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damerondala · 3 years

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Baby?

Hi everybody this is my first Poe fic wowow!! It’s basically all fluff and no regrets about it. I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think and maybe if you’d like to be on a taglist? I can definitely figure out how to do that!

Pairing: Poe Dameron x afab Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: like one mention of sex (nothing explicit), female reader, implications of pregnancy, poe being adorable (putting this as a warning bc you may faint at how soft this himbo is), aaaaand I think that's it!

Word count: approx. 1k

✧·ﾟ: *✧·ﾟ:* *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Poe approached the door of your shared quarters and punched the code into the keypad, sucking in a deep breath that threatened to turn into a yawn. Sudden sleepiness setting in at the thought of snuggling up next to you in your warm bed. But the second the door opened with a soft woosh, he froze.

There, next to the side of your bed was a bassinet…with a baby breathing softly inside. It was quite the sight for the commander’s tired eyes. His baby peacefully lying there in his bed, with an actual baby right next to them. He honestly couldn’t tell if he froze out of terror, confusion, or pure giddiness.

Poe studied the scene for what seemed like a thousand years before cautiously stepping into the room and getting his uncomfortable flight suit off off so he could finally get some sleep. Eyeing the bassinet nearly the entire time, fascinated with what he was seeing. As quiet as he was trying to be to not wake you, the second his side of the bed dipped under his weight, you were rolling over to face him. “Hi handsome,” you greeted with a raspiness to your voice, the air on base not treating your throat with kindness during the cold nights.

“Hey baby,” the cocky pilot returned while pulling you into his chest, immediately following with a gesture to the obvious elephant in the room. “So, uh, what happened while I was gone? You get some action?” The man wasn’t dumb, he just liked being the one to make you smile like that. Soft, sleepy, and happy.

You responded to his sarcasm with a gentle kiss to his scruffy jaw and a soft yawn, “Kiyah had a recon mission,” you swallowed, “asked me to take care of her for the night.” Kiyah was a hell of a pilot that brought honor to Dagger squadron. It was rare for children to be born on base, but Kiyah had an “oops” moment about a year ago that was now neatly swaddled by your bedside, courtesy of you.

“Oh, oh I see. I was worried we weren’t careful enough before I left,” Poe coyly smiled, your own yawn causing his body to mimic yours. You let out a breath through your nose in lieu of a giggle and said, “that’s not how that works but good job for trying.”

The man brushed off your lighthearted teasing as his mind was suddenly flooded with the idea that the next infant in your bedroom would most likely be the product of you both. This caused him to subconsciously squeeze his arm around you tighter, placing a kiss to your head. Breathing in your lovely smell. “You know,” his heart skipped a beat before speaking again, “we could have one, one of our own. Or two. Or three. Or twelve.”

You responded with a scoff that was nowhere near actually upset, “excuse me, who has to carry these twelve little Damerons?” Although the thought of twelve bubbly children with their father’s dark locks and your eyes was enough to make your heart swell. Little did you know that the pilot holding you had the same tight, warm sensation in his own chest upon imagining a family with you.

“I know baby, I’m sorry. We’ll have fun making them though,” from your position, you couldn’t see the suggestive brow being raised, but you could definitely tell it was happening by the way his voice carried. You smiled. You had missed him while he was away. His charming demeanor, his gentle touches, all of it.

“That we will,” you couldn’t deny it, this time looking up into his warm eyes and smiling. The second your big, breathtaking eyes met his, you could have sworn his pupils dilated. He was truly smitten and very glad to be home. “Why don’t we get some sleep? You look tired sweetheart.”

Before he could admit that you were right, he was exhausted, a soft babble made both you and Poe lift your heads and stare at the bassinet. The sleepiness your dashing pilot felt was instantly forgotten and he sat up, eyes still locked onto the baby who was already looking inquisitively at the man with the messy hair.

Poe turned to you with a look of “should I?” Written all over his face, not sure if he was able to handle a baby, despite his snide comments earlier about having an entire platoon’s worth of children with you. You responded to his uneasiness with a gentle push to his shoulder, encouraging him to go take a look. Maker knows that baby kept you up longer than you had wished anyway. There was no denying she had her mother’s spirit, Kiyah was very proud of her feisty and energetic daughter.

Gentle as ever, Poe reached down into the baby’s bassinet and scooped her up into his arms. An easy smile that reached his eyes on his face that you couldn’t help but swoon at. Although most would argue that Poe’s true element was flying, and while that is something he is very talented in, you adored the way he looked right now. Holding a baby in his big, strong arms and looking so…paternal really suited him. He began lowly humming a tune you know was from his home planet, he had mentioned that his mother would to sing him lullabies every night.

The child didn’t cry, not with Poe. And she was back asleep quicker than she had woken up. You smiled at Poe and he returned the warm gesture as he climbed back into bed, pulling you back into his arms. “How long is Kiyah going to be gone?” He asked. “She gets back home tomorrow morning.” You said, knowing that he internally cursed at that. He was hoping he could have more time with the baby, playing house in the middle of a war. He wanted it all. He wanted it with you.

That was the only thing keeping him going most days.

#my writing #poe fic #this isn't the best but considering how long it's been since i've written #i'm kind of proud #poe dameron #poe x reader #poe dameron fanfiction #poe x you

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aphroditeslesbian · 3 years

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I was also raised 7th day Adventist and I’m a closeted lesbian. I don’t hate my religion..because I personally didn’t have a bad experience with it in my childhood, but it clashes a lot with my beliefs and well parts of my identity. I’m feeling a bit helpless because this religion has been a big part of my life, a lot of strong women I look up to in my life are sda, and my local sda community is very wholesome. And by now you can sense my reluctance in letting it go. I’ve been coping by thinking I should find a gay-friendly sda church once I move out.. if I ever get married. What’s your journey been like? 🪴

Hey! I don't meet a lot of sda online, it's interesting to hear a different perspective. I'm gonna go into everything, bc my experiences with sda really shaped me, and yeah, it's been a wild, not so fun ride.

Basically I was baptized catholic as an infant, but my family isn't practicing catholic. My mom is very religious, and wanted me to have a good education... In Brazil, we have very poor public education in primary and secondary school, and the best schools are the private ones... Which are also religious schools. So I wound up studying in a sda school from kindergarten to highschool graduation.

So from a young age (4 yo) I was raised on my school's religious beliefs. I was really involved, and my childhood best friend was also sda, she lived a couple floors down from me and we'd hang out often, and her family would bring me to church on Saturdays (there was a sda church across the street from the apartments we lived in). I was the staple Christian child, I prayed every night and every morning, apart from all the prayer at school ofc. At 8yo they did a talk at school about the importance of baptism, and I asked my parents to allow me to be baptized as sda. My mom surprisingly didn't want me to be baptized again, not so young, but my dad said I should do what I wanted, so I was baptized again at the school's church. Literally the school had an auditorium for our weekly religion-related classes, which we called "chapel", and was basically like going to church – but mandatory, as it was during school time. This specific school also had a church built on the side, so yeah.

During my early childhood through preteen years I had no issues with the school's teachings and sda ideology. It was all I had ever known, my family encouraged religion and we'd also sometimes (rarely) go to catholic church. I honestly didn't even realize people could not believe in god until I was 12/13.

I had never really heard much about being gay, or being anti gay during primary school - I may have forgotten having ever heard it from teachers. I only heard about homophobia from peers, and so I knew that being gay was a bad, evil, gross thing.

When I was around 11/12 we moved to a smaller town, and I started at a smaller Adventist school. I was the only one in my small newly found friend group who was baptized, and moving was very traumatic for me, so I started becoming less active in church. I became severely depressed because of the move and other stuff at home, and turned to the internet for a distraction.

I first heard about atheism from a youtuber, and he was known for his controversial takes (he's pretty nasty, it's only gotten worse with time but anyway). I guess a mixture of depression, becoming a teen, having my rebellious phase, I started researching into it.

