#some of you are strangers who I see on the bus every day but never speak to | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whataperfectwasteoftime · 11 months

Text

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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idyllcy · 8 months

Text

shoujo moments in my life with the robins

word count: 870

summary: anything is romanticizeable if you're delusional enough /j

𓅫. your crush cooking for you when you're sick - Jason Todd

Your head is splitting apart, and you think you're going to die. Sure, this happens every year thanks to your shitty immune system, but it's also NOT a fun experience. You might lose your life at this rate (you're being dramatic. you know.) but it does feel terrible. The door to your room creaks open slightly, and you manage to groan as a greeting. "You good? Heard you were sick." Jason speaks up, blinking at you owlishly. "Feel terrible." You mumble back. "Want anything?" "Sleep." You knock out immediately after. Jason, sweetheart Jason, sweet 11-year-old Jason, walks down the stairs at Wayne Manor and heads to the kitchen, asking Alfred for some fruit and tomatoes, cuts them up for you, sprinkling sugar on the tomatoes for you. Alfred looks, eyes fond as Jason takes the plate upstairs. You hear the door open again, voice scratchy as it comes out of your throat. "Who is it?" "I brought you fruit." "Leave it on the table, please." You mumble. "Thank you." "Of course." When you feel better a couple hours later, you bring it downstairs to share with Jason, a smile on your face, flush on your cheeks, warm with appreciation for the boy, all while Jason checks your temperature to make sure you're fine.

𓅫. a summer fling with a boy you'll never see again - Tim Drake

The summer sun burns into your skin while the breeze sends chills down your spine as you walk down from your cabin to the main tent. Your roommate reminds you of which team the two of you are on, and it's really unassuming. The camp is normal until it's not. It's normal until your fingers are brushing Tim's as your cramming to get the stupid car working, and it's normal until Tim has his hand on your shoulder, anxiety all over his face at the thought of not winning. It's normal until Tim steps next to you every chance he gets, his bias for you showing clearly in your group. You barely know him. Until a day ago, he was just some stranger to you. Then, he's one of the closest to you in the group. He's cheering for you when you're dying on the climb up, and he's next to you on the bus ride back. He's next to you when you're decoding a puzzle, and he's next to you at every chance he gets. But you'll never see him again. Even when the two of you are talking about the rest of summer's plans, you know you'll never see him again. He's too far away. But you cherish the last moments with him, tilting your head to bully him for not learning your name, knowing well that Tim does know your name. He called you on the second day, eyes digging into yours, something spiking through your chest. a mutual i like you hangs in the air, but that's the end of your story. You never get his number.

𓅫. getting your shoelaces tied by a boy in your class - Dick Grayson

You're young, eyes big and frustrated, and you've just made the change to actual laces instead of velcro. You're part of the cool kids club now— except you aren't. You have no idea how to tie your shoelaces. You step out of the girls bathroom, looking around for your bathroom buddy, noticing your laces have come untied. Dick tilts his head at you as you wince at your untied laces, and he drops down to reach for your laces. "What are you doing?!" "Tying your laces." Dick smiles up at you. "You can just teach me..." You trail off, frowning. "Yes, but we're in the middle of an activity in class right now, so we're in a hurry. Have madame send me with you next time and I can teach you." He smiles at you as he stands up. "Come on." True to his word, the next time the two of you leave for the bathroom, he sits you on one of the benches only the older kids were allowed to sit on and shows you how to tie your laces, grinning at you, missing a front tooth, waiting as you tie your laces over and over again, all the way until you could do it without questioning your ability. "thank... you." You mumble, cheeks red with embarrassment. "Of course." He grins.

𓅫. an ex-crush who liked you the most amongst the class - Damian Wayne

You're at a class reunion— or, something along the lines of that. You were called by a friend to take a photo together as a group, and you dragged another friend along, another old classmate of the same class, and the two of you wait in the lobby of the cafeteria. You hope you don't need to talk to Damian, your middle school crush on him was embarrassing enough on its own. Then, your friend arrives, and you rush over, missing the way Damian steps through the glass doors too. Your other friend follows behind you as you greet him, and in that moment, Damian walks past you, green eyes digging into yours, before he steps next to you, speaking to your friend too, light conversation before he turns his attention to you, tilting his head. "Heard you're going to the same college as me." "A-ah? yeah." You smile awkwardly, feeling the nerves from middle school crawl up your back again. You curse yourself for never getting the closure you needed. "What's your major?" You tilt your head. "Didn't I tell you?" "Did you? I must've forgot." He hums. "my apologies." Your major slips past your lips, and his does too, and your friend on the side perks up, mentioning that she was studying the same major as him. You tilt your head to look back a her before Damian ignores what she's said, going back to you— and your heart races, being favored so obviously in front of everyone else. and before you leave, he catches you, smile on his face, away from the rest of the class. "I'll see you in college?" "Y-yeah!" You smile. "See you then."

𓅫. putting on makeup for you - Steph Brown

"Stay still." Steph mumbles, hand on your face, tilting it so that she could get a better angle. You hold your breath as she does, closing your eyes as she brushes the eyeliner on. Your heart races in your chest as she pulls back, staring at both of your eyes, puffing out her cheeks. "Steph? You good?" "You look good. Too good. I need to jump you good." You bark out a laugh, throwing your head back as you laugh. "Alright. Lipstick next." Steph grins. "pucker up babes." "You want a kiss while we're at it?" You wiggle your brows. "Oh? I sure do." Steph winks, pressing the lipstick to your lips as she does, and she pulls back when she finishes. "There. Now your prom look is finished." "Do I look like I could pull?" "I'd fuck you right now." "I'M BEING VIOLATEDDDD!!!" You fake a shriek. Steph tilts her head as she looks at you, and she grins. You look really good.

i ran out of brain juice in the end sorry lol

#DUKE STANS I AM GETTING THERE I AM TRYING IM READING HIS STUFF I PROMISE #maybe the next post like this #also surprise steph girlies #stephanie brown x reader #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #guys guys guys please reblog n comment? please? kisses for u? pls?#tim drake x reader

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kayleighjennifer · 1 year

Text

Caught (Alexia Putellas x reader)

⚠️smut implied⚠️

Today was the day, you’re travelling to Australia for the second World cup match. Everyone was pumping and excited. Music was blasting through the bus while you sat in the back, chatting with your girlfriend. Alexia was, of course, sad that she’d miss playing internationally again but being able to watch you play lifted her mood.

“Aww what are you smiling at?” Katie McCabe, your twin sister asks you as she slides next to you. The girls didn’t know about your relationship. Even thought Alexia was the reason for your transfer from Arsenal, leaving your friends and twin sister behind, you decided to keep it private.

Some were guessing that you’re in a relationship but you shrugged everyone off. You feel bad lying to your family but you know how they’d react. Katie didn’t exactly dislike Alexia, but the fact how good the balon d’or winner is, made Katie jealous.

You put your phone away and just shrug. “Just saw a meme about Rue and you, you know”. Katie and you were completely opposites. You were a ray of sunshine, nice to everyone, never loosing your temper and only having clean tackles somehow. Katie on the other hand could seem a wee bit arrogant to strangers and of course short tempered.

“Are you sure, or are you chatting with the girl you laid a few days ago”. Katie smirks as she watch you blush. “Uh what?” It was no secret that you were sleeping with someone, your neck was often decorated with hickeys and you’d sweat the concealer off during training but you thought you did a pretty decent job.

“Don’t act all innocent now. You weren’t exactly quiet and she definitely left some marks. Not gonna lie, I always thought you’d be a top but you know those bruises on your legs and hips say something different”. By now you were nearly red like a tomato. “I’m sorry”.

Besides both of you, Katie was the outgoing and confident one and you the quiet one, often watching from far and only being loud around people you feel comfortable with. “Don’t say sorry, you deserve some fun, but try not to get HIV or something with how many people you sleep with”. Katie’s comment make you choke out.

She finally leaves you alone and you quickly tell your girlfriend about the situation, who seems very amused about the situation. You play some music to focus on the important game but one message from La Reina leaves you completely aroused and flustered. “Katie will have some more marks to talk about tomorrow. She’ll see how you let me do everything to do and how much of a dirty slut you are for me<3”

Ruesha sees the way you’re looking at your phone and nudges Katie. “Look at the way your little baby twin looks at her phone. She’s definitely sexting with someone”. Katie looks over to you and sees your grin. “Yep, we gotta find out with whom. She still thinks that we think, that she’s just sleeping around. Do you think it’s someone from Barcelona?” Ruesha looks at Katie and nods.

“Probably, but we’ll find out soon. I have a plan”

When you finally step out onto the pitch, you don’t feel nervous. You feel ready to win the first match and haven’t been more motivated in your whole life before. It might be because of the love of your life who’s watching you from the family stands. You wanted to make not only her proud, but also yourself.

You start warming up with the others, enjoying the weather and the phenomenal atmosphere. You’ve never played in front of that many people internationally. During water break, you search for Alexia’s hazel eyes. The world seems to stay still when you lock eyes with her. You don’t notice how Katie and Rue exchange knowing looks, but are not able to find the person, who’s making your heart jump every time you feel her presence.

“Attention, you’re drooling”. Rue smirks next to you, making you blush. “shut up, I’m not”.

You make your way into the locker room, starting to get a bit nervous. Katie hugs you and tries to calm you down. After prep talk and changing into the right tricot you’re standing in the tunnel.

You try to loosen up a little bit and secure your ponytail for the thousand time. “We’ll smash it”. Katie smirks.

The first 20 minutes were intense. Hard tackles from both sides and no goals. You feel everyone getting frustrated but you somehow remind calm.

It was in the 34th minutes when Katie beautifully passes you the ball and you’re one vs one with the Australian goalkeeper. You were sure that you would get the ball in, but the goalkeeper had other plans, sliding into your left ankle.

She lands on top of you, knocking the wind out of your body. Thankfully nothing serious happened, besides Ireland getting a penalty. In your past year with Barcelona you’ve become one of the best penalty takers so you took the one as well.

You feel all eyes on you but only focus on the ball and the goal. You lock eyes with the goalkeeper, breath in and out and shoot the ball into the right corner. The Australian goalkeeper doesn’t have a single chance against your shot.

Your teammates storm to you, tightly hugging you. You wink at Alexia and use your tricot to swipe away the sweat, teasing her a little bit.

Much to your dismay, there are many goal chances for your side but no one wants to get in.

It’s half time break, which is spent by prep and tactical talks in the changing rooms and a little bit of joking. Ireland has the most ball possession which makes you feel secure.

The second half isn’t any different, your goal being the only one this game. You feel incredibly proud, being able to represent your country like this. All the self doubt from the last years suddenly vanishing, all the pain feeling worth it. You party a bit with the girls, thanking the fans for travelling all the way to Australia and doing a quickly post match interview.

You can’t wait to see your girlfriend. You haven’t been able to have sex with Alexia for two days, wanting to be 100% fit for the game. Sex with Alexia was intense and always leaves you trembling.

Just as you were walking into the changing room, your media manager stops you and lets you know, that you have to attend the press conference in twenty minutes. You groan in annoyance but don’t have any chance to say no.

“Gotta attend the press conference, you don’t have to wait for me. I’ll take the bus back to the hotel”. Alexia and you have planned to drive back to the hotel together and celebrate. “No worries, I’ll wait for you cariño. You did amazing, but the next time don’t tease that much;)”. Her message makes you blush. This was your first real relationship, so you mainly let Alexia take the lead and never tease but in the past weeks you’ve become even more comfortable and sassy. “Huh? What are you on about? But I hope you enjoyed the game”

By now all the other girls are in the changing room but you don’t seem to notice them, being completely concentrated on the conversation with the spanish midfielder. “I really did cariño. Can’t wait to show you how much. You will arrive before me, I want you waiting in the baby blue lace set in the bed. You deserve to be celebrated”. You feel all wobbly and happy.

Katie of course sees it and snatches your phone away from you. “Katie! What are you doing? Give me my phone back” You quickly panick and Katie smirks, reading the messages you exchanged. Thankfully Alexia has the sunset with you kissing as her profile picture so you’re not able to see the face. “Oho, Y/N is getting laid guys, in her baby blue lace bra by someone who’s called Corazón. Wait is that even a name?” You blush and hide your face in your hands.

“Corazón means heart in Spanish”. Olivia laughs and Emma just shakes her hand and takes your phone from Katie’s hand and gives it back to you. You quietly thank her and pack your things, escaping to the press conference. “We can just cuddle up and watch some criminal minds if you’re not in the mood” Alexa grows worried that you haven’t answered her yet.

“I’m sorry, Katie snatched my phone and read the messages out loud. Thankfully no one saw that it was you, but it was so embarrassing. I’m up for both<3” You answer her during the press conference, happily smiling.

“I’m sorry for embarrassing you in front of your teammates cariño, it wasn’t my intention” Your smile grows wider and you quickly answer. “It’s not your fault. It’s only your fault that I’m very turned on by now and still gotta answer stupid questions instead of being under you”. A reporter’s voice gets your attention. “Why are you smiling at your phone? Is there someone special in your life at the moment?”. These kinds of questions were your least favourite and the others usually knows it.

“My country just won with my goal, so I guess I can smile without having to have a relationship”. You answer shortly and take big sips of your water. Your phone lights up with one of alexia’s texts. “You look so hot when you’re annoyed love”. You bite your lip to contain your smile.

After long 30 minutes, you’re finally free to go and see Alexia in the parking lot. You hug each other for a solid moment, just enjoying each others presence. “You did so great amore”. Alexia says with the heavy accent you love.

You snuggle up to her and smile adoringly at her. “Thank you, did it just for you”. Alexia gives you a kiss into your nose making you giggle. “Oh yeah? Well then get inside so that we can celebrate properly”. You nod and make your way inside the car.

You spend the drive to the hotel talking about the game and the teasing from your teammates. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel. I need to pick something up. And remember what I’ve told you.” Alexia reminds you and you nod, giving her along goodbye kiss.

You were very excited as you make your way upstairs, getting inside your hotel room where you quickly take a shower and change into the lingerie set, Alexia loves so much. You slightly curl your hair and put on some natural makeup.

You were lost in your thoughts about what might happen, so that you don’t notice Alexia arriving. Only when she leaves light kisses on your neck. “God, you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Just for me”. You nod at her, moaning quietly.

You loved the way Alexia made you feel and you love it even more to show it. “I have a present for you. Close your eyes cariño” She says lovingly and you do as you’re told. You feel something cold hit your neck and her hands are lingering on your neck. She turns you around so that you’re facing her. You feel the weight of a necklace on your neck and Alexia presses a kiss on, what you guess, the pendant. “Can I open my eyes” You ask excited, making Alexia laugh.

“Mhm, look at you beautiful”. You blush and turn to the mirror. “Wow, Alexia it’s so beautiful. Thank you so much”. It’s a golden necklace, with a heart pendant. It’s decorated with tiny diamonds and if you look closely, you see that there’s ‘Alexia+Y/N’ engraved. “Open it”.

The Spaniard looks at you excited and you open it. There is the first picture of you two ever took with Nala and on the other side it’s the day and time engraved where you got together.

You feel a tear leaving your face but you don’t care at all. “It’s so pretty. Thank you honestly so much. I have never seen something this beautiful before.” Alexia smiles happily and hugs you from behind.

“Glad that you like it amore”. Alexia suddenly starts to suck on your favourite spot under your ear, definitely leaving a hickey.

You cling onto Alexia’s arms, her action sending shivers down your body. “Mhm, you like it?” You feel the smirk and just nod.

Alexia continues the assault on your body, leaving marks everywhere and telling you every time how pretty you are. You’ve moved to the bed and Alexia lost her clothes on the way to the bed too.

“Alexia please”. You look at her with your puppy eyes, sounding very needy. “What? Should I touch your drenched pussy?” She knows the answer but still wants to hear it from you. “Yes please.” You shakily breathe out. “Your wish is my command”.

With out anymore teasing, Alexia works on your clit, making you a moaning mess. You’re nearly reaching your climax when there’s suddenly a knock on the door. “How’s that?” Alexia asks annoyed and you just shrug, pushing Alexia back onto you.

“I don’t care, the person can come back later”. You start to make out with Alexia again and she starts fingering you. The both of you are so lost in your own world that you don’t notice your sister unlocking the door with the spare keycard you gave her.

“Are you fucking serious Y/N?”. Alexia and you quickly part away as you look at your sister in shook and ashamed that she caught you fucking your Barcelona captain.

“Omg Katie! Have you ever heard something about privacy?” You quickly give Alexia one of your over sized hoodies and put one on yourself.

“You weren’t answering the door but for real Y/N, you and la reina?” You stand next to Alexia, trying to comfort her, or yourself. “Yes and I love her so just shut up alright?” Your voice sounds annoyed.

“For how long?” She asks and this time Alexia answers. “two years. I’m sorry that we never told you but we never found the right time”. You nod in agreement.

“So you’re not just fucking my sister. You’re loving her back right?” Alexia quickly nods. “I love her more than I’ve loved anyone else”. You blush and look down at Alexia.

“Well, I’ll let it go this time because you look good in an Ireland hoodie. But I don’t want to see you guys fuck ever again, alright?” Both of you quickly nod.

#woso imagine #woso one shot #woso x reader #woso imagines #woso smut #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas

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corroded-hellfire · 1 year

Note

Hello! I'm absolutely in love with your work and I'm always just so friggin' happy whenever a new one gets published.

If it's alright with you, I'd like to request an Eddie x Reader inspired by the song "Centerfold" by The J. Geils Band. The song's been stuck in my mind for days now and I just can't help hearing the song from Eddie's point of view.

Hope you're doing great!

I love this song so this was so fun to write! Thank you for your kind words and for requesting!

Warnings: smut, p in v, mention of unprotected sex, language, I think that’s it?

Words: 6.9k

Eddie had been on the road for months now. The roar of the crowd every night filled his veins with adrenaline and his heart with contentment. But once the buzz faded and the lights went off, Eddie would find himself in his bunk on the tour bus, trying to catch some much-needed sleep as the driver took them to their next tour stop. The gentle rock of the large bus back and forth on the road usually lulled Eddie to sleep eventually, but tonight, he seemed to feel every little bump and pothole on the interstate.

“Holy shit.”

Gareth is always making a big deal out of the stupidest shit, so Eddie didn’t bother pulling open the small curtain to his bunk and looking up at the bed above him. He was honestly surprised that Gareth wasn’t asleep yet, because he was well known to be the one who passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

“Dude.”

Still, Eddie doesn’t answer.

“Eddie? You awake?”

The lead guitarist rolls his eyes and pushes the short curtain open.

“What?”

Gareth peeks his head over the edge of the bunk, not meeting Eddie’s eyes. Uncomfortable is an odd look on Gareth, as he’s usually unfazed by anything and everything. That alone has Eddie intrigued.

“Dude, what?” Eddie asks again.

“Shit, I don’t know if I should tell you,” Gareth says.

“You shouted for me multiple times while I’m trying to sleep. You better damn well tell me.”

His friend’s head disappears back into the bunk and Eddie lets out a longsuffering sigh. There’s rustling coming from above him and instead of Gareth popping back into view like he expects, something falls down and smacks Eddie square in the face.

“What the fuck?” Eddie grumbles, glaring up at the higher bunk. There’s no response though, which has Eddie huffing again in anger before he looks down at what hit him. It’s a copy of XXXTRA, the popular adult magazine, that Eddie is no stranger to. Gareth’s never shared porn with him before, and if he was being honest, Eddie found it a little weird. Especially since he’d be up there in his bunk with it. As if his friend can read his mind, Gareth calls down.

“I just opened it, Jesus Christ. Turn to the centerfold.”

With a sigh, Eddie swipes the magazine from the floor and lays back in his bed. Making himself comfortable, he flips through the pages until he comes to the very middle of the magazine. When he does, Eddie’s heart seizes in his chest, and he feels his blood run cold. The black negligee is short and skimpy, the lace neckline – if it could be called that – dipped low between the breasts, keeping a small portion of the swell of her chest covered. Or it would be if the whole negligee wasn’t completely sheer, showing off her impressive natural breasts. It’s a sexy piece of lingerie on its own, but the woman wearing it is far sexier. She was also Eddie’s high school sweetheart.

“Holy shit,” Eddie echoes Gareth’s words from earlier.

“Right?” Gareth says from above him, and Eddie raises his leg to kick the bottom of his bandmate’s bunk.

