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vampynights · 9 months

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CLYDE (ELECTRICK CHILDREN) — hanging on the telephone

✰summary: clyde’s not the conventional type to bring home and your parents make that abundantly clear. still, he’s desperate to keep you in his life somehow. do you choose between the approval and love of the people who keep a roof over your head, or the boy who made you feel alive for the first time ever?

✰warnings: cursing, smoking and weed usage (i’ve never actually smoked so bear with me), mentions of drinking, lots of tension, pretty slowburn (this is kinda an understatement, it took around 6,000 words to get to the lovers part), angst with comfort, unhealthy relationships with parents, afab reader, reader uses she/her pronouns

✰a/n: this is not only the first fic (or oneshot) i’ve written in a while but also my first ever clyde fic so please excuse any mistakes!!! i’m open to any requests for clyde seeing as there isn’t enough fanfiction of him out there.

✰words: 14.3k (it's a long one so strap in.)

————————————

Meeting Clyde was an accident but to her, it was almost a blessing.

Y/N didn’t intend on letting it go as far as it did. He was just the weird stoner kid she met at a music venue. If you asked her, she’d tell you the story of how they met was as cliché as it could get. Girl bumps into boy with a drink, boy shrugs it off and promptly begins flirting with her, and they hit it off almost immediately. She’d never been to something like that before and it was obvious but Clyde was nice enough to make sure she didn’t feel too out of place (or bump into any more people.)

By the end of the night, the two were walking around the streets of Las Vegas, talking endlessly about everything and anything that popped into their minds. Both of them knew that by bringing up a random story or question, they were simply procrastinating saying goodbye to one another, yet neither of them bothered to point it out or put an end to it.

“Okay so- wait. You’ve never gone, like, fucking rogue on your parents for not even a day? What, do you just stay at home and shit?” Clyde is inebriated and exasperated, running a hand through his hair with one hand while the other raises to his mouth and grabs the cigarette in between his lips. He blows out the smoke and Y/N lets her gaze linger on the sight for a few seconds before looking at the street ahead, shaking her head.

“I mean…yeah? I’m not really the type to disobey my parents for no reason. I didn’t feel any need to.” She looks down and kicks a pebble in front of her. She can feel Clyde staring at her but she refuses to make eye contact, weirdly embarrassed by her admission.

“Yet here you are walking around with a random guy at night, real fucking smart. Were you even allowed to go to that venue?” He asks, laughing as he raises the cigarettes to his lips again.

“Nope,” she replies, emphasizing the ‘P’. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket and looks around. It’s surprisingly vacant, though she assumes it’s because they’ve unknowingly departed from the busier streets and are now walking around aimlessly.

“Well aren’t you just a little rebel-“ he begins to tease her though is cut off by a harsh shove, making him laugh and stumble to the side. She playfully glares at him and flips him off.

“Shut the fuck up?” She giggled. “I bet you’re probably a fucking nuisance to your parents.” Though it’s a rather mean statement, Clyde knows she’s only joking through the smile that spreads across her face. He smiles back and for a split second Y/N swears she feels her heart skip.

“Well actually,” he raises the cigarette to his lips again, “I don’t live with them anymore. Well, technically I don’t.”

Y/N feels a tinge of guilt for even bringing up the subject of his parents after hearing that, though Clyde is quick to notice the way her smile falters and he quickly adds to his sentence.

“Not that I really give a shit though, I like being on my own a lot better than staying over there. It’s suffocating,” he says through the cigarette in between his lips.

“How come?”

“I don’t know, they’re like…not supportive of who I am and shit?” Clyde shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. Y/N feels as though he’s excluding a large majority of the story though drops it. She instead chooses to focus on how they’re approaching her neighborhood. She sighs, disappointed at the prospect of having to leave Clyde. He glances over at her from the corner of his eye at the sound and then directs his attention to where hers is, staring at a street sign in front of them.

“Is uh- is this where you live?” He asks her, holding the cigarette between his fingers before flicking it and throwing it on the ground, stepping on it with his shoe to put it out. Y/N nods and then turns to face him. They’re both silent for a few seconds, staring at each other awkwardly as they try to formulate a proper goodbye.

“This was…fun,” she eventually speaks, her lips pursing together into a tight smile. Clyde nods and smiles as well, though he is a lot more relaxed.

“Can I get your number?” He blurts out. Her eyes widen only slightly before she quickly begins digging into her bag, pulling out a pink flip phone with small bedazzled jewels on it. She holds it out for Clyde to take and he laughs at the sight, grabbing it and inspecting it.

“Cute,” is all he says as he flips it open and begins putting his number into her phone. He pulls out his own and puts her number into his, Y/N staring in awkward silence.

He shuts both phones and hands hers back, beginning to walk backward and away from her. “I’ll call you!” He shouts out to her, waving goodbye. She waves back, standing in place and watching him leave. Looking back down at her phone, she can’t help but grin wildly and laugh to herself as she walks back home, a blush spread across her cheeks the whole time.

———

It takes Clyde two days to call her. In those two days she did nothing but think of him. The way he pat her shoulder after she profusely apologized for spilling her drink on him, the way he whispered into her ear whenever someone he knew walked past and he had a strong opinion on them he just needed to share, and the way he asked her to walk with him before the band they were watching even finished performing all snuck their way into her mind throughout the day.

What was in the forefront of her mind however was his smile. The smile he gave her as he offered to be her ‘guide’, the smile he gave her when she told him her name and the smile he gave her as they said goodbye. If there was anything she learned about him after the night they spent together, it was that he would very easily become her new favorite person.

She was in her bedroom when he called, flipping through a fashion magazine while lying on her bed. Laying on her stomach with her legs swinging in the air, she mindlessly stared at the model on the page in front of her, though her mind was anywhere but on the skirt she was showcasing. Coincidentally enough, she was thinking about Clyde when the loud ringing alarmed her out of her thoughts.

She jumped and got up, racing towards her phone on the dresser and picking it up to see the caller's I.D. Her heart raced as she read the name and she purposefully waited for the phone to ring for just a couple more seconds before picking it up to avoid looking eager.

“Hello?” She could hear Clyde’s voice clearly through the speaker and her heart raced. It had only been two days since they met yet it felt like an eternity since she had heard his voice.

“Hi,” she breathed out, subconsciously checking herself out in the mirror and fixing her hair as if Clyde could see her.

“What are you doing?” He asks and she can hear muffled music in the background as if he were listening to a live band in a different room.

“Uhm nothing really…just doing some light reading…” she glances over at the magazine on her bed and paces her room.

“Light reading? What the fuck is that?” He laughs on the other end and Y/N bites her lip to try and control the smile on her face. Sighing, she sits down on her bed and flips another page of the magazine absentmindedly.

“Doesn’t matter. What are you doing? Sounds like you’re at a venue or something again.” She runs a finger down the page.

“Close but not really. I’m uh watching some friends practice…they’re in a band and shit. They’re actually kinda good but y’know music is subjective and all that bullshit so maybe you won’t agree,” he mumbled into the phone, and she laughed in response. Laying down on her back, she stared up at her ceiling and tapped her fingers on her stomach.

“Right…I’m sure they’re good. Well if they’re anything like the bands we heard the other night, they were amazing.”

Clyde chuckles and clears his throat. “Yeah no they were great…they’re actually playing again at the same venue next week…if you wanna go check it out.”

“The same venue only a week later? Wouldn’t they wanna broaden where they play and stuff?” Y/N furrows her eyebrows and rolls over on her side.

“Well they’re small bands and a shit ton of people usually go over there so…either way, it’s better for us cause it’s closer. So are you in or nah?”

Y/N takes a moment to think. She was dying to see him again though the prospect of going against her parent's rule of sneaking out at night wasn’t one she was intending to break more than just once a month. Still, she found herself abandoning all logic and agreeing. “Yeah, sure. What day?” She tries to sound casual though a bit of excitement shines through her tone.

“Next Wednesday at 11 pm. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you out long like last time,” he laughs, “unless you want me to.”

Her heart skips at his words and she can practically hear his smirk over the phone. “We’ll see.” She’s trying her best to play it cool despite the tremor in her hands.

“Cool.”

And with that, they’re left in awkward silence for a few seconds. Y/N thinks of what to say and though she really, really doesn’t want to come off as desperate, she can’t help but ask the question that’s been nagging her ever since the day before.

“How come it took you two days to call?”

There’s a brief pause on Clyde’s end that makes her panic. Did she freak him out? Was she being overbearing? Was two days a reasonable amount of time to wait before calling someone and she was just clingy? His laughing cut off her train of thought.

“Missed me?” He asked teasingly. She felt her cheeks grow warm from embarrassment but he spoke before she could defend herself. “I’m gonna be honest I just got kinda busy. Trust me when I say I wanted to call you, though.”

Y/N smiles widely, not bothering to push it back. The confirmation that he had also been thinking about her, maybe not as much as she was thinking of him, but that she was on his mind at all overjoyed her. She twirled a strand of her hair around her finger and closed her eyes.

“I’ll believe you. For now.”

He snickered at her last statement and opened his mouth to reply before a voice other than his could be heard from the phone. She couldn’t tell whose voice it was, though the person seemed agitated with him. She stared at her nails as she waited for Clyde to speak to her.

“Listen, I gotta go but I’ll call you again soon, alright? And if not, I’ll see you on Wednesday. Kay?”

She was disappointed at the fact that their call had to be cut short though nodded to his words before remembering he couldn’t see her. “Uh- yeah! See you.”

They exchanged a quick goodbye before hanging up the phone. Y/N flipped hers shut and set it down on top of her chest, her hands resting on her stomach as she smiled up at her ceiling. She knew it’d be a long week before Wednesday came.

—------------

She didn’t understand what part of her behavior may have changed throughout the week, though to her parents, it was fairly obvious that she was a little too happy. The next Monday Y/N could sense something was off the moment she stepped foot into the dining room. The atmosphere was tense almost, and what made things worse was Y/N couldn’t pinpoint why. Did they somehow know about her secret rendezvous? Maybe she was too loud on the phone the night before? Or perhaps they knew she snuck out the other night. They wouldn’t have waited this long to confront her, however.

As she approached her seat at the dinner table, she cautiously stared up at her father through her eyelashes and pulled out her chair. Her father was too busy setting the table to notice.

“Y/N! Can you come help me set the plates?” Her mother called out to her from the kitchen, startling her. She let go of the chair and began to walk towards the kitchen, taking one last glance at her father before directing her attention to her mother. She paced around the kitchen grabbing plates from cabinets, forks and knives from the drawers on the counters, and began transferring the food from the pots and pans onto the plates. Y/N walked over slowly and grabbed a plate, taking hold of a large spoon and scooping out some of the rice in the container to pour it onto the plate. The air felt a little lighter in there, and they both did their tasks in mutual silence for a minute before her mother began speaking.

“You seem happy lately. Anything new?” It was an innocent question. Her mother was usually the type to inquire about her life so this wasn’t completely out of the ordinary. The guilt from sneaking out three nights ago plagued Y/N’s mind, however, and what once was a warm and comforting inquiry of how she was doing now became a terrifying interrogation. Y/N tried her best to remain calm and continued to fill the plate with food, setting it down and reaching over the counter to wash a spoon in her hands.

“Nothing new, just happy that it’s summer,” she replied cooly, mentally applauding herself for responding without a shake in her voice. Her mother hummed in response and left the kitchen with a plate in her hands, walking out to the dining room. Y/N turned the sink off and sighed under her breath, looking down and gripping the counter with her hands. She was definitely not made for the lifestyle of sneaking out against her parent's permission. She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath, grabbing her plate and walking out to the dining room.

Her father was seated already, flipping through a newspaper while her mother set a plate down in front of him. Y/N fought back the urge to roll her eyes at his inability to make his own plate and placed her plate down on the table. She silently walked back into the kitchen and looked in the fridge for something to drink. Her family wasn’t the type to drink anything deemed ‘unhealthy’, meaning the only things available to drink were water and homemade juices. She’d rather drink her own piss than ingest an entire cup of her mother's kale juice, so she instead opted for a water bottle. She’d kill to drink some soda, however.

As she walked back to the table she found her mother and father already seated, staring at her expectantly. It was uncanny, almost, the way they both looked over in her direction at the same time and smiled. She froze for a split second and smiled back (though it came off as more of a grimace), her teeth in full display before she continued to walk back to her seat. She sat down and smoothed out her pants before looking down at her food and closing her eyes. Before every meal, they were expected to pray.

‘Oh heavenly father,” her father began, sighing deeply as he intertwined his hands in front of his plate, “we thank you for the opportunity to be blessed with the food in front of us and we are grateful for the roof over our heads and for each other. Thank you for my wonderful wife who prepared this delicious meal, and thank you for my truehearted daughter who continues to stay on the right path, the path that you have created for her.” His prayer continued, though Y/N tuned out.

The guilt was eating at her. Her father sat just inches away praising her for her obedience and loyalty to god, when just three nights before she was out on the streets with a boy who she knew very well both her parents and God wouldn’t approve of. Not that she really gave a damn about God anyway. He was always something her parents believed in and pressured her to believe in as well. Her doubt of his existence didn’t make her guilt any better, though. Even though she knew deep down she didn’t fully believe in him, she didn’t completely deny him either. And if he did exist as her parents insisted, was she just a horrible person and daughter for doubting that? She already felt like a horrible daughter for sneaking out the way she did. For years her parents publicly and privately praised her for being the “most well behaved child they’d ever seen.” They had confidence in her that she’d always do the right thing, and made it abundantly clear that if she were to ever, ever, disobey them she’d be betraying their trust completely. She was too caught up in her thoughts and failed to notice both of her parents staring at her worriedly.

“Y/N?” Her mother reached out and grabbed her arm, gently shaking her. Y/N snapped back into reality and blinked, staring down at her food and then looking at her parents. “Are you okay sweetheart?” Her mother asked. Y/N could only nod and grab her fork, stabbing into the meat on her plate and shoving it into her mouth.

—--------------

Wednesday night, Y/N found herself pacing her room in an attempt to relieve the anxiety that surrounded her like a dark cloud. She’d gotten past the first two stages of her plan: she kissed both her parents goodnight and waited for them to fall asleep before hiding out in her room like a hermit. She placed a bunch of pillows under her blanket strategically to look like a body (something she’d learned from the corny sitcoms she was allowed to watch. She found it ridiculous though did it anyways,) and began getting ready. She didn’t own a lot of clothing that would be deemed ‘appropriate’ for the occasion and ended up wearing a loose black dress that stopped just short of her knees. She put on a leather jacket that she stole from a friend who had a lot more freedom to wear whatever they wanted, and some dark brown eyeshadow to try and give herself a more ‘edgy’ look. She assumed that’s what Clyde would be into based on the appearances of the girls he hung around with.

It was a struggle to get out of her house without making any noise. She had to take off her shoes while she walked down the stairs and past her parents’ room to avoid any creaking in the floors, and it took her almost three minutes to unlock and open the door without making any noise. By the time she stepped out of her house, it was 10:55 pm and she had to be at the venue by 11, though her house was about a ten-minute walk from there. She was now not only incredibly nauseous from the fact that she was sneaking out in the first place but also that she had only 5 minutes to get there on time. Maybe he wouldn’t be there on time? He seemed like the type of guy who was never actually on time for stuff, so maybe, just maybe, she’d get there before him. Right?

Wrong.

By the time she did get to the venue, sweaty and out of breath, she could see him standing against a wall with his arms crossed, smoking a cigarette. She didn’t understand why he smoked so much but decided now was definitely not the right time to ask any questions like that. She nervously walked up to him, trying to get a good look at his face underneath the colorful lights above them to gauge his mood and decide whether or not it was smart to actually go say hi or if she should just walk away and never talk to him again. It was hard to actually pinpoint his mood however, seeing as he remained rather stoic as he stared out at the street in front of him. He must have sensed her presence before he glanced over from the corner of his eye, and his eyebrow twitched just slightly. He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth and threw it on the ground, stepping over it before cooly walking over to her. She stayed frozen in place.

“Took you long enough. Was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his navy blue hoodie as he walked towards her. Y/N laughed quietly, looking down at her shoes to avoid his gaze.

“Sorry. Turns out sneaking out of your house with the intention of meeting up with someone is a lot harder than just sneaking out in general,” she was about to explain herself in further detail, feeling as if she needed to or else he’d get mad before he laughed and place an arm around her shoulder casually. Her eyebrows rose and she stiffened under his touch though didn’t make an effort to shove him off or anything. He was warm. She smiled softly as he began to lead her into the venue, rambling about how the bands already started but they weren’t missing out on much.

—--------------------

That was a month ago. Every day since then, they have been in contact somehow, whether it was exchanging phone calls or texts, or meeting up with each other. They started hanging out more during the day as well, with Y/N lying and saying she was visiting her friends from church. The guilt of lying to her parents and disobeying them grew every day, though her affection towards Clyde was growing at an even more rapid rate. The guilt was worth it if it meant she got to see him one more time. One day, they were in his…room? She still didn’t know what to call it, she just knew that’s where he stayed most of the time. They both sat on his bed with their hands in the air, in the middle of a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’. Y/N was obviously winning with only three fingers down, meanwhile, Clyde had eight of them.

“Okay sooo…” she began before smirking mischievously. Clyde sighed and rolled his eyes, a small smile on his face as well.

“Ah shit you’re about to kill me, aren’t you?” He asked, giggling as Y/N placed a finger over his lips and shushed him.

“Shhshhhshhh….never have I ever smoked.”

Clyde narrowed his eyebrows at her. “Gotta be more specific. Like weed or cigs or-”

“Just put the finger down, Clyde, we both know you’ve inhaled any smoke you can think of naming,” Y/N laughs and grabs Clyde’s hand, forcing a ninth finger down as Clyde scoffed.

‘I’m asking you, dumbass. What haven’t you smoked?” He asks, causing Y/N to go silent and stare. Clyde stares back. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Over the past month, the two had gotten close enough to have a basic understanding of each other and their families, and Clyde knew damn well that she wasn’t experienced with any of that. In response to her silence, he chuckles and gets up, walking towards a book bag in the corner of the room. Y/N watches him wordlessly, having a growing suspicion of what he is going to pull out. She’s proven right when he turns around with a large smirk on his face, a tiny ziplock baggie in his hand with weed in it. Y/N scoffs and rests her back on the wall, her knees going up to her chest.

“Wanna try? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just notice how you’ve been eyeing my shit whenever I smoke,” says as he approaches the bed, going to the bedside table next to it and digging through it. She couldn’t find the courage to correct him and tell him that the reasoning behind her staring when he smoked was because she thought he was attractive, not because she wanted to try it though. She stared as he went through the drawer, thinking through the pros and cons of what would happen if she smoked with him.

She did have a bit of a curiosity when it came to smoking and drinking, though her parents always told her it was a sin to do either. Though she was already sinning by being in this room with Clyde, she figured there’d be no harm in trying. He made a small ‘aha’ noise once he found whatever it was he was looking for and sat down in the bed in front of her, setting the items down. Aside from the baggie of weed, there were what Y/N understood to be cigar papers (from what Clyde had described it to look like in one of their previous conversations). Clyde picks it up and waves it around in front of her face.

“Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention to anything I’ve said in the past,” he mumbled, setting it down and taking the weed out of the baggie. “What’s that? Do you know?” He nods towards the cigar papers. Y/N hesitated to answer, afraid of being wrong and embarrassing herself, though when she looked at Clyde’s face she saw nothing but a warm fondness in his eyes that made her whole body warm up. She knew he wouldn’t actually judge her, maybe tease and poke fun at her, but no real judgment would ever be made.

“Uhm…cigar papers?” She answered, wincing a bit at the end of her response. Clyde’s smile eases her anxieties, however, and he laughs as he begins to pack the weed into the papers.

“Shit, you have been listening! Good job.”

The praise goes straight to her stomach as she feels it twist and turn. She was falling deep, a little too deep. She smiles in return and watches his movements. The two are silent for a few minutes, comfortable just enjoying each other's company. Once Clyde finishes, he holds up the blunt and rotates it in front of Y/N’s face.

“Okay, serious talk now. You seriously don’t gotta do it if you don’t want to. I know your family have your own fucking reservations and shit about this type of shit,” he warns her, his tone genuinely rather stern. Y/N smiles at his concern.

“Clyde, seriously, it’s fine. I wanna try. Plus, I’m not too concerned about anything bad happening, I mean, you smoke this stuff all the time, right?” Clyde nods and searches his pockets for his lighter. When he can’t find it, he begins lifting the blankets and pillows to find it around his bed.

“Yeah but this is your first time and well…shit get’s weird on your first time. I got you though. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Y/N’s almost glad he's preoccupied searching for his lighter so he can’t see her face after he says that. Little does she know he’s glad his lighter was hidden somewhere under his covers so he didn’t have to look her in the eyes and accidentally show off the blush that sneaked its way up to his cheeks. Once he finds it he chuckles to himself and glances over at Y/N, who is nervously staring at him.

“Alright, you ready?”

—---------------------------

It wasn’t a surprise that Y/N was high out of her mind from only a couple of hits. Clyde watched amused as she lay on his bed, staring up at his ceiling and rambling about god knows what. If he’s being honest, he stopped tuning in ten minutes into her rant and gave up trying to make sense of what she was saying. He was having just as much fun watching her fall into deep relaxation. He’d always found her to be on edge constantly, even when it was just the two of them in a secluded area, so to see her openly say what was on her mind with no hesitation was a sight to behold. And he was beholding it alright.

As he listened to her rant he sat up and reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a water bottle, holding it out so she could take a sip. She whined and pushed it away, making him laugh and grab her hand. “C’mon dude you gotta drink something. You’ve gone through like three bags of chips, isn’t your mouth like hella salty?” He asks her, motioning towards the chips.

She looks over and stares in amazement at all the empty chip bags in front of her. “Holy shit…” she mumbled, clearly not fully present. “I ate all of those?”

