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outroshooky · 4 years

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no halo | kth

⇢ genre: oneshot (brief angst, fluff, smut) (exestolovers!au)

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader, bestfriend!min yoongi x reader

⇢ word count: 5.3k

⇢ audio: brockhampton’s ginger album

⇢ warnings: brief angst (it’s exes to lovers, what do you expect), a smoking mention, some varied cursing; implied and explicit smut (soft!! body worship). there’s a happy ending, i promise.

⇢ a/n: i sat down at my laptop today, turned on no halo by brockhampton, and started writing. six hours later, i cannot believe that i managed to smash a brutal writer’s block by churning this out in literally one day. i hope that this is a bit of bright light for you, dear reader, in a time where nothing seems to be going your way. you will make it through no matter how messy or uncertain life seems to be, and you will come out on the other side all the more stronger for having survived it.

Believe it or not, it’s the pair of battered red Converse slung over his shoulder that tips the whole thing over the edge.

It’s inexplicable. Perhaps it’s the memories attached to it, knotted and strung through metal rivets scuffed with night rides and hard asphalt. Tastes like cigarette smoke and ashen dreams wafting from the driver’s side window, but there’s something more bitter there. Heartbreak veins, like you’d expect them to pulse with anything but. They say love doesn’t last when it’s not built on something solid, but somehow, heady summer nights and network love aren’t enough to pass the time.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing with those?” It bites, thickened with venom. Somewhere far-off is a headboard banging, curses of those stupidly thin walls of the motel complex.

“They’re mine,” Yoongi says. Which they are. Unfortunately. “I need them to like, go outside and stuff.”

“Fuck you,” you fire back.

“A ray of sunshine you are,” he remarks. “Any particular reason you feel like biting my head off in this shitty hotel room?”

The silence explains absolutely nothing. What he doesn’t know is that it’s not his fault. It’s right there in the middle of the dingy carpet, cracked and bleeding, privy to one and one alone. You’re too stubborn and he’s too good and here you find yourselves, locked at an impasse. He doesn’t know how good he is, how he’s patched your wounds up with wind in your hair and sand between your toes. He tries his best; it’s better than anything you would allow yourself, a luscious pleasure in such a stark world. So you settle for what you’ve got, and he shakes his head.

“You know you can come to me, right? About what’s on your mind?”

You finger the fraying tear in the bedspread, the cotton crumbling between your thumb and index.

“Look, I’m not good at this feelings thing and you know that. But you’re my friend, and I care about you, and I want to hear you out, okay? Whatever you’re thinking about. You’re not gonna hurt me; it’s not like I haven’t been through the ringer myself. You’re not so different, yeah?” Yoongi’s eyes search your own for acceptance. Defeat. Anything at all. “You’re not some kind of lost cause because one asshole in particular who shall not be named made you feel that way. Maybe it was two assholes. Whatever. Your worth isn’t dependent on their opinion of you.”

It feels like rambling but burns like an iron, sears through the darkness hovering over your consciousness, casting shadow. That thing twitches, bent and broken deep inside, staining down the bedsheets and spilling onto the beige carpet. He’s hit home, and Yoongi knows it when the defiance in your brow drains, floodwater evaporating against the creamy popcorn ceiling. He’ll forever hold that he doesn’t have a way with words; you’d kindly argue the opposite.

“I’m sorry, Yoon.” You look up at him for the first time since you’d woken up on opposite sides of the same bed. Something about childhood innocence preserves moments like those, in spite of years gone past since the last time you shared a bed like that. Nothing dirty about needing companionship in the form of a brother you’d had since you’d skipped stones down at the pond in grade school. He knows you intrinsically, like the scars that cross his knees and the freckles that dot his neck, no better and no less. “You deserve better than the way I’ve been treating you. Because you’re right, you know. But right now, it hurts.”

“Hurt doesn’t make you any less human. It’s a part of life. And it’s okay to hurt sometimes. Just don’t let it consume you till there’s nothing left.” He readjusts the shoes tied together by one string, sitting on the narrow angular of his shoulder. “Breakfast ends in an hour. I’ll grab you something and bring it back, and then we’ll figure out what to do next, yeah? I don’t have work till Tuesday, so we don’t have to be back for a few days more.” He pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and for the record, fuck Kim Taehyung. I’ll knock his teeth through his ass for the shit he put you through.”

The small smile you crack brings a toothy grin to his own visage. “Excellent advice.”

There’s a wry fondness dancing in the deep russet of his pupils, burning umber in the low light. “I try.”

Fuck Kim Taehyung. The exact advice you needed to hear, and the exact advice you decided to act upon, in exactly all of the wrong ways.

It’s the number that is stamped on your brain like a fifty-dollar tattoo— not necessarily the most tasteful, a pain in the ass to remove. Unfortunately, it is the tattoo that your thoughts like to trace with gentle fingers, rubbing at the lines, blurring the edges. Laser removal takes time and patience, but the contrary nestles in the form of stupid decisions and late-night mistakes. Like a dead battery on your Wrangler at 1am on the back streets, a useless cell phone, and three weeks of time to think.

Grief gave way to rage gave way to kindling coals of sadness, burning low but bright enough to light your way. Gone were your attempts to fan them back into the roaring bonfire those motel walls once contained, but here were your best efforts to cradle them close, nurture them that they might die out on their own, and most of them had. Moving on tasted ginger-sweet and minty-bitter, the chill in the air as the leaves tumbled and crunched underfoot, ignited with reds and yellows and everything in between. A summertime flame left for the autumn rain.

Pour the rain did, leaking rivulets down the windshield as you sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the dashboard. In times like these you’d call Yoongi, but he didn’t get off work till the morning and an impossibly timed dead zone did nothing to help your wireless suffering. Nighttime meant comfort for souls like yours, an escape into the quiet of dusk when everyone else sought the dreamy confines of sleep. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone else sought sleep while you were cursedly awake and stuck in the downpour. No place to go, no one to find.

You let your head fall forward and hit the steering wheel with a thunk. Fuck.

Knock knock.

It’s a glance to the left, out the driver’s side window that reveals a silhouette framed in darkness, wrapped in a thick coat, peering through the glass. Hand raised to brow and you can’t help the involuntarily yelp that leaves your mouth from the sheer proximity of the stranger. The figure flinches back in response, and you can’t help the immediate pang of worry. You can’t afford to miss a chance for help, but you also can’t roll down the window, and thus you’re opening the door and squinting into the rain as it blusters through the open gap. “Hello, I’m sorry, my cell phone isn’t working, is it possible for me to borrow yours so I could call somebody to pick me up?”

“Wait, what?” The stranger hunches slightly, peering through the watery onslaught. “Is that who I think it is?”

Oh god.

Oh god no.

The sheer absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on you, not like the way relief is wrapping that thick timbre around yourself like a familiar blanket. The irony of your car happening to die only a few blocks away from that little blue two-story, the coincidences of such a familiar stranger going out for a stroll in the middle of a fucking rainstorm. Of course he had to.

“Unfortunately,” you can’t help but grimace. “Taehyung, what the fuck are you doing out here in weather like this?”

You can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. It almost aches. “Are you saying this isn’t ideal weather to take a walk and enjoy the fresh air?”

“No,” you reply bluntly. Infuriatingly positive he is, always has been. “Ideal weather isn’t a fucking thunderstorm.”

“Mm.” The momentary quiet, save the rainfall, hints at what goes unsaid. “So what are you doing out here?”

You bristle. How to formulate a response that would not warrant help, but also warrant help? “I was out taking a late-night drive and stopped to take a break. I was getting drowsy and I prefer to be a responsible driver, so I pulled over to make sure I was awake enough to drive home.”

