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ruzek-halstead · 3 years

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there’s one thing on my mind (it’s all for you)

i didn’t have a wip for jatp fanworks appreciation week, so i made one?? but i got too into it and finished it in a few hours. thanks to @ourstarscollided for sending in the incredible prompt that led to this fic!!

home didn't seem like home anymore for luke patterson, and so he was desperate to find a new place to write music. after an especially brutal fight with his mother, he finds himself in front of l.a. books. he isn't expecting to get much out of it, it was solely a last resort. but then he sees her, julie molina, and he ends up coming back every week just to keep seeing her.

bookstore au

masterlist

If three years ago, someone were to tell Luke, he would actively be spending his Friday night in a small, but cozy book store, he would have laughed in their face.

He was a rockstar. If he wasn't jamming it out at some club with his boys, he was doing something wrong.

But life didn't always work out in his favour, and it wasn't long before he decided he couldn't write out of his home anymore. Home. Sometimes the mere word made him laugh. Home was supposed to be warm, welcoming and loving, and he felt none of those things every time he walked through the front door. It was starting to take a toll on him. Not only on his mental health, but also in his creative abilities. The songs he was writing in his bedroom had taken a dark turn, so dark they felt more like a cry for help than anything else.

So, he decided it was time to find another place to write songs; somewhere that could get his creative juices flowing. When Reggie first suggested this bookstore on the corner of Madison, Luke pinched his brows, not understanding how that was a viable solution. Reggie defended his suggestion by saying bookstores were quiet and he would be surrounded by millions of words of inspiration.

Luke never took Reggie's suggestion until one brutal fight with his mom left him pulling at his hair, desperate to leave the house. He would go anywhere at this point, but his fingers were itching to grab his pencil and book; there was so much he just needed to get out onto paper. If he didn't, he would explode. So, he grabbed his song book, a few pencils and stuffed everything into his backpack before he hopped out his window. At first, he just started walking to nowhere in particular. In the back of his mind, he was intending to drop by Alex's, but instead he found himself standing in front of L.A. Books.

He walked in with the intention of taking one quick walk around and most likely walking right back out. He was pissed off at the world and he didn't think Shakespeare would solve his issue.

But then he saw her.

She was stocking a book shelf, putting up new books as far as he could tell. Her curls kept getting in way of her vision and she was continuously tucking them behind her ears. He could only see the side of her face at this point, but when she was approached by a younger girl to help locate a book, Luke quite literally forgot how to breathe. She was stunning in every which way; her soft smile to the young girl made an unconscious smile spread over his own lips. There was no specific thing about her that drew him to her, but for some reason, he was rooted to the floor. Even when she started moving in his direction, leading the girl to a new section, he couldn't even move just enough to grab a book and look like he wasn't creepily stalking her.

But she only sent him a warm smile as she walked by.

So, maybe Reggie wasn't so wrong about this place after all.

After that, Luke found himself stopping by at least once a week, maybe twice if things at home were really bad. It was a quiet establishment for the most part, and Luke found a corner table that was perfect for his writing. He knew his song writing was starting to take a hit; he knew that. But since he started writing in the bookstore, an obvious shift was clear in the words he scribbled down.

Even the boys noticed.

"What the hell is this?" Alex had demanded one late night after Luke handed him his songbook so he could filter through it. They'd mostly been playing their old originals while Luke worked on some new stuff, and he was finally starting to share.

Luke frowned, biting his lip nervously. "What? Is it that bad?"

"Reg, look at this," Alex ignored Luke, reaching over to show the other brunette. "When were you going to tell us?"

Luke merely blinked, gaze flickering between the two. Reggie, to his credit, looked just as confused, meanwhile Alex was fighting a smirk. "Dude, I'm so confused. What the hell are you talking about?"

Alex placed the book down in his lap, finally letting the smirk take over. "When were you going to tell us you were in love?"

Luke immediately started to sweat. "What?"

"If you're writing these love songs about me, I'm flattered," Alex teased, to which Luke could only roll his eyes and snatch the book back into his possession. "But you know I'm taken."

"I'm not in love," Luke muttered under his breath.

And he wasn't. He would stand by that.

But he'd be lying if he said he didn't stop by the bookstore solely to see his curly-haired goddess. Every time, he would look at her and a sudden burst of inspiration would blindside him and he would be writing into his book without even realizing. He wasn't going to tell the boys that, though.

After about a month of hidden glances and polite smiles, he figured it was about time to say something. He also figured it could only look a little strange, him being at a bookstore every week and never buying anything. To his credit, many others took advantage of their tables to work quietly; he wasn't the only one. But he was the only one who couldn't take his off the employee with kind eyes and a mega-watts smile. Sometimes she came over to organize the tables, or wipe them down, and so Luke decided it was now or never.

"Hi," he blurted one night when she came to grab a stray book someone had left on his table. Her gaze lifted to meet his. Her face broke out into a warm smile and he nearly broke his pencil from how hard he was holding it.

Luke's eyes dropped to her name tag. He'd never been close enough to read it (with the exception of the first time he saw her, but he was understandably starstruck and couldn't focus on anything).

Julie.

He debated saying something else, it almost looked like she was waiting for him too, but the words were caught in his throat. He merely sent her a pained grin as she retreated. God, that was awkward.

Over the next few months, his confidence grew some, but he was never able to hold a full conversation with her. He was working up to it, but in the meantime, he was content in his corner writing songs about the girl who had unknowingly captured his heart.

This week had been particularly gruelling. School had taken a lot out of him (every mark counted for college admissions) and his parents were on his ass about his grades. He knew he had to do well, even if he wanted to pursue music, he needed the grades to get into a good music program; he knew that. He didn't need his mom yelling at him about it every day. So, this Friday he'd spent the entire evening at L.A. Books, anything to just get away for a bit. He knew it was almost closing time; there weren't many customers left and he could see Julie cleaning up out of the corner of his eye.

He was trying not to spend all his time watching Julie, instead focused on his latest creation. So, he didn't see Julie apprehensively watching someone shove a few books into his backpack. He was young, but probably a bit older than Julie. Why he would want to steal some books, Julie had no idea, but it was the wrong day to mess with Julie Molina.

She hadn't had her best week either, and watching someone blatantly try to steal like he was, severely pissed her off. Protocol be damned, Julie stalked over to the individual and blocked his exit. Protocol insisted on not confronting the shop-lifter by any means, but Julie was too annoyed to care.

"Are you going to pay for those books you put in your backpack or can I have them back?"

Julie was impressed with how confident she sounded. Even when he met her glance head-on, she wasn't the least bit intimidated.

"What? Sorry, I think you're thinking of someone else," he replied, but after meeting her gaze the first time, he couldn't hold it as he spoke.

"Just give me the books and I won't call the police," Julie reasoned. She sounded exhausted, and that was because she was; this was honestly the last thing she needed this week, and yet, here she was.

But as soon as the man noticed her change of tone, his mouth twisted into a scowl. "I already told you, you have the wrong guy."

"I saw you put them in your backpack!" Julie argued, her anger crawling back up her throat.

"No, you didn't, because I didn't do anything!" He replied angrily. "Are you going to move, now?"

Julie stood her ground. It was probably quite comical, considering she was a full head shorter than him, but she wasn't moving. "No. Give me back the books."

The man let out a furious snarl. "Get out of my way, bitch."

His words didn't offend her in the slightest. Honestly, she felt sorry for him, that this was how he was raised to treat women, especially someone as young as her. But she was perceptive, and she could tell he was getting agitated and possibly aggressive. She didn't know this guy, she didn't know what he was capable of.

Luke had kept his eye on Julie the entire time, he always did. But as soon as he realized what she was doing, he swore under his breath. He tried to keep his distance, to let her do her thing, but the second the man called Julie a bitch, Luke was up and out of his chair, ready to throw hands.

There was a point in his life where he wouldn't even think about the consequences of his actions, but as he approached, he caught Julie's eyes and figured punching this random guy in the face probably wasn't the best course of action. So, he hung back, close enough to be noticed, but not enough to be considered a threat.

Or so he thought.

The man noticed Julie's eyes focused on something behind him, so he whirled around to see Luke. What with his height and obvious biceps (that were currently on display because what were sleeves anyway?), the man scoffed.

"Is he coming to your rescue or something? Need someone to fight your battles?"

Luke merely raised his eyebrows.

The fact that he was saying all this to a high school girl seriously baffled him.

When the man tried to step around Luke, he side-stepped to be in his way again. Luke didn't smirk, didn't show any facial emotion. It was enough to unnerve him.

With an angry huff, he reached into his backpack to pull out the two books in question. He slammed them into Luke's chest as he stormed past him, muttering, "I don't need this crap."

The moment they heard the door slam closed, Luke's eyes slid over to Julie. Her face was blank, but her eyes were stormy, angry even. He didn't blame her; that guy was a right dick. He hesitantly handed the books back to her. Her gaze flickered to the books and back to him. She probably had no idea how absolutely intimidating she looked.

But then she smiled. A proper, full smile that had Luke merely staring. "Thank you," she said, reaching forward to grab the books. He was hoping she'd say more, but instead she took the books and walked away to put them back in their place.

It was fine, because she had talked to him and he was so ridiculously happy about that. He had also helped her out in that less than stellar situation, but not overbearingly so that he treated her like a damsel in distress who couldn't handle herself. Julie definitely held her own, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to her and he was right there sitting in his corner. Pleased with himself and how the situation played out, he skipped back to his seat in the corner, feeling more inspired than ever to finish the current song he was working on.

He glanced up one more time, surprised to catch Julie's sparkling brown eyes already looking at him. She immediately averted her gaze, mouth twitching as she held back a smile.

That was when he decided, no more pining around; it was time to officially ask her out.

What was the worst that could happen? She would say no. And he'd be okay with that, because it was 2021 and respecting women and their decisions shouldn't even be questioned. He'd be disappointed, sure, but for now, he was still holding out hope that maybe she would be into him too.

It was nearing eight, and Luke could tell when he saw the remainder of customers heading for the door. He spotted Julie making her way over too, getting ready to lock the door behind the last customer. He gathered up his things and shoved them into his backpack as slowly as possible. His heart was hammering in his chest and his palms were sweaty; he was actually nervous to ask Julie out.

How couldn't he be? She was absolutely gorgeous.

Luke made it to the door, taking a deep breath before he met her eyes.

Julie stepped in front of him, blocking his exit.

He stumbled in his step, grabbing onto the door frame to keep from toppling straight into her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, tucking a curl behind her ear. For the first time literally ever, Luke observed the tell-tale signs of her shy and apprehensive behaviour. She was always so confident, so in tune with what she seemed to want, this was unusual to him. Not only because of that, but he'd never been this close to her, and he was suddenly finding it extremely hot (and he was barely even wearing a shirt).

Luke tugged on his backpack strap, because he needed to do something. He needed to focus, or else he'd end up doing something stupid, like blurt out that he was in love with her. "No, it's okay. I actually wanted to ask you something anyway."

Her sparkling brown eyes widened for a split second. "Actually, I want to ask you something — are you free to grab a coffee?"

It was safe to say Luke's brain started to short-circuit.

"Uh, what?"

He was so intensely focused on gathering the courage to ask her out, he didn't even know how to reply when she suddenly flipped the plan on him.

He started to lose his mind even more when a soft blush spread over Julie's cheeks. "I'm just closing up, and I could really use a dose of caffeine. I'd really like if you came with me."

Luke can't do more than simply stare at her; his body was failing on him. Julie held his gaze, biting her lip apprehensively with a nervous smile because he wasn't saying anything, and she really hoped she didn't misinterpret his signals. But then he finally fights for control of his body again, and a soft grin spreads onto his lips. "Yeah. I'd really like that."

She matched his grin, closed and locked the door behind her. "I only have a few more things to do. Just a few more minutes."

"No worries," he replied, shoving his hands into his front pockets. "Oh! I'm Luke, by the way."

Julie mulled over the name for a moment. "Julie," she responded.

"I know," he mumbled, eyes solely focused on hers. Even when she looked to him in surprise, he couldn't focus on anything but her eyes. God, she was so gorgeous. "Your name tag," he added, just to ease her fears about him being a stalker (I mean, he was there almost every week...).

Luke leaned against one of the tables as he waited for Julie to finish closing up. He watched her silently, unable to remove the excited smile from his lips the entire time he waited. When she told him he was ready, he diligently held open the door for her and then waited, hands dug into his front pockets, as she locked up behind them.

There was a coffeeshop right around the corner, and as they both started walking in that direction, there was an unspoken agreement, that was where they wanted to go. Luke hated himself and his weirdly awkward nature on their walk over. He couldn't find any words to say to her, none. He chanced a few glances in her direction, but she seemed content with just walking in silence, so he went with the flow.

Once again, he held the door open for her and smiled when looked at him with amused eyes. Julie headed straight for a table near the window, removing her jacket and setting it on the back of her chair. Luke followed, lingering when she didn't sit back down.

"I can go order," he offered, "What would you like?"

