "Don't stay out too late, okay?" He said before leaving, probably going to Chan's to celebrate.

The crowd was already dissipating when you approached him. You were almost at Hyunjin's when you were stopped by a guy you've never met before.

"Hey, I'm Kim." He said. "Have I seen you before? You look really familiar."

"Sorry I don't know you." You replied.

"Well, I think you're really cute. Can I ask for your number?"

"I'm not interested." You turned him down immediately. You sidestepped to get past him but he grabbed your wrist.

"I mean no harm, babe," Kim said. "I just want your number."

"I said no, okay?" You said, trying to pull away from him. "I'm not interested."

Kim was about to reply when a gentle hand touched the part where Kim's hand is gripping yours. It was Hyunjin. "She said no, Kim. Please remove your hand and let her go."

Kim did so but took a taunting step towards Hyunjin. "How about we race for it huh, Hyunjin? You were just lucky tonight."

"She's not a prize." Hyunjin glared. He placed his hand behind your back and ushered you to his car.

You looked at Hyunjin briefly. His mood definitely turned sour despite his win. You slipped your hand in his, hoping to lighten up the mood. "Hey, you dropped your crown, princess. Keep your chin up." You teased.

Hyunjin laughed then smiled at your hands, intertwining them. "Trust me, I'm more than happy tonight."

"Congrats, by the way." You said. “Although, you already knew you were gonna win.“

"Let's celebrate." He said.

"Sure, I think they're at Chan's right now."

He shook his head. "I want it to be just us."

You pondered. "What do you have in mind?"

"You pick, princess." He kissed your hand. "Anything, anywhere, I don't mind."

You blushed at the action. "How about dinner at my place?"

"Sounds great." He said, leading you to his car.

At your place, you cooked ramen. Though you offered to cook something else, Hyunjin wanted something easy and instant. He reasoned that he didn't want to bother you too much, but, actually, he just can't wait to spend more time with you. After eating, you both chose to watch a movie. Although a few minutes in, the movie was already forgotten as Hyunjin won't stop hugging you. You were basically on his lap and he kept nuzzling his nose on your neck.

"Hyunjin," you chuckled. "You're not watching the movie."

Hyunjin mumbled, "Let's just stay like this for a while."

"Okay, but can we clear something between us first?" You said. You grinned as his cute head peeked at you.

You slid off his lap and sat beside him. He faced you with an amused expression. "I just need to know... where our relationship is heading." You mustered.

Hyunjin smiled. "I really want to date you, Y/N. I want you to be my girlfriend." He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. Beautiful, he thought.

"Okay then." You said.

"Is that a yes?" Hyunjin came closer, gently touching your cheek, staring at your eyes. "You'd be my girlfriend?"

You nodded meekly and muttered a yes. He held your cheeks before kissing you repeatedly on the forehead. You giggled. Then, you both gazed into each other's eyes, briefly looking at each other's lips.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked gingerly.

To answer his question, you placed your hands on his shoulders and kissed him. He responded almost immediately, his hands resting on your waist and on your cheek. You sighed as your lips slowly molded against each other. You put your hand to the side of his face, momentarily brushing against the headband on his forehead.

You pulled away, giggling to yourself when Hyunjin tried to chase your lips. He rested his forehead against yours, staring intensely at your eyes. Feeling courageous, you pushed Hyunjin until his back was against the couch and you straddled him. He caressed your face, taking in every detail. "Beautiful," he muttered, leaning closer for another kiss.

You kissed again with much more fervor this time. Your bodies were firmly pressed against each other. His hands were clutching your waist, rubbing it up and down. You delicately traced his biceps until finally resting them against his chest. You felt one of his hands slide gently down to your thighs.

It would have been an interesting night if you didn't hear Changbin's car park in the driveway. You pulled away from each other, smiling. He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. You giggled, doing the same thing to his hair.

The front door opened, revealing a sleepy Changbin. When he noticed your position, all traces of fatigue vanished. "Ya!" He yelped.

You didn't want to move, but Hyunjin gently placed you beside him, probably trying to get on your brother's good graces.

Changbin rubbed his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He shrugged. "Keep it PG when I'm here, okay?" He glared at Hyunjin, pointing his finger as if he's saying 'I'll be watching you' before disappearing to his room.

You and Hyunjin just laughed at each other before cuddling on the couch, finally paying attention to the movie.

#hyunjin #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin x reader #stray kids scenarios #stray kids #car mechanic au #street racer au #changbin #jisung #chris bang #hyunjin street racing au #hyunjin imagines #hwang hyunjin #skz scenarios #seo changbin #han jisung #bang chan

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adultswim2021 · 3 years

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Ephemera Week (2002)

It’s still ephemera week, and we’re still talking about John K. I said most of my piece on him in the last post, so don’t expect there to go full bore on this one, except I forgot to say he’s animation’s Jerry Lewis. His current stuff is basically Hardly Working. I will not elaborate, because I’m being mean to you0.

MARCH SPECIALS!

In March, Adult Swim advertised a run of one-off specials. A couple of them were already covered because they fell under the parameters of “Adult Swim original production”. They were Welcome to Eltingville (March 3rd) and Saddle Rash (March 24th).

Day in the Life of Ranger Smith | March 10th 2002 - 11:00 PM (Originally aired on Cartoon Network in 1999)

This was one of two specials commissioned by Cartoon Network re-imagining Yogi Bear. The artist what took this assignment was John K, who I REEEAALLY skewered in last night’s post, didn’t I?

This is about Ranger Smith harassing animals and writing them up for violating park rules, basically. It’s short! I remember liking it at the time! Okay, maybe I’m going crazy here, but I distinctly remembered a part at the end where Ranger Smith is in bed and he solemnly confides in the viewer that the noises of wilderness give him nightmares and then it just ends. Did I imagine this? It does end with him in bed, but this doesn’t happen in the version on YouTube (which is from the Adult Swim airing). Huh.

Boo Boo Runs Wild | March 10th 2002 - 11:15PM (Originally aired on Cartoon Network in 1999)

Boo Boo Runs Wild was another one of these stand-alone Yogi Bear John K specials. This one was 30 minutes long. The Ranger Smith short was a brief 7 minutes; I’m guessing they aired a couple Capt. Lingers or something to fill time.

This one is about Boo Boo reverting to his feral nature and causing BIIIIG problems! This special would later go on to be kind of a weird trolling thing Adult Swim would do where they aired it every Sunday for a few months, even promoting regularly. This was like 2006, I think? They’d also air it as part of April Fools. Is that Adult Swim admitting this special sorta sucks? Does it sorta suck? Again, I liked these at the time and REFUSED to actively rewatch these for this write-up. Sorry.

The Jetsons: Father and Son Day/The Best Son | March 10th, 2002 11:45PM (Originally aired on CartoonNetwork.com in 2001) Our John K rock block ends with a pair of Jetsons shorts, Father and Son Day and The Best Son respectively. This is kinda the same deal as his Yogi Bear shorts, but these were exclusive for Cartoon Network’s website. I remember watching them on there. They are as bad as you’d expect late-period John K internet shorts to be, though the second short is a superior version of Spielberg’s A.I. (in that it’s shorter).

Night of the Living Doo | March 17th, 2002 - 11:00PM (originally aired on Cartoon Network, 2001)

Night of the Living Doo originally aired as wraparound segments during a Halloween Scooby Doo marathon on Cartoon Network. It’s kinda like an episode of the Scooby Doo Movies, which shoehorned in a guest star each episode. Suddenly my man Dick Van Dyke be running a carnival and shit. That’s the Scooby Doo Movies. At the end of the night they played all the wraparound segments in one uninterrupted sitting, so the viewer could appreciate it as an actual full-on Scooby Doo episode. Night of the Living Doo functioned both as an extension of that series as well as a parody. The guests were Gary Coleman, David Cross, and the very cool band Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. It was all very self-deprecating and had jokes about the absurdity of Scooby Doo tropes. Well trod territory by this point, sure. But this is better than most irreverent Scooby Doo things. It didn’t hurt that I was a HUGE David Cross fan when this aired. Is this where I tell the stupid-ass story about getting mad at a message board guy for not liking David Cross? Sure. Okay, yeah. When this aired on Adult Swim a guy on Kon’s (hi Kon) message board posted something about not finding David Cross funny, shrugging that he didn’t get the hype. He cited this and his appearances in the Men in Black movies, and nothing else as proof for his lackluster comedy skills. It’s kinda like deeming Eddie Murphy as a bad comedian after watching Dr. Doolittle.

The point of this special is that David Cross is a little wooden and stilted, like in the old Scooby Doo Movies episodes. This poster revealed that he never heard David Cross’s stand-up or seen Mr. Show, explaining “I don’t watch puppet shows” A response that still baffles me to this day. Why Mr. Show isn’t a-- WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT? I’m not even sure if there was EVER a puppet on Mr. Show*. David wasn’t even a guest on Crank Yankers at this point! SO WHAT THE FUCK? To this day whenever mutual pals from that board get together and watch a movie or show and a puppet appears we make a joke about this guy. Good story? No? Fuck you.

Other stuff about this show: When it originally aired on Cartoon Network it was a little bit longer than the Adult Swim version. There’s a missing scene. I think it’s David trying to play an improv game with a mummy or something. At one point I had it on tape, but I’m not sure I kept it. Sorry.

*sorry to be coy here, but I do know of at least one puppet on Mr. Show, episode 204 there is brief footage of Grass Valley Greg putting on a puppet show for his staff. This CAN’T be the source of the confusion, can it? It’s literally like, 5 seconds.