“What a considerate person you are!” Taehyung trills, and you’re almost positive it is completely unironic. “How are you feeling then? Do you think you’ll be able to drive home?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine.” A tight smile. Polite. It takes every ounce of will to not study him deeper, all of the curves and edges hidden snugly in the darkness. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure? It’s raining really hard as well; you won’t be able to see well even if you aren’t feeling drowsy.” There’s genuine concern in his tone, warmth bubbling from his throat like liquid sunshine. Maddening. But he’s right; he’s shining a bright light through the flimsy veil of your lies and you’re pinned. Even more maddening.

“Taehyung, it’s—” you clamp your mouth shut because in a slip of the tongue, you were that close to letting anger seep into your tone. That close to losing your stance as the better man, but the line of who exactly is the better man is smudged beyond sight in the downpour. You take a deep breath. Start again. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Lightning flashes, jolting the clouds and cleaving them in two. The very world could be coming down in tatters around him and Taehyung wouldn’t think twice about being his everyday self, annoyingly cheery and maddeningly gentlemanly. You swear you see a flash of teeth, a boxy smile despite the water dripping from his umbrella, striking the pavement with an irregular heartbeat. Not your own, of course. “Nonsense! We can’t have you left out here to soak like this. Come on, you can drive us home!”

Oh my god, he certainly has not disappeared quicker than the very implication left his mouth. He is not shaking his head like a dog shedding wetness, nor opening the passenger’s side and hopping in, pausing to fold his umbrella in the gap before pulling the door neatly shut. You are not seated in your dead Wrangler with your ex-boyfriend at one-thirty in the morning in the middle of the very heavens coming apart with a religious fervor.

Taehyung brushes his wet hair out of his face, dribbling water down his cheeks. For all of your expectations, he looks no different than when you saw him last, standing on the curb with all the world’s joys flickering in his pretty almond eyes. The shadows cast his profile in a gaunter light, sweeping down the hollows of his jawline, his cheekbones; your fingers tighten around the door handle. Apparently, three weeks might not change much after all.

“Oh sorry, did I rush you?” He opts to ignore your blank-eyed stare of shock, reaching out to you before pausing, his hand outstretched to touch you. “I didn’t mean to rush you if you’re not ready to drive yet. We can sit here as long as you’d like! There’s no rush for me to be home. I just wanted to get out of the rain; it was starting to soak through my umbrella!”

For all of this, you can manage a brief: “Yeah.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to go!” The optimism in his voice is painful.

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah!”

“I lied.”

You don’t need to look at him to know the way his forehead will furrow. “What?”

“Gah!” You can’t help pinching your brow between two fingers. “I can’t fucking believe this—”

“Believe what?” Blinking doe-eyes, long lashes wet and thick in the dimness.

“Taehyung, my car battery died three blocks from your house and my cell phone isn’t working, and now I’m sitting here with my ex-boyfriend in the passenger’s seat and I have no fucking idea how I ended up here.” You sigh. “Do you not see the irony in this?”

He blatantly ignores the gesture towards the massive elephant basically perched on the center console. “No wonder your car is off! We’ll walk then.”

“Taehyung, please just make it easier for the both of us and l—”

It’s no use. Dear god. How you had ever put up with him, shared a bed with him is currently escaping you, but regardless of this, he is already out of the car as the words punctuate empty air. Weighing options is impossible when you have none to choose from.

“-use my phone to call somebody to pick you up!” The driver’s side door opens and he’s there, right there, not across the console or the bar or whatever. Right there. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste!”

“Kim Taehyung, for god’s sake, I am your ex-girlfriend!” The exclamatory stops him in his tracks. Finally. “Why are you helping me?”

The rain pours rivulets down his black slicker, drenching his hair and bunching along his shoulders and running down his arms. And yet, he brushes the water from his brow with a swipe of his thumb, peers at you, sneakered feet planted firmly in the asphalt. He raises a finger to the sky, smiles— not a half-smile, lopey and lop-sided, but a true grin, squared and gummy and full of wonder. “Ideal weather.”

“Kim Taehyung, you are absolutely ridiculous—”

“Ideal!”

“So let me get this straight,” Yoongi grits as you sit across from him, your frame molded into the plush of his second-hand loveseat. “Your car died on the back streets, coincidentally three blocks from Kim Taehyung’s house, who is— just to double check— the asshole who shredded your relationship, and he happened to be out for a walk in the rain and stumbled across you in your car, and offered to take you back to his house and let you stay there till morning until you could get me to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

“What the actual fuck.”

You gesture at him with your free hand, the other occupying a mug of steaming tea. “Join the club.”

“Just to double check, we’re talking about the same Kim Taehyung. The dude who you officially dated for a solid four months but fucked around with long before that. That guy, right? That Taehyung?”

You release a deep breath; the steam rising from your mug winds away. “Yes, it’s the same Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi looks like he is about to spit nails. “I hope you took the chance to kick him in the balls.”

“Yoongi!”

“Just saying.”

“It could’ve been a lot worse, actually.” Your companion raises an eyebrow. “He gave me his umbrella when we walked back.”

“Ah yes, because giving you his umbrella once undoes six months of emotional damage—”

“Yoongi, chill. I did what I had to do—”

“Which is good, because survival skills are important.” He searches your face for any hint of something other than stoicism. Forgiveness, maybe. “And it doesn’t have to be any more than that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” you affirm. “But even if I don’t like him, I owe him credit where it’s due.”

Yoongi frowns. He knows not to push, but curiosity pecks his bones, nips his intuition. “For the third time— why didn’t you call me last night when you got back to his house?”

You sip at your tea. Flaxen sweet, mild on your tongue. “You were at work and I didn’t want to bother. Paying rent is more important than saving my sorry stranded ass.”

“You’re neglecting to mention the Kim Taehyung part.”

He rubs a fine nerve, one push too far. “Yoongi, what are you so worried about?” You sit up, place your mug on the fold-out table. “It’s not like I’m suddenly pining over him just because he happened to be there when I needed help. It’s not like I had any other options; I can handle myself. Taehyung and I broke up a month and a half ago; I’m not as… broken as I was before.”

It’s written on Yoongi’s face that he doesn’t like it, but protectiveness wins out over stubbornness. It always does when it comes to you. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

You soften. “I know.”

The tension drains from his hunched figure. “I know you can handle yourself when it comes to people like him. But I also know how hard you cried over him in a shitty motel all those weeks ago.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t want you to feel like that again because of someone. Fool me twice, you know? You deserve better than that.”

Your eyes flick to his. Steady, warm, weighing justice by the tawny flecks that glint in the raven black of his irises. “I do. And I don’t doubt that. It won’t happen again.”

His own mug clacks as it meets the wooden tabletop. “You know, you never told me what exactly happened between you two that ended it. Like, I know the rough idea, but not play-by-play. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but…” He trails off, leaving the gap.

“Ah.” A remark, neutral in sheen but bitter in taste. Like biting into the shell of a crisp apple, only to find that it’s not as sweet as once hoped it to be. “Sure.”

So Yoongi listens.

It’s strange how someone so vivid in nightmares, so seemingly real as the pen between your fingers or the breath in your lungs, can fade away so quickly by daybreak. Before you ran into Taehyung again (for better or for worse? For worse), he loomed as some larger-than-life figure in the back of your consciousness, spewing traumas and terrors like a river gully. But there he was in the passenger’s seat, no larger or smaller than before. Just Taehyung. Terrifying in premise, in rationality, on the contrary.