“Yeah, now open your mouth.” He grabs her chin and forces her mouth open despite her protests, placing the bottle up to her lips and tipping it slightly so it doesn’t all flow out. She drinks and he watches with an inexplicable expression on his face. He couldn’t believe that people like her still existed in the world, somehow so pure yet the slightest bit tainted. She was hopeful for a better world but not delusional, she was detached from the world he lived in yet kept an open mind and wanted to know more about it, and she was beautiful. Not just in a physical sense, but beautiful in the way she spoke. Gorgeous in the way she laughed and alluring in the way she presented herself.

He slowly moved the bottle away from her lips and watched as she wiped her mouth, his eyes flickering down to her lips and staying there for a few seconds. They always looked so inviting.

“Y’know, Clyde,” she began speaking and he looked away from her lips and up into her eyes. “I always thought you were really cool,” she huffed out, laying her head down on his lap. He tensed and looked down, his breathing growing shallow. There was a large pause in between her sentences. She closed her eyes and Clyde could only stare in silence. He hesitantly reached his hand down to her hair, hovering above it to see if she was okay with him touching her head. She didn’t make any indication for him to move, so he began to gently comb his fingers through her hair. The two sat like that for a while before Y/N continued her point from earlier.

“You are really cool…” she lifted herself off his lap and instead moved closer to him, their bodies inches away. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what she was trying to do.

She glanced down at his lips and Clyde subconsciously licked them. She moved even closer.

“I think I like you.”

That confession alone was enough to make him stop breathing for a couple of seconds. Sure, there had been a couple of signs out there that seemed to hint towards her having an attraction to him. That was all it was though. An attraction. He’d always been doubtful of the idea of her ever gaining any actual feelings for him, he was far too damaged to be hers. He’d only ever entertained the idea of them being together at night when he was up late at night and needed something to soothe him to sleep. So to hear her say something like that, he just couldn’t believe it. She was high. It had to be because of that. He refused to believe any other reason.

She began to lean in and Clyde could feel the overwhelming urge to allow her to kiss him wash over him. He couldn’t allow that to happen, however. Not while she was not in the right state of mind. He put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her movements, making her furrow her eyebrows and pout at him. The sight alone was testing him.

“C’mon. You’re high, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he mumbled, watching as her pout developed into a frown.

“What? But I thought-”

“Just go to sleep or something, I don’t know Y/N,” he sighed out, running a hand through his hair. Y/N shrugged and laid her head back down on his lap, yawning and closing her eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look down, knowing that if he did, he’d regret not kissing her.

—-------------

Things were tense after that. He drove her home after ensuring she was fairly sober, making sure she left after ingesting a fair amount of fast food. He could still see the wide smile that plastered itself onto her face when he presented her with an extra large cup of soda. That night he didn't sleep, though that was fairly common for him. This time, however, he refused to lull himself to sleep with daydreams of them together, afraid that he’d get overwhelmed. They didn’t see each other for another week after that, which after spending almost the entire month together, obviously aroused suspicion from Y/N. She couldn’t recall much of what happened that day, knowing that she got high and did go on a tangent about baby whales, though everything else was a blur. She first assured Clyde was busy. After all, he had been acting semi-normal when he bought her food and dropped her off, and a day later the two talked on the phone for about ten minutes. But then he changed. He texted her less and when he did text her, it was fairly short replies with no warmth or jokes like usual. She’d begun to get the feeling that she did something wrong but had no idea what it was.

After two days with no contact on the phone, she grew extremely worried. Not only for his sake but also for their relationship. Did she say- or do- something while high? She decided that night she was going to check on him.

After sneaking out and lying to her parents about what she was doing for a little over a month, she began to grow increasingly good at deceiving them. Of course, it never felt good, and she found herself actually praying for forgiveness some nights, though she was far too addicted to the rush she got from doing so to ever stop. That night, like most, she kissed her parents goodnight and waited until around 10 p.m. to sneak out. She didn’t bother texting Clyde to let him know she was visiting, not wanting to risk him running away to avoid her.

When she arrived at the building he usually stayed at, she went straight to his usual spot, though was unable to find him. She frowned. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be out at night, the issue was he had more than just one or two spots he went to hang out, and she really didn’t feel like walking around the streets of Las Vegas at night in search of him. She decided to suck it up, though, knowing that her relationship -or lack thereof- with Clyde was more important than preserving her energy.

She stopped by Johnny’s room to see if he was there, pushing the door open slightly and clearing her throat over the loud video game sound effects and music coming from his T.V. making him glance over and nod in her direction.

“Yo,” he spoke absentmindedly, his fingers harshly clicking the buttons of the video game controller in his hands. Y/N smiled at him though he wasn’t paying attention.

“Have you seen Clyde?” she asked, her hand gripping onto the door.

Johnny takes a second to answer, his eyebrows furrowing though Y/N can’t tell if it’s because he’s too focused on the game or if it’s because he’s actually trying to think of when the last time he saw Clyde was. Y/N raises her eyebrows expectantly, and Johnny pauses his game and looks at her. “He went to the park with Snow, said he needed to clear his mind or something,” he says while scratching his head. Y/N can tell he wants to say more and stays in her place by the door.

He continues. “Not that it’s any of my business but uh…did you and Clyde get into some argument or something? I didn’t wanna eavesdrop but when they were leaving I heard her mention something about girls and then your name and…well I don’t know I just haven’t seen you around this week so I just assumed.” He shrugged and leaned over to grab a beer bottle on a tiny wooden table, chugging the liquid down. Y/N smiled. She remembered her first impression of him wasn’t the best, thinking he was a bit of a dick and standoffish, though he eventually came around. She sighed and patted the side of the door, getting ready to make her departure.

“Ya know Johnny that is a GREAT question. I’m about to go find out,” she replied simply before waving goodbye and rushing off. Johnny stared after her and shrugged before returning to his video game.

Y/N wasn’t too worried about Clyde hanging out with Snow this late at night alone. She’d interacted with Snow several amount of times before and she was a very sweet girl, although a bit ditzy whenever she was intoxicated (which was a little too often.) She gave Y/N a safe space to talk about being a girl and made it obvious that Clyde was her friend and nothing more. She of course became aware of Y/N’s feelings for Clyde before Y/n herself was even aware of them, and took any chance she got to push the two together. Overall she was the cute blonde girl who at first glance looked like a mean girl but would actually end up being your best friend.

What concerned her was the fact that her name was mentioned in their conversation, meaning Clyde was talking about her despite not reaching out to her at all. She had to have done something wrong. As she walked towards the local park she did nothing but think through the countless number of possible ways she could have fucked up. She had eight minutes to think through exactly what she was going to say when she saw him. Was she going to be angry? Demand why he didn’t talk to her for days? Or maybe she’d take a softer approach.

Eight minutes was not enough time to make any decision. By the time she got to the park, she was less than ready, staring at the figures sitting on a bench a few feet away. She could easily tell it was Clyde and Snow based on the shape of his hair, and she felt her palms get clammy as she walked towards them. Clearly, she didn’t think that through.

“Clyde.” Was all she said as she approached the two. They both turned, though Clyde was a lot quicker, and Snow smiled widely when she saw Y/N.

“See, what’d I say,” she whispered over to Clyde, patting his shoulder before getting up and smiling warmly at her friend. Y/N couldn’t be upset with her, she was far too cute, so she smiled back. Snow leaned in and gave Y/N a quick hug, patting her back before walking away without another word. It was silent after that.

Clyde turned back around and stared down at the ground, Y/N walking to the front of the bench and sitting down next to him. She left little room for him to run away. Whatever it was, they were going to confront it tonight. Y/N was the first to speak after gathering her thoughts.

“Did I do something wrong?” She asked, her voice breaking. She didn’t intend to get emotional so early in the conversation but she couldn’t help it. Aside from the fact that she harbored feelings for him, his friendship meant a lot to her. He was the first friend she’d made who she felt completely comfortable around. He introduced her to a whole new world that she didn’t know existed, and she knew that world meant nothing without him. He was ingrained into her.

Clyde looked up quickly and stared at her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. When she turned to look at him she couldn’t help but feel pity. He’d obviously been lacking sleep. “Jesus Clyde, what’s happened?” She asked, leaning in and cupping his face in her hands. He twitched underneath her touch but said nothing. Y/N inspected his face for a sign, anything that would tell her what was wrong, but she found nothing. That was until she looked into his eyes.

She couldn’t tell what it was, but the intensity of his eyes made it so that she couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. She didn’t need to hear any words to understand that he was in some weird internal battle with himself.

“You told me you liked me.” Clyde finally breaks his silence. His voice was so quiet, she could almost barely hear it. She’d never heard him so vulnerable before.

“What?”

“When you were high you told me you liked me and tried to kiss me.” Y/N was at a loss for words. She should have known she’d say something so stupid in a moment of vulnerability. She let go of his face and opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, so Clyde continued. “I can’t be with you, Y/N. And if I can’t be with you then I don’t know what else to do with myself.”

She was confused now. What did he mean by ‘he couldn’t be with her?’ Was that because he didn’t feel the same way? Then why add that last part? She searched for the words in her brain though all that could come out was a weak “What?”

“Y/N,” he breathed in and looked away, as if he felt guilty, “I like you. But I can’t let myself ruin you.”

She should have felt overjoyed. She just got confirmation that her crush liked her back, this should have been a happy moment, but instead, she just felt nauseous. The pit in her stomach that had been lingering there for about a week was intensifying.

“What the fuck does that even mean?” She spat out. Ruin her? How could he ever ruin her? “Clyde, I don’t know what you’re talking about and to be honest, I don’t care. You couldn’t ever ruin me-“

“Y/N, you’re Christian.” Y/N stared in disbelief, ready to ridicule him for bringing up such an irrelevant fact before he continued. “You’re Christian and you’re- you’re fucking amazing. You’re like a rainbow at the end of a storm, and I know that it’s fucking cliché and corny, and you can make fun of me all you want, but I don’t know how else to describe it. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, and you hadn’t had a soda in years before I bought you one for fucks sake! You’re in your own sweet, innocent little world, and I took you away from that. I don’t wanna take you away from more.”

His confession left her speechless. She understood what he was trying to say, having had the same thoughts before. They WERE different, though she didn’t have to carry the burden of thinking she was ‘tainting’ him the way he did with her. He was the opposite of everything her parents wanted for her. Disobeyed his parents, he smoked and occasionally drank, he definitely didn’t hold any religious beliefs that they would agree with, and the list went on longer than she’d like it to.

She looked down at her hands which rested on top of her knees. She’d hate to admit he was right. They both sat in silence for a while, seemingly contemplating what they should do. She felt weird. As if he was somehow misconstructing the truth. She didn’t doubt that he felt bad about changing her, though something was telling her that wasn’t the full story. If he really did feel so bad, why did he let her keep hanging around him? Why not cut contact earlier? He was leaving something out.

“Tell me the truth, Clyde,” she sighed out. Clyde frowned and turned to look at her.

“That is the truth.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t know if you’re lying to me or something but there’s no way the only reason is cause you feel guilty.” Clyde bit the inside of his cheek.

“I’m not good for you,” he began and Y/N rolled her eyes, sitting back on the bench and crossing her arms. He ignored her and continued, “I’m a dumbass, Y/N. I don’t think you understand just how-“ he sighs, exasperated. “I can’t give you anything. I don’t have a lot of money to fucking buy you jewelry like some other guy can, shit I don’t even have like a real home to live in! Shit, dude, I’m like…the worst guy you could date.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. Clyde was obviously confused by her random change in mood, though Y/N couldn’t stop herself. As she threw her head back her laughter died down to just giggles. “So this is all about you not being good enough for me?” She turned towards him.

He sniffled, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket and avoiding her gaze.”So what? You think it’s fucking stupid?” He asks, laughing a bit to mask his hurt. She wordlessly grabbed his hands and removed them from his face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. Cupping his cheeks once again, she wipes away the few stray tears that managed to fall and smiles at him. Without warning, she leans in and kisses him.

The kiss is soft as if she were worried about breaking him, and Clyde has no idea how to respond. He keeps his hands by his side and closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of her lips against his. He knows his are cracked and probably dry but she doesn’t care. As he goes to lift his hands to grab her face, she pulls away, confusing him. He finds it adorable how her face is obviously flushed despite being the one to initiate the kiss.

“Clyde, I don’t give a damn if you don’t have any money,” she breaks the silence. He says nothing and just continues to admire her. “I don’t care if you don’t have a proper home, or proper parents, or a proper attitude. I like you because you’re fun. You’re fun and you’re sweet and you’ve shown me that life doesn’t have to be lived by the rules only. And holy shit did my life suck before I met you.” Clyde laughs quietly.

She presses her forehead against his and he shuts his eyes, smiling. It was pure silence around the two and if they focused hard enough, it felt like they were the only two in the world.

————————-

Two months pass by without an issue. Y/N continues to visit Clyde in secret and once in a while he stops by her house, but only when her parents are asleep. The two share a few kisses in her dark room, talk about whatever came up, kiss some more until he eventually wound up on top of her, and then say goodbye. He promised her that he’d never pressure her into doing anything she wasn’t ready for, and though she trusted him with her entire life, she knew she wasn’t ready to take a step like that.

It was a rainy Saturday night when Y/N made her first mistake.

The two were hanging out in Clyde’s room, Johnny, Snow, and Lola joining them. The other three were obviously intoxicated and trying to play a game of Monopoly while Clyde and Y/N sat in the corner of the room, Y/N’s legs over Johnny’s lap while he drew something in his notebook. Y/N painted her nails with a dark purple polish Lola let her borrow.

“What are you drawing?” She asked, leaning forward a bit to try and get a glimpse. Clyde smirked and pushed back, swatting her hands away as well.

“Mind your business,” he laughed. Y/N rolled her eyes and set the polish aside, removing her legs from his lap. Clyde looked away from his drawing to stare at her questioningly before she maneuvered herself to sit next to him. He shut his notebook and threw it to the side, wrapping an arm around her as she put her head on his shoulder. They watched the other three argue about fake money and properties.

“Man fuck you, Lola! That was supposed to be my station??” Johnny spat out while Lola laughed and flipped him off.

“Yes? Well, it’s mine now. Too bad,” she hummed happily, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder as Snow passed her a large bottle of alcohol.

“Hope your ass lands in prison…” he grumbled, making Clyde snicker under his breath. Y/N smirked and reached out to grab Clyde’s hand, subconsciously playing with his fingers. He looked down at their hands and then at her.

“Ready to go home?” He asked. She hummed in thought and glanced over at a clock nearby.

“In like…five minutes. I’ve got church tomorrow morning so I gotta be up early,” she whined and threw her head back, Clyde raising his hand so that the back of her head didn’t hit the wall. Snow, who apparently has been watching them and listening in on their conversation, sucks her teeth.

“Why don’t you just tell them you don’t wanna go?” She asks, laying down. Clyde rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Yeah, bright idea, she’ll just tell her vehemently Christian parents that she doesn’t want to go church. That definitely won’t be suspicious,” he remarks. Y/N glares at him.

“Don’t be a dick, Clyde,” she whispers. Looking over at Snow, she smiles softly. “He’s got a point though. They’ll get all weird and assume I’m doing something behind their backs which… I am but…” she shrugs.

Snow passes over another bottle of alcohol to Clyde which he declines. “Gotta drive her home,” he mumbles as an excuse. Johnny laughs.

“Look at you being a good little boyfriend,” he teases and Clyde side-eyes him. He gets up, extending his hand out for Y/N to take, and helping her get up when she does. He then walks over to Johnny, smacking him on the back of the head while simultaneously grabbing his keys from the table nearby.

“It’s called making sure we don’t fucking die on the road.” He scoffed. Y/N bent over to hug Snow and Lola before ruffling Johnny’s hair, waving goodbye to everyone as they walked towards the door.

“See you guys later!” She exclaimed while following Clyde out of the room. They walked down the hallway in comfortable silence until they went down the stairs and reached the front doors. It was pouring rain outside and Y/N grimaced at the idea of getting soaked. Clyde sighed and searched around for an umbrella he could borrow, but he came to no luck. He then shrugs off his jacket and hands it to Y/N who smiles gratefully in response. She puts it on and puts the hood over her head to protect her hair, and the two interlock hands before counting down to three.

“Ready? One, two, three-!” Clyde counted out, gripping her hand tightly as they ran out into the pouring rain, giggling as they crossed the street to where his van was parked. Clyde hurries to unlock the doors, Y/N laughing at how his hair was sticking to his face. They rushed inside and drove off. Clyde drops her off a couple of streets away from her house just in case anyone were to see her, they wouldn’t see her being dropped off by a rusty van.

As the vehicle comes to a stop, Clyde turns to face her but she quickly smashes her lips against his. His hands immediately go to cup her face, and she runs a hand through his hair as their kiss grows rougher. He pulls away first after a couple of seconds, breathing heavily and laughing.

“You gotta go-” he’s interrupted by her kissing him again. He makes a small “hmph” sound as their lips touch, and this time she tries to pull him closer by his collar. His hand travels down her face to her neck and he wraps his fingers around her neck loosely. She whines against his lips and he has to remind himself that they are inside his van in the middle of a Christian neighborhood. This time Y/N pulls away, giggling as she gives him one last kiss on the cheek before opening the door and rushing out, shouting out a quick goodbye and thank you.

Clyde doesn’t even have time to utter a response as she’s gone by the time he really comes to his senses. He shakes his head while laughing and drives off.

—--------------------

Y/N is asleep for longer than she should have been, seemingly sleeping through her alarms and her mothers shouts for her to get up. She barges in through the door, obviously annoyed, and huffs out another “Get up”, yanking the blankets off of Y/N. Y/N groans and turns over, shielding her face from the sun shining through her windows.

“Get up, Y/N! What has gotten into you? Do you not remember we have service this morning? You have twenty minutes to get ready, hurry. Since you seem to be incapable of getting up on your own I’ll have to pick your dress for you as well, since you want to be a child.” Y/N can barely understand her mother, still too groggy to even respond. She sits up on her bed and rubs her eyes, yawning, and stretches her arms in the air, as her mother goes through her closet in search of something she can wear to Church. She mutters to herself, commenting about each dress she sees as she frantically goes through her closet before going awfully silent for a few seconds. Y/N takes notice of this and furrows her eyebrows, scooting towards the front of her bed.

“Mom? What’s wrong-?” She herself goes quiet when her mother pulls out Clyde’s jacket that was stashed in the back of the closet and holds it up for her to see. Suddenly the atmosphere of the room is tense, and Y/N feels as though she can’t breathe. She watches as her mother wrinkles her nose at the smell, holding the jacket up by her fingertips. It’s already very apparent that it’s a males jacket, though Y/N’s plan on lying and telling her mother it’s a jacket one of her friends let her borrow from Church immediately goes to shit when her mother scoffs.

“This smells like rain and cologne…Y/N where did you get this? And why is it wet? You didn’t leave the house yesterday.” Y/N can feel her throat closing in. The room feels as though it’s closing in on her as she and her mother lock eyes in a silent battle, one that Y/N is losing horribly. This tension is luckily diffused the moment her father calls out to her mother, and she turns to look towards the door. She glances back at Y/N once again and then leaves the room in a hurry, the jacket in her hands. Y/N watches her leave in silence before groaning and covering her face with her hands, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

She didn’t know if it was some sick joke or if the universe was just against her, but that day’s sermon was about disobeying one's parents and straying from the word of God.

—--------------------

The jacket incident wasn’t brought up again. She didn’t understand if her mother just forgot about it or decided that it wasn’t worth arguing over, either way, Y/N was glad. She called Clyde the next day when her parents were out of the house and told him what happened, telling him that she’d take a break from sneaking out and visiting him. She couldn’t risk raising suspicion on her. Clyde was obviously upset though understood that she was just taking necessary precautions and told her to stay safe and let him know if she ever needed any help. For the remainder of the week, she didn’t call or text him and made sure to be on her best behavior. This, of course, did not go unnoticed by her mother.

After a couple more days, Y’N assumed she was sort of in the clear to at least contact him again. She texted him an update and asked how he and the others were doing, leading to him sending her an onslaught of messages complaining about how he missed her and “couldn’t stand dealing with the others without her around.” She then reminded him he was friends with them way before he met her, and he just ignored her and asked when he’d see her again.

CLYDE

Y/N: i’m scared, don’t want her 2 notice anything weird

CLYDE: It’ll be fine, it’s been days hasn’t it?

Y/N: yeah but…

CLYDE: Just come over for like a hour or two.

The others wanna see you too.

Y/N sighs. She can’t deny his offer, no matter how many warning signs are going off in her head. She missed him, she missed being around him, she missed his lips, and she missed her friends. Just an hour or two wouldn’t hurt, right? She types back.

Y/N: fine, but just for two hours and then i gotta be right back home.

CLYDE: Awesome. I’ll pick you up at 11.

—--------------------

That was her second mistake.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t the actual act of sneaking out that got her caught. No, it was the fact that her mother got the inkling to just check her phone the next morning while she slept. She should have known something was going to go wrong considering how smoothly the night before went. She did her usual routine of kissing her parents goodnight, waiting till they slept, and sneaking out of the house at exactly 11 on the dot. The moment she stepped foot out of her house she ran towards the street he usually dropped her off at and sure enough his van was parked.

She ran inside and almost immediately after settling herself down on her seat, Clyde smashed his lips against hers. It took her by surprise though she had no issue with it and leaned into the kiss, placing a hand on his shoulder. The kiss was rougher and noisier than any of their previous ones, with their lips making a smacking sound every time they moved. They eventually pulled away when Clyde’s hand slipped around the back of her neck, and they took a minute to catch their breath.

“Good to see you too,” she joked, giggling as she wiped her mouth, Clyde only nodded and laughed breathlessly, turning on the engine and driving off. They didn’t do much that night, simply going to his room and making up for lost time (this of course included talking about their days while interrupting each other with kisses that led to her being on his lap and leaving one or two bruises on his neck). Eventually, Snow and Johnny stopped by. Snow was probably more ecstatic to see her than everyone else, having almost crushed her with a hug that lasted exactly two minutes, and the four played games and talked about what she’d missed.