“Not another word,” Eddie snaps. His eyes scan over your body on the glossy print again, an odd mixture of confused and aroused. The fact that Gareth saw this – saw you like this – has Eddie gripping the edges of the magazine tighter in his hands. But then it occurs to him: everyone who bought this magazine would see you like this. See you in the provocative position you’re sitting in, leaning in towards the camera, black lace laying against your soft skin. At least Eddie knew from experience that your skin was soft. Not everyone who holds the magazine could say that.

He drops the magazine down on his chest and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. It’s been almost a decade since Eddie’s seen you, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you from time to time. Even when he’s laying alone in a hotel room, fist wrapped around his cock, remembering all the times and places you two fooled around back in high school. The breakup was mutual and heartbreaking, but unavoidable as you went off to college and Corroded Coffin set off to make their dreams come true. None of it changed the fact that there was a special place held in Eddie’s heart just for you.

Mrs. O’Donnell drones on and on, sounding like the teachers from Charlie Brown the more she speaks. Eddie does his best to listen – he really does, but it’s so hard when the words are all blending together into one cacophonous sound. It’s the crone’s own fault, really, when his mind drifts far from the subject of World War II and onto the dress you’re wearing today. A cute green floral sundress, long enough to keep Eddie from going all alpha male jealous, but still short enough to keep his eyes glued to the backs of your thighs as you walked. The cotton was so soft as he rubbed his hands over your waist and hips this morning, pulling your body against his just because he never wanted to let you go. All of your curves were accentuated perfectly, and the color brought out your eyes so much that Eddie was pretty sure this was his favorite outfit of yours ever. Well, favorite outfit that you could wear in public.

A tap against his knee catches Eddie’s attention and he notices your hand underneath his desk, a slip of paper between your fingers. He slips the note from your grip, squeezing your hand before he reluctantly lets go of it. Your stifled giggle brings a smile to his face as he unfolds your note.

What’re you thinking about? Your face is especially cute

Eddie does a double take to make sure O’Donnell isn’t looking his way before grabbing his pencil and scribbling down a reply. He drops the note on your desk, poking you in the side to make you squirm before containing himself back in his own seat.

Funny you should ask! I was thinking about you and that sexy little dress. So if you see my fly straining over my crotch, you know why

Eddie watches your face go scarlet as you read the letter, quickly crumbling the paper up and shoving it in your backpack so no one else can see what it says. Mrs. O’Donnell was notorious for making people read notes they’ve passed out loud and you’d be damned if you were going to have to speak Eddie’s words out loud to the whole class.

Lucky for you, the bell rings so there’s no time for your teacher to catch your note passing. Eddie takes your hand in his as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

“Your house?” Eddie asks as the two of you walk down the hallway towards the school exit.

“Yeah. Unless you’re too eager and need to take me in the back of your van?” You shoot a smirk at your boyfriend, and he bites his lip to suppress a moan.

“Fuck, don’t tempt me.” He slings an arm over your shoulders and presses a kiss to the side of your head.

The whole ride to your place, Eddie keeps his hand on your thigh, inching it higher every few minutes, and telling you all the things he wants to do to you once you get there. He does it partially because it turns him on, but mostly because he loves seeing you get all flushed and shy. The two of you may have been together for over three years now, but he could still turn you into a blushing, stuttering mess.

As you try to unlock your front door, Eddie’s hands are moving up and down your body and he’s pressing kisses to the back of your neck.

“Eddie!” You let out a squeal as he digs his fingers into the softness of your tummy.

“Can’t help it,” Eddie mumbles into your hair. “You’re just so cute, angel.”

No sooner than you’ve stepped in the house does Eddie have you pinned up against the closed door. His lips are on yours and his hands are pushing your dress up your hips. The moan that leaves your lips is involuntary as your arms loop around his neck.

Eddie’s large hand cups the back of your thigh and hoists your leg around his hip. His lips break from yours and he trails his mouth down to your jaw, teeth scraping against your skin.

“M-My room,” you say.

“Too far,” Eddie speaks against your skin. “Need you here.”

“Against the front door?” you ask with a breathy laugh.

“Guess we could make the few steps to the couch.”

At Eddie’s pat on your ass, you jump up and wrap your other leg around his hips. Hands braced on your ass and teeth nipping at your neck, Eddie takes you over to the couch on the other side of the room. You land on your back, legs tightening around him, so he falls down on top of you.

You’re pushing Eddie’s leather jacket off his shoulders as he grinds his hips into yours, the friction over your thin cotton panties making your eyes roll back in your head. Eddie’s quick to strip himself of his shirt and his fingers tangle in the material of your dress as he struggles to get it over your head.

“Eddie!” You giggle as you help him shuck it off. “So impatient, baby.”

“Can’t help it,” Eddie says, mouthing at the lace cups of your bra. “You’re too perfect. Drive me crazy.”

Reaching behind you, you unclasp your bra and slip it down your arms, allowing Eddie to bite at the cup and throw it from your body like a dog letting go of a bone. His mouth comes right back to your breast, tongue lapping over your nipple before wrapping his lips around it, his hand coming up to massage your other breast. Your fingers tangle in your boyfriend’s hair and your hips buck up against his, making him moan around your nipple. The vibrations send a tingle up your spine and cause you to whimper.

“Eddie,” you whine. “Need you.”

With a pop, Eddie lets go of your nipple and presses kisses along the valley between your breasts.

“Need me how, angel?” he asks.

“Inside me. Please.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Eddie says, already shimmying his jeans down his hips. He’s already slipped the condom from his pocket and tossed it onto your tummy. You work on opening the foil packet as Eddie frees the both of you from your underwear.

Eddie reaches down and runs his fingers through your folds, collecting your slick before moving back up to your clit. He rubs tight circles over the sensitive nub, making your hands stall over the condom.

“Fuck,” you let out in a breathy moan, Eddie smirking in satisfaction as he presses sweet kisses up your shoulder and across your collarbones.

“Such language, baby,” he teases.

“You’re one to talk,” you say with a laugh. Reaching down and wrapping your hand around his cock shuts him up. Eddie squeezes his eyes closed as you work the condom down his length, making sure to touch him as much as possible as you do. He twitches in your hand as you give him one final squeeze before moving your hand away. “Excited, handsome?”

“For my favorite pussy? Hell yes.”

You can’t help but laugh at his words, hands running up his chest.

“Only pussy you’ve ever had, Eds.”

“I don’t need any other to know this is my favorite,” Eddie says between hot wet kisses against your neck. “You’re saying you’d need another dick to know mine is your favorite?” He takes a hold of himself in his hand, rubbing his aching tip through your soaked folds.

“N-Never,” you moan. “Only dick I’ve ever had, only one I ever want.”

“Good,” Eddie says as he starts to push inside of you. “I love being your one and only.” Your fingernails dig into Eddie’s shoulders as he thrusts more of himself into you. The way he stretches you out always feels perfect, every single time. “Only cock you’ve ever had.” He places a kiss to your lips. “Only boyfriend you’ve ever had.” Another kiss. “Only kiss you’ve ever had.” Another kiss.

“You just love corrupting me, don’t you?” you ask in between heavy breaths. Eddie’s hips buck at your question, and you think you’ve got your answer.

“Shit,” Eddie says as he buries himself in you fully. “Swear you get tighter every time.”

“Maybe you just get bigger,” you say with a playful smirk.

“Gonna give me a big head, baby.”

Eddie already knows he’s not going to be able to last terribly long, having been aching for you all day. It’s your fault, really, how much you turn him on just walking down the halls or tapping the eraser of your pencil against your perfectly glossed lips.

He slips two fingers into your mouth and presses down on your tongue, causing you to moan at his forcefulness. His hips keep a steady pace as you swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking on them just enough to make his hips stutter. Your mouth let's go with a wet smack and Eddie lowers his spit-coated fingers to your clit, working against your nub in the way he knew drove you absolutely wild.

Lips parting and eyes closing in pleasure, you lose yourself in the pressure of Eddie’s fingers and the absolute fullness of his cock nestled inside of you.

“Feel good, angel?” Eddie asks.

Unable to speak, you nod your head, nails digging in even deeper to the pale skin of Eddie’s shoulders.

“Good,” Eddie says, adding a little extra pressure to your clit. “Want you to cum on my cock, baby. Fuck, you know how much I love that.”

It’s true – Eddie’s pretty sure he could cum just from the feeling of your walls spasming around him and absolutely soaking all the way down to his balls.

“Close,” you whimper, forcing your eyes open to look at your boyfriend above you. He’s flushed, sweat forcing some of his hair to stick to his forehead, and tongue poking out of his pretty lips as he works himself in and out of you at a steady pace. The sight makes you smile, and what you don’t know is that Eddie’s admiring the view of you as well. He takes in how your forehead is creased from the pleasure you feel, tits bouncing every time he presses into you, and your hair splayed out around you like a halo, making you look like the angel you are.

“That’s it, baby,” Eddie encourages, his hips speeding up. Your back arches in pleasure as his angle changes and he pounds into that perfect spongey spot inside of you.

“There! Fuck, right there, Eddie.”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he says.

Between Eddie’s cock ramming into that spot repeatedly and his fingers dancing over your clit deliciously, you feel yourself steadily reaching your climax.

Eddie presses soft and sweet kisses up your neck and side of your face as you chant his name over and over again, the tenderness pushing you over the edge. Moaning out into the quiet house, your wave of pleasure crashes over you, sparks dancing in your vision. The clenching of your already tight walls around him has Eddie following you over the edge. His hips stutter once, twice before he’s releasing into the condom, fingers helping you through your own orgasm. Your boyfriend’s groans make the warm feeling in your tummy last even longer, thinking there could be nothing sexier in this world than the sounds Eddie makes.

Once he’s spent, having spilled every bit of cum you’ve milked from him into the condom, Eddie drops his head into the crook of your neck and lets some of his body weight rest on you. Having him on top of you like this felt almost as wonderful as having him inside of you. You feel safe and loved with Eddie’s skin pressed against yours like this. His sweat melts with yours and both of you have matching smiles on your faces as you try to catch your breaths.

“I love you,” Eddie says.

“I love you too,” you tell him. His smile grows when you brush some of his damp hair from his forehead, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm.

Reluctantly, Eddie pulls out of you, the pair of you hissing at the loss together. He rolls himself onto the floor and you giggle, turning your head to look down at your boyfriend.

“You’re the cutest,” you say.

“That title is taken by you, angel.” Eddie throws a wink your way before slipping the condom off and tying off the end. He pushes himself up off the floor and presses a kiss to your lips before going to toss the used condom away.

Stretching out on the couch, you let your muscles loosen for a moment before sitting up. Grabbing your panties from the floor, you slip back into them and scoop up your bra and dress.

“I’m gonna go change,” you call to Eddie in the kitchen before heading towards the stairs.

Eddie comes back into the living room, wiping the remaining sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He hops back into his boxers and jeans, tossing his leather jacket over an armchair before he slips his Iron Maiden shirt back over his head. You come back into the room, an old pair of Eddie’s sweatpants hung low on your hips and your softest sweater keeping you warm. Eddie drops down onto the couch and you plop down next to him. When you turn your head to smile up at him, he feels his head go fuzzy and his stomach trembles like he’s swallowed a vibrator.

“What?” you ask of the shy look on his face.

“Nothing,” he says, looking into your eyes. “I’m just really in love with you. And you have gorgeous eyes.”

You let out a giggle as you feel yourself getting flustered.

“You’re one to talk about gorgeous eyes,” you say.

He grins and slides an arm around your shoulders, melting into your touch when the soft sweater meets the skin of his arm. You tuck your hands up in the long green sleeves of the sweater and lean into his side.

“I love this sweater, too,” Eddie says. “You should wear it to school tomorrow.”

“Eddie, you would get detention before the end of homeroom.”

“Why?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“You wouldn’t keep your hands off of me,” you say with a laugh. “It seems to be a magical sweater that just draws your hands in.”

He gives an overly dramatic roll of his eyes and wraps both arms around you, hugging you and the sweater against his chest.

“That’s nothing new, though. Mr. Martin is used to it by now,” Eddie says of your homeroom teacher.

“I guess as long as your hands don’t slip under the sweater it will be okay.”

“Nah,” Eddie says with a shrug. “I’ll leave that for second period.”

Eddie can’t stop looking or thinking about your picture in the centerfold for days. Gareth knows better than to mention it, and if he told the other guys, they’re smart enough not to say anything either. Every song they play at every show reminds him of you in some way. His mind even makes leaps to connect you with songs that have nothing to do with love or heartbreak at all. You haven’t invaded his mind this consistently for nearly a decade.

The show tonight in New York City is one of the largest crowds that Corroded Coffin has had in a while and Eddie is finding it harder to care than he usually would. He lives for big crowds, but his heart hasn’t been in the music for the past few days. The rest of the band could tell, but again, wouldn’t say anything to him about it.

Eddie knows that whatever is going on with him has to do with you, but he can’t put his finger on what exactly it is that’s bothering him. It’s not the fact that you’re in the centerfold; Eddie knows you’re a grown woman and can make your own decisions. Though he is curious what led you from shy book worm to the hottest centerfold he’s ever seen. He’s a big enough man to admit that he’s a little jealous that others get to see you like he once did, but that’s not what’s really getting to him. The more he tries to figure it out, the more the reason seems to evade him.

After the sound check and before show time, Eddie walks into the green room to see Jeff lounging on the couch, his girlfriend perched on his lap.

“Hey, Kathy!” Eddie greets her with a smile. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“Neither did Jeff,” she says with a giggle.

“She surprised me,” Jeff explains, a giddy smile on his face as he squeezes his girlfriend in his arms.

Eddie takes a seat at the small table in the room, a bowl of pretzels waiting there. His thick fingers pull a few out and as he’s popping them in his mouth, he notices Jeff and Kathy with their heads together, whispering and laughing. An odd feeling rolls through Eddie’s stomach and that’s when it finally hits him. He misses you. Sure, he’s had girlfriends since you’d been together, and he’s even fallen in love since then too. And maybe when he’d been with those girls he’d thought it felt different than when he was with you, but he’d just assumed that was because you were his first love. Didn’t people say that’s something that always stays with you? But maybe it was something more than that.

“You ready?”

Gareth’s voice breaks Eddie from his thoughts, his head snapping to look at his bandmate standing in the doorway. Gareth is looking between Eddie and Jeff, raising his eyebrows at them like they forgot they had a show to put on. Jeff gives Kathy one last kiss before he and Eddie follow their friend out, headed towards the stage.

It’s a great show. Something always felt different playing in New York City and tonight was no exception. The crowd seemed louder; the music seemed to pump through Eddie’s veins with every chord. He flung his pick into the audience after the set, and the screaming girl who caught it made him laugh. Nothing like New York.

“Dude,” Grant says as Eddie’s inhaling a bottle of water back in the green room. He just raises his eyebrows at his friend while he continues chugging. “Party a few blocks over. It sounds pretty fucking amazing.”

I really don’t want to party, Eddie thinks. What the fuck, dude? He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. Since when do you not want to go to an after party? Get it the fuck together.

“Uh, sure,” Eddie says. “Just let me get changed.”

The party is in some penthouse that has way too many bodies and not nearly enough ventilation in it. Eddie walks in with his friends and Kathy, eyes scanning the place to see where he can grab a drink. There’s a bar over in the corner with a few bartenders on duty. Eddie tries to imagine any of the parties he went to in high school having an actual bartender.

He makes his way over and orders a Whiskey Highball, Gareth right behind him ordering a Jack and Coke. Once they’ve got their drinks, Gareth spots a girl that he's “just got to talk to” and leaves Eddie standing there by himself. Letting out a sigh, Eddie makes his way into the room, eyes taking in the different people drinking, talking, making out, laughing, all under the shitty dim lighting coming from somewhere; Eddie couldn’t even figure out where from.

A girl approaches him, and he flips the switch to turn on his charm. Eddie takes in her long legs, her dark skin, and mini dress she’s wearing that looks completely made up of sequins. It’s a lot, but the dim lighting is keeping the glare from hitting him in the eyes.

“You look familiar,” the girl says.

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe you’ve seen my band play.”

“Hmm, so drummer?” she asks.

“Guitarist.” Eddie acts like he’s offended, placing his hand on his chest. “You think these talented fingers are only used for holding drumsticks?”

She giggles and Eddie can’t help but notice how pretty her smile is. She’s a pretty girl in general, but her smile is her best feature.

“I’m Eddie.”

She introduces herself and his stomach drops when she introduces herself with the same first name that you have.

“T-That’s a nice name,” Eddie says, game completely thrown off at this point.

“Thanks!” She continues to talk but Eddie doesn’t hear a word she’s saying. All he’s thinking about is how to get out of this conversation because there’s no way he can deal with spending time with someone who has the same name as you. He doesn’t know why, he just knows he can’t do it.

When she finishes speaking, Eddie sends her an apologetic look.

“I’m so sorry, but I actually just saw someone that I need to talk to.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she says with her pretty smile. “Maybe I’ll see you in a little while?”

“Sure,” Eddie says. No, Eddie thinks.

He tries to find one of his friends to talk to, just in case she was watching, Eddie didn’t want her to think he was trying to ditch her. Even though he kind of was. But none of his band mates are in sight so Eddie settles for claiming an empty seat he’s spotted on a purple couch near the large windows exposing the New York Skyline, all lit up in the darkness.

There’s a woman sitting next to Eddie, and she turns to give him a smile. Her hair is even curlier than his is and he admits he finds that impressive.

“Hi,” she says, leaning into his space. Eddie’s never minded a woman coming into his personal space, though.

“Hey,” Eddie says. He leans against the back of the couch and crosses one leg over the other, the hand not holding his glass resting on his booted ankle.

“What brings you to the party?” the woman asks, batting her dark eyelashes over her bright hazel eyes.

“My friends, honestly. We finished our show and they said we had to come.”

“Show? Are you on Broadway?”

Eddie laughs at this because the mental image of him on a stage dressed like a singing cat springs to mind.

“Nah, I’m in a band. We just played a show a few blocks over,” he says.

“Are you the lead singer?” she asks with a knowing smile.

“And lead guitarist,” Eddie says, holding his drink up as if he’s going to make a toast. She laughs and Eddie can’t help himself from asking. “I’m sorry, but, what’s your name?”

“Johnna.”

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’m Eddie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Eddie.”

They start talking about being in the city, as she’s only visiting as well for an art exhibit. Eddie’s finished his drink and is moving to set it on the table in front of the couch when movement through the crowd of people catches his eye. He looks up and is stunned to his seat. His jaw drops open and he blinks his eyes a few times to make sure his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. Between two groups of people talking, standing about twenty feet away, is his angel. Eddie isn’t sure how long he’s staring before Johnna waves her hand in front of his face.

“Hello? Earth to Eddie?”

He’s snapped out of his trance and looks to Johnna hesitantly, not wanting to take his eyes off of you for even a moment.

“Yeah, sorry,” Eddie says. He bites his lip and glances back to make sure you’re still there; that he didn’t dream you up. “Um, I'm really sorry but I see someone over there I haven’t seen in almost ten years. I’ve got to go say hi.”

Johnna looks disappointed, but she nods her head. He gives her a grateful smile before he pushes himself off the purple couch and through the tightening crowd. You’ve moved from where you previously were but it’s not hard to find you in the crowd, his eyes instinctually brought to the back of your head, that sight of familiar beautiful hair. The silky emerald dress you’re wearing sways with every step you take and his eyes are drawn to the backs of your thighs. As perfect as he remembers.

Too many people keep darting in his pathway to you, making him lose his patience a little more each time. Fuck it, he decides. He’s shooting his shot. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts your name.

You freeze on the spot, as if your heels had stepped in crazy glue. That voice. That voice calling your name. You’d know it anywhere, even in a packed party. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm your racing heart, you turn around and your heart not only disobeys you by continuing to race, but it also feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and fly across the room to the one person it’s always belonged to.

“Eddie.” His name on your lips sparks all the memories flooding back. All the makeout sessions in the back of his van, all the times you sat at the closest table to the stage when the guys had gigs at The Hideout. The way he always seemed to know when you were having a bad day and would show up to final period with flowers that he somehow managed to get. He’d never spilled his secrets on how he got them, no matter how many times you’d asked.

Eddie finally makes his way to you, and you can’t help but just stare at his wide brown eyes and frizzy curls when he stands before you. He looks older, more mature, but he’s still the same beautiful boy you shared your first everything with. The same way he’s shoving his hands into his pockets because he’s nervous. Same smile and the same look from underneath his eyelashes. You feel like you’re going to melt. Was it always this hot in here?

“You’re here,” you say. Duh, obviously, you think to yourself.

“And you’re here.”

“H-How are you?” you ask. Okay, it’s definitely getting hotter in the room.