With that in mind, it was hard to not wonder if you had, perhaps, not given him credit where it was due. The Taehyung you met in the pouring rain was the same Taehyung whose hair you brushed sand from and temple you kissed and sides you pinched to get him to squeak when he laughed. Memories you tried to stuff away, filter through a new lens with every flicker in your mind, like a crackling film reel. But there he was, and here you were, and you weren’t quite sure who you were running from anymore.

Is it easy to run from someone who your lips know the taste of, fingers know the feel of? Is it easier to run from yourself when you strip away the miscommunications, aches and pains?

Yoongi knew the full story now. Terrifying to admit your fault, any measure of it, because you never liked to show him what being broken looked like. Some measure of personal freedom exercised, but with the wrong heart in mind, because he would never judge anything you had to say and instead, simply listen. He was always an older soul than you ever tried to be and he knew it, rugged wisdom at its finest. But ultimately, he only knew what he was told or taught, and there you were, spilling the unmangled truth to him on a Wednesday morning over two cups of chamomile tea.

Coming to grasp with imperfections is part of the cursed struggle of being human, of embracing those little nicks and dashes that make us who we are. It does not mean we are loved any less, but loved because of them; none of us are angels. These messes are our measures, our faults and our pleasures. How terrifying it all is, being ourselves. Being raw and vulnerable and attacking those thoughts that weigh heavy on our consciousness, day after day.

And it is easy to wonder if you matter through all of this, through the chaos of that inner dialogue. It’s moments like these that put those perspectives into frame, click them like camera shutters pausing time to breathe and think. To look at the white-framed ink is to rewrite tangibility, printed blurry on those transparent rolls. Nothing is so unforgettable when it is angled just so.

In the evening, in the comforts of your apartment, you uncork a Polaroid from where it is hidden behind some cheery optimistic phrase you stole off of tumblr. Bullshit for the purpose it serves, painfully ironic for the task it demands. A picture of a boy with cherry-red hair and a boxy grin on his face, arms wrapped around you with all of the comforts and ease of home. There’s mirth in your eyes, sheer joy and laughter. No alcohol involved, just two people who found it easy to slip into each other’s company just-so. A jasper gem for you, polished to perfection and printed right underneath your fingertips.

Anxiety clenches at the base of your jaw, massages your throat with the cruelest intentions. You swallow it back.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Crackles to life.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Taehyung?”

His voice melts through the receiver like buttery chocolate, smooth and warm. “You still have my phone number! Hello! I thought I’d never hear from you.”

“I-I’m sorry, what?” You blink in confusion, then shake your head. “Never mind.”

“I thought I’d never hear from you. That guy who picked you up didn’t seem to say much, but I figured you’d call eventually to say that you made it home safe. So I guess you did! And I’m glad.” You can hear Taehyung smiling through the phone, easy inflections of speech.

“Yeah.” You fidget, playing with the edge of your sleeve. Now or never. “Taehyung, I owe you an apology.”

This is the first time he falters, hints at something deeper. “What for?”

You take a deep breath. “You were kind to me. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time, so I was a complete asshole to you. And I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it was the least I could do! Nobody deserves to be stuck in the pouring rain—”

“I’m not talking about the rainstorm.”

He stutters. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Taehyung.”

He’s quiet. It is terrifying.

“Taehyung, both of us know what I mean.”

You momentarily wonder if the line has gone dead. Perhaps it has. A saving grace, and then that deep timbre crackles to life on the other side. You nearly miss what he says.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers.

“You were kind to me,” you stutter. “Kind to me; so, so kind. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was w-when you gave it to me. And I was a complete asshole to you. I’m sorry.” You wait for something, anything, but he gives no intention, and you continue. “Taehyung, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was so terrified that I stuffed it away into some far-off corner and tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. I turned so much outward onto you that you didn’t deserve because I didn’t know how to be good enough for someone like you. I took you for granted, Taehyung, the exact opposite of everything I should have done. You glow like the literal fucking sun, and I’m a little cloud drifting through the sky. I should’ve let you shine through me, but instead, I just blocked you out. And I’m sorry,” you confess, the tension in your shoulders collapsing. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time in weeks you wish you could see him in front of you, gauge his reactions like barometric pressure, but instead he’s across town and you are here, feeling ever-so-small in spite of yourself. It was easy to read what he was thinking, painted across his face in swaths of joy and sadness and everything in between, but here, he gave away nothing.

Please say something, Taehyung. Please say anything.

“Ideal weather,” he murmurs.

“W-What?”

“A sun without clouds in the sky shines blindingly. Clouds temper all that light; certainly we don’t need all of it.” It sounds so cheesy, some Shakespearean verse he quotes from off the top of his head, but it is the closest thing he’ll phrase to acceptance, and you swallow down a relieved sob. He calls you by name then, lets it ring warm and sweet, the way he used to say it. With life, energy, everything it lacked simply because it rang from all the wrong mouths till then. “Everything happens for a reason. You did the best you could. It just didn’t work out at the time.”

“Taehyung, it’s okay to blame me. It’s okay to say that I was the one who fucked it all up, not you. For god’s sakes, you never did anything wrong. It was always my insecurity, my mistakes—”

“You’re only human. You did the best that you could, just as I did. Who could blame you for that?” Taehyung’s words seep heat into your bones, calm your trembling fingers. “I couldn’t. Nobody could. I certainly don’t think any less of you for it. None of us are angels; we did our best with what we had. And that’s alright.”

You can’t help but laugh, dry, monosyllabic. “You handled this so much remarkably better than I did, god.”

He’s breathy with amusement. “It took a little while.”

“I could imagine.”

He hums. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Your index finger finds the edges of the instant photo. His smile catches in the light of your desk lap. “There’s another reason I called.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“Believe it or not, no.” You trace his shoulders, the planes of his chest. “I just wanted to say. I have a Polaroid of us from July, from that bonfire that Jeongguk had with like fifty people down at the beach. I kept it, selfishly. It’s been pinned up on my bulletin board behind another piece of paper. But I took it out today. And I think I might pin it up in front now.”

“Oh, the cherry red hair.” The fondness seeps through the receiver. “I loved that night.”

“Me too,” you admit. A beat of silence. “Goodnight, Taehyung. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re hanging up already?”

“What?” You nearly sputter.

“I haven’t gotten to talk about the Polaroids I kept, too.”

There are two ways to fundamentally seduce Kim Taehyung: make his coffee exactly how he likes it, or play with his hair while he’s lying on your chest. Both of which you achieved, and both of which led to your current predicament.

But we’ll rewind a bit.

That phone call, the first of many, lasted into the early hours of the morning, that sacred time that you both hold dear. It tasted like nostalgia and fondness, feelings you corked and bottled out of fear of what might lie on the other side. But in this case, the other side was a friend and more, a living history book for all of the cracks in between. And he simply adored filling them in.

That lazy afternoon where you planned on having a date at the park, but it had poured rain nearly as intense as the day you reconnected with him. You danced in between the raindrops instead, bare feet on the gravely asphalt, wishing you could touch heaven and so you kissed the boy whose cheeks were between your palms. The spontaneous road trip you took to the next big city over, five hours away, simply because for the first time in so long, you had nowhere to be but with each other. Hands held between library shelves, firelight’s glow on faces untouched. Sharing a tuft of blue cotton candy with sticky fingers, talking about everything and nothing under the moonlit, cloudless sky. For every instant photo saved were memories tenfold that he plucked from that mind of his like stars placed in the breadth of the cosmos.