MAIL BAG

This’ll teach me to skip a day cuz this really piled up. Thanks, guys. I love all the attention. It is my favorite thing.

I never really saw oblongs as something for the hot topic set. They had Invader Zim and Squee for that kind of shit. Oblongs feel like it was always directly targeting me: the shut-in comedy nerd who would appreciate will ferrell and the sklars being in a thing. Since they ended up doing the exact same show with Janeane Garofalo and David Cross a few years later it seems like that was the goal.

Yeah, I guess that also makes sense. There were a few elements that were kinda gothy but this show was mostly just Angus Oblong ahem, clowning around (puckering mouth to stifle laughter like Chris Elliott in Cabin Boy)

What are your thoughts on the other adult animation blocks of the past couple decades? Spike's notriously failed attempt. Animation Domination. Apparently Syfy has had their own going?

Spike was irredeemably bad. People think this shit is easy. Animation Domination is sorta legit, but it’s anchored by mostly crap. That ADHD thing was kinda good and underrated. Is that still going on? I wish I were more diligent about watching/recording that. Some of them bumpers were good. Also, we mustn’t forget MTV’s oddities. They were kinda the first cable network to court Adult Animation as their thing. They deserve some kind of credit for that. I’m sure they’re doing fine.

I'm having a nice big thing of spaghetti for dinner with some chicken parm? Jealous?

I’ve never had those are they good

What does Ephemera mean? Why is this happenening? Why aren't you talking about 10 Home Movies episodes in a row like a good boy.

In dude time, my friend. In dude time

What would be your Adult Swim dream come true?

Having a complete archive of Adult Swim blocks on a harddrive like Don Giller has with his Letterman archive. Even the commercials and shit. I know of a guy who was a regular taper of the entire block from night 1 but I’m not sure he kept up with it when they went nightly. I should ask him if he still has his tapes, huh?

That or they bring back the BUILD YOUR OWN DVD thing but with blu-rays and you can make your own bumps, which was a different thing they had. THEY SHOULD COMBINE THEM. And you can master it in SD if you wanna put 10 hours of stuff on a disk.

All this is archival bullshit dork shit. Real answer: Clay Croker comes back from the dead and every block is hosted by Space Ghost. That’d be it, right?

If anyone has genuine/better answers please write in with them I wanna keep this conversation going. ‘kay?

McDonalds reintroduces limited edition Adult Swim Toys. You can get them all (plus an extra to keep wrapped for collectors purposes) but you have to spend 20 dollars at McDonalds to grab them all. This is the last day of the promotion. You have to personally eat everything you buy but you can take it home. You can only buy one of each food item. What are you getting? I know the longer the mailbag message is the quicker you are inclined to give some glib remark but indulge this one for once.

Oh wow. I’m literally going to take this seriously. I’d roll in as breakfast was ending. Get myself a McChicken Biscuit and a Bacon Egg & Cheese McGriddle, hashbrowns and a Coffee. Gobble that knob on down. Wipe my mouth with a napkin. It’s lunchtime, bitch. Big Mac, Large Fries, BIG ass soda. You feel me, dude? Lemme tally up. Okay, probably need more. 20 piece nugget. Take that home cuz I’m probably gonna have to save some for dinner. That’s probably 20 bucks right there, especially if you go to the McDonalds on Burnside where all the menu items are more expensive because of the amount of security they have to hire (did you know that different McDonalds have different prices even in the same city? I didn’t until very recently). If this somehow doesn’t satisfy my price point I get a Vanilla shake and eat it anally DURING my BIG D squirt sesh, so it’ll spend as little time in my body as possible. Wait, do I get something for this? I might do this tomorrow just cuz. It sounds like a funky thing to do

Do you think you'll open an Adult Swim mueseum at some point? You seem to be the only steward of its history.

Unless I’m hired to by a large corporation, probably not. Also I don’t think I actually have much in the way of merch other than DVDs. I stopped being a DVD completist at some point around Freaknick The Musical. Oh, I never EVER bought a Robot Chicken DVD, EVER. I literally had a nightmare once that one appeared in my collection.

Hey! Please keep us abreast any time you put more of your garbage on eBay. Maybe you can put your wedding dress on there, you big girl.

Fucking sexist/trasphobic behavior.

Check out my eBay auctions I got season 18 of NCIS up there and some other things :)

The Ripping Friends blow chunks. I don't care if a rapist or the opposite of a rapist (a virgin who volunteers, lol) made it. It sucks a high hard one like when Ozzy banged the Cheiftan's Wife in that Black Sabbath TV Funhouse cartoon. Tell me more.

Tell you more?

Name one rap song you tolerate lol. You can't say anything by weird al or marky mark.

I guess I like the song the pest sings from the motion picture The Pest

Are there any good podcasts on adult swim?

The official one hosted by Matt Harrigan is good, but I’ve only bounced around on it. I don’t know if there’s any formal recap ones. I simply don’t know!

HE'S GIVING HIGH HARD ONE TO CHEIFTAN'S WIFE? UH OH!

Buddy, you are BANNED for LIFE from my MAIL BAG! You drive me CRAZY!

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #night of the living doo #boo boo runs wild #yogi bear #jetsons #ephemera

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raeynbowboi · 4 years

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My Thoughts on KIPO

This post serves two purposes: first to give my thoughts on the third and final season of KIPO, and second to also address the show as a whole. Be advised, because this is the final season and the story is now over, I will be getting into MASSIVE spoiler territory. THIS IS YOUR FINAL SPOILER WARNING.

The Good

I am so happy they kept Dr. Emilia unredeemable, and in a good way. With shows like Naruto or Steven Universe where the MC has a weird knack for befriending the worst monsters in the universe, Kipo helps subvert this by doing with Dr. Emilia what SU should have done with White Diamond. They made her an antagonist the talk no jutsu MC couldn’t just reason with, showing that even non-violence can only take you so far. I like that Kipo still tried to give Dr. Emilia a chance, and her ultimate fate is largely her own fault, not something done to her by Kipo.

I liked how for the most part, no two antagonists were won over the same way. Zayne was won over by a legitimate friendship with Label. Haugh was won over by seeing his daughter dance with the Korean pop band narwhals, Daugh was won over by meeting the Korean Narwhal leadsinger and seeing all of the prisoners in Dr. Emilia’s lab. Even Greta was won over by Wolf just asking her “what do YOU want?” and letting her do it. And the rest were won over through PRAHM.

The solution to curing Kipo’s mother was a stroke of brilliance. I didn’t see it coming until seconds before they did it, and I loved it. Getting to see Kipo and her mom hug was just so wholesome it melted my frozen tiny little black heart.

Speaking of Song and Leo, they remained relevant! Look at that. A young character hero’s journey story where her parents remain important supporting cast characters through the whole thing.

Between seasons 2 and 3, they confirmed that Asher was non-binary, and I liked that we saw that in their hairstyle change for this season. I appreciate that the cut didn’t seem overly masculine or feminine.

Dave... actually earned my respect. Kinda. At least, it explained why he’s such a self-centered asshole in season 1. He’s used to being the leader. So that gave me some new respect for him.

I LOVE that Hugo was forced to see the ruins of Aurum and the self-reflection he shares with Wolf is just icing. Speaking of Hugo, his redemption is handled really nicely. The trial and error, the old habits that are hard for him to break, Kipo easily keeping him in line, and his slow work toward being a better mandrill. He felt like he was growing a lot.

When Wolf is deciding what to do about Margot, Kipo aggressively supports her, waiting for Wolf to ask her for help, and then decreeing that only Wolf has a right to decide how she wants to handle this situation. You go Kipo. Getcha woke on. Speaking of Margot.

The Bad

Margot might as well have not shown up. We learn nothing new about her, nothing new about Wolf, and then she just gets cured by Emilia so there’s never really a resolution to this character tension. I get the reason why, I just praised it in the above section, but this was still poorly handled in my opinion. Their just isn’t enough story payoff to bother dragging this out of the backstory.

Dave created Skyscraper Ridge.... for a battery-powered hand-held fan? Which survived for 200 years of battles between humans and mutes. Over a hand-held fan? Dave and Benson met... by fighting over a hand-held fan? I’m sorry but what the fuck? If you wanted me to take this seriously, you should have made it about something important. Now, I will give this some credit: Maybe Dave has dementia and is misremembering the item he’s talking about. Cuz Benson doesn’t know what he’s talking about at first. So maybe he’s using a toy fan in the place of the actual thing they were fighting over.

Speaking of Benson... You don’t make a backstory episode that raises more questions! Why is Benson the last of his kind? What happened to his parents? Did Dave kill them? Cuz if he did, that’s seriously fucked up that Benson’s best friend killed his parents.

Song just kinda stopped being important once she was human huh? She spoke dubstep to the bees and got the death ivy wall put up, and then said she was going to work on a vaccine to the Cure... and then never finished it. Five years later, and Yumyan and all the others are still Cured. I get why this is, it’s so that there’s lasting consequences, which YES. Good on Kipo for not wimping out and pulling its punches, gimme them lasting consequences baby! I feed off it. But again, this leaves Song kind of … irrelevant.

So Kipo turns into a Mega Jaguar and she runs on all-fours (well... sixes), Song has the anatomy of a Mega Monkey... but Dr. Emilia’s Walrus form... has arms and legs? Sorry, that just kind of breaks the immersion for me. Two megas follow a consistent world building mechanic: you adopt the features of your mega animal... and Dr. Emilia just... doesn’t. No sir, I don’t like that.