My religion teacher (we had "religion" classes, but they should really have been called "7th Day Adventism classes") was much harsher than the one I had at my first school. This was around the time that Twilight was a big deal, and I read those books sooo many times for comfort, I got into Harry Potter etc. Not long after I moved to this school, we had a religion class about how Harry Potter was inspired by the devil. My books were often confiscated during class, even if I had already finished my assignments and was reading quietly, even if they were just on my desk. Being super depressed and introverted, with very few friends, books were my refuge. Having the teachers look down on them and literally say they were devilish and evil really started to shift my view of the religion. I knew these were good books, I loved them. So how could they be evil?

I have a very strong memory of praying and praying once and begging Jesus and god to help me, to give me a sign, because I was terrified of losing my religion, of losing god. All I had learned my whole life was that god is good, god is love etc. How come god wasn't helping me, my family, through some of the worst times? How come I was alone?

At around 12/13 my cousin came out to me as bi, and soon after another cousin came out as gay. I barely fully understood what that meant, and the internet was again where I researched about it. I realized I liked girls at the time, but I never understood you could even be married to a woman, as a woman. Even though I knew I liked and was attracted to girls, I never let myself think too much on it. The school was pretty obvious about how marriage is between a man and a woman, our "sex talk" was a class with our religion teacher. Bio talk was split, the boys left the room so we could learn about female anatomy and stuff, and then the boys had the room, etc. Our religious teacher was very adamant about how one shouldn't have sex before marriage, and marriage was between a man and a woman so...

Honestly the basework they laid was to erase homosexuality. I didn't even grasp that I could be anything but attracted to girls, I didn't realize I could do anything about it.

And then in highschool, I guess bc we were old enough, they finally started being outspoken about their hatred of gay people. There would be snide comments from the Portuguese/Lit teacher, a disgusting talk from the History teacher about how gay men's sexual activity leads to anal incontinence, the Religion teacher saying it was wrong, comparing it to criminality, the school's vice principal giving us a lecture and making sure to hammer in the worst thing anyone could turn out to be was homosexual.

At this point I thought I was okay with my same sex attraction, I thought these things weren't getting under my skin. But then I learned about being trans, and I came to the conclusion that since I was into girls, I couldn't be a woman. I identified as trans from around 15-19. That was internalized misogyny and homophobia, that was me actually letting all the snide little comments settle deep in me, and shape who I was.

Anyway, at around 14 I was done. School was teaching us that bastard kids aren't blessed by god (me and my siblings are all "bastards" as my parents were never married). They told us couples who lived together and we're never married were not blessed by god, and implied they were bound to have issues for their sin.

I was a teenager living in a broken home, my father was emotionally abusive to me and my mother, and honestly at the end of the day I had to choose if I wanted to believe in a god who was supposedly love itself, yet didn't protect me and my young siblings and my mom... Or not believe in god at all.

Leaving the church and coming to terms with not believing in god was one of the toughest times in my life. My depression was in the gutter, I was self harming, I was struggling. I remember thinking of my cousins, whom I was very close with growing up, and knowing they were good people, so how could god not love then? I remember thinking of myself, of all I had done for the church, for god, and wondering how could god not accept me.

For me, the church was poison. I only saw hypocrisy, I saw people who judged each other, who cared more about their own concepts of right and wrong than being mindful of others. I saw my teachers who preached being kind, but ridiculed and laughed at other religions and those who believed them. When I was questioning religion, I always had sooo many questions for my religion teacher and so often she just told me that some questions were too big for us to understand, that only god could fully comprehend himself.

I'm proud to have come out the other side, but I won't lie. The community that church represents does seem so lovely and welcoming. I wanted to be a part of something, and church offered that.

But at the end of the day, there's no space for me, a lesbian, in there. They don't believe gay marriage is okay, they don't condone our "lifestyle". They think this is a choice we're making, and a bad one at that.

The childhood friend I mentioned earlier, who I used to go to church with, actually came out as a lesbian a couple years ago as well. Her sda family is giving her a really hard time. She's left the church, last I heard.

Honestly, my advice would be to find other community. Find community with other lesbians, people who can accept you unconditionally, who can offer you support without small print. That's what I'm trying to do.

I personally am against christianity for a lot of other reasons besides my very negative experiences. Maybe that's not you, and in that case I guess finding a church that is LGB friendly can be the answer. I couldn't judge anyone for choosing to stay, because like I said I really understand how nice it can feel, how it's like you belong in this community, how it can feel like the church is family.

But I really suggest deep soulsearching, because in my experience all they ever did for me was suck all my energy, all my devotion, and spit me out when I was never going to be the heterosexual good girl they expected me to be.

Sorry for the super long answer, I hope this helps some? If you wanna talk more in private you can hit me up through DMs, I'm very willing to listen and talk about it.

#anti religion #sda #august rants #homophobia #lesbophobia #misogyny

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deepdaleducks · 6 years

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Bad Day/Good Day

This is dedicated to our girl @forza-atleti It seems like she’s had a rough day so I thought she could use some Jesse love. Everyone go send her love because she treats us so well. Oh and listen to this song bc I love it ❤❤

He senses it as soon as you come through the door. Bag dropped angrily on the floor, shoes left out in the hallway. He senses it because he knows you. Because he was there when you were teenagers and you would fight with your parents. Because he was there when you failed your driving test after a car cut you up. Because he’s been there for years. And so he just knows its been a bad day by the way you don’t bother to call out his name to announce your return home. The way you pad straight to the kitchen and flick on the kettle with more force than necessary. The way you don’t make a sound as you stare out the kitchen window blankly.

He knows not to press you, not to ask. Instead, he creeps upstairs, pulls your favourite hoodie and sweats from his wardrobe, and places them on the counter beside you in silence. He watches as you pour the water in the mug and add a splash of milk. Watches as you take off your work clothes and throw them in a heap on the floor next to the utility door. Watches you stand there in your underwear in the middle of the kitchen, dragging your hands over your face in frustration.

And he stops himself. Stops himself from pulling you into his arms. Stops himself from telling you how beautiful you are. How he would kiss every inch of your skin given the chance. How he would love you the way you deserve to be loved. He falters when you look at him, hair cascading over your face, his hoodie in your hands, a simple “stop looking at me like that” falling from your lips.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks cautiously, his sweats now comfortably sitting on your hips, hoodie drowning your torso.

“No” You reply, sipping from your tea. And he lets a silence fall for a while as he sits across from you at the breakfast bar. He doesn’t pressure you or ask any more questions. He just takes in your movements. Takes note of the way your hands hold the mug. How your lips curl up at the warmth of your drink. How you move across the room to put the milk back in the fridge.

“That dickhead at work was giving me shit all day.” He hears you say into the fridge. “God, my mother wasn’t half right when she said you shouldn’t get romantically involved with co-workers, or friends for that matter.” You don’t see the way his face falls when you say the words. “I just wish I had never slept with him, yknow? Like we were friends and it was great. Then I had to go fucking sleep with him. And now everything’s a mess because we’re not sleeping together anymore. He’s being such a shit about it.” He lets you ramble away, pacing round the kitchen grabbing a plate and snacks. “Maybe I should just start sleeping with him again.”

“No, don’t do that” He says quickly. Almost too quickly. So he continues before you can notice. Before you interpret his words the way he means them. “I mean you said yourself you shouldn’t get romantically involved with co-workers. Surely sleeping with him again would just make things more complicated than they already are.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” You say, looking at him as he looks at you a little differently to normal. “Oh and you know to top it all off? I’m pretty certain I’m gonna get sacked.”

He slams his hand down on the counter in shock. “What? How can they sack you? You’re like the back bone of that place.”

“I don’t know. I’m just not getting the best vibe from the bosses. They’re on my back for not doing my job properly when I’m doing the best I can. I’ve been working double time since the other manager quit, so I’m spread thin as it is. I think I might just quit before they get the chance to fire me, just so I have the satisfaction of walking away.” You muse, swirling your tea around the mug.