One phone call became two, became four. Became texting over a break at work, FaceTiming over dinner. Became meeting each other for a late breakfast, studying at the cafe for an early afternoon cup of espresso. Depth and understanding, and Taehyung is slotting into your life without a second thought, as easily as you’re slipping into his. You let him this time, so much smoother than before. You want him to.

Neither of you can deny what it is happening, but neither of you can find a complaint to lodge. So when he asks you out, fingers entwined over the metal arm of the park bench, a bouquet of sunflowers tucked next to you, he already knows what your answer will be.

Indeed, there are two fundamental ways to seduce Kim Taehyung, and as a master of both of them, it is only a matter of time before you find yourselves at the foot of your bed; he pulls you closer to press his lips to your own. He tastes like cappuccino and chocolate and you’re humming into the kiss, shuddering underneath him. He still knows your body, every divet, every edge. He never stopped loving it— never stopped loving you.

He worships the way he loves— selflessly, giving every ounce of himself without abandon or question. When he eases himself between your thighs, the look in his eyes is nothing short of sinful adoration, seeking out every secret to your pleasure. It’s ingrained in his memory, the way you gasp or grab his hair when his fingers dance along your skin; he couldn’t forget it even if he tried. It is worth every wince as your digits tug at his scalp; he swallows down everything you give him and begs for more, more, more.

And likewise you lavish him, devoting minutes to dot his heaving ribs with kisses, stroking comforting palms down his sinewy thighs. Taehyung is every work of art you have wanted to see in a museum, living, breathing, merely mortal but so much more. So vibrant, so raw.

And afterwards you lie together, unable to tell where he begins and you end. Breathing in the heat, piecing each other together in the silent din. Clothes are tossed about the room; you can’t find it in you to care. You turn to him, caress his cheek, run a thumb over his lips. “Stay here tonight. Please.”

He smiles and your thumb brushes his teeth, boxy and exposed through the gap of his grin. “Was the overnight bag not enough?”

“How did I not notice you packed an overnight bag?” You sit up, wrapping the blankets around your torso, scanning the room to spot his duffel.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, wraps himself around you like a human koala. “I’m very good at being sneaky.”

“Mm, I noticed.” There it is, against your dresser. Your heart swells, fit to burst.

“Come to bed,” Taehyung hums, gritty, a little seductive. It sends a chill down your spine. You don’t think it’s meant to. Your fingers find his own and knit together over his knuckles.

“I’m right here, sunshine.”

He kisses behind your ear, the gentlest of intentions. “I love you,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”

You squeeze over his hand. Everything left unsaid, in the space of a breath. Two. “I love you too,” you whisper. “And I will always be here, loving you, with everything I could possibly give you. Every ounce of my heart. I love you.”

He squeezes back, wraps the blanket around your frame, tucks you in tight. He kisses your shoulder with lips of silk, and you roll on your side to get comfortable, his arm draped over your waist.

Against the far wall, propped up on his duffel, lies a pair of Converse sneakers, as scuffed and beaten as they were saturated with rain, on the day you fell in love with Kim Taehyung all over again.

#btswritersnet #bts #bts fluff #bts smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung smut #kpop fluff #kpop smut #exes to lovers au #outroshooky

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darkfanfic · 6 years

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KNOCKOUT - chapter 10 (part 2A)

“Sure.”

Harry’s flat is in walking distance of the gym. They decide to take the scenic route, through the pretty wooded park and past an almost empty playground until the pair hit a main drag. It’s car horns and traffic lights for a good five minutes before the city quietens upon making a right.

They turn down a quiet street off the busy main road and the chill that whistles between them has Bo wish she’d brought something a little warmer. It was a mistake to take her hair down after the class as now it’s stinging her cheeks. She steps closer to Harry as they pass a dog walker before they come to a complete stop outside a gate.

Heavy dark clouds loom, gobbling up the twinkle of stars as night descends in a hurry. She’s busy watching the sky transform, head tilted back until her name is called.

“Bo.”

Harry’s made the short journey from gate down to the front door and he waits for her to meet him at the bottom. The hand he raises in invite has her moving towards him through a thought once lost, legs walking a muscle memory. It would be hopeless to think she’d react in any other way but to go to him, to take his hand and let him lead her inside.

It’s warm, is the first impression Bo gets of the garden flat. A disorganised muddle of shoes is left just inside the door, and Bo adds to it as she toes hers off. She dumps her bag where harry leaves his before she’s free in her visual assessment. There’s peeling wallpaper, nicks of paint missing from the skirting board and original door frames with stiff brass handles. And Bo instantly loves it.

It’s disorderly and incomplete in a charming sort of way, which makes his previous flat pale in comparison. A sourness seems to fill her mouth upon remembering just how awful his conditions were before, no room to breathe with misery creeping in from every corner.

But here, it’s an easy sort of living space, one that he’s made home by just being there. It already smells of him, like this little flat has accepted Harry and approved of his occupancy.

There’s not much occupying the first room in the way of furniture, just cardboard boxes of varying sizes that Bo has a suspicion he’s let become a permanent fixture through simply being bone idle.

An old fashioned radiator is tucked into one of the alcoves opposite the door, a heavyset one that will throw out heat throughout the basement flat in the winter.

“There’s not much to see, but this is the front room. The kitchen is just through there and my bedroom and bathroom are across the hall.”

It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some sort of approval, standing off to the side as he nibbles at his bottom lip.

“It’s a great place.”

Despite its quirky flaws, this would have been Bo’s first choice for a place of her own.

He grins.

“I have a garden, too. It’s not much but my mum and sister are going to help with doing it up a bit. Even if it’s just finding the patio under all the weeds.”

Bo had never thought in all the time she’d known him, Harry would ever get excited over a scrap of lawn and some crazy-paving. But she gradually comes to understand the fascination as he rambles about having his niece over and his plans for one of those fancy fire bowls. She makes a mental note of the possible gift for his new home. Well, more of a garden-warming present if you’re being fussy.

They stay within the living room so Bo can explore a little more. And with that inquisitive feeing harnessed, she sets about unpacking a box containing two lamps, a pack of brand new coasters (courtesy of Harry’s sister) and a small elephant ornament selected especially by his niece for the coffee table.

Harry chats as she fights with the sticky tab sealing the coaster box. But after a few short seconds it’s neglected because there’s a record player placed on the floor in a wall alcove, just to the left of some boxes overspilling with disks.

“It’s a bit hipsterish for you, isn’t it?” Bo teases, nodding towards the musical mess.

Her nose crinkles as she grins at Harry over her shoulder before dropping to her knees in front of the boxes. There’s a few records propped up against the peeling paint, music which Bo guesses were some of the first to christen Harry’s new place.

“Can I have a look?” she asks.

“Couse,” he continues. “It was a ‘congrats on your new home’ gift from my mum. Those old records are from the loft, I’ve not sorted through them yet.”

Bo’s fingers flick through the ageing sleeves; evidence of how they were used and adored very much apparent on the worn cardboard cover, a contrast to the unscathed disk.

“You’ve got some good ones.”

Harry’s mum was feisty. Straying away from the popular, more documented, trends in music and delving into bands and genres Bo’s never heard of. She flips a disk over to study the song listings.

“Just some?”

Bo hears the amusement in his voice but the pride on his mouth is out of her line of sight.

“I don’t know most of them,” she admits, running her fingers over another mysterious album title.

“My mum had an eclectic taste, still does.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say she was a fan of Rod Stewart,” she comments, flicking through five consecutive albums.

“If you want my body and you think I’m sexy.” The gravelly tone is enough of a musical interlude to cease her movement through the disks. Bo bursts out laughing, falling back on her butt and turning to witness Harry’s little performance.

“Come on, sugar, let me know.”