“I’m good,” Eddie says with a smile. That smile was always your undoing and it was proving to have the same effect all these years later. “How are you?”

“Good,” you say, finding yourself getting lost in his eyes. Nothing has changed since you were 15, has it?

The music somehow gets turned up even higher and it has you wincing.

“Do you want to go outside?” Eddie offers, gesturing towards the door. You nod and head in that direction, Eddie’s hand coming to the small of your back as if no time has passed at all.

Your hearing is still muffled as you two stumble out onto the sidewalk in front of the building. The city’s streets were never silent, but this was far preferable to the deafening bass upstairs.

“So, what are you doing here?” you ask, wrapping your arms around yourself in the brisk night air. Eddie doesn’t miss a thing and instantly shrugs out of his leather jacket, putting it over your shoulders. It shouldn’t make you feel as tingly as it does, but you can’t help but smile as you’re enveloped by its warmth and its familiar smell of Eddie. You hold it tighter against your body.

“We, uh, just played a show a few blocks over,” Eddie says, hiking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the venue.

“Really?” you ask, eyes wide. “If I had known I would’ve been front row. Still know all the lyrics.” You give him a proud smirk.

“Even the new ones?” he challenges, raising his eyebrows playfully.

“Of course,” you say. “You think I don’t buy Corroded Coffin albums the day they drop? I’m no fake fan.”

Eddie laughs and reaches up to scratch the back of his head. The sound goes straight to your heart, his laughter making it soar.

“I, uh, guess I should tell you I’ve seen your latest work, too.”

“Oh! Really?” The only difference Eddie sees between you then and now is the fact that you’re not blushing right now. High school you would’ve looked like a tomato if Eddie even suggested taking a sexy Polaroid of you. Didn’t stop you from saying yes eventually, though.

“To be totally honest,” Eddie starts with a nervous chuckle. “Gareth saw it first and gave it to me. Or maybe I confiscated it.”

“Thank you for that,” you answer with a nervous giggle of your own. “The thought of Gareth seeing that feels weird. Nothing you haven’t seen before, though.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says with a shrug. “I don’t think you had that negligee when we were dating.”

His cheeky grin makes you giggle again, and you take a step towards him.

“Do you think it’s weird?” You want his honest answer. Obviously, you had no problem with it, seeing as you’d done it, but you knew there would be people who didn’t approve.

“Weird? No, not at all. Was I surprised? Hell yes. I mean, my angel is the centerfold.”

A smile lights up your face and you take another step closer to him.

“I haven’t been called that since you.”

“What, angel?”

“Yeah. But I’m glad. Anyone else calling me that would’ve felt weird. That’s your name for me.”

“And I’ve never called anyone else it,” Eddie says, making you emotional in a way you didn’t expect. “I’m curious, though,” Eddie starts, too nervous to meet your eyes in case you take his question the wrong way. “How’d you get into…that?”

“Oh, well in my senior year of college I dated a photography student. He used me for a project – clothes on – and he got an A. Then there was a photography competition he wanted to enter, and since I brought him luck last time, he asked if I’d do it again. This one was less clothing, but still decent. He won that contest and his pictures appeared in a magazine. The people from that magazine then called and wanted me, not my boyfriend, to work for them.”

“And how’d that go?” Eddie asks with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes. “He was such a baby about it. It’s not like I asked them. He was so petty and jealous that he broke up with me. I didn’t really care though, because I felt like I’d finally seen his true colors. Anyway, the magazine had me model for a couple of issues. Mostly clothes or promo pictures for a restaurant or club or something. And so, one of the photographers at this magazine was also working for XXXTRA and knew they were looking for someone new for their centerfold. So, he showed them my picture and they asked me to do it.”

“Were you scared?” Eddie asks. His hand is fighting the urge to reach out and grab yours.

“Yeah,” you admit with a laugh. “I didn’t want to make a career out of this, it was just an easy job that kind of fell in my lap. The centerfold would’ve been the most I’d made modeling up to that point, so I figured what the hell? I’ve always been a good, quiet girl so I thought it’d be kind of funny to think of people looking at that picture of me and imagining I’m some wild, risk-taking woman.”

“So, what’re you doing now?” Eddie asks and you shrug.

“Not sure. I got my degree in English, so I’ve been thinking of going into writing.”

“Oh, you totally should,” Eddie says, getting excited at the idea. “You always wrote the best stories in Mrs. Thompson’s class.”

Eddie’s compliment has your face warming and it’s like the final puzzle piece has clicked into place. Eddie looks at you and sees his girl, completely and wholly.

“You never told me why you’re in New York,” Eddie says.

“Oh, yeah! One of my best friends from college had her opening night on Broadway tonight. We came here after the opening night party.”

“That’s pretty cool. Was the show good?”

“It really was! I hope it’s not one of those ones that just doesn't get the recognition it deserves.”

“What’s it called?” Eddie asks.

“Rent.”

“Huh. Weird name.”

“Says the guy who came up with the name Corroded Coffin.” Your smirk makes Eddie want to pull you into his arms and kiss all over your face.

“How long are you in town?” you ask Eddie.

“Bus leaves tomorrow afternoon. Gotta head to Philly next. What about you?”

“Flying home tomorrow, too,” you say.

“Where’s home now?”

“Hawkins.” You say the town’s name with a smile, and it makes Eddie think back fondly on the town as well.

“Home sweet home,” Eddie says.

“Listen, um…” You bite your lip, nervous in front of Eddie for the first time since…well, probably your first time. “I don’t know if you have a girlfriend or something, but if you don’t, do you maybe want to get breakfast together in the morning? Catch up?”

“No girlfriend,” Eddie says, taking a step to close the ever-shrinking gap between the two of you. “And I would love to have breakfast with you. Hell, I’d sit on the sidewalk and eat a soft pretzel from that cart down there just to spend time with you.”

His favorite blush in the world comes to your cheeks and Eddie wonders how he ever lived without that in his life.

“Well, my rental car is right there,” you say, nodding your head towards a black Toyota. “That’s probably more comfortable than the sidewalk.”

“You rented a car in New York City?” Eddie asks with a laugh.

“I rented that car from Boston and drove it here, thank you very much.”

“Why were you – oh shit, were you visiting Nancy and Steve? Meet the new baby?”

“I sure did,” you say with a bright grin. “Little Elliot already has his daddy’s hair.”

“Poor kid,” Eddie teases. You chuckle and reach out to grab his hand with yours. He laces his fingers with yours and it just feels right. Natural. Like it’s only been hours since you’d held one another's hands and not years.

“Come on,” you say and tug Eddie in the direction of your car. Once you’re both inside, the question that’s been begging to be asked finally slips out.

“Do you, uh, want to come back to my hotel room?”

Eddie takes in your nervous expression, like you’re afraid he’ll say no. He takes in your green dress, your gorgeous eyes, and everything he’s been missing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless you’re too eager and need to take me in the back of your car?”

The memory of you saying something very similar to him in high school makes you laugh as you turn the key to start the ignition.

“Don’t tempt me,” you answer.

The next morning you both decide to forgo breakfast. Another round of sex and cuddling takes precedence over food. And sleep, seeing as you both got less than three hours of sleep the whole night. Much of it was spent talking, catching up on what’s happened in the years since you’ve been together. Admissions of you both thinking of each other often over the years and heartfelt confessions that both of you want this to be something more than just a one-night reunion. You can write from the road if you want, Eddie tells you. He even promises to buy you the fanciest typewriter to keep on the tour bus. It sounds perfect. Being with Eddie everyday sounds like a dream come true.

The sun is peeking in through the curtain of the hotel room, rays casting over the white blankets you and Eddie are curled up underneath. Heads facing each other on the same pillow, Eddie’s hand cups the side of your face and strokes his thumb over your cheekbone. You two had celebrated all your firsts together. First kiss, first relationship, first time having sex, first heartbreak. Even just last night you’d had another first together when you’d forgone the condom because you wanted to feel one another as close as possible. It was the first time either of you had that complete skin to skin contact during sex.

Eddie wants all the firsts and onlys with you. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. Only fiancé. Another kiss. Only husband. Another kiss. Only father of your children. Another kiss. Only love of your life.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #request

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middlingmay · 7 days

Note

I'm really curious about the runaway Gale AU! I would love to know more. How does he meet Bucky?

Hello! Thanks for the ask @avonne-writes. It always makes my absolute day whenever I see that other people like my AUs. I just like rambling, but it's nice that other people like to hear it.

And I figured what better way to answer your questions than post part 1 of my HCs for this AU. Enjoy! And rest assured, there will never be an AU I write where the Buckies don't meet ;)

Runaway!Gale AU

He wasn’t sure he could be classed as a runaway at eighteen. In a lot of places, eighteen-year-olds were fully responsible, independent adults in the eyes of the law. But Gale didn’t have that luck. Wouldn’t for another three years.

And one night that seemed like three years too long to live under the yoke of his parents.

To be home, an obedient, the rest of his life? Gale couldn't bear it.

He’d tried, like most teenagers, to carve out some identity as he grew. Heck, he’d tried to grow; tried to find his boundaries and tried to make new friends, but quickly found himself grounded. Tried to get a job, but they wouldn’t drive him there or give him bus fare. Wouldn’t let him get lessons to learn to drive.

Every, "No, Gale", "You have responsibilities here, Gale", "Why would you break your mother's heart like that, Gale", made his skin feel tighter, his blood hotter, his jaw and neck tenser, until he felt like he was going to combust and transform under the pressure to be who they wanted him to be, and it wasn't himself.

One day, he walked passed a recruiting office and by the time he blinked he was inside, talking to a uniformed officer and leaving with an application form tucked under his arm. He hid that application form for the US Air Force, to a career, an education and a purpose - all the things his parents had denied him - under his mattress.

Only, his dad had found it.

Gale came home from tending to the horses, the one chore he actually enjoyed, and headed to his room to wash up for dinner. When he opened the door, he saw the confetti of his last hope strewn over his bedroom floor, torn to shreds.

No one said anything at dinner and neither did he.

That night after his parents fell asleep, Gale packed his backpack full of clothes and, despite the guilt making his hands shale, grabbed a fistful of notes from his father’s secret stash and was on the first bus out of town.

It took him to Denver, Colorado.

It was a late bus, and he gets into Denver after the sun came up. He spends that first day wandering the streets. He spends as little as he can on a bite to eat, knowing he has to be sparing with his cash. He scopes to see what kind of 'help wanted' signs are in windows, but mostly, he just…walks. He goes wherever he wants to, on his own clock. He savours his first taste of freedom, of independence, slow. Like quality chocolate.

When evening comes he thinks about finding as cheap a room as possible. He stops a guy on the street and asks for directions to a motel. The guy looks him up and down but smiles friendly enough and directs him to Colfax Avenue.

Gale follows the directions as best he can, but he feels off the further he goes. He’s almost relieved when a complete stranger runs across the street, booming at him:

“BUCK!”

Gale doesn’t know what he looks like, but it can’t be good because by the time the man realise he’s got the wrong guy, he holds his palms up, placating, and asks Gale if he’s okay without even introducing himself.

And without introducing himself, Gale asks wide-eyed, for the first time in his entire life, “Please help me.”

John’s concern collapses into a smile - until he hears where Gale is heading.

“Well someone’s trying to get to robbed, stabbed or worse. Don’t you be going anywhere near there, buck.”

John helps Gale find a motel in a modest part of town and gives Gale his number in case he gets lost again. As Gale watches him walk away, he finally remembers -

“Gale!”

John whirls around. “Uh, no. John. Or Bucky.”

Gale blushes but grins small. “I’m Gale, dummy.”

#clegan #buck x bucky #mota #headcanon #alternative universe #runaway!gale #john egan #gale cleven #ask me anything #masters of the air

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erule · 2 years

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High school heartbreaker | s.h.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: You were in love with Steve when you were in high school together, but he didn’t know about that. Now you meet him by chance at college and you wonder if things could change.

Warnings: kinda rom-com with some clichés probably, unrequited love, A LOT of angst, fluff, mention of nose bleeding, mention of smoking, language, jealous!Steve, mutual pining in the end, happy ending, Robin, Eddie

Word count: 3K

A/N: hi! I wrote this based on a true experience, except for the fact that this ends well. Steve is my favourite character in Stranger Things and he was beyond perfect for this story. Feedback is always appreciated by a writer! Hope y’all like it. Enjoy! x

First day of college and you’re terrified.

Why? Well, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

So, three months ago, you said goodbye to your school, then to your friends, then again to your best friend (who was supposed to go to college with you, before she betrayed you to follow the “cool guys”) and, last but not least, your high school crush. He was the first person you met on the bus on your first day of school, then he became your friend, but even if the two of you were never really close, somehow your heart managed to fall in love with him. The issue with that? He was in love with someone else. Of course. He dated Nancy Wheeler and you were just the friend that sometimes comforted him during their fights. You were important. So, the last day of school, you hugged him and said: “To new adventures, Steve. Maybe we’ll meet again in the future” and he just smirked at you. It was the moment you knew that he never loved you.

Anyway, now you’re on your own again after all of these years, while Steve’s probably far away with Nancy, having the time of his life. That’s how being a teenager should look like, right? Society tells it every day, but it doesn’t happen to everybody. You can also be alone and succeed, but it doesn’t mean that you’re lonely.

You finally arrive at class. The professor still has to come along, but people are already saying that he’s annoying. How great. You wonder what they’re thinking, while they’re talking with their friends. It seems like you’re the only one without one, as usual. High school was a lot of things, but at least you had your best friend to go through everything. Now it’s different. College can be scary, but you just have to breathe. So you take a deep breath, eyes closed, for three seconds. When you open your eyes, you see that the professor is entering into the room so you turn to your right in order to take your block notes.

“Hey,” somebody says and when you look up your heart begins to race faster than ever, while your brain still has to process who just spoke.

No way.

“What? The cat ate your tongue?”

Your eyes grow wide, but fortunately the professor ask for some silence to begin the lesson.

“Steve?”

He gives you a smile.

“The one and only”.

And this, this feeling of being on fire, is exactly how you know that your crush on somebody has never gone away.

You’re in the bathroom, door closed. This is not something that was supposed to happen today! How can he be at your college? Studying the same things as you? This has to be a nightmare. Does it mean that there’s also Nancy around the corner? No, this is going to become really painful really fast. You thought that you had already being punished enough, when you were forced to see him with Nancy every damn day for the last three years at school, but it seems that you weren’t.

You see a pair of shoes under the door and you gulp. Nancy?

“Hey, are you okay? You seemed pale when you arrived,” somebody says.

You’re so relieved that it’s not Nancy, that you open the door and hit the girl. She yells something, when you see that her nose is bleeding.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry! Here, take a napkin,” you say, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t worry, it’s not painful as when I saw my best friend wear a sailor’s uniform for work,” she said, but you just looked at her, confused. “Anyway, I hope that you’re okay”.

“Me? You’re literally bleeding!”

“It’s nothing. Some jokes on my friend and I’m gonna feel better instantly. You’ll see. Come with me, you should meet him,” she says, while looking at her nose in the mirror. Now it seems better.

“Okay, thanks. This day feels like a nightmare to me already,” you say. She furrows her eyebrows.

“Yeah? Why?”

“I don’t know anybody, except for my high school crush, who wasn’t supposed to be here anyway,” you confess her and now you feel relieved, somehow. Talking about it makes it seem more stupid and less of a problem.

“High school crushes are the worst, trust me, I have a lot of experience in this topic. But tell me more! Did you date them?”

“No, he was dating somebody else the whole time. It was exhausting,” you say, then you look at her and you wonder if you saw her in high school too. “What’s your name, again?”

“I didn’t tell you. I’m Robin!” She exclaims, before you stop in front of her friend, who’s smoking a cigarette with some guys outside the college. “What about you?”

You freeze.

“Robin?”

“Yeah. What happened? Are you okay?”

You swallow some air, when you look in front of you, only to see him winking at you.

“Is that your friend?” You ask her, pointing at him.

“Yeah! How do you know that?”

Fuck.

“I’m…”

Absolutely screwed.

“Y/N!” Steve says, while walking over you.

“Wait, you’re Y/N? The Y/N?” Robin asks and now you’re more confused than ever.

“How do you know me?”

“Y/N, apparently you met Robin. Robin, this is Y/N, we used to take the bus together. I don’t know if you had ever saw her with me in high school”.

“We weren’t really close in high school, Steve…” You say, feeling a burden over your chest.

“But I saw you,” Robin say, while observing your face. You probably look guilty, right now. Maybe she knew that you liked him, but she has now the confirmation of it.

“We used to take the bus together, that’s all,” you repeated.

“You know, I recall the once you asked me if we were friends and I told you no, but three months ago, when you said goodbye to me, I thought that we totally were. Things change, Y/N”.

Not everything, no. Not your love for him.

“It’s weird, because you used not to know a lot of things about me. You probably don’t even remember what I told you that day,” you say, but your heart knows that you’re lying, because you secretly hopes that he does. That he noticed you.

He shakes his head.

But sadly, you’re never wrong.

“I don’t. Was it important?” He asks you, while he lights up another cigarette.

Robin’s looking at you, but you pray that she can’t see your heart breaking into your eyes. It’s just water, after all. But before that, it’s glass in your eyes. Two pieces of glass that you hold with every strength you have in yourself.

“No, it wasn’t,” you say, with a smile. That fake smile made you survive high school with him.

Then, you apologize to them, but you’re “really busy”, so you “have to go” as far as possible away from this horrible situation. You run to your house, feeling too overwhelmed by everything to think straight, to say hi to your parents, to even breathe.

You were sure that he knew that you liked him more than as a friend in high school. You didn’t expect him to care, you didn’t even want him to acknowledge it with you, but that was enough. He crossed the line, when he tried to be charming again, even if he had a girlfriend. When he winked at you, as he did every damn day in high school. When he tried to be funny with you. You just want some peace.

Two weeks after that, though, you find yourself following Steve again as in high school. You wonder if things can change now, if you can be friends with him like you’d be with another guy, but when you see him winking at you while you’re staring at him smoking, your heart tells you the answer: No. But you try to be that anyway, because you love the way he makes you laugh while you’re trying to study or his dumb jokes about the professors. He always seems so full of self-confidence, he could light up a whole room. Your eyes are always on him as if he was the sun. Too stunning not to look at him. Too stunning to burn your eyes.

“It’s a matter of fact, Y/N: I’m the best at it and you know that”.

“At picking horrible movies? Yeah, I agree with that,” you chuckle.

“I literally work here, Y/N, you’re ruining everything with the clients! Come on, choose something cool for tonight,” he says.

“Footloose is off the list, Steve, don’t give me the puppy eyes,” you reply, while taking Back to the Future.

“Marty McFly? Really?”

“Oh, you know my type: sarcastic, sweet and reckless,” you joke, but the look he gives you is very much eloquent, alongside his crooked smile. Your cheeks are made of Hell’s fire, right now.

“Sounds almost as awesome as me, baby,” he says, but even if his tone is ironic, you doubt that he’s trying to flirt with you, because for a moment it seemed like that.

But you are probably wrong.

***

It has been a month since that day. Robin didn’t say anything to you about Steve, but you know that she understood what’s going on. Luckily, she’s a good friend. You have grown closer to them, but also with another guy, Eddie. He likes playing D&D, rock music and he makes a lot of jokes. He’s really funny, but every time you see Steve, your heart aches in your chest. That’s why you’re thinking about going to another college. You’re sick of feeling that way and the exams are getting closer and closer. Eddie said that he could come with you, since he doesn’t have any friends anyway.

You’re trying to study in your room, when you hear a knock. You turn around, only to see Steve waving at you. He seems to feel the coldness of the air, because it’s raining outside. You open the window, so he can come in.

“There’s the front door for this, Steve,” you say.

“Usually, you say hi to people before you scold them,” he jokes, but you don’t laugh.

“I’m not in the mood. What do you want?”

“Why are you not in the mood?”

“Is there anybody else you can annoy? Robin? Nancy?” You ask, but he glances at you because of the irritated way you said the last name.

“Nancy and I broke up,” he say. Time freezes all around you. You finally look at him, at his face and you gulp. He’s still handsome as he was in high school and this is tearing you apart. It’s incredible how much power he still has over you. He never treated you right before, but you thought to see something that others couldn’t that you loved: his vulnerability, his kindness and his tormented soul. Being the king is amazing, but wearing the crown could feel like a burden, sometimes. And well, you can feel lonely under it. “This Summer, actually”.

You swallow.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say…”

“Don’t be. Now ask my question: why are you not in the mood?”