“What are you gonna do?” He mumbles. He’s worried. Worried you’ll leave. Worried all this will end. The living together. The coming home to each other.

“I have no idea. Maybe I should just go live with my parents for a bit. Get some space from it all.” The words shatter him. All his worst fears coming true as you speak.

“What and just leave me to live alone?” He says, trying to make it seem like a joke.

“Not like you can’t afford to live alone like, Jess.” He follows you as you walk into the living room, slouching on the couch beside you.

“Yeah but I don’t live alone because I can’t afford it. I don’t live alone because I like to live with you.” Because I love you, he omits.

“So, I stay. Then what? I’m unemployed. If I go home, I can just work for my dad for a bit before I find something else.” It’s not a solid plan, but it’s a plan, nonetheless. It would mean going against everything you had wanted. It would mean moving out of Manchester. It would mean not seeing Jesse every day.

“And just admit defeat? Do you seriously think I’m going to let you do that? You’re my best friend and you’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you give up that easily.” He says, reaching out a hand to hold yours in support. His eyes warm yours, causing them to light up a little for the first time all day.

“Thanks, Jess.” You reply, telling him you’re going to head upstairs and shower off the day.

When you return, you find him in the kitchen. He’s cooking your favourite meal, the one your mother always makes. He asked her for the recipe once. Calling her in his free time on a Wednesday. Going round to her house on the Sunday to learn her methods. It’s the one thing he knows how to cook, and he only does it occasionally. Whenever you’ve had a bad day or you’re feeling under the weather. He knows that you love it. He knows that it means the world to you.

He plates it up on the fancy china, the stuff exclusively reserved for when your parents visit, and lights a candle on the centre of the table. Low acoustic music coming through the speakers, you sit and eat together, shared bottle of wine and pepper grinder between you. You eat in silence, speaking sporadically to compliment him on the food.

“You know, if you’re worried about finding work, I can put in a word for you at United.” He mutters across the table. He’s suggested it at several times in the past. Every time you would come home complaining about your job, he’d say ‘just quit, I can get you a job at United’. And you would say ‘no, I can’t just take a job that you get me because of who you are, I have to earn it.’ He would argue that that isn’t how it would look. That you would get the job on your merit, on your abilities, and not just because you were his best friend. But you were far too worried about what people would say, what people would think, to let him do it.

“Jess, thanks for offering, but you know what the press were saying when we started living together. I don’t need all my mother’s friends from book club reading that I got my new job because I’m sleeping with one of the players.” Your words shut him up and he clears his throat nervously. In response, you lower your eye line, focusing on your plate. “Imagine how funny that would be. Everyone in my hometown thinking I’m sleeping with you.” And you don’t realise the venom in your words as you say them. You don’t think about how untrue they are. How much hurt they’re going to cause them. And you panic as he responds.

“Would that really be so terrible?” He follows with a scrape of his chair against the tiles. He empties the rest of his plate into the bin, washing it under the tap quickly.

“You know what I mean, Jesse.” He notices your use of his full name. Exclusively saved for serious situations. For when you’re angry at him or when you’re begging for forgiveness. For when he’s getting himself down or when you’re tired after a long day.

“No I don’t.” He says bitterly. Pushing past you to head back to the living room. He hears your feet follow his, but he doesn’t turn around. He throws his body on the couch and reaches for the remote, ignoring you the way you’re now ignoring your dinner, all your attention on him.

“God, you do. We’re best friends. We live together. Sleeping together would just make things awkward between us.” You try to get him to agree, to see your point of view but he doesn’t. He focuses on the television in front of him, some nonsense show playing that you know he has no interest in.

“That’s not what you said though. You weren’t talking about how it would be for us. You were talking about how everyone else would see it.” He keeps his eyes forward, face expressionless.

It clicks inside your head. Earlier he quickly told you not to start sleeping with your colleague again. He told you not to go back to your parent’s house. He told you to stay with him. And now he’s upset that you joked about sleeping with him.

You’re flashing back to so many moments throughout your friendship. The time he was your date to your brother’s wedding and your grandma commented on how much of a wonderful couple you were. His face when you had said, “no grandma, we’re not a couple, we’re just friends”. The first time he woke up to find your colleague in your kitchen on a Tuesday morning and all the times after that. His snide comments and lack of ability to make anyone but himself a brew despite there being three of you in the kitchen. The time you both got drunk at Marcus’ birthday and got a little too close in the taxi home. The morning after when he woke up and could barely look at you, your lips a little sensitive and your missing memories of how you got home. All the pieces fall together.

“Jesse, will you just look at me.” You demand reaching out for his hand to get his attention. He flinches slightly at your touch. Slowly, he turns his head to look at you, eyes sad and low and never fully meeting yours. “Do you love me?” You ask, stumbling over your words slightly.

“’Course I love you.” He replies. You know he’s not saying it the way you mean. You know he’s still got his defences up.

“Okay, let me reword that. Are you in love with me?” Rather than answer, he stands abruptly and walks out of the room, leaving you with the thoughts flying round your brain. His departure only causes more questions. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you had misinterpreted everything completely wrong. You hear him rummaging around upstairs and shortly after he re-enters the room, a small envelope in his hand. He hands it to you, telling you to read it, before he leaves again. You tear open the envelope, a folded piece of paper inside it. You unfold it tentatively, terrified of how these actions could change everything.

I hope one day you’re reading this. Because if you’re reading this it means that things are changing. Or that they have changed. And I hope that that is good.

Last night wasn’t the first time I have looked at you and thought that you were everything I have ever wanted. But it was the first time I knew I wanted to do something about it. A bit of liquid courage at Marcus’ birthday and I was going to tell you. You were there on the dance floor, red dress, hair curled, no cares in the world and I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

I didn’t even have to say anything. You looked at me in the taxi and said it all for me. “I’m gonna marry you some day, Jess. You’re just so perfect aren’t you. I’m so in love with you.” And you kissed me like you never wanted to stop.

I was so happy. I thought that was it. And then I woke up today and you say you were so drunk you don’t even remember coming home. And I know you’re not lying because you couldn’t even find your shoes, even though you took them off and put them in your wardrobe like you always do.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m in love with you. And I’m also sort of mad at you because you’re not seeing that. I’ve always been in love with you and I always will be. I’m in love with all the things you say are flaws and all the lines on your face and freckles on your body. I’m in love with you despite the fact you’re possibly the world’s messiest roommate. I’m in love with the fact that you’re my best friend.

I don’t know when you’re going to read this. You may never read this. But I guess if you don’t its because I care so much about being your best friend that I don’t want to sacrifice that for something so stupid as being in love with you.

But if you’re reading this, I’m hoping it’s because I’m asking you to please be in love with me too.

His hand writing is messy, but it’s perfect. You find him outside, can of beer in his hand from the fridge. He’s leaning against the wall, staring out across the garden.

“You’re a liar,” you whisper, his head whipping up to look at you. You wave the letter at him. “You said you don’t want to sacrifice our friendship because you’re in love with me. You just did.”

“Oh right,” he mumbles. He’s disappointed. Disappointed that your first words to him weren’t ‘I’m in love with you too’. Disappointed that you’re not currently in his arms, lips finally together again. Disappointed that things didn’t go the way he had expected, the way he’d dreamed about.

You remain in the doorway, hesitant to move closer to him. “Why now?” You question, eyeing him carefully. “I wore a red dress to Marcus’ birthday two years ago. You’ve had this since then so why give it to me now?” A million thoughts were racing around your brain. The confirmation that you had kissed him clearing years’ worth of worry and confusion. He was angry and distant because you had forgotten – not because you had kissed him in the first place. All the feelings you had hidden and pushed down suddenly bubbling up within you.

“You said you were gonna leave. I was scared. I don’t want you to leave.” He confesses, stepping a little closer to you.

“I’m not gonna leave, Jess. I’m never gonna leave.” And with that you fold into his arms, his warmth cancelling out the chill coming up through your bare feet on the cold patio tiles. He holds you like that for a while, breathing in your scent, scared to let you go and face what he’s confessed.