His deep bow finishes the ensemble and Bo almost feels like she should applaud. And that’s what she does as Harry dramatically basks in the praise.

“Good job I actually know that song, or I’d have thought you were coming on to me.”

“The night’s still young,” he counters and it’s to Bo’s surprise that she’s the recipient of a cheeky wink.

The gesture is enough to have her blushing cheeks think she’s being flirted with. A harmless game Bo thought she had become immune to, after hearing cheesy icebreakers in bars and no longer laughing at them.

Her face still feels warm with playful atmosphere when she lifts her head and finds Harry’s hand outstretched. She takes it without hesitation, allowing herself to be hoisted upright into the perimeter of Harry’s body. Too close to be considered casual and torturous on Bo’s senses.

With a smile like a siren song and stormy, green ocean eyes to match, it’s somehow difficult for Bo to try and find her sea legs.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

And that about does it. With a couple of adamant nods Bo pulls away before something ridiculous happens, like her telling him she misses the way his mouth fit with hers.

“What colour are you painting it in here?” Bo asks, fingers grazing the sofa arm, heart positively thundering as she meanders to the other side of the room.

She’s glad to see Harry provide some distance, taking the temptation away as now she’d have to volt the back of the couch to jump his bones. It isn’t the sofa from the old flat, this one is a bit ostentatious in the pattern with scuffed wooden feet. And as Bo sits, it’s like falling into a marshmallow, squishy, soft and the perfect place to take a nap.

“A mate sold it to me for cheap,” Harry answers her unasked question, watching as Bo takes to her feet again before rearranging the cushions. “As for the colour, I was just going to leave it as is.”

Bo frowns, swivelling to look at him, still with fringed cushion in hand.

“Why?”

“It’s rented, I’m not sure my landlord would want me slapping paint on the walls. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy it when I get the funds together.”

Harry stands leaning against the doorframe, watching as Bo investigates his new living room. There’s not much in the way of furniture at the moment, but Harry had made sure the first items unpacked were framed photos of his mum, sister and niece.

“I’d have it a really soft green.”

Bo hums as if imagining the transformation of the room with a new splash of colour.

“Yeah?”

The wooden floor creaks slightly with her movement as she gravitates to a focal point.

“Mmm, and I’d make that into a proper window seat so you could wake up with a cup of tea and just sit,” Bo nods at her plan. “Oh, it could be a reading window!”

“I don’t really read,” Harry admits, her face softening. “I listen to audio books now.”

The atmosphere quietens and Bo feels silly for raising the subject. That is until Harry opens his mouth again.

“Or hey, it would be a nice spot for a quickie.”

Bo rounds so fast she nearly stumbles into one of the many unpacked boxes by her feet. She stables herself with an outstretched hand to the wall.

“What?” she chokes.

He wanders over to the window, pressing his palms flat to the wooden sill to test its weight capacity.

“Well,” Harry makes a pained face, “if you’re both like olympic gymnasts or something.”

The space in nowhere near his full arm span, a measure he frowns at when trying to swing his feet up. They end up propped against the wall with his back pressed opposite, Harry folds himself into an unnatural position for someone of his height. He looks like a giant dog trying to squeeze begrudgingly into a cat bed.

“Get some cushions or something, it’d be perfect.”

“It’s the window though,” Bo admonishes, worrying her bottom lip and trying not to smile.

“Below street level.” Harry’s counter challenge is coupled with a shrug.

“Yes, but still a window,” she presses.

“My neighbours are old and fucking nosey, would give’em something to gossip about at their neighbourhood watch meetings.”

He makes quite the scene unravelling to stand at his full height before moving away from the sex-seat to the doorway, where he disappears through it moments after.

Bo’s left in a whirlwind contemplation before Harry pops his head back through.

“Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still fighting the smile curling the corners of her mouth as the conversation snappily changes from sex to food.

“I’ve not really had time to food shop,” Harry calls through from the kitchen. “Are you alright with a take-away? I think I have a leaflet somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Bo responds, weaving her way towards his voice.

Harry’s busy with riffling through take-out phablets when she reaches him. The kitchen is small but manageable with the window opening out onto a decreasingly gloomy garden. He sorts the menus from the addressed post before turning to Bo stood in the doorway.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pink in the cheeks.”

With her mind still dwelling on Harry’s idea of a window seat, it’s the only way she’ll be able to settle her thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Despite the nod to his head, Bo thinks he looks a little reluctant to hear her what she has to ask.

“When was the last time you were with someone?”

The immediate response she receives is a crinkled brow and full assessing gaze.

“I saw Matt from the gym the other day, we went to the pub just down -“

“No, I mean - romantically,” Bo attempts to delicately approach the subject, despite the tightness in her stomach and dampness of her palms. And once again, she receives a nonverbal, cryptic answer through somewhat of a pained facial expression. “Sex, Harry,” she blurts. “I mean when did you last have sex?”

“Shit.”

Eyes wide, he takes a few seconds to ground himself and try to decide the best approach. He clears his throat like he’s not just chocked at her question. “We’re just diving right in then?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I jus-“

“It’s been a while,” Harry interrupts. “Long time,” he swallows. “You want Chinese or Indian?”

“It’s just, what you said in the living room,” she aimlessly thumbs back through the doorway.

“It was a joke.”

He’s a little firm with his reply and it makes Bo feel guilty for asking.

“Oh, ok.”

“Did you want pizza, I think I have a app?”

Harry turns away to pick up his phone and Bo’s left trying to decipher what defines a ‘long time’. Not that it should really matter, they haven’t been together for nearly four years and she’s not entitled to the information anyway.

As if trying to shake her from her thoughts, Harry pulls up the app before waving it enticingly. She huffs a laugh before grazing his left side and standing with him to scroll through choices.

“The meat tastes weird on those pizzas,” Bo informs him, scrunching her nose. “If we share and go half and half, I want mine margarita. If we order the chicken, you get a free dip.”

Harry’s head is bobbing like a nodding dog on a car dashboard. The lights are on, but Bo can be pretty sure that nobody’s home at the moment.

“How long for you?”

“Huh?”

“Since you slept with someone.”

Oh.

Bo’s eyes shoot to the ceiling as if performing maths off the top of her head. Stupidly, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t begun to think that his thoughts might stray to her bedroom antics.

“Umm, well,” she begins.

Harry pockets his phone, the prospect of food instantly forgotten as his full attention gravitates to Bo and her inability to hold his eye contact. She feels flushed for a second, checking to see if the window is open.

“You told me you’d never had sex with James.”

“It wasn’t James. It was only the once.”

He moves closer, stumped by the look on his face, Bo isn’t quite sure how this conversation will pan out. All she can hope is that it ends quickly without any emotional casualties.

“With whom?”

Of course he’d ask, but why should it matter? Why should she have to explain her sleeping arrangements to a man she hasn’t had a relationship with in years. Heat prickles at the back of Bo’s neck as Harry stands waiting for an answer. But it’s not a demand, it’s more of a concern for him.

“Someone from my course. It was really early on in first year before we saw each other again.”

“Did you like it?”

Harry backs up a little after the words leave his mouth, shying away from the potentially hurtful answer as he bites the inside of his cheek. He knows it was a mistake to ask. Nevertheless, the question makes Bo’s stomach squirm because they’re both fully aware that the only experience she has to compare it with was with Harry. And wasn’t that the full experience package.

If Bo’s being honest, the guy was a pretty lousy lay. There wasn’t particularly anything special about the evening and the whole thing was wrapped up in under ten minutes. Apparently Harry had spoilt her when they were together.

“No complaints,” Bo replies, testing the waters.