Julie looked up at him with a smirk, and dear God, his knees nearly buckled. "I invited you. It's my treat."

"Oh, come on," he nearly whined. "Let's not do this, please."

Julie pursed her lips. She was a very determined person, and if he didn't know that yet, he'd be quick to learn. "I invited you. It's only fair."

He ran a hand through his hair, shooting her the most charming smile he could manage. "Julie, I've been waiting to take you out for months. Please let me buy you a coffee."

All her determination died there and then on the tip of her tongue.

"Okay," she replied with a cheeky smile. She diligently took a seat. "I'll take an iced coffee, please."

Luke nodded, once again, skipping away from her for the second time that night. He ordered Julie an iced coffee (and a cookie because who doesn't like cookies) and a regular coffee for himself. He was already jittery enough but he could never say no to coffee.

"Here you go." He said softly, placing her treats in front of her.

Julie took a quick sip of her coffee and narrowed her gaze on Luke. "I want to hear more. You said you've been waiting to take me out for months."

Luke had never felt him blush so quickly before in his life. He nearly choked on the coffee he was currently drinking. "It sounds really creepy when you say it like that."

"I know you've been coming to the shop for months," she continued, breaking apart her cookie. She wasn't looking at him, and it honestly made Luke all the more nervous. She made him nervous. "And you've never bought anything, but you're always writing in a book."

"I needed a quiet place to write music and I found your shop."

Julie nodded along, humming. "I catch you looking at me a lot."

Luke scratched the back of his head. "Well, honestly, that's not entirely my fault. I can't help but stare at beautiful things."

Julie looked up at him with a smirk. "That was smooth. I feel like it's only fair I be as honest." She leaned her elbows onto the table, leaning in close. Luke started sweating again. "I always look for you during my shifts."

It was as if the air was entirely knocked out of his lungs. It was the reassurance he was looking for, the acknowledgement that his feelings weren't one-sided, but it was a lot to take in at once.

"You're the reason I come back every week," he admitted, the words flowing freely out of him now that he knew with certainty she felt something for him too.

Julie leaned back in her chair. Her eyes tracked his movements, mostly because she didn't know what to say next. Where do they go from here?

Who makes the next move?

"I'll keep dropping by. But under one condition," Luke reasoned, hiding his smirk with his coffee mug.

Julie found herself leaning in again. There was something about him that was so alluring, always drawing her in for more. "What's that?" She didn't want to give her real answer: anything.

"I'll keep coming by if you give me your number," he told her, running his finger around the rim of his mug. "Maybe go on another date with me?"

Julie didn't reply at first; she kept him waiting until he looked at her with curious eyes. She kept him on the hook, just enough that for a moment, he wavered in his confidence. "I'd love to give you my number."

He let out an obvious sigh of relief. Julie was definitely going to wreck him in the most beautiful of ways.

"And that date?"

Julie clicked her tongue, monitoring the way his eyes absentmindedly dropped to her lips. "I'll decide that after you walk me home. But your chances are looking pretty good."

A delicious smirk crawled over Luke's mouth, and now it was all Julie could focus on.

"Then I guess I should up my game," he winked, shrugging as he added, "Just in case."

When Luke walked Julie home hours later, she confidently latched onto his hand, mostly just to give him an ego boost because he acted like the perfect gentleman all night. And when he lingered at the door, unsure whether it was too soon to kiss her or not, she leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss dangerously close to the corner of his lips.

"How's next Friday night?"

It took Luke a moment to form the words after that, but he was anxiously waiting for her response.

"I'm off at eight, you know where I'll be." Even with all the coy flirting, she couldn't help but shoot him an excited grin.

Luke stuffed his hands back into his front pockets and started retreating down her walkway. "I'll, uh — I'll text you."

Julie leaned against the front door. "I'll be waiting."

And somehow, after months of pining on both ends, all it took was one attempted theft to bring Luke and Julie together.

It would take a lot more than that to separate them now.

taglist: @grootsgillespie || @jayhalsteadcpd || @moreflowersthanweeds || @well-hes-just-too-cute || @echocharm17618 || @leopard-print-slippers || @jandthephantoms || @scribblingfangirl || @n0wornever || @simpformolina || @only-trust-fictional-characters || @snowmione18 || @tellurphantoms || @knitsessed || @elitharavenclaw || @wakeupfantoms || @uselessnerdnherblahg || @katie-navarro || @bookwormswillruletheworld || @lmaohuh || @thatsmyverb || @sophiphi || @kybee1497 || @lukewearingbeanies || @sapphireamethystvsco || @constantly-singing || @helloilovejatp || @your-typical-ingenue || @nonickslander || @s-h-a-d-o-w-s || @asdfghjkl-fanfics |

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #jatp fanworks appreciation week #juke #julie x luke #luke x julie #luke patterson #julie molina #alex mercer #reggie peters #juke au #jatp au #jatp fic #jatp fics #juke fic #juke fics #fics

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yoonjinkooked · 3 years

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Kitchen Confidential | Jin | FINAL

Pairing: Seokjin / Reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Enemies to lovers, chef AU

Warnings: explicit sex, cursing, no longer a slow burn ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), unprotected sex (don’t do that), traces of a biting kink, oral (f receiving), short handjob, feelings. A LOT of mentions of food, so you’ll most likely be very hungry for both food and Kim Seokjin.

Word Count: 9k+, previous chapters total to 16k

Summary: After years of annoying the life out of you, your rival, Kim Seokjin, pushes you a step too far and he knows it. As angry and resentful as you are, you don’t realize that something has been brewing under the surface for years. This weekend, that will change.

Read previous parts here: 1 / 2 / 3

SPINOFF ANNOUNCEMENT: COMING SOON, JUNGKOOK’S STORY IN THE SAME UNIVERSE AS KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL

A/N: And it’s done! This one took a while but I’m proud of myself for finishing this fic. I’m more responsible with my writing each day, and that includes actually finishing the stories I start. I have a few ongoing ones and a few wips that I am yet to post but Jungkook’s spinoff will come soon. If all goes according to plan, I will have about...20ish fics in 2021? So, let’s hope all DOES go according to plan. Thank you for following through with this story. Let me know what you think!

Yesterday was something else entirely.

You may or may not have called Jungkook more than ten times. Of course, you had complete faith in him and deep down, you knew he was more than capable of running the kitchen without you but it didn’t hurt to check, did it? So you did. Ten times, before he threatened to block your number, which then had you dialing Namjoon. You had reassured him that your leg is perfectly fine and that you are perfectly capable of standing through service for one night. He insisted that you should rest and that they have everything under control. Which you believed, you really did but you still wanted to check. You’ve stopped calling when he threatened to fire you.

Today was a different story. With no news of a fire breaking out in Bonsai’s kitchen, you were noticeably more relaxed, ready to spend the entire day with your leg propped on a pillow, a tube of ice cream in your hands while rewatching the first season of The Office. All was going according to plan by the time the doorbell rang.

Looking at the clock, you see that it is only 7PM - Bonsai was still open, probably ready for dinner rush hour. It couldn’t be Jungkook and he is quite literally the only person who drops by unannounced whenever he pleases. Did you order food and had a memory blank? You were going to order the house specialty from that new fancy Italian place at the other side of town, just to keep an eye on competition. But did you actually order it? Or are you going crazy?

The doorbell rings again and begrudgingly, you start getting up. “Coming!” you yell, grabbing your wallet as you go, wondering if you even have enough spare change for a tip. No longer wobbling, you simply walk slowly and unlock the door, your jaw dropping when you open it.

On the other side of the door, with a goofy smile on his face and his hands full of paper shopping bags is no one other than Kim Seokjin himself.

“Hi,” he offers a greeting and you could swear you see nerves hiding behind the smile - sure enough, when you stay silent for a second too long, still too confused to speak, you see the tip of his ears turning red. That always used to happen whenever one of the teachers at culinary school was about to taste his dish in front of the entire class. And you probably shouldn’t be aware of that.

“Um… to what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask, once you can finally speak.

“I took a day off,” he announces, as if that is the only explanation you need. “I figured since you’re still officially on sick leave and your leg must hurt, you probably don’t want to cook,” he trails off, his ears now becoming redder. “I guess I just wanted to do something nice.”

“You want to make me dinner?” you check if you heard him correctly. This entire situation seems like a figment of your imagination, a very bizarre one at that. And you don’t even want to know how he knew where you live - that can of worms is not going to be opened.

“Yeah,” he nods proudly. “I mean, I’ll eat too, if you let me,” he jokes and when you stay silent, the smile slowly melts from his face. Realizing that you are leaving him hanging, you step aside to let him in.

“Come on in, the kitchen is the second door on the right,” you inform him and watch, still in a state of shock, as he takes off his shoes in the hallway before making his way down the hallway. That’s when you finally snap out of it, realizing that you won’t have enough time to process this as it’s happening. “What are we making?” you ask as you follow him into the kitchen.

“We are not making anything,” he emphasised as he sets the bags down on the kitchen island, before turning to face you with a stern expression, which instantly makes you feel like a scolded child. “I will be doing all the work as you sit back, relax and have a glass of wine. Unless you’re taking meds for your leg? I didn’t think of that,” he mumbles softly, frowning at the ground.

“No meds,” you inform him. His solemn expression turns bright so fast, you think you might be experiencing whiplash. What the fuck is going on here?! “What are you making?”

“I was wondering what would make an enjoyable, hearty meal that could speed up your recovery process,” he starts explaining. You want to tell him that a leg injury can’t be cured with food but you bite your tongue, not wanting to appear hostile, especially not when he’s in the middle of his grand gesture. You watch as he starts taking the ingredients out of the shopper bags - not one, but two bottles of Pinot Noir, the expensive kind too, followed by mushrooms, a whole bunch of veggies and one gigantic chunk of meat. It’s wrapped, but judging by his choice of wine, it has to be beef.

“You’re making beef stew?” you guess, surprised but not disappointed by his choice of dish. He, on the other hand, seems offended.

“What do you take me for?” he asks, very obviously exaggerating his reaction. “I’m a trained chef, Y/N. I’m making beef bourguignon.”

“Which is just a slightly fancier version of a beef stew,” you laugh, using humour to avoid thinking about the cook and prep time of beef bourguignon - at the very least three hours, even more if you want to Julia Child it and let it simmer properly. More than three hours with Kim Seokjin, in a row, without anyone around to hide behind? “Sounds good!” you lie, trying to look excited because you truly don’t want to ruin something that just seems like a nice gesture.

“Perfect!” he beams at you. “Now, where do you keep your chopping boards?”

No, you don’t have the time to think about it, not while it’s literally ongoing. You shake your head and decide to roll with the punches. “I want to help you, though. I can’t just sit here and let you do all the work. Not to mention how wrong it feels to have someone cooking in my kitchen,” you add, realizing that no one other than yourself ever cooked here - no one, ever.

“The cupboard under the sink,” you tell him as you sit down drag a chair towards the kitchen island, worried about the predicament you are in. First, the feelings, the ones you have shamelessly pushed under the rug and had refused to acknowledge. They have blindsided you and you can’t even properly define and understand him and now he is here, in your apartment, your kitchen, making dinner.

Not to mention that you aren’t exactly wearing your Sunday best. He’s all jeans and an elegant blue sweater, while you’re in mis-matched sweatpants and sweatshirt, which are both a size or two too big for you. Your hair is a mess and frankly, you can’t even recall if you’d washed your face this morning. You are a mess, both physically and emotionally and he has cornered you, most likely without even realizing it.

“In that case, you can peel and chop,” he starts laughing at your exasperated expression. “Come on, don’t look at me like that - I’m trying to do something nice here. The point is for you to relax and enjoy a good meal, a meal that someone else has cooked for you. And if you do insist on helping, then you can peel and chop.”

There’s a lump in your throat and you think you know why. It’s the feelings, they’re making you feel touched by his actions. He is spending his day off here, doing something nice for you, on his own free will? Just a week ago, all of this would have been a major red flag. And now it’s just something that makes you feel thankful, giddy even.

“Give me my peeler then,” you say, holding the palm of your hand open, waiting.

He smirks at you, shaking his head with what looks like disbelief and you smirk back, unable to stop yourself. The not so subtle stare off between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s miles away from the feeling you had over the weekend, when you were straight up avoiding making direct eye contact with him. This time, you’re keeping it up, smiling when he is the one who breaks. He turns around and opens one of the drawers, finding the peeler on the first try before leaning over the island and handing it to you with a smirk still present on his face.

“Let’s start working, chef.”

The decision to slow down with the wine after your first glass was a good one. Not only is the wine one of the best ones you’ve tasted in a while, you also wanted to keep a clear head. Alcohol tends to greatly weaken your brain to mouth filter and that can’t happen when you’re one on one with Seokjin. You don’t want to ruin the evening.

It felt as if he was the same Seokjin he was back when you first started school. The interesting, charming guy with a good sense of humor. He can still act over the top, which he did, but he was more toned down than usual. Is usual even the right word? It’s not, not when you don’t have much to compare it to. This is the first time the two of you have been alone for more than a few minutes, simply talking and enjoying the conversation.