You shrug.

“It’s nothing, really”.

“Y/N, talk to me,” he says and the way his gaze caresses your shape makes he seem hopeless.

You sigh.

“I’m thinking about moving away,” you say. He doesn’t move a muscle, but the light of your lamp is drawing some scribbles into his eyes.

You wonder if he despise your idea, but before he can say anything, your phone begins to buzz. He notices it and when he sees who’s calling you, he clenches his jaw.

“Don’t answer that,” he orders.

“What? Steve, it’s Eddie”.

“We’re in the middle of something, Y/N”.

“It can wait”.

“No, it can’t!” He exclaims and you flinch. He breathes out, then he puts his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just… Oh, come on! Just give me some attention, for once”.

“For once?” You ask him. Eddie stopped calling. “I gave you three years of my life, Steve! I’m still doing it”.

“I know,” he says, without pride. You feel a knot in your throat, now.

“You’ve been knowing it all along, right?”

“No…”

“You made fun of me!”

“No, Y/N…” “You loved to be a heartbreaker at high school, didn’t you? Well, you fucking broke my heart, Steve! I hope that you’re happy with it”.

“I didn’t know!” He shouts. You look at him in disbelief. It’s not possible. You thought that he noticed that three years ago, that he knew everything by now… Did you just confess it to him? “If you’d just let me explain… Oh, for the love of… Robin told me, okay? Robin told me that today. She said that I had to stop you, that I was the only one that could. Our college is the best one and you deserve the best. So I asked her why I was the only one to make you change your mind and she said… You know what she said,” he says, without looking at you, but you want him to tell it. To tell what you’re not brave enough to say out loud.

“I don’t”.

He looks at you and you see that his eyes are glossy as yours. It seems almost too painful for him than to you. He’s praying you with a gaze not to say that, but you’re firm. It’s the closest thing you can ask him to say to you to an “I love you”.

“That you’re in love with me,” he says and a sob escapes from your lips. “You’ve been cruel to yourself, Y/N”.

“No, that’s exactly what I deserve to be in love with someone selfish and egocentric like you”.

“I’m not like that anymore, Y/N. Let me prove it,” he says. “Please.”

“I’m not falling for your lies again, Steve. Now get out”.

“I’m gonna leave college!” He blurts out and you freeze again.

“What?”

“So you don’t have to do it”.

“You’re being insane, Steve. Go to bed,” you say, then you take his wrist in order to kick him out, but his skin is burning. He squeezes your hand.

“I remember,” he says. “And I didn’t answer. I’ve been regretting that moment since you walked out the school. I didn’t know what to say”.

“Steve, it’s okay, it’s not that important…”

“No, it is. It is for you. You said: Maybe we’ll meet again. And I didn’t care, because Nancy was about to break up with me and I was losing my throne. And you were just a stop along the ride,” he says and your heart aches for that. “But I was wrong. You’ve been my friend when everybody else was pretending to be one. You loved me even if I didn’t treat you right. You comforted me when I fought with Nance, because you saw me. And you walked past my flaws, every fucking time. I used to think that the worst thing I did in high school was losing Nancy, but now I think that breaking your heart was. I regret not telling you that I imagined that you liked me, because maybe I would have known you better and I would have felt what I feel now for you”.

You feel overwhelmed by his last sentence. It’s what you have always desired to hear from his mouth, what you have always wished for at every birthday of yours, yet it feels just sad now. Perhaps, it’s too late.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m jealous,” he says and you see in the way he flexes his muscles that it costs him an enormous amount of strength to pronounce these words. “Of Eddie. And I know that I have no right to say this, but I am. He was the first one to know about your decision, while I was the cause of it. It broke my heart”.

“Now you know the feeling,” you say, with a smile.

“I guess so. Y/N, please, don’t go. We deserve a chance”.

You look at his hand, that is still on yours and something in your lungs stops working. It’s like you’re out of breath. The emptiness can’t be filled by air, because that has always been his place to be. Not in your heart, but in your lungs, to be oxygen for you to keep walking. To keep living.

“You’re not entitled to be jealous, but neither was I at the time and yet, I was. So I get the feeling, Steve, but I don’t want to be just a replacement of Nancy for you, because I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. You don’t know how painful it is to love somebody who doesn’t want you. And I’ve wanted you for so much time, Steve, so much time…”

“I know, Y/N, but you have to trust me: I see you right now. I see you, standing in front of me and I think that you’re beautiful. And too smart to date somebody like me, but still, I’m praying that you do it anyway,” he says, with a genuine smile on his face and you feel a sense of warmth into your chest.

“You should stop talking and start kissing me, right now,” you reply and so, he does it.

It’s an explosion in your stomach. It’s a dream that comes true when you’ve lost all of your hopes. It has come the day that you’ve finally felt like everything is in its place: his lips on yours, for example. The rain on the leaves in your garden. The heart in your chest that doesn’t hurt anymore.

He finally fixed what he broke a long time ago.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #erule's masterlist #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington ff #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington hc #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things #joe keery x reader

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dropsofletters · 1 year

Text

danced around an impossibility

summary: everyone has heard about the newest episode of joshua hong’s podcast “backstage says”, where he talks about the secrets that celebrities fail to keep hidden.

the story dates back to more than a decade ago, when wonwoo was looking out his ballet academy’s window in hopes of finding an opportunity and instead, he caught a glimpse of a woman spitting comedy into a microphone for no one to hear. no one would expect these two to talk, or even to hit stardom one day.

he liked to believe back then, when 2008 was blaring with music and youth, that she was an impossibility. someone that he’d look at from afar and nothing else would happen.

but every year they got more tangled up with each other, and joshua hong has proof of it.

want to listen to this story? check out the new episode of “backstage says”!

title: dancing around an impossibility pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader genre: ballet dancer!au ; stand-up comedian!au ; strangers to friends to exes (kinda) to lovers!au ; slice of life!au ; celebrity!au ; slowburn word count: 14k words approx. type: fluff ; angst ; humor ; real life shenanigans note: this is a kofi request, if you want to ask anything from me over there, you can obviously do so!

“I like to believe, dear listener,” Joshua’s velvety voice slips through the slits of the microphone, much like the straw in between his rosy lips, when crossing one leg over the other. “That patience is the foundation of plenty of the stories we hear. As a gossiper myself, and to anyone who has listened to this podcast, we know that’s who I am…I know that the step that leads us to what we consider experiences is actually just someone’s tiredness of patience.”

Backstage Says’ listeners must sit at the edge of their seats, while Joshua Hong has never been calmer. He acknowledges this story as if it was his own, licking his lips like mesmerizing words and maiming them to be true. He manipulates; not reality but listeners, into thinking his voice is the utmost reality. It could be, for all we know.

“Wonwoo’s deal, however, was that he was too patient. He almost lost his chance.” He announces, smirking into the process. “This story goes back to July of 2008, when Wonwoo was tiptoeing into the next step.”

July 17th, 2008.

The harmony of ballet is in the dip of the waist. Wonwoo likes to believe that structure is what makes a good dance, how the folds of his white t-shirt disappear into the curves of his toned arms and how his hips contort to the perfect pointé. Though, as he looks himself in the mirror of the dimly lit room that was once filled with Chan’s boisterous voice, he doesn’t feel comfortable. Like himself, really.

Through a crooked window of old rust and wood that would creak under the mere wind of the ocean had it been close to the center of Seoul, he sees a shape. Bent, curved, like there is not a care in this world to aim for the sharpness of an arrow or the success of a star. Someone lives between the shadows and makes themselves shine in colors that aren’t gold or bright yellow. He sees her back hunched, a hand pressed to her waist and a lift of the corner of her mouth.

“My ex is an asshole and I think I’m way more so,” She speaks into the solitude of the salon in front of Wonwoo’s practice room. She digs her fingers into the cable of her mic, moving it with her steps before she scoffs into the microphone. “Because I never really told him we were exes. He went to Spain one night, I knew he was fucking some other girl, and then when he got back it was like Men in Black but of relationships. Quite like he had forgotten me.” She clicks her tongue after, shaking her head before sighing. “It needs more of a hit…”

He had heard better, Wonwoo knows quite well how good her jokes can get. Like how she told the story of the time in which she had sat on the bus back home as a kid and had tried to cover a fart with a cough, but she had missed the timing much like she did with everything else in her life (her words, not his). Or when she spoke about her first kissing experience, when she had actually wanted to throw up so bad that she feigned choking on air. With examples, of course.

He leans into the window, the breeze of the midnight bloom caressing his cheeks. He lets his hands frame his face, distracting himself from the obvious repercussions of his actions. Not practicing when the ballet play he is taking part of will technically make him fall behind; much more so when his partner is none other than the young and talented Chan, but he lets himself be distracted by this woman.

This woman who turns to him, speaking into the microphone while her disheveled hair moves with that wind that lures him into sentimentalism.

Her eyes are so confident that he’s almost speechless. She’s not rid of her braveness because he is looking at her; as if she doesn’t care being the center of attention. Her cheeks raise when she speaks, with her upper lip a little bit crooked into a smile, into the microphone.

“That one sucks, right?” His heart races, for some reason, it does. Ever since he started practicing here, just over two months ago, he has seen her speak into that microphone every Saturday night. As per comedy night, one would think. “Won, Wong? You, I don’t remember your name…the guy who gets drunk every Saturday always mentions it but I’m bad with names. Was that joke good?”

He shakes his head, exclaiming at the top of his lungs. “You’ve done better!”

“So did my mom say when dating my ex.”

His mouth, perched in a non-interpreted frown most of his days, relishes in a cat-like grin before nodding. “That one is better.”

She shakes her head, picking the microphone up and testing it a few times before jotting down her script in that notebook that always looks a little too full. As if she lacks inspiration or she just comes up with things on the go. Wonwoo knows that is the end of their little interaction, but he lets his gaze linger on the cascade of her hair and the way she munches on her pinky’s nail while thinking.

The harmony of her is how unreachable she looks while being also deeply close to him.

August 1st, 2008.

“I hate that I love my friends, is that normal?”

Talking to a stranger on the bus shouldn’t be this comfortable. Though, he knows the lanky man by her side doesn’t give a damn about her life. He sits with his perfectly polished black hair and looks at her through glasses that are so slitted that she almost wonders why she uses them. He presses on the button of his pen, taking the ink in and out to jot down notes about his endeavors in his job. She sees him every Monday, when she tries her hardest not to feel bad at her job that she had once shared with glee with her friends.

Women that she adores. Women that she should be thankful of, because women supporting women is not something as common as one would think. However, each moment that she spends with them is more draining than the last. As if they are united by tragedy, rather than happiness. They live in spirals of gossips and making fun of themselves; basking on lives that aren’t lived to their fullest and—

“Then, they aren’t really your friends.” The stranger completes, youthful and yet so scarily wise. “If someone makes you feel as if your feelings for them shouldn’t exist, then, that’s guilt paired up with something else.”

“Damn, it was a rhetorical question.”

“You wouldn’t ask if you really weren’t curious.” The guy in question quirks an eyebrow. If his personality didn’t belong to an arse, maybe, he could be some kind of handsome. “Why have friends if—”

“You don’t have any friends.”

“I do. Worthy ones of my time that are actually more of an addition to my life than a minus.” He’s sharp, she can tell, and as the pouring rain lures the bus ride into a comfortable place of mind with too much thinking and a little too much seriousness, she also thinks about what he says.

What if he life doesn’t belong to serving drinks in a club but instead being the one performing there? What would happen if for once she stopped caring that men got more opportunity in comedy and actually tried to speak up. Be funny, get laughed at or with, perhaps risk more than hating on people.

She grows more bitter by the minute. Of course, all thoughts of hopefulness fall to the same conclusion. She’ll fail. That’s what everyone expects out of her.

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

“Must be a perception of how little you trust your friends.” With that, the office worker stands up, holding onto his coffee and serving a curt nod. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if covering herself from the utmost truth, before she sees him farewell. With her chin up-high and her ambition on the low.

August 27th, 2008.

Wonwoo balances his weight on the tip of his toes. It’s an excellent metaphor for who he is—a passing shadow in the midnight sky, ignored in between stars of beaming light. He blends in perfection, missed by the eyes of those who look for the obvious. He works as wood to light fires and ambience to create peace. He leans into another position, dancing to the glee of Mozart, but never quite making the judges think of him.

He has worked closely with Chan. They’re in a play together, but being part of an academy means auditioning—starving off on ambition and living to the desires of the unknown. Now, as the sky blue walls blur into his vision, twisting to a perfect circle only to glimpse at the judges. They never look at him. Ignored. Forgotten.

He is Chan’s friend. Chan’s counterpart. He is but he isn’t. Nothing more than a derivation of what is talent. He’s the roots of a tree that sparkles in golden hues and spring breezes. Watered down, fearful, stopping on his tracks once the music does, while Chan leans into a complete ovation.

Not to say he isn’t happy. Chan has earned what he has at the young age of twenty-one with fist and stone. Though, he hates just how his stomach dips with every breath he takes while Chan is so visibly comfortable. He despises the claps that never go towards him—the tiny finalizations of dreams that come with the bitter reality that we are that.

Humans that complete dreams halfway. We never reach the stars, we just get ladders. We never discover something, we just investigate something that already exists.

The water bottle slips through his mouth, staring at Chan as he organizes his shoes and puts on a thick beige coat. The crackling of the thunder outside the academy doesn’t break the thoughts that grow in his head like a building would. Wonwoo is not deeply scarred; he’ll wake up tomorrow as if nothing happened, working as per usual, but for now he is only this. Angered.

“You know, this is usually something you would say.” Wonwoo leans his elbow into the windowsill, watching the droplets of rain fall one by one and then, the torrent thoughts merge with the upcoming storm. “But I’m feeling dumb enough to empty my feelings into a bottle of whiskey. Not entirely, just a tiny bit. I don’t want to listen to the bookshelf I have of psychology textbooks right now telling me it’s a bad idea.”

“Never a bad idea to drink, if you ask me.” Chan twirls the strands of his damp hair in between his fingers, tossing it back the slightest. “Wonwoo, I’m sure they’ll call you.”

Wonwoo raises a hand in the air, shaking it the slightest. “I don’t like lying to myself. I’m being half-dumb, not entirely idiotic.”

Chan stares at him much like his father does whenever he wants to get information out of him. As if he can’t read Wonwoo; not knowing if he does care or not. Which reminds him—his dad wanted to be told the good news over the telephone once the time came about for Wonwoo to be accepted in that play that he had been wishing so hard to be part of, but now, he’s sure that he won’t be calling anytime soon.

Hey, dad, I’m a disappointment at times and I don’t want to say it out loud for you to actually internalize it? Yes, Wonwoo is not ready to say that.

“It’s raining. You want to drink the day that it’s raining.”

“It heats up the body, I guess.”

“You surprise me, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He scoffs. “Gotta do that sometimes, I guess.”

“Wonwoo—”

Before Chan could deepen an idea that he doesn’t want to develop, he picks up his backpack, not caring of slipping the clothes in properly. Neatly, as he would usually do. Because he cares. He fucking cares about ballet; perhaps more than he does about his tainted heart.

“What’s a place you like drinking in? And that wouldn’t close because of the rain.”

Chan’s grin widens, youthful like his personality. “No bar ever closes up because of the rain. No amount of water can wash down the drunks.” He admits, wrapping an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulder. “The Sentimental Cavern is my favorite. There’s good music and nice stand-up comedy on Saturdays. We could have a few drinks there.”

“I’m surprised you go to places called that.”

Wonwoo chuckles at what Chan says. “I mean ‘Tits and Ass’ was closed, so I had to go somewhere.”

“Asshole.”

“Another favorite bar of mine. Though, unrightfully closed.”

Well, at least Wonwoo knows that it will be an eventful night.

Present

“I think, her will was not precisely of fearless nature.” Joshua admits into the microphone, tapping a finger on his bottom lip. “What broke the patience that was once so set in stone for Wonwoo was that she took decisions out of impatience.”

He looks through his notes, written over the years of his endless study of this relationship that people still cooed about, even when it didn’t have the most beautiful of endings.

“Not impatience with him and his timing. No. Not impatience with life. It was with herself, as if she couldn’t deal with the voices that grew in her mind and were strong enough to make her feel like she had to do something more.” The podcast grows silent for a little bit, the light of cigarette following his statement. “So, when his patience grew, hers became thinner.”

August 28th, 2008.

Joanne has eyes so deep that they hollow into her skull. It’s what lures men into her lap, asking for more drinks and tipping way overboard. She lives happily in a relationship that she denies, tightening her apron on her waist a little too tightly for it to accentuate what everyone can notice that she has. Though, when midnight strikes, Joanne steals drinks behind the counter and cries about her cheating boyfriend. Then, goes off to cheat herself.

It’s quite impressive the stories that develop around us, she believes. How everyone has their own protagonist nature that we fail to establish when living our own lives. Though, Joanne knows she is the main character. Not like her, who doesn’t flirt with the customers and hence, gets less tips. Or she, who doesn’t appear in the latest Christmas picture that the team took, where all the bartenders stood in a perfect line, just because no one called her.

Being the sidekick is lonesome, and sure, she can take the funny side-character, but for how long she’ll deal with it? She’s not sure.

“The secret here is that you have to touch their arm. That makes them think of you, even just a tiny bit.” Joanne is talking, but she’s not listening quite well. Her eyes are set on the microphone in the middle of the stage, just minutes ago taken up by a man who was less than funny.

“I don’t want to deal with men at this moment.” She whispers, though unheard by her friend as she rubs her hands over her face. She has to kick off that idea of getting on stage some way, right? “Jokes have been bad today, haven’t they?”

“To be expected,” Joanne admits. “This place is only made for talking. Not precisely for sharing laughs.”

Call her out on her bullshit, she wants to be the one to change that.

Tugging at her apron around her waist, she moves away from the counter, blending in between the old wooden walls and walking over to the center of the tavern with Joanne right behind her, calling her name like a mantra.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Lighting up this night a little bit, how about that?”

Joanne slips her fingers through her lucious black hair, mouthing. “How precisely are you going to do that?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

She’s tired, perhaps. Tired of the grump that sits next to her on the bus every morning. Tired of working in this bar, of watching the couples kissing on tables and getting out there shitfaced and vomiting. She lays one foot on the stage, the crisp radiation of the lights casting down on her with a glimmer of excitement and an ounce of fear when she finally reaches the middle. No one pays attention to her. Or, no one, but the man in the front row, downing a bottle of whiskey like his life belongs on the bottom of the glass.

Speaking of glasses, he wears a pair of those. They fall on his face romantically, on the bridge of a nose that looks a little slimmer with the shadows that cast on his face, paired with lips pouted like rose petals and strands of black hair that frame the face naturally. She has seen that face, normally from afar and with squinted eyes, where he listens to her stories on a windowsill, practicing with shirts too tight and tiptoes too pointed.

He gives her that push. That man that silently laughs or scoffs at her jokes when she’s practicing for something that won’t happen. Even when his face speaks more of drunken truths than the lying grins he gives her, she finds the stranger to be…homely.

So, she picks up the microphone, clearing her throat and shaking her voice to a hoarser, curter one before sighing. “I grew up with a bunch of men in my house.” She starts, and at first, she doesn’t get much of a reaction, but with every tremble of her body and joints that ache to speak for her, she continues. “And one would think that watching big bellies and sweaty armpits would give me a better hindsight of not trusting men to…uh…disappoint me every once in a while.” With that, she starts walking a bit, sending a wink to the groups of people now looking at her. “See, now I got your attention. That’s typical, both for men and women, tell us that we can’t do something and we go and do it…equally as wrong as how it was when we started.”

That earns a few laughs, but she’s concentrated on how the stranger chuckles. His shoulders shake, hairs falling on his forehead as if they belong there. They probably do, like his entire anatomy is a dance that follows its own steps.

That stranger, without knowing, makes her keep talking.

“For example, with my first kiss, I had the audacity of believing that every hole shall be filled. Yes, blame it on the porn I watched…or maybe blame it on the fact that us, women, we are used to covering up what shall be left seen, so my mind went and I kid you not.” She lifts a hand in the air. “Throat. Tongue. Down. I saved that guy a visit to the odontologist and he paid me with what? What can you think about?”

“Great sex?” A woman in the background shouts and she hisses into the microphone.

“...You know eating in front of the poor is a sin, isn’t it?” She comments in a brief whisper before shaking her head. “No, I got disappointment. But then again, when you live in a house full of men, you’re quite used to it.”