“Was he at your graduation?”

It’s almost as if she can see him straining to remember faces from the crowds of graduates. And as he does so, the subtle inclination of his body towards hers is duly noted, as if trying to shelter but not stifle her.

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Just asking,” he clips, jaw drawing taut.

“He might have been, I didn’t talk to him though.”

It’s cruel to push him further, but she’s rather delighted in the physical reaction it’s provoking. There’s no joy in making him angry, but to tease. It might be fun.

“You may have seen him. Huge guy with blond hair and as tall as the doorframe, biceps the size of my thighs. I think he’s a little bit older, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunts.

Bo hums. His expression is tight as he mulls over the information and comes to a conclusion she will admit she wasn’t expecting.

“Sounds like you shagged Thor.”

Bo can’t prevent the smile from creeping up on her, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I didn’t like it.”

There’s concern plastered on Harry’s face upon hearing her confession.

“No, I just didn’t enjoy it,” she pauses. “It wasn’t - I’ve had better,” Bo admits before she can really process the meaning behind the words. Had better.

She’s a little mortified by the knowing tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before she can say anything else he’s displaying a full on smirk.

“Piss off,” Bo thumps his arm and he takes the hit with a dramatic stagger away. “You know what I mean. He was shit, I didn’t enjoy it and it was really awkward afterwards seeing him in lectures and stuff. It didn’t go any further.”

A few seconds more and the spirited exchange takes a nosedive.

“What about us?” Harry carefully asks from across the kitchen table.

“I don’t think it was the right time for us then.”

In the months post their reconciliation, Bo had exams to prepare for and lecturers to impress with heavily researched essays. All on top of social expectations and a house search for second year which was a steep learning curve. Finding anything half decent, which didn’t once have a zoo in the back garden or actually had a properly functioning electric meter was practically a miracle.

And during that time, Harry was in no man’s land, between stages of his life that felt like the odd, uncertain few days between Christmas and new year. He was on the brink of a fresh start but was teetering on the edge just waiting for the push. Bo couldn’t have known at the time, but she was the catalyst; a WhatsApp message of,

“I made too many pancakes for pudding because I was thinking of you. Tiff ate yours. I miss you.”

“And now?” Harry asks, turning the silver ring on his index.

“Well now,” Bo starts, worrying her lip with if what she’ll say will be a push too far. “Now, I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

They both jolt when Harry’s foot catches the chair leg, his stride determined before he comes to stand in front of her. Bo peers at him, head tilted back slightly to assess any emotions he lets slip through the crease between his brows or the pout he used to try and hide when something was amiss. As it is, he’s not giving her much to work with.

The disappointment she feels settles heavy in her stomach when a kiss is instead pressed to her forehead. A feeling that soon edges to mortification and shame that she’d pushed him too far, cornered him into a situation he isn’t ready for.

“Harry, I’m sor-“

The apology is stolen from her lips by the softness of his as another sweet kiss is placed high on her right cheek. Then proceeds a series of kisses, the last pressed to the tip of her nose which entices a giddy sort of smile, especially when he rubs his nose to hers.

“I’ve missed you.”

All credits go to han-rawr

#dark #hs

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funkzpiel · 6 years

Text

Haunted | GrindelGraves ABO

Part I of a gift for @mercurial-tenacity

Percival Graves doesn’t quite know how he ended up where he was, to be quite honest. He hadn’t gone to school for this - hell, how does someone go to school for this? Ghost hunting. It was a laughable notion, to be honest, but unfortunately it paid. Nicely.

So that’s how he went from going to school for audio and visual forensics to serving as an impromptu cameraman and “evidence” reviewer for a show called Paranormal Seekers.

Needless to say, he’s been to a lot of “haunted” houses. Old, run down buildings. Hotels still being used in the public. Bars, pubs, train stations, hospitals. You name it, he’s probably spent a night or two in it trying to “document” ghosts. He’s never experienced anything, though. Oh they show activity happening. Slick tricks with thin wires and shaky cam footage. VO recorded in studio to slide in after pre-designed “reaction” events. It was a rather boring job, honestly.

Until, that was, the host was replaced. Things changed after that.

Newt and Theseus Scamander are a dynamic duo and the public eats them up. They’re passionate, and unlike their prior host, they wholeheartedly believe in a realm of life outside that of this mortal coil. All gag tricks end with their takeover. No more strings or pre-recordings or tampered tech. And despite the fact that the amount of activity per episode plummets from copious to nearly non-existent, the fans adore them. They trust them.

Ratings and viewership has never been higher. They have a fanbase, and not only that, somehow they’ve developed credibility. Their evidence might not be exciting, but the lack of tampering shows because of it. So even if all they have to show is one whisper, the fans believe it.

Their locations change drastically too.

No more local venues willing to pay them so that their location shows up on TV, ghost or no ghost. No - Newt and Theseus hand select the locations themselves. They stick strictly to abandoned places off the very well beaten roads of TV paranormal investigation. And on the rare occasions where they select a publicly occupied building, it is always a home and it is always a family that they are helping.

So when Graves arrives at a huge plantation home deep in the swamps of the south, he isn’t surprised by its remoteness, the lack of light or the utter decrepitness of the home itself. What he is surprised by, however, is the feel of it.

It towers over him when he exits the van, and the moment he steps foot in its shadow he shivers. It’s a three floor manor. Bigger than any plantation home he has ever seen. According to Newt, it will be the biggest location in the show’s history, even prior to the brothers joining the show. Nearly a dozen bedrooms, a library, a dried up indoor pool, a ballroom, a study, two kitchens -- it’s ridiculous by most historic standards, but evidently the manor had once been converted into a luxury hotel before events caused customers to stop visiting and the business went under.

Its lights are long since dead. The yard is overgrown, the drive is ruined. And yet, when they go inside, the interior is largely unharmed. Old, yes. Dusty, of course. But there is not structural damage, nor pillaging or theft or graffiti. In fact it is barren of most hallmarks of an abandoned building, and Graves can’t help but find that odd. The crew agrees, it seems, because everyone takes a moment to circle the manor-turned-hotel’s entryway, heads craning to take in the twinkling crystal chandelier and the golden wall sconces and the huge portrait atop the mirrored twisting staircase at the end of the room. Each scuffed footstep reveals a glossy floor beneath the disturbed dust, and all in all, it is gorgeous despite its filth.

“The curtains are still whole,” Theseus mutters in aw, pulling one away from the window to take in the quality of the fabric. “How long has it been again, Newt?”

“Too long,” Newt mumbles back absentmindedly as he swipes a line of dust from the glossy top of the piano in the sitting room over. “Shall we start?”

“We discussed this, Newt,” Tina says, the show’s second camera operator. “It was a long drive. Everyone gets to actually sleep tonight. We’ll spend tomorrow setting up the building with cameras and audio, and start the official investigation tomorrow.”

Newt pouts, but it quickly turns into a yawn and even he - passionate and excited as he is - can’t help but admit it’s the best course of action.

“Alright. Everyone go ahead and claim rooms, get settled. We’ll all connect in the morning.”

A generator and portable water heater means at least two people get to shower that night, two others in the morning. Graves lets Tina and the brothers duke it out over dibs on the shower that night. His bones feel as though they’re made of lead all of a sudden, and he’d rather shower in the morning anyway considering how much dust he’s going to be inevitably rolling in - sleeping bag or not.

He passes them as he heads for a room - any room, he really doesn’t give a damn - and expects to hear them bickering over shower rights and how long the water will last. Instead, he finds them messing with the doorknob of the largest room.

“It’s locked.” Theseus says.