“You can’t be serious,” Seokjin laughs, putting one of the plates that he was washing back in the sink to turn around and give you a doubtful look. “You mean outside the subway, right?”

“Nope, it was below ground, right around the corner from the trains,” you confirm, remembering that day clearly. “I remember that I was starving, so maybe that’s why the croissant was so good. It was cheap, on a Parisian subway and it still is my favorite food memory from Paris.”

“You’re picking that subway croissant over… ratatouille or bouillabaisse?”

“I said favorite, not the most delicious one,” you point out with a laugh. “Travelling and eating go hand in hand, at least to me. Wherever I went, I’ve made a point to spend a good amount of my budget just on food. I’d go where the locals go, try food I didn’t recognize… Honestly, I miss that. I’m limited to one vacation a year and it’s usually just one destination.”

“I get that,” he tells you as he continues washing the dishes, which he insisted to do, despite your multiple offers to at least cover the clean up part of the evening. “A good friend of mine lives in Greece, owns an amazing restaurant. I’ve gone there for the past three years and don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, I live for Greek food. But I want to explore more, you know?”

“That’s very relatable,” you sigh, suddenly feeling a little bit regretful. “I’ve been to Italy, Japan, France numerous times, had the most amazing experiences but there are so many other places waiting to be discovered and I just play it safe. I want to go somewhere and try… I don’t know, all the weird stuff that sounds unappetizing but is actually the local specialty. I’m a bit tired of the classic dishes that end up on our menus and comfort food.”

“What’s your favorite comfort food?” Seokjin asks you, as he finally wraps up his work and joins you, sitting across the island and reaching for his own glass of wine as you try to think of an answer. Comfort food by taste or comfort food by memory?

“I have to go with potatoes.”

He chokes on his drink, making you laugh at his reaction. Once again, you are met with a look of disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Potatoes? Out of all the food in the world?”

“You said comfort food, not favorite food,” you remind him with a grin. “And yeah, it’s potatoes. They’re so simple and versatile and you can do whatever the hell you want with them. When I was a kid, my mom used to make me and my brother these stuffed, roasted potatoes. I don’t even know the ingredients honestly, I’ve never tried making them myself like that. To get that original comfort food taste, it has to be made by my mom. No one else.”

“I’m a professional chef and I still fully acknowledge that I’m nowhere near as good as my mom is,” Seokjin’s admission makes you laugh but you understand it fully. “She used to make the most amazing mac and cheese. Unlike you, I did try to recreate it - I followed her recipe to a T and still ended up with a sad imitation. Nothing ever beats the food you grew up eating.”

“Are you close to your family?” you ask and regret it immediately, wondering if that is too much, if you’re asking questions you have no business knowing answers to. You’ve known Seokjin for years but you could hardly call him a friend when you know so little about him.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” he nods, not even hesitating to share information about his personal life. “I visit them often and I try to go fishing with my brother as much as I can. What about you?”

“As close as we can be,” you shrug, reaching for your wine. “You know what our working hours are like and as much as I want to drive and see them on the weekends, I often just can’t. And my brother lives abroad with his wife and kids, so we rarely see each other. We facetime often, though. His kids are already starting school next year.”

“I have a niece,” Seokjin smiles with that cute, content smile that now feels familiar. You wait as he pulls out his phone, turning it to proudly show off the photo he selected - it’s him with a child in his arms, a little girl with the cutest face, big smile and tiny little pigtails. She can’t be more than three years old and she looks so happy to be held by her uncle.

“Oh, she is so cute! She adores you, doesn’t she?” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“I think she loves me more than her parents,” he admits, breaking into a fit of laughter. “She doesn’t let go of me, which I don’t mind, I adore the kid, but she just fuels my mother’s need for more grandchildren and when she clings to me… well…”

“Oh, I know,” you wave your hand. “Mine have two grandchildren and not a single reunion passes without them wondering when I’m going to reproduce.” They mean well, you know that and you don’t hold it against them. There are just times when they make you feel like you’re not doing a good enough job with the life they’ve given you, just because you haven’t had kids yet. Yes, they mean well but that’s not something you often want to hear.

“Do you want kids?” he asks. It should feel weird, it really should, talking about these things with him. It’s personal, too personal even, but you feel so at ease around him tonight, you can’t be bothered to care. It doesn’t feel wrong, not in the slightest.

“One day, yeah,” you shrug, seeing as this wasn’t something you thought about often. When you’re single and haven’t had a serious relationship in years, kids are on the back burner. “What about you? I don’t know why, but I never pegged you for a parental type.”

“You don’t know me very well then,” he laughs and the way he does it is so… cheeky and teasing. If anyone else was sitting here with you right now, you would swear on your life that they were flirting. Without a doubt, the teasing smile and raised eyebrow would make your mind go in that direction. Seeing as this is Seokjin, you can’t be too sure. It goes against everything he has ever said and done. But like a curse, Jungkook’s words come back to haunt you again. Would it be so weird to think that he likes you? He is here, after all.

“You’re right,” you nod as you put down your glass. “I don’t know you very well, do I?” he seems surprised at your question, even going so far as to look uncomfortable. Only for a second, before he offers you a smile.

“What would you like to know?”

“Why are you here?” you ask. It wasn’t what you were planning on asking, not by a long shot. You wanted to ask stupid questions, to find out what his favorite movies are, what’s his most embarrassing memory - the things you know about your friends. A game of 20 questions was what you had in mind when pointing out that you don’t really know a lot about him but when the opportunity presented itself, your self control had other plans. And seriously - why is he here?

Seokjin blinks a couple of times, seemingly needing time to process your question and think of a decent answer. “I wanted to do something nice,” he shrugs, giving you the same excuse that he had given earlier. You didn’t doubt it much then but now you’ve started wondering. “We’ve decided to start over and I… wanted to extend an olive branch.”

It makes perfect sense and you don’t believe a single word of it. “Why are you really here?” you push, following your instinct. Said instinct might be affected by the feelings but it’s there. And if there is one thing you’ve learned in life, it’s to follow your gut feeling - always.

Seokjin chuckles nervously and lo and behold, his ears give him away. “Do you think there’s an ulterior motive here?” he asks, shaking his head. He’s a decent actor, but not nearly as good as he thinks he is. He’s way too defensive for someone with no ulterior motives. “I didn’t poison the beef bourguignon, if that’s what you’re aiming at,” he adds, pointing back at the stove, where your dinner has been slowly simmering for about an hour now.

“No, I don’t think you’re trying to poison me,” you chuckle, shaking your head, wondering if you should just stop talking and drop the whole thing entirely. “I thought that… You know what? Never mind,” you decide, knowing that some questions are perhaps better left unanswered. “Tell me, what’s your favorite TV show? Are you a binger or a once a week type of guy?”

“Y/N, you don’t get to change topics on me like that,” Seokjin looks serious now, refusing to break eye contact. You struggle to not look away, knowing that you have pushed it too far and now you’re unable to backtrack. He won’t let you. “What did you think?” he asks.

What’s the worst thing that could happen if you answer truthfully? He could laugh at you and that’s pretty much it. And if he does start laughing, you can play it off and join in on the joke. And if he pulls the ultimate dick move and tells your mutual friends about it, you can always deny.

“The things that happened over the weekend had made me wonder,” you tell him, deciding to leave out the part when Jungkook opened your eyes to this possibility. “Some of the things that you’ve said kind of got my wheels spinning, you know?” you ask. As he swallows a lump, still not looking away from you, you decide to rip off the bandaid and throw your theory out. “Call me crazy and feel free to laugh and tell me I’m a fool but… Seokjin… do you like me?”

Zero emotions are shown on his face. It’s the most perfect poker face that you have ever seen - exposed forehead, full lips and all. Self confidence was never a strong suit of yours, except in the kitchen of course, but you know better than to try and backtrack now. Seconds ago, it was still salvageable. Now, you’ve said it and it’s out in the open. You were either right or wrong.

You wait, not backing away from the nth stare down of the night. You wait, letting him have his time to prepare an answer, whether it’s the truth or a lie. If your suspicions weren’t correct, wouldn’t he have already said something?

“What gave me away?”

And there it is. Jungkook was right and you were blind. How are you supposed to feel now? Relieved? Worried? Panicked? Amused? None of those make sense, nor do they describe the way you are feeling now. With Seokjin looking at you as if he has finally given up, finally surrendered, the only emotion that you can single out with clarity is curiosity.

“Wow. I mean, I wasn’t sure, I half expected you to laugh mockingly or something,” you admit, finally looking away and shaking your head, as if that’s supposed to get your thoughts in order. “The other night, when you said that you just did it to make me laugh… I thought, maybe…”

Lies. Jungkook figured it out, and even then, you refused to believe. Even now, you’re still expecting Seokjin to start laughing, claiming that he had pulled off the ultimate prank. He doesn’t - in fact, he looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him.

“Makes sense,” he lets out a dark chuckle. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Or pissed at myself. I’ve said too much, I’ve set myself up,” the way he runs a hand through his hair, with that solemn look on his face makes him look… hot. Like, really hot. “But at least it’s out in the open, right? Now you know.”

“Wait,” you raise a hand. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say. Like… since when? How? Why? I… I don’t get it.”

“Since when?” he laughs. Now you’re borderline worried, the guy looks like he’s going to experience a mental breakdown any second now. “Pretty much for as long as we’ve known each other. I know, shocking,” he adds, seeing how your eyes had widened when you heard his answer. “To think how I thought that I was obvious.”

“Oh no, you weren’t,” you sit up straighter, your voice raised up a notch. “You were anything but, Seokjin. I thought you despised me! That I was your arch nemesis or some shit like that.”

“Well, maybe I wasn’t obvious to you but I was to others, I’m damn sure all of Catnip knows by now,” he tells you and he looks as if he is calming himself down. His voice is lower and he’s no longer making eye contact, but staring at the island between you. “What I said was true, I did do it to make you laugh and somewhere along the way, I’ve pissed you off, so much so that you went on thinking that I hated you. Which I don’t, by the way. Never have.”

“You… you are a horrible flirt, you know that, right?” is all you can say now, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that the man had a crush on you for years. This time when he laughs, it’s not the dark tone that his laughter had just moments ago. This time around, his laughter is very much genuine, but it also dies down fast.

“I’m very much aware of that,” he confirms, finally looking your way again. There’s not a trace of positive emotion on his face. It’s as if he has completely given up on this conversation ending with a positive outcome. You can’t blame them for that - given the questioning that you’re putting him through and your history together - if you were in his shoes, you’d also see this as an uncomfortable rejection conversation.

Is it, though? It would be, if it weren’t for the feelings. They’re there. You have no fucking clue what they are, much less what they mean but they are there and you can’t ignore their existence any longer. They remind you that once upon a time, he really did make you laugh. That this whole dumb rivalry made you want to work harder and be better, even if it was for the petty reason of simply being better than him. The feelings remind you that you did always consider him attractive, that that stupid smile that he has when he’s truly happy and content does things to you. The feelings remind you that you can recognize the tell-tale signs of his embarrassment. You might not know him well, every line and crevice, every positive and negative but you still know more than you had originally thought. And you want to know more.

“Why?” you ask, knowing you won’t have a peace of mind until you know, even if asking such questions might make him feel uncomfortable. “Why me? I just… I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” he answers immediately, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t have a big reason behind it or a particular moment when I realized. Liking you was instant. Of course, it didn’t develop into something… deeper straight away. That part lasted years, but it was impossible not to like you, Y/N. We’re chefs. We make food, that’s our job - our job is to take food and cook it, presented in a visually appealing manner and charge for it more than we should. And you take such a simple, almost meaningless thing and turn it into an art form.”

Although touching and meaningful, his words confuse the life out of you. “You like me because I’m a good chef?” you ask, wondering if you’ve missed something.

“I like you because of the dedication you give to it,” he elaborates. “That stupid excercise that we did the other day didn’t let me do you justice. The look on your face that you’ve had on that first day remains the same now, whenever I see you taking the simplest ingredients and turning them into art. I have admired that and it’s one of the reasons why my eyes would look for you every damn time we were in that test kitchen. You were there and so focused, so beautiful and so damn good at what you did. And smart, funny, a good leader and a good friend. It also didn’t hurt that you look damn hot when you’re focused on something.”

The last part he adds, almost like an afterthought and it makes you laugh. He laughs too, when you make eye contact. The feelings have gone haywire. You officially have no control of them because the things that he has said about you, you recognized in him as well, at one point or another. He is so good at what he does, dedicated and driven, while also being a good leader and from what you’ve seen, an awesome friend. To others he was funny - to you, he was a pain in the ass that just so happened to look damn hot when he was focused on something.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit when you start feeling as if the silence is lasting too long.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he waves his hand, dismissing your suggestion and once again, confusing the hell out of you. “It’s out in the open and now you know why I was an idiot for all those years. I meant what I said when I told you that I wanted us to start fresh and be friendly with one another. I’m a big boy, I know that what’s not meant to be is not meant to be.”