More laughter and she feels on fire. Perhaps, because the man on the front row now had his hands pressed on each side of his face, looking at her with the intent of art. That night, she talks into a microphone, rambling about the in-between of being done with life but also trying to find the good side of it, and while she never gets to speak to the stranger, she knows he has a good luck amulet within him.

December 23rd, 2008.

“Have you ever considered posting dancing videos on YouTube?”

Jun is one very vicious man. Wonwoo can tell from the way he sits; with his hands interlocked in between his thighs to warm them up and his body leaning forwards and backwards in its own axis repeatedly. He is trying to take up on cigarettes, but he leaves them midway and abandons them on top of the wooden counter of his apartment. Dino is seated at the corner, sipping on the same beer bottle he has shared the entire night they were spending together.

Wonwoo’s excuse was to have something to eat with his friends. Tomorrow, he’ll tag along with his family to dinners and pleasantries. For now, he wants the relaxation that comes with a TV night after eating out. Now, Jun is looking at the ceiling as if it’s the sky and he can count every astrological sign that people say there are painted in the stars, twirling the lit-down cigarette in between his fingers.

“YouTube?” Wonwoo questions, not well-aware of technology at all. He knows he has a computer, though he never uses it, covered by a cloth somewhere in his apartment’s deposit. “What exactly is that?”

Chan squints his eyes, “You’re twenty-four years old, how in the world are you so lost in what young people do these days?”

“Because mentally, I’m not very young.” He explains, toying with the edge of the plate he had emptied. He traces the outline repeatedly, lost in thought. “Or because some people have other things to do.”

Jun scoffs at that, soon after masking his laugh with a hand clasped to his mouth when Wonwoo looks at him. Glares, really, but he won’t admit it.

“What’s the laugh for?”

“Wonwoo, you don’t do much apart from your routine.” Chan explains, extending a hand in the air after wiping the droplets of beer off his mouth. “You don’t date, rarely drink, spend most of your time practicing. The most action you get is from looking out the window to see this girl—”

“A girl?” Jun questions, finally stopping his ministrations of endless movement to look between his two friends. “There’s a woman in Wonwoo’s life?”

“The unfunniest comedian you can think of used to tell jokes in the building right across from our academy and Wonwoo was over the moon laughing at her jokes.” Chan tells the story as if it was a tale, standing up and doing big curves with his arms. A dancer, after all. “And once would think Jeon Wonwoo would ask her out, or at least make it obvious that he’s looking at her so she feels someone ogling her ass and finally gives him the time of the day, but the man’s sneaky as he can get.”

“It’s not okay to make women feel uncomfortable by ogling at them.” Wonwoo defends, leaning back on his seat and propping his legs over the counter. “And…she is funny.”

“Eyes of love, I’m telling you, Jun.” Chan contemplates, soon after placing a hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder. “But yes, I think it’d be a great idea. Like, two dudes dancing in an academy but they are totally platonic about each other and prove to everyone that ballet can be masculine.”

Wonwoo half-chuckles at his antics, patting his hand on top of his shoulder with his own cold palm. “I’m not against it, actually.” He answers, not knowing the weight of his words. Who does? Every word is just a conglomerate of syllables and the wind that passes to brush them off. “Jun, would you care to record something for us?”

“I was waiting for you to say that!” Jun stands up at that moment, a little bit drunk and hazed when he moves over the living room. “I have my camera with me! We can practice and see what we can come up with. Us being you, because I don’t plan on dancing.”

Christmas lights and endless laughter fill a night that blurs in Wonwoo’s mind, but had been the initiation of something much bigger. Perhaps, even stronger than what he could have ever controlled.

January 1st, 2009.

The east side bleeds perfectly lit streets for her to gawk at, but ambition leaves her in her spot. She stares forward, towards the hotel that she would have been presenting herself in had it not been for the denial letter she got. As of late, it seems as though she is only valuable for getting a few gigs in drunk-filled taverns and bars forgotten by the highest of classes. However, she wants a little bit more.

She sees the fitted dresses and the interlocked hands, and dare she say, she’s a bit jealous. Envious, even. She likes the way those women taut their gems and their beaming grins. Delicacy is something that can’t be found in simplistic matters, much less behind a dirty microphone as she spits out jokes about herself. She runs a hand through her hair when one of the invitees runs over a puddle with their sports car. Her sweater and jeans end up tainted by the mud of the previous rain.

She could care. She could actually do something for her sweater.

She decides to rage, however.

Just as she’s about to turn around on the bottom of her boots and pretend like her life is not a complete misery, or make a joke about it, she hears a commotion, voices that blend with each other before she sees a body stumbling when getting out after being pushed—and whom she expects to see is not the stranger. That Wong guy whom she isn’t sure is called that way.

Handsome, of course, that he has always been. His hair is disheveled, falling on his face, a fitted shirt clinging to his body with a scar of a cup of coffee sprawled on the white material. His hands spread on the sidewalk, looking up with a flush on his cheeks and a sigh that impresses her.

“I wouldn’t have taken you as the kind to get kicked out of places, Wong.” She isn’t even aware of why she calls him such way. She has heard his friend, Chan, who is far more extroverted than him, call him something of the kind, but then again, she can’t recall. His knee is still pressed to the concrete and in any other position, perhaps from another point of view, it could look as though she is rejecting a marriage proposal. “Need any help?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, extending a hand and hoisting him up until she feels his chest flushed to hers. There’s some carving in those muscles, in the dip of his waist and how he stands as upright as possible. His eyelashes flutter softly when looking down at her and she has to swallow thickly.

Okay, those eyes? She can get behind them. She wishes she could, actually, so her vision would be able to foresee what he is seeing as his lips spread in a shy, tight-lipped smile.

“Why ask if you already helped me?”

“Pleasantries.” She responds, letting go of his hand and brushing it on the back of her jeans until she saves it in her wet pocket. That’s a weird sentence, now that she thinks about it, she must be drenched in muddy water if her pocket is wet. “So, getting kicked out of expensive hotels? That’s better than me already. I get kicked out of bars.”

Wong, whoever, laughs at what she just said the way he did when he was drunk back at her first show. Now she has some more in a few bars, but never anything exclusive. “You seem like the type.”

“Love that we are both judgemental.” She chuckles along with him, earning an eyebrow lift that shouldn’t be quite as attractive as it is. As though he is confident in his silence and how that makes people more interested in him.

“Chan’s the one that did it. He’s a friend of mine. Got drunk and started a fight, I ended up pretending like I was the one who started the commotion.” The stranger explains with a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. She watches the veins in his arms stand out in between fine hairs, making her bite her bottom lip.

This man is art, even more from up close.

“Are you sure you weren’t the one throwing hands?”

“I could never. It would mentally drain me.” Wong retorts, raising a finger in the air out of the sudden. “You called me Wong, didn’t you?”

Uh-oh, that wasn’t his name? She has to play pretend now. “Um…Did I? I don’t really remember if I did.”

“You don’t? I heard you perfectly. Where did you get that my name was Wong?”

“I…I didn’t call you Wong, first and foremost. And I may have heard Chan calling you that over the music when I practiced my stand-up in the building next to yours.”

“Wonwoo,” The man corrects, breaking out in sweet laughter before shaking his head. “But I’ll take Wong. I think it sounds scarier than Wonwoo does.”

“Wonwoo.”

“Yes.”

“That’s your name.”

“I guess so. My parents gave me that name.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry.” She scrunches up her nose, placing a hand against her forehead.

His shoulders shake in that silent laughter that shouldn’t interest her quite as much before he shrugs. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me why you stopped going to the building next door.”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve been making so much money off stand-up comedy that I haven’t been able to actually stop by and practice. I just spit things out in a microphone. Like Eminem.”

His eyebrows raise in an innocent manner. As though what is served in front of him is somewhat truthful even when he doesn’t double-check. She wonders if life has been less complicated for him, reason as to why he can believe with more of an open heart.

“Actually, my career is dying. Both as a bartender and as a comedian but…I don’t have a choice, right?” She sighs, the humidity seeping like a cloud of air around her before it dissolves into nothing. “It’s either trying to live my dream or feel my heart failing so…if I make money or not, it shouldn’t matter. Success is a concept, not really a tangible reality.”

At least, that’s what she thinks. What she wants to believe when her cheek squished against her pillow and she feels like her thoughts are more death-threats against her dreams than anything else. Wonwoo stares at her with some kind of puzzlement in his gaze, and he takes that as his cue to nod.

“Something we never reach, that’s what success is. Or when we do, it slips through our fingers just as easily.” She didn’t expect him to sound so somber, but with the shiver of his body that trails up his spine and shakes him to reality, he hums. “But don’t feel down because of that. I like your jokes.”

“You’re the only one who laughs at them, most likely.”

“Some laughs from one person is still more than silence.”

She watches him with precision. Wondering, maybe, how a man like him exists. How there is so much compound profoundness in a body that is constructed to be seen as it is. To be inspected and studied like the anatomy of perfection. Only that he’s nowhere near close that, isn’t he?

“If I ever become successful, Wonwoo, I’ll say your name on stage.” She promises, giving a few steps back and hearing that laughter that she had never been able to catch from up close.

She wouldn’t trade it, now that she hears it.

“Make that a promise.”

“That’s what it is.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“It probably won’t happen, so don’t wait for too long.”

With that, she turns back, munching on her lip and trying her hardest not to smile.

So, maybe, she has someone to play for.

Present.

“Wonwoo’s career skyrocketed before hers, and I think that’s one of the biggest issues.” Joshua is not a plotter, but in this episode of Backstage Says, it feels as though he knows more than most. He leans back on his seat, rubbing at a tired eye. “He loved ballet. I’m not sure if he did it more than he loved her.”

For whoever that had seen Jeon Wonwoo on stage, they were up for a treat. Social media was barely touched upon when he finally got discovered by a group of women, which would then be shown in the video version of the podcast for people to see. Joshua taps a finger against his mouth, sighing.

“Her commentary was very clear. She didn’t want to be anyone’s shadow. She had lived there for a very long while…so I’m not sure what clouded her mind when she started seeing Wonwoo in another light.”

April 8th, 2009.

Wonwoo stands in front of a camera, feeling a little bit ridiculous, and yet, somehow saved from the imminent doom of his thoughts.

Near his house there is this plaza, a place that is rarely visited by anyone but teenage couples that are trying to hide their interlocked hands from their parents and make-out for a little longer, and a few kids that rush into their parents’ arms to get scoops of ice cream. He tugs at the beige sweater that rests on his broad shoulders, easing the knot on his throat with some clearance of it before he looks around.

Enormous trees cascade in elegant flowers at this time of the year, wetting his lips when seeing the gorgeous clouds that settle on the sky of Seoul. Jun had been nice enough to offer himself to record a video for Wonwoo’s and Chan’s channel, but he was nervous. Now that he got an email from a talent company, aware of his existence and wanting to support him monetarily, he’s not sure that he’s very happy about posting a video.

It’s the seventh time he has recorded the same routine, and he feels as though he does it worse every single time.

Wonwoo puts his glasses down, next to his wallet on a bench nearby, resting his hands on his waist and fixing the camera to settle the colors in brighter shades, discerning the clouds like puffiness in the sky to never be grazed by the horrendous hand of humanity. He likes that, the unreachable, but how freaking scared he can be of it is surprising.

He starts the music again, getting on his first position and raising a long leg up with expertise, though, when he curves his hands and gets ready to start with his jumps, he feels a droplet falling on top of his head. Soon after followed by many more, earning the widening of his eyes and a rush to Jun’s camera.

He’d get killed if he dared ruin that camera.

He covers it with his sweater, shielding it while the pouring rain gives him a message. As if telling him that now that he is represented, he won’t be able to sustain the views that he had gotten on his YouTube channel.

Though, just as he’s about to reach for his glasses, he hears music in his head. He listens to the soundtrack to ‘The Nutcracker’ in his head. He remembers the time he danced to it in high school; the mocking he got from other guys, the coos that came with the actual play and how it made him feel alive. He doesn’t realize that he’s getting into position until he renews the feeling from back then, swinging to his heart’s content. As it should have been, like it hasn’t been in a while.

Much to his surprise, however, as every joint in his body unravels into a typical glee, he sees a body from his peripheral. It’s a rushing outline of a woman, watered down like a flower in spring. She stops when seeing him and he notices this, immediately stopping his ministrations. He expects to see the mocking grin that takes over her features whenever he sees her; like she finds the universe funny. However, as she holds onto a now wet paper bag, she blinks at him before letting said bag fall to the floor softly.

“My God.”

His cheeks tint red, clearing his throat and putting his glasses on just so he can’t see her surprised face. He’s still not quite used to the attention; at least, not when he doesn’t have Chan by his side to take up most of it. “It’s raining. You shouldn’t be out like this.”

“It’s not like I planned it, Wonwoo.” The comedian says, taking one step forward before sighing. “How do you do that thing?”

It keeps raining and yet, she doesn’t care. She inspects with an eye that would be otherwise scarily specific when he frowns his thick eyebrows. “What thing?”

“The jumps!” There is a bit of a childish tone to her voice before she expands her arms romantically. “You seem so elegant yet so wide. It’s surprising to see you take up so much space and make it look okay.”

“That just means I’m tall.”

“You get it. I’m the one that should be funny.” She rubs the sleeve of her sweater on his glasses, rising her gaze and connecting her eyes with his own. God, those eyes could kill him at any moment and he wouldn’t feel any pain or resentment. “Show me.”

“Show you?”

“I’ve never been much of a dancer myself.” She admits, fluttering dusk-covered eyelashes at him and sighing deeply. “But I want to liberate myself in a way. It’s raining. I’ve gotten the news that my show’s been canceled. I bought my favorite bread and now it’s drained in rain. Maybe, try to lighten the mood? You always do whenever I see you.”

Not that they see each other often. It’s been months since he has heard her stand-up, but somehow, he’s always rooting for her. Living off a small crush that is clearly one-sided. “Okay.” He breathes out, taking off his glasses and hanging them from the collar of his sweater. “Raise your arms on both sides.”

She does so, but her actions are mechanical. One arm on the left, one arm on the right, and then a crook of her chin. “So, what else?”

“Your arms are not part of you. They are terminations of your being. Like the leaves of a tree or the feathers of a bird.” Wonwoo explains, letting his fingers graze the tip of her fingers. They are soft to the touch, somehow strong when he crooks them to his desire. “Let them curve, with a little bit of elegance, I guess. Lift your pinky and index, as if you are pointing at something but are too drunk to actually know what it is.”

“You’re an elegant drunk. I’m more of the shitfaced kind.”

“Part of ballet is pretending.” Wonwoo finalizes with her hands, sending her a smile before he takes place in front of her. “So, that’s the first position. Then, you launch yourself forward the slightest, letting your foot point behind you.”

“You really think I have the balance to do this?” She scoffs, leaning her body in just one leg and looking into his eyes before quirking the corner of her lips in a smirk. She’s far too close for him not to be bothered by that action alone, but he lets it slide. “Okay, now what?”

“You were the one that asked.”

“I want to feel pretty and elegant for once.”

Wonwoo bites on his lip, because he’s sure that he’d spit out that she’s always beautiful. The kind of gorgeous that has people looking twice, because that smile definitely has to be worked by Gods themselves. He would want nothing more than to spend hours and hours of his day looking at her just speaking, whether it was in her serious form or making fun of everything around her. He sighs deeply.

“Bring the foot you’re holding up to the front, give three quirk steps on pointé and then, jump. Rotate as you do so.”

He gives her a demonstration, passing by her side and keeping his balance even with the rain. Though, when he finally ends up in the last pose, she has already dropped her arms on her side, leaving her mouth ajar the slightest before she starts clapping.

Wonwoo had been blushing before, but this is even worse. He even finds himself smiling a little bit, because hey, what kind of man doesn’t like being looked at like that by a woman like her?

“That got you a lot of pussy back in high school, didn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised.” Wonwoo adds sarcastically, rolling his eyes and then, laughing.

“No way, you were the pussy monster? Like the cookie monster but cooler?”

“Not a lot of women want to be with a ballet dancer. I guess it’s the stigma of thinking that we are more femenine than most.” He confesses, only to have her quirking an eyebrow before crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t believe one bit that you weren’t popular in high school.”

Wonwoo, caught in his own lie, licks the inside of his cheek before laughing. “Okay, I may have skipped the fact that I was a ballet dancer so I could go out on more dates. But that’s part of going through high school, the whole experimenting bit.”

There is that mocking grin that he oh-so-deeply likes. She points her finger at him; straight, volatile, quite different to what he is used to because of dancing, before she adds: “I knew so. There is no way in this world that you weren’t some kind of heartbreaker yourself.”

“I never said I was a heartbreaker.” Wonwoo counterparts. “It depends on the story. Sometimes we are the good guy, sometimes we are the bad guy.”

“Sometimes, we are just some guy.” She comments, sighing deeply. “I feel like I’m just that at times.”

Before he could tell her that he sees endless talent in her, she picks up the camera that he had left forgotten at the bench before placing it in his hands. “I think it’s not going to work anymore. Sorry for that.”

She gives a few steps back, raising her arms on each side of her body before jumping two steps backwards. That makes him smile, even though he should be worried about his camera.

“Be my guest, judge me.” She says, only to have him shaking his head.

“Could be better.”

“I’m the bad guy in your story, then.”

Though, as he sees her leave, he’s not sure if she is the good or the bad guy. He only knows he’s more than just somebody.

And that he has to buy Jun a new camera.

February 15th, 2010.

She doesn’t feel the slightest bit like herself. Polyester never looked good on anybody, much less herself.

This green dress ends up a little bit under her knees, a little snug on the chest area and yet, it doesn’t make her look any more attractive or sexier. The Valentine Ball was an event that her manager had invited her to be part of to launch her career; some people had heard her stand-up and they wanted her to be part of the line-up. Through gritted teeth, of course, someone had to cancel for her to get the spot, but she’ll take what she can.

What she didn’t expect was that the dress that she ordered online would look like this. Pressing a hand to her neck, she tries to breathe in deeply. Perhaps, suck in her waist or look a little bit more confident, but as she’s trapped with a bunch of people in a changing room; known talents and those to be found, she feels like she’s out of place.

She should have taken the sexy dress that Joanne offered. She’d feel more confident then, wouldn’t she?

With tingling fingertips and the acids in her stomach lurching and expecting to make her throw up, she starts walking in the hunt for something. Anything? She is not really aware of what she’s looking for, but she’s opening doors, not seeing anything but more people, trapping her in a mindset that tells her she’s not really that talented to be performing in front of five thousand people. To be part of a lineup, even.

Another beer bottle ends up in between her fingers, sipping on it like her life depends on it. Skin heated and perhaps glistening a bit of sweat, she opens the last door she sees before she has to turn towards a hallway that she thinks she has already passed. The doorknob feels heavy in between her fingers, tugging at the door and then pushing it with her shoulder to help it open before she comes face to face with a body that she shouldn’t be ogling at.

A slim waist is hugged by a gorgeous coral-colored shirt, flared at the shoulders, paired with some pants that belong to a dancer. That head of black hair is a bit longer than she remembers when he turns around to look at her, eyes squinted because they are always like so when he is not wearing his glasses. He neatly folds the shirt he must have taken off just a few minutes ago in between his fingers, but she’s licking her lips at the moment.

Totally to taste the beer off her tongue, not because he looks good enough to eat.

Wonwoo is not a common memory, but it’s a good one. She briefly remembers that she had sworn to say his name on a show when she became successful, but that hasn’t happened yet. Sighing deeply, she raises a hand in the air, stumbling a bit because of the alcohol in her system.

God, make it better for the show, that’s all she can think about.

“I totally didn’t mean to interrupt you for like the umpteenth time.” Before he could say if that was the case or not, she closes the door with the back of her cheap heels before chuckling. “But I’m totally scared and overthinking my script, but I’ll take this meeting as a sign that I might be dreaming or that I have lost my mind completely.”

The room is smaller, crapped and heated, warming her up and making her feel a bit stupid. There he is, Wonwoo looking like an absolute dream, slim hips and small waist, with his cheeks pushing up in a smile and all she can think is ‘feromones, calm the fuck up’.

Fuck it, he’s sexy, she’ll admit that. Those girls that thought dating a ballet dancer was stupid must have lost their goddamned minds.

“You’ll do well, I’m certain.” Wonwoo places his shirt inside his bag before leaning on the bedframe of the mattress that comfortably lays in the corner of the room. The angles in his body become more apparent at that moment, but she tries to concentrate on what he is saying. That’s her drunk mind speaking, after all, isn’t it? “I have my own presentation today. I read your name in the list but I wasn’t sure if we were going to meet up. There’s plenty of talent today, after all.”