“That’s… really weird. Didn’t the bank say that all the rooms were accessible?” Tina asks.

“Yea, they did… Huh. Well I guess that solves that problem, none of us get the master bedroom.”

“Probably for the best,” Newt says lightly, a towel over one shoulder after already having slipped toward the shower while the other two were distracted.

“Yea--hey!”

Graves leaves the inevitable fight behind him. Instead he picks a room at the end of the hall, likely deeper into the manor than the others will feel comfortable going on the first night, and thus he gets some semblance of peace and privacy. He means to open the door on the left - Room 204 - but a light catches off another knob and he finds himself drawn to it. It’s number is missing, and he kind of likes the idea of being in a numberless room. As though that meant the others would not be able to find him. He loves them, he does, but sometimes their excitement about this bullshit job exhausts him and he just wants to get this over with.

For the first time, he has to sleep in a house that actually makes him uneasy.

He shakes the thought from his mind with a scowl and a barely contained yawn. Instead he drops his bag on a chair in the corner and takes in the four poster bed ahead of him, old but surprisingly intact looking. He strips the bed and covers the mattress in a plastic cover before spreading out his sleeping bag and pillow. That taken care of, he uses his water bottle to wet his toothbrush and wash the dry, fuzzy feeling from his mouth. He gargles and flosses and washes his face, taking great care to dispose of everything in a plastic bag so he doesn’t litter. He might not believe in the paranormal, but he detests the crew he used to work with that would leave their filth everywhere just because some of their locations were “abandoned anyway”. Newt and Theseus might be exhausting, but at least they and their crew they brought with them believe in courtesy.

The only habit he didn’t agree with was that Theseus smoked, and it only irked him because he had quit solidly for two years now and the bastard of a brit was bringing back all of those old cravings he thought he had squashed down…

His fingers trembled and he gripped them tight on the sink to stop them, face lit in the mirror only by the moon’s glow through the windows and the gentle hum of his battery operated lantern.

“Get ahold of yourself, Graves,” he mutters to his reflection. “We’ll get set up, we’ll get it knocked out in a night, and we’ll get out - same as always.”

But it didn’t feel the same as always…

With a grunt, he forces himself out of his traveling clothes and into something comfortable - sweatpants and a dark wife beater - and slips into his sleeping bag before any other thoughts can stop him from resting. The drive was indeed extensive, and thankfully it’s not long before he falls asleep, his lantern still humming softly.

___________

He wakes to someone else in his bed, curled tight and unbearably hot. It’s the heat that wakes him, really. He hates to be hot. His eyes open, but everything’s blurry with sleep and he’s grouchy. He doesn’t understand why one of the others would climb into his bed, and he can’t help but growl and tuck his face into his pillow when he grumbles, “What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

“He told me to wake you.”

That… that wasn’t a voice he recognized.

All at once, his heart begins to thunder. Slowly, because it’s not like he can run or hide in his sleeping bag anyway, he blinks the fuzz from his eyes.

It’s a boy. Small, maybe somewhere between six and eight. He’s pale like the moon that filters through the windows, and his eyes are unbearably big and brown and wet. Black hair even all the way around his head, his little fists tucked under his chin. His clothing is old fashioned. Black shorts, socks tucked away in glossy black shoes, his dress shirt buttoned up to the collar and topped with a little bow, all held together with suspenders. And without a doubt, Graves knows he must be dreaming.

He blames it on that fast food joint they stopped at before the final leg to the manor house. He shouldn’t have had that burrito. He had let that unsettled feeling get to him and had let himself fall asleep thinking about it, and now he was dreaming about it. That’s all.

“Who told you to what now?”

The boy just blinks back at him, unperturbed, and says, “Father. He told me to wake you.”

“Father,” Graves repeats.

The boy nods.

Graves snorts and rolls over, ignoring the shocked little “hey!” that the boy lets out when he does so. The bed dips and there’s the sound of footsteps pattering around the four poster, and he refuses to open his eyes and acknowledge the boy now standing right in front of him, peeking over the top of the tall mattress.

“Mister!” He says plaintively, “He’ll be mad if you don’t go!”

Graves stills at that, because even in dreams he can only take so much. And while he doesn’t believe in the paranormal, he also thinks it wise not to piss it off, just in case.

“You want us to leave?”

The boy frowns at him cutely, as though under the impression that Graves isn’t following along better on purpose, and says, “Nooo! He wants you to go to his rooms. He wants to meet you.”

Graves swallows. This was turning into one weird fucking dream.

“To his rooms,” he clarifies.

The boy nods furiously.

“Just me?”

He nods again.

“And if I don’t want to?”

The boy sucks in a quick, worried little breath.

“That’d be awful rude. Especially after you all came uninvited anyways.”

Graves sighs. He doesn’t believe in the paranormal, but he does believe in survival instincts, and even if he woke from this crazy dream, he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep again thinking he angered spirits that probably didn’t (but may) exist. So with a weary sigh, he heaves himself from the bed. The boy bounces back onto his heels excitedly and takes his hands and -- takes his… hand…

Graves stares down at it for a long moment, confused and sleepily trying to process what was happening. Did… did a kid get into the building? A real kid? Was someone playing a trick on them? But those clothes… It… must be a real kid. He lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and mentally chastises himself for ever falling for it. Of course ghosts didn’t exist. He blames being woken cold to the situation. He blames his exhaustion.

And he intends to find the asshole who set him up and deck him.

And then report him to the police.

The boy tugs on his hand, urging him to pay attention.

“I said my name is Credence!” The boy says, frowning.

“Yea, sure kid,” he mumbles back, “And my name is Johnny Cash.”

“Nice to meet you!” The kid says, the joke flying over his head, and Graves sighs as Credence tugs on his hand again - this time urging him to follow. He takes him into the hall, and through slightly opened doors he can see the others sleeping as he passes. The kid leads him up to the door that had been locked before, and it feels like another slot of the puzzle falling into place. This was definitely a set up by some locals who thought it’d be fun to mess with the crew of the show. He’d have to tell Newt and Theseus to be more careful about who they interacted with when picking these locations. Attention from locals like this could “tamper” with their “evidence”, after all.

“He’s in there,” Credence says, stopping outside of the large double doors, and Graves grunts.

“Of course he is,” he mutters as he makes sure his phone is still on him. It is. “Joke’s on you, kid, these doors are locked--”

The doors open the moment the child turns the knob, parting before them with barely a whisper and revealing another decadent set of steps. Graves blinks.

“Go on,” Credence says cheerfully.

Graves eyes him warily.

“You’re not coming?”

“He said it was grown up business.”

“I see.”

Grown up business. Graves suddenly wishes he had more than the pocket knife he always slept with in his pocket on him.

But he needs to take care of this. And it’s probably just some stupid locals, no need drawing the others from their sleep to tell some asshole father to kindly fuck off. So he climbs the stairs, unaware of the moment the doors close softly behind him. On the other side of them, Credence pets the doors softly and smiles.

“You’re going to be such a good mommy,” he whispers cheerfully, his cheeks rosy and happy. “I can tell.”

[ Part I ] | Part II

#percival graves #original percival graves #grindelgraves #gellert grindelwald #graves fic

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dark128 · 7 years

Text

KNOCKOUT -chapter 10 (part 2A)

“Sure.”

Heavy dark clouds loom, gobbling up the twinkle of stars as night descends in a hurry. She’s busy watching the sky transform, head tilted back until her name is called.

“Bo.”

But here, it’s an easy sort of living space, one that he’s made home by just being there. It already smells of him, like this little flat has accepted Harry and approved of his occupancy.