“No, you’re not,” you shake your head, amused at the confusion etched on his face. “You are childish and often petty and honestly, at times you are the most insufferable being on this planet and I can’t even begin to describe how confusing it is that I find that endearing.”

As you listed all the things he is, you watched as his face fell, but you didn’t have a chance to feel bad about it, not when you know that despite all of that, he’s still a good guy. He’s still Seokjin, with all his quirks and insufferable moments. And as much as you might want to deny it, you like him. You really do like him.

“Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t always endearing - in fact, more often than not, you were a real pain in the ass. You’re not a big boy who can handle rejection well and I don’t want to see you handle it. I don’t want to watch you struggle to get over this crush of yours for weeks, months even. I also don’t want to watch you finding it easy to get over it, completely forgetting all about it in a matter of days,” you tell him and you’re not even sure if the words make sense but they go out of your mouth and into his ears, making his eyes go wide.

“Y/N, what are you trying to say?”

“I have no fucking clue,” you shrug, getting up from your chair. “I didn’t have enough time to process any of this. Just minutes ago, I thought there’s no way in hell that you’re that dumb to pull a third grader flirting technique,” you keep talking as you walk over to him, watching him as he turns to face you, slightly alarmed by your sudden proximity, even if there’s a good two feet between you. “I’m not fully aware of what I’m saying, or feeling for that matter, but I do know that I am feeling something. Don’t ask me to define it, cause I can’t, not in this mindfuck of a plot twist that my life did not prepare me for. I just know that I want to test something out.”

“Test? Test out what?” he asks as you take the final step to close the gap between you.

“This,” is all you tell him as you grab a hold of his cute blue sweater and pull him closer, not wasting a single second before you press your lips to his. Neither of you moves for a moment or two, he out of shock and you out of pure confusion because why the hell are you kissing Kim Seokjin?! A few seconds pass and it’s he who starts moving, bringing life into your dead kiss. And the moment he does, you feel it in the pit of your stomach that there is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong about this. When he puts his hands on your sides, you let yours move from where they were clutching onto his sweater up and around his neck, pulling him down, closer to you. The strands of hair that reach the nape of his neck feel like silk under your fingers and when you feel his tongue graze your bottom lip, you softly gasp.

That makes him pull away - that little gasp of yours seems like a wake-up call for him because he is pulling away, his eyes wide, making him look as if he thinks he is imagining all of this. He looks shocked but he is not letting go of you and your hands are still locked behind his neck.

“Kissing you is good,” you conclude. “I want to keep doing that.”

“Zero complaints here,” is all he says before he stands up and kisses you again. Without breaking the kiss, he twists your hips to the side, making you lean back on the island, the edge of the surface pressing into your back as he essentially cages you.

It’s funny, how many things about him you never really realized. For example, how tall he actually is and how much he has to bend down in order to kiss you, which he does, diligently. You also have never noticed how clear his skin is, not until your fingers grazed his cheeks softly. He was in front of you, right in front of you, all these years and until tonight, he was nothing more than an annoying guy with a good face. How wrong you were…

“Of course, you’re a good kisser too,” he sighs as he breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead on yours, his eyes still closed. “Are you an overachiever in every aspect of your life?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you tease, chuckling when he backs away, startled.

“That’s not… I wasn’t trying to insinuate something,” he defends himself immediately.

“But I am,” you giggle at the way his eyes widen. You can’t blame him - this night has made you go from zero to sixty in no time. That realization does make you nervous but you’ve already decided to push it back and just do whatever it is that you want to do. “I’m telling you, I don’t want to think or define. We can deal with that later. Now, I just want… you.”

Seokjin takes a second, gulping, looking at you as if he is waiting for you to laugh in his face or take the offer back. When he stays silent for what you deem as a bit too long, you smile softly at him and drag your thumb across his bottom lip - it’s so soft and inviting, already red from the kisses that you’ve shared. You want him and he needs to stop second guessing that.

Whatever it is that he was looking for on your face, he seems to have found it because he’s suddenly kissing you again, with a lot more ferocity than he did just moments ago. That was a kiss, a first kiss, a getting-to-know-what-this-feels-like kiss - this is a kiss. Hands digging into your skin, tongue driving you crazy with gasps and heavy breathing kind of kiss.

You are the one who pulls away but you stay silent, taking his hand into yours and leading him towards the door. A silent moment is exchanged when he looks at the stove, where your dinner is still cooking, then back to you. Beef bourguignon takes hours to make and given the years of expertise between the two of you, you’re comfortable with leaving the stove on. So you laugh and he does too, before you pull him into the hallway.

Along the way, you kiss, hit a few walls and your sweatshirt is left discarded on the floor - you don’t have time for another freakout at how ridiculously unprepared you are for this because the way he looks at you kills the little insecurities that haunt you. His eyes scan over any area of skin that they can see while his fingers slide over the very edge of your bra, tickling the skin they graze. Goosebumps cover your skin and you all but slam him into your bedroom door.

“Woah,” he laughs. “Never thought you were this impatient.”

“I’m usually not,” you admit with a shrug.

“I’m not complaining,” he laughs as the two of you waddle towards the bed, still pressed to one another. You smile as you push him gently onto the bed. He looks up at you, mouth open and eyebrows raised. “Oh, I am not complaining at all!”

Smiling, you straddle his lap and pause for a second, taking a moment to get used to what’s happening. Unlike you, he is patient - he simply looks at you, a strange mix of awe and giddiness written on his face. His hands are glued to your hips and he runs his thumbs in circles, gently. It looks as if he’s relishing the moment and letting you take the lead in what’ll happen next. “This is really happening, isn’t it?” you ask, your chest filling with pride when he shows you that signature smile of his, the one that causes a ruckus among the butterflies in your stomach.

“I think it is,” he leans closer to you, connecting his lips to your neck and that one, simple action is enough to make you realize that if he’s down, you’ll be more than happy to take it all the way tonight. Neck kisses are a universal weakness and you’re gladly going to let him use it to his advantage. “If this ends up being a wet dream of mine, I’m going to be so pissed when I wake up,” he admits before nipping at your skin, an action that elicits a whole new wave of horniness to take over you. Neck kisses are bad enough - neck bites will be your downfall.

“If it is a wet dream, come and find me when you wake up and tell me what you’ve told me tonight. Then we’ll see what we can do about it,” you joke, laughing even harder when he grabs a hold of you and moves you down on the bed. This is the first sign of initiative that he has shown so far and you are not complaining. It’s your turn now to gulp as he hovers above you, looking down at your body like he is seconds away from eating you alive.

“I thought you were hot before but I never thought you were hiding all of this under your clothes,” he tells you as he pulls down on the straps of your bra - at least your underwear is a matching black set, if the rest of you is a mess. Lifting your back from the bed, you help him take the fabric off and he grins up at you once your boobs are out in the open. “Chef’s uniforms really didn’t do your boobs justice.”

“You’ve seen me in casual clothes plenty of times,” you laugh at his antics. He’s known you for years, there’s no way he didn’t catch a good view of your cleavage in all that time.

“Not nearly as often as I should have,” he mumbles and before you have a chance to talk back, he leaves you speechless as he attaches his mouth to you, immediately giving your nipple a gentle bite. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, you do your best to stay silent - there’s no way in hell Seokjin won’t be cocky about this later and you don’t want to give him too much material to work with right off the bat.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize that one of the hottest things about being with Seokjin like this is simply seeing Seokjin like this. There is just something so inherently hot about the way his eyes close as rolls his tongue across your nipple. He makes the sight even hotter than the action itself, especially when he reaches for your other breast, gently playing with it as he pleases. Simple actions like that are already driving you nuts and you can only worry about what’s to come later. And it gets worse - turned on by the sight, you reach for him, moving the hair away from his eyes and the second you two make eye contact, a moan leaves you - a loud, shameless one at that. You could swear his eyes twinkled then and there.

“Please tell me you have a condom,” he starts kissing down your body.

“If you’re clean, you don’t need it. I’m clean and on the pill.”

He suddenly stops kissing you, choosing to laugh instead. “You’re telling me that a week ago you could barely stand being in the same room with me and now you’re letting me sleep with you without a condom?”

“I mean...” you shrug, joining in on his laughter. “I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

“Not to me they haven’t,” he jokes, before immediately turning serious. “Are you sure you want this? I really don’t want you to regret it,” he admits.

“The only thing I’m going to regret is letting you take the lead because you’re taking too long and you’re still in your clothes.”

“Easy,” he laughs as he hooks his fingers past the waistband of your sweatpants and slowly starts pulling them down, leaving your underwear in place. “Eat what makes you happy, they say,” he says and you roll your eyes. Of course, leave it to Seokjin to think pussy.

“They also say don’t play with your food,” you playfully remind him as you kick off the pants. He doesn’t laugh - instead, he reaches for your leg and softly caresses it.

“Is your leg going to be okay?” he asks and if you weren’t whipped beyond belief before, you are now. Even you have managed to completely forget about your injury but he hasn't. Even now, Seokjin finds ways to prove you wrong and show how thoughtful he actually is.

You simply nod and that’s confirmation enough for him. His hand trails up and on the inside of your thigh pausing before touching your wet underwear. He gives you a questioning look, not touching you until you confirm that that’s what you want. You nod quickly and in a matter of seconds, the last of your clothes is on the floor, and Seokjin is diving right in.

Despite complaining that he’s taking too long, you realize that he’s not the one to tease - at least not tonight. His mouth connects with your clit almost immediately and it’s enough to make you moan again. He licks, sucks and grazes his teeth against it, letting you hold onto his hair like your life depends on it. He’s good, which makes perfect sense because leave it to Kim Seokjin to give you the best oral sex of your entire life. You won’t tell him - not now, perhaps not ever, cause he doesn’t need that to get into his head too, but good lord is he good.

“Can I?” he asks, tracing his finger across your opening.

“Seokjin, at this point you can do whatever the fuck you want,” you laugh, a laugh that turns into a moan when he sinks his finger in, curving it up immediately and making you arch your back.

“Is this good?” he asks and the feelings go berserk again. In your mind, it can’t get any better than a man that actually pays attention to what his lover enjoys.

“More than,” you moan as he adds another finger and effectively ends your conversation. He is driving you crazy - something that you’ve noticed before, when you side eyed his chopping skills years ago, is how he has beautiful hands with long, almost elegant fingers. Never did you think that those fingers would be inside you, making you count your blessings and struggle to not moan out his name. A struggle that you have lost when he puts a third finger to use.

You want more - as amazing as it is, you want more. You want to kiss him, to feel him inside you, to make him feel as good as he is making you feel now. As much as you didn’t want to stop him, as much as you’d gladly spend hours like this, you wanted and needed more.

“Seokjin, stop,” he does so immediately, looking up at you in worry. His face is covered in your wetness and the sight makes you want to cry. He has never looked hotter than he does right now, between your legs, the evidence of your pleasure all over his face and his hair a mess because of you. “I want you. Wanna kiss you.”

“But you taste heavenly,” he pouts, turning his head to leave kisses on your thigh.

“I’ll taste heavenly a bit later too,” you push, knowing that no matter how good this feels, it can get better for the both of you. “Come on, I want to see you.”

Grinning, he gives your thigh a quick bite - the man has a biting kink, there’s no denying it. While that’s something you’ve never given much thought before, you are now finding it very enjoyable. What’s even more enjoyable is the sight of Seokjin taking his sweater off. You’ve known he’s handsome, you’re not blind, but never in a million years would you think that he’s so well defined. He’s not buff, far from it. He is just so perfectly defined, every muscle on his stomach noticeable and if you’re being completely honest with yourself, lickable.

He undresses quickly as you ogle at him, your breath hitching the moment he drops his pants.

“Well, that explains a lot,” you comment as you eye his dick - hard, girthy and surprisingly big.

“What?” Seokjin is confused and you giggle at the way he hides his dick with his hands. “You think I’m compensating for something?”

“Quite the opposite,” you answer honestly. “I imagine it’s easy being so full of yourself with a dick like that.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” he laughs.

“Both,” you would have been more cheeky if he hadn’t started stroking himself, the sight driving you absolutely crazy. “Please. I want to feel you.”

You don’t have to say it again - he moves to loom over you and finally, after what feels like hours and not mere minutes, you can kiss him again. The taste of you on his tongue doesn’t bother you. It’s the opposite, actually, making this moment and Seokjin himself even hotter to you. He lets you push him down onto the bed and without breaking the kiss, you station yourself above him. For the first time tonight, his hands grab a hold of your ass and he squeezes - hard.

Both of you stay silent as you move, putting your arm between the two of you to grab a hold of his dick as you kiss. He lets out a groan the moment you wrap your hands around it. Movements gentle and slow, teasing even, knowing that this is the only chance you get to focus on his pleasure. You’d gladly take him into your mouth but you’re much too impatient for that tonight. A brief hand job will have to do, and judging by his reactions, it’s more than enough.