He feels you pull back and he flinches, worried of what happens now. He’s reassured by your hands cupping either side of his cheeks, as his rest on your waist lightly. “I think” you start, his eyes searching yours for more, for confirmation that his world is not going to crumble around him. “I think I might be in love with you too.” His face erupts in a smile, that same childish grin that made you kiss him in that taxi all those years ago.

“Good,” he says certainly, leaning in to lock his lips with yours once more. He’s known how to deal with you on your bad days for years. How to make you laugh when you’re close to crying. How to rationally talk you down from any ledge you found yourself on. He knows because he’s seen it all play out over the years. He’s been there through the good and the bad. And he promises himself in that moment, you tangled up in his arms, lips pressed against his, that he’s going to be there throughout all the good and the bad even when your hair is grey and you’re both cooped up in a retirement home.

And you know that he’s always going to be able to make your bad days good with just the simplest of “I love you’s”.

Author’s Note - I kinda wrote this spontaneously tonight so there was no planning involved. If you think its crappy and doesn’t make sense that’s cool. Slow Burn 6 (the finale) will be coming out next weekend so keep an eye our for that (this isnt realted to slow burn its just a one of piece i wrote for chlo)

Hope you enjoy let me know what you think x

#footballer imagine #jesse lingard #man united #england nt #i never know what else to tag here #bad day/good day #writing

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candymayvary · 6 years

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smth i wrote a little while ago. i wrote professor kim w masculine pronouns bc idk just made it harder when referring to axel and alex in the same sentences lol

i dont have a specific time in mind for when this would take place. just like. assumptions that axel has a good relationship with his professor, and that his professor actually takes care and notice of his work (my impression anyway from axel’s bio). and like..... discussing both student and professional work? idk. professor pov.

and u kno what @se-serena

“Professor, you asked to see me?”

Looking up from his papers, Alex notices the way that this one particular student hovered in the doorway, and how his assistant was struggling to cover the starry-eyed gaze. With a wave of his hand, Axel walked the rest of the way into the office, door closing behind him with a soft click. Axel seemed to take the hint, settling in one of the chairs with an ease that told far more than he realised.

“Before we begin, am I speaking to Axel, or you today?”

That seems to catch Axel off-guard, even though it had long since been a regular thing. Normally, when they had these one-on-one sessions, Axel would state at the beginning, set the feel of it, whether professional or personal. But it would be highly unprofessional of Alex Kim to assume one or the other, when he was the one who had called the meeting first.

Perhaps he should consider it a great deal that Axel, singer extraordinaire, considered his opinion so highly. But there was tension growing in those around him, and well, he wouldn’t be in the position he was if he just ignored it.

“Axel?” his student hinges it on a question, as if he wasn’t too sure either. Alex couldn’t say that was the best decision, that he should’ve crossed that line they had made. A part of him had hoped Axel would understand the need for this to be speaking to the student, not the singer.

Oh well. Alex could work with it, no matter what. Not like there was much choice here, anyway.

“Alright. Before I begin, do you have any idea why I called you to my office today?” A classic teacher line, to gauge where the student in turn was at. Telltale signs of stress would show, such as nervously looking at every corner of the room, or wringing their hands.

Axel shows none of these, chin in hand, as he relaxed in the chair. Pokerfaced and resolute. Alex had to admit that he was rather proud of where Axel currently sat, as he remembered where he had started. Not just from the tutelage he received from Arlington, as a lot of the work was all Axel’s doing — most of it in his own time.

“Not really, sir.”

Fair. Alex’s email had been sharp and to the point. Meeting, Wednesday morning, ten thirty, don’t be late. Need to talk about your schoolwork, or so Alex had said. Not wholly untrue.

“There has been some calls from other teachers regarding your work ethic, Axel. And not just in regards to your music.”

“Then why aren’t they having the meeting with me in person? Leaving you to clean up their dirty work, aren’t they?” A certain level of snide creeps into his voice. Alex lets the comment run its course.

“As much as I would like to discuss your results in other classes, I can’t. I don’t speak for them.”

Axel leans forward then, a little tighter around the eyes. He had only returned to campus a week prior, but from what Alex understood, most classes had been missed (except all of his, of course). “So? What’s this about, sir?”

And with that, Alex clicks on his laptop, watching the screen slowly light up. Whatever attitude Axel was trying to pull, the clear signs of interest were showing, with how he frowned a little when an all too familiar song played. His last assignment, handed in only a day prior. Two weeks late, but reasons withstanding, Alex wasn’t going to linger on that. No, he had spent a good few hours picking the work to pieces, breaking down every lyric, every beat.

All his official comments and notes were in a file, ready to be sent at any moment. Axel could expect it after this meeting, no doubt. But the song ran it’s course, four minutes of it, before Alex paused the repeat.

“You didn’t like it?” Axel finally asks, when the silence grew.

With a shrug, Alex motions to it. “I did. Definitely one of your better works in the last few months, Axel,” and then he pauses, wondering how to fully phrase the next part. And he had spent a two hours slaving over how to expect this meeting to go. “Unprofessionally, your work has always stood out in some way. But professionally…”

Trailing off, Alex focuses on the hand he had extended, once animated with commentary. Fingers curl into his palm. “Professionally, the work is lacklustre. And you are aware of how it’s been for a while now, Axel, there’s no denying that.”

For his part, Axel remains silent, a careful expression playing on his face. This could go either way. Alex was prepared for it.

As he continues, he keeps a careful eye on Axel. “You have been doing the same thing over and over. The initial grab your music had isn’t there anymore. There’s no feeling behind the words.

“Whatever rut you are stuck in, it’s time to stop digging, Axel. Maybe it’s time to consider a different angle than the one you are producing.”

“What are you saying, professor? You can tell me, I’m not a child.”

Alex has to smile at that, as Axel’s tone betrayed him. A shame most of his peers were concerned with voicing critiques in class, as there was some level of reverence played towards Axel. Of course he was aware of it, when marking work later. How other students listed the same problems, and some of them had also suggested good ways to work around it, to break through whatever slump Axel had fallen prey to. But those went unsaid, which was why they sat the way they did now.

“I’m saying, Axel, that you need something new. Something fresh. Not the kind of thing you create just to satisfy an audience. At this point, you’ve given me the same kind of song several times over. And I will admit, your work is always at an incredible standard.” Soften the blow, Alex, come on. “You’ve always gone above and beyond.”

Axel interjects then, as if knowing full well Alex was trying to skirt around the issue with platitudes. “But?”

“But,” he concedes, and plays the song again. Softer this time. “There’s no passion in this work. It’s lifeless.”

That seems to rile him up a little. “Well, help me. Tell me what to do.”

Alex chuckles, despite himself. “I can’t ‘tell you what to do’, Axel. I can only make suggestions.”

“Then do it. Sir.” Ah, through gritted teeth, Axel was staying polite.

“Go back to where you started. Let your current songs settle. Do something other than music for a while.” With a sigh, Alex stops. “There’s only so much I can suggest to you, Axel. People sing about the moon, without ever stepping foot on it.”

“Are you telling me to sing about the moon?” Axel’s tone bordered on incredulous, maybe a little mocking, and Alex had to stop himself from huffing.

“No, but what I’m telling you to do is challenge yourself. Sing about something you haven’t experienced, instead of what you think you know. Cities, the ocean, love… a particular season, even. There are plenty of topics to make a song about, if you do it well.”

Letting that drop and settle, Alex knew what the reaction would be. Plenty of other students of all ages and abilities tended to short circuit on such a simple suggestion as love. Numerous songs had come through from all kinds of people, a range of themes and feelings. Anything from a song about their pet cat, to what a breakup would be like. Never let it be said that his department was untalented, as even those so sheltered before Arlington managed to convince Alex otherwise. And he took great pride in that, encouraged it, harnessed that talent. Execution, execution, execution. Something he emphasised to greatly.