Clyde drove her home two hours later, as promised, and the two departed with yet another passionate kiss. They agreed to meet again the following night at the same time, feeling as if only one night a week wasn’t enough. When she got back home everything was as it should be. Everyone was in bed and her pillows were still placed in the exact positions she had arranged them to be under her blanket. She was happy and secure when she went to bed, which is exactly why she panicked the next morning when she couldn’t find her phone.

She’d searched everywhere, her entire room turned upside down as she tried desperately to find her phone. It wasn’t underneath her pillow where she put it before she went to sleep, it wasn’t in any of her drawers or on top of her dresser or bedside table, and it wasn’t in her closet. It wasn’t under her bed or in her jewelry boxes, and as she continued to search, that unmistakable feeling of dread settled upon her. She knew she took it with her up to her room, she specifically remembers policing it underneath her pillow before falling asleep, so why couldn’t she find it? There was only one answer and the thought alone made her nauseous.

She couldn’t bring herself to go downstairs. She knew she had to eventually, but a part of her wanted to stay locked inside her room until she died. She might as well die now in peace, seeing as the moment she walks down those stairs, she is sealing her fate. Was her room always this stuffy? Why did it feel so dark? It was only ten in the morning. Y/N took a moment to sit down on her bed and try to catch her breath. It was no use, however, and she could feel herself hyperventilating. She’d done so much over the past couple of months and she’d gotten so used to going unnoticed that the prospect of getting caught wasn’t really in her mind much at all anymore. Clearly, she had gotten too cocky.

She knew she had to go downstairs. There was no use in prolonging the inevitable. As she made her way out of her room -extremely slowly-, she took notice of just how quiet it was. Her house was never a noisy one, seeing as it was just the three of them, though she added context of her parents waiting for her downstairs to confront her seemed to emphasize the silence. She trudged down the stairs, feeling lightheaded. She had to grip onto the railing tighter than usual to ensure she wouldn’t fall. Her footsteps were too loud. The lights were too bright. Somehow everything that she encountered every day overwhelmed her. As she approached the dining room she felt her mouth go dry.

There both her father and mother sat in chairs right next to each other, holding hands. They looked glum. Y/N’s eyes drifted towards the objects on the table in front of them. Sure enough, it was her phone and Clyde’s jacket. She was beyond fucked and there was absolutely no way out of this. She didn’t even bother moving towards them, instead staying frozen in her place. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. She was quite literally paralyzed by fear.

“Take a seat.” Her father never had a ‘warm’ tone to his voice, yet she’d never heard him be so cold and demanding. When she looked over at her mother she took note of how she refused to make eye contact with her. She was always the softer of the two. Y/N refused to take pity on her, however. She was the one who brought this situation to life. Despite that small little voice in her head telling her not to, Y/N walked towards the table and took a seat in front of the two, her face stoic. If she was going to go through this, she needed to seem as unbothered as possible.

“Do you understand what you have done?” Her father didn’t wait to begin berating her. Y/N continued to stay silent, her eyes fixated on Clyde’s jacket. Oddly enough the sight alone gave her a sense of comfort, knowing that it belonged to the boy who was there to support her no matter what and always keep her safe. This of course didn’t apply to the current situation. Only God knew what was about to happen to her.

“You’ve completely broken any ounce of trust your mother and I have spent years building up. We have not raised you this way.” Somehow the lack of yelling and anger in his voice made this all the more terrifying. He was angry, his words didn’t conceal that at all, and when she looked up into his eyes, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d dug her own grave. They were washed over with this darkness that she couldn’t explain. She felt disgusted to be on the receiving end of his stare. “No daughter of mine will behave this way.”

She didn’t know what came over her. Perhaps she was momentarily possessed by some spirit that was like her outspoken alter-ego, or maybe she just had gone insane after months of being riddled with this guilt for disobeying her parents, but she opened her mouth to speak without any second thought. “What way?”

Her father scoffed and her mother pleaded with her through her gaze to take back what she said. While she certainly wasn’t intending to say that, now that it had left her mouth she needed to own up to it. She didn’t falter under her father's strict gaze. Her mother was the one to speak up.

“What he means is-”

“Quiet.” Her father is quick to shut her down. She shuts up. “You’re whoring yourself out to some stranger boy on the streets? Is that seriously how you intend to live your life? Do you not feel ashamed? Dirty?”

Y/N couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She knew her father wouldn’t be happy, she wasn;t expecting him to throw rose petals and give her his blessing, but to go as far as accusing his onw daughter of being a whore? She couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in her eyes, though the rest of her face maintained neutral.

“Well? Speak!” He raised his voice for the first time and Y/N flinched. What was she supposed to say? Admit to his demeaning allegations?

“If you want me to call myself a whore then you might as well just leave now because you’re not getting a single confession from me.”

She definitely pissed him off with that one. He clenched his jaw and looked off to the side, taking in a deep breath as he tried to compose himself. He grabbed her phone and held it up so she could see, making her frown.

“You will never contact that boy again. Do you understand?”

Y/N would be stupid to assume this was the end. She nodded along to his words however to appease him. He stayed silent and hardened his gaze, making her realize he wanted a verbal response.

“Yes sir.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you understand. But you will soon.”

Before she could question what he meant he took her phone and threw it across the dining room, the impact making a loud noise as it hit the wall and fell to the floor. Both Y/N and her mother visibly flinched at the noise, and for the first time, she was genuinely afraid of something happening to her physically. Her father stood up and walked out of the room, not bothering to give her one last glance. She stared down at the table, her tears falling freely at this point. Her mother offered out her hand, though Y/N swatted it away and got up and stormed off as well.

—---------------

Clyde knew something was wrong when she didn’t show up at that night. He didn’t know what happened or why, but he was concerned. There wasn’t anything he could do, however, seeing as he couldn’t just walk up to her front door and knock and ask why she flaked out. He tried his best not to let his mind wander and assumed she’d just fallen asleep earlier. Or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself until the next day when he didn’t hear from her at all.

Now things were getting concerning. If she really had fallen asleep, she’d just text or call him and apologize. Her lack of contact made him wonder if something did happen to her and if something did happen, what could he do? He left her two text messages that day, both asking if she was alright. He decided to just wait, one wrong move and he’d be getting her in a world of trouble. His messages were never returned.

Another day went by without contact and though he didn’t show it outwardly, he was absolutely freaking the fuck out. It was unusual for her to go radio silent with absolutely zero warning, and after not showing up the other night, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. What if she’d gotten caught? What was he supposed to do? Go to her house and demand she give him an explanation? Threaten to fight her parents? Throw rocks at her window to get her attention and then convince her to leave her home and run away with him?

Being the romantic that he was, he naturally chose the last option. He drove to her house the next day at around 12 am, stopping his van a few streets away like he normally would in case anyone was nosy enough to even look at the front of her house. He walked in the cold night with a pocket full of tiny pebbles, mentally going through what he was going to say to her. He knew that despite her feelings for him, she loved and respected her parents, so it wouldn’t be easy to convince her to leave. That and he knew how rough life was when you didn’t have the support of a parent or loved one to fall back on. He was okay living like that but he didn’t want that to be her reality as well. She deserved better than that, even if it was a couple of assholes with old fashion traditions.

Once he arrived at her window he threw the first pebble, getting no response. That’s fine, she probably didn’t hear it. He threw another one and again: no response. He threw another one, and another one, and eventually, he’d thrown every pebble in his pocket. Making a mental note to carry more the next time, he debated yelling out her name though decided against it. He couldn’t risk her parents hearing him. He walked away, dejected and ready to return the next day to try again.

He decided to take his chances and call her again the next day, just in case she was asleep the night before and just didn’t hear him. He knew the call was going through but didn’t understand why she wasn’t picking up, and to be quite honest, it was starting to piss him off. His anger wasn’t directed towards her of course, no, he was mad at her parents. Why couldn’t they just let her be happy? When his call went to voicemail he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Leave a message after the beep,” the robotic voice spoke and Clyde had to suppress everything in him that was telling him to just throw his phone at the wall. After hearing the beep he shook his head and looked around his room.

“Hey, Y/N. I don’t know what the fuck happened -I mean I have an idea but- I need you to call me back okay? I don’t care if it’s to tell me that you can’t see me anymore, I don’t care if it’s your stupid fucking parents telling me I’m a piece of shit who isn’t good enough for their daughter, I really don’t give a shit. I just want to know you’re okay. Call me back when you get this. Bye.”

—-----------------

She did NOT in fact call him back. He visited her house again the next night and brough two pockets full of pebbles, taking his sweet time throwing them at her window just like the other night. Still, no answer. He could have sworn he’d seen her light flash off when he was approaching her window though he wasn’t sure if he was just going crazy. He was getting frustrated. How else was he supposed to feel? When he got back to his room that night, he completely ignored Snow and Lola who tried to cheer him up with some alcohol and instead went straight to bed, though he of course didn’t sleep at all that night.

The next day he called her again. The call went to voicemail again, and he cursed at the stupidity of leaving a message she probably wasn’t going to hear or respond to. Yet he still left one.

“Hey, uhm I don’t know what is going on over there but you need to call me back dude. This isn’t fucking funny okay?” His voice was sounding uncharacteristically desperate. He needed to remind himself that it wasn’t that serious. Or at least that’s what he needed to believe to keep himself calm. “Call me and tell your parents to go fuck themselves while you’re at it, okay? Stay safe, bye.”

—-----------------

He knew she wasn’t going to be responding to any of his phone calls, yet for every day that passed by, he left a new one.

“I don’t know what to do, Y/N. It’s not like I can just show uo to your fuckin’ house and, like, demand your parents to let you see me. I mean, I could but, what the fuck is that gonna do? Come on Y/N just…fuck.”

—--------------

“At least I know you’re not playing some stupid fucking prank on me now. There’s no way you’d be able to keep it going this far. I don’t even know if you’re listening to these. Or your parents. Is anyone fucking there? Are they doing some weird punishment thing where they force you to listen to each of these messages and fucking laugh at me or something? That’d be fucked up. Call me back sometime in the near future. Preferably before I die.”

—-------------

“Snow is on my ass right now because of you, did you know that? She’s pissed at me. Thinks I’m not doing enough to see you. I don’t know what the fuck she wants me to but she’s been complaining about how she misses you. Everyone’s kinda on edge right now. Would be really cool if you’d, I don’t know, pop up out of nowhere. We miss you.”

—-----------

“Y’know I look like a dumbass making all these phone calls and leaving all these fucking voicemails knowing they aren’t going to anyone. There’s a part of me that wishes you’d just pick up randomly and we’d just talk normally as if nothing happened… that’s so stupid what the fuck am I saying? Fucking corny….I gotta go. Miss you.”

—----------

“Uhm. I know I was always awkward about it in person and shit but… I really like you, you know? I hope you do. Even if I’m not there to say it. Just…remember that for me okay? I like you. I trust you. To me, that means a lot more than love. But I do love you. I hate saying it cause it’s fucking stupid and you can’t count on anyone ever so what’s the point of saying it, yknow? And maybe it’s stupid to even think I love you because we really only knew each other for a couple of months but…whatever. Bye.”

—----------

“So what? You’re gonna give up on her? That’s your fucking GIRLFRIEND, Clyde.” Snow smacked the side of Clyde’s head making him groan and divert his eyes from her. He wasn’t giving up, or at least he refused to look at it that way. He’d decided to give up calling. He refused to be held captive by the idea, the fantasy, of her coming back and answering the phone one day. He lifted the blunt to his lips and took a deep breath in, trying his best to ignore her scolding.

“Clyde what if something seriously bad happened at her place? Think about her point of view, for fucks sake. Stop feeling bad for yourself and maybe think about how bad this is is for HER. She has to live in a house with those people.” Clyde would never admit Snow had a point. He refused to ever give her the satisfaction of being right, though he’d be stupid to ignore her words and continue wallowing in his self pity. He let her say her peace and without a word handed her the blunt, getting up and grabbing his keys, before walking out the door. She called out to him though he wasn’t listening.

—-------------

Y/N was beyond fucked. She’d spent the past 12 days in isolation in their guest room, only allowed to leave to use the bathroom. She was no longer allowed to eat with her parents at the dinner table, though she didn’t complain, grateful that she didn’t have to see the pathetic excuse of a man she had to call her father. It was lonely, being stuck in her room with no other way out. She knew her phone had survived being thrown by her father though her mother told her he’d confiscated it and planned on never returning it. She didn’t care anymore. Speaking of her mother, she refused to speak with her. She didn’t give a damn if she was more compassionate than her father. She’d shown him the messages and she’d presented the jacket to him, so her predicament was just as much her mothers fault as it was her fathers.

She couldn’t begin to explain how lonely she felt. This wasn’t living. She never knew what living was until she met Clyde. He’d taught her that life was more than just Sunday morning Church services, bible verses to abide by, doing chores around the house, going to school, and sleeping. There was going out at night and meeting new people, listening to music that actually spoke to your soul instead of reiterating tired biblical lessons, eating the foods that actually made you happy and crave for more, and loving so hard that you’d rather spend your entire life in isolation with that other person than breathe without them. Y/N knew that without Clyde, she wasn’t herself, not because she depended on him to live, but because he ingrained himself into her.

She had a roof over her head, she had food and water and she had clothes, but she had no real substance to her life. And she’d rather be disowned by her family for the rest of her life than continue to live this way.

—----------------

Smoking just wasn’t cutting it out for Clyde at the moment. He’d driven off to a park pretty far from where he lived so he wouldn’t encounter anyone he knew. He needed time to himself. Standing outside his van, he rested against it and crossed his arms while smoking a cigarette, ignoring the ‘NO SMOKING’ sign just a few inches away from him. He wasn’t known for his ability to abide by rules. Snow’s words replayed in his mind constantly. She was annoying. She was annoying, and persistent, but she was right. Hitting the back of his head on his van, he threw his cigarette down on the ground and stepped on it.

“Godamnit…” he sighed out and ran a hand through his hair. He paced. Was he really going to just let her stay in that toxic environment? Who’s to say his plan would even work though? He’ll never know unless he tries. But if he does try and fail, it’d be a waste of time.

“Fuck!” He hissed out, smacking his van once, and then twice, before smacking it one final time and backing away. Catching his breath, he backed away and pushed his hair back before getting back in and starting the van.

—--------------

This was not thought out at all, Clyde realizes as he stands in front of her front door. He was either about to get his ass beat or take home the girl of his dreams. Either way, he was shitting his pants. He rang the doorbell and looked down at the ground, muttering under his breath “This is so fucking stupid.”

He could hear footsteps behind the door and straightened his posture, watching the doorknob jiggle before the door swung open. Clyde studied the man in front of him and the man did the same with him, though his eyes narrowed almost immediately.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here, boy.” The man, who Clyde assumed was her father, snarled at him. Clyde’s face contorted in disgust at his words.

“Jesus, could you sound any more like a weird Southern creep? Sorry, is saying Jesus offensive to you people? I don’t give a shit actually- anyways, ya kind of left me with no choice here but to make sure my girlfriend was still alive…” Clyde rambled, though he knew he was only making his case worse when he saw her father clench his fist in the corner of his eye.

“What are you trying to say? Are you accusing me of murdering my daughter?” Her father scoffed and it took Clyde everything in him to not laugh in his face.

“It was more of a… never mind.” He shook his head. “Just let me talk to her man, I’ll leave you alone after that.”

This time it was her father's turn to laugh, though Clyde remained as stoic as he could possibly be with the anger that was slowly bubbling up inside of him. He could see someone moving around in the background and glanced over, seeing her mother. He raised his eyebrows at her and she quickly scurried away after being noticed. He directed his attention back to the man in front of him.

—---------------

Y/N could hear two voices outside the room and though the other sounded so familiar, she refused to believe it was actually him. There was no way he’d really come for her, and as she lay on her back on the bed provided, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered what would she do if it really were him. Just as she closed her eyes to sleep, the doorknob began to rattle, startling her. There wasn’t reason for anyone to open the door for her at this hour, and she hadn’t asked to use the bathroom.

She sat up straight and stared at the door as it slowly opened, her mother in clear view. Before Y/N could even ask what was happening, she heard the one voice she swore she’d never hear again, and her heart soared. If she was being fully honest, she didn’t care much for her mother doing this final favor for her, though she gave her a grateful smile nonetheless as she jumped up out of the bed and ran out the door. She didn’t hesitate to run straight to the front door, pausing behind her father.

“Listen asshole, you’re really testing my patience here-”

“Watch your language, the lord is watching.”

“Who gives a damn! Just let me see her-” Clyde stopped completely when he saw her step out from behind her father. His eyes widened and her father turned around to see what he was looking at, growing furious at the sight of his daughter who should have been locked away in a room.

“You let her out?” He asked her mother, his voice low and Y/N backed away out of fear. Clyde looked over at her and then back at the man, his breath quickening. Things were about to get ugly fast, and they needed to leave. He motioned over for Y/N to walk over, and as she tried to discreetly make her way toward him while her father was distracted, the older man looked over and grabbed her wrist to prevent her from moving any further. Despite her struggles and protests, he wouldn’t let go, tightening his grip on her. She looked over at Clyde for help and he did the only thing he could think of.

His hand was going to hurt like a bitch after this.

Punching her father square in the jaw, he let go of her and she ran towards Clyde. He groaned and grabbed his jaw, watching as the two fled hand in hand. “Know that you can never come back to this house ever again! No daughter of mine will be another man's slut!” He yelled out to them. They both couldn't be bothered to listen, giggling as they ran, the cold air hitting their faces. Once they were finally out of sight Clyde pulled her in, his hand cupping the back of her neck as the two crashed their lips against one another. Giggling in between kisses they struggled to pull apart, lips stuck in a dance with each other, and that’s how they intended to stay for as long as they lived.

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

a/n: holy shit this was long. to be honest, i lost a lot of motivation towards the end which is why it isn’t the best, but i really did try my best! i hope you all enjoyed<33

#clyde x reader #electrick children #rory culkin #clyde electrick children #electrick children clyde #clyde x y/n #rory culkin x reader #oneshot

195 notes · View notes

eepyuii · 2 months

Text

frostbite — pt. 11

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; several mentions of blood, torture and killing (could you guess that it’s dottore related) as well as mentions of self-loathing

notes ; sorry folks, no childe this time! this is the dedicated sumeru chapter, i am not dwelling any fucking further on it or i might die. this chapter is also solely focused on the relationship between reader and scara! bonding about your fucked up boss with the bitchiest little cockroach on earth <33

honestly pretty happy with this one, it’s got the exact depth of character that i’ve been wanting to add to the reader, their internal moral conflict, their skepticism toward gods and their eternal guilt as to what they’ve gone through with dottore. as well as how they’re definite besties with scaramouche!!

finally, just ignore the nahida logic toward the end- i don’t CARE if it doesn’t make sense in the lore for her to be able to do that and also DONT MIND the self insert of the name i gave to my wanderer. ok goodbye.

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you wish someone had warned you of how cold nights in the rainforest were.

leading up to this trip, you were only trying to mentally and physically prepare yourself for the extreme weathers of sumeru, obviously more directed towards the desert. you expected to only be hit with scalding heat that you’d never once see in snezhnaya— but in the rainforest, where you’d been stationed, it was shivering cold during nighttime. cold is no stranger to you, unspokenly so, but the chilliness in sumerian air was different from the one you grew up with. snezhnayan cold was dry and sharp, like microscopic shards of ice constantly nip at your skin, which you’ve long since learned to bear— though sumerian cold was overwhelmingly humid and smothering, like a—

“can you stop shivering? the sound of your joints shaking is gonna give me a headache.”

oh, that’s right. you were in a room with that brat.

for a moment, for one shining moment you’d forgotten you were in a damp workshop, dottore branded, in the middle of the rainforest with the doctor’s most promising little experiment— the balladeer. it’s only been a few weeks into the collaboration between the sages of the akademiya and the fatui, to create a manmade god out of scaramouche with the electro gnosis he’d previously disappeared with. even thinking about everything that was explained to you about the project made bile rise up to your throat.

“is there even anything inside that porcelain head of yours to ache?” you snarl back.

scaramouche scoffs, you can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused by your response.

“watch your tongue, vermin. wouldn’t want me to call your boss over and see how fast he finds a new squirming roach to refill your position.”

“for someone destined to be a god, you seem to really rely on a ‘mere mortal’ like dottore to get your way.”

“you cower in his presence like a cornered lamb and then start running your mouth the second he’s away, don’t even try to act as if you’re better than me. you never will.”

“it’s funny that you think someone with an ego as catastrophically big as yours could ever become a real god.”

scaramouche inhales sharply, his eyebrows furrow further as a manifestation of how irked he’s become.

“the gall you have to criticize my divinity… i heard of what you did in liyue, y’know— your little.. moment of unfaithfulness. you were only lucky that the imbecile of a harbinger you were up against wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”

the mere indirect mention of ajax makes your heart stutter—you’d only ever admit to yourself how much you wish you were still back in the golden house facing off against foul legacy instead of here. anything but here. the balladeer, somehow, seems to sense that you space out slightly at his words and presumes his snark.

“unlike him, if you decide to join that pathetic traveler and try to stand in my way, i won’t hesitate to crush you into a fine pulp.”

your fists close so tightly that your nails begin to dig into your palms. “at least i have somewhere else to be and someone else to get to! you have nothing but this, if this fails you’ll stay in this form and remain stuck in dottore’s grasp until he gets bored and finds a better lab rat to experiment on. you chose to isolate yourself in the grasp of a fucking monster like him up to the point where this stupid project is all you have in life and it’s all you’ll lose when it goes shit!”

your outburst seems to have finally broken through scaramouche and you can tell that if he had any veins under his skin, they’d be tensing through it at this moment from how vexed he becomes— if he had any blood, it’d be slowly seeping through his bottom lip from how hard he bites it. even though he’s strapped to a wall of tubes and machinery inside the workshop, he launches as far forward as he can like he means to strangle you where you stand.