You are surprised at how vocal Seokjin actually is in bed, not that you’ve given it much thought before. He’s not holding back, his moans low and deep, not embarrassed in the slightest to show you how good you’re making him feel. After one particular, higher pitched moan, you decide to do the same. You were holding back before, stupidly worried about your own dignity and giving him material to tease you endlessly. You won’t anymore.

Biting your bottom lip and pulling it as he breaks the kiss, he leans back, looking at you with lust in his eyes, his cheeks the exact same shade as the tips of his ears. You want to take a photograph, to memorize the sight of him being turned. It feels like a privilege that only you have and you want to commit it to memory. “Y/N, please,” is all he says.

Slowly, you line him up to your entrance and with your bottom lip between your teeth, you sink down on him. Immediately, the both of you groan at the feeling. Him being inside you feels right in all the wrong ways, a feeling so right that you know you’re going to miss it when it’s gone.

He is the one who moves first, lifting his hips to get you to move. Smiling down at him, you grab a hold of his shoulders and slowly move your hips, letting him almost slip out of you before swallowing him whole again. Each roll of your hips faster than the previous one, not even a minute passes before Seokjin moves his hands away from your ass and pulls you directly on top of him, chest to chest, lips stuck in a slow kiss as he slams up into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good Y/N,” he tells you and follows it with a particular hard thrust that makes you grip his shoulders harder, holding on for dear life. Having never been with him before, you couldn’t tell if he was close or not. You weren’t, yet strangely, that doesn’t bother you whatsoever. That can be dealt with easily - now, all you want to do is enjoy the feeling of him slamming into you, hard and fast, and the sight of him barely keeping it together.

“Happy to hear that,” you giggle before said giggle is rudely interrupted with another harsher snap of his hips. “Fine, fine, you’re not so bad yourself,” you tease and the look he gives you is enough for you to know that you’ll regret saying that. Immediately.

Without any warning, he flips you around and slams you down on the bed, his dick never leaving you. Before you can even react in any way, your healthy leg is pushed up towards your chest and Seokjin slams into you with a purpose. “You talk about how I annoyed the life out of you, pretending like you’ve never bickered back with that mouth of yours,” his words are menacing and incredibly sexy, but the way he is eating you up with his eyes kills any doubt that his words are actually resentful. “I’m glad I’ve found a way to shut you up,” he announces and as if you weren’t losing your mind already, he sneaks a finger between your legs and pinches your clit, eliciting the loudest moan of the night. “Or maybe not.”

“Seokjin!”

“Fuck, you sound so hot screaming my name,” his pace speeds up, knowing that your orgasm is right around the corner - his thrusts become more shallow but his fingers rub your clit in the speed of light. “Come on Y/N, come for me.”

As much as you wish that your body complied and let you come on his command, it didn’t happen that way. It took a few thrusts more, a few more harsher movements of his fingers, but by the time your orgasm has washed over you, you were gasping loudly, digging your nails into the skin of his back. Your brain was mush and you could barely recognize the words he’s saying, something about how you’re squeezing him so good. He doesn’t stop moving, helping you ride out your orgasm to the point of overstimulation. Coming out of your post-orgasm haze, you fight the overstimulation and focus on him, noticing how his thrusts are getting more erratic. He looks so out of it, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, his shoulders red with how strong you are gripping him. Slowly, you slide your hands up and around his neck, pulling him down to you, ignoring the painful stretch in your leg.

“You can finish inside me,” you tell him, hushing his loud moan with a kiss. It’s a hectic kiss, your lips barely moving because he’s gasping into your mouth and you’re moaning at the feeling of his dick twitching inside you. “Seokjin, please come for me.”

Was it you begging for him to come or a creampie kink, you have no idea and you don’t particularly care because the moment he comes and starts filling you up, you’re on cloud nine. It feels as good as an actual orgasm, to know that you, your body, the way you made him feel was enough to make him explode, very literally. You were the one helping him now, lifting up your hips as he stood still, his face buried in your neck, his groans filling your ear. His dick is still twitching but his body has completely given up - he drops your leg and practically falls on top of you, having enough strength and sanity to soften the blow with his hands.

His hands give up slowly and in a matter of seconds every inch of him is pressed up against you. You don’t care, too busy relishing the feeling of his breaths on your neck and his cum slowly dripping out of you and around his dick. God, you wish you could see it but the position won’t let you. Instead of pushing him away to get a better view, you close your eyes and let your body calm down together with his.

His weight on top of you should feel suffocating but it’s not. It feels comforting and right, which scares you to an extent but not enough to chicken out and push him away, especially not when he starts kissing any parts of you he can reach, focusing on your shoulder. After a few moments he rolls over but stays close, his hand draped over your side. You look at each other and it’s impossible not to smile because he is beaming. You can’t remember if you’ve ever seen him this happy. You must have - it’s just that you probably weren’t paying attention.

“So… that happened,” he speaks up first.

“Yup. Talk about a plot twist, huh?” you joke, shaking your head as you realize how weird this is on paper. “Culinary school Y/N never thought a day would come when she’d have sex with Seokjin.”

“Yesterday’s Seokjin never thought a day would come when he’d have sex with Y/N,” he laughs, shuffling closer to you. By the looks of it, he is a cuddler and you have zero complaints about it. You let him hold you, snuggling against his chest, enjoying the moment a lot more than you ever thought you could. “Let me take you out, Y/N,” he tells you. He seems earnest and a lot more hopeful than he was back in the kitchen. “You found it in you to put the tension behind and give us a shot at being friends. Why not give this a shot, too? I like you a lot and I’ve liked you for a while… maybe you could find something to like in little old me?” he shrugs.

“It’s already too late for that,” you laugh, lowering your head to leave a few kisses on his chest. “I’m still not ready to define it and put it to words but I’d be happy to go out with you,” you admit.

“It might not take us anywhere,” he shrugs, making your head bounce with the movement. “For all we know, you might realize you do hate my guts after all. But maybe we end up getting along better than anyone would expect?”

“Seokjin… with your cooking skills and your oral skills, we’re already getting along very well, if you ask me,” you joke but after a few seconds of laughter, he sits up and pushes you away.

“The beef bourguignon!” he gasps. The sight of Seokjin running out of your bedroom, naked, to check on the food brings tears to your eyes. You can even hear him berating you, yelling something about how this is not a laughing matter but that only makes it more comical. Isn’t it ironic how now, he can make you laugh without even trying?

The beef bourguignon didn’t burn. It was the best beef bourguignon that you’ve ever had. The entire evening was one of the best in your recent memory. Whether it was the dinner, his sweater that you were wearing while you ate, the wine, the shared shower or waking up the next morning in his embrace, the time you’ve spent with Seokjin was enjoyable, perhaps even meaningful and definitely worth repeating.

As long as you are both willing to give it a go, it’s worth it. And it has to be kept between the two of you, at least for now. Cause as much as you like Seokjin, his cooking skills and his dick, your group of friends will never, ever, let you live this one down. Although, for all of the above… it might just be worth it.

THE END

#BTS smut #bts fanfiction #seokjin smut #jin smut #jin fanfic #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x reader #seokjin x you #bts au #seokjin au #bts scenario #bts fanfic #jin x you #jin x reader #bts jin #seokjin fanfiction #jin fanfiction #yoonjinkooked #jin scenario

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 37

💖 first time reader click here 💖

Five more chapters to go, guys. This is coming to an end 😭 I enjoyed writing it so, so much! In this chapter we have fluff. Literally only fluff and snark, because my babies have suffered enough. And the remainder is gonna be the same. Because fuck pain.

Coulson was mad. Outwardly, of course, he seemed as level-headed as ever, handing out orders and signing papers out left and right, but coming to sit within five feet of him seemed like the worst mistake I had recently made. His phone was ringing practically non-stop and he answered every call, sometimes speaking in different languages I didn't understand, sometimes in rapid-fire English that sounded like Morse code to me.

I'd never been sent to the principal's office but I imagine that's how it feels like. Finally, his shoulders sagged and the breath he took in left his lungs slowly, deflating his body into a tense ball of quiet fury.

"You and mister Brock ruined months worth of investigation and undercover work," The agent finally spoke. "But I can't even be mad at you properly. We've apprehended the main culprit, detained all of his followers except select few that Dr. Xavier took upon himself to handle," His words shocked me; not at all the scolding I was expecting. A deeper part of me was even afraid I'd be taken away and buried under so much red tape not even Tony's seemingly endless money and influence could have gotten me out. "I... Really don't know what more to say." Coulson folded his hands atop the desk, looking over me with a blank look.

"A thank you would be nice," I let my mouth run before the words even really registered in my brain, the cursed thing.

The agent chortled, "Perhaps, we really do owe you a solid one," Before standing up and walking over to the coffee machine in the far corner of his office. "Coffee?" He motioned to a pile of empty cups next to it. I nodded and he set to work. "The guys should be back in two hours, tops," He remarked off-handedly, watching me out of the corner of his eye. There was no way he had missed how my body relaxed into the uncomfortable office chair at the news. "Nobody is hurt except Rogers but I think he'd find how to hurt himself even on recon duty." The man laughed, bringing over two cups of dark, delicious, steamiy hot bean juice. Nhghhgg.

"Steve is a dumbass," I agreed amicably, blowing over the rim of the cup. The stone of coffee on it's own seemed to wake up my previously anxious, half-empty half-racing brain. The past twelve hours were full of urgency, the team being called in for assistance in mere minutes after my and Venom's return to the tower.

They barely had time to wipe their tears and shelf their worries before the suit-up call came, haste hugs and kisses being traded on their way to the quinjet. Coulson showed up not much later after that, a quinjet of his own and a stack of papers for Eddie to fill out, stern instructions for me to follow him and stay glued to his side at all times. I didn't need to ask: it was obvious there was a rat in SHIELD, again. Thankfully, the rat was discovered before they could come and try to increase their odds by doing something to me; I'd hid out in Coulson's office, crashing down into a strange, most likely Venom-induced sleep as footsteps raced past the door.

I'd woken up anxious and disoriented, the owner of the office pacing along the furthest wall and pointedly whispering into his cellphone. The rest was history.

"Your father called," The agent remarked, watching my reaction carefully. "Said to call him back whenever you can."

I was drained, beyond wrung out, and not just from my latest stunt as a parasitic symbiotic alien's host. The past couple of months were a nightmare, an anxiety-riddled, paranoia-spiced mess of a shit show. I was very much looking forward to breathing freely and enjoying my science without hiding my WIPs, enjoying my relationship (s) without fear of being abducted and sending my men into a panicked, destructive spiral.

My voice remained even as I carefully contemplated and spoke my next words. "He can go fuck himself. Him and that harpy of a woman," I sighed: disappointed in my parents, but not surprised. "I'm freshly out of fucks to give. I'm done."

Coulson, if he even was surprised, didn't show it. His expression remained neutral and supportive. "I understand you. There's enough basis for us to aid you in creating a new identity for you, if you'd like," He pushed a stack of papers towards me.

I chewed on my lip in contemplation. It would be handy, sure, I could be rid of the curse that became of my family name and my parents couldn't legally do anything at all to me; on the other side there was my name plastered on several inventions and projects I'd done over the years. In all my years, I was taught that my name is to be my business card.

The decision was obvious. "No, thank you," I looked at him, hoping to convey the sincerity. "I think I will be okay."

He smiled and went back to his paperwork, all but verbally dismissing me. As soon as I finished my coffee and washed the mug, the couch called to me once again and I curled up under the fleece blanket Coulson had thrown over me while I slept, alternating my attention between sneaking glances at his concentrated form and my cellphone and the few meager games it had. There was no signal and no wi-fi access on the Helicarrier. Security reasons, blah blah blah...

A knock sounded out, startling me out of my sluggish thoughts; one of Coulson's hands crawled down to one of the drawers on his right side where I assumed he had hidden a gun. "Come in," He called out, shooting me a pointed look. I sat up, alert.

"M'here to pick up - uh - a Baby," A tired but amused, familiar voice called out. Clint stepped into the room, still wearing his dirty and bloody uniform, and, as my eyes briefly scanned him, the archer appeared to be unhurt save for a few bruises here and there. His eyes landed on me immediately, visibly relieved.

"Waa," I deadpanned indignantly, raising my hands like a toddler would do when they wanted to be picked up. The only thing Clint was missing was a courier's ball cap.

"I assume the mission went smoothly?" Coulson asked, a soft grin and even softer eyes landing on our interaction.

Clint nodded affirmative, walking over and picking me up with ease, disregarding my shierk completely and stopping only when I poked him in the ear - closest appendage to me - in retaliation. His eyes were laughing and his tone was flat. "Caw caw, motherfucker," He announced to me flatly, waving goodbye to Coulson.

We passed more than a dozen agents giving us the biggest side-eye as I dangled over his shoulder, ass up in the air, fiddling with the numerous straps of his gear as Clint power-walked us to the Avengers quinjet. I'd even stuck out my tongue to some dude pointing a finger at us.