She chuckles, drinking the last few bits of her beer before placing the bottle down on a table nearby, getting closer to Wonwoo. “Sorry, I’m awfully stupid when it comes to these things. I didn’t check the line-up. I would’ve looked for you if that was the case.”

He widens his eyes momentarily before smiling. “Why so?”

“Because you’re a distraction, and I feel like I’m losing my mind at this moment. I’m drunk, nervous, and let me be honest with you…” She shouldn’t. Her mind is blaring signs that she shouldn’t speak more than necessary. Or at all, really, smart people like Wonwoo shouldn’t have to listen to her blabbering. “You look too fucking good right now and I want nothing more than to kiss you so I can have my mind at peace for a lonesome second. That’s what I need, really.”

Wonwoo should be one of those lovers that are shy and bite back on their words. She had seen him blush and stammer with his words, soft and comfortable, but there’s always a few hidden words in every silent tale. Wonwoo doesn’t move, but he’s a magnetic field that pulls her in by just extending his hand and interlocking their fingers together. He traces the bones on her knuckles, a few lines in his fingers felt by every fiber in her body.

Her anatomy gravitates towards him, by the way he doesn’t move and yet, everything about him seems as though it’s dancing. The golden lights of the room cast down on his now darkened eyes, though there is a bit of flirtation in them. Perhaps, he has his own sneaky ways of getting what he wants. Silently and patiently.

“You really want a kiss to forget? So, if it was anyone else, you’d ask them, too?”

She shakes her head, because she must have lost it. Giving a man this kind of power over her is different from what she does. She’d talk smack about what she is doing right now in a stand-up comedy, but the romance in his eyes is killing her neurons slowly.

“No.” She confesses. “I’d only want to kiss someone this badly if it was you.”

Wonwoo wraps a hand around her waist, though the hold is weighty, he doesn’t tug at her. He moves her closer, making her stand in between his thighs, warming her up when his lips wrap around her upper one. His other palm moves from her hand to her face, cradling her cheek and smacking their mouths together. He’s relaxed, patient as ever, with an elegance in his touch that shows the experience that he likes to deny. The pit of her stomach winces, contracts, pleads for her to get closer to him but her hands only wrap around his shoulders, curving more towards him, breathing in and sighing against his mouth before taking more of him.

His tongue doesn’t graze her lips, and his teeth don’t lurk to bite. Wonwoo is patient to the point she is down to kiss him for the entire night and miss the event if that’s what liquor courage makes her do. He smells like musk and feels like warmth, pulling her in and yet, granting her only what she can have for dreams late at night, never reaching the end-line.

Because he wants her to run there.

He’s an expert in making people look at him and desire him.

Soon after, she’s hearing her name being called from the speakers, calling her to prepare for her stand-up. Wonwoo pulls away, eyes gleaming, looking at her with a desire that weights his eyelids down and makes his lips purse as if disappointed.

God, she’d kiss the disappointment away if she’d have a little bit more time.

“Go. I’ll be looking at you.” His lips are not rosy enough, not kissed enough, and she’s about to lean in for another kiss when he moves away, opening the door to the room and pointing the entrance for her.

“I’m still not successful enough to say your name.”

Wonwoo’s lips quirk up at that. “I’ve heard you say my name in my mind plenty of times, don’t you worry about that.”

July 1st, 2012.

There's radiation within her body, emanating from her back and transcending to her chest. It doesn’t make her feel at ease, but somehow, she completes herself with the nervousness that coaxes her. Dressed in the costume for this week’s program, she tries to concentrate on how different life is. Joanne is somewhere in the bar, forgotten by her, abandoned in a world where gold splashes cameras and makes people coo at the images of celebrities.

She’s nowhere close to that, or so she thinks, feeling like a kid as she stands in front of Dokyeom, her counterpart. He is always ready for the next scene, live and yet, eating whatever script he had written alongside her for every Saturday night. However, her body dissipates into a small butterfly that shakes through the strong wind, trying not to disarrange herself with every bridge she burns to be able to fly.

Now that she’s flying, making people laugh weekly, working on her own stand-up shows, she is afraid of how high she can go before the imminent fall comes.

Whenever she feels nervous, she remembers the smile that she would see in some of the front rows of her shows. She recalls the vibrato of his voice after that lonely kiss they once shared while she was tipsy. It’s the only thought that makes her stay sane when the world moves a little too quickly, like Dokyeom’s lips as he recites the script before the cameras turn on.

“I want to do something.” She says, because her decisions are always taken like that. When she’s scared and there is nothing else to do but hope that throwing herself to the ocean will wash away that emotion. Dokyeom stops speaking, looking at her through thickly brimmed glasses that barely let him see. It’s part of his nerdy character for the show, after all.

“I’m blind enough as of now not to ask you what kind of crazy thing you want to do.” Okay, maybe she had gotten a little bit lost on the midway-through being a celebrity phase, but partying had some kind of taste to it. Like alcohol that buzzes through her body and makes her feel confident. What she rarely is these days, after all.

“I have a friend and whenever we spoke about me making it, I’d promise him that I’d say his name.” She recalls. Of course, Wonwoo is not really her friend. She barely knows a thing or two about him. His passion, the way he holds himself together, his laugh and how deeply he enjoys her jokes. She knows he is majestic, rare in every shape or form but in the best way. “Mind it if I call your character like him? In hopes of…you know, him watching it.”

Dokyeom takes off those enormous glasses before cooing. “Hold up, you’re lying to me here. If you two are friends, how do you not know if he’s going to watch it?”

“We’ve lost touch.” After that kiss, she would like to add, but she’d never hear the end of it if that was the case.

“Or, you actually are not friends with him but are trying to get inside someone’s pants.”

“On fucking stage, yes. Of course.” She adds sarcastically, pushing at Dokyeom’s shoulder before she hears him laugh joyfully. “Nothing funnier than making things awkward for everyone.”

“It’s what you’re saying, mind you.” Dokyeom counterparts, clearing his throat and then, grabbing the script again. His eyelashes flutter when reading the next few sentences, waving a hand in the air to coax her to say more. “Say the name so I don’t lose track when performing.”

Those syllables weight in her tongue. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t regret not trying it out with him. Whenever she goes out on a date or when nights get heavy on her own, she imagines whispering it to him, while wrapping an arm around his waist and trapping his lips in another kiss. One better than the last, if that’s even possible. She wants to unclad his secrets and get to know him more, to touch skin but also soul.

“Wonwoo.” Her voice shouldn’t have been as soft as it was and maybe, Dokyeom notices it. He doesn’t see her, nor does he make a joke. If anything, he stands perfectly in place and plays his character even when she calls him Wonwoo, trying her hardest not to smile but failing at the end of the scene, when she says it with a grin on her face.

Maybe, that’s what she wants. For Wonwoo to see that she has started dancing with life and while it’s nowhere near easy, it’s something. For her to get used to what the world threw at her was out of the question. Now, she releases her own weapons and fights against the odds, letting the rain wash down every insecurity she ever had. Like she did with him.

She auditioned for this weekly comedy show the day after she met up with Wonwoo under the rain, after all, and it took time, but she got called eventually. She wants to believe his braveness is what unleashed the inspiration that got her to be a better version of herself.

Or damn, she’s just overthinking the possibilities. Wonwoo could be just like any other man, a stranger to her, but it’s not like she’ll get to know so. He vanished into a memory of what never happened, only to stay that way. A treacherous yet luring road that was never crossed by her wandering steps.

July 9th, 2012.

Wonwoo doesn’t understand how his students spend most of their time with their noses glued to phone screens.

He should do it more, he thinks. He has his own channel, after all, and while he has launched and bleed through classes through his shared academy with Chan. However, as he extends his joints and prepares to start from the top with the presentation his teenage students were preparing for a high school performance, he hears more giggles coming from the group of girls seated on the wooden floor. They look at him before hiding blushed cheeks behind extended hands.

They have been like that for the last fifteen minutes and he knows that they got over their crush on him over five months ago. He made sure to establish that from the moment they started taking classes. However, there is something different and he has been trying his hardest to ignore the laughing and the stares, but it’s starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Do I have something on my face?” Wonwoo questions, placing both hands around his waist and frowning deeply to earn an answer. He needs to perfect their synchronization and they are not going to get anywhere with the gossiping that happens in the classroom.

“Nope.” Bitna answers quickly, chuckling into her hand. “But I think you’ve got a girlfriend, Instructor Jeon.”

He had one seven months ago. It wasn’t the most glorious of times and it ended quickly. With a few dates and hands that got lost in naked skin, but it didn’t feel like much else. It drained him from his energy whenever they argued, and the memories slipped from his fingers quickly. Not love, not like, just simply spending time together.

Was that even a girlfriend? He’s not sure. He hasn’t asked anyone to be so in years.

He hasn’t felt unique in years, and that’s mostly part of what stops him. To be with somebody, he wants to find someone who makes him feel as though he is one on his own, yet great enough for someone to desire to be with him. The butterflies can be forgotten, but there needs to be a buzz…or something.

“Girls, what are you saying? Stop inventing things.” Though, when he gets closer to them, hearing a chant of ‘no’ when he grabs the phone, he didn’t expect to see what he did. A woman is on the screen, one that he remembers candidly with a lingering kiss that had him wishing for more. Her lips part on one of those live weekly shows that plan on making whole families laugh while making commentary about celebrities and the current society. Though, what takes him off guard is when she continues with her role and dares say…

His name.

It doesn’t take much more for him to smile. Savoring the glory of her finally reaching a position in which she is happy. At the end of the scene, she seems to feel him. As if she knew he’d react this way, with the tips of his fingers tingling to touch her and his heart blossoming within his chest. He starts the video again, just because he can, hearing more coos from his students…but he’s awfully inspired.

Joyful, even.

She said his name. She’s on TV. Now, he knows he has something to watch every single week.

His impossibility, as he’d like to call her.

November 22nd, 2014.

Simpleness, she had always liked. Yet, when a diamond glimmers, a person can’t help but look at that. She wonders, somehow, if she is the villain in the story when she cringes into her own body as the cameras flash in front of the car her boyfriend was driving towards their date. Not that it was going anywhere nicely, the car smells rancidly of weed and they had been arguing from the moment they got out of his home. Lost for the past three days, he had been partying endlessly, and not a single text had been sent her way to make sure he was okay.

People hated them to bits and pieces, too. She was a joke of a comedian for dating a pop star, and Mingyu was too lost in his own vision to even care what people were saying about him. A few paparazzi, those that are now hunting them like an animal’s prey, had been nice enough (or not) to email her to see if she wanted to have a few pictures of Mingyu cheating on her. She asked her team to ignore them, pay them however much was necessary just because…

She loved him? As the cameras grow wider and Mingyu starts cursing under his breath, she looks at his profile. Stardom was always beautiful; god, she had wished to be in this same position, wrapped up in cameras and money just years ago. However, as Mingyu’s jacket transcends the smell of a perfume that isn’t hers and his eyes water in complete stress, she realizes that this is not love.

This is the need to brag. The egocentrism that clads celebrities and hides them in loops of nothingness. She likes appearing in pictures with him, that she has something to talk about in her monologues, that at the end of the day she has someone to kiss on the lips and have get lost in between her legs when she feels lonely. But this? The invasion of privacy? The loneliness? The screaming and arguing that ends up in pretending for a few cameras…?

“I’m done.” She confesses, grabbing her jacket from the backseat before she pats a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder. “Stop the car. I’m getting off.”

“What?” Mingyu questions, eyeing her as if she’s crazy. She must have been, considering that she has been in this relationship for the past four months and she feels as empty as ever. Sold out, like her shows should be, not her heart. “You’re absolutely fucking nuts. They’ll eat you alive.”

She knows that she is somewhere near the center of Seoul, where the restaurants become more apparent and people are not half interested in who she is. Or they weren’t, until she started dating the rap superstar, Kim Mingyu.

“I want to end this. This…fucking car ride, and this relationship.”

He chuckles at that. Of course, he can’t believe what she is saying. “Babe, I’m not joking. Those people could actually hurt you.”

“Stop the car and open the goddamned door.”

“No.”

She opens the door at that moment, watching his eyes widening because Mingyu can pretend to be reckless, but he won’t continue with the car ride if she’s threatening to get off. Her jacket clads her vision when she gets out of the car, bodies tugging at her own, pushing her around as if she’s a sack for them to possess. However, the tears she wants to spill never appear, swallowing thickly and moving forward.

“Slut!”

“Sell-out!”

“How are Mingyu’s other women doing? What do you think about that?”

“Get back here!”

All of this for feeling a little bit less lonely? No thanks.

She starts running at that moment, hearing more shouts behind her, but she covers her face with that jacket. No one could see her shame and sadness if she did so. After all, she’s expected to be all laughs and that’s all she will ever be. Never successful enough, never anything but someone’s shadow. A woman, after all.

More steps are heard behind her and she starts turning on alleys, not knowing precisely where she is going and entering the first secluded restaurant that she finds in an abandoned alley. Cats are by the doorway, the secluded Japanese restaurant perhaps very close to stopping their business, but someone is seated there…

And it’s almost ironic that she doesn’t recognize him at first. His waist is still as taut, glasses humid because of the ramen he’s having. His black hair is shorter, pushed away from his enigmatic features, relaxed as ever until he hears the big sigh that escapes her lips. Her palms spread on her knees, never once letting go of the image in front of her.

Jeon Wonwoo always comes at the best times for her, and yet, somehow, it’s always the wrong moment for them.

She tosses the jacket to the side, hearing the old lady working by the entrance asking her if she’s okay but once glance of Wonwoo at her and she recognizes that he’s aware that she’s nowhere near close to that. Her feet move to their own accord, standing in front of him as if asking him to say something. He doesn’t.

“I think I lost.” She whispers, because she knows that he’ll understand better than anyone else. “I don’t know if it’s myself…or this game that I dare call life.”

Wonwoo stands up at that moment, placing his hands on her shoulders when he stands behind her. The part of her that were dead are lit up by hope when he sits her down on the chair across from her, grabbing a hairband from his wrist and messily tying her hair.

“You can feel pain now.” He reassures her and at that moment, she feels the tears that she had been hiding for the past few years building up. “The more pain you feel, the more it will heal…and then, you’ll see yourself in your reflection again. I promise.”

In the tea Wonwoo had been drinking, she sees tears winding down her cheeks, a few hairs framing her face and a man behind her, who smiles softly, like he is a bit shy about doing it.

She’ll be herself one day.

It’s not today, but she lives within her body and she’ll appear one day.

“...I would really like some ramen.”

“Have mine.”

“You sure?”

He chuckles and the sound alone heals her heart. “The world is a little bit better if we share, isn’t it?”

May 26th, 2017.

“If you had to choose a part of me to stay with, which one would you choose?”

She asks that question as she watches the sunset with Wonwoo, seated in between his legs and sharing a dense, oversized jacket with him. His arms are wrapped around her body, caged and confined by the same fabric, with his perfume lingering in her body and his chin squished to the top of her head. Wonwoo half chuckles at her words.

“That awfully sounds like I’m a serial killer and I will pluck off your nails or something.”

“Don’t be so literal about things, Wonwoo.” She rolls her eyes at him, interlocking their fingers together and still, feeling her heart stop. She likes saying that what makes her relationship work is not letting anyone into their lives. They know what they want them to know, and that power alone has people wondering if the person in her monologues being completely anonymous.

Or kind of, people are well aware that he is a famous ballet dancer and it’s not difficult to add two plus two.

“Your eyes.” He confesses, pressing a kiss to her neck and then, tugging at her body closer. The heat in her skin could come from his body or his words, she’s not certain, and that’s the beautiful thing about being with him. One never knows with Wonwoo. “You’d never look at me when we were in those two buildings.”

“I’d look at you!”

“Not a chance.” Wonwoo adds, laughing at her words. “You’d look at the wall as if people were staring at you and there was so much power in her gaze alone. When you finally asked me what I thought, I was over the moon…You’d look at me without a hint of fear, and I needed that. I wanted to be fearless because you were so.”

“I’m not anywhere near fearless.” She adds, pressing his hand to her thundering heart. “I’m scared of…of how nice you make feel, Wonwoo. How much I love you.”

“Let it be.” Wonwoo says, swinging their bodies from side to side before pressing his lips to her own. She had gotten this; comfort and grief…letting go of the sadness that had once cladded her. “So, yes, I’d stare at your eyes forever if I had to.”

“You have to now after telling me that.”

“I won’t fight it, then.”

Present.

“So,” Joshua Hong finishes his podcast with a small clap. “I wanted to talk about this story because I see people lurking for real love and whenever they answer what real love is, they answer this couple and I am certain they have broken up. Here, in Backstage Says, we have confirmed that Chan and Wonwoo are no longer friends after a dispute about the business and that…”

“You are so full of shit.” Much like her mother, Sangmi places a hand in the corner of the laptop and closes it with a thud. Not only had her little crush on the podcast host deflated, but now she’s licking her lips, twirling in her chair and looking up at the idol poster she has plastered on her ceiling.

Did mom and dad ever break up?

Picking up her backpack, she rushes out of her room with heavy steps and a curiousness that blinds her. When she reaches the kitchen, she sees her mom, hunching on the counter and jotting down a few notes for her next script. Dad, on the other hand, is reading a book that speaks of old literature and art.

Sure, her parents are not open about their relationship…but she exists. How could Joshua Hong say that they are no longer together?

“Did you guys ever break up?”

The young teen gets the attention of Wonwoo first, who raises his eyebrows before exchanging a glance with his wife. Laughter rises from both of them at that moment and Sangmi inflates her cheeks, bundling up her fists.

“I’m being serious!”

“We spent plenty of years lost, I guess.” Wonwoo announces, closing the book softly. “You have to think of it this way, it took us a long time to end up together even though we knew we were meant to have something with each other.”

“Okay, so, nice.” Sangmi adds. “The podcast I was head over heels for had an episode about you two and they say you broke up. Joshua Hong is now off my crush list.”

Her mom is the one to laugh now, writing another sentence before shaking her head. “Get ready, kid. You’ll make lots of mistakes before you find the one.” Though, she eyes her daughter. “Besides, he’s a little too old for you. Get over yourself.”

“Mom!“

That’s not Wonwoo’s attitude, for sure.

#wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #wonwoo au #seventeen au #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #ballet dancer!au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst

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bluekuu · 2 years

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My good omen

John Doe x reader

Warnings: Stalking, mild paranoia and swearing. I'll still keep story light hearted

English isn't my spoken langue so there my be some grammatical errors, but I have tried my best to check them. I will do part two when I have time. Reader is gender neutral in story and there will be not any physical describing what read do look like.

I hope you like my story✌💗

Stalking

👁 When you did move in to Uncanny Valley and started to work at the gas station, you though you would live a normal peaceful life, get up early, go to work, come back home and repeat. Maybe start a new hobby? Until you began to notice small things chance in your home, things were moved while you were gone and personal stuff went missing, but they always retuned weirdly odd places, like you did find your dirty socks at fringe..."Really? have I been sleepwalking or something?"

Later at night you woke up at the loud noise coming outside of your building. Sound like a animal rummage at the trashcans. You switch the light on in the kitchen, hoping that would scare animal away, until you opened the door. You didn't even have time to open the door fully when you see it. Black figure with big yellow eyes stare back at you. Two seconds and it vanished at the darkness. You slammed the door quickly close, heart beating hard on your chest to sight what you just saw. No more sleep that night.

👁Feeling of being watch never leaves you. Watching over your shoulders once in while, checking doors and windows are locked properly. Still that feeling follows every where you go. Should you call a police, but you don't have evidence at your maybe imaginary stalker. Did paranoia run in your family? Just act normal and go about your day, maybe that incident with that "creature" just spooked you little too much, this will end. You hoped and it did for a while.

👁One misty morning you waited at the bus stop your ride to work. There wasn't people around any where, you wondered were you only human in this small city. A minute past by in complete silence, when you heard someone approach you. A person stopped beside you not too close of your personal circle, but still close. They have dark clothes on and hoodie over their head, hands in the pockets. Long black curly hair poke out of their hood, they had a slouching posture.

You were sure they eyed you every ten seconds. You kept your sight on front of you like you didn't even notice the person beside. They didn't spoke, so didn't you.

"This feeling is familiar...I can't see theirs face, but I'm sure I haven't seen this person anywhere in this town. Maybe they are not a local or they have moved in just recently. There are still young people in here, usually they walk in groups so if this person are friend with them I would have seen them somewhere." Your trail if thought cut short when a bus arrived at the stop. You hoped in and take a seat further away of back of bus, away of the stranger. There was luckily two people before you in the bus. Curiosity still took over you and you take a peek of the stranger.