“i could end your depressing excuse of an existence right this second if i wanted to!” he practically barks out, his words echo through the empty metallic room as you give up on retaliating. silence invades the space between the two of you while you both pant from how much you’ve argued.

this always, inevitably seemed to happen whenever you and scaramouche interacted— you’d back and forth like bickering siblings until both of you were entirely too pissed off at each other to keep going. it was pointless. knowing someone as ‘take-no-shit’ as the balladeer, you’d expected for him to have reprimanded or even just kill you off for your insolence long ago, but he does nothing and your arguments just happen again and again. you can’t tell if it’s because he recognizes you’re one of the few people who has enough of a brain to try to humble him cleverly or if he’s planning a bigger, more painful demise for you lest you stop overestimating your authority before him.

“why…?” he growls lowly, but this time it doesn’t sound like intends to verbally berate you— rather it sounds like he’s just… frustrated. maybe even with himself.

“why are you so sure that this’ll fail? even if you have that idiot to go back to, you still put your career and your life at risk by working for dottore. why? why do you work in fear of him and skepticism of the tsaritsa’s cause?”

you chuckle bitterly. “i had no choice. if my homeland wasn’t so reliant on its military, i would’ve never even considered getting a medical degree in the first place. and,”

you pause, flashes of dottore’s cruel scarlet gaze stab at your mind and you physically flinch slightly. it seems it hadn’t settled into your chest how imprisoned you were as definitively before— you talk big talk but you’re just as trapped as scaramouche.

“a-and he forced me to. i blinked once and suddenly there was blood on my hands that wasn’t mine and an assistant title over my head.”

scaramouche is silent. you can feel his stare on you but, once again, it doesn’t feel as though he scrutinizes you. a smaller, more hopeful part of your brain whispers to you that he might even be sympathizing with you— even if he’s so convinced that this is righteous, that his godly destiny is finally within his grasp admittedly because of dottore, he still fucking despises that man. probably more than you do, given how much he’s been prodded and tested by him over the years of his position within the fatui.

“would you kill him?” he asks suddenly, the question hangs heavy in the air of the workshop. his tone is quiet and deliberative.

“w-what?” your breath is briefly taken from your throat.

“if you could. if you had the chance to wipe his livelihood off of teyvat, would you do it?”

your mind blanks. it’s equally a simple question and the hardest one you’ve ever had to answer in your life. it’s about an innate desire for liberation, for closure— if you just could would you? but then… it’s also about opportunity, about the possibility of you ever stumbling across the chance to finish him— if you would could you?

now that you think about it, you’ve never considered dottore to be someone killable. he’s always been so up high, so entirely unreachable to anyone around him. the second fatui harbinger is a heavy crown, perhaps not for him to wear but for you to bear witness to. it’s almost as if… he’s the untouchable god here, he’s the culmination of unjust divinity that you so loathe, not scaramouche. it was never scaramouche.

you have your answer.

“no.”

“h-huh? why?”

the balladeer is visibly taken aback, his shoulders roll back slightly and his head leans backwards into the wall. sheer incredulousness overtakes his features before it blends into suspiciously— he’s looking for you to elaborate justly on the choice.

you chuckle. “even if it’s.. not exactly right, i’d love for nothing more, trust me. but comparing the two of us… i think you deserve to stab him in the heart more than i do. you’ve known him for longer and that’s a misfortune few people have.”

his breath hitches. it seems he wholeheartedly did not expect that to be your reason for hypothetically letting go of the chance to make sure dottore feels as much pain as he’s cause you— for it to be so he can return what the doctor has done to him over the years. scaramouche analyzes your expression, as if he’s desperately looking to find the logic in your sympathy, after all you barely know what he’s been through. all you’ve been told is that he was supposedly a puppet prototype created by the electro archon, hence his attachment to the relative gnosis— but beyond that, you can’t even begin to imagine what sorts of hardships he’s been through to turn out as hostile as he is. yet this was still your answer. he looks aimlessly toward the ground defeated and… if you dare to say, he’s trying to hide how much your answer affected him.

“foolish human… once i become a god, it won’t matter wether that doctor lives or not.” scaramouche dismisses with a growl and your suspicions are confirmed.

—

at some point of this project, you became thoroughly convinced that you’re a terrible person.

most of your time has been spent inside joururi workshop, overseeing the construction of scaramouche’s godly form— shouki no kami, it’s been called. even overseeing is a gross overstatement of what you do here, which is essentially nothing. you’re a medical professional specialized in, well, human patients and with the closest thing to a patient here being a doll created by an archon, there’s little for you to do.

within these rusted metal walls, you’ve had more than enough time to think over everything— especially how you work for possibly one of the most terrible people in teyvat and do nothing but cower in his shadow while constantly praying that he gets what he deserves without doing anything about it. you’re pathetic. you’ve since met the traveler and paimon in their current stay in sumeru, they’ve told you about their ventures and investigations around the land in the midst of heroically trying to solve the nation’s problems and have specifically reported to you about their discoverings on a scholar named zandik and his atrocious actions, you don’t need to think twice to wonder who he’s become.

you recall paimon’s look of horror while she retells what they found about zandik murdering a classmate, how adamant he was about investigating a ruin killing machine that took several of his peers, his involvement with the investigation of eleazar, the hospital in the desert— and hearing it all, you couldn’t even muster fake shock. all you do is watch that man do unthinkable, inhuman things without even batting an eye, it’s all normal to you now.

you’re a terrible person.

you can’t even bear to recall the forest ranger the traveler and paimon befriended, that they told you about— collei, an unfortunate victim of eleazar and even worse, former… patient of the doctor. you don’t think you could ever muster up the audacity to look her in the eyes if the two of you ever met. collei is partially why you don’t dare to leave the workshop if unrequired, any venture around the rainforest could very likely lead you to stumble into her and be forced to face the very personification of your guilt.

you spend so much time deliberating over all of this and yet… you still blindly follow after the traveler, paimon and a small girl when they enter the facility.

you hide within the shadows and pipeways of the workshop, watching the three brave souls solve the overly complex and arguably unsafe pathways of the place and waiting for them to unlock the marbled elevator leading to the larger area where scaramouche’s fo— err… shouki no kami rests to await the final touches.

when the puzzles are completed, you move to stand beside the structure of the lift and the traveler is the first to spot you as they arrive. she presents you a small, friendly smile, you don’t think you’re deserving of it. you think you’re much less deserving of the immediate kindness you receive from the small girl who came along with the two travelers. she speaks so wisely and patiently, with a distinct aura… it’s like a change in the air, you’ve only felt it twice— near the tsaritsa’s quarters in zapolyarny palace and during your dinner with zhongli. she’s an archon.

your hands close into fists, nails digging into your palms— you’re so tired of entangling yourself with godly beings. yet… your feet still take you inside the chamber, your fingers still tingle with slowly growing cryo energy, your body still mindlessly wants to help sort this out. nothing will fix what you’ve done, what you’ve been an accomplice to and what you’ve allowed to happen, so why are you still here? why are you still trying to help your friends by sustaining them with your healing capabilities, why are you still putting yourself in the frontlines of danger just to provide the most minimal assistance?

you want to say it’s because you’re itching to see scaramouche get his ass handed to him, but… that’s not it. why isn’t that it? he’s so arrogant and condescending, even more now that he’s so far into divinity— he’s never looked at you as if you were an ant to crush quite as much as he is now. he attacks you so mercilessly, like he promised he would, like your answer to his question truly meant nothing to him. he’d evaporate your and dottore’s existence all the same with his new powers, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. though, that taste could also be the blood invading your lips from all the injuries you’re sustaining.

scaramouche, or whatever it is he wishes to be called now, has pushed you to your physical limit and he’s done without breaking a sweat. so why is that something tugs at your chest when he’s desperately clawing out of his cushy seat inside shouki no kami to reach for the gnosis that’s just been torn out of his chest? why do you swallow hard when you hear his nearly crying pleas, or more so threats since it’s scaramouche, for nahida to take anything but the gnosis— his wails that he’ll never go back to what he was before?

and moreover, why do you sprint to catch him, despite how entirely hurt and exhausted you are, when the tubes on his back finally give way and he proceeds to fall from the absurd height of his mechanical form? why do your eyes sting when you fail to catch him and he hits the ground with a devastating cloud of smoke? why is there a warm wetness flowing down your cheeks as you spot a crack on his pale porcelain skin, obviously a consequence of his hard impact against the marbled floor.

and the most vexing question of all— why does nahida let you stay as she whisks away his unconscious form?

—

it’s ironic how much you hate gauzes.

they’re so itchy… they prick at your skin and press uncomfortably against your injuries— you’re only lucky you’re usually tending to others’ wounds rather than receiving them. in fact, the other way around occurs so rarely that you don’t even remember how you got hurt this time. it truly, wholeheartedly escapes your mind and you consider yourself to be someone with a good memory.

every time you try to recall how you got injured, it’s like a buzzing sensation in your brain, a hurtful one, that doesn’t reveal a single mental image of the situation. you’re almost beginning to consider the possibility that you just fell from your bed while sleep and fell so hard that you had to be bedridden in sumeru city while dottore took off to the motherland without a glance back. but to be fair, he’s probably still fuming internally from having to shut down all of his clones at once before the new, young goddess of wisdom.

personally, you’d say it serves him right for uh.. f-for err… what was it again?

gods, you must’ve hit your head when you fell from your bed— that has to be why you’re struggling so hard to remember what dottore was doing in sumeru, the very reason you were transferred here so abruptly.

though, you don’t dwell on the matter for much longer, as nahida, the traveler, paimon and… an unknown person walk into the little room inside the sanctuary of surasthana that you were given. all four of them stare at you expectantly, especially the individual you’ve never seen before— you note that he wears a ridiculously wide hat.

“so… did you intend for them to remember?” paimon asks with uncertainty, still looking at you up and down.

“…no, you idiot. did you forget that i intended to erase myself from the world?” the stranger scoffs toward paimon, you’re slightly unnerved by his rudeness.

he looks over to you and you swear that his gaze unhardens in the most microscopic degree, as if he’s saddened that you… apparently don’t remember something.

“there just—“ he pauses with a sigh and looks toward nahida. “there has to be another way, right?”

the small archon proceeds to gaze down at the floor aimlessly, finger tapping her chin and quiet hum escaping her throat as she thinks deeply. she shakes her head in disappointment.

“directly, no— i can’t extract memories of theirs that don’t exist anymore due to your wish. the closest thing to that would be for me to replicate the compilation of memories i showed to you, only narrowing it down to the moments between the two of you. they’d be watching their past self from your perspective.”

the strangers gaze lights up, once again in the slightest, and he nods vehemently. “yes yes, try that.”

you feel like you’re in a fever dream, or an out-of-body experience where you’re not present in the room at all as they continue to discuss something to do with you that you couldn’t decipher to save your own life. you frown and stand up frustratedly.

“i-i’m sorry, are any of you gonna explain what in teyvat is happening? what memories, what wish? i mean— who even is this guy?!” you gesture to him incredulously.

nahida quietly steps over to stand right in front of you and cups both of your hands into her own with the softest, most gentle hold you’ve ever felt. she looks up at you with equal patient and shoots you a sympathetic smile.

“y/n, please answer this honestly, would you trust me to do this? i know we only met recently, but i promise you i would not take a subordinate of the doctor under my care after they willingly injured themselves to assist me, only to put them back in harm’s way later.”

your eyebrows furrow with confusion once more— you willingly hurt yourself for nahida? not saying that you’d never do that with full consciousness but… how in her majesty’s name could you have possibly injured yourself to the extent you’re currently recovering from?

she chuckles. “that is how you would expectedly react to such a wild reveal of information. but what i am attempting to do next is with the full intent to help you remember what happened. i can’t promise it will fully work, as i’ve never done this before, but i’ll do my best to make sure it will not damage you in any way— past a mild headache, i’d say. i just need you to trust me.”

gods, how could you ever say no to such a soothing presence like nahida’s? there isn’t a single bone in your body that thinks she’s lying to you. plus, the stranger looks at you with such innocent expectancy that there’s an odd pang in your chest, though you don’t know why it’d ever react like that.

you face nahida once again and nod firmly. “i trust you.”

her smile widens with satisfaction and she steps away from you, turns slightly to the side, closes her eyes and joins her palms. after a few seconds she produces a small, blindingly glowing green orb. it’s got several specks of stylized sigils radiating from it, ones that are signature to nahida’s abilities. you give each person in the room a quick glance and they all grin up at you as a silent wish of good luck— except for the stranger, who looks ever so slightly anxious.

you touch the orb.

the first thing you feel is the forewarned headache, it hits you with full force instantaneously. next is horrifically blurred images of… you, from someone else’s perspective. in one image, you’re looking unsuredly at the person, as if it’s a first meeting and not a friendly one— you note that the background seems to be dottore’s lab. next is another environment resemblant of dottore’s work and you’re found in the dead center, yelling with at the person with genuine, irreplicable anger— you note that the perspective is taller than you, as if the subject is physically taller than you or… mounted to a wall or something. finally, the most blurred image of all, you’re sprinting toward the subject from afar with terrified tears forming at your eyes, arms stretched out in front of you as if you’re trying to catch something— you note that you’re upside down in the perspective and it’s in motion, as if the subject is actively falling head first into the ground.

your head really fucking hurts.

your brain is entirely unsure of what to do with the information it’s fed but… what does it mean for you? that you knew the man in front of you and physically forgot of his existence? now what— you still can’t put a name to the face, or the face to someone you know at all!

the stranger seems to recognize exactly what you’re feeling and steps up to exclaim.

“dottore— would you kill him?”

and it’s like everything clicks.

suddenly, you remember everything. you’re hit with a frying pan to the head’s worth of memories, of familiarities and it all clicks with the point of view you were shown. he’s here, he’s okay. and he’s very obviously not a god anymore.

your mouth hangs open as immediate tears gather at the corner of your eyes and you examine him up and down. he’s wearing different clothes, they’re blue and turquoise now— and most of all, he’s got a shiny new anemo vision hung over the left side of his chest. no, more importantly than that, the crack on his porcelain skin is gone. you’re so relieved.

“n-no.” you manage to get out in a shaky, sob-y voice, big relieved smile on your face.

he’s forced to suppress a chuckle at your answer, one that he fails at hiding before you could fully register it. he looks to the side and pulls his hat slightly downwards.

“glad to see you haven’t lost your head, worm.”

you laugh warmly, tears freely flowing before you pause for a moment— sure you’re happy to see him again but… what was his name again? it’s at the very tip of your tongue, to the point where it’s frustrating. it just never comes out.

“wait, uhm— this’ll sound weird but… w-what do i call you? i don’t know if i’ve fully recovered my memories, i just can’t figure it out.”

“wanderer.”

“wanderer..? i-is that a proper name or a title, are you—“

“i’m not going back to the fatui. i have no business there.”

“oh…”

“don’t sulk. i’ll still get my revenge on dottore later.” he teases.

the traveler nudges.. wandere’s side and he coils away with a scowl briefly, before the notices the knowing look on her face. he takes a moment to understand what she’s implying.

“and i suppose… there is another name, i’m not as used to it.”

“what is it?”

“…kunikuzushi.”

“kunikuzushi…” you sound it out and nod with an approving smile.

“i like that.”

taglist ; @kentply @osaemu @rain-and-a-nice-nap @koichirana

#childe genshin x reader #childe imagines #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #genshin impact #genshin impact fic #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe fic #tartaglia x y/n #tartaglia x you #tartagalia genshin impact #tartaglia x reader #childe tartaglia ajax #tartaglia imagines

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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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*:･｡☆ tags: damsel in distress!reader, reader will have a father daughter relationship with dutch, slowburn romance, no use of y/n, reader is nicknamed "Miracle" once she settles in with the gang. THIS IS SET BEFORE THE FLEE OF BLACKWATER.

*:･｡☆ warnings: mentions of kidnapping/attempts of kidnapping, blood and gore (mostly js people gettin shot n shit 🙏🏼 it's rdr afterall.) period typical undertones of sexism. canon typical violence. mentions of animal abuse/neglect

〔☆〕 desc: during a little break at the saloon, you're interrupted by an O'Driscoll who presses a gun to your back and forces you out of the saloon for a kidnapping. the Van Der Linde group comes to your rescue.

.. ☆ next part | masterlist (tbe)

—✩ A WOLF’S BANE P. ⅰ ✩—

word count — 2.3k

a/n: hey! this is part one of my arthur morgan x fem!reader slowburn series. i know it starts off a little funky, but i promise you’re in for a treat!! feedback/ideas are greatly appreciated! 🤭🪭 this part is mostly focused on the reader developing relationships with the other members of the gang. (p.s i promise reader isn’t a mary sue 😭 this is just for build up!)

Your hands stay busy loading and spinning the barrel of your duel Widowmakers. They were beautifully customized, and you just purchased a brand new cylinder from the gunsmith. There were elk carvings on the wood handle—your holsters having the same stitching as they rest on your waist under your coat—and freshly polished metals.

You were quietly listening in on the discussions that swarmed at every angle in the Saloon. You’d traveled from Strawberry to Valentine to receive your prescription from Doctor Calloway.

Smithfield has tried a fair amount to ask you out for a dinner, or a horseback ride to Saint Denis, and as much as you loved horseback riding, you declined kindly.

He mailed you a letter asking that you come to his office to obtain it. You caught a stagecoach and paid five dollars for the ride, then took yourself to the saloon first for a quick lamb heart stew, which was something you always made sure to grab upon visiting Valentine, making you a familiar customer with the owner, Mr. Smithfield.

As you stood and adjusted your skirt while stuffing your revolver into its holster that stayed hidden under your coat, a barrel of a gun pressed against your back. Your eyes shot open and you refused to turn your head to see who your threat was.

The man stunk of alcohol, cigarettes, and pure grime, and the scent only grew stronger as you felt his face press against your hair to whisper in your ear.

“Act natural, pretty thing.”

His body closed in against your back with his hip bones digging into your waist. He wasn’t very tall, nor muscular, perhaps about five foot six.

“Do you always greet a pretty woman like this?” You hiss quietly as he twists the gun into your back, guiding you out. He makes sure to snatche your purse from off the table you were seated at—which you didn’t mind too much since you were struggling financially with only about thirty dollars to your name—you didn’t even get to pay your tab off. You hoped Smithfield would understand.

“Shut up and move, girl.” He rejoined.

Undoubtedly, your heart raced in your chest as you both stepped out of the Saloon. There’s another stagecoach with a few other men seated, causing your eyes to widen. This is a kidnapping, not a robbery, you thought, and that was when sweat began to head down from your scalp.

“She’s a good one, Welts!” one snorted. He had crooked and several missing teeth, a lazy eye, and his brown hair was greasy, and he just looked downright disgusting.

“O’Driscoll will be real happy!”

That was when you froze in your place as you were turned around and patted down for any extra goods; the male in front of you had managed to find a pearl necklace from the depths of your dress pocket, and you scrambled to try and grab it from him.

“Please, don’t take that, take anything else.” You were surprised to find yourself pleading to this man. To an O’Driscoll.

Welt’s head tilted and he let out a loud laugh before he took his revolver, slamming the barrel and cylinder rough against your cheekbone, immediate pain and heat surged as it quickly began to swell, and your body twists, landing on the ground with your palms flat in the dirt below you.

You reach one of your hands—that had grains of tiny rocks stuck in your bleeding skin—up to touch your cheek, a quick feeling of regret causing you to yank your head away from the pain.

“You’re a scum!” you try to turn your head, yet he grabs a full fist of your hair and unsheathes his knife, cutting off a thick chunk of your locks. You gasped weakly.

The men above you bursted into laughter while instead tears stung your eyes. “Speak when spoken to, woman,” he grimaced. You feel for the hair he sliced, and your lip quivers. These were definitely Colm O’Driscoll’s men.

Welts gripped your upper arm, and pulled you onto your feet. Accidentally, you rip your dress from your feet getting caught in the fabric as you struggle to stand with the man swinging you around like a lasso.

You feel his revolver get pinned into your back once again as he taps the barrel against you, gesturing you to walk towards the coach. You hesitated, which he didn’t take kindly. You heard the hammer click, and that’s when you caught yourself walking.

“Hello, gentlemen!” an exuberant voice joins in, and you turn your head to look at the man. He was neatly shaven, besides just a bit of clean stubble along his chin. His hair seemed slicked back at the top, even with a black hat, and he was in a long-sleeved white and blue striped shirt, a black vest, and black slacks.

His boots were black with brown spurs. He had his hand on his belt, though not over his holsters that you think were home to dual revolvers. You were just about tired of seeing men with guns.

Guns. You thought. I’m as dumb as a rat—you shimmy your arm down to press against your waist, feeling for your Widowmakers. You felt the hardness with your wrist, playing it calm, and cool. Welts was just as dumb, if not more—he hasn’t even realized you were armed, not that you knew how to use them, anyway. Your hand drags away. Most likely, you wouldn’t be able to beat the man in a sharpshoot.

“Now, a little birdy told me you were being not so nice to this innocent woman, is that true?” The black-haired male, being passive aggressive, sends you kind eyes that leave you feeling skeptical.

You notice his friends.

One was in a low ponytail, and had a sombrero on his head, and the other had olive skin and a hat with a small feather in it’s band.

“She’s my wife, she’s drunk, and these men have offered to take us home. Go along with your business.” Welts snarled as he pushed your shins into the step of the stagecoach. Never in a million years would you even think to date or marry an O’Driscoll—especially not him.

His hair was greasy, and there was collected dirt behind his ears. With his gapped teeth, and his uncared for eyebrows. You wanted to murder the ratbag for laying his dirty fingers on you.

“You tellin’ me the little birdy is a liar?” the man asks, his tone lowering.

“Hell is your problem?” Welts’ eyebrows furrowed.