My family was already loaded into the vehicle, all in various stages of dirty, bloody and undressed. Coulson's words were true - only Steve sported a wide bandage over his shoulder, neck and head - one look at Bucky and I just knew the Captain would be regretting his stupidity in a few hours time. Even Stephen was there, looking unhurt but very annoyed and tired, as he hovered a few feet off the ground with Cloaky majestically swaying behind him.

"And what the fuck was that little performance for?" I asked once Clint deposited me in the very front row, between a dozing Bruce and a tinkering Tony.

"I had strict instructions from the Hulk," The archer grinned, pushing a few buttons on the dashboard of the vehicle. In seconds, we took off home.

"Oh, hi," Bruce must've heard his green counterpart being mentioned; his eyes cracked open just as I smiled at the scientist and reached over to brush his curly mop of hair out of his face. "M'yes, Hulk is demanding you do not set foot on the ground these days," Bruce was sleepy and warm, so soft when he kissed my hand, I felt my heart swell.

"Gonna spoil me rotten, you lot," I snorted, keeping the happy smile and the warm feeling as Stephen came back from the Astral world, opening his eyes and giving me a grin of his own.

"That's my job," Tony mumbled, still very occupied with a part of his suit. I turned around expecting a kiss; I had to stifle an ugly snort upon discovering one of the parts of his Iron Man suit got damaged and stuck, making a part of the chestplate render one of his arms temporarily immobile. Tony looked like a frustrated toddler building Legos.

"Someone get me a screwdriver and some pliers," I gently pried away the calloused fingers away from the jagged piece of metal, kissing Tony's cheek in the moments until Natasha handed me the required instruments. Tony was free, grimacing in discomfort as he stretched and rotated his arm, in little under ten minutes. "What happened to the nanosuit?" I asked, not remembering the last time I'd seen Tony in one of his older, clunkier creations.

"They had some sort of technopath mutant," He grumbled - I had discovered the source of his ire. "Turns out, Bruce snuck in my special anti-mutant suit I'd made ages ago. Nanosuit got destroyed in seconds and Hulk had to carry me back to the quinjet for a change of equipment," Despite his sour mood, Tony was visibly more relaxed than since the day I confessed I'd been drugged. "Brucie-bear, this is exactly why it remained a prototype."

"It's better to get stuck in a suit than to be a meat pancake on the sidewalk," Used to Tony's tantrums, Bruce merely blinked and continued eating the chocolate that he procured only God knew where.

I locked eyes with Stephen, both of us shaking our heads in almost identical, semi-fond semi-annoyed way. Ah, sweet sweet normalcy.

There were towers of pizza boxes as we arrived in the tower; a couple of agents got all but yeeted out by Tony, with little to no thank you as they had been the ones that arranged the food for us - still, I understood Tony's dislike of the super-secret organisation and merely paid the two for the pizza, politely waving goodbye as they side-eyed Tony with disdain.

Then, I had to tow both Clint and Thor as they attempted to begin eating, still wearing muddy bloody clothes - of course, I did not possess the physical strength required to handle two adult men, so I merely began a small lecture on parasites (Stephen gleefully joined in) and both of them scattered towards the showers like two spooked little first-graders.

I also used the brief moment of stagnation to hug Loki; these days he didn't freeze in surprise but rather warmly hugged me back, whispering something cheeky to me as I buried my face in his chest. Stephen was the one to cough extra-loudly to attempt to separate us - it was, once again, unanimously decided to have a family dinner and a cuddle pile straight after. Food coma had never sounded nicer.

"So, what'd Coulson say to you?" Clint asked curiously as we all settled in, freshly showered and those who needed it, re-bandaged. I was warm and toasty between Tony and Stephen, wearing the former's gym shorts and the latter's hoodie, Bruce's t-shirt underneath it. The scientist himself was drooling onto Tony's shoulder, somwhere between sleep and awareness, glasses askew.

"He basically thanked me and offered me a new identity," I shrugged, polishing off the last of my smoothie and handing the second bottle over to Loki. As usual, no food was wasted and I always had someone to finish my leftovers, especially since Bucky tended to think I could eat as much as him and kept trying to overfeed me like a foie gras goose.

"Congrats, you've been adopted," Natasha snorted from her place between Clint and Steve. Only the red of her hair was visible behind the man-bulk and the blankets.

"Uh," My response was, as always, deeply informative and astute.

"He likes to take in strays," Clint full-belly laughed. "Me at first, then Natasha. He's got a soft spot for Tony and Bucky but he won't admit it."

My eyebrows rose. "That's... That's my job?" I remembered the whole Venom/Eddie situation, our rogue wizard. Coulson was aiming for my place- the audacity! "He can't just do that!"

"And you can?" Stephen's finger booped my nose, making me huff and cuddle up to Tony, turning my butt towards the sorcerer to show him exactly what I thought about his observations. He only laughed harder. "Sounds like someone's a little jealous."

"Okay, boomer," I rolled my eyes. Stephen Strange, a supreme troll is what he is.

"But that's why you love me," He continued as others around us groaned and snorted, too used to us teasing each other about our age difference and my old man kink. Whatever, I got to bang my hot old men anyways.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95 @gladiosamicitias @warrior1-19 @toomanyrobins @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming

#party favours #bun writes #tony stark x reader #bruce banner x reader #stephen strange x reader

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mithrilwren · 3 years

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Fanfic ask game for procrastinating on writing, which as of this week is actually accurate, since I’m finally writing again! (or, more specifically, editing what I wrote two months ago so I can get back to writing.)

Tagged by @essektheylyss! Thank you, this is exactly the kind of activity my brain needed tonight.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

72! I was hovering at 69 for quite a while, sad to break the streak haha

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

~550K, which is somehow both more and less than what I expected

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Many, lmao. According to my Ao3 (omitting any blanket tags) I’ve got 22 there, plus at least two more over on ff.net from back in the day, and probably a couple more just on Tumblr. Most of them I’ve only written one fic for, though. I think the only fandoms where I’ve written more than one are Critical Role (35), Supernatural (15), Haikyuu!! (3), The Exorcist (2), Dimension 20 (2), and Yu-Gi-Oh! (2)

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Pick a Number, Any Number

Surprisingly, my number one is NOT a Critical Role fic, nor is it even one of my longer multi-chapters! It’s actually a one-shot I wrote for Haikyuu!! back in the day that took off far beyond what I expected. I wrote it for DaiSuga week, which was a ship I (to be completely honest) wasn’t even terribly invested in, but I had a fun idea and people seemed to like it! (It’s also much fluffier than what I usually write, which might be part of its broader appeal ;))

A Winter’s Ball

Unsurprisingly, the next four are all CR ;). This one was a M9 x VM crossover that I primarily wrote between the hours of 3-8am over the course of two insomnia-wracked nights and honestly, I think it shows in its uncharacteristically unstructured format (compared to my typical style, which tends to favour shorter scenes with very intentionally-placed breaks between, as opposed to scenes that flow into each other without pause). That’s not to say I think it’s a bad thing! The story, which follows Beau as she drifts through a party in Whitestone and observes the interactions between the various guests, actually flows better without that kind of interruption. This was also my first Beaujester piece. I started writing it right before Beau’s confession aired, and published it the week after, which definitely pushed me to make what had been only subtextual in the first half of my draft into the emotional lynchpin of the story.

Only the Nightingale Sings

I’m really glad this one still ranks as high as it does, because this story is absolutely my pride and joy. At one time (though I’m not sure that’s true anymore) it was the longest gen fic in the fandom, which is pretty cool! Plot-heavy, twist-heavy, angst-heavy, with seven points of view to follow and multiple interwoven storylines, it was a beast of a thing to write, and took almost exactly a year to finish, but the long process was oh-so worth it. Literally nothing makes me happier today than seeing a new comment or kudos on this story.

Closer Still

One of my earliest shadowgast fics, this one asks the question “how can you make the ‘stuck in an elevator trope’ fantasy?” The answer is, as always, demiplanes. This fic, perhaps more than any of my other shadowgast fics, is interesting to revisit, because it was written before the ep 97 reveal, but literally everything Essek does in it would suggest otherwise. It reads like I already knew he was a spy working with Trent, and yet I was firmly in the “Essek is NOT the spy” camp at the time. Gotta chalk that up to Matt telegraphing his growing guilt into the preceding episodes - even if I couldn’t see it, it was clearly there.

your dust from mine

My other novel-length CR multichapter, this fic brought me so much joy in the otherwise bleak summer of 2020. Most of my best memories of those four months come from working on this story. A Fjorclay adaption of The Goose Girl (my favourite fairytale) this story is about healing, growth, and figuring out what happiness means to you. While I know most people don’t read stories for this pairing anymore, for obvious reasons, I still cherish your dust from mine for how much of my heart I poured into it, and I look back on it with a huge amount of fondness.

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do my absolute best to respond to every comment someone leaves on a story of mine, even if it occasionally takes a month or two. Replying to comments is one of my favourite parts of the fic-writing process - it gives me a chance to revisit peoples’ kind words and (often, incredibly insightful) observations, and I hope it also shows how appreciative I am of each and every one.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Though I write a lot of angst, I honestly tend more towards bittersweet endings than straight-up sadness. The only one I can really think of is What You Own - mind the tags if you follow the link, this is definitely one of the gnarlier things I’ve written for CR - whose ending is, admittedly, bleak. But this story so far removed from canon that I don’t think it’s the kind of angsty ending that lingers with you, as much as it packs a punch and then lets you go on your way.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I tend to enjoy thinking about crossovers moreso than actually writing them. I’ve brainstormed a few, but none have ever made it much farther than the first page.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

A few times! Not often, thankfully. Only one time in particular really sticks out to me, mostly for how it rocked my confidence in a way that I don’t think any comment could now, since I’ve had a few more years to build up faith in my own writing.

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Very, very occasionally.

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not!

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Oh man, back in the Glee days... yeah. Yeah, I have. Nothing that ever got published, though ;)

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

Not sure I have one! Ships come and go with the seasons, and sometimes they’re best left in the era you found them.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

The Shadowgast figure skating AU. It’s never going to happen, but I wish it had.

15) What are your writing strengths?

I would say probably structure, in terms of constructing narrative arcs and through-lines. I’m organized with my writing in a way that I am in few other areas of my life, haha. I’d also say my sense of place - I think I’m pretty good at constructing living, breathing settings and exploring how my characters interact affect/are affected by them.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

I have a tendency to be wordy (which you might surmise from the length of this post, lol) and repeat myself, usually by going over emotional beats that don’t need the extra reinforcement. On the other hand, I tend to underexplain certain elements (particularly, important plot details in fic, and character motivation in original writing), which can lead to confusion.

A couple years ago I would have said dialogue, but I’ve put a lot of practice into it and I honestly think I’ve improved a lot, which is pretty cool!

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’ve never done it myself, and it’s not generally my favourite thing to read (like @essektheylyss said, it makes me hyper-aware that I’m reading words on a page, especially if I have to follow a footnote somewhere). That said, I’ve definitely also seen it used effectively, so I think it’s more down to whether it suits the particular story!

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Yu-Gi-Oh!

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

As mentioned above, Only the Nightingale Sings.

#tag meme #this took me about an hour and i dont regret a minute of it #personal

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ificanthaveu · 4 years

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Right in Front of Me || Shawn Mendes

alternate title: The Difference Between Him and Me

Description: Shawn, your long time neighbor and friend, is home on a break. You’re not. Shawn finds out everything you never wanted him to know from the person he wished he never knew.

A/N: surprise! i feel like i usually talk a ton about about my WIPs but this one just kind of all came at once....and bc i can’t figure out a major plot point for my other one so i had to distract myself :) anyway :) Gabe is highkey based off the fuckboy i’ve been talking to and what better fuck boy name than Gabe??? I think I nailed it ok anyway i hope you love it

Word Count: 4.4k

“Shawn Mendes, you cannot keep calling me right when I get off work,” you said through a laugh as you answered your phone precisely at 5:00.

“I have nothing else to do, and you always answer, so I am just going to keep calling,” he explained.

“You’re back home for the first time in forever. Everyone has been waiting for this moment. Go hang out with Brian or Nikki or Gabe or literally anyone. You have to leave your house,” you said.

“I saw Brian yesterday,” he mumbled.

“And have you seen anyone else?”

“No.”

“Shawn, you’re home for a few weeks. Go out. Go do something,” you said as you climbed into your car.

“It would be easier if you were here,” he mumbled.

You sighed as you set your phone down for a second to rest your forehead on the steering wheel and put him on speakerphone.

“If I could, you know I would come to see you,” you said quietly.

You heard him sigh and some shuffling before he said, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve barely been at this company for a year,” you said through a strained voice. “I moved three hours away from everything I’ve ever known for it. If I go back for anything other than my parents, I know I’ll end up not wanting to come back. Especially if I see you or Nikki.”

“She misses you,” Shawn said after a beat of silence. “I talked to her a few weeks ago. She also told me you haven’t talked in a while.”

You sighed and leaned your head back as you finally left the parking lot.