His first classes started the same. Make me believe in something. Big letters across the board, as it would stay for the next few months. Sing me something I don’t know. Alex stressed it, constantly. Have him relate, have him feel. Have him dream of a set of lyrics that were a jumbled mess of words out of context, but in that moment resonated with him.

And he pushed it. Whenever assignments were due, songs would pour in, and those who understood what it meant, achieved.

Those who didn’t, sat before him, out of their depth, and showing the signs of it. Of course Alex knew Axel’s potential, how wonderful he was. And perhaps it was a little presumptuous to say that Axel had been one of his favourite students in a long time, because there was a lot of work in the future for the both of them.

But watching Axel splutter under the suggestion of ‘love’, as if some of his earlier songs didn’t contain those themes, was unexpected. Axel had sung about it, a long time ago, like he knew what he was talking about.

If he hadn’t turned bright red, Alex almost would’ve thought it was someone else all along. Wisely, Alex chose not to comment on his student’s complexion, and diverted the conversation back. “As I said, Axel, there are a number of topics to choose from, it’s just on you to make them come to life.”

“But,” he started, before clearing his throat. Alex felt the corner of his mouth quirk a little, trying as he was, at the jump in Axel’s voice. “But… people who like my work — like me — don’t want songs about oceans. I can’t do that kind of stuff for them.”

“Then sing for yourself.”

“You say that like it’s easy.” It’s a quiet admission, like Alex had finally managed to break through one layer. To anyone else, that may have been misunderstood, but Alex knew how much it meant, to start to see the student underneath the professional.

“I know it’s not. If it helps, sing for only one person. Sing for two, three, or ten. Not hundreds. Don’t focus your energy into what you think people want to hear, but what they need to hear.”

“Yeah, but who needs to hear about love? Almost every song is about it. Wouldn’t that just make me like everyone else?” From the way Axel raises his eyebrows, Alex can hear him calling him a hypocrite.

“Perhaps, but it’s all about execution.”

An eye roll, that set off the feeling this discussion was coming to a close. Definitely a shame, despite Alex knowing he got more in that he thought he would. Always a caution as to where particular conversations with Axel went. But this one? This one was positive — perhaps it could even be considered groundbreaking. Despite the heave of a sigh as Axel pushes himself to his feet, Alex could see the cogs begin to spin. Careful calculations were playing out before him, which only made Alex swell with pride.

“Enough for today. Hopefully you have plenty to think about.”

Axel nods, scratching his neck before crossing his arms. Taking a step out of the situation, it seemed. In the background, the song he had submitted for his assignment still played on loop, only ending when Alex finally closed his laptop. “I do have to say that, unfortunately, I can’t accept this for your assignment.”

Holding a hand up, as Axel snapped to attention, Alex gave him the best settling stare he could manage. “You have another week to write and compose a song. Think about what I’ve said, and I want to see it come into play. You’re an amazing musician, Axel. Remember that.”

#sweet elite #se axel #se alex kim #*my fic #embarrassedly tags se creator #idk what alex kim's pronouns are.........#m sorry

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madisgriffin · 7 years

Text

More Like The Emperor

Summary: Based on the prompt: “you give me a different fake name every time you come into starbucks and I just want to know your real name bc ur cute but here I am scrawling “batman” onto your stupid cappuccino” but with Roman emperors because Bellamy is nerd. Obviously.

Word count: 4,022

Also on ao3

Clarke knew she would regret volunteering to work the early shifts when she started working at Starbucks, but it aligned with her class schedule and she was hoping at least the free coffee would do something to wake her up in the morning.

She wasn’t five minutes into her first shift, barely past five-thirty am, so early even the sun couldn’t be bothered to show itself yet, before she knew for certain that her hopes were misplaced.

She did her best to tame the scowl on her face on the off chance they actually had customers before six. By seven, she could very nearly manage a smile when serving the pre-coffee grumps that dragged themselves through their doors. But before six, or really, if she was honest, six-thirty, people were lucky if she didn’t glare at them like she wanted to splash the hot coffee in their faces.

Her manager would probably be more bothered by this if most of the customers seemed to care much about the look on her face. She almost didn’t mind serving those people, the ones who were clearly just as amused at being up at such an absurd hour as she was and were just trying to get themselves a halfway decent cup of caffeine to get through their day.

That, she could handle.

What really, really made her want to poison someone’s cappuccino were morning people.

Part of her already hated him the moment he walks through the door; it was her third shift and she’d only seen two people that morning, verging on five-forty-five, the slight smirk seeming plastered on his face like he existed to charm every person on the planet.

He saunters up to the register and grins at her. She’s just awake enough to register the fact that his smile could literally end wars, (or start them, she thought, that would be more historically accurate) but it still did little to brighten her mood.

She takes his order and his voice in every way matches his overwhelmingly attractive exterior. He had it all, really; the dark, curly hair, the dark eyes, the endearingly freckled skin and muscles she was sure made other girls swoon.

Other girls, that is, who were not raging monsters before six am, face to face with a man who seemed determined to radiate sunshine. She finds herself just as annoyed by his good looks as she is by his good mood.

She manages to keep herself composed while taking his order, but catches herself only after making a snide comment about The Fault in Our Stars when he says his name is Augustus.

In her moment of horror that she’d just made fun of a customer’s name, sure he’s going to get upset and tell her manager and she’s going to lose her job before she’s even finished her third shift, he has the audacity to smirk.

“More like the emperor, Clarke,” he says with a pointed glance toward her name tag.

She almost would’ve preferred if he’d gotten her fired; that, at least, would’ve likely prevented her from seeing him again.

As it happened, instead she had the joy of seeing him the next morning.

He comes in wearing a pair of glasses she didn’t remember him having the day before, (she wonders briefly whether or not they’re real. The part of her that hated him for being so cheery in the morning said he would be the type to wear fake glasses, but the rational part said he was probably wearing contacts the day before… so maybe her contemplation about the validity of his glasses wasn’t quite so brief) and he smiles the same bright smile and despite herself, she almost doesn’t mind his presence. In the absence of the sun, maybe his smile wasn’t half-bad.

All of her temporary annoyance reprieve dissipates when he gives her the name for the cup.

She had already started writing the ‘A’ for Augustus when he says it, and her head snaps up.

“Tiberius?” she repeats, incredulous, “I thought it was Augustus, like The Fault in Our Stars?”

“Or the emperor,” he reiterates, before smirking and infuriating her further. “You must have me confused with someone else, Clarke.”

And it’s that exact same pointed look at her name tag that genuinely makes her want to pull the lid off his steaming hot black coffee (seriously, who orders black coffee at Starbucks?) and pour it over his head. But in an effort to not risk losing her job twice in a row, she manages to calmly hand over his drink with only a well-intentioned glare.

If she wanted to moderately burn him the first two times they met, she was half considering stabbing him in the eye with her sharpie the third time.

“Caligula!?” she half-shouted, earning her a look from her manager.

“No, you’re pronouncing it wrong, it’s Caligula,” he responded with that horrible (beautiful, her mind betrayed her) smirk of his. “Nice girls get to call me Cal.”

“Well,” she said, grabbing his coffee, “then it’s a good thing I’m not nice.” She offered her own wink, belatedly realizing when he grinned how flirty her statement sounded, and he took his drink with a smile and walked out.

“I hate history,” she groaned for what was probably the tenth time that evening. “Why am I taking European history again?”

“Because it’s required to graduate and you thought it sounded more interesting than learning about American history for the seventeenth time,” Raven reminded her, not looking up from where she was reading on the couch across the room.

They’d been living in their crappy apartment since the start of sophomore year and Raven’s constant realism was still annoying at times. Even more so when Clarke was forced to read about dead people she didn’t care about.

“Well I was wrong,” she moaned, laying on the floor and dropping the textbook dramatically on her chest, to which her roommate rolled her eyes. “Why should I care about Copernicus or Galileo or fricking Caligula.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not reading much about Caligula in your European history course,”

“No…” Clarke conceded, “but you don’t know they’re not mentioning Roman emperors.”