Kaiju battles are kind of lame. There I said it. Come get me, Internet. I’m not apologizing. I don’t care much for great big things beating up other great big things. Now with a show and world like that of Kipo, I fully expected there’d be a Kaiju battle at some point, and with Kipo being a mega jaguar, I get why they went this route, but even so, Kaiju battles just aren’t my cup of tea.

Why did Hugo have to die? It kind of smelled of Redemption Equals Death, a wholly loathsome trope. He went through the best arc of all the characters, so let’s axe him off in the end. Sure, we lost other characters we cared about. Yumyan, Collette, Brad, but this was deliberately a noble sacrifice, and one he didn’t really have to make. He could have just jumped out of the car before it ran into Dr. Emilia. I don’t approve of killing off Hugo. That was not the right way to end his story.

Who is Wolf wearing? It’s never explained to us who this wolf was to her. It’s just a wolf. But this wolf was a person. And now she’s wearing its skin.

The Meh

So Jamack is here. That’s pretty much it. He finished his character arc when he joined Puck’s minstrel show and now he’s all smiles and buddy buddy and there’s not much else to say about him. I’m glad he was part of the final battle against Dr. Emilia, but by season 3, Jamack is just another ally. There’s no more of that redemption arc, which makes it feel slightly flat. For what we got, his redemption arc was alright, but the vast majority of it happens off screen, so unlike Hugo, it just doesn’t have that satisfying crunch.

So, ever since Mullholland, I’ve been under the impression that Wolf likes Kipo. Then with Kipo at the PRAHM very verbally saying she wishes Wolf was there, I thought maybe they were a ship? In the end, they verbalize having a sister-like relationship, which I totally get. I’m fine with it. That’s why it’s in the Meh section, not the bad stuff. But if they wanted to hammer home the sisters angle, having a character at a dance wishing the other was there doesn’t exactly send sibling energy.

I kind of wish we got to see how the first burrows got formed following the appearance of mutes. That would have been a nice thing to learn.

Final Thoughts

This show is probably in my top 10 cartoons of all time. It’s funny, colorful, the music is amazing, the characters are great, the villains steal the show, and it’s a good story. Is racism solved a little easily? Maybe, but A. it’s a kid’s show, and B. it’s kind of the whole point of the show. Unlike say Star Vs where it was a show about a princess who doesn’t want to be queen ohandalsomonsteracismiguess, this show’s core focus was on prejudice and racism. That was the forefront topic of the show. So, I’d say it sends an important lesson. I’d even go so far as to say it may be this generation’s Avatar. Is it as good as Avatar: the Last Airbender? Mmm no. But it’s damn good. Even with it’s flaws. I’d probably rate it about an 8.5 out of 10. So about a B+. Which is still really good. Does it have a few problems? Yes. Most shows do. It’s not perfect. But at the end of the day, it’s still a good show, and it has a LOT of rewatch potential, which is good for any show.

#kipo #kipo and the age of wonderbeasts #kataow #kipo oak #kipo season 3 #kataow season 3 #scarlemagne #wolf #david #benson

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collecting-stories · 4 years

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Target - Pope Heyward

Request: ahh picnic was so good! can you write something like that for pope with “shit, are you bleeding?” i saw you needed inspo, maybe this will help!

A/N: More Pope!

Outer Banks Masterlist

///

“Okay, okay, I got this.” You announced, rolling the skateboard back and forth with your foot the way you always saw guys at the x-games and shit do before they took off down a ramp. At the end of the long aisle your friend was holding up her phone, ready to film you attempt to skateboard through Target until you got caught.

“Okay, ready...set...go!” She called, hitting the record button as you started skateboard toward her. It was at that very moment a cart was pushed out into the aisle, a woman and her kid coming out of the toy section without noticing you.

“Holy shit!” You screamed, maybe louder than necessary, as you slammed into the cart, falling almost over top of it, and landing on your back on the ground. The woman whose cart you smashed into screeched louder than you, trying to push her cart out of the way and hitting you over again by accident. “What the hell lady!”

“What is the matter with you?” She snapped, voice a high-pitched shriek.

You didn’t answer her, instead sitting up and leaning over, holding your head. A few other shoppers came out of the aisles because of the commotion and when you looked up your eyes met one of them, a guy around your age. He was cute and he had a basket full of school supplies despite the fact that it was only mid-July. When you pulled your hand away from your head his eyes went wide.

“Shit, are you bleeding?” He asked, coming over to help you up.

“I guess so,” you replied, looking down at your hand to see blood smeared there.

“It wasn’t my fault!” the woman insisted, backing away. “She came flying down the aisle on a skateboard. You shouldn’t even be allowed in here!”

“Chill out lady! I didn’t say it was your fault!” You snapped, glaring at her.

“Let’s just,” he touched your back hesitantly as he put his arm around you, guiding you away from the woman and her kid. “Can I get you some bandages and get you cleaned up?”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t say no to that.” You replied, letting him walk with you toward the first aid aisle.

“I’m Pope by the way.”

Pope had come for school supplies before all ‘good ones’ got taken by over-eager moms with too long shopping lists. He knew it was lame but he loved back to school season. Ever since he was a little kid he looked forward to the sheer hours he could spend agonizing over notebooks and pens and anything he might need for school. It was supposed to be a nice, quiet day today. Away from the pogues for an afternoon, he could school supply shop, get everything organized for back to school, and finish any summer homework he needed to complete.

He’d seen you in the aisle with the friend who had since ditched you the moment she suspected things might get dicey. Pope was avoiding trouble today so he kept his head down and tried to act like he didn’t care about a cute girl standing in the middle of the aisle about to do some JJ level shit like skateboard in the Target. Even when you hit that woman’s cart he’d been slow to intervene.

Stay out of it, he told himself. But then he noticed that you were bleeding and your friend was gone and that bitch of a woman was yelling at you and he couldn’t just ignore you any longer.

“Okay, pictures of junk food or Frozen?” You asked, holding up two different packs of bandaids.

“You’re going to put a bandaid on your head that has a cartoon snowman on it?” Pope asked, skeptical.

“Olaf,” you corrected, “don’t pretend like you don’t know his name. And I hate bandaids actually, I never wear them...but cartoon food and disney characters make them slightly more appealing.”

“Why not just get liquid bandaid?” He suggested, holding up a small bottle of what looked like clear nail polish.

“You’re so smart.” You complimented, taking the bottle from him. You had alcohol swabs too and Pope had grabbed you a single pack of ibuprofen for the pain.

After you checked out the two of you sat at the small Starbucks built into the front of the Target, Pope pulling his chair up in front of yours while he fixed the cut on your forehead. You kept your eyes on the hanging menu behind his head, trying not to stare directly at him while he was right there, inches away from your face.

“Do you live around here?” You asked, trying to decide if you’d ever seen him in school.

“I live on the OBX.”

You smiled, “an islander, exciting.”

Pope rolled his eyes at you, knowing you were teasing him but not particularly caring. “So, your friend ditched.”

“She always does...she gets freaked that we’re gonna get like, band. But I’ve ridden my skateboard around here like a hundred times.”

“Better than that I hope.”

“Yeah, usually better than that.” You laughed.

“Well, I’m all finished.” Pope concluded, standing up and putting his chair back. Deciding to not just clam up and leave he took a deep breath before looking at you again, “are you busy? Would you wanna hang out or something? I don’t know-”

“I’d love to.” You said, cutting him off.

“Good, great, good.”

taglist: @maplelattes22 @poguesrforlife @freckled-and-daydreaming @chasefreakinstokes @millie-753 @fangirlwithme @alex12948 @howdyherron @katherine097 @tangledinsparkles @tragicmisfits @carbonated-beverage @mariofgreengables @damonsalvawhore27 @dopedoodes @dolanfivsosxox @belledutchess @poguelifeeee @jjsthumbring @faded-blue @parkerpetertingle @thebookwormlife @summer-clouds-and-long-days @jellyfishbeansontoast @minigranger @louisolos @hoewkeye @love-someone-special @finecelle @vitaminekabc @tiredfeels @g4bster @strangerthanfanfiction713 @the-only-nana @tomzfrog @mozz-are-lla @vindictive-hearts @poguestyleskye @ssprayberrythings @pensysto @jenahbell @beautyandthebleh @lavenderxraindrops @gothackedalready @teenwaywardasgardian @sarahcxmeron @hvitost @haha-fuck-you-thot @stillbelieve398-5 @rewindlr @queenniccimicci @kissessforharryyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @alytavzla @bqmblebee @linniep @nerdypartytrashpsychic @xxchxrryxx @spencer-reid-is-a-cutie @mirjanak @kwjune @danielladreaming @obx-saltlife @youngestxhearts @spnobsessedmemes @wowitswondergurl @siwiecola @regev1408 @celestialmaybank @mybnkjj @averagxfangirl @mysterious-adventurer @justawilddreamerchild @rhyetaylor62 @calm-rejects @99sxuxii @oh-annaa @katiaw2 @aiifandomsunite @marteenuhh08 @x-lulu @kitkat0609 @ceruleanjj @yoxsh06 @wicked-laugh @obxwriterfan @justkeepdreamingswift @allie-mcginn @jjmaybankswife @literarycharleton @khiaraaa-in-spacee @crushe-s @teamnick @daydreamlilys @poguesnobx @collectiveuniverses @activist-af @mdgrdians @buckys-sunflower

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you!

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

113 notes · View notes

glassbangtan · 5 years

Text

stitches {kim namjoon x reader}

Words: 10.5k

Summary: People always said getting married at a young age was a mistake - could they have been right?

Genre: angst

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - masterlist

---

You would think that after 4 years of marriage, two people would have more to discuss.