An old fashioned radiator is tucked into one of the alcoves opposite the door, a heavyset one that will throw out heat throughout the basement flat in the winter.

“There’s not much to see, but this is the front room. The kitchen is just through there and my bedroom and bathroom are across the hall.”

It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some sort of approval, standing off to the side as he nibbles at his bottom lip.

“It’s a great place.”

Despite its quirky flaws, this would have been Bo’s first choice for a place of her own.

He grins.

“I have a garden, too. It’s not much but my mum and sister are going to help with doing it up a bit. Even if it’s just finding the patio under all the weeds.”

“It’s a bit hipsterish for you, isn’t it?” Bo teases, nodding towards the musical mess.

“Can I have a look?” she asks.

“Couse,” he continues. “It was a ‘congrats on your new home’ gift from my mum. Those old records are from the loft, I’ve not sorted through them yet.”

Bo’s fingers flick through the ageing sleeves; evidence of how they were used and adored very much apparent on the worn cardboard cover, a contrast to the unscathed disk.

“You’ve got some good ones.”

Harry’s mum was feisty. Straying away from the popular, more documented, trends in music and delving into bands and genres Bo’s never heard of. She flips a disk over to study the song listings.

“Just some?”

Bo hears the amusement in his voice but the pride on his mouth is out of her line of sight.

“I don’t know most of them,” she admits, running her fingers over another mysterious album title.

“My mum had an eclectic taste, still does.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say she was a fan of Rod Stewart,” she comments, flicking through five consecutive albums.

“Come on, sugar, let me know.”

His deep bow finishes the ensemble and Bo almost feels like she should applaud. And that’s what she does as Harry dramatically basks in the praise.

“Good job I actually know that song, or I’d have thought you were coming on to me.”

“The night’s still young,” he counters and it’s to Bo’s surprise that she’s the recipient of a cheeky wink.

With a smile like a siren song and stormy, green ocean eyes to match, it’s somehow difficult for Bo to try and find her sea legs.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

And that about does it. With a couple of adamant nods Bo pulls away before something ridiculous happens, like her telling him she misses the way his mouth fit with hers.

“What colour are you painting it in here?” Bo asks, fingers grazing the sofa arm, heart positively thundering as she meanders to the other side of the room.

Bo frowns, swivelling to look at him, still with fringed cushion in hand.

“Why?”

“It’s rented, I’m not sure my landlord would want me slapping paint on the walls. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy it when I get the funds together.”

“I’d have it a really soft green.”

Bo hums as if imagining the transformation of the room with a new splash of colour.

“Yeah?”

The wooden floor creaks slightly with her movement as she gravitates to a focal point.

“Mmm, and I’d make that into a proper window seat so you could wake up with a cup of tea and just sit,” Bo nods at her plan. “Oh, it could be a reading window!”

“I don’t really read,” Harry admits, her face softening. “I listen to audio books now.”

The atmosphere quietens and Bo feels silly for raising the subject. That is until Harry opens his mouth again.

“Or hey, it would be a nice spot for a quickie.”

Bo rounds so fast she nearly stumbles into one of the many unpacked boxes by her feet. She stables herself with an outstretched hand to the wall.

“What?” she chokes.

He wanders over to the window, pressing his palms flat to the wooden sill to test its weight capacity.

“Well,” Harry makes a pained face, “if you’re both like olympic gymnasts or something.”

“Get some cushions or something, it’d be perfect.”

“It’s the window though,” Bo admonishes, worrying her bottom lip and trying not to smile.

“Below street level.” Harry’s counter challenge is coupled with a shrug.

“Yes, but still a window,” she presses.

“My neighbours are old and fucking nosey, would give’em something to gossip about at their neighbourhood watch meetings.”

He makes quite the scene unravelling to stand at his full height before moving away from the sex-seat to the doorway, where he disappears through it moments after.

Bo’s left in a whirlwind contemplation before Harry pops his head back through.

“Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still fighting the smile curling the corners of her mouth as the conversation snappily changes from sex to food.

“I’ve not really had time to food shop,” Harry calls through from the kitchen. “Are you alright with a take-away? I think I have a leaflet somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Bo responds, weaving her way towards his voice.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pink in the cheeks.”

With her mind still dwelling on Harry’s idea of a window seat, it’s the only way she’ll be able to settle her thoughts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Despite the nod to his head, Bo thinks he looks a little reluctant to hear her what she has to ask.

“When was the last time you were with someone?”

The immediate response she receives is a crinkled brow and full assessing gaze.

“I saw Matt from the gym the other day, we went to the pub just down -“

“Shit.”

Eyes wide, he takes a few seconds to ground himself and try to decide the best approach. He clears his throat like he’s not just chocked at her question. “We’re just diving right in then?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I jus-“

“It’s been a while,” Harry interrupts. “Long time,” he swallows. “You want Chinese or Indian?”

“It’s just, what you said in the living room,” she aimlessly thumbs back through the doorway.

“It was a joke.”

He’s a little firm with his reply and it makes Bo feel guilty for asking.

“Oh, ok.”

“Did you want pizza, I think I have a app?”

As if trying to shake her from her thoughts, Harry pulls up the app before waving it enticingly. She huffs a laugh before grazing his left side and standing with him to scroll through choices.

“The meat tastes weird on those pizzas,” Bo informs him, scrunching her nose. “If we share and go half and half, I want mine margarita. If we order the chicken, you get a free dip.”

Harry’s head is bobbing like a nodding dog on a car dashboard. The lights are on, but Bo can be pretty sure that nobody’s home at the moment.

“How long for you?”

“Huh?”

“Since you slept with someone.”

Oh.

Bo’s eyes shoot to the ceiling as if performing maths off the top of her head. Stupidly, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t begun to think that his thoughts might stray to her bedroom antics.

“Umm, well,” she begins.

“You told me you’d never had sex with James.”

“It wasn’t James. It was only the once.”

He moves closer, stumped by the look on his face, Bo isn’t quite sure how this conversation will pan out. All she can hope is that it ends quickly without any emotional casualties.

“With whom?”

“Someone from my course. It was really early on in first year before we saw each other again.”

“Did you like it?”

“No complaints,” Bo replies, testing the waters.

“Was he at your graduation?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Just asking,” he clips, jaw drawing taut.

“He might have been, I didn’t talk to him though.”

It’s cruel to push him further, but she’s rather delighted in the physical reaction it’s provoking. There’s no joy in making him angry, but to tease. It might be fun.

“You may have seen him. Huge guy with blond hair and as tall as the doorframe, biceps the size of my thighs. I think he’s a little bit older, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunts.

Bo hums. His expression is tight as he mulls over the information and comes to a conclusion she will admit she wasn’t expecting.

“Sounds like you shagged Thor.”

Bo can’t prevent the smile from creeping up on her, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I didn’t like it.”

There’s concern plastered on Harry’s face upon hearing her confession.

“No, I just didn’t enjoy it,” she pauses. “It wasn’t - I’ve had better,” Bo admits before she can really process the meaning behind the words. Had better.

She’s a little mortified by the knowing tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before she can say anything else he’s displaying a full on smirk.

A few seconds more and the spirited exchange takes a nosedive.

“What about us?” Harry carefully asks from across the kitchen table.

“I don’t think it was the right time for us then.”

“I made too many pancakes for pudding because I was thinking of you. Tiff ate yours. I miss you.”

“And now?” Harry asks, turning the silver ring on his index.

“Well now,” Bo starts, worrying her lip with if what she’ll say will be a push too far. “Now, I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Harry, I’m sor-“

“I’ve missed you.”

#harry and bo #KNOCKOUT #styles

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