“Clarke, the Middle Ages didn’t start until after the Roman Empire fell,” Raven said, finally sitting up to look in her direction. “No wonder you suck at history; you suck at it.”

Clarke stuck her tongue out at her smart aleck roommate, like the mature adult she was.

“Are you sure there’s not some other reason you have Roman emperors on the brain?” Raven continued, “Like a certain aggravating customer you can’t seem to stop talking about?”

“Don’t even,” Clarke said with a glare.

Raven shrugged, starting to open her book again, when Clarke continued, “You know, I looked it up and there’s about a billion ways to pronounce Caligula, so who does he think he is correcting me? And ‘nice girls get to call him Cal’, what kind of douchebag thing to say?”

Raven rolled her eyes again, but it was in an endearing way this time. “Are you sure you’re not even a little extra fond of this guy, and that’s why he bothers you so much?”

Clarke scoffed, trying for utterly disgusted. “He bothers me, as you put it, thanks Nicholas Sparks, because he comes into Starbucks before six am and gives me a different Roman emperor’s name every morning and then corrects me when I spell it wrong, like I obviously should know how to spell Vitellius for god’s sake.”

“Whatever you say, Clarke.”

She absolutely does not look forward to him coming.

And she absolutely is not at all fond of him.

And she is definitely not disappointed the first morning she comes in and isn’t greeted early in her shift with his ridiculous smirk.

She’d called in sick the morning before to study for her history test, (which went fine thank you very much, Raven. She was expecting a respectable B-) so she started her morning with the names of European kings and queens instead of Roman emperors. And she preferred it that way. Really.

But when she was at work the next morning, well, she just expected him there, so it was natural to feel like something was missing.

At least, that’s what she told herself when she tried to casually bring it up to Wells, her oldest friend and the only other person crazy enough to volunteer for early shifts, because he was one of those sunny morning people Clarke hated, and just a sunny person in general, which made him impossible to dislike.

“Hey, do you get any interesting customers during your morning shifts?” She asked, not quite meeting his eyes. They were sprawled out in her apartment one day, half paying attention to the movie playing on the tv.

“What do you mean?” He asked, briefly glancing away from the tv.

“I don’t know…” Wells turns and raises an eyebrow at her and she continues, “Like I mean, there’s this guy that comes in every day and I swear he’s even more perky in the morning than you are. It’s before six am; no one in their right mind should be smiling as bright as he does.”

Wells gives her a knowing look, but doesn’t comment on her describing Mystery Guy’s smile as ‘bright’, “Some people don’t stay up until 2 am watching Brooklyn Nine Nine —“

“It’s a quality show!”

“—and,” Wells continues, ignoring her interruption, “they actually wake up with enough energy to face the day.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Wells smiles endearingly at her, “So what’s perky dude’s name? Maybe I’ve seen him.”

“Uh,” Clarke stutters, “possibly Augustus? Dark curly hair, tan skin, freckles, always orders black coffee like a crazy person?”

Clarke almost cringes at the way the look on Wells’ face mirrors Raven’s earlier in the week.

“Yeah,” he says, “sounds familiar, although I can’t say he’s ever been overly perky when I’ve seen him; normally he seems about as happy to be there as you do in the morning. He actually scowled at me the last time he came in. And I’m pretty sure his name isn’t Augustus.”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t,” she says with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

Clarke can’t get her conversation with Wells out of her head that night; surely Mystery Guy wouldn’t be doing his perky morning thing to brighten her day She’s sure her agitation is written clear across her face, so in the end, she comes to the conclusion that he’s doing it just to spite her.

And that is something even she can appreciate.

Really, one has to admire his determination.

Her conclusion is what prompts her to close out of her Netflix tab and Google Roman emperors. Sure enough, her suspicions were correct and he was, in fact, choosing the names in chronological order.

What a nerd, she thought.

A cute nerd, her traitorous mind countered.

She scrolls down the list to the last name he’d used, Nerva, and writes down the one that comes next.

Smiling to herself, she closes her laptop and actually goes to sleep before midnight that night, and when she wakes up the next morning, she finds herself almost (almost) looking forward to his morning coffee run.

Six am comes and goes and she can’t help but wonder whether he’ll come in. He hadn’t been there yesterday; maybe he’d found some other barista girl to torment. And why did that bother her so much? He’d been nothing more than a minor annoyance in her life; she should be glad if he moved on somewhere else.

And yet…

Her train of thought was interrupted when she caught sight of a familiar figure through the windows, walking toward the door. She quickly turned around to start brewing his coffee, before turning back to the register to face him, right as he walked in.

He smiled when he saw her standing there, but it disappeared as soon as it had come, replaced by his usual smirk.

“You know,” he started, “the cafe down the street has way better coffee. You guys should take notes.”

“Oh, is that where you ditched us for yesterday?” She asked, ignoring the way the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I was having breakfast with my sister, but I’m glad you missed me.” He winked at her and she rolled her eyes, picking up the cup now filled with coffee and placing a lid on top.

“I have a black coffee here for Trajan; is that you or did he go to the shop down the street?”

He grinned, and she told herself she was only paying attention to the way his eyes lit up because she’d put too much effort into this whole thing, and she wanted it to pay off. Not like his smile was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Nope.

“I see you’ve been doing your research,” he said, wrapping his hand around the coffee cup. And if their hands stayed there a few second longer than necessary, their fingers brushing, she didn’t even notice.

“Maybe,” she shrugs when he pulls his hand away. “You’re a nerd, by the way.”

“Maybe,” he mimics, and he smiles again, soft, in a way she hasn’t seen before. “Thanks, Clarke.”

“You got it, Trajan.”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, but instead he smiles, turns, and walks out. She thinks maybe that’s when she started thinking of them as friends.

She’s still not a fan of mornings (still hates them with a fiery passion), but she begins to look forward to seeing him, even at the ungodly hour which he gets his coffee.

She makes a habit of writing the name on the cup before he gets there, always looking it up again the night before her shift to make sure she gets it right, because she can’t imagine his ridicule if she were to get them out of order.

Some mornings they chat a little, make small talk until another customer walks in or he looks at his watch and rushes off to… wherever he’s going in the mornings.

It startles her sometimes, how little she knows about this man she’s started to see as her friend. She knows he likes history, knows he has a sister because every now and then he skips his morning coffee to get breakfast with her.

(“The coffee may be better down the street, but I just feel so much more at home here. I tried to tell the barista there that my name was Severus and do you know what she said? ‘Severus Snape?’, as if she didn’t know I was referring to Septimius Severus.”

“Well, obviously!”

“The nerve.” )

She also knows that he doesn’t actually like mornings, as he admitted to her only in the last few times she’d seen him.

(“I mean, I was in a good mood that first time I came in here, but after that it was just really amusing watching you get all mad at me so I kept it up. You’re like an angry kitten.”

“Oh, screw off.”)

But otherwise, she knows next to nothing about him. The small talk is just that: small. And it’s in those small moments, full of lighthearted laughter and witty banter, that she starts to realize maybe what she’s feeling for him isn’t so small.

In reality, a part of her has known it for long enough that it’s not startling when she finally accepts that she likes him as more than just a regular customer, more than just a friend she sees early in the morning a few times a week. That she wants to see him more often than that, to see the way his eyes dance in the sunlight, listen to the way he talks when his voice isn’t still gravelly from sleep, watch the way he interacts with other people. She wants to meet his little sister and go to that little coffee shop with him and force him to sit still while she paints the constellations scattered across his cheeks. She wants to know him and wants him to know her.

And she knows how ridiculous it is to be thinking like this about someone whose relationship with her amounts to him being a Starbucks regular and her going along with his emperor game.

She doesn’t even know his real name.

A fact which is especially frustrating when he stops showing up every morning.