His gun against your back was starting to feel like it was forming a circular mark on your back from the muzzle.

“I surely don’t remember a time where I saw a loyal man pinning a gun to his wife’s back,” another one of the man’s friends appeared. He had darker skin, Native American features, and a braid running down his own back.

His arms were folded against his chest that was covered in a brown long-sleeved tunic.

“Do you know this man, miss?” His eyes drag to yours with a softer expression creasing his features.

Once you open your mouth to speak, you’re silenced with a quick shoulder shove forcing you into the coach.

“She does, now leave us be.” He sat himself down next to you. Your head turns to look at them as your face twists into fear.

There were five men; the black-haired one, the one with the braid, the male with the ponytail, the scarred Scottish man, and another male who was a bit taller and quieter. His hair was more brown, his face was scruffy, and he wore a black gamblers hat.

“Come on now, hold your horses, compadre!” The one with the ponytail waved his hand in the air, though the man standing in the front seat of the stagecoach flicked the reins against the hinds of both of the gray and black horses, causing them to squeal and chase out of Valentine.

Panic surged through you, raising your adrenaline. When you try to crane your head to see if the men decided to leave, your chest is pushed back against the seat by one of Welts’ companions. Suddenly, the one who’d exchanged you the soft look—which you now have come to believe was the leader—yelled out, and all the men followed his command. “Saddle up, boys, we got ourselves a couple’a maggots!”

You heard two, or three, or four, of them whistle a call to their horses and moments later, they were chasing down the stagecoach. You felt a tinge of hope, and trusted that these men would save you.

“Can these sons’a bitches go any faster?!” Welts hands gripped the seat the driver sat on with his head turned over his shoulder.

When the shooting began, you quickly ducked and let out a distressed noise. Bullets flew all around you, and you covered your ears. You looked up, and immediately the driver had a bullet pierce his skull. You screamed, some of the red paste splattering onto your face. The driver fell off the front of the coach, and you gasped as the wheels ran over the body, the lump making you wobble. You lift yourself up, and take a hold of the seats to stabilize yourself.

The horses stressed, unsure what to do, and you looked around frantically. Another one of the men attempted to cross over and take hold of the reins, but he received the same fate, instead his body leaned over yours, and you pushed it off the edge before it toppled on you.

“Girl!” One of the men yelled, catching your attention. “Do ya know how to drive that thing?!” His accent was thick, and his voice was deep with a slight rasp. You’d gotten a more clear look at his face now that it wasn’t half-covered with his hat. “I said, do ya know how to drive it?!” His horse sped up along the side of the coach, and you frantically nodded your head. You used to be a Stagecoach Taxi at fourteen. You just hoped you still had it in you.

You tore the fabric of the hem of your dress some more until the fabric stopped just above your knees, then hopped over before you’re pulled back by the neck; a man’s arm choking you and smashing both sides of your head as he squeezed his arm making you fall back onto the floor. “Stupid bitch,” the man huffed and grunted, shooting off a few rounds.

“Arthur, Arthur, no!” the leader yelled from behind. “You’ll risk shootin’ her! Put that gun down!”

He was right; the coach was teetering from side to side, and would be sure to tumble off the edge of a cliff if it were to get close enough.

They’d be sure to go off-road with the horses only knowing to go in one direction at the speed they were currently.

These horses were abused, whip welts covering both their hinds and backs, it was disgusting.

You sputtered out a few coughs as the man cut off your entire circulation, your fingers to pry at his arms and your nails scratch at his skin.

He drops you and you slump onto the floor. You hit your head on some metal, yet quickly recover. While the man is distracted, you throw your head at his pants and bite on his groin through the slacks, immediately, he lets out a yowl and accidentally pulls the trigger of his Litchfield Rifle as he falls off the carriage, which ricochets off a steel base, and strikes your shoulder.

A cry leaves your throat and you slap your hand over the wound. Blood seeps through the cloth of your ruffled top, but you swing yourself back over and take hold of the reins.

You feel your head pounding, but you pull back the reins and attempt to slow the horses down, though they don’t abide. The horses are panicked, unsure how to react.

“Don’t stop the coach!” the man with the feather in his hat, shooting over his shoulder.

”Well, what the hell do I do then?!” Your eyebrows furrow. “There’s more! They just keep comin’!” you turn your head at his words, and your eyes widen to see more O’Driscoll men trailing behind on coaches and horses.

“Jump on my horse!” The man with the striped shirt yells in your direction, and you look at him as if he’s crazy. “I’ll grab you, don’t worry about falling, but hurry it up!” His voice booms, going rasp.

“Now! Now!” He pulls back the reins of his horse, causing it to halt, and with a running start, you jump off the coach and onto his horse, his arm pulling you up as you almost fall off the horse’s hind to sit upright.

The horses to the coach attempt to stop at the edge of the cliff they ran too, though the coach pushes them over. You gasp, and turn your head as your hands grip the man’s jacket that was in front of you.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, sweetheart,” he clears his throat, and turns his horse around. His friends caught up, and their horses skidded to a stop.

“Dutch! What the hell was that for?” The male, who had directed you to not stop the stagecoach, his face was twisted with fury.

“Do you trust me, or not, son?” The man, who now is identified as Dutch, questions him, then elbows you lightly. “John Marston, he’s the hothead if you couldn’t tell, ain’t that right, boys?” He let out a humorous laugh. “Damn straight.” The one with the sombrero howls.

You had to keep yourself from passing out, which failed miserably. “You alright back there, miss?” He nudged your body again. Your eyes began to shut on you, and you slumped against the man’s back, then began to slide off the horse and onto the ground.

“Shit, shit!” Dutch took quick notice of your wounds. “Ain’t any of you tell me she was shot!” He wheezed, rushing off his horse. Everything faded to black.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan is sexy #ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing

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f1crecs · 11 months

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Fic Rec List - Soulmate AUs

If your fic is on this list and you don’t want it to be, please let me know and I will remove it immediately, no questions asked. I have contacted most of the authors on this list, but sometimes people fall through the gaps - just pop me a message🤍

have a pairing you want me to do next? please read the faqs and then head to my inbox.

don't forget to give the authors featured on this list some love in the form of kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

thank you to @wolfiemcwolferson for the request. 🤍 there are a selection of pairings here - I hope some of these will hit the spot for you!

Mark/Sebastian

Treading Softly in My Head by @antimonyandthyme | M | 9k After the events of Multi21, Sebastian and Mark develop an unwilling soul-bond. Beautiful characterisation and pacing - this is a world you can really get lost in.

Sebastian leans in despite himself. In school, the teachers had talked about how special these things were. Words like love and compatibility thrown around like in a song. And here they are, two people who can barely tolerate each other. Mark and him sitting in this office, having this conversation, can’t be anything but a statistical anomaly.

Lewis/Sebastian

nsfw: A Thousand Shades of You by tianvette | E | 8k Lewis and Sebastian meet on a hike. Sebastian saves Roscoe. What follows is some of the sweetest, hottest, and most beautifully characterised Sewis that I have ever read. I loved this

'Skin pressed to skin, shadow and light. Lewis has a look in his eyes that’s almost reverence. Seb can’t believe Lewis is real. He wants to give him everything, to take everything in return.'

Charles/Sebastian

an evolutionary theory of the soul by @blimeycrikeygeorge | M | 28.4k Soulmates can hear each other's thoughts. Some of the most delightful Charles I think I have ever read - Anney truly is a master at capturing him! I love everything by this author.

'He wishes he could offer more than vague, meaningless words, but he doesn’t know how to ease his soulmate’s despair. He hesitates, torn between leaving and giving in to the urge to make his soulmate feel better, a need so deeply rooted in his bones that it feels vital to his own survival.'

Carlos/Lando

nsfw: Twin Flame by @phebess | E | 13.7k Beautiful soulmate slowburn. Everything Phebes writes is a joy, and this is no exception. Gorgeous pace and charactersation. Really funny banter. Love!

'A wave of grief, of betrayal, of loneliness. It rolls through him, so strong that he curls in on himself in bed. It's not his pain, but something about it feels... familiar.'

Carlos/Charles

nsfw: i feel so much, i feel so numb by @f1-stuff | E | 23k Charles has the name Carlos on his wrist - things get trickier as they become teammates. Gorgeous exploration of soul-mateism, familial pressures, and the relationship between teammates. Just lovely!

'Being teammates means they will have to toe the line between friend and foe, ally and enemy. Soulmate and stranger.'

Charles/Max

nsfw: carry me in your heart (you know you're never gonna leave mine) by @pgaslys | E | 30.1k Charles can, on occasion, see through his soulmate's eyes. This is such a beautiful story that tracks their developing relationships over the years. It was such a privilege to Beta this one - I still remember the first time I read it in full. I didn't stop once. Lovely.

Charles is aware that Max is the type of driver who can recognize his own talent without any bullshit. Takes one to know one. It’s often mistaken for arrogance but it’s not about that and they both know it.

Charles/Pierre

Tumblr Ficlet by @effervescentdragon | No Rating | 2.2k A world where you can feel your soulmate's heart beating alongside your own in your chest. This is, simply put - stunning. Everything Akira writes is stunning. I wish I could read this again for the first time.

'He smells so good, and Singapore is warm and wet, and Pierre is close and radiating contentment and heat, and Charles knows his heart skips a beat, and another. Before he knows, the picture is taken, and Pierre is looking at him strangely.'

counting stars in the sky by @river-ocean | T | 14k Pierre worries that he will never find his true soulmate. Just the most beautiful worldbuilding here - I could read thousands of words set in this world, it is so rich and well thought out.

'Adults around him often said that it was clear that he was an old soul -- that he had been through many lifetimes before this, and that the wisdom of those lifetimes was ingrained in him.'

it's not like I chose you, not like I tried by @wolfiemcwolferson & @duquesademiel | M | 16.7k Soulmates only begin aging past twenty-five once they've found their soulmate. I loved the concept of this one, and it was executed beautifully. Two gorgeous writing styles, together - what's not to love?

'But at the end of the day, they are Charles and Pierre, Pierre and Charles, and it doesn’t really matter what they say, because they just inherently trust each other.'

whatever our souls are made of (his and mine are the same) by @luisjuanmilton | No Rating | 17.5k Pierre and Charles are cursed to lose each other throughout time. A stunning star-crossed-lovers tale that explores devotion, friendship, and true love. I adored this!

'Realizing he was in love with Charles felt as natural as breathing, like something that had been bound to happen no matter what.'

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dropsofletters · 1 year

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danced around an impossibility

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 17th, 2008.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 1st, 2008.

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

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

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

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

“Damn, it was a rhetorical question.”

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

“You don’t have any friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

August 27th, 2008.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It heats up the body, I guess.”

“You surprise me, Jeon Wonwoo.”

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

“Wonwoo—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Asshole.”

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

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

Present

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

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

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

August 28th, 2008.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think you’re doing?”

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

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

“I have no fucking clue.”

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

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

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

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

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

That stranger, without knowing, makes her keep talking.

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

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

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

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

December 23rd, 2008.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the laugh for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 1st, 2009.

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

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

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

She decides to rage, however.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why ask if you already helped me?”

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

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

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

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

This man is art, even more from up close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wonwoo.”

“Yes.”

“That’s your name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make that a promise.”

“That’s what it is.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

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

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

So, maybe, she has someone to play for.

Present.

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

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

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

April 8th, 2009.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My God.”

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

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

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

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

“That just means I’m tall.”

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

“Show you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were the one that asked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could be better.”

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

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

And that he has to buy Jun a new camera.

February 15th, 2010.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he wants her to run there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 1st, 2012.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have a friend and whenever we spoke about me making it, I’d promise him that I’d say his name.” She recalls. Of course, Wonwoo is not really her friend. She barely knows a thing or two about him. His passion, the way he holds himself together, his laugh and how deeply he enjoys her jokes. She knows he is majestic, rare in every shape or form but in the best way. “Mind it if I call your character like him? In hopes of…you know, him watching it.”

Dokyeom takes off those enormous glasses before cooing. “Hold up, you’re lying to me here. If you two are friends, how do you not know if he’s going to watch it?”

“We’ve lost touch.” After that kiss, she would like to add, but she’d never hear the end of it if that was the case.

“Or, you actually are not friends with him but are trying to get inside someone’s pants.”

“On fucking stage, yes. Of course.” She adds sarcastically, pushing at Dokyeom’s shoulder before she hears him laugh joyfully. “Nothing funnier than making things awkward for everyone.”

“It’s what you’re saying, mind you.” Dokyeom counterparts, clearing his throat and then, grabbing the script again. His eyelashes flutter when reading the next few sentences, waving a hand in the air to coax her to say more. “Say the name so I don’t lose track when performing.”

Those syllables weight in her tongue. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t regret not trying it out with him. Whenever she goes out on a date or when nights get heavy on her own, she imagines whispering it to him, while wrapping an arm around his waist and trapping his lips in another kiss. One better than the last, if that’s even possible. She wants to unclad his secrets and get to know him more, to touch skin but also soul.

“Wonwoo.” Her voice shouldn’t have been as soft as it was and maybe, Dokyeom notices it. He doesn’t see her, nor does he make a joke. If anything, he stands perfectly in place and plays his character even when she calls him Wonwoo, trying her hardest not to smile but failing at the end of the scene, when she says it with a grin on her face.

Maybe, that’s what she wants. For Wonwoo to see that she has started dancing with life and while it’s nowhere near easy, it’s something. For her to get used to what the world threw at her was out of the question. Now, she releases her own weapons and fights against the odds, letting the rain wash down every insecurity she ever had. Like she did with him.

She auditioned for this weekly comedy show the day after she met up with Wonwoo under the rain, after all, and it took time, but she got called eventually. She wants to believe his braveness is what unleashed the inspiration that got her to be a better version of herself.

Or damn, she’s just overthinking the possibilities. Wonwoo could be just like any other man, a stranger to her, but it’s not like she’ll get to know so. He vanished into a memory of what never happened, only to stay that way. A treacherous yet luring road that was never crossed by her wandering steps.

July 9th, 2012.

Wonwoo doesn’t understand how his students spend most of their time with their noses glued to phone screens.

He should do it more, he thinks. He has his own channel, after all, and while he has launched and bleed through classes through his shared academy with Chan. However, as he extends his joints and prepares to start from the top with the presentation his teenage students were preparing for a high school performance, he hears more giggles coming from the group of girls seated on the wooden floor. They look at him before hiding blushed cheeks behind extended hands.

They have been like that for the last fifteen minutes and he knows that they got over their crush on him over five months ago. He made sure to establish that from the moment they started taking classes. However, there is something different and he has been trying his hardest to ignore the laughing and the stares, but it’s starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Do I have something on my face?” Wonwoo questions, placing both hands around his waist and frowning deeply to earn an answer. He needs to perfect their synchronization and they are not going to get anywhere with the gossiping that happens in the classroom.

“Nope.” Bitna answers quickly, chuckling into her hand. “But I think you’ve got a girlfriend, Instructor Jeon.”

He had one seven months ago. It wasn’t the most glorious of times and it ended quickly. With a few dates and hands that got lost in naked skin, but it didn’t feel like much else. It drained him from his energy whenever they argued, and the memories slipped from his fingers quickly. Not love, not like, just simply spending time together.

Was that even a girlfriend? He’s not sure. He hasn’t asked anyone to be so in years.

He hasn’t felt unique in years, and that’s mostly part of what stops him. To be with somebody, he wants to find someone who makes him feel as though he is one on his own, yet great enough for someone to desire to be with him. The butterflies can be forgotten, but there needs to be a buzz…or something.

“Girls, what are you saying? Stop inventing things.” Though, when he gets closer to them, hearing a chant of ‘no’ when he grabs the phone, he didn’t expect to see what he did. A woman is on the screen, one that he remembers candidly with a lingering kiss that had him wishing for more. Her lips part on one of those live weekly shows that plan on making whole families laugh while making commentary about celebrities and the current society. Though, what takes him off guard is when she continues with her role and dares say…

His name.

It doesn’t take much more for him to smile. Savoring the glory of her finally reaching a position in which she is happy. At the end of the scene, she seems to feel him. As if she knew he’d react this way, with the tips of his fingers tingling to touch her and his heart blossoming within his chest. He starts the video again, just because he can, hearing more coos from his students…but he’s awfully inspired.

Joyful, even.

She said his name. She’s on TV. Now, he knows he has something to watch every single week.

His impossibility, as he’d like to call her.

November 22nd, 2014.

Simpleness, she had always liked. Yet, when a diamond glimmers, a person can’t help but look at that. She wonders, somehow, if she is the villain in the story when she cringes into her own body as the cameras flash in front of the car her boyfriend was driving towards their date. Not that it was going anywhere nicely, the car smells rancidly of weed and they had been arguing from the moment they got out of his home. Lost for the past three days, he had been partying endlessly, and not a single text had been sent her way to make sure he was okay.

People hated them to bits and pieces, too. She was a joke of a comedian for dating a pop star, and Mingyu was too lost in his own vision to even care what people were saying about him. A few paparazzi, those that are now hunting them like an animal’s prey, had been nice enough (or not) to email her to see if she wanted to have a few pictures of Mingyu cheating on her. She asked her team to ignore them, pay them however much was necessary just because…

She loved him? As the cameras grow wider and Mingyu starts cursing under his breath, she looks at his profile. Stardom was always beautiful; god, she had wished to be in this same position, wrapped up in cameras and money just years ago. However, as Mingyu’s jacket transcends the smell of a perfume that isn’t hers and his eyes water in complete stress, she realizes that this is not love.

This is the need to brag. The egocentrism that clads celebrities and hides them in loops of nothingness. She likes appearing in pictures with him, that she has something to talk about in her monologues, that at the end of the day she has someone to kiss on the lips and have get lost in between her legs when she feels lonely. But this? The invasion of privacy? The loneliness? The screaming and arguing that ends up in pretending for a few cameras…?

“I’m done.” She confesses, grabbing her jacket from the backseat before she pats a hand on Mingyu’s shoulder. “Stop the car. I’m getting off.”

“What?” Mingyu questions, eyeing her as if she’s crazy. She must have been, considering that she has been in this relationship for the past four months and she feels as empty as ever. Sold out, like her shows should be, not her heart. “You’re absolutely fucking nuts. They’ll eat you alive.”

She knows that she is somewhere near the center of Seoul, where the restaurants become more apparent and people are not half interested in who she is. Or they weren’t, until she started dating the rap superstar, Kim Mingyu.

“I want to end this. This…fucking car ride, and this relationship.”

He chuckles at that. Of course, he can’t believe what she is saying. “Babe, I’m not joking. Those people could actually hurt you.”

“Stop the car and open the goddamned door.”

“No.”

She opens the door at that moment, watching his eyes widening because Mingyu can pretend to be reckless, but he won’t continue with the car ride if she’s threatening to get off. Her jacket clads her vision when she gets out of the car, bodies tugging at her own, pushing her around as if she’s a sack for them to possess. However, the tears she wants to spill never appear, swallowing thickly and moving forward.

“Slut!”

“Sell-out!”

“How are Mingyu’s other women doing? What do you think about that?”

“Get back here!”

All of this for feeling a little bit less lonely? No thanks.

She starts running at that moment, hearing more shouts behind her, but she covers her face with that jacket. No one could see her shame and sadness if she did so. After all, she’s expected to be all laughs and that’s all she will ever be. Never successful enough, never anything but someone’s shadow. A woman, after all.

More steps are heard behind her and she starts turning on alleys, not knowing precisely where she is going and entering the first secluded restaurant that she finds in an abandoned alley. Cats are by the doorway, the secluded Japanese restaurant perhaps very close to stopping their business, but someone is seated there…

And it’s almost ironic that she doesn’t recognize him at first. His waist is still as taut, glasses humid because of the ramen he’s having. His black hair is shorter, pushed away from his enigmatic features, relaxed as ever until he hears the big sigh that escapes her lips. Her palms spread on her knees, never once letting go of the image in front of her.

Jeon Wonwoo always comes at the best times for her, and yet, somehow, it’s always the wrong moment for them.

She tosses the jacket to the side, hearing the old lady working by the entrance asking her if she’s okay but once glance of Wonwoo at her and she recognizes that he’s aware that she’s nowhere near close to that. Her feet move to their own accord, standing in front of him as if asking him to say something. He doesn’t.

“I think I lost.” She whispers, because she knows that he’ll understand better than anyone else. “I don’t know if it’s myself…or this game that I dare call life.”

Wonwoo stands up at that moment, placing his hands on her shoulders when he stands behind her. The part of her that were dead are lit up by hope when he sits her down on the chair across from her, grabbing a hairband from his wrist and messily tying her hair.

“You can feel pain now.” He reassures her and at that moment, she feels the tears that she had been hiding for the past few years building up. “The more pain you feel, the more it will heal…and then, you’ll see yourself in your reflection again. I promise.”

In the tea Wonwoo had been drinking, she sees tears winding down her cheeks, a few hairs framing her face and a man behind her, who smiles softly, like he is a bit shy about doing it.

She’ll be herself one day.

It’s not today, but she lives within her body and she’ll appear one day.

“...I would really like some ramen.”

“Have mine.”

“You sure?”

He chuckles and the sound alone heals her heart. “The world is a little bit better if we share, isn’t it?”

May 26th, 2017.

“If you had to choose a part of me to stay with, which one would you choose?”

She asks that question as she watches the sunset with Wonwoo, seated in between his legs and sharing a dense, oversized jacket with him. His arms are wrapped around her body, caged and confined by the same fabric, with his perfume lingering in her body and his chin squished to the top of her head. Wonwoo half chuckles at her words.

“That awfully sounds like I’m a serial killer and I will pluck off your nails or something.”

“Don’t be so literal about things, Wonwoo.” She rolls her eyes at him, interlocking their fingers together and still, feeling her heart stop. She likes saying that what makes her relationship work is not letting anyone into their lives. They know what they want them to know, and that power alone has people wondering if the person in her monologues being completely anonymous.