The silence begs to differ. You haven’t seen Namjoon in weeks, purely for this reason - you don’t want to acknowledge the awkwardness, don’t want to sit at your - his - kitchen table and pretend nothing has ever happened between you.

But you can’t stay quiet forever. You need to collect your things at some point. You need to be a mature adult at some point. You need to face the facts at some point, no matter how painful they are.

The one thing keeping you from bursting into tears right here and now is the fact that Namjoon looks like he’s already shed enough tears for the both of you; he sits with his head bowed, staring at his fingers folded upon the table. His eyes are red and puffy, and he’s wearing his plaid pyjamas - enough to show you he hasn’t bothered with putting effort in today, enough to show you that he doesn’t believe he needs to make a lasting impression because this could very well be the last day you ever see him.

And it hurts. God, it fucking hurts, because it was only a week ago you were truly convinced Kim Namjoon was the one for you. And maybe that belief isn’t completely diminished, despite the divorce papers and the arguments; you look at him now and you don’t think of yourself as stupid or immature just because you got married at such a young age - you look at him now, and there’s a voice in your head telling you that you made the right decision, whether it worked out or not.

You inhale shakily, resisting the urge to reach out and tangle your fingers in his. “If you find anything of mine later on, you know my new address. Don’t - don’t hesitate to just send it all over. If you - if you don’t want it.”

He nods.

“And if - if you ever need anything from me, you can always call-”

“I don’t think that’s very smart.”

You bite your bottom lip; you expected that, of course. Namjoon has never been one for pretending things are okay when they’re not.

Despite this, you just need to hear him speak. “Why?”

He shrugs, messing with his bony fingers. “It’s just - like - this isn’t easy on either of us, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“So we might as well just. . . leave it as it is. I don’t want to get in another argument with you and then that’s all I can think about. I want to remember the good things, and the more we talk, the greater chance we have of tarnishing those good memories for ourselves.”

Ouch.

“So you just wanna. . . cut ties? You just want to pretend like we never happened?”

“That’s not what I said-”

“But that’s basically what you said.” You stand up; it’s not exactly fury you feel, more a heavy disappointment just below your rib cage. It will turn into a physical ache if you don’t leave now, just as it always does when you and Namjoon have an argument.

He rakes his hands through his hair, finally looking up from the table long enough to watch you scramble in your attempts to grab your stuff. “Y/N, that’s not what I-”

“I get it, Namjoon,” you say. “You wasted your entire life with me. You’ve seen your chance to get away and you’re taking it - who can blame you?”

Namjoon stands abruptly. “This isn’t a chance to get away. This is me putting both of our best interests at heart-”

“You don’t have a right to tell me what is for my best interests. Because let me tell you, getting a divorce in front of the entire world most certainly isn’t what I would class as my best interest.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “You do this all the time. You overthink everything I say and make it seem like I’m out to get you.”

“No I don’t!” You’re on the cusp of yelling. Your chest is aching. Your hands are trembling, gripping the handle of your bag; a few more paces to the left and you’ll be out of here, away from him, away from this argument - but instead you stay rooted to the floor, ready to start screaming your head off all over again. “My entire life, Namjoon, I have put up with shit from you that nobody else on the planet would have the willpower to put up with!”

His nostrils flare. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about constantly being in the press? How about me not being able to step foot outside of my house without people jeering stuff at me? How about me not being able to go online because there’s millions upon millions of people constantly claiming I’m using you for money, or you’re cheating on me, or I’m cheating on you-”

“I can’t control that.”

“I know you can’t, but you also can’t sit there and say I make you out to be the bad guy all the time when it’s me who’s put up with all this shit for the past eight years!”

Namjoon scoffs. He scoffs, and it sounds close enough to a laugh that a fresh wave of anger soars into your system, hitting you with the startling urge to throw something at the wall.

“Alright then, Y/N, alright,” he says. “If being part of my life bothers you that much, I don’t know why you’re still here. Them divorce papers gave you a Get out of Jail Free card, so why the fuck are you still standing in my kitchen?”

Never in your life have you heard Namjoon sound so angry. Your stomach stirs, a mix of interest and terror as you snatch your bag from the chair, turn on your heel and flee from his kitchen before any further words can be spoken.

You’re trembling. Your feet hurt with the speed at which you’re walking, trying desperately to get through your own front door before the tears start streaming, but it’s pointless - so, so pointless considering you were already crying before you’d even escaped the confines of the house you used to call your own.

It all escalated so quickly, so pointlessly, but at the end of the day, that’s how it has been for months. It’s the littlest things that set you both off, and by the end of it, those little things added up, were engraved into the divorce papers that neither of you really wanted to sign but did anyway, just to see if it would make a difference.

It did make a difference, of course. You moved house; you sleep on your own now; the media sees you as nothing more than a gold-digging whore, no matter how many statements Namjoon, BigHit and the boys of BTS put out claiming it was a mutual, respect-filled decision.

Yes, things have changed. Supposedly for the better, because at the end of the day, you’re single now, can potentially do whatever you want - but that can only be seen as a good thing when you ask for it, and you never asked for it. You never asked for a life without Namjoon. You never asked for your best friend to hate you.

---

Taehyung is nice for meeting up with you, even though he knows the inevitable backlash that will follow - mainly directed at you.

The coffee shop holds only a few customers this morning, and none of them stay long enough to pay much attention to you and the worldwide celebrity sitting in the corner. Taehyung with his beanie pulled over his head and his oversized coat, a passing glance is not enough to distinguish him as anyone important.

He stares at you as soon as you sit down, not saying hello in that cheery way you’ve grown so accustomed to in your seven years of friendship with him. You set your bag on the floor, look at him and meekly say, “How are you?”

Taehyung raises a brow. “I don’t think I’m the one that should be answering that question.” He leans forward, and it’s then you know this isn’t going to be some innocent little catch-up conversation; Taehyung most likely saw Namjoon last night and now wants all the details you can give. “What happened?”

“Can I at least order my coffee first?”

Taehyung slides his own cup towards you, folds his fingers on the table. “He was a wreck when he got to the dorms. Wouldn’t tell any of us what happened. Not even Yoongi.”

You fight off the wince that wants to fight to the surface; Namjoon hardly ever leaves his band members in the dark about anything.

“I don’t - I don’t really know what happened,” you begin, unsure whether it’s a lie or not. “We just started arguing. Namjoon said some things, I said some things-”

“I know how arguing works.”

“We just hurt each others feelings, and I ended up storming out.”

Taehyung sighs. “Again.”

“It was better than letting things get worse.” A lump forms in your throat at the thought of how things would have progressed if you hadn’t fled the scene. “He didn’t want me there in the first place.”

Taehyung perks up. “Oh yeah. Why were you at his house anyway?”

“Getting some bits and pieces I left.”

Silence. Taehyung continues to stare, like he’s waiting for another bit of a story that ended a while ago; acknowledging the fact that the house you remember picking, the house you lived in for four years, the house that holds so many memories for both you and Taehyung is now no longer a part of your life - it hurts. It makes it real. It makes all of it real.

You shrug, taking a swig of Taehyung’s coffee. “But yeah. Namjoon and I are probably just better off not communicating at all. That’s us done for good.”

Taehyung’s shoulders drop as if a boulder has fallen upon them. “You’ve got to be having a laugh.”

“Nope. Last night showed me exactly what happens when we’re in the same room together, and there’s no point putting either of us through that shit again.”

Taehyung looks baffled. A cartoon-ish type of baffled, with the knitted brows and the open mouth, leaning forward as if he’s convinced he misheard; you take a sip of your coffee, looking away as nonchalantly as you can muster with the lump in your throat.

“So how have you and the boys been?”

Taehyung slaps the table. Heads spin, you jump, salt pots rattle, but he doesn’t care.

You slosh coffee down your front. “Tae!”

“Oh, my poor little ears have heard it all!”

“Keep your voice-”

“I did not spend eight years listening to you flirt and have sex with Namjoon for you to sit here and tell me you’re not even gonna bother standing in the same room as him!”

You grab Taehyung’s hand and tug, a desperate attempt to get him to shut the fuck up.

But he barrels on, face growing redder with each word spoken. “That’s just - that’s just pure waste! Wasteful!”

“Okay, I get where you’re coming from, but-”

“I don’t really think you do, Y/N, or else you’d be apologising to me for getting me so panicked by even suggesting-”

“Alright, Tae, I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Now can you be quiet, for fuck sake?”

He inhales deeply, flipping his hand over and tangling his fingers with yours. “That wasn’t very funny.”

You slump back, glancing around nervously; thankfully, most of the people who once surrounded you have left, either to head off to work or scared off by the lunatic yelling in the corner. The only person still staring is the bartender, an elderly man who can’t stand up straight.

“You weren’t being serious, were you?”

You look across the table and shrug.

Taehyung sighs. “I understand there’s tension between you both at the moment - coming to terms with a failed relationship and all that - but I don’t think that’s a good enough reason to just. . . pretend the other one doesn’t exist. Me and the boys still want to see you - how are we gonna do that if you don’t even want to stand in the same room as Namjoon?”

You run your hands through your hair, gripping the roots tightly. “It’s not just a failed relationship, Tae - it’s a failed marriage. A marriage of four years, for gods sake. It’s a bit deeper than what you seem to think it is.”

Taehyung throws his head back and groans. “Fuck that.” He looks back at you. “The only difference is a lousy piece of paper that means fuck all in the grand scheme of things. A bit of legal stuff, sure, but that doesn’t mean anything. The only thing that matters is the fact that you and Namjoon love-”

“Loved.” You taste the lie even as you say it.