They looked kind of feminine and the masculine at the same time. Their pale creamy skin looked quit flawless, if the dark circles doesn't count under theirs eyes...the eyes. Your breath stop for the moment when you had a memory rushing back of your mind, encounter with that creature couple days ago, their eyes are exact same yellow color.

"Is this just a coincidence.." Stanger scanned the seats to where to sit and when they did find a spot they take a final look at you. Yellow eyes drilled at your owns and small giggle leave their lips like they were humored at someting.

"Can person read others mind?"

👁It's been a week now when this new creepy incident happened with that stranger who you weirdly haven't seen anywhere anymore, like they didn't never existed. "Yeah maybe I have just imagine all in my head after all. I have had stress lately on moving here...so it's may explained everything. Still it's strange." you ruminate while filled last shelf of trade supplies and then moved to storage to get a mop and started to clean the floors. It was quiet day, quieter than yesterday, it was nice to have some days like these, but even when you felt peace in you waited to something to happened, not sure was it bad or good omen.

"Home finally!" you kicked your shoes of your feet and throwed your bag at the sofa. You take your home trip through the shop, you bayed some favorite goods to spoil yourself after you have taken a long shower. You walked in the kitchen having a good feeling you had, when bad smell hit our nose. "What the hell is rotting here, that smell wasn't here at morning..!" You stepped on something wet, slimy and red. "...Oi that's disgusting!! Where the hell did this came from?!" you did your best not to throw up while cleaning the kitchen floor from the unknown red goo. Lost appetite.

"So it was a bad omen"

👁Beep beep beep...

Alarm clock waked you up, you did switch the clock off and it was 7:00 am. You get up of the bed and walked to kitchen to make breakfast for yourself. "At least it's Friday, I don't have much of plans on weekend, still could go to explore the city, what I haven't had time to do yet after my move to Uncanny Valley." It was lonely sometimes when you don't know anyone in here. You take a look of clock and realised you have had lose track of time while you were deep in your thoughts "Oh shit! I should have be going times ago. I'll be late."

You ran at the bus stop, but the bus start to drive away before you manage to reach the stop, but the bus stops. "Oh thank you, I won't be late!" You climbed at bus, this time there were more people than usually. So much crowd made you little uncomfortable, but you did made your way bravely to empty seats. You put headphones on and started to listen to music.

👁Half of day had went normally. You had your lunch break, salad out of cold shelf, soda and potato chips. Phone on your hand scrolling on your social medias, you were again so couch up in your own world you didn't hear the door bell ring. "Hi......" "...........Hi?.......ummmm..exuse m-" "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't hear your were there, sorry. How can I help you..?" Front of you were standing familiar face.

Stranger you met week ago at the bus stop, they wore the same black hoodie like last time you saw them. Hair was maybe even more tangled than before. Now when they were closer you could see theirs hairs has red ends. But their yellow gaze was still so intimidating, its made your face heat up red. "What is your name?.." "Uuh...y/n, its read on my nametag" they let small gasp out of their mouth of your respond "Right, well that's nicest name I have ever heard....What your doing after work?" Your heart star to beat little waster of fear every sentences they said. "Plan to see a friend-s, I see my friends after work" your terrible liar, they probably can tell your lying. "Oh...that's sad, I tough maybe we could have hangout...You seem really nice person." they notably looking hurt. A guilt of lying peaked its head inside of you, they must be lonely like you are sometimes. Town ain't big, but if you even don't have smaller circle of people around you, you'll get super lonely, super fast. "Well...I'm busy today, but maybe some other time might be fine" you give stranger a weak smile. Their spirit rise up immediately of your invitation. "That would be really lovely!!" creepy, but oddly cute wide smile spread across theirs face. "I don't know your name yet?" you asked same time avoiding theirs now extended pupils.

"It's ̸͖̫̠̬̩̟͔̱̣̭̀̐̔͛͑̌̕͜ ̷̨̡̢̡̩̥̫̐́̒ͅ ̵̹̼͓͉͕̱̻̠̘̙̝̼̳̋̇̇̈́̉͐͌́̐̈́͘͘̚͜ ̴̡̛̥̗̯͇̝̲̎̿͂̓͌̈̊̂͒̎̌̈́̾͝ ̸̧̡͓̙͎̞̜̯̳̘̥̘̘͙̰̫̃͗̓ ̷̨̢̛̯̫͎̗͉̞̫̝̰̞̺͚̝̾̒̃͆͛͛̓͊̅̽͐̐͘͘ ̶̨̛͖̖͉̞̹͖̽͋͆̑̎̓̆͋͑͌ͅ ̴̛̦̗̹͎͇͔͍̣̮̪̝̝̆̋̉̈̉̏͋̏͂͠͝͠ ̶̛͚̜̼̝̲̒̈͗͌̏̄̒̑̐̆̂̒͊͝

but you can call me

John Doe"

👁 After your conversation with Doe he left the store soon after that. Rest of the day went normally like usual, you did finish your final task and then headed to home. Whole bus ride your were alone, no sight of John Doe, no one.

You got off the bus and walked your front door. Hand went in your jacket pocket to search keys..."Wait where's my keys? Fuck! I left it inside my apartment in this morning" While you were cursing to how to get inside, the door opens itself. You stared at John Doe wide eyes and he stared at you. "You are home!!" Doe sing out happily. "What you are doing my house? How you get in...I-" "Your window was open, you're so forgetful silly." "Was it, no way he's lying". "Don't just stand there come in!" Doe waived to you come in side. "Hey don't tell me to come in my own house!"

Everything was in place or maybe Doe haven't had time to rummage the whole apartment floor to ceiling. You try to think hardest how to kick Doe out of your home without much fighting. "See that was the window what was open." Doe pointed tying to convince you.

"I haven't opened it, also you're in my home without permission, I could just call the police on you..." "NO, DON'T!" You back of by sudden scream, what Doe notice and lowered his voice down. "I didn't mean to upset you. You said we could hangout later, so I wanted to surprise you."

You tried to read his facial expressions any sing of lying. You don't know Doe yet so you can't be sure if he is dangerous, but part of you really wanted to get know him better. "Doe looks odd for sure and his behavior is odder, but he seem really care about this. If things escalate to bad I can always to call police."

"Okay...uh I kind of liked the surprise, I left my keys at home in morning and thanks to you I'm not locked up outside anymore." "So can I stay?" Doe started to look exited again, you could see it from his eyes. "No it's really late and-" "But there's sooo dark and scary outside"

"Doe, don't manipulate. You broke into my apartment, that should have been scarier. But we can see tomorrow if that help, I promise." Doe was quiet for moment thinking what you said, then he give that wide smile again. "Fine! See you later then, love" And blink of your eye Doe was gone, like he had never stood front of you. That startled you and made you almost fall on the floor. "So that's how he can move around, he just teleport. And he came through the window, haha what a liar….did he call me a love?" you felt small sensation of warmth rise in your chest. "Don't let it go to your head y/n."

👁Uncanny Valley really have it's wonders, but what gives you even more wonders is John Doe, you know already that he's not human, what makes you little scared, but interested at the same time. You have heard people talk in gas station something about "regular guys" they look human, but ain't that, maybe Doe is one of them.

I think seeing Doe tomorrow isn't that bad idea, it's about the time make new friends, even they aren't human...

Maybe that's my good omen after all.

#john doe x reader #john doe x you #john doe game #john doe visual novel #uncanny valley series #john doe horror game #my writing #fanfic #headcanons #gender neutral reader #yandere x you #yandere x reader #fan fiction #new writter #x reader writer

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nxnarui · 25 days

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Introducing my DoL PC, Evelyn the Two-faced.

I've been playing this game for a while and this character of mine has been in my head for quite some time.

I'm kinda aiming for a "Wolf in Sheep's Clothing" vibe to her. She is seen as an ideal student and a holy child by others.

I've put quite some effort into grinding her stats to fit what I have envisioned for her. I'm gonna write down here her story.

"She is like an angel, but remember that demons can shapeshift."

Evelyn lives in the orphanage with a strong will to fight, when she was 18 she had problems paying off her debts to Bailey, so she took many jobs such as working for the cafe and taking shifts from the office building, but none of these are enough to get by the week. So she resorted to knocking at the doors of Danube Street to get more cash to pay off those weekly debts. But ended up being r//ed in the process, being molested in the bus all the time. She tried fighting back but it was never enough because of her weak physique. Every morning she was tired and if it wasn't for her friend Robin, she wouldn't have the energy to go to school. She would often get bullied by Whitney most of the time, but when she fought back once to him she gained the motivation to work out. As time passed, she worked out most of the time, sometimes neglecting her studies and having low grades. She started talking to Sydney while she studied to gain more understanding of her subjects, and she found out Whitney also picked on him. She had more reason to gain motivation, the bus wasn't any different but this gave her the motivation to work out till she reached the peak physique she desired.

The more she exercised the more she got r//ed, she was always in Harper's office because of pushing herself every day trying to keep working out, studying, and socializing at the same time. She went to the asylum once because of all the trauma she endured from all those circumstances. She went back in again because she couldn't pay off her debt to Bailey and was sold off to Eden. She felt like she had no hope for herself, she was soiled. Every inch of her body was touched by strangers. She vents these problems to Sydney, who she has the last hope for. Something in her decided to corrupt this pure and innocent man, so she did. She joined the temple to break the vows of the Temple with him. Her whole life changed when she met him, she had more control over herself, learned how to fight back, learned how to take care of herself, and prayed and prayed to gain grace for the church. But all of this is a facade, she's only here for Sydney. Her grades went up, and so did her popularity. Everyone thought she was very cool. Whitney tried intervening in this popularity but the more control she has over herself the more she wants to corrupt everyone else. Make them her dogs, obeying her every move. She wants to do this to Whitney especially, as time passes she becomes a worse bully than Whitney. Even if people send her to detention, Leighton always wonders why she's there. Even if they scream for help, no one will come to their aid.

"Her big red lips are filled with lies."

Here's what she looks like in game!

Also she's not entirely evil, she still has kindness inside her, she just doesn't see the world as a nice place anymore. And all you need is to survive, and she doesn't want to be prey anymore.

#dol #degrees of lewdity #dol pc #sydney dol #robin dol #dol kylar

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not-so-mundane-after-all · 4 months

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Dick & Rachel and the Invisible String theory (part 1)

Well, I finally gave in and decided to write it all down. How can I not when the show is basically slapping me in the face with it? It's all right there, if you're only willing to look. I've been dropping the phrase invisible string in relation to these two here and there for a while now and it's time to give it some more sense.

And yes, I am well aware this might be a stretch - it's Titans, nothing is ever intentionally that deep. But if there's one thing that show ever did right, it's this relationship, from the pilot to the end. So it's worth looking into it for me even if it's only my delusion speaking and it's not officially a thing.

So what is the Invisible String in this case? It's a connection, most likely supernatural, linking these two characters together and tethering them to each other in a way that is unexplainable by either logic or feelings. It plays into the definition of soulmates, though in this particular case other things like fate or magical powers might be connected. It's a bond made of love, fueled by love, but not responsible for it - the characters' feelings feed into it and strengthen it but they are their own and aren't affected by the existence nor strength of the bond. After all, even with the connection already in place, Dick and Rachel could have met and ended up hating each other.

Which means that not every scene they share will end up on this list I've put up here. Most of the time, the characters' actions are driven by their feelings, and the circumstances surrounding the scene are easily explainable. But sometimes, something strange happens and no matter how you look at it, you can't figure out how it happened without the so-called "higher power" at play.

(the higher power in question is most likely my delusion but fuck it we ball)

So where does it start? Obviously, in the pilot episode.

The dream that had started it all. The show is opened by it, it sucks you right in. This is where the String is born. Rachel walks right into Dick's memory of his parents' death and lives through it with him, even though she has no idea about it at the time. The dream we see in the pilot is also not the first time she has it; when she wakes up screaming and her mother comes in to comfort her, Rachel tells her what happened in half-sentences and broken words, not bothering to explain further and Melissa's look of understanding tells us that she already knows the story. The most important detail proving the connection's existence here is in Rachel's words.

"He was so scared. I felt it."

Somehow, thanks to her still developing powers, she was able to feel what he was feeling in that moment, proving that she is indeed inside his memory. Rachel didn't sense Mary's or John's emotions - only Dick's. Because they are gone and he's still alive so the memory is still alive as well.

The only thing the show had never bothered to explain here is the why. Why him? Why this? It feels a little random at the surface level, dreaming about a memory of some stranger you've never met. Even if we're talking about fate, about destiny bringing them together, the question still stands. Why Dick? Why didn't Rachel dream about the moment Gar became a metahuman? Or the moment Kory came to Earth? That one would have made sense, since Kory had been sent with the mission to kill The Raven. Guess we'll never know.

The connection is the most visible from Rachel's end, because her powers come into play. They might even be the reason the String exists in the first place. After her mother is killed, Rachel runs to her hometown's bus station and seemingly randomly picks Detroit as her destination, unaware that this is exactly where Dick is. The String is leading her to him without her even knowing.

But we can see it working through him as well, even though he's human and doesn't have any magical abilities.

We're introduced to a detective/vigilante, who's known in his day job for helping kids. The very first scene we see him in, he's looking through a file of a physically abused child. So the situation in the pilot is not his first rodeo. He's been dealing with kids in his line of work before, troubled kids more often than not. Rescued them from sticky situations (either with or without the Robin suit), and most definitely signed off some papers and handed the kids over to social services. And he never got attached. No matter how bad the situation was. His job required him to not get involved.

But then this kid shows up, a kid who recognizes him somehow (she can sense something familiar about him the second he walks in but doesn't clock it until he tells her his name) and she knows things about him she's not supposed to know. She tells him her mom was killed and his demeanor changes from slightly hostile to compassionate immediately because it's something he can relate to. She's begging for help with eyes full of tears, so blindly trusting despite just meeting him, talking like he's her only hope and his resolve is already starting to break.

And then she takes his hand. Whether intentionally or not, she dives into his head, and her dream and his memory become one. They expand, giving Rachel further glimpses into his past. And they both feel it.

And boy, does it spook him. The weird and very conscious feeling of getting sucked into his own head, the unexplainable connection to this kid in front of him who for some reason is able to dig in his brain, a connection that only seems to be fueled by his growing concern for her and her situation. It clearly freaks him out. He's a lone wolf, he doesn't get attached. Neither his day or night job allow it. So what does he do about it? He runs.

"I can't give you the kind of help you need." But he wants to. And it scares the shit out of him because this shouldn't be happening. This should be easy. Get her statement, check it, call social workers. Sign off a few papers and be done with it. Just another kid, another file, another day at the office.

And yet he has to force himself to leave the room and not give in to her desperate begging. He goes to do what he's supposed to do, turns it into just another case.

He tries to leave it. Makes some calls, grabs his coat and heads out. Dude is already out of the building, ready to call it a day and let someone else take over but something stops him in the middle of the parking lot. A sense of duty? Strange worry twisting his gut? Instinct telling him that something isn't right? Something is pulling him back to this girl and no matter how hard he's trying, Dick can't walk away.

Because you see, the moment Rachel took his hand and they both experienced the memory at the same time, the String solidified. I visualize it in my head as two opposite ends slowly reaching toward each other and when this happens–

–the ends meet. They snap together and two separate pieces of the String become one. Only the thing is, right now it's just a thin thread. Now it's up to them to either break it or make it stronger.

(if somehow you're still reading, I assume you know what happens)

As we dive further into Season 1, there are plenty of moments along the way that show how the String strengthens with Dick and Rachel growing closer. 1x04 especially has a moment that is a definite milestone in their relationship — Dick making a conscious decision to stay and take care of Rachel, no longer afraid of the connection and responsibility. But we don't see the String at work again until episode 1x07, "Asylum".

Now, as a singular event, this next scene doesn't necessarily qualify, because it can be logically, scientifically even, explained. But it's here because it's the first of the several instances creating a pattern across all seasons: a pattern of Rachel bringing Dick back to reality from the confines of his own mind.

She seems to be the only one to have this ability to such an extent as she does, and as the seasons go, we even watch it grow in its effectiveness.

When she finds him, he's been pumped with drugs and kept trapped inside his head for an unspecified amount of time, we can assume more than an hour. He's limp, completely unresponsive and it takes her several tries to wake him up. And what does it? A reminder of what connects them, of the promise he made her, the promise that he will never leave her.

It's not that easy to notice unless you look closely but his eyes gain focus and snap to hers the second she says "You promised!" Unknowingly, Rachel tugs at the String and yanks him back with those two words — she needs him to remember, she needs him back because she's scared, and even though her own mother is standing right behind her, none of it matters because Rachel won't feel truly safe unless he's there to keep her safe — and it works because keeping that promise is a priority to him, it's what keeps him going. "Yeah, I guess I did," he says as he comes to his senses and gives a tiny reassuring smile to let her know that he remembers. And we all breathe with relief (well, I did).

Then we move to the very end of episode 1x10 "Koriand'r".

Why is Dick the only one able to cross the cloaking barrier around Angela's house? Why did he run at it at full speed, determined and so sure he'll break through even though he risked literally crashing into a wall, and went right through it with no problem, while neither Kory nor Donna couldn't? It's simple: Trigon allowed it because he knew about the String. Having similar powers to Rachel, he could sense it in his daughter and decided to use it against her. He even knew when Dick and the girls appeared in front of the barrier. Trigon recognized how important all these people are to Rachel, but there was something about this particular bond that caught his attention and made him realize Dick is the perfect pawn. If he wants to break his daughter, he first needs to break the one person she loves the most.

What deserves a special mention here is a little moment at the end of episode 1x11 "Dick Grayson" because this is the first time in the show that the word "love" is used to describe Dick and Rachel's relationship. And it comes from none other than Trigon himself.

Because you do. He knows. Despite never having met either of them before. Trigon has been back on Earth for what, an hour? And he sensed it right away.

That's it for season 1. I was originally planning to put all seasons in one post but obviously didn't consider that there is a 10 image limit and that I talk too much lol

So if you're curious for more, read part 2 and part 3 here. They will dive into how the Invisible String manifests itself in season 2, and check out part 4 for seasons 3 & 4!

#dc titans #titans #dcu titans #tv: titans #dick grayson #rachel roth #dick and rachel #nightwing #raven #kory anders #garfield logan #graysonfam #titans season 1 #titans season 2 #titans season 3 #titans season 4 #titans meta #fathers and daughters y'all

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roxineedstosleep · 2 years

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Hello, this is Reader's phone number, please leave a message after the beep.

Hi, this is Bruce, I wanted to let you know that Dick has been asking about you for days and whether you're going to his gymnastics competition next week Thursday.

I know you're just his babysitter, but he's really grown quite fond of you in the few months you've been taking care of him and he can't stop talking about you. I hope it won't be too much trouble in your schedule for you to go that day; would it convince you if I told you we were all going out for pizza?

Well, I hope the invitation is well welcome.

Also, I wanted to schedule the whole month of July with you to watch Dick every day. Due to company business I have to travel and see some things abroad on my own, and I want to take Dick with me so he won't be lonely, but I'll need a little help to see him. Don't worry about the cost of things, I'll cover for everything you need myself. I feel he would be more at ease knowing that there is someone who likes and loves him on this trip.

I hope to see you this Friday so you can help me buy Dick his birthday present. Remember you are invited and - Dick's words - your presence is mandatory.

Well, I won't take up any more of your time, I hope you have a good week.

------------------------- BEEP -------------------------------

You listened through the old message machine you had in the flat.

Your brow furrowed as you finished listening to everything Mr. Wayne was saying.

Did Richard like you, or did Mr. Wayne have another boy Richard and you were getting confused?

It's just that… Richard didn't like you.

It was true that you had been looking after him almost every day for a good couple of months, at least until Mr. Wayne or the butler was free (you could bet that the most hours you had been with Richard was about 5 hours, since they were always present), since that was the schedule with the nanny agency that the butler had hired, but at no time did the boy seem to like you.

The situation was somewhat delicate, and as much as you tried to be professional and kind to the boy, there was not a day when the poor boy looked at you in a defiant or annoyed manner. Or, even to your misfortune, you would get the odd toy or book dropped at your feet… or in your face; if Richard's day had been particularly heavy.

You totally understood, mourning was a long process; and even more so if the one who was supposed to take care of you needed to fulfil his duties within a company as important and renowned as Wayne Co.

He obviously wasn't going to be entirely comfortable with the presence of a stranger, let alone try to be friendly if, from what the butler had once told you, other nannies weren't so kind to him.