The first time it happens, she thinks nothing of it. He’s with his sister, she thinks, no big deal. The second time, she’s confused, but unconcerned. He’ll explain tomorrow.

When he doesn’t show up the next day, she starts to get uneasy.

He’s probably just on vacation or something.

But why wouldn’t he have told me?

Why would he tell you, Clarke? You don’t need to know where he is at all times.

Days stretch into weeks and she’s officially freaking out.

“What if he’s hurt or something and I have no way of knowing?” She asks Raven, verging on frantic, after it’s been sixteen days she hasn’t seen him.

“Why don’t you just try to look him up? If he’s dead it’ll at least be on his Facebook.”

Her blood runs cold at the thought of him being dead, and she shoves the thought out of her head. “I don’t even know his first name, Raven! It’s not as though anything comes up when you Google “hot history nerd with little sister in the Seattle area””

“You tried, didn’t you?”

“… No?”

Raven gives her a look.

“Yes, okay, I did,” she admits, “but I’m concerned for his safety, that’s it!”

“Says the girl who just called him hot,” Raven says, entirely unconvinced.

“Objectively!” Clarke protests feebly. There’s really no use denying it; her friends could tell she liked him even before she could.

Her friends.

Wells.

“That’s it!” She cries, jumping up from the couch and snatching her phone from the coffee table.

“What’s it?” Raven asks, but Clarke doesn’t answer, tapping Wells’ name on her screen and waiting impatiently for him to pick up.

“Hey Clarke, what’s up?” Wells’ voice comes from the other end of the line.

“Wells! Hey, um, you know the guy we were talking about? Dark hair, freckles, black coffee?”

“Yeah,” Wells answers slowly, “what about him?”

“What’s his name?” Clarke asks, trying and failing to keep her voice level.

“Augustus won’t tell you his real name and you’re stooping to asking me?” Wells chuckles, “That’s low even for you, Clarke.”

“Shut up, Wells, he hasn’t been in for weeks and I’m starting to get worried; would you at least tell me the guy’s first name?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; he’s been there every day I’ve worked since we talked about it. He’s fine, Clarke. It’s not really my place to tell you his name if he won’t.” And with that, there’s a click as Wells hangs up on her, and Clarke almost drops the phone in disappointment.

“So?” Raven prompts, “What’s Mystery Guy’s name?”

“I—I don’t know,” she says slowly, dropping back to her seat on the couch. “Wells won’t tell me, but he says that he’s been there every time he’s working.” She turns to look at her friend. “Do you think he’s avoiding me?”

“Is there any reason he would be avoiding you?” Raven asks, ever the logical one.

“No, I—I don’t think so. It was fine, we were fine…,” she doesn’t even notice the single, traitorous tear slip down her cheek until Raven sits all the way up to pull her against her side.

“Maybe Augustus likes you just as much as you like him, and now he’s too nervous to be around you.”

“Doubtful,” Clarke murmurs against her friend’s shoulder.

Another several days go by before Raven finally convinces Clarke that the best way to solve her, admittedly unorthodox, heartbreak was to drown her sorrows in alcohol.

The two of them are sitting at the bar and Clarke thinks maybe it’s working, maybe she can just have fun tonight, laugh with her friend, get drunk and make out with a stranger, and she’ll be back to normal in the morning. She almost doesn’t even think of the dark-haired stranger she wishes she could be making out with. Almost.

Once she actually thinks she sees him across the room. When the moment passes and there’s no one there, she realizes how pathetic it is, and she drinks a little bit more.

She’s barely verging on tipsy, definitely not had enough to drink to deal with this, when Raven gets up to go to the bathroom and she hears a voice behind her.

But it’s not a voice she wants to hear, not a voice she ever wanted to hear again, and she doesn’t even bother to tame her grimace when she turns around and none other than Finn Collins is smiling at her.

This is truly something that would only happen to her. Just. Her. Luck.

“Aw come on, babe,” Finn says when he takes in the look on her face. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Not especially,” she says with a smile, and his own smile falters. “And I don’t think Raven would be thrilled to see you either; what were you doing, just watching and waiting for one of your ex-girlfriends to leave the bar so you could make a move on the other one? That’s pathetic, Finn.”

It was satisfying, to some extent, to watch the smile fall from his face little by little while she talked. And when she finished, he actually had the nerve to look sad.

“Clarke,” he started, but she’d never know what he was going to say, because this time a different voice came from over her shoulder. Just her luck indeed.

“Babe, are you okay?” Came the voice of her favorite pseudo-emperor.

She turned to smile at him, recognizing his rescue for what it was, “Hey! Yeah, I’m alright, Finn was just leaving.” She turned back to Finn, who looked none too eager to do that.

“Clarke, who is this?” He asked, either not getting the hint or just trying to be a jerk. Hard to tell with Finn.

Her smile didn’t falter, glancing behind her only briefly before answering, “This is Augustus, my boyfriend.”

“Augustus?” Finn mocked, his face twisting, “Like The Fault in Our Stars?”

“More like the emperor,” they answer in unison, and Clarke’s grin widens.

Finn turns to walk away with a disgusted look on his face, and Clarke spins around to finally face her rescuer.

“Hey,” he says, smile soft. “Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been around. There was a family crisis and I was MIA for a few days and I knew that when I came back in you’d ask and I knew I’d tell you but I didn’t want it to be weird because I know we’re not really friends but I felt like I could trust you and I didn’t want to overstep anything and—”

“Woah, slow your roll, Caesar,” she interrupts him, and he falls silent—only for a moment, but when he speaks again, it’s quiet and slow.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and her heart aches.

“How about we start from the beginning, and we can work our way up from there,” she says, and extends a hand toward him. “Hi, I’m Clarke Griffin.”

He takes her hand and smiles in a way that lights up the night. “Bellamy Blake.”

She smiles brighter than she has in weeks, and thinks this just might be the beginning of something beautiful, something she never saw coming all those months ago, a chance meeting at an ungodly hour.

She’ll never be a morning person, but she thinks maybe she won’t mind them as long as she gets to keep spending them with him.

And she does end up making out with a (near) stranger in the bar that night, but she’s not back to normal in the morning. Not even close.

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #bellarke fanfic #the 100 fanfiction #bellarke ff #my writing

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sugamacchiato · 7 years

Text

[2/3] two lefts don’t make a right...but three do

Pairing: Yoongi / Seokjin

Summary: Yoongi thinks Seokjin forgot their anniversary

Word count: 1,815

Genre: Uh… my sad attempts at humor? idk it’s pretty light imo but it ain’t fluff exactly ~

Warnings: other than light swearing none I don’t think?

a/n: lol so this takes place the day BEFORE the events of pt1 ~ I started writing this part originally as part of p1 but I didn’t like the flow of things so I took it and bc of that it’s kind of mostly a filler chapter. That being said, it was also my favorite part to write which is why I couldn’t bring myself to delete it altogether and just made it pt2 tho I did almost rip my hair out trying to make this part flow better. I don’t know how to words so byeeeeeeeee

pt1 here

Yoongi really should have been more suspicious when Seokjin didn’t drop any crass reminders in the weeks leading up to their anniversary, but he simply took it as Seokjin deciding to finally stop being a patronizing dick. New date, fresh start, Yoongi reasoned.

Little red flags did go off when Yoongi was woken up by his usual alarm and not with an “I can’t believe I’ve put up with your ass for seven years now” kiss but he shrugged it off when he heard Seokjin in the shower. Seokjin probably wanted him to sleep in a little longer but forgot to actually turn off his alarm. Yoongi expected some tepid remark about whatever he had planned when Seokjin stepped out of the bathroom but was only informed that he had some meeting on the other side of the city and would have to head out a little early before he vanished into their closet.

Seokjin was testing him, Yoongi realized, to see if he had indeed forgotten their anniversary without any of his irritating reminders. Like hell if he was going to give Seokjin the satisfaction. He knew Seokjin would keep the charade up for a good while just for the sake of being petty but Yoongi planned to nip that in the butt early by sneaking up behind Seokjin as he walked out the door and pull him down for an “I can’t believe I’ve been legally bound to your ass for a year now” kiss. The idea was that since Seokjin was already on his way out he wouldn’t have time to sit back and pout which would’ve given Yoongi the triumphant last word. For the moment, at least.