Or kind of, people are well aware that he is a famous ballet dancer and it’s not difficult to add two plus two.

“Your eyes.” He confesses, pressing a kiss to her neck and then, tugging at her body closer. The heat in her skin could come from his body or his words, she’s not certain, and that’s the beautiful thing about being with him. One never knows with Wonwoo. “You’d never look at me when we were in those two buildings.”

“I’d look at you!”

“Not a chance.” Wonwoo adds, laughing at her words. “You’d look at the wall as if people were staring at you and there was so much power in her gaze alone. When you finally asked me what I thought, I was over the moon…You’d look at me without a hint of fear, and I needed that. I wanted to be fearless because you were so.”

“I’m not anywhere near fearless.” She adds, pressing his hand to her thundering heart. “I’m scared of…of how nice you make feel, Wonwoo. How much I love you.”

“Let it be.” Wonwoo says, swinging their bodies from side to side before pressing his lips to her own. She had gotten this; comfort and grief…letting go of the sadness that had once cladded her. “So, yes, I’d stare at your eyes forever if I had to.”

“You have to now after telling me that.”

“I won’t fight it, then.”

Present.

“So,” Joshua Hong finishes his podcast with a small clap. “I wanted to talk about this story because I see people lurking for real love and whenever they answer what real love is, they answer this couple and I am certain they have broken up. Here, in Backstage Says, we have confirmed that Chan and Wonwoo are no longer friends after a dispute about the business and that…”

“You are so full of shit.” Much like her mother, Sangmi places a hand in the corner of the laptop and closes it with a thud. Not only had her little crush on the podcast host deflated, but now she’s licking her lips, twirling in her chair and looking up at the idol poster she has plastered on her ceiling.

Did mom and dad ever break up?

Picking up her backpack, she rushes out of her room with heavy steps and a curiousness that blinds her. When she reaches the kitchen, she sees her mom, hunching on the counter and jotting down a few notes for her next script. Dad, on the other hand, is reading a book that speaks of old literature and art.

Sure, her parents are not open about their relationship…but she exists. How could Joshua Hong say that they are no longer together?

“Did you guys ever break up?”

The young teen gets the attention of Wonwoo first, who raises his eyebrows before exchanging a glance with his wife. Laughter rises from both of them at that moment and Sangmi inflates her cheeks, bundling up her fists.

“I’m being serious!”

“We spent plenty of years lost, I guess.” Wonwoo announces, closing the book softly. “You have to think of it this way, it took us a long time to end up together even though we knew we were meant to have something with each other.”

“Okay, so, nice.” Sangmi adds. “The podcast I was head over heels for had an episode about you two and they say you broke up. Joshua Hong is now off my crush list.”

Her mom is the one to laugh now, writing another sentence before shaking her head. “Get ready, kid. You’ll make lots of mistakes before you find the one.” Though, she eyes her daughter. “Besides, he’s a little too old for you. Get over yourself.”

“Mom!“

That’s not Wonwoo’s attitude, for sure.

#wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #wonwoo au #seventeen au #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #ballet dancer!au #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst

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blossomwritesthings · 8 months

Text

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞. | 𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

⬷ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ┊ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 →

pairing: felix x fem!reader (afab) // chan x fem!reader (afab)

genre: nonidol/collegegrad!felix. waitress!reader. college au. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut - MDNI, 18+ only. reader pov. friends to enemies to lovers au. slowburn romance. lots of pining. cheating. abusive boyfriend/ex. drama galore. the sexual tension is REAL in this one.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. very thematic elements. felix is reader's estranged childhood bestie. chan is low-key an asshole in this ngl. heavy topics are mentioned such as: abusive/toxic relationships, cheating, and pathological lying. drinking/partying. the summer vibes are real in this one. there will be humor/fluff throughout to balance everything. and ofc smut too because who am i if not a whore for filthy felix smut. 😉

word count: 3.0k

summary: ever since you were born, all you've ever known is living a simple life in the small australian coastal town of bridgeport bay. you're content with working at your parent's beachside restaurant angel waves for the rest of your life, and you're happy with your place in the world - you have good friends and an even better boyfriend. that is, until everything comes to a standstill when a familiar face from the past visits town for the summer. and in the wake of his return, lee felix upturns everything you thought you were content with here in your comforting little beach town.

a/n: damn, I'm posting this SO MUCH later than I wanted to... but school just started back a few weeks ago and I've been swamped with uni hw and working full time and balancing a social life in between. 😩 so you'll have to forgive me if updates are kindaaa slow 💀 anywho- yay, they finally made up in this chapter!! things aren't completely resolved, for obvious reasons, but we shall see how things work out very soon~ 🫣

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). do not copy, spin-off, or write inspired work based off of this fanfic without full permission to do so. ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

The entire week after the party at Jeongin’s, you absolutely threw yourself into staying busy. Whether it was helping your parents out at Angel Waves by serving during the weekend dinner rush or studying for your first big exam for your Advanced Environmental Studies class, you were always on the go.

Soon after the drama ensued between you and Chris at the party, he stopped by your place to apologize.

Well, it wasn’t so much of an apology as it was an explanation.

And a long bout of making out afterward, too.

So thankfully, things were patched up between you and your boyfriend again.

That only left the chaos that was stretched between you and Felix.

You hadn’t seen him since your big blow-up at the Ice Cream Hut. And frankly, you weren’t in the mood to see him for a long while.

At least, that’s what you told yourself most of the time.

But when you noticed his absence on the beachfront every morning since the night of the party, you felt your heartstrings pull taut in an agonizing kind of way. When you began to miss the sound of his laugh and the soothing tone of his voice, you could feel the butterflies flit around in your stomach painfully.

Just like that, the two of you had already fallen back into a routine.

But you always knew that things were bound to collapse.

The murky pasts that you shared was like the elephant in the fucking room, and it just so happened to be the night of the party that everything came to a head.

It was late one Thursday night when you found yourself drifting off to thoughts of... him once more. You had worked a full day at AW but even though you were so fucking exhausted, you still had to catch up on some homework.

So there you were sitting at your desk in your bedroom, watching one of your professors drone on about the impact of Australian coral reef bleaching. Usually, you were very interested in your studies. But lately, you could feel your resolve slipping.

You could practically feel your focus going down the drain, as your mind was taken up with thoughts and worries of Lee Felix. You were still angry at him for what he had insinuated about your boyfriend that night. But mostly, you were just sad that he hadn’t fought for you.

That he hadn’t tried everything in his power to keep you from leaving his side at the Ice Cream Hut. You were still angry about the past, too. About the feelings that he had hurt just by leaving your side that fateful day during your graduation ceremony.

Your computer screen flashed, as the lecture you were watching changed to show a table graph that related to what your professor was teaching at that moment. You could feel a headache start to bloom between your temples from how much you had been studying and how worked up you still were about everything.

Taking in a deep sigh, you resigned to giving yourself a five-minute break from studying to regroup and re-focus your mind. Soon, you found yourself outside, standing on your parent’s front porch and gulping in the fresh sea breeze.

With it being so late out, the waning crescent moon was shining high in the sky, casting a silvery, ethereal kind of glow onto the brown sand below. The high tide lapped at the shore, the deep waters of the coastline looking murky and endless to your eyes.

It was as if you were suddenly possessed by a beautiful Selkie that was hidden just in the depths of the ocean, because soon, you were pulling away from the front porch, bare toes dragging through the soft sand as you made your way towards the shoreline.

Soon, you were wading through the chilly water, wiggling your feet against the moving silt just at your heels. The sound of the biting cerulean sea dancing all around you seemed to lull an aching part in your soul. And soon, you could feel yourself irrevocably relaxing.

Almost like, the filmy ocean waters were melting away the pain that you had been carrying onto for so very long. It was lifting the heavy weight off of your shoulders, soothing your broken heart, and trying its very best to mend the tear in the pit of your soul.

“You shouldn’t be out here so late at night- it’s dangerous.”

The deep voice that resonated out quietly behind you caused your entire body to jolt awake. Spine going completely straight, you fixed your eyes on the horizon before you, gaze drifting up to the shining moon above your head.

And when you didn’t reply, the man behind you continued.

“What are you still doing up?”

You were silent for a few beats, fists clenching and unclenching at your sides as you held in your rising anger. You could already feel it boiling up inside of you from having to deal with his presence again. You continued staring out into the sea, watching the black inkiness of the ocean depths.

“I’m fine, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t think you’re-”

“Just leave me the fuck alone, okay?!” You suddenly burst out, turning around on your heels, gaze catching with his. His blonde tresses were disheveled, and the white tee he was wearing was wrinkled at the collar. He just gaped at you, with an unreadable expression on his face, lips pressed together in a single firm line and jaw ticking only slightly. “You’ve done enough already.”

Then you were walking away without another word. You didn’t have the energy or patience to deal with his bullshit any longer. Your heart was weak enough as-is. You didn’t need any more abuse towards it.

Especially from him.

You didn’t stop trekking through the warm, slick sand until you felt a firm hand wrap around your wrist, gripping on tight and keeping you from moving any further. You stopped in your tracks, breathing coming out in sharp puffs.

“Wait, Y/N, I-”

Ripping your hand out of his grasp, the blood in your veins shimmering from the way his fingers had felt against your skin - all warm and faint - you could feel the anger rising in the corners of your vision. Painting everything in red again. “I hate you, you know that?”

For a few beats, there was utter silence.

And then,

“What?”

Regard focused on your childhood house that wasn’t too far off into the distance now, your shoulders set with a rigid kind of resolve. “You heard me,” you began, voice low as death and tone cold down to the marrow. “I fucking hate you- have since years ago and-”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

Finally getting fed up with his blatant disregard for your feelings, you twisted around to face him again. Coming up into his space, you pressed a finger into his chest, for the moment ignoring the hard muscle you could feel there. Gazing up into his eyes with narrow eyes, you seethed out. “You don’t get to fucking abandon me and disappear out of nowhere, and then come back around here and act like you know what’s best for me. Don’t act like you know me because you don’t- we’ve both changed and you’re too much of a coward to admit that.” Your voice wasn’t raised in anger. Instead, it was deep and gravelly, throbbing with emotion.

Because although you were angry beyond belief, you were also sad out of your mind.

Then without another word, he was wrapping a few fingers around the one you were jamming into his chest, pulling it away from himself and squeezing there gently. “Every day that I was gone- I died a little bit inside. It killed me to be met with utter silence every time I needed someone to turn to. I missed you so much, I would lie awake in my bed late into the night, aching so much I could hardly fucking breathe- I’d wake up and my limbs would shake from all of the agony.” He was staring down at you, and only then did you realize how close the two of you were. Faces just a mere hairsbreadth from each other.

“Why did you do it, Felix?” You found yourself asking, voice breaking at the end of your words as the cloudiness began to form at the edges of your vision. “I needed you, you know that? I needed you so fucking much and you-”

The tears overwhelmed every part of your system after that, shaking your shoulders and making your legs wobbly. And then Felix was wrapping both arms around your waist, holding you close and pressing the side of your cheek against his warm chest.

“I know- I know,” he choked out, sounding like he was on the verge of tears as well. One of his hands rose from your hips, stroking through your strands of hair gently. “I just- couldn’t deal with the fallout of everything. Like a fool- I left without a word and stayed away. And then one day- I got in contact with Jisung again and he mentioned you and I… I lost it and I knew that it was time for me to finally come home.”

You pulled away from his chest at his words, gaping up at him with slightly parted lips. The tears blurred your vision, making him out to be a smudge against the brilliant starry sky. The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a supernatural kind of glow down onto his blonde tresses and milky skin.

“B-But why, Felix?” You needed an answer. A final and definite one. You were sick of beating around the bush, skirting around all of the issues. For years, ever since your colossal blowup, you had been wondering and obsessing over the sole reason why he had done what he had. Why he had caused everything to go to shit in just a single fucking night.

The silence lapsed between the two of you, and after a few beats, his hand was pulling away from your scalp, moving around to your face. A gentle thumb caressing underneath one of your eyes to wipe away the falling tears, he let out a quiet breath, freckled cheeks dusted with the pinkish hue of sentiment. His finger swiped against your cheek like the kiss of a butterfly wing.

“I think you already know why, angel.”

That nickname…

Angel.

The one he used to use on you ever since you were little kids.

It caused something deep inside you to stir. Something unknown and scary to break apart deep inside of your heart - dancing and leaping around in your soul and painting your mind in an effervescent light of happiness and mirth.

Because no one had ever called you that besides him.

And it had been over four years since you had heard him utter it.

Low, sultry voice wrapping around the word, the sound of it floating out of his mouth and tickling your ears delightfully.

His confession came out all whispery, just barely louder than the waves lapping at your feet. They were meant for your ears only, and at that exact moment, you understood everything.

Lee Felix peered down at you like you were his whole world.

His everything,

And so much more.

And he had been the same thing for you, for so very long.

But then Chris stepped into your life and turned your entire world on its axis.

“You really hate him that much, then?”

“I wouldn’t choose him for you if he was the last man on earth.”

“He’s not that bad, Felix.”

“Hell- I’d rather you date Jisung instead!”

Your eyes widened as you stared up at him, the corners of the night sky starting to become clear again as the tears staved off rather slowly. “You seriously can’t mean that.” Although Jisung had been both of your friends since elementary school, the man was notorious for being horrible with the ladies. He couldn’t charm the pants off of a woman if his life depended on it.

But he was one hell of a good guy and the most loyal person you'd ever met. In your mind, he had always taken a close second place next to Felix.

And when Felix moved away and left you in utter silence…

Well, Jisung was there to help you pick up the pieces.

And Chris, too.

But he was your boyfriend.

And boyfriends were much different than best friends.

Felix reached forward, tucking a loose strand of your wild, windswept hair behind one of your ears. “I just think- he’s not the right guy for you, that’s all,” he canted his head to the side in a quizzical way, trying to find the right words that were jumbled up in his mind. “I never liked him, even before the two of you started dating in high school.”

You raised an eyebrow his way, mind buzzing with millions of questions. Ones that had been left unanswered since you were a young seventeen-year-old girl. “What is it about him that irks you so much?”

He shrugged slowly, the hand clutching on a little tighter to your hip, the other fingers going back to card through your hair. “Honestly, it’s hard to pinpoint… he just, rubs me in all of the wrong ways.”

“And do you think every man that dates me will rub you the wrong way?” You asked, playfully shoving at his chest and putting a minuscule amount of distance between the two of you. The moon was out, and with it being so late at night, the breeze was cool against your skin, forcing shivers to course up your spine.

“Yeah, I think so,” he shot you a devilish grin, the kind that spread across his mouth and brightened up his entire face. But then suddenly, his eyes were darkening and his smile was turning into the serious press of a frown. “You’re too perfect to give up to some cunt of a man- I want to see you with someone much better than him. Someone more… competent.”

Poking a finger into the hidden dimple at his cheek, you laughed heartily at the remark. “Well, that’s never gonna happen because no man is 'competent.' They’re all assholes, except some aren’t as bad of ones.”

Just then he was leaning into your space again, breathing in your scent with a wicked smirk slashing against his lips. “And where do I stand on the totem pole of assholes, huh? Am I the lowest of lows or middle ground?”

Your eyes trailed up to the sky above, searching the stars for an answer. “Hmm- I’d say…” You let yourself drawl on, focus coming back onto him, and his face that was illuminated in the deep twilight. Blonde locks messy from the beach breeze at your side and pearly white teeth showing against a pretty pink mouth. Fuck- that mouth. Why had you never noticed it before? It was so perfect - shaped like a springtime rosebud, red and rosy and so fucking kissable and… Wait. Why were you thinking about his lips? “I- uh, I’d say-” You found yourself stuttering over your words in the next beat, breath catching painfully in your chest as you tried to rip your eyes away from those lips.

“It’s alright, I get it. Such an extraordinary man like me is hard to pinpoint.” Those lips ticked up higher into that familiar smirk of his, forcing your heart to skip over itself about a million times in just under a single minute. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold the judging against you.”

That seemed to break the trance that you were in, and soon, your regard was traveling up his face again, past his regal nose and sharp cheekbones, and locking onto his eyes. He stared down at you with those imploringly. They were dark against the night atmosphere, swimming like the swarthy oceans below, with a myriad of colors and feelings. Dark brows suddenly crumpled together, and it looked like he was about to say something in that halted moment. In that tender, delicate space that had suddenly formed between you.

“I need to get back inside. It’s getting late and I still have to finish studying.” You finally said, breaking through the bated silence that had fallen between the two of you in the last few moments.

Felix nodded once, but he didn’t seem all that committed to the idea. Almost like, it killed him to leave that space with you. To abandon that tightrope that the two of you were balancing on just then.

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat myself.” He said, rubbing a nervous hand at the back of his neck.

Backing up slowly, you started to float towards your parent's house once more. As you neared the front porch steps, you heard the rustling of fabric behind you and turned to see Felix had followed you to the house.

He shrugged, once, gaze leaving your form and traveling over to his own parent's house just down the way. “Figured it’d be safest to see you to the door.”

Rolling your eyes at him in annoyance, you took the first two steps up to the front door. You could feel his eyes on you, stare burning two searing holes into your skin with each small movement that you took. Growing further and further away from him.

“See ya tomorrow, bright and early?” His voice carried out between the distance around you, serenading your ears and dancing in the depths of your soul.

You didn’t even spare him a full glance, just tilted your head to the side and offered him a crooked smile. “We’ll see…” You let your words trail off into the misty night, the high clouds above carrying them up and off into the watery distance of the shoreline. Then, you were slinking across the threshold of your house and closing the door behind you with a soft click.

To be continued...

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im-abanana · 9 months

Text

Good omens 2 SPOILERS BELOW!

Let's start off by saying that I never, EVER expected that we would get canon Ineffable Bureaucracy, but here we are, and I'm so happy about it. 🥹

Most importantly, I'd never expected Gabriel and Beelzebub to be a mirror of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship.

In season 1, Gabriel was the absolute fucking worst.

Self-centered, lacking emphaty, superb, following Heaven's rules to the letter, without a single question, and putting his job as an Archangel (or well, the Supreme Archangel, as we've learned this season) above all else, not really thinking much about Earth, humanity or the opposition's point of view/emotions.

Not only that, but he stubbornly refused to enjoy the life Earth- or anything/anyplace else but Heaven, really- could offer him, in the material (food, music, material objects, ecc...) and emotional sense of the term too, depriving himself of real friendship and love.

Then, he meets Beelzebub in the pub and, for the first time, he feels understood. After 6000 years of bearing the sense of loneliness authority and responsibility imply, and being stuck in his own, bigoted head, he finally finds someone who gets him.

On the other hand, Aziraphale has always been a... peculiar angel, to say the least. He has learned to perfectly blend in with the humans, enjoy their creations and Earth's delicacies, such as food, good music, books, magic tricks, etc... not only that, he "associated" with Crowley, a demon/sworn enemy, since the very beginning!

In season 1, Aziraphale defied God's plan, prevented the Armageddon and disobeyed the Archangels' orders just to keep living on Earth and keep seeing Crowley. Albeit he refuses to acknowledge it, he is a rebel, way more than Gabriel's ever been in 6000 years.

And yet, which one of the two decided not to take Heaven's crap anymore?

Who said "You're casting me down to Hell? Fine, I accept my fate" peacefully, almost happily, knowing they'd finally be with their loved one?

Who ran off to Alpha Centauri?

Who gave up everything they've worked for, everything they've ever known, everything they've believed in?

Gabriel.

And Beelzebub, of course.

To say I did NOT see this coming at all is an understatement.

Gabriel, the one filled with so much prejudice, ignorance and selfishness- his royal smugness, Crowley's words- chose Beelzebub and their happiness over everything, over God, only truly knowing them for like... what, 4-5 years (which is the timeskip between season 1 and 2)?

Aziraphale, as heartwrenching as it was to see, chose Heaven over Crowley (FOR NOW). After a 6000 years-old friendship/relationship!

Perhaps, having been so "distant" from Heaven itself, Aziraphale still sees it as something that can be "fixed" if led by the right person/angel (while Gabriel, being so involved in Heaven's management for millennia, probably knows better in that regard, and basically said "fuck it"- I mean, we've seen Metatron and God's behaviour, eesh), plus he's plagued by the guilt and fear of being a bad angel, and risk to Fall.

I believe Aziraphale still sees being a demon as a bad thing, he has this internalized idea he has yet to let go of. And I hope season 3 (hopefully, we'll get it!) will cover that.

Long story short, I loved this season, and I loved how they incorporated Gabriel and Beelzebub in the story.

Some might say their romance was "too quick", and while I would've loved to see more flashbacks, I think it fits.

The Ineffable Husbands are a slow, slow slowburn, and Aziraphale truly needs a wake-up call, to see Heaven for what it truly is: toxic and rotten, as Crowley said.

On the other hand, I liked that Ineffable Bureaucracy happened so "fast"- it's a nice parallel. Gabriel and Beelzebub- people who could be so fierce, cold, nasty and closed-minded in the past- immediately saw the love they had for each other, accepted it and let it change them completely.

Let them both become so affectionate with each other, too. Like, "my sweet", "wherever Beelzebub is, is my Heaven", "where Gabriel is, is forever my Hell", "I was coming to you", "silly angel", are NOT something I thought I'd hear 'em say 😂

Nor I thought "Everyday" would be their song.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens spoilers #good omens season 2 spoilers #spoilers #ineffable husbands #ineffable bureaucracy #aziraphale #crowley #beelzebub #archangel gabriel #go spoilers

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djs-sideblog-for-pog-trains · 4 months

Text

James and his beloved ballroom dancing teacher

a rewrite of this post/ficlet from 2021 :] and a partner to this art piece i posted yesterday.

wordcount: 8.9k words relationships: romantic 4x5, implied background 2x3. characters: ALL HUMANISED James, Gordon, Thomas, Edward, Henry, Percy, Flying Scotsman, Topham Hatt (who have talking rolls, everyone else is implied to be there or potentially name-dropped) tags/warnings: brief mention of alcohol, kissing, anxiety/spiralling thoughts. Can't think of anything else.