“It’s hard,” you choked out.

“I know. I did the same thing,” he reminded you, knowing the pain of having to leave everything and everyone you love.

“But I am still scheduled to fly out to you in exactly one month. It’ll be here before you know it,” you said, trying to change the subject.

“I can’t wait,” he said.

“Now, I have to go because I’m meeting up with some coworkers for dinner and drinks. But you need to go do something, Shawn,” you said sternly one last time.

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Brian mentioned that Gabe was having a fire tonight,” Shawn said.

You swallowed hard and shook your head slightly before you said, “Then go. And have fun.”

“I will,” he said. “I’ll let you go then.”

“Ok, goodbye, I love you, please enjoy your time off,” you finished.

“Anything for you. Love you, too,” he said before hanging up.

As Shawn hung up, he leaned back on the chair he was sitting in in his parents’ backyard. His head rested against the back as he closed his eyes for a moment and just felt the sun hit him.

You’d been begging him for months to take a break, and he finally did it. But now he just wanted to see you and that wasn’t an option.

He looked down at his phone after a few minutes to see the newest text from Gabe, telling everyone to come over at 8. He reluctantly stood up and made his way inside to have dinner with his family before he went.

But he found himself picking at his food and just thinking about all you’d done in the past year. When you moved, you cut all ties. When Shawn moved, he called everyone he was friends with whenever he had the chance. Shawn was the only one you still talked to regularly. You were thriving, and he knew that, but there was a part of him that would love to be at a bonfire and look to his side and see you there.

So he forced himself to finish dinner, stare at the ceiling some more, and then walk over to Gabe’s house.

In the short walk to Gabe’s house, he walked past your parents’ house to see them sitting on their porch and reading.

“Shawn! You’re home!” your mom yelled from the front step.

Shawn smiled at her and walked up to the porch to accept her awaiting hug before he also hugged your dad.

“Yeah, I figured [Y/N]’s been begging me to take a break, so here I am,” he said through a smile as he leaned against the railing.

“Pretty hypocritical for her to be telling you to take a break when she can’t do the same,” your dad said as he shook his head.

“I know,” Shawn whispered as your mom gave a look of agreeance. “Well, I’m already late for Gabe’s, but I’ll see you guys soon.”

Shawn walked away and waved goodbye to your parents as he made his way down the street again. He cut into Gabe’s backyard from the gate on the edge of his house to see Gabe and Nikki sitting there both with drinks already in their hands.

Nikki was the first to jump up and give Shawn a big hug as he returned it. Gabe was next as he hugged him before handing him a beer.

“You finally took a damn break,” Nikki said through a laugh as she sat back down and Shawn joined her.

“Yeah, about time, right?” He said.

“I don’t get how you do it,” Gabe mumbled as he took a drink and shook his head.

“Neither do I most times,” Shawn said as he opened the can and took a drink, feeling himself relax as it went down his throat. “I have been going so fast for so long. I think I needed this more than I thought.”

Brian sauntered in a few minutes later along with a few of their other friends as everyone caught up around the fire. Shawn caught himself a few times searching for you, but you were never there.

“Gabe, when did you stop seeing Mari? I ran into her the other day and almost asked about you until she said some pretty horrible things about you,” Nikki said through a look of disgust.

Gabe simply waved his hand in front of him. “That was short-lived. Not worth it,” he said simply.

“You were pining after her for months. What happened?” Shawn asked with a shake of his head.

Gabe’s eyebrows went up as he carefully took another drink. “I got what I wanted.”

Shawn nearly choked but covered it up by standing up to grab a water. There was a part of him that hoped Gabe had changed from his childish ways, but he was proven wrong every time he talked to him.

“So you just pine after her until she sleeps with you, and that’s it?” Nikki said, her feelings close to how Shawn was feeling.

“There’s more to it, Nik,” Gabe defended himself. “I said what I had to say. She said things, too. And here we are.”

“She sure had a lot to say when I saw her,” Nikki taunted as she side-eyed Shawn, and he returned the look.

“I really don’t care,” Gabe said with a smirk as he grabbed another drink.

The topic was quickly forgotten as someone else started complaining about their job, but Gabe somehow always brought it back to him in the worst way.

Shawn slowly drank his water as he listened to everyone talk. It was different, but still so familiar. He was glad he was here.

“You know who I’ve been talking to?” Gabe said.

No one said anything as they waited for him to just say it so they could move on.

“[Y/N],” he said simply.

This time Shawn did choke as he coughed a few times. He could see Nikki stiffen up from beside him.

“What?” Shawn said a little too harshly.

“Yep,” Gabe said, completely not seeing how Shawn reacted. “I texted her a few weeks ago, and we’ve been talking for a while.”

“You’re fucking with us right?” Brian said from across Shawn.

“Why would I lie about this?” Gabe said as he threw his hands up. “I have a string of texts from her to prove it, but I would never share those extremely private messages with you,” he said with a smirk.

Shawn felt his head spinning as he rubbed his forehead, completely confused as to what was going on with you.

“I don’t get it,” Shawn finally said as he looked up at Gabe.

Gabe returned the look as Shawn shook his head.

“Don’t get what? It’s [Y/N]. How could I not want to talk to her?”

“That I understand. What I don’t understand is why she’s talking to you,” Shawn said as he tried to calm himself down.

“We’ve all been friends since we were babies. What’s so bad about me talking to [Y/N] again?”

“Yes, we’ve all been friends. We get that. But the two of you were never particularly close. She cut off everyone else in this group except Shawn for the sake of starting new, so if she was going to talk to anyone, no one thought it would be you,” Nikki chimed in.

“You’re just pissed because it’s not you,” Gabe retaliated.

“[Y/N] needs space right now. And I’m giving it to her. When she wants to come back, we’ll be right back to normal. I can’t say that for the whole group now because of what you’re doing,” Nikki almost yelled.

“It’s a two-way street, Nikole,” Gabe taunted as Nikki rolled her eyes.

“I still don’t understand,” Shawn mumbled just for Nikki to hear, but Gabe still heard it.

“Stop being so hurt about this, Mendes. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Shawn snapped. “Nothing is ever ‘just nothing’ to her.”

“Well, maybe she’s changed.”

“No, she hasn’t. She’s been through hell and back for six years. She is not going to change overnight to sell her soul to talk to you,” Shawn snapped.

“I’m seeing her tomorrow, but thanks for being so damn supportive,” Gabe snapped back.

Nikki gasped audibly as Shawn stood up, Gabe taking a step back as Shawn towered over him.

“You’re seeing her?” Shawn said quietly as he looked down at him.

Gabe folded his arms across his chest before he said, “Yeah, I’m driving down to see her tomorrow afternoon. And who knows, I might not come home until the day after.”

Brian’s hand wrapped around Shawn’s shoulder before he would do something he’d regret. Shawn shrugged him off quickly as he sat back down, and Nikki squeezed his wrist.

Everyone got quiet as Gabe sat back down also, the silence becoming deafening as no one wanted to say anything.

“Why are you really mad about this?” Gabe tested.

“I just told you,” Shawn sneered.

Gabe rolled his eyes and leaned back, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “There’s more to it. You just don’t want to admit that you’ve been pining after her for years with no reciprocation, and it only took me a few weeks to be doing everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

Nikki grabbed his wrist again, knowing Shawn would punch him if she didn’t.

“I’m so fucking sick of you,” Shawn said.

“[Y/N] isn’t,” he taunted again.

Shawn shot up and grabbed his coat he had abandoned by a cooler and threw his bottle in the garbage.

“Running away, Mendes?” Gabe tested.

Shawn turned around to glare at him once more. “You will always be the same piece of shit you were when you ditched Layla Peters at the middle school dance almost ten years ago. You have not changed, and you never will. [Y/N] will realize that.”

Shawn didn’t wait for the response as he stormed out of the backyard, Nikki hot on his heels.

“Shawn, stop,” she said as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him back once he had reached the front yard.

“I’m not staying, Nik,” he said quickly.

“No, no, I don’t blame you,” she said back as she shook her head. “I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

Shawn let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m fine,” he said through a forced smile. “Just shocked.”

“Yeah, me too,” Nikki said. “You don’t really think she’s changed have you?” She asked cautiously.

“She hasn’t,” Shawn said. “I’ve talked to her every day for the past year. She’s the same girl she’s been since day 1.”

Nikki nodded her head and looked down at her feet.

“She’ll talk to you again soon,” Shawn said.

“I know,” she said with a shrug. “We went from talking all the time to just texting each other happy birthday or quick check-ins.”

“She needed the change,” Shawn reminded her.

A beat of silence went by as Nikki just looked at him.

“How do you not get it?” Nikki said with a slight smile.

“Don’t get what?” Shawn said with a confused look on his face.

“She stopped talking to all of us, even me, her best friend, but she still calls you every day,” she said slowly. “Don’t you see it?”

Shawn sighed, knowing he had thought about that a time too many, but never wanted to think too far in case he was wrong.

“Then why Gabe?” He asked as he felt his throat tighten.

She shrugged her shoulders as she crossed her arms. “There’s gotta be something going on.”

“I’m going to find out,” Shawn said with a sure sound in his voice.

Shawn gave Nikki a quick hug before he finally left, practically running back home. He unlocked his back door and grabbed his car keys, glancing at the clock to see it was 1:00 am.

And he was going to go see you.

You were up later than expected, something unusual for you typically. You were too used to going to bed before midnight every night, so the fact that it was after 2:30 am when you got home, was something so different.

Something you weren’t used to doing.

But you were doing a lot of that lately.

You rested your head against your cupboard as you forced yourself to drink some water and eat some food, having not done much of that before drinking more than you planned while out with your coworkers.

You had multiple unread texts, most of them from Brian, Gabe, or Nikki, but you ignored them like you’ve been doing for the past year. You glanced down at your phone just to remind yourself that Shawn never texted you about the bonfire. You felt a pang, but you chalked it up to the alcohol in your empty stomach.

You forced yourself to stand up and wash your face off and take out your contacts. You looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment too long as you forced yourself not to cry.

The harsh knock on your door snapped you out of your delusion. Your eyebrows crinkled in confusion at the knock at an odd hour, but you figured it was just a coworker with something you forgot.

You threw your sweatshirt on and made your way to your front door.

Your face fell at the person standing in front of you.

“Shawn?” You said under your breath.

Shawn didn’t respond, instead just pushed past you to pace in your front room.

“Why are you here? What’s going on?” You asked as you rubbed your head.

“Gabe?” was the only thing that he could get out.

Your face fell as you looked at the floor, not being able to look him in the eyes. You were hoping he’d never find out.

“How did you know?” You asked quietly, your eyes fixated on his feet.

“He bragged about it to everyone all night at the bonfire you basically made me go to,” he said, his voice raising.

“Because you need to be doing things with your friends,” you snapped back.

“That’s not the fucking point and even if it was, you haven’t been doing a lot of that either lately,” he said.

“Why do you care?” You said, finally looking at him. “So what, I’m seeing Gabe, a friend I’ve known forever. Who cares?” You threw your hands up as you moved further into the room.

“Because it’s Gabe!” He yelled. “You know exactly what he does and who he is. We know that better than anyone. We have listened to his stories about fucking over girls since middle school, and suddenly you’re ‘talking’ to him?” He added air quotes and an eye roll around ‘talking.’

“This has nothing to do with you,” you said, forcing your voice to stay quieter.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you told me everything,” he said, the hurt showing in his face. “But I guess you don’t.”

“Shawn, don’t do that,” you said cautiously.

“No, I’m doing it,” he said. “I wouldn’t be half as mad as I am right now if you would’ve just told me. I would want to hear something like that from you. Even if I didn’t like what it was. So why didn’t you tell me?” He asked again.

You stayed quiet, knowing both of you knew the answer to that question as it loomed between you in the air.

“Because you were embarrassed?” Shawn tested the answer out loud, the smug look on his face making you want to slap him.

“I’m an adult, Shawn. I can do whatever the fuck I want. I’m not embarrassed that I’m hanging out with a friend tomorrow,” you snapped.

“What happened to you?” Shawn asked. “The [Y/N] I know would never fall for his bullshit. So who the hell am I talking to right now because it certainly isn’t her.”

That one stung, knocking down your last walls of defense, as you sat down on the chair by the doorway, resting your head in your hands as you rubbed your forehead and begged yourself not to cry, not to let him win.

Shawn knew he went too far with that one, but he didn’t move.

“Because I’m so sick of this shit,” you finally said, the tears welling up in your eyes as Shawn’s stomach dropped.

“I am sick of thinking that love is right around the corner for me when I’ve been waiting for years,” you yelled, the tears flowing as your voice went raspy. “I have been begging whatever God is listening to send me someone that’ll last more than one fucking date, and I still haven’t gotten that. I’ve barely gotten a guy to kiss me. So I’m done with it. I’m done waiting for true love because it’s just not fucking coming.”

“How come just a few months ago you were saying you’d wait forever for the right person?” Shawn tested.