Their morning went on like most; only a quipped comment from Yoongi here and there, annoyed that Seokjin would put him through this whole farce. He got a few pointed looks from Seokjin but Yoongi’s too often grumpy in the morning before he’s had his coffee so it wasn’t uncommon for Seokjin to just let Yoongi’s snide comments slide without contest.

Seokjin was a pretty good actor and when he wanted he’d fool pretty much anyone. With Yoongi though, Seokjin could only ever keep up with facades for so long before Yoongi would pick up on some subtle inconsistency in personality that give him away. The longer their morning went on, the closer Yoongi scrutinized Seokjin’s every move, trying to catch any indication of his husband’s theatrics. Seokjin eventually caught onto Yoongi’s unusual surveying of him and crossingly reminded him of the thousands of photos Yoongi kept of him on his phone and if he wanted to be creepy to use those in the meantime. Seokjin was running late which in turn made him intolerably snippy. Yoongi’s snarky comments earlier probably didn’t help the matter and he almost regretted them...almost.

Watching Seokjin curse up a storm while rampaging around their apartment looking for his lost keys was Yoongi’s first real tip that Seokjin wasn’t keeping up with some agenda. He was always way too suave and put together while he kept an act up. His sleeve could catch fire and he probably wouldn’t break character. Which meant...that Seokjin had actually forgotten their wedding anniversary. What the fuck?

Any other day Yoongi would find it amusing how easily Seokjin’s over-the-top dramatics were instantly appeased the the moment he found whatever he had been looking for. His husband’s childish tantrums were some of Yoongi’s favorites to tease him about since Seokjin always tried to keep some semblance of an adult character. Yoongi loved the indignant pouting when he’d make hinted remarks about Seokjin’s less than composed episodes. That morning however, Yoongi watched in disbelief as the black cloud lifted over Seokjin’s head and replaced with rainbow glitter (or whatever the hell it was that made him so damn glowy), he grabbed his briefcase and mindlessly hummed that annoying song from a gum CF he’s had stuck in his head for weeks while heading out the door. But right as he walked out he stopped when he realized something and turned back.

Awkwardly maneuvering through their furniture, Seokjin trotted back where Yoongi stood uselessly at the other end of the living room. The tiniest bit of doubt that maybe Seokjin was acting clouded Yoongi’s judgement of what to expect when Seokjin reached him. When Seokjin merely leaned down and pressed a quick peck onto Yoongi’s lips before turning around with a vague wail as a goodbye, Yoongi couldn't help the slightest dejected feeling pooled in his stomach because how the hell could Seokjin forget their damned anniversary?

He waited all day for an “oh my god, I fucked up!” text from his soon-to-be-ex husband which would soon have been followed by six or seven “this wasn’t my fault” excuses texts and one last “I’ll make it up to you” text, but they never came. The longer the day dragged on the more irritated Yoongi got with Seokjin for forgetting.

He jumped when Seokjin’s ID finally appeared on his screen but it was only a text letting Yoongi know that he was going to have dinner and drinks with his brother and not to wait up for him. Yoongi was so livid he was ready to all but ask him for a divorce.

But no, Yoongi thought, there was still time left in the day and he would at least give Seokjin the benefit of the doubt until midnight.

Yoongi carelessly flipped through the book Seokjin had on his nightstand while he waited for him to get home. He wasn’t actually reading but it was a good way to keep his jittery hands busy while he came up with a passive-aggressive way of letting Seokjin know it was their anniversary.

Yoongi’s anniversary gift for Seokjin was still tucked behind their armoire and he thought about sliding it under Seokjin’s side of the bed so when he got down on hands and knees looking for his other slipper (which Yoongi would’ve made sure would never be seen again) he’d see the neatly wrapped package and card and realize. It may have slipped his mind that it was their anniversary but there was no way Seokjin didn’t know the actual calendar date.

Yoongi was so caught up in his petty delusions of imagining himself silently staring Seokjin down while he tried to piece together an excuse that when he heard the front door he panicked. He had completely lost track of time and instead of coming up with a quick plan b he just stuck his nose into the book in his lap and mechanically followed the lines of text despite still not actually reading a single word. It seemed Yoongi opted for the ‘pretend everything’s still okay’ route and he mentally slapped himself but it was too late since he heard Seokjin was just up the hall.

He was still focused on the progression of the lines when Seokjin entered the room but Yoongi doesn’t know how he didn’t hurl it at Seokjin’s head when he heard his smug laugh. “What?” he asked, looking up at Seokjin and glad he sounded casual enough to not raise any suspicion just yet.

“It’s cute that you’re pretending to read while waiting for me,” Seokjin mused, nodding at the book in Yoongi’s hands. The pompous tone in Seokjin’s voice rubbed Yoongi the wrong way as he was already upset with him. Him being bratty wasn’t helping.

“I’m not pretending,” Yoongi protested. He was getting huffy and if he were dealing with anyone besides Seokjin, Yoongi would have taken a moment to bite his tongue and pull his thoughts together. Unfortunately, he was dealing with Seokjin and Yoongi always seemed to let his emotions get the better of him with matters relating to his husband.

Seokjin seemed to have taken Yoongi’s defensiveness as just him being stubborn and not actually upset with him since he just nodded to the book in his hands again and asked him how he had managed to get through over half the book in only a few hours. Yoongi knew that bitingly replying he had always been a fast reader was a weak excuse but he couldn’t stop himself. So when Seokjin asked him which character he thought the traitor on the island was, all Yoongi could do was look at him stupidly for a moment before Seokjin smiled softly and disappeared into their bathroom.

Slamming the book shut in frustration, Yoongi scanned their room with new resolve to find a clever way to let Seokjin know he had forgotten their anniversary. His eyes circled around and landed on the book in his lap. His jaw dropped. The Transformation of Korean Law: 1900-1950 was the title printed on the cover and whether from anger or embarrassment Yoongi’s face flared up. Son-of-a-bitch!

Yoongi was debating between setting the book on fire and chucking it out their ninth story window when he heard Seokjin sneer loudly from across the room. He stood just outside their bathroom doing nothing to restrain the self-satisfying look of amusement from seeing Yoongi had realized his double play. He couldn’t believe he played himself so fabulously and then walked so easily into Seokjin’s trap.

Seokjin shook his head and without another word climbed into bed, took the book in his husband’s lap and placed it back on his nightstand before turning back around and placing a kiss unceremoniously on Yoongi’s lips. He snuggled into the covers and it wasn’t long before he was asleep. Yoongi was still both upset with Seokjin for forgetting their anniversary and with himself for letting his spite control his actions that he decidedly stayed up to brood a bit longer.

Okay. Seokjin had won this round, Yoongi admitted after a while of glowering. He knew his dumb husband wasn’t even aware they were in battle but whatever, that’s another issue. He ultimately decided he would get his retribution the following day and settled in to sleep.

Despite being upset with him the whole day, Yoongi still finds peace in Seokjin’s soft snores and muddled grumbles. Sleeping Seokjin looks like an angel and Yoongi always tries to keep his eyes open a second longer because, not to be cheesy, but even after all these years there’s still something breathtaking about Seokjin being the last thing he sees before falling asleep.

With a final sigh, Yoongi said goodbye to their first anniversary as a married couple and dozed off with an inherent smile when he felt Seokjin pull closer into him and wrap an arm around his waist. Whatever ridiculous issue they had with each other, Yoongi still loved how neither of them let it really get in the way of their relationship. They may go to bed in the middle of a silent fight but it always seems to melt away, even if only a little, as they slept.

#yoonjin #yoongi #suga #seokjin #jin #bts #bts fanfiction #mywritinglol #two lefts don’t make a right...but three do

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