Kind of hurt/comfort but mostly just emotional fluff. A slowburn oneshot, if you will.

Full fic under the cut ^-^

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

The anniversary of Sir Topham Hatt taking over from his father, (also Sir Topham Hatt) is a scant few months away. James won’t lie he’s been eyeing up the calendar – he’s been sensing a good opportunity – so he’s spent the past week or two voicing his …wonderings as to whether the Fat Controller will throw some sort of event, surely he should, he’s earnt one by now.

Thomas finally looks up, and eyes James over their mediocre breakroom cups of tea.

“You just want an excuse to dress up, don’t you?” he drawls, even as he idly stirs his tea, the spoon clinking against the cup.

James sticks his nose in the air even as he flushes just a little.

“And what if I do?” he huffs. “I have a lovely dress-coat that I ordered all the way from Manchester, and I haven’t even had a chance to wear it yet! A ball would be perfect! When was the last time we ever had a ball?”

Thomas stares into his tea.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had a ball,” he says, then he frowns. “Well, maybe when the queen came. But, y’know. That was the queen.”

“I’m just saying, we should have one,” James says, waving his hands. “I mean, even besides all that, surely Sir Topham Hatt deserves one. It’s been a long haul.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, but he does nod.

“You have a point,” he says. “You could ask him. Or are you hoping the gossip will reach him first?”

James laughs. “You know me too well,” he says. “Oop, it’s 1:40, my next train’s in five minutes. See you later, puffball!”

“Bye, bootlace,” Thomas calls back as James rises from his seat and hurries away.

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

It seems James’ plan has worked. Within the week, murmurs are already spreading about a ball. Hatt even sends out a letter of interest, to which actually most everyone replies with enthusiasm.

“Sir, would you let us go to the mainland to get appropriate formalwear?” James asks, eventually, when their paths cross at Knapford. “It would be a shame if we couldn’t dress to impress – the opportunity for such things comes so rarely. It’d be a real treat.”

Topham eyes him knowingly, but laughs and tugs at the lapels of his coat as he thinks.

“I have to admit, you raise a good point, James,” he nods. “I can’t let you all go at once, but… Hm. Perhaps I will organise some sort of schedule within the coming month.”

James beams. “Oh, thank you sir!”

“Before you get too excited,” Hatt smiles wryly, “Go take your next train.”

The clock overhead in the station chimes 10am. James flinches, before he nods at Hatt and hurries away.

It’s fine. He counts this as a win.

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

After work today, James ends up walking home with Edward. Not that they do this often, but, well, they only live a couple flats down from each other anyway. And besides! James has a favour he needs to ask as unnaturally as possible.

“Ugh,” he starts. “The ball coming up, I’m so nervous.”

“Nervous?” Edward repeats. “That’s hardly like you, James.”

“But I don’t know how to dance,” James complains, shooting Edward a kind of look.

Edward shakes his head, frowning in fond confusion.

“Now that’s a lie,” he says. “I’ve seen you tap, James.”

“But that’s not ballroom dancing,” James stresses. “I don’t know how to- say, to waltz. I can’t show up to a real, fancy ball not knowing how to waltz.”

And Edward lets out a little snort now that he’s catching on, his smile slowly growing and his eyebrow slowly raising.

“Not like you,” James finally lays down his honey trap. “I remember seeing you dance, once, Edward, you were wonderful.”

“And you want me to teach you.”

James clasps his hands, grinning. “Yes!” he exclaims.

“No,” says Edward.

“Ah! Why not?!”

Edward laughs, and keeps walking even as James stops, putting his hands on his hips dramatically as he pouts at the back of Edward’s head.

“I need you!” James calls. “Edward, it’s my time of need!”

“Uh huh,” Edward says, not looking back and not stopping.

Eventually, James is forced to rush to catch up, and he quickly manages to fall back in step with Edward.

“But I need a teacher,” he pleads again. “Edward, I don’t want to make a fool of myself!"

"You could have fooled me,” Edward laughs, before he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Look, if you really want a good teacher, why don’t you ask Gordon? He taught me everything I know.”

James stops dead again – but this time, he has a much more different, far more flustered expression on his face. Edward stops this time, too, a few paces ahead of James, and looks back at him with a knowing smile.

“Do ask nicely though, hm?” he tacks on. “You wouldn’t want Gordon to turn you down, would you?”

James’ flush only deepens.

“Sod off,” he finally says.

“Mm, this is my house,” Edward replies, smiling, and James realises he has in fact walked Edward all the way home – past his own place, too. “I think it’s you who may have to sod off.”

James flushes redder.

Edward laughs at him, in that fond knowing way of his that’s almost more infuriating than anything else, and waves goodbye as he heads up the path to his flat.

James balls his fists, before he lets out a hissing breath between his teeth, and walks himself home while he definitely, totally, does not stew over ask Gordon.

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

On Tuesdays, he has a small overlap with Gordon at Knapford at 10am.

So James is already loitering on the station platform as Gordon hops down from his engine, and Gordon spots him leaning on one of the pillars, attempting to look as casual as possible.

“Oh!” he says. “Hello there, little James.”

James hopefully manages to control his expression. He hasn’t decided if he is annoyed by the ‘little’ or if it’s grown on him, because Gordon has managed to make it sound …endearing, nowadays. Though James is, uh, may be imagining that bit. Probably.

“Hi,” he replies.

“…Were you waiting for me?” Gordon asks, and he draws in closer, pausing a good metre away and putting one hand in his pocket, resting his weight over one hip, and it’s not fair, because he looks so good and he cuts such an imposing figure in his work uniform that James has to focus to get through his sentence.

“Yes, actually,” James says, straightening up from where he was leaning against the station pillar. “A little bluebird told me you can dance.”

To James’ surprise, Gordon actually… stiffens a little. James watches his expression close up just a fraction, almost imperceptibly so if James didn’t happen to know the minutia of Gordon’s facial expressions well by this point.

“…What of it?” Gordon asks, folding his arms. He sounds somewhat… miffed.

James clasps his hands behind his back and smiles as brightly as he can.

“Teach me.”

“No.”

James pouts. “Please?”

“No.” Gordon repeats, more out of instinct, before he sighs, and looks down dolefully at James. “…Are you going to drop this, at all?”

“No,” James says sweetly. “Teach me?”

Really, James hopes Gordon will say yes without too much hounding. H-he does like the idea of learning off of Gordon. Whether Gordon denies it to not, he does carry himself in his day-to-day life with the grace of poise of a dancer. Now Edward’s mentioned it, James isn’t sure how he hasn’t noticed sooner.

A-and, well, really, he trusts Gordon. Gordon will make fun of him to his face, but he probably wouldn’t tattle on James’ potential two left feet to everyone else. And James doesn’t really want to… broadcast that he’s having to learn these things. Or something. He doesn’t know, it’s probably all a bit silly anyway.

Gordon tips his head back for a moment, and sighs heavily.

“Okay,” he says.

“Now, I know that you don’t-!” James cuts himself off. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Gordon says. “Catch up with me after work, if you’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious!” James clasps his hands. “I am.”

“Well then,” Gordon says, as he nods at James before walking past him, to go get some morning tea or something, probably. “That’s that, then.”

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

Gordon catches him after work, his expression somewhat intense as he grabs James’ arm and his attention. James pauses, looking up at him.

“Oh,” he says, “yes?”

“Tonight,” Gordon says, voice low, not far off murmuring into James’ ear. “Are you willing to start tonight?”

James lights up. “Yes!” he says, though he does his best to mirror Gordon’s hushed tone. “Where? When?”

Gordon snorts, amused, and pats his left trouser pocket knowingly.

“Hatt gave me a key to the ballroom they’ll be using,” he says conspiratorially. “We will practice there.”

James smiles, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.

“…And, I was thinking after dark,” Gordon says softly. “…Just to, shall we say, preserve our dignity.”

James flushes a little, despite himself.

“What,” he says, “you think I’m going to be that bad?”

Gordon laughs, and lets James’ arm go. He also doesn’t answer the question.

“How’s 11?” he asks instead.

“…pm?”

“Yes.”

“…Gordon.”

“…10?”

James closes his eyes for a moment. Well, if Gordon is really that embarrassed to be found with him, then fine.

“We can do 11,” he says tiredly. “You’re the one with the earlier trains, anyway.”

Gordon snorts, and nods. He gives James the address.

“Do you have dancing shoes?” he asks, as James begins to walk away.

“I got some recently,” James says, waving his hand. “I only had tap shoes before, and I didn’t think that’d quite work out.”

Gordon laughs again, before he nods at James, seemingly satisfied.

“See you later,” he says, finally raising his voice back to his normal speaking register, before he turns on his heel and strides away.

James takes a moment to massage his temple. That was weird. That was weird, right? He’s not going nuts?

“…That was weird,” comments Thomas from across the room. “What on earth were you talking about?”

“Ah!” James practically jumps out of his skin, and jolts around, glaring at his coworker. “How long have you been there?!”

“Not that long,” Thomas says, as he pulls on his coat. “But long enough to see that was kind of weird. What did he want?”

“He’s doing a favour for me,” James says, before he shakes his head and starts to walk. Thomas falls into pace beside him, head tilting in curiosity, waiting for an explanation. “…Privately.”

“Ooh,” Thomas teases. “You finally told him?”

“What?!” James goes red despite himself, and gives Thomas a shove. “You’re delusional. There’s nothing to tell. Shut up.”

“Uh huh.”

“Shut up!”

James speeds up, hoping it’ll make Thomas leave him alone. It notably does not. In fact, Thomas tails him the entire way back to his flat, asking leading questions the whole while, and James has to slam the bloody door closed in the prat’s face until Thomas finally leaves him alone. And James can hear Thomas’ laughter through the door as he walks away.

James takes the moment to let his back thump against the door and to cover his face, screaming into his hands a little bit, just for fun. This is… James needs a lie down, or something.

He also needs to find his dancing shoes before tonight.

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

James trudges up to the hall, his bag with his shoes in it thrown over his shoulder, his coat thrown over top plain, casual clothes he doesn’t usually let people see him wear – he likes to be well presented at all times, but tonight he also needs to be comfortable enough to dance.

He’s so nervous. What if he can’t get it? What if Gordon gives up on him? What if this ruins their friendship? The building is dark, did James get the right time? The right place? He feels ill. Why couldn’t Edward have just said yes? If it turns out Gordon has stood him up, James is blaming Edward.

James tries the door handle. It’s …unlocked. He lets out a sigh of relief and slips inside.

…Wow. This room is huge. And that may be a stupid thing to say, considering it’s a ballroom, but James pauses, wide-eyed, by the door as he takes in the space. He didn’t even know the NWR had one of these.

And down the other end, Gordon is already there and waiting, though he’s lit a few candles, filling his end of the hall with a thin, watery yellow light, and he’s setting up… a tape deck?

“You still use cassettes?” James calls, and Gordon looks up at him. James hitches his bag up over his shoulder again as he crosses the room. “Way to join the modern world, Gordon.”

“What, would you have rather I brought a record player?” Gordon replies, as he inserts a cassette. “Besides, these are the tapes I learnt off. Figured it was a good place to start.”

James has to sit on the floor to swap his shoes over. Looking up at Gordon, who is still poking at the tape deck, James… drinks him in, a little. Gordon’s down to just his white button-up shirt, and he’s undone his tie and top two buttons, not to mention he’s rolled up his sleeves. James does his best not to stare at Gordon’s forearms. Gordon lets the tape start playing, and a waltz James doesn’t know the name of fills the air.

“Are you ready?”

James jumps, and shakes his head to clear it, and finishes lacing up his shoes. He rises to his feet, shedding his coat, and he puts his things to the side as Gordon watches him.

“…I don’t think I’ve never seen you in a just a t-shirt before,” Gordon comments, as James hurries back to stand in front of him.

And James looks down at himself, flushes, and wonders briefly if he should put his coat back on. It’s a long-sleeve t-shirt (red, of course), because he’s not about to let Gordon inspect his scars. It does have a lower neckline, showing the hints of some, though, and it leaves the scars on the back of his hands visible.

Gordon… doesn’t comment on any of that, though his eyes graze over them briefly.

“Feel honoured,” James jokes instead, shivering despite himself. “I don’t usually dress down.”

To his relief, Gordon laughs, and holds out his right hand to James.

“Then I do feel honoured indeed,” he says. “Now, lets begin before it gets any later, hm?”

James puts his left hand in Gordon’s, before he tries to play it cool as Gordon puts his other hand on James’ back. …Um, huh. His hands are big. And warm. James focusses on looking Gordon in the eye instead of reacting to the feeling of Gordon’s hands on him.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” says Gordon. “And don’t lean your arm on mine. You should be poised.”

James blinks, but nods, words escaping him, and he strikes the pose he thinks he’s supposed to – he can copy what he’s seen on Strictly Come Dancing at least this much.

“Good,” Gordon says. “Now, we’ll start with the waltz.”

James… James actually gets his head around it far quicker than he expected, which he is thoroughly relieved by. He does have his eyes glued to their feet, and he sometimes steps backwards when he shouldn’t, but, successfully, he hasn’t stood on Gordon’s toes yet.

Gordon spends the night teaching James a basic going-in-a-little-circle thing.

“I do expect you to memorise all the steps,” Gordon does say eventually. “But it will be less important for you, seeing as you’ll be following a lead anyway. As long as you can be reactive, read what is coming next, and follow it, then you should be fine.”

James’ arms feel heavy, his feet feel sore. It’s been a good long while since he’s had a dancing lesson of any sort. The muscles in his legs are reminding him of that fact so courteously.

…Gordon smiles at him anyway, though.

“Well done,” he says, and James blinks in surprise at the compliment. “It’s not often anyone picks it up that fast.”

“Was I quicker than Edward?” James asks, half-teasing as he steps back, taking his hands off Gordon and stretching a little.

Gordon laughs, his head tipping back, and it rings around the empty room. James finds himself smiling in response to the sound, he’s always liked Gordon’s laugh.

“Yes, James,” Gordon says. “You were indeed. Now, it’s… late. We should finish.”

James swaps his shoes back over and pulls on his coat, and Gordon blows out the candles and turns off the tape deck, though he leaves it where it is. And he swaps his shoes out, too, and turns to an already waiting James.

“I’ll walk you home?” James offers.

“…If you insist,” Gordon says, and he gives James a little smile that almost looks a little fond, if James dares to believe as such.

They walk quietly, not wanting to wake anyone, and James pauses as Gordon stops by James’ front gate.

“You don’t need to double back,” Gordon says. “I can manage the rest on my own, I think.”

“Oh,” James says. “…Of course. Thank you, by the way. I didn’t expect you to go quite this late.”

“You were doing well,” Gordon shrugs. “I didn’t want to…” he gestures vaguely with one hand, “…interrupt the flow of progress.”

James shifts on his feet. “When will we do this again?” he asks.

“Tomorrow?” Gordon offers, before he blinks at himself even as James looks up at him. “I-if you like.”

“Okay,” James agrees before he considers whether he should. “That’d be splendid.”

“Done.” Gordon says, before his lips quirk into a wry, lopsided smile, and he tacks on, “Sleep well, James.”

James nods, and hurries down the path to his front door without another word. It’s once he’s unlocking the door that he realises Gordon’s waiting for him to go inside before he leaves. So James waves goodbye, closes the door behind him, and watches through the peephole for a moment to see Gordon walk away.

His heart is racing. James hangs up his coat by the door, presses the flats of his palms to his cheeks to check whether they’re as hot as they feel before he stumbles his way to bed.

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

Time passes. At first, it was rough, returning to the habit of dancing every day, but a month has passed, and there’s only one month more until the ball, and James and Gordon have been meeting to practice by candlelight every night. James is even used to the adjustment of sleeping schedule now.

Is it silly that James really likes the candlelight aspect? It’s… romantic, if he may be so bold. Though on the other hand, it feels almost mean to take up so much of Gordon’s time like this. Yes, James asked, and asked again when Gordon said no, but Gordon is giving him far much more time than James had ever considered he’d be willing to give.

Which is very nice of him. But… James just didn’t expect it, he supposes.

Over those four weeks, Gordon has gone from bossing him through the steps and correcting his form, to… quietly complimenting him when James pulls off a nice piece of footwork. And there’s been more and more compliments than before, even though Gordon has gotten quieter. That’s the only way James can put it. Gordon’s been talking less and watching more – he must actually be quite quiet if you just leave Gordon be. And… Gordon has just been looking. At James. Sometimes, he seems distracted doing so.

And James can’t help but admit he’s guilty in return. James didn’t realise how dark Gordon’s eyes are, how warm and rich a brown they are – not until they’re looking down at him, glinting in the candle light.

It’s as James waves Gordon goodbye one night more, Gordon standing with his hands in his pockets under the streetlight, and Gordon smiles and nods and waits for James to close the door, that it all hits him.

James closes the door so Gordon can’t see his face as he flushes dark, and he puts his hands flat on the door and leans there, bracing himself as he flushes hot and flushes cold, and-

Cinders. Cinders and ashes. James has a crush on Gordon.

Like, okay, fine. Fine! James has ‘had a crush on Gordon’ for a while. He thinks the guy is big and proud and strong and pretty and handsome and all those good things, but James had actually always considered that fairly superficial. Maybe even bordering on jealousy, if he really wanted to try analysing himself. And that was the biggest reason why he never wanted to tell anyone, and why the idea of telling Gordon felt so mortifying. Because… what if it wasn’t real?

But now? This time? This is… this is a real, actual crush. James turns so he can put his back to the door, flopping there as he feels a little lightheaded, standing in the dark of the entrance hall of his home. He hardly knows what to do with himself like this.

A-at the very least, they’re good dance partners. It feels pretty natural, actually. James is surprised how natural it feels. They dance best when they aren’t bickering – and… Gordon and him haven’t bickered for a while.

James shivers, and marches himself into the kitchen to go drink a glass of water and then throw a glass of water in his face. He’s being melodramatic. Despite that, he almost feels like he’s coming down with something, now the realisation’s hit him.

It’s moments like this where James is glad he lives alone. No one to see him like this, no one to make fun of him. No one to ask weaselly little questions that make him feel more confused.

He shakes his head, grips the sink as he takes a big breath in and a big breath out, before he whisks himself off to bed. Maybe he’ll sleep it off.

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

Nope. Three weeks until the ball and James has to acknowledge that he is, in fact, in love with Gordon. He has to grapple with this night after night as Gordon’s hands are on him and he gets to rest his hands on Gordon, and he can spend the whole time studying Gordon’s face instead of having to look at his feet, because Gordon has gotten him good enough that James doesn’t need to watch his feet anymore. And Gordon’s even taught him multiple dances at this point, though James is still learning the tango. The foxtrot and the quickstep were easy enough. And sillily enough, he didn’t consider Gordon to be a man who knew how to tango.

The candlelight catches Gordon’s eye again, as they turn a corner, and it makes James’ breath hitch a little, before he swallows the rising guilt in his throat, and opens his mouth.

“If, uh,” he starts slowly, following Gordon’s lead as they do the fancier turn Gordon taught him, “if you ever want to learn how to tap, for any reason, I can teach you too, if you want.”

Gordon tilts his head. “Well,” he says, lips quirking into a little smile as he leads James through a promenade and spinning him at the end for good measure, “I don’t know when I’d need that, but I’ll keep you in mind.”

“Or even something like-!”

James can’t help the rising agitation in his voice, and to his- his- his horror? Gordon comes to a complete halt, making James stop with him, and he raises an eyebrow at James even as his hands feel so heavy where they rest in James’ own and on James’ hip. It kills the words trying to form in James’ throat.

“What’s all this about, James?”

Cinders, Gordon asks it so plainly.

“I feel guilty,” James blurts – before he can think about whether he even should. “For taking up so much of your time.”

Gordon pauses, pursing his lips, and he looks quietly amused for a moment, before he shrugs. “You’re not taking anything I’m not willing to give,” he says, and he gives James an enigmatic smile, and James wishes the man would stop talking in circles. “I don’t mind spending my time like this.”

I don’t mind you, is what Gordon’s eyes seem to say. James hopes his cheeks don’t look as hot as they feel. He’s almost shaking.

“But!” Gordon finally lifts his hands away. “If you really feel that way, then I’ll take a batch of your scones after this is all over.”

And James laughs at that, slightly too loudly, a burst of the frantic energy that was building inside him, and he smiles and nods and steps backwards so the gloom will hide his expression which most certainly must be moonstruck. “Done,” he agrees.

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

The time has been flying by. It’s now the week of the ball, and James should be excited. They’re still practicing by candlelight in the ballroom in the evenings, but the ballroom is slowly getting populated with things like tables and lights and decorations as the days pass, signalling the ball’s arrival.

James feels anxious! He’s not even sure why. It’s clearly not over his ability to dance. They can now run several dances start to end, and at multiple speeds, with ease. He’s even figured out that tango.

It dawns on him gently as he and Gordon are doing their latest lap, breezing down the entire length of the ballroom, that James doesn’t want this to end. He wants his candlelit nights with Gordon, stolen away from the chaos that daytime and the railway and their workmates present.

He likes this. He likes Gordon.

So when Gordon is asked to give his key back three days before the event, James can’t help but look distressed at the news. And Gordon laughs, he claps James on the back and tells him not to worry because he’s going to be fine.

Gordon doesn’t… get it, then. James takes a breath in, a breath out, and offers Gordon a smile and a little thank you. That’s fine. Gordon doesn’t… have to get it.

It has left him sitting in the breakroom, staring into his tea as he muses over it all, though. And while he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps, he does hear the clink of a mug set down, and the thump of someone taking the seat across from him, and Thomas asking, “What’s got you so glum?”

James jumps, not realising he must have been wearing his heart on his sleeve, and offers Thomas a smile even as he goes to drink his tea to try hide his misery.