Taehyung pauses, purses his lips before barrelling on like you never even interrupted. “-love each other very much. You have done for a very long time. So where’s the logic in pretending none of it ever happened?”

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You can’t think of a valid response, because Taehyung has once again offered you a question that does nothing but back you into a corner.

You shrug, sipping your coffee slowly.

Taehyung hums, snatching the cup out of your mouth to take a sip of his own. “That’s what I thought.”

You sigh. “It’s just awkward, though.”

“It’s only awkward if you make it awkward.”

“That’s not-”

“Why don’t you come to rehearsals tonight and have a chat with him there?”

You freeze. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You rack your brain for an excuse. A quick one. “Bethany and I are going to Spaniel’s tonight.”

Taehyung raises a brow. “Spaniel’s? That club that nearly got shut down last month because someone got threatened at knife point?”

You snatch the coffee back. “That’s the one.”

Taehyung hums, slowly leaning back in his chair, all the while staring at you intently. “Fair enough. Good to see you’re still getting out there.”

“Mhm!”

“Well.” His words take on a slower drawl, and you know instantly he can see right through you; he’s Kim Taehyung, for crying out loud. He’s not easily fooled, no matter how much he wants people to think he’s the opposite. “I hope you have a good time. Drink responsibly and all that.”

“I will.”

“Would you and Bethany like a lift? I know Namjoon can’t drive, but-”

You raise a hand, notice it trembling and immediately lower it beneath the table again. Taehyung’s brows knit together. “No, thank you. We’re getting a taxi, so don’t worry.”

Taehyung nods. His lack of argument is just further proof that he does not believe a single word you are saying - you decide then and there that you need to get in touch with Bethany as soon as possible to organise a night out. You would not put it past Taehyung to show up at your house just to make sure you weren’t lying.

You smile and sip your shared drink. “So, how are the boys?”

---

You only start truly regretting your decision when you’re walking into Spaniel’s.

The thing is, Taehyung was right; there’s no point locking yourself in your bedroom for the foreseeable future. You’re still young, still have an entire life ahead of you, and wasting that life because of some boy would just be stupid on your part.

But you’re also not used to this - going to a club without Namjoon, who once offered a certain sense of protection. You’ve never been big on dancing, never been big on drinking. Back in the day, you and Namjoon used to just sit at the bar and talk for hours over steady drinks that left you only the tiniest bit tipsy by the end of the night but sober enough to understand that you’d rather spend any night out with Namjoon and nobody else.

Now you have Bethany and her motley crew keeping you company, and it really doesn’t feel the same. They started on the pre-drinks before you had even arrived at Bethany’s house, and are down-right hammered by the time they get in the door of the club.

“This place is shiiiiiit,” Anthony, one of Bethany’s friends, says. “We should have gone to Monroe’s or something.”

“Monroe’s is even worse on a Wednesday night,” Bethany points out.

“Most clubs are pretty dead on a Wednesday night,” you mutter.

You don’t want to be here, but you don’t want to make that obvious, either. Prying Anthony’s arm from your own, you tell them you’re going to get yourself a drink and saunter off in the direction of the bar; you don’t really know what it feels like to be downright hammered, but at this point, if the rumours are true, you’re willing to try it.

You order your usual vodka and coke before taking a seat behind a fairly tall man, hoping his towering height will hide you from the group of people you walked in with.

The drink burns your throat on the way down, but you’re grateful for it. It’s gone in a matter of minutes, and you’re moving onto your next one.

It’s so frustrating that you feel this way, like you should be curled up in your house, wallowing in your own self pity. It’s such a shame that the mere thought of someone who once provided such comfort is now nothing more than a nightmare, a teasing thought in the back of your mind because you know for certain you can’t have him back again. You lost him once, and that’s it - your final chance has been taken from you, leaving you bare and drunk and sad, and it’s so frustrating.

You down another drink.

“Alright mate, there’s no need to rush.”

You jump, glancing to the side just as Anthony takes a seat beside you at the bar. His eyes are bloodshot now, black hair dangling in his face soaked in sweat that certainly wasn’t there thirty minutes ago. Leaning forward a little bit, you’re able to latch onto the pungent smell of weed wafting from his clothes. Immediately you crane your neck in an attempt to catch sight of Bethany; you would not put it past her to be high out of her head right now, and you care about her too much to let her wander around the club on her own in such a state.

Anthony leans to the side, blocking your view. “You feeling alright, love?”

You pull back, scowling. “I’m fine. Where’s Beth?”

“She’s with Joshua,” Anthony replies like that answers your question at all. “It’s just you and me now, I think.”

You turn back to the bar. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in what?” He slumps forward, knocking his elbow with yours. “You just looked a little lonely and I thought you would appreciate some company.”

It would be so easy right now to just tell him to leave you alone; you don’t want the company, you don’t appreciate it at all, you want to go home - but the better half of you pushes to the surface before anything else. You give Anthony a small smile.

“Thanks.”

He grins right back, settling down on his chair. “So how come you’re here all on your own then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well.” He tilts his head back, stares up at the ceiling with eyes unfocused. “It just seems a little. . . bizarre to me that someone as pretty as you would be sat here on your own. No boyfriend? Girlfriend? Significant other of any kind?”

“Well, I have-” Your heart lurches into your throat and you catch yourself before the words can get much further forward. Anthony notices the sudden hitch in your speech, raises a brow and leans forward in an attempt to catch your eye, but you’re quick to look away and take yet another sip of your vodka and coke - it won’t be long until you can’t see straight. “Nope. I’m single.”

Anthony hums. “Weird.”

“Is it really?”

“Well, I think it’s weird, but that might just be because you’re the prettiest person I’ve seen tonight.”

His flirting doesn’t flatter you in any way. You glance at him through the corner of your eye, trying for another friendly little smile, but it fails and you instead take another drink to hide your distaste; comments like that don’t sound right when they’re coming from someone who doesn’t even know you.

Now, Namjoon on the other hand - he knew you better than anyone. He knew you better than you knew yourself. He would say things like that to you and you’d genuinely believe them, because if there was anyone in the world who knew the truth about you, it was him.

This guy has been in your presence for a grand total of twenty minutes and he’s only saying all this stuff because he’s drunk and high and horny.

“Do you have many hook-up’s, Y/N?” he asks suddenly, taking a sip of his own drink.

Your head snaps round. “Why would you ask that?”

“I was just wondering,” he replies, smirking into his glass. “You seem like a good egg. I can’t imagine you falling into anyone’s bed by accident.”

“By accident?”

“Unless, of course,” he continues, “you want a little bit of fun tonight.”

The anger claws its way into your system, but before you can say anything to hurt this guys feelings, another voice echoes out from behind you.

“Y/N! There you are!”

You whirl around just as Taehyung wraps a heavy arm round your shoulders, tugging you into his side. You gasp, surprised, but Taehyung barrels on before you can say anything to make Anthony believe you had no idea Taehyung would be here in the first place.

“Who’s this then?” he asks, motioning to Anthony who sits with knitted brows and pursed lips.

“Uhhh…”

“I’m Anthony.” He reaches forward for a hand shake. Taehyung stares at it a moment before slowly taking the offered hand.

“You two friends?”

“He’s friends with Bethany,” you reply quickly, before spinning in your seat and pushing Taehyung back, stumbling up after him. “Do you mind coming with me to the smoking area?”

Taehyung giggles. “You don’t smoke-”

“Be right back, Anthony!”

“Will we?” Taehyung asks once you’ve finally managed to push him through the crowd towards the back doors.

“Of course not,” you hiss, shoving him into the open air where he finally bursts out laughing. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You’re meant to be at rehearsals!”

“The good thing about being your managers best friend is that he lets you reschedule important meetings,” says Taehyung. “The whole group.”

You glare at him, even though you knew this would be the case from the moment Taehyung’s voice rang out behind you only minutes before; your stomach does a flip, one that you recognise as dread but wish was something else. Excitement, maybe.

Taehyung continues to grin, but it’s easy for him. He’s not the one who has to deal with the awkwardness. He’s not the one who’s just had their night completely ruined.

“You’re an asshole,” you spit.

He shrugs. “I’m not trying to set you two up - if you’re happier on your own-”

You glare at him, because he knows full well you’re not.

“-then I’m gonna respect that. But I couldn’t just go to the club and not bring Namjoon, you know? That wouldn’t be very nice of me.”

“Oh, God forbid you’re not very nice.”

He nods solemnly. “I know. I know. Now, can we go back inside? It’s fucking freezing.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, merely turns on his heel and starts back towards the club. You suck it up - you have to, because at some point, people are going to forget you and Namjoon ever existed and this fear you have developed will be seen as nothing more than stupid and irrational. You might as well start making the progress now.

The club suddenly seems ten times more crowded than it did when you first walked in; people are dancing, drinking, singing at the top of their lungs, and you can hear every word, feel every limb as you shove your way through the thickening crowd. Taehyung is taller than a lot of the inhabitants, and with his good looks and glowing smile, most people move out of the way when they see him walking towards them; it’s not too difficult to keep up with him.

But then you see Namjoon, and you don’t really understand why you’re following Tae in the first place.

“Oh, God,” you whisper. Taehyung glances at you, tries for a comforting smile, but the look on your face must be something else, something not even Taehyung can try and settle. Instead he reaches back, grabs your hand and pulls you forward, more to keep you from sprinting out of the club than to give you any type of comfort.