It wasn't that Bruce didn't love Richard, he loved him very much and that's why he refused to leave the boy unattended when the butler couldn't see him. As soon as he found out about the lack of appreciation of the previous nannies he fired them and denounced the agencies.

But he couldn't be stuck 24/7 with a child and make work meetings, he couldn't overload the butler either; he didn't get any younger, even though he had good stamina.

The only reason you had still kept the nanny job with the Waynes, ironically enough, was that Richard hadn't complained about you or your behaviour. You never raised your voice to him, you brought him snacks and - if you felt it was a good day - you would offer to take him on short walks in the gardens. He didn't like you, not at all, but you weren't a fairy-tale witch either.

You could say that, at least to him, you were an adult with whom he had to deal.

And you were not offended by that kind of thinking towards you. He was not the first or the last child to think in a similar way. But, thank God and Alfred's stern gaze (and you suspect his biological parents' previous upbringing), Richard was one of the few who wasn't terribly spoiled and would make your day a living hell. You suppose that, had things been different when you first met each other, Richard would have been a lovely boy to look after.

But that wasn't what was important or what was really bothering you.

Even if you were free next week, you didn't want to go to that championship. You knew that Richard would show off and be perfect, but you didn't want to push his buttons anymore… Not to mention you had a date with your boyfriend.

And that you were planning to move out of town in a couple of weeks.

Being an agency nanny had allowed you to save good money, even more so with rich clients; rich clients who didn't hesitate to give you extra for looking after their problem children.

And well, they had been planning everything for a couple of months already.

You just hoped the agency would notify Mr. Wayne of your resignation and they could get Richard a nice new nanny.

After all, Mr. Wayne seemed like a completely reasonable and nice guy.

Didn't he?

#yandere and reader #yandere batman #romantic yandere #yandere bruce wayne x y/n #yandere bruce wayne #yandere bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #yandere dc #yandere x reader #dc #dcu #yandere battison #battison

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siremasterlawrence · 10 months

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Henry Cavill has felt quite off for the longest time getting on his motorcycle he rides off in to the desert just blasting through the area as if he is in a race.

Story request by @male-meat-suit

Someone always feels like they beside him one way or the other he can’t escape it so he might as well make a run for it as far as he can go.

Henry checking his area through the mirror can help himself because every once in a while he keeps seeing a stranger in the view mirror.

Unfortunately for him he has no idea what

is to come this day the more he revs up the motorcycle getting him hard this should not be happening.

The power of the motorcycle revs up in even more roaring in to the road as he speeds in to the desert and the gas from the pipe blows up.

The motorcycle starts to glow blowing up in a shiny silver color channeling in to his body Henry does not know why but there is a true reverb happening.

A pair of arms reach on to him grabbing and groping him as he squirms on the seat he is in a sea of madness as his aura is now on a sexual high.

Suddenly, his body is losing absolute control every action, thought and motion is a totally robotic and he is no longer in control of his body.

A woosh or power rushes coming up from the bottom of feet shoots up in to the nerves occupying his body inside him he can feel a another soul.

His mind is spinning a figure in back of his mind a new figure standing alone in a dark shadowy figure looming over him growing stronger by the second.

“DAMN IT! Why this feeling go?”

“And what is with the glint?”

“A mirror trick?”

“BLAST”

“Calm down”

“Let me stop here and grab some water “

“I can’t help this feeling”

“Is someone watching me”

“Creepy “

“My head is spinning”

“Uuuugggghhhh!”

“Oh God!”

“Why am I so hard?”

“About to cum”

“FUCK”

“I am in control now”

“Who are you ?”

“Relinquish your body to me”

“Nnnooo Ssstttoooppp!”

His blue revels with a surge of electrical red bloody currents causing his cock to shoot cum through his pants instantly getting harder.

The pain pricking him causing him to soar, grow stiff and hard as they become totally immobile losing his balance he crashes to the floor.

His head spins blacking out in to semi aware drop in to unconsciousness with his body in a catatonic state of nothingness and black bleakness spreads.

Awakening in this space he lifts himself up in to the sky he sees the man an unimportant guy so unimpressive young guy with no muscle.

His super level definition of height he is now overshadowing the nerdy young man’s who stares at him with no fear or worry to his deflation.

In real time his body aimlessly his body is back on his feet checking out the area to see no cars coming and begins to strip off his clothes.

His hands digging under his shirt letting the sun shine on bus washboard abs throwing it to the side and his hands on his bely is next it’s sexy.

He hates this deep need to be used, lusted after and watched as the man is overtaking him it’s disgusting to me and it’s the stupid ridiculous.

The belt slides off, pants are unbutton and zipper drawn and it’s no more privacy from here. The pants are off leaving nothing but ones imagination.

Striking a pose he props up his cellphone on a display of rocks as he poses for a multiple sets of showcasing his body and even does a video recording.

“Hey I am Henry Cavill, I am fine, and vain.”

“I would never say that..you are liar”

“We can’t here you “

“Mwahahahahaha “

“The heat is killing me”

“And I am hot”

“It’s my body “

“Not anymore “

“Fuck! I won’t let you “

“As if you have a choice “

“I do…I one hundred percent do”

“You have no power here “

“Welcome to the sub space!”

“Hey baby”

“You want this pretty ass”

“I am free”

“To be with you and you “

“Of course you “

“Why am loving this?”

“I am fading! No! Let me go! I want my life…I”

“Bye bye”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“Motherfucking pussy bitch”

Henry Cavill disappears inside his own mind he fell in to swirl submission.

The end

#henry cavill #leather jacket #desert #possession #ghost #body possession #spirit

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sisterspooky1013 · 7 months

Text

Gaslight, Chapter 15/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

PART THREE

Ellicott City, MD

The moment she pulls Abby’s bedroom door closed, she feels tears sting her eyes.

She’s beginning to seriously consider the possibility that she’s having some kind of psychotic break. She was so sure, so sure that her dreams were real memories, that Mulder was a real person. But that man in the coffee shop saw her as a complete stranger. There was no flicker of recognition, no I swear I know you from somewhere, I just can’t place it.

But the moment she begins to accept that conclusion, all the questions come tumbling up and knock her off kilter again. What about the medication? Who orchestrated her taking it, and why? If Mulder isn’t real, where did her dreams come from? If Michelle isn’t hiding something, why is she so doggedly trying to keep Dana under her thumb? What about the song, and what Abby said to her at the bus stop, and every other little thing that doesn’t quite make sense?

She’s bent over the sink in the master bathroom, splashing cold water on her face to calm the puffiness in her eyes and wash away her tears. What does she do now? She certainly has no intention of seeing Michelle again, nor taking the medication, but what if her dreams just keep getting more frequent, more intense, more…revealing? What if she’s never sure whether the people in her life who claim to love her are lying right to her face every day?

“How was your appointment?” Cal asks, and she startles, reaching blindly for a hand towel.

She blots off her face, trying to decide what angle to take. Should she interrogate him, or play dumb? She could let him hold her, try to find some kind of comfort in his gentle touch, but she suspects that her distrust will hold her back from actually receiving it.

“Um, okay,” she says blandly, tossing the towel back over the rack and reaching for her moisturizer. She avoids looking at him, both in their reflection in the mirror and the flesh and blood man, her husband, standing beside her. “Actually, I think I may stop going. I don’t think she’s the right therapist for me, in terms of client-provider compatibility.”

“Oh?” Cal says, and she can hear the concern in his tone. “You sure that’s a good idea, mija? She helped you before. And you seem…you seem like you’re having a hard time.”

She flicks her eyes to his in the mirror and her belly twists. He looks bereft, much like he did in her first days home. Lost, and hurt, and missing his wife so badly. She was here for a moment, but she’s gone again, and either Cal is genuinely concerned for her or he is putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.

“I am,” she says softly, looking at the sink. “I feel like…like something’s not right.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, taking a step closer.

The hair on her arms stands on end, cortisol spiking. Danger.

“I don’t know,” she says shortly. “I don’t—I need some space.”

Her heart is thrumming, and she flashes her eyes to the bathroom door. Cal is standing in her path to it, and she’s not sure if he’ll try to block her from exiting. She’s not sure of anything, anymore.

“From me?” he asks, wounded.

How she can concurrently feel so much affection, empathy, and wariness for the same person is nauseating. She stares at the countertop, hot tears running down her cheeks. She wishes she could go back to his birthday, to that little sliver in time where she knew who she was and her place in this world. When she let him hold her, and touch her, and love her, without wondering if those touches were born of deceit.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

She hears him suck in a shuddering breath, followed by a sniff.

“What did I do wrong?” he asks tightly. “Just tell me, and I’ll fix it. I just want—” A pause, a series of sharp breaths as he tries to regain composure. “I just want you to be happy, Dana.”

Her face contorts. What is happy? Where is happy? Another place and time, perhaps.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

She steps away from the counter and avoids his eye as she passes by him and exits the bathroom. He doesn’t try to stop her, nor does he come to her in the guest room, though she’s sure he can hear her racking sobs and the start of her waking from another dream. He gives her the space she requested, and it feels like a bottomless chasm.

His fingers are twisted up with hers under the soapy water. He lifts them up and out, wrapping both their arms across her torso as he takes two steps back, towing her along with him. Dishwater runs off her elbows as he spins her around and then pulls her close, his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder. She looks up at him, finding that impish half-smile on his mouth that makes her heart ache. Overwhelmed, she rests her head on his chest and listens to the rapid flutter of his nervous heartbeat. They sway in lazy circles around the kitchen and she feels the heat of his mouth against her scalp, a featherlight kiss followed by the brush of his breath as he sings.

“At first I thought it was infatuation, but ooooo, it’s lasted so long. Now I find myself wanting to marry you and take you home.”

A flash flood of every emotion shocks through her veins, heightening her senses. Fear, excitement, arousal, love.

“Fuck, Scully. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Dana heaves a sigh as she walks through the sliding glass doors of St. Agnes, tepid vestibule air ushering her from the antiseptic halls of the hospital into the warm, sun-drenched afternoon.

She moves mechanically through the motions of her day while a storm rages just beneath the surface. Outwardly, she is wan and unemotional, smiling when social convention calls for it and forcing dry laughs from her throat in response to Tiffany’s jokes. Internally, she is raw and unsettled, on the constant verge of tears. She has no plan, no next steps, other than to keep living this life that she woke up to one chilly April morning. She’ll get Abby from the bus, pick up Peter, make dinner. She’ll live, in a literal sense. She’s been shocked to learn how much living can feel like dying.

She’s passing through the narrow space between cars in the parking lot en route to her BMW when she senses the presence of another. Instinctually, she lifts her head and squares her shoulders, projecting confidence and strength. Fishing her keys from the pocket of her lab coat, she readies them between her fingers like talons.

“Dana Scully,” says a male voice, and a cold wash of fear runs down her back.

Still walking, she turns her head in the direction of the voice and sees a man. Thirties, clean shaven, short, dark hair and a narrow jaw. He’s standing near her car, one hand in the pocket of his leather jacket, which strikes her as an unseasonable wardrobe choice.

“Can I help you?” she asks, freezing in the middle of the aisle. If she comes any closer, he could pull her between two parked cars, obscuring them from view.

“I was actually thinking that maybe I could help you,” he says haughtily.

“Please leave me alone,” she says, taking one step back in the direction of the hospital. If she can make it back inside, she can ask a security guard to walk her to her car.

“I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say,” the man says, taking a step forward as she slowly retreats.

“About what?” she asks shortly, prepared to turn and run.

“About Mulder.”

Her ears short out and then begin to ring. She looks at the man, scanning his face for clues. She must know him. He called her Scully. Her survival instincts war with her need for answers.

“You know Mulder?” she asks, and the man smiles.

“Quite well. I know you quite well, in fact. I know you don’t remember me, but we go way back, Agent Scully.”

Agent?

“What do you want?” she asks, her tone petulant and childlike.

He shrugs.

“Nothing, other than to tell you what I know.”

“What do you know?”

The man looks around, then back at her.

“Not here. We need to go somewhere more private.”

Dana scoffs.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says firmly.

The man sighs.

“Fair enough. How about…there’s a little park near here with chess boards on the tables. Meet me there in twenty minutes?” he suggests.

Dana waits a moment, trying to read him. He doesn’t seem as though he wants to harm her, but he also doesn’t strike her as someone with good intentions. But if her options are to die trying to find out what happened to her or keep living the way that she is, it suddenly becomes an easy decision to make.

“Okay. Twenty minutes.”

The park is busy on a summer afternoon, children slowly trickling in as they finish up their school day. She’d called Amanda from across the street on her way over and told her that something came up, asking if Abby could go over to their place after school for a while. She’s not sure what to expect from this impromptu meeting, and decides to wait a bit before worrying over who will pick up Peter from daycare.

She spots the man already at one of the small cement tables with a chess board etched into the surface. He’s arranging the pieces with black on his side, white on hers, using one hand with the other tucked into his lap. She approaches cautiously, waiting until he sees her and motions to the seat across from him before she sits down.

“You any good at chess?” he asks, and she stares at him.

“Who is Mulder?” she asks, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“I’ll tell you,” he says, “but you have to at least pretend to play. It’s risky meeting in public like this, and I can’t afford to draw attention.”

Once he’s finished setting up the board, he looks up at her and lifts his eyebrows. She picks up one of the pawns on her side and moves it two spaces forward.

“Who is Mulder?” she asks again.

The man picks up one of his own pawns and moves it one space forward.

“He’s your partner. Or he was, anyway.”

“Partner?” she repeats. “We were in a relationship?”

He nods towards the board and she moves another pawn.

“Well, yeah, actually. But you also worked together.”

She blinks at him.

“Is he a doctor?” she asks.

The man gives her a perplexed look.

“Fuck, I think I need to start at the beginning,” he says, shaking his head. He moves a pawn and then sits back.

“Who are you?” she suddenly asks, realizing that it might be helpful context.

He tilts his head to the side, pondering.

“You can call me Alex,” he finally says, motioning for her to take her turn.

“Okay, Alex,” she says, making her move. “Will you please tell me what the hell is happening to me?”

Her voice is tight and shaky, and he seems to realize that continuing to obfuscate won’t be fruitful.

“Your memory has been erased,” he says coolly, casually, like it’s a thing that happens all the time. “Going back to 1992, before you joined the FBI.”

“The FBI?” she repeats. “I didn’t—I missed my interview,” she tells him, remembering what Cal told her at O’Blarney’s.

“No, you didn’t,” he corrects.

She continues to move chess pieces when it’s her turn, and Alex quickly collects all her pawns as she does not have the wherewithal for strategy. Memory erased? How is that possible?

“You were partnered with a man named Fox Mulder, working in a division known as the X-Files. The two of you investigated unexplained phenomena, and after an impressive number of years, you finally got around to fucking.” He pauses, looking up at her to gauge her reaction. “Or so I’ve heard,” he adds with a smirk.

Her mind feels like an oversaturated sponge. Unexplained phenomena? Memory erasure? What about Cal? What about the kids?

“Anyway,” he continues, “earlier this year you got a little too close for comfort in terms of obtaining tangible proof regarding one of their more nefarious programs, and the guys at the top decided it was time to find a permanent solution to what they called their ‘Mulder and Scully problem’.”

She waits, her chest heaving. The questions are so innumerable she can’t decide which to ask. She just wants him to keep talking. She advances a knight.

“There’s a project that’s been in development for decades, known as Spurious by those involved. After Roswell, it became clear that there would be a need to alter the memories of the general public in order to keep state secrets safe. You and Mulder became guinea pigs, in a sense, and the big guys are shitting their pants right now because it clearly didn’t work.”

He looks up at her and she stares back. She could not have anticipated that actual answers would leave her even more profoundly confused than a lack of information.

“I don’t understand,” she says quietly, her eyes wet.

“I underestimated how hard this would be to explain,” Alex huffs, running his fingers through his hair. “Everything you woke up to in April: Cal, the kids, the job at St. Agnes, your swanky colonial in the ‘burbs, none of that is real, Agent Scully. It’s a farce, a fabricated life designed to keep you from remembering.”

The validation is sickening. Even though she knew, in her heart of hearts, that something was off. She knew in her very bones that they did not belong to her. And still, she feels a gut-wrenching surge of grief.

“Then who are they?” she croaks.

Again, Alex shrugs.

“People no one would be looking for. I don’t know, exactly, but I’d guess they came from the prison system, foster care. It’s not a bad deal on their end, to be honest. I’m sure they’re much better off than they were before.”

“But they know me,” she counters, finding herself disbelieving despite everything. “They remember things that happened before. And my mother—”

He holds up a hand to stop her.

“You’re not understanding the scope of this, Scully. To pull this off, they had to act on a national scale. Every person you’ve ever encountered has had their memories of you erased, and sometimes replaced with new memories, depending on how closely you knew them. Everyone, Agent Scully, including your mother.”

Her mouth hangs open, rooting for words. It’s incomprehensible.

“How?”

“A combination of things. I won’t claim to understand the tech, but they discovered a way to selectively block memories in the brain. Once that procedure had taken place, they found that daily medication to suppress long term memory recall helped keep things from triggering the memories back into the conscious mind.”

“Numerol,” Scully says quietly under her breath.

“Hm?” Alex says, then continues talking. “That’s just on the memory suppression side, but in order to create new memories, there’s a chip implanted in the base of the neck that stores them. Between the procedure, the chip, and the medication, their trials were highly successful.” Dana’s hand moves to the back of her neck, feeling the small, raised scar there. “It’s also a tracker, so they can locate you if they need to. As long as that thing is in your neck, you can’t hide from them, Agent Scully.”

Her eyes snap up to his, finding a genuinely stern expression on his face.

“But to answer your question, they did it with the Manatua virus outbreak.”

Dana narrows her eyes at him, recalling what her mother said.

The vaccine was awful. People were vomiting, passing out. It was so painful, they started using general anesthesia to administer it. But the virus was so aggressive, it had to be done.

“Why?” she asks, flabbergasted. How could she, Dana Scully, be important enough to fabricate a national pandemic?

“To keep you and Mulder separated,” Alex says, capturing her queen. “Together, you’re a threat. He’s got his own little set up out in Philly, a wife and a dog and all that shit.”

“His wife has had her memory erased?” Dana asks, comparing her life to Mulder’s.

“No,” Alex answers flatly. “They actually did know each other before. You knew her too, and didn’t like her much. This is a big redemption for her, given how badly she fucked things up last time they brought her in. They faked her death just to get her the hell out of there, and I guess this was her way back in. She gets Mulder, and a chance to get back into the inner circle. My guess is that she’ll be willing to go to great lengths to keep it that way.”

Dana absorbs this, realizing that her greatest fear—that Cal is somehow involved—is Mulder’s reality.

“Why not just kill us?” she asks.

Alex sits back and smirks at her.

“Valid question. They wanted to, but someone in the ranks preferred to keep you alive. Seems like he successfully made the case that doing a test run on the Spurious Project was the best of both worlds. They get to separate you and Mulder while proving out the success of the program. Or at least that was the hope, but your little run-in with Mulder in Baltimore has them scrambling.”

A cold slice of fear cuts through her.

“Why are you helping me?” she asks, still not trusting him.

“Let’s just say I have a bit of a bone to pick,” Alex says as he re-sets the board. “Despite my significant contributions to this effort, I have yet to be fully compensated.”

“You want money?” she asks, wondering if this is all a twisted attempt to extort her.

“Not necessarily,” he says with a one-shouldered shrug, “though it wouldn’t hurt. I just want to see them go up in flames.” He looks up at her and his expression softens. “And I’m somewhat attached to you and Mulder, as a duo,” he admits in an apparent moment of earnestness. “It’s kind of…wrong, you two not being together.”

Dana swallows, thinking of her dream.

“What do I do?” she asks. He’s given her many things, but a way forward is not one of them.

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Alex says as he stands. Dana stands as well, feeling alarmed. “I guess that’s your call. But the reason I contacted you is to make you aware that you’re no longer safe. They know you remember Mulder, and that you aren’t taking your medication. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you.”

“What will they do?” she asks, a wave of nausea rolling through her.

“Not sure,” Alex answers honestly. “They might try to run you through the program again, or they might just kill you.”

“I should find Mulder—”

“That’s probably the worst thing you could do,” he interrupts. “Mulder doesn’t remember you, and they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If you try to contact him, they will kill you, Agent Scully.”

After holding her eye for emphasis, he turns and begins to walk away.

“How can I find you again?” she asks, panicked.

Alex turns around, walking backwards as he calls to her over the din of the park.

“You can’t.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic

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