It makes Thomas eye him warily.

“Gordon’s not broken your heart, has he?” he asks.

James chokes on his drink, and splutters, “I beg your pardon?!”

Thomas laughs at him, leaning back in his seat, and James glances around the room to doublecheck that they are thankfully alone right now.

“Edward mentioned to me that you’d been having lessons,” Thomas winks, gesturing a cheers with his tea.

“That wanker.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Thomas quickly follows up, eyeing James over his mug, before he smiles that cheeky smile of his. “Mostly because I know you’ll have my head.”

“Damn right,” James says, and he takes a pointed drink of his tea, not even wanting to know how red he’s gone right now.

“Easy,” Thomas raises a hand in defeat. “I guess I’m just checking in. You’re looking pretty put out.”

James sighs. His shoulders sag. He cups his hands around his tea and stares into it.

“I’m just in a little over my head, I think,” he mumbles.

“More like head over heels.”

“I’ll throw this at you. Don’t think I wont.”

That makes Thomas laugh, even as James tries to glare at him, before Thomas’ expression softens.

“James,” he says, in a quiet voice that makes James’ stomach drop. “In all seriousness. I’ve known Gordon for longer than you have, and… if he didn’t want to have you around, he simply wouldn’t.”

James gives up on trying not to flush.

Thomas opens his mouth again, before he clearly decides against saying more, and he gets to his feet, shaking his head before he drains the last of his tea from his mug.

“Think about telling him, maybe,” he suggests, before he pats James on the shoulder and leaves the room, leaving James to stew in his thoughts, and try to gather himself before his afternoon train.

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

The night of the ball itself is absolutely brimming with excitement. Everyone is dressed to the nines, in their fancy clothes from the mainland that Sir Topham Hatt let them all go get, and the energy is infectious. The crowd is full of people he knows and people he doesn’t, it seems all of Sodor’s invited, and about half of England too.

James himself is wearing his lovely red dress-coat, all wine-red and gold braid, his crispest white gloves, a cravat and a lovely pair of red boots he had to go buy from the mainland too, which are just perfect for dancing in after he’s spent the week breaking them in. And he’s grinning like a lunatic as he drinks in the room around him – the ballroom he’s only ever seen in half-light has absolutely exploded with life and colour and noise.

From behind him, someone clears their throat. James spins on his heel to see Gordon standing there, and oh! He’s looking absolutely resplendent in midnight blue tails of his own, adorned with silver braids, and a single red flower (a rose or a carnation, James can’t tell) in his lapel.

James grins as he sees it, feeling a little less self-conscious about the rich blue pocket square he added to his own outfit too.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Gordon beats him to it.

“You look just splendid,” Gordon says, awed.

James preens at that, he can’t help it. He then smooths down his coat and pointedly looks Gordon up and down in return, letting his admiration shine on his face. “I could say the same for you,” he says.

“Have you heard about all the invitations?” Gordon says, stepping in a little closer as someone slips behind him. “Hatt sent some out to celebrities who’ve been involved with the railway.”

“Oh, yes, I heard,” James nods. “I’ve even seen City of Truro here tonight! Fancy him coming along, Duck will be pleased.”

“Yes, yes,” Gordon says, glancing around. “But…”

James’s face falls in realisation. “Ah.”

“Yes. Not only did Hatt invite my brother, but he damn well accepted,” Gordon half-laughs, tugging at his lapels, straightening them, “and Hatt only told me this morning! And I know how Scott likes to present himself, so… I couldn’t be shown up.”

“Of course,” James agrees politely, but he purses his lips, reading the anxiety weighing down Gordon’s board shoulders with ease. “…Do you want to avoid him?”

“No,” Gordon says, almost too quickly, and he steps back to accept a couple flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands one to James, and James sips it politely before his eyes go wide, Hatt really didn’t spare any expense on getting the good stuff, huh? “I just… hope it will be less frigid tonight than the last time we spoke.”

James looks up at Gordon sympathetically, who muses on his statement for a moment longer, before he shakes his head like he’s shaking off water, and Gordon turns to him, smiling.

“But enough of that!” he exclaims, and offers James his arm. “I do believe we’re under distinct instructions to enjoy ourselves.”

James laughs, and takes it, stepping in closer as a couple tries to slip by them to get to the dance floor.

“Shall we go attack the hors d’oeuvres before Henry does?” he offers.

Gordon laughs, and pats James’ wrist with surprising tenderness, it almost makes James gasp.

“That’s a splendid idea,” he grins back, the ice finally melting from his face.

James’ heart totally doesn’t not skip a beat over the way Gordon says splendid.

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

It’s all fine. The evening goes fine! It’s now about 9pm, and the room is now lit with electric lights, candles, and strings of fairy lights. It really does make the mood more magical. James splits off now, to go natter with his friends. He gets heckled by Thomas and Percy, but they’re all laughing, and James has to compliment their formal gear too.

“It’s nice to finally get a flattering tailor, I’ll tell you that much,” Percy says, smoothing down his coat. “I don’t think I’ve ever owned a waistcoat before.”

“And I can’t remember the last time I actually wore a tie,” Thomas jokes, making a show of tugging his collar. “But really, James, I see why you wanted to dress up so badly. You look great.”

James plays up preening, and does a little spin for them. “Thank you,” he says. “Call me vain, but honestly, I do find it splendid to see everyone dressed up like this.”

“It’s true,” Thomas nods. “I’ve seen more pretty gowns tonight than I think I have in my whole life. Have you seen what Emily’s wearing? Showstopper.”

“So many sequins,” Percy nods.

James moves closer to their side so he can take in the whole room, and as his eyes graze over the dance floor, he realises Edward and Henry are out there.

And then he barks with laughter.

“What’s up?” Thomas asks.

“I see why Edward refused to teach me!” James laughs, and points them out. “Look.”

Henry is leading, god bless him, and he’s very, very carefully watching their feet. He’s not unconfident, certainly, but he’s not necessarily confident either, and glancing up at Edward’s face, who’s smiling encouraging at him, and not even wincing when Henry steps on his toes.

“That’s cute,” Percy says. “Good for them.”

And… watching them go? Maybe it’s the live music. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Maybe it’s the champagne. But James is suddenly possessed with the need to go find Gordon and drag him out onto the dance floor right now.

“Excuse me,” he says, and Thomas smiles at him knowingly, and James flips him off for fun even as he begins to weave his way through the crowd.

James finds himself outside, stepping through the grand French doors that have been thrown open to welcome the warm summer night. The spill-out area is filled with classy outdoor furniture, there’s fairy lights everywhere, the gardens have been completely redone and all the hedges are beautifully trimmed, and there, standing off to the side, is Gordon and his brother.

Gordon’s laughing along to whatever Scot is saying, but the way he has his arms folded across his chest, the set of his shoulders, the way his body is angled away from the conversation, it’s clear to anyone who knows him well that he’s a little too uncomfortable right now.

So James makes a beeline for him, and pops up by Gordon’s elbow.

“Hullo, Gordon!” he chirps warmly, and smiles as the tension just rolls of Gordon now someone else is here. “And, hello,” he says, polite yet slightly stiff to Scot, who nods at him and offers him the big smile of someone who is very used to meeting new people.

“Hello!” he says, and offers James a hand to shake, which James does take (and tries not to wince at the strength of his grip). “Who might you be?”

“James,” James offers. “I’m a good friend of Gordon’s.”

“Aha!” Scot’s face lights up far more genuinely this time. “Gordie was just telling me about you.”

James tastefully manages not to laugh at Gordie, more so because he’s jumping straight into oh broken buffers, what did Gordon say about him?

“My prized student,” Gordon jokes, lightly elbowing him, and James grins back.

“Speaking of,” he says. “I reckon we go show Henry and Edward up. They’re not too bad, but Henry can’t keep his eyes off their feet.”

Gordon and Scot both laugh at that, and Scot graciously lets them go.

“Thank you,” Gordon leans down to whisper in James’ ear as they walk away. “It always feels like an interrogation with him.”

“It’s alright,” James shrugs. “I… had a gut feeling. Anyway. You want to dance?”

Gordon seems to be keeping himself from glancing over his shoulder.

James frowns softly at him. “We don’t have to,” he adds.

“Oh, nonsense,” Gordon says, and the hand Gordon has on James’ shoulder squeezes gently. “I’d love to. Let’s let this song finish first.”

They have to muscle their way through the crowd, ending up slipping past Hatt himself, who pats Gordon on the back and offers James a smile and nod as they go past. Before long, they end up out on the dance floor as the next song ends.

“Any ideas?”

“My guess is waltz,” Gordon says, adjusting his cufflinks before he offers his hands to James. “They’ve played a couple fast numbers back-to-back.”

“You’ve found our warmup, then. How thoughtful,” James laughs, stepping into Gordon’s arms. It’s so easy to lay his hand on Gordon’s shoulder now, to feel Gordon’s fingers curl around his hand. James isn’t sure how he ever could have dreaded it.

He laughs again as Gordon turns out to be right.

The music starts, and it’s just so natural to follow Gordon’s lead. And they’re off! Off around the dance floor, and Gordon successfully steers them through the crowd, pulling James out of the way of a close call of a collision with a quick pivot and a spin.

As they draw back together, Gordon eyes him, and James blinks back.

“You alright?” he asks. “You look flustered.”

“Flustered!” James exclaims, trying to play it off. “Me? Never.”

And Gordon actually… laughs at that, laughs at him, and James is struck with the realisation that perhaps… Gordon knows.

Well, it takes two to tango, doesn’t it?

“Well,” James changes tune, and he smirks up and Gordon. “In truth, I was just so taken by how handsome you look tonight.”

Now it’s Gordon’s turn to stammer, to falter, and for the colour to leap to his face. James hasn’t ever been brave enough to flirt before, but clearly, it works, and if Gordon’s going play that game then James can match him.

“Obviously,” Gordon manages to catch himself. “You must’ve liked the blue.”

He nods towards James’ pocket square, and James shakes his head with a bashful little smile.

“And I can see you went to match!” he nods back at Gordon’s flower.

Gordon goes to speak, before his eyes widen, and he quickly pulls James in close as another, far less-coordinated couple barrels past them, before letting James migrate back to the normal dancing distance.

“You do mean it? You think I’m handsome?”

“Of course I do,” James’ grin drops into something far softer despite his best efforts, and he says his next statement with far more heart than he means to. “I think you’re splendid.”

Gordon meets his eyes with a look that James literally cannot describe with any other word except tender.

“We need to talk, don’t we?” he asks, so softly, it’s amazing James can hear it over the music and the chatter.

“I’m listening now,” he replies.

Gordon swallows hard, before they’re brought to a halt as the song ends, and they – along with the rest of the dancers – politely clap for the musicians, before the next song starts. A quickstep. James’ face lights up instantly, and Gordon grins.

“Time to do some laps?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

They are the fastest and most fluid pair on the dancefloor. James’ dress-coat flairs out behind them in a most stunning way as they go all but flying past, a whirl of red and blue, and James can tell people are watching, and he’s relishing in it, grinning so brightly as Gordon smiles back.

They’re left panting and laughing and stumbling off the floor as the song ends – as not only the crowd but the band applaud them too. Gordon waves it off with a laugh. James takes a playful little bow, before they both stagger off to go find somewhere to sit and catch their breath.

Edward appears out of the crowd, Henry in tow, as James and Gordon find some seats, and James passes Gordon a drink.

“That,” Edward says, “was the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

James chortles and slumps back, slumps back against Gordon without thinking, feeling Gordon tense under him for just a moment before he… yields, and melts a little back.

“You were doing well, too,” Gordon nods at Henry. “James wasn’t learning to dance from square one.”

“Just let a man be jealous in peace,” Henry grumbles jokingly, plopping himself down next to James with an oomph. “I don’t know how you manage being on your feet for that long, sometimes. I even got new comfortable shoes and my back is still killing me.”

As James pats his arm in consolation, Edward turns to Gordon with a glint in his eye.

“Dance?” he asks, holding out a hand. “For old time’s sake?”

Gordon fights down his smile, but gets up with no hesitation. Though he pauses a moment later, and glances back at James. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

“Sure thing,” James waves them off with a smile. “Show them all up.”

That makes Edward laugh, and the two of them disappear back into the throng to go dance.

James leans his head back against the wall, letting out a big, contented sigh.

“You alright?” Henry asks, as he shifts on his seat.

“Yeah, I am,” James says happily. “Or, I think so.”

Then he eyes Henry, and frowns, before he reaches over to the seats beside them and starts stealing all their cushions.

“Here, you look miserable,” he says, and helps pad Henry’s seat a little more.

“Thanks,” Henry says breathlessly. “I thought I was going to be alright, I really did.”

“No, no,” James nods along, “I understand. Especially when you’re not used to dancing.”

“How long have you and Gordon been practicing?” Henry asks.

“…Two?” James tries to count back on his fingers. “Yeah, two months.”

“Oh, thank god you said months!” Henry slaps his thigh with a laugh. “If you had said weeks, I really would have to start feeling bad!”

James laughs at him, and he opens his mouth to say something, before he realises someone is standing over them, and the two of them look up, and James tries really hard not to let his jaw drop as he realises it’s none other than superstar Scot Gresley, the Flying Scotsman himself.

“Hello Henry, James,” Scot says warmly, and Henry greets him back. James almost asks how they know each other, but glancing between them, it’s the cut of their noses that reminds James of all the drama a few years back. Henry’s got a little Gresley in him, too, that’s right, he always forgets that they’ve met before.

“James, that was some wonderful work out on the floor,” Scot turns to him, and James tries not to flush and gape, and he plays it off as politely as he can. “Would you dance with me?”

James… stares. Blinks once or twice. Henry’s gone a little stiff with surprise beside him, too. Scot extends his hand, still offering a warm smile, and after a second or two, James hesitantly takes it, rising from his seat. Scot’s fingers curl around his hand, but it doesn’t feel as gentle or soothing as Gordon. And as Scot starts to lead James out onto the dance floor, James shoots a look back over his shoulder at Henry, who mouths ‘good luck’ to him as they go.

Before he knows it, James is out on the floor, being lead through steps he knows so well by the Gresley brother he doesn’t know at all. And somehow, Scott is even faster and even lighter on his feet, and James can’t even make small talk for how much he has to concentrate on keeping up – which, notably, does not help his nerves. And Scot keeps this up for the whole quickstep, before they pause as the song changes, James fighting to hide that he needs to catch his breath.

As a slow waltz starts, Scot… relaxes, slows down, and shoots James a wink.

“Just wanted to test how good a teacher my brother is,” he banters. “You’ve both done very well.”

James blinks and swallows hard, before he offers a polite smile of his own.

“Thank you,” he says. “Gordon is a good teacher.”

“…You seem to make him happy.”

James stumbles, now, sheer shock, and his head snaps up to look Scot in the eye. Scot looks back evenly at him, lets James stare. …Scot has Gordon’s brown eyes, but the strength of his sideburns, his eyebrows, the slightly harder set of his face, even his sharper jawline. It’s just… not quite his Gresley.

“I hope you treat him kindly,” Scot continues, his voice dropping, but James flushes and is so glad he’s wearing gloves because he’s gone all clammy. “Gordon deserves something good to happen to him, and you do seem to be a delight.”

“I…” James is – as uncommon as the phenomenon is – lost for words. His old anxiety sweeps through him, makes his knees weak, and he hopes he isn’t shaking.

“I’m not asking you this as a celebrity,” Scot suddenly adds, his expression crumpling with concern as he must read all that straight off James’ face. “I’m asking you this as his brother.”

“I-I… of course,” James says, biting his tongue about telling Scot about how much Gordon didn’t want to talk to him tonight, because if Scot is so concerned about Gordon, then they’d have a better relationship, wouldn’t they? Cinders. And ashes. He wants out. James looks away, and ends up seeing Gordon and Edward, who are surprisingly close by, and they’re both shooting him concerned looks.

James bites his lip now, hoping he doesn’t look as upset as he feels, though he’s never really been good at hiding it. Don’t hurt Gordon? James hasn’t dreamt of it, not now, not anymore. He’s realised Gordon doesn’t really ever talk about his past before Sodor, and that’s telling in itself, isn’t it?

It must be the fact James is being asked this by someone who has probably hurt Gordon in the past is the thing that makes it sting like this. …What? Can Scot see that James is no better? Is that what Scot means by warning him?

Scot says nothing more either. James closes his eyes for a moment, willing the song to end, but suddenly, someone taps his shoulder, and he knows that hand, which is such a strange thing to say, isn’t it? His eyes fly open, because thank god, it’s Gordon and Edward. They must have danced their way through the crowd.

“You remember my friend, Edward, don’t you?” Gordon calls over the hubbub. “He’d love to catch up with you.”

“Of course,” Scot smiles broadly, …the practiced smile, James notes. He turns back to James, then, and squeezes his hand gently.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says, and it does actually sound earnest, which is nice. It doesn’t soothe James’ nerves, though. “I hope you’ll keep our talk in mind.”

“I will,” is all James says, and he lets Edward take his place with a grateful, if not a little faint, smile.

Gordon practically dances their way off the dancefloor now, and James is more than eager to follow where Gordon leads. They end up pushing and weaving past several of their friends and workmates as they go, and James must still look a little stricken because he gets a few concerned glances as they go.

Gordon ends up leading him outside, and James immediately takes a few big breaths in and out as soon as the cooling evening breeze hits his face. It’s too stuffy, too loud, too much in there.

And as soon as it’s quiet, as they’re in private, as James can breathe, Gordon takes him by the shoulders and turns James so Gordon can look at him.

“What did he say to you?” he asks, and his voice is… surprisingly dark.

“He warned me,” James says, and he does his best not to sound bitter, but he thinks he fails. “He said I better not hurt you because you deserve nice things. A-and he’s right, but it rubbed me the wrong way.”

Gordon scoffs. “Bloody rich, coming from him,” he agrees, before his hands slip down from James’ shoulders, skating down his arms to take James’ shaking hands in his own. “Are you okay?”

“Just needlessly upset,” James manages to smile, though his eyes are a little too bright to sell it. “I come here expecting a good time and I get both a personal dance and a personal threat from the Flying Scotsman. Not your average evening, I’ll admit.”

Gordon squeezes his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, Gordon,” James says, gently squeezing back. “I suppose I was insulted that… that he’d insinuate I’d hurt you on purpose. I care about you far too much for that.”

And-

They both flush at that. That’s the first time either of them has said it plainly.

“That’s… heartening to hear,” Gordon smiles softly at him. “And it only took me turning you into the best ballroom dancer on this island.”

And James laughs. The tension finally draining away, his stomach finally settling. He’s glad Gordon’s holding onto him now, because he feels light, and he wouldn’t want to float away.

“I have to admit it too, then,” Gordon’s practically whispering again, his voice rumbling low, and it makes James shiver. “I’ve… grown quite fond of you, too.”

James steps in a little closer, it just feels right.

“That’s good,” he says.

Then, looking Gordon in the eye then and there, the nerves come crashing back in, and James ducks his head, drops his chin, and starts fiddling with Gordon’s cufflinks instead.

Suddenly, there’s a hand cupping his cheek, and James can’t breathe. Gordon tips his head back up, and smiles at him – all soft and tender, all for James.

“Is this okay?”

“Bah!” James tries to laugh past his dark flush, turning his head away, withdrawing one hand to touch his cheek, he can feel the heat there even through his gloves. “You say that like I haven’t been in love with you for months!”

“Months…?”

James laughs again, bright and embarrassed, before he dares to look back at Gordon. His flush darkens at the painfully fond expression Gordon’s wearing, and James finds himself grinning.

“Just shut up and kiss me,” he says instead.

Gordon – several things cross his face in that moment. A flush of his own. Wonder, awe, tenderness, a little shock, and most importantly – Gordon rolls his eyes fondly and leans down to oblige him.

As their lips slot together, James makes a little noise of contentment, and drapes his arms around Gordon’s neck dreamily. Oh, this is good. This is what James has been dreaming about. Officially, this has been the best investment of dancing lessons James has ever made.

When they break apart for air, and James gets his breath back, he finally invites Gordon around tomorrow for those scones he promised however long ago it was, and Gordon has barely any time to accept before James kisses him again.

And… oh, for god’s sake. They pull apart again at the sound of applause from the doorway, and James turns to see… Edward and Henry, Thomas, Percy, god, even Toby and Henrietta, Emily, Rosie, Molly, Daisy, …is that all four of the Little Westerners? And more. It’s far too big a crowd, and James is suddenly wondering if him and Gordon was some kind of soap opera to the wider North-Western Railway, which makes him flush.

Thomas cups his mouth and hoots, “snog him again!”

James goes to yell back before Gordon pulls him in, and James immediately softens, looking into Gordon’s eyes, and he accepts the kiss Gordon gives him, Gordon wrapping his arms around James and dipping him with ease, and James lets Gordon hold his bodyweight as he frees one hand to lovingly flip off the crowd of onlookers.

They once again receive a round of cheers and applause. James doesn’t care, though, not when he can cling to Gordon and Gordon’s lips can brush his own, and Gordon’s breath can dance over his skin, and Gordon’s hands are on him, and this is real, and they’re…

James tears up.

“I love you,” he whispers, too quiet for anyone but Gordon to hear. “I love you. Thank you for putting up with me.”

“It was no bother, little James,” Gordon says, so very fondly, and James shivers again at the way his voice rumbles when he speaks low and quiet. “I love you too.”

It’s a shame the night has to end. James doesn’t want it to end at all. And here, kissing Gordon under the stars, it almost feels like it never has to.

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thank you for reading! reblogs are always appreciated and feel free to let me know what you think of this ^-^

#ttte #thomas the tank engine #ttte humanized #ttte james #ttte gordon #ttte thomas #ttte edward #ttte flying scotsman #4x5 #romantic 4x5 #ttte shipping #ttte fanfic #ttte fic #ttte fanfiction #this is the first ttte fic ive been able to write in ages <3 feels pretty good man tbh

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