Because Namjoon looks so good, as he always does, and you remember nights like this when the other boys would force the two of you from the comfort of Namjoon’s studio, or the comfort of your shared home, and the two of you would just waltz around the dance floor, lost in each other and nobody else. It feels wrong to be in his presence in a situation like this and not have that kind of connection, and when he turns and meets your eyes, it’s obvious from the sudden drop of his smile that he feels the exact same way.

“There you are!” Jungkook exclaims, bursting out from behind Namjoon and giving Taehyung a hug. “We were wondering where you’d run off to!”

“I was collecting a friend,” Taehyung replies, dragging you forward. The other boys turn, grinning as soon as they lay eyes on you. You are bombarded with hugs and incoherent yelling, questions you can’t answer because they pile on top of one another with little to no gaps in between.

“Hi,” is all you can manage to squeak out.

The boys continue talking over one another, but you zone out. Namjoon stands a little bit behind everyone else, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, his eyes drawn to the floor as he waits for a change of topic - a topic that doesn’t involve you. His black hair hangs over his eyes, and you want nothing more than to reach forward and brush it out of his face, just like you used to do, but you don’t. You instead keep your hands knotted at your sides, smiling and nodding to whatever nonsense the six other boys are spewing at you.

“Right!” Seokjin suddenly exclaims, clapping his hands. “I’ll grab the first round of drinks. What does everyone want?”

Orders are tossed left right and centre, and somehow, Seokjin picks up on them all. You offer to go with him to help carry the tray, and it’s only by the grace of god and Seokjin’s obliviousness that he agrees and lets you break away from the other boys. You follow him up to the bar and wait for him to order.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says as the two of you wait. “What a coincidence! I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I know,” you reply. “I came here with Bethany.”

Seokjin nods, even though he has no idea who Bethany is. “It’s good to hear you haven’t been isolating yourself - Namjoon’s been a right pain in the ass to get out of the house recently.”

You freeze. “Has he?”

Seokjin hums, messing idly with a paper straw he found discarded on the counter. “He’s been in a right mood. Obviously, like, we can’t blame him - he’s been going through a lot recently.” He flicks a glance at you. “You both have, huh?”

You shrug. You don’t have to lie if you say nothing at all.

Seokjin turns back to the bar. “But yeah, he just hasn’t been handling it very well. Hasn’t been handling himself very well.” He shrugs. “I suppose if you’ve been spending your entire life with somebody else, it’s kind of difficult to get back into the swing of doing things on your own, you know?”

You do know. You know far too well.

You nod slowly, biting your lower lip to stop the tears that suddenly want to make an appearance; you’re too drunk for this. You should be at home, not stuck in a club trying to avoid your ex-husband.

The drinks are passed across the bar once they have all been made. You reach out to grab the tray, but a voice by your ear startles you before you can pick them up.

“Where did you go off to?”

Both you and Seokjin whirl around at the same time. Seokjin grins when he sees Anthony standing by your shoulder, though Anthony does not repay him with the same level of courtesy.

“Who’s this?” Seokjin asks, already reaching out a hand in greeting.

Anthony scowls at him. “I’m Y/N’s friend. Who are you?”

“Oh, me too,” Seokjin replies. “Do you want a drink? You can have mine if you like vodka and-”

“I’m just here to retrieve Y/N.”

You pause, certain you must have misheard. Even Seokjin, forever the man to stay calm in moments like this, freezes with his hand hovering over the top of his drink.

Together, you both say, “Huh?”

“Well, Y/N came in with us,” Anthony says. “I don’t like the idea of walking around with someone I don’t know - especially when she’s slightly drunk.”

“I’m not-”

Anthony grabs your arm. “Let’s go.”

Seokjin grabs your other arm. “I don’t - uh - I don’t think that’s too good of an idea.”

“And why is that?” Anthony gives Seokjin a smile, warm and welcoming, but it’s the flash of anger in his bloodshot eyes that convinces you he doesn’t mean any of these niceties he’s trying to present. You quickly snap your arm from his grip, stumbling into Seokjin’s chest.

Anthony looks at you, tilts his head. “Y/N-”

“I’m going with Seokjin,” you reply. “Tell Beth I’ll call her when I get home.”

Anthony opens his mouth to respond, but you don’t stick around to hear what he has to say, certain it will be nothing more than a drug-induced attempt to get you to stay. Instead, you turn on your heel, grab Seokjin’s hand and drag him back through the crowd, Seokjin fumbling with the tray of drinks as he tries to keep up with you.

“Who was that guy?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder in bewilderment.

You tug on his hand, a silent plea to just ignore Anthony, who has now taken to yelling across the dance floor at you. “He’s friends with Bethany - they’re room mates or something. I don’t really know.”

“He’s frightening,” Seokjin says. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He’s just high. You watch, I’ll have an apology text tomorrow morning.”

Seokjin snickers as the two of you finally arrive at the table one of the other boys managed to dig out. Seokjin sets the tray down and hoists himself onto the bench beside Namjoon, who is purposefully and oh-so-obviously trying to avoid your gaze.

At this point, you don’t even care; perhaps the alcohol has settled in your system at long last, leaving you slightly tipsy despite still being far too connected to reality. You’re still overly aware of Namjoon’s presence, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s just because he’s Namjoon. Around you, girls and boys continue to glance at him over their shoulders, whisper amongst themselves, pointing in a way that makes you want to wrap your arm around his just to tell them he’s mine.

But you aren’t his anymore, so you occupy your hands by grabbing a drink from the tray and turning to talk to Yoongi, who is busy tapping away at his cell phone.

As the night draws on, you become looser, more willing to have a good time than you were before. You and Hoseok have a dance battle that everybody laughs at, claiming you won despite the obvious winner being Hoseok himself. The bartender asks for your number, but Taehyung cuts in and says you don’t have a phone, and the bartender is too intimidated by Taehyung’s grand height to argue; you don’t even care. Taking another sip of your drink, you grin and thank Tae for a reason you are unsure of.

And the entire time, Namjoon keeps his distance.

It’s as the night starts drawing to a close that things start getting blurry; out of the seven boys you’ve been spending time with, three are left in your presence by the time midnight rolls around. Taehyung, Yoongi and Namjoon gather round the table as you stand beside them, too angsty to sit, too drunk not to make your presence known. You sip your drink as the boys talk, idly swaying your hips back and forth, not really paying attention to what they’re saying…

“Don’t you think it’s getting a little late?”

If it was anybody else, you could have convinced yourself not to turn around. But Namjoon’s voice has some kind of appeal to it that has you spinning, nearly sloshing your drink over yourself at the speed of which you do so. You half-expect him to be looking elsewhere, keeping to the pattern of the night of completely ignoring you, but this time, he’s staring right at you, one eyebrow raised.

You stare right back.”Huh?”

“Oh, come on, Namjoon,” Yoongi scoffs, not taking his eyes off his phone. “It’s only midnight.”

“I know, but Y/N doesn’t like staying out late, and-”

“I love staying out late!” Your voice is shrill, much louder than you originally intended, but you’re too far gone now to change that. “Now that I don’t have anyone to come home to, staying out late is my forte!”

Taehyung spins, eyes wide, face paling. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

You keep your eyes on Namjoon, watching his expression shift from genuine concern to anger. His teeth grit, fingers curling into fists upon the table.

“Oh,” says Namjoon slowly. “Is that right?”

“Mhm.” You sip your drink, wrap an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders. He looks up, startled, from his iPhone, cheeks growing red as he glances uncertainly from you to Namjoon and back again. “It’s like this sense of freedom, you know? Unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I believe it’s called being single? Really great.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s pretty good,” Namjoon mutters.

“Okay!” Taehyung exclaims, sharing a concerned look with Yoongi. “I think Y/N’s had a bit too much to-”

“No, no,” Namjoon cuts in. Taehyung and Yoongi close their eyes in exasperation, but you keep your gaze firm on Namjoon, who keeps his firm on you. “Y/N wants to stay out late, then she should stay out.”

“And who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky!”

Namjoon’s scowl deepens. “Maybe.”

His indifference just makes you angrier; he should be yelling, telling you to stop teasing him, saying he misses you and that this divorce is the worst decision he’s ever made…

But he isn’t.

He’s sat in that stupid chair with his stupid half-drunk drink, and he’s scowling at you but he’s not doing anything to put a stop to whatever you’re saying because at this point, you don’t even know what it is you’re trying to say.

“Do you think Anthony needs someone to go home with?” you continue, tightening your hold on Yoongi.

“Anthony?” Namjoon suddenly bursts, the first sign of proper anger he’s shown tonight. “The drug addict?”

“He smokes a little weed every now and then.” You wave a dismissive hand at your ex-husband. “You just never liked him because he’s not willing to settle down with anyone - he’s living his life. He’s doing what people our age should be doing.”

Namjoon’s guard cracks.

Taehyung reaches for his arm, but it’s really no use - Namjoon is taller, broader, angrier, and he barrels past the table before you can do so much as blink. His fingers are wrapped around your upper arm in seconds, a feather light touch that does not equal the stormy expression on his face. You squeal dramatically, stumbling into him as he drags you away from the table.

“What are you gonna do to me?” you demand.

Namjoon scowls, says something to Taehyung and Yoongi before he’s dragging you out of the club.

“Get off me!” you exclaim, though you make no attempt to shake yourself from his grip; even in your overly-intoxicated state, the feel of Namjoon’s fingers on your skin - after so long - is like sipping water after months in the desert.

The two of you walk outside. Once you pass the exit doors, Namjoon lowers his hands to your waist, spins you around so you’re facing him and says, “What’s the matter with you?”

You’re taken aback. You stare at him, eyebrow raised.

He tilts his head. “You’re drunk. You hate getting drunk.”

“You have no idea what I hate,” you shoot back. “You don’t know anything about me anymore, Namjoon!”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break. We’ve been broken up for two weeks!”

“And you don’t think I’ve changed in them two weeks?”

“Well, apparently you’re a lot more fucking stupid-”

“Oh, go to hell, Namjoon. So what if I had a drink? Not all of us want to be stuck-up little piss-babies like you!”

He scoffs, closing his eyes. “Is that your idea of an insult now?”

You wriggle out of his grip, even though it takes every fibre of your being, even though you want nothing more than to stay locked in his embrace forever. “I’ll do what I want, okay? And tonight, I want to go home with Anthony.”

“You’re gonna regret it in the morning.”

“I’ll deal with that in the morning.”

You spin on your heel, starting towards the door back into the club, but you only manage two steps forward before Namjoon has grabbed your wrist and is tugging you back; you’re ready to throw a hissy fit, a genuine, toddler tantrum if he doesn’t let you go, because looking into his eyes right now is hurting you so, so badly, and-

“Come home with me instead.”

You stumble, certain you’ve heard him wrong. Even through your drunken haze, you can’t bring yourself to believe he has truly said what he’s just said.

“What?”

“Just so I know you’re safe,” he mumbles, as if embarrassed to be admitting such a thing. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can take the bed. But I don’t like the idea of you going home on your own when you’re in this state.”

You stare at him; is he pitying you? Is that what this is? You can’t put your finger on it, but your heart is thumping at a million miles per hour, and your drunken brain is seeing this invitation as nothing more than an opportunity, a chance to spend one last night with him, whether it be completely platonic or not.

“Okay,” you croak out. “That sounds. . . Yeah. That sounds like a plan.”

Namjoon nods, once and certain, before he turns and starts walking back towards the car park.

----

The house hasn’t changed, and maybe that’s the worst part.

There’s still evidence of you once living here, and that bothers you. It irks you that Namjoon can sit amongst photographs and things that once belonged to you and not completely break down. Stood on the mantelpiece is a picture you and him took a few years back, still framed in the same old brown frame that you planned on replacing ages ago, but never got round to. One of your hair ties is still on the coffee table. A pair of shoes you grew out of are still tossed in the shoe basket by the front door.

He hasn’t touched a thing.

You swallow the thick lump forming in your throat, stumbling through the door. Namjoon goes to catch you, but you flinch out of his grip before his fingers can make contact, suddenly much too afraid of what is happening; you’re meant to be getting over him, for crying out loud. Yet here you are, walking into this house with this man with not a thought racing through your head.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” he says, keeping a loose eye on you even as he walks into the kitchen. You sit down on the sofa, cover your face with your hands and inhale deeply; this is going to be a mighty long night if you don’t get your head on straight.

Namjoon returns a few minutes later. He places the pint of water on the coffee table before sitting down beside you; his hands hang awkwardly between his knees as he continually shoots glances in your direction. Neither of you know what to do, or what to say. Do you even bring up what happened tonight? Do you apologise? Do you ask him why he even cared so much in the first place?

You do none of those things, instead choosing to bask in the silence. Your heart is thumping in your chest, the alcohol still pumping through your veins; you know you messed up somehow tonight, but you’re becoming too exhausted to really care about it.

Namjoon is the first to speak. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Tired.”

“I’ll go set up the bed.” He starts to stand, but you grab his wrist before he can get very far. He pauses midway, glancing back at you. “You alright?”

“I’ll take the sofa.”

He raises a brow as if the mere idea of you sleeping on the sofa is ludicrous. “Don’t be an idiot.” He shakes his hand out of your grip. “Stay here and drink your water. I’ll be back in five.”

“Namjoon, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” And then he disappears around the corner, leaving you in the living room all on your own.

You take this moment of alone-time to wander the place that used to be yours. With your pint of water in hand, you slowly walk around the living room, glancing at old pictures and smiling at old memories - all of which he has kept, and not just placed subtly around the room; they’re at the forefront. To the untrained eye, it would look like you never even left in the first place.

Again, it bothers you that he can sit in here so casually. Back at your place, all pictures of you and Namjoon have been shut tightly in cardboard boxes and shoved into the roof space - not out of spite, but because seeing them everyday and remembering a time better than your own would be a form of torture.

You care too much. Maybe Namjoon doesn’t.

You trail a hand along the outside of a white picture frame, the inside containing a photo of the two of you backstage at the Grammys. This was the very day Namjoon and the boys won their first Grammy award; in the picture, Namjoon is sweaty with his shirt unbuttoned just a bit, and you look glamorous and happy with your arm around his waist and the biggest smile on your face, tears continuously flowing down your cheeks even as the picture is being taken.

“I can take them down if you want.”

You jump, spinning around just as Namjoon steps out from the darkness of the hallway.

“If you don’t want to look at them, I mean,” he clarifies upon seeing your puzzled expression.

You wave a dismissive hand. “No, it’s okay.” You turn back to the photo. “Remember this?”

“How could I forget? It was one of the best nights of my life.”

“I know. Though I’m surprised you remember it with the amount you and the boys drank at the after party.”

Namjoon scoffs, coming up behind you to get a better look at the photo. “I didn’t drink that much.”

“I basically had to carry you home.”

“You didn’t have to do anything.”

“So, what? You just expected me to leave you there?”

Namjoon shrugs, picking the frame up to get a better look at the picture. You watch his eyes soften, grip tightening just that little bit; you know exactly what he is seeing, because it was only seconds before that you were seeing the exact same thing. A happily married couple with not a care in the world, a love so strong and so ever-lasting that - at the time - it seemed impossible to break. You’re all smiles and hands-around-waists and dreamy gazes being sent across the room; it was such a perfect day.

You wonder how anything could have broken you both after that day.

Namjoon coughs and hastily sets the picture back down on the mantelpiece. “The beds set up for you.”

You nod, because you don’t know what else to do; do you thank him? Do you argue with him again? In truth, you don’t even want the bed - the idea of sleeping upon the same mattress you and Namjoon used to sleep on together is just taunting, and you would much rather sleep on the sofa anyway.

But Namjoon doesn’t seem to be taking that as a suggestion. He wades across the room and throws himself down onto the sofa, placing one hand behind his head and closing his eyes, even as you stand over him, waiting for the conversation to move onto something you both know needs to be discussed.

Upon hearing no signs of you leaving the room, Namjoon cracks open an eye and looks up at you. “You alright?”

“You ask that an awful lot.”

“Yeah, well, it’s polite.”

You glare. “I’m fine. Just. . . Are you sure you don’t want the bed?”

He closes his eyes in response.

You groan loud enough for him to hear. He simply smirks - the bastard - and that is enough to have you cracking. You throw a pillow at him before marching upstairs and into the master bedroom - the master bedroom which still looks the exact same as when you last stood within it. The double bed with the checkered quilt cover, the bedside table with the broken lamp, the window with the curtains that are never closed, but which you now yank closed because the sun will be most excruciating tomorrow.

You throw yourself down on the bed. The scent of Namjoon explodes within your senses.

You start crying.

It might be the alcohol. It might be the memories. It might be the fact that you’re so young and already have one divorce under your belt, a divorce from the man you thought you would spend the rest of your life with, a divorce from the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. You’re in his house, and he’s downstairs on the sofa, refusing to let you sleep in such an uncomfortable space; why would you not want to spend the rest of your life with someone like that?

You pull your shirt off over your head, kick your jeans off and slip under the covers without replacing them with anything; you’re too tired, too emotional to really care about the consequences of such an idea.

It’s not like Namjoon hasn’t seen everything anyway.

----

You are woken by the sound of rustling in the corner of the room.

It doesn’t strike you as anything odd for a moment; you’re groggy, comfortable, can already feel the beginnings of a headache fighting to the surface. At this moment in time, you would gladly let a thief rummage through the wardrobe if it meant they left you alone to sleep.

However, as human nature entails, curiosity gets the better of you. Your eyes creak open slowly, head popping up inches from the pillow just enough to see Namjoon kneeling on the floor, rummaging through the chest of drawers.

“Morning,” you say.

Namjoon looks up and smiles. His eyes drift down a little bit, but he gives no reaction to your bare chest, and you can’t think of why he would; this used to be the state he saw you in every morning, and so you make no attempts to cover up as you sit up and watch his investigation.

“What you doing?”

“Looking for clothes,” he replies. “Do you want to borrow anything for today?”

“Yes, please.” You crane your neck as if getting a better look at the drawers. “Can I steal that grey hoodie you have?”

Namjoon sends you a glare. “That’s my favourite hoodie. And it’s always massive on you - you could wear it as a dress, for crying out loud.”

You simply pout. Namjoon rolls his eyes, digs a little deeper in his pile of clothes before he pulls out the grey hoodie in question and launches it at you.

“There.”

You grin. “Thank you!” You don’t slip it on, though, instead choosing to fiddle with the familiar sleeves whilst staring at Namjoon’s morning physique for a little while longer.

Finally, he sighs and slumps back on his heels. “I really need to reorganise this entire thing.”

“When do you ever have that kind of time, Namjoon?”

“I know. I’ll just have to do it when I get home from work one day.”

You scoff. “You’re exhausted when you get home from work.” You stand, dragging the hoodie with you but still not putting it on; when Namjoon looks up, again, he barely even registers that you’re currently topless. This is a sight he has seen plenty of times. “You get yourself off to work. I’ll reorganise everything while you’re away.”

You kneel down next to him and shove his shoulder, an attempt to get him out of the way though he’s quick to catch himself, refusing to move. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” You tap your watch-less wrist. “Now get going or you’re gonna be late.”

Namjoon stares at you for a moment longer, and it makes your stomach flip; only two weeks ago this would be the moment he leans in and kisses you, tells you he loves you. Now, however, he simply bites his lip, nods his thanks and exits the master bedroom.

You’re too groggy to think too deeply into it; you’re still tired, and you’re cold, but you’ve got a task to do that will hopefully get your mind off it all. You spend the day marching around your - Namjoon’s - bedroom, finding clothes in the most random of places, subconsciously looking out for clothes that may signify somebody else has been staying the night.

But there is none, and by the time nine o clock rolls around, you have the entire house back to full organisation, and not a single one of your feelings have been shattered. You would call that a day well spent in comparison to the horrible few weeks you’ve been having recently.

You slump back on the sofa and turn the TV on, pulling your knees into the oversized hoodie you’re wearing; Namjoon used to always tell you off for this, never appreciating the way you stretched his already four-sizes-too-big hoodie. But in the same breath, he never stopped you, knowing it was a habit you had gotten into when you were younger.

Namjoon returns at quarter past nine, carrying a bag of takeout. You glance over your shoulder, give him a smile that he quickly returns as he struggles to kick the door closed behind him. You giggle, standing up to help him, though you end up doing nothing more than trailing him into the kitchen.

“I was hoping you were still here,” he says, setting the takeout bags on the counter. “I got your favourite from the Chinese.”

You peek into the bag and grin. “Sweet and sour!”

“Of course. Grab a plate, will you?”

You do just that. “How was work?”

“It was alright,” he replies, sucking a bit of honey from his finger. “Yoongi and I are working on a song, but it’s proving to be a bit of a pain, I won’t lie.”

You furrow your brows, setting the plates on the counter before leaning forward to catch Namjoon’s eye. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with the song. Yoongi knows exactly what he wants for it, but my head just. . . hasn’t been in the right place.” Your stomach drops, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice the implications of his words as he continues bustling about in search of napkins, pint glasses, knives and forks. “They always give you so much. How am I meant to dish it out if-”

“Have you been alright?”

Namjoon pauses, thumb halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

You grab his hand, taking the fork from his fingers and setting it down. “I’ve never known you to have trouble with something like that. Are you alright?”

“I - what - I mean-” He flicks a desperate gaze towards the living room, as if there is someone standing there that can help him out of this awkward situation. You don’t let it drop that easily, though, as you lean into his line of sight and raise a brow.

“Well?”

He deflates. “We just got divorced, Y/N. No, I haven’t been alright.”

And even though you knew - even hoped - that was the answer, it still makes your heart crumble. You stare at him, biting your lower lip as he shrugs as if to say ah well, what can you do? and turns back to dishing out the food. He starts humming to himself, dropping the subject as quick as it was brought up.

But you’re not that easy; even after he hands you your meal and leads you back into the living room, his words play on a continuous loop in your head. You flick glances at him, spirits lifting every time you see him laugh at something on the TV, dropping again when you remember what he’s just told you.

It’s so weird that only a few days ago the two of you were screaming bloody murder at each other. It’s so weird that only a few weeks ago you were scribbling your signature down on a set of divorce papers. It’s so weird that only a few weeks ago, you were convinced you had fallen out of love with him.

But god, how can that be true when the mention of his hardships make you feel this way, like they’re your own, like you should be the one comforting him when he gets home from work?

After dinner has been eaten, you offer to wash the dishes. Namjoon gives you a look as if to say are you crazy? and doesn’t even reply before he’s taking your plate from your lap and heading into the kitchen on his own. You clasp your hands in front of you, watching him leave, your stomach turning with the uncertainty of this entire thing - you want him to feel the same way. With everything in you, you want him to feel the same regret you currently feel at the signing of those papers.

But what are the chances?

You close your eyes, slump back on the sofa and wait for him to return. You used to talk to Namjoon about everything. He knows every single one of your deep, dark secrets - it won’t be difficult to just ask him how he’s feeling. Hell, that used to be something you did all the time, on a daily-

Your phone rings.

You jump, grabbing it and looking at the caller ID. Scribbled across the top of your phone is the name ‘ANTHONY.’

“Him?”

Your head snaps up. Standing above you is Namjoon, a prawn cracker in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“What the fuck is he ringing you for?”

You quickly click cancel, shoving your phone back on the coffee table. “He’s probably just ringing to make sure I got home alright. Are there any more prawn crackers?”

Namjoon grunts, throwing the bag of prawn crackers onto your stomach before taking a seat on the sofa - the sofa opposite you, whereas once before he was quite content sitting right beside you.

You stare at him, open mouthed. “Are you being serious?”

He doesn’t look away from the TV. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you huffing?”

“Huffing? What would I be-”

“Namjoon, I don’t like Anthony like that. Hell, I barely like him as a friend. You know that!”

Namjoon furrows his brows, taking a furious bite of his prawn cracker. “How am I meant to know that when you were talking about fucking him yesterday?”

You freeze. “Oh, Namjoon…”

Namjoon scoffs, head snapping round. “Yeah, I remember. You two were getting pretty fucking cosy last night.”

“I was drunk!”

“I don’t care!”

“Well clearly you do if you’re getting this worked up about it-”

“I’m not worked up.”

“Oh, really? How red your face is getting begs to fucking differ.”

Namjoon stands. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh, so you want the bed tonight, yeah? Shall I take the sofa?”

“Do you want to change the storage room into a guest bedroom so you can invite Anthony over, too?”

“I don’t even-”

You pause, having just realised what has just been said - neither of you acknowledged the fact that you could easily just go back to your own home if you didn’t want to sleep in the same house as Namjoon. Neither of you wanted to admit the fact that this house is no longer yours, that you can leave of your own free will if you so choose.

Namjoon purses his lips and looks away. “Or you could go back - go back to your house…”

“Do you want me to go back to my house?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?”

A pause, and then, “Not really.”

You close your eyes. “Namjoon, what are we doing?”

He falls onto the sofa next to you, dipping his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It’s been driving me mental, though.”

“Me too.”

You sit in silence for a few minutes, neither of you sure where to go from here; it’s been two weeks of constant pain and heartbreak, two weeks that could have been avoided if you’d just done this - sat and talked about it all before things got worse.

“What is going on between you and Anthony?”

You groan. “You know full well I wouldn’t touch Anthony with an eight foot pole.”

“So why did you say-”

“I was trying to make you jealous, Namjoon,” you burst. “It’s not my fault you have every single girl’s eyes on you when you walk anywhere. If you wanted to move on from me, you could have easily done so - I took the first bit of attention I was getting and jumped on it.”

Namjoon pauses. “Right, but if I could have moved on from you so easily, why haven’t I?”

“Because you’re sweet and-”

“Because I love you.”

You grit your teeth, digging your nails into the sofa cushion; you’re going to cry. You can feel the tears rushing to the surface, either from relief or terror that this is just another step in the wrong direction. You didn’t get a divorce for no reason - back then, it was the right decision to make, so what could have possibly changed now?

“Namjoon, please don’t say that.”

His shoulders slump forward. “Okay.”

And maybe it’s how deflated he sounds, how tired he sounds that makes you do it. Maybe it’s the fact that - only minutes before - you were coming to terms with the fact that you still love him just as much as you loved him when you were in the honeymoon phase, just as much as you have always loved him.

But you turn so quickly, grab his chin and kiss him, because you’re certain you’re going to explode if you don’t. He grunts against your mouth, eyes widening for only a split second before he’s shifting in his seat and wrapping an arm around your waist, cupping your face with the other in that way he always used to. You could bask in it, could literally live in this state if only it was him, always, always him.

You pull away first, tears slipping from your eyes. Namjoon rubs his thumb along your cheekbone, ridding you of them with a soft expression on his face that makes you want to melt into him all over again. Instead you choke on a smile, shaking your head in disbelief that this is really happening, that you were both so stupid to think you could live without the other.

“What are we doing?” he whispers, not once taking his eyes off you.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “But I’ve never known what you and I are doing. Ever. For eight years straight.”

He smiles. “Me neither, to be honest. And it was perfect.”

You bite your lip, your gaze being enough to form the silent question between the two of you; is this it? Is it over? Is the pain and suffering finally through?

Namjoon answers the question by kissing your lips, and you laugh against his mouth.

----

“Kim Namjoon and ex-wife Y/N L/N caught walking hand-in-hand through the streets of Seoul early this morning! Are the love birds finally back together?”

Taehyung looks up from the newspaper, examining the scene of you sitting in Namjoon’s lap, him messing idly with the necklace around your neck. Taehyung looks back down and says, “I think so.”

“You know I’m gonna take the piss out of you both for this for the rest of my life,” Seokjin says, biting into some seaweed strips. “A two week divorce. Almost as bad as a two week marriage.”

“We won’t acknowledge the divorce,” says Yoongi. “Look at them - it’s like they were never apart in the first place.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, tilting his head back. You resist the urge to press your lips to the column of his throat, even though you know full well that’s exactly what he wants you to do. “Look, we’re young. We’re still figuring this shit out.”

“Have you got it all figured out now?” Hoseok asks. “Because I don’t think I can take much more of your brooding, Namjoon. It was like you’d lost a limb.”

You chuckle, sitting up so you can look into Namjoon’s eyes. He stares right back at you, not even trying to deny what Hoseok has just said. You press your lips to his cheek, uttering a quiet “Aw,” against the skin.

He tightens his hold on your waist. “I already told you I missed you.”

“But like you’ve lost a limb?”

Namjoon scowls. “Shut up.”

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