“I have been searching for a fairytale love since I was a kid, and I haven’t found anything remotely close to it yet. I just realized that maybe it isn’t for me,” you croaked out.

“You don’t really believe that?” Shawn said as his voice went soft.

You took a deep breath and tried to rub your eyes dry.

It took everything in Shawn not to wrap his arms around you. He hadn’t done that in months.

“In seventh grade, when I was sleeping at Nikki’s house once, I told her I was scared I’d never find love. And she told me that we were only 12 and I had a lifetime. And there were boys that would beg to be with me one day. It’s been 10 years, Shawn, and I’ve gotten none of that. And then Gabe texted me,” you confessed.

Shawn didn’t say anything as he leaned against the wall across from you. He was out of words and questions to fire at you.

“Nothing you can say at this point is going to convince me to not see Gabe tomorrow,” you said as you finally met his eyes. “I’m going with anything at this point, so I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

“Please, don’t,” Shawn said just above a whisper as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Why?”

“You just said nothing will convince you otherwise. So I won’t try,” Shawn said calmly.

Your heart dropped as you just sat there.

“But you want me to convince you. Because you don’t want to succumb to this,” Shawn said.

“I’m running out of options.”

“No, you’re not,” Shawn said sternly.

It was your turn to run out words as you looked up at him, seeing his eyes fixated on the wall behind you. It was a wall of pictures. And he couldn’t stop staring at the one of you and him in Germany from over a year ago when you came to visit him. He was going to tell you he loved you that day.

You finally turned around to see the picture he was staring at, and you sighed as you turned back around to look at him as he finally met your eyes.

“You’re not out of options,” Shawn said again.

“Then what are my other options?” You asked cautiously.

Shawn tore his eyes away from you again, this time fixating on a picture of your group of friends in the second grade then his eyes traveled to a picture of you, him, and Nikki at junior prom when he flew home to surprise you.

“You really don’t get it?” He asked.

You didn’t say anything.

“My whole life for the past 21 years has revolved around you. Wherever you wanted me to be or not to be, I’d be there. When you wanted to talk, I was there. When you didn’t want to talk, I was still there. To watch you tell yourself that you’re scared you’ll never find love when I’m standing right fucking here is just the worst feeling I’ve ever felt,” he confessed.

Your heart dropped as you looked back down at his feet.

“When I surprised you for prom,” he said as he gestured to the picture. “I thought you’d just get it. I thought I wouldn’t have to say anything.”

“And Germany…” he trailed off. “I was so close to telling you when we were ducking into an alley in the pouring rain, and you couldn’t stop laughing. I was so close to just looking at you and telling you.”

“Telling me what?” You said quietly as you looked at him.

“That I love you,” he let out. “And not in the way I’ve been telling you for our whole lives. In the way, like I want to wake up to you every morning for the rest of my life.”

Your heart wrenched as you physically felt your chest tighten and the butterflies erupt.

You took a moment to remember what you always planned on saying to him on late nights where you couldn’t sleep and couldn’t imagine anyone loving you as you loved him.

“It was our sophomore year of high school. We had just turned 16,” you started. “You were playing the piano in the music room. You thought no one was there, but I was trying to find you and knew exactly where you’d be. And I just stood in the doorway and watched you play and how you put everything into it even when no one was around,” you said just above a whisper. “I’ve always wanted someone like you, but I’ve been telling myself I don’t deserve that my whole life.”

You looked up at him to see him looking down at you already. You took that chance to stand up and take a step closer.

“I’m not going to see Gabe tomorrow,” you finally said.

Shawn forced himself not to smile as he slowly took your hand in his.

“Thought nothing would convince you?” he tested, his face getting closer to yours.

“Guess you found the one thing,” you whispered.

You took your other hand and placed it on Shawn’s cheek, slowly tracing your thumb along his cheekbone as you looked into his eyes, closer than you ever had before.

“I love you,” you said. “And not in the way I’ve been saying for years. In the way, like I want you to stay here, with me, just us, forever.”

Shawn didn’t have to say anything else as he finally pressed his lips against yours, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and pulling you against him.

It didn’t last long before you were pulling away and he was enveloping you into a hug. His chin rested on top of your head as he stared at the picture on your wall again, fixating on the one of the two of you at your graduation last spring.

It was that moment he realized he was in every picture on your wall.

“I love you,” he whispered against the top of your head.

You pressed a kiss to his chest as you buried your head in it again.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back.

“Why don’t we go to bed? We can talk more in the morning,” he said as he ran his hands up and down your back.

You simply nodded your head as the two of you pulled away, and Shawn pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You took his hand and dragged him to your room. He immediately pulled you into his arms, kissing you one last time before you rested your head on his chest.

A comfortable silence filled the room as you tangled in each other’s arms.

“I guess I have to tell Gabe,” you whispered.

“I can do it,” Shawn offered. “In fact, I would love to do it,” he said with a little too much excitement in his voice.

You grabbed your phone from the table and clicked on your messages with him. You typed out a message as Shawn watched you.

“That good?”

“Perfect.”

You set your phone down again as you cuddled into Shawn and let sleep wash over you.

Shawn couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he looked down at you as you peacefully slept. He pressed gentle kisses to your forehead before also falling asleep.

He was home.

—

Hey, just realized I’ve been waiting for love my whole life and it’s actually been right in front of me the whole time. So, no, I won’t be seeing you tomorrow.

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mandowh0re · 4 years

Text

Peter’s Emergency Contact

Summary: Peter meets the Avengers. It doesn’t go well.

A/N: I’m a terrible person tell me to finish my wips. Also I’m sorry about May :(

P.s. it’s been a long time since I picked this fic up so there are some continuum issues, please forgive me.

Part1/ Part2/ Part3/ Part 4

Part 4

Putting it mildly, Peter was fucking bored. It was summer, but both Ned and MJ were on vacation with their families. And on top of that, it was way too hot to go out and do anything, including patrol. He was, however, on stand by if Karen came through with anything that required Spider-Man’s assistance.

A few floors down, the ex-Rogue Avengers were doing god knows what. They had been pardoned a month earlier and moved back into the tower. Peter had yet to meet them, though Tony seemed okay with them. But Peter didn’t really trust them.

Well, okay. He more-so didn’t trust Steve. Even though the others fought against Tony too, it was Steve that scared Tony. Peter noticed minute things that Tony would do whenever the Captain was mentioned. He’d fidget, or grab his left wrist, or rub his chest, or bite the inside of his cheek. Mostly stuff that would fly past most people.

But Peter wasn’t ‘most people’. Officially, Peter was Tony’s child. After a car accident killed May about eight months prior, Tony legally adopted Peter. Since then, Peter has learned all of Tony’s tells. Wanting to get to the bottom of these anxious ticks, Peter hacked his way around FRIDAY’s systems to figure out what had happened.

Peter wasn’t one to give into rage, but that day he spent a majority of his time in the gym or swinging through the city because he was basically vibrating from the emotion.

But they lived in the same tower, and maybe Peter was desperate for something to do, so he decided to head down to the common room where FRIDAY had informed him that a few of the Avengers were hanging out.

The elevator dinged and Peter walked out to the sight of… Christmas decorations?

“What the…” He breathed, looking around the room.

“You’re not Stark,” Natasha said, suddenly appearing in front of Peter.

Peter had to literally fight down his fanboy excitement to greet the literal Black Widow!

“Uh, no. I mean, technically I am but-”

“You’re Peter, right?” Was that a smirk? Peter couldn't tell.

“Uh, y-yeah. How-?”

“I have my ways of finding things out,” Okay, now that was a smile, “I haven’t told anyone though. So you’ll have to introduce yourself to them.” She said as she tossed her head to the side, motioning to the others on the floor.

“Oh, right.”

Peter followed Natasha farther into the room, gaining the attention of the rest of the crew including Wanda Maximoff, Vision (who Peter had actually met before), Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, and Bruce (who Peter had also met before as he and Thor showed up about two months after May’s death).

“Uh, who’s the child, Nat?” Clint asked, sitting on the kitchen island.

Natasha looked at Peter, who began picking at the hem of his shirt. A nervous tick of his own.

“Uh, hi, Mister Barton. I’m Peter. Uh, Peter Parker. Or, Peter Parker-Stark now I guess? I’m-”

“Wait, excuse me, Parker-Stark? Since when the hell did Stark have a child?” Sam cut in.

“Let him finish,” Wanda berated the man, who seemed to currently be baking cookies, “Go on,” She said to the other teenager in the room, smiling kindly.

“Right, so uh, Tony hired me as his personal intern like two years ago, and we got pretty close. My aunt died last December and since she was my last family, Tony took me in and adopted me.” Immediately after mentioning his aunt’s death, almost everyone in the room looked at him with pity.

“I’m sorry kid,” That was Clint again, “Life sucks sometimes.”

“I’m adjusting,” Peter replied, but he quickly changed the subject, “Why are you decorating for Christmas? It’s almost a hundred degrees outside, not to mention it’s July.”

“Ah, that was my idea!” Sam called from the kitchen where he was currently pulling cookies out of the oven, “Since we’re on house arrest until further notice, I thought we could entertain ourselves with Christmas in July. It’s something we used to do when I was younger.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!”

“You’re welcome to join, kid.” Bruce called from his spot on the couch.

“Really? Thanks guys!” Peter jumped onto a seat at the island.

“Have a cookie, man.” Sam said, holding out a plate of santa shaped sugar cookies.

“Aw sweet!” The boy grabbed one and took a bite, “Thanks!”

About fifteen minutes passed by when Peter’s senses upped a few notches.

“Any cookies left, Sam?”

Peter nearly choked on his current cookie and jumped up to see Steve Rogers walking out of the elevator.

“Yep, a few plates full. There’s sugar, gingerbread, and chocolate chip.”

A few seconds passed before the super soldier noticed Peter.

“Um, hello. I’m Steve, you are?” He offered a hand for Peter to shake.

Peter tried to respond, but the room suddenly began spinning. He gripped onto the counter to steady himself.

“Son?” Steve asked.

“Don’ call me tha’,” Peter tried to glare, but he wasn’t even sure he was controlling his face properly.

Out of nowhere his legs gave out, and black began overtaking his vision.

A chorus of exclamations rang out as everyone ran over to tend to the boy. Fortunately and unfortunately, Steve was the closest and was the one to grab Peter before he hit the ground.

“No! Let me go!” He struggled against Steve’s arms to no avail.

“Calm down, son, I’m just-”

“What happened?” Bruce asked, feeling for Peter’s pulse.

“He just collapsed.” Sam answered.

Then Peter began seizing.

“Fuck, Sam, start a timer to time the seizure. Steve, pick him up and bring him to the medbay with me. Natasha, call Tony.”

“Why are we calling Tony?” Steve asked, following Bruce into the elevator.

It was silent for a moment where Bruce and Nat exchanged glances before Bruce answered, “He’s Tony’s kid.”

“Since when-”

“Later Steve. One thing at a time.”

***

“This better be important. Like, life or death because you pulled me out of a meeting and Pepper-”

“Shut up, Stark. Something is wrong with Peter.”

Tony was quiet for a moment before growling back, “Explain, Romanoff. Now.”

“I don’t know, Tony. He came down and introduced himself and was hanging out with us when he just collapsed and started seizing. We’re taking him to the medbay now-”

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I’m in DC. I’ll have to come back with the suit but it’ll still take me an hour.”

“What do you want me to-”

“Do not let him out of your sight, Nat. I don’t want him waking up alone and you and Bruce are the only two I trust enough to watch him. Keep me updated, I’ll let you know when I’m there.”

“Got it.”

***

“He’s showing symptoms of anaphylactic shock,” Bruce said to the other two occupants after injecting Peter with an anticonvulsant, “ FRIDAY, is Peter allergic to anything? Override code six one three three nine seven five.”

“Peter is allergic to peppermint, and as well has severe reactions when in close vicinity to insect repellents.”

“Was there peppermint in Sam’s cookies?”

“One moment, Doctor Banner.” A few seconds passed before the AI came back with an answer, “Mister Wilson has supplied that the sugar cookies had peppermint extract in them.”

“Peter had several of those,” Nat said quietly.

“Okay, okay at least I can work with that. Steve,” Bruce called to the soldier while pulling out an epinephrine pen, “I think it’d be better if you waited with everyone else. Thank you for helping.”

Steve wanted to argue, but he looked at Nat who seemed to agree with Bruce.

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything else.” He offered before walking out the door.

As soon as the door shut behind him Nat spoke, “If Peter hadn’t accidentally poisoned himself I’m pretty sure he would have punched Steve.”

Bruce finished injecting the medicine and pulled the pen away from Peter’s thigh, “He still might.”

Natasha helped Bruce fix an IV drip in Peter’s arm in silence.

“You don’t have to stay, I can watch him until Tony gets here.” Bruce offered.

“He won’t be here for another forty five minutes. Plus, I’m supposed to keep watch. Stark’s orders.”

Bruce nodded in understanding, “His vitals are starting to return to normal. I’ll go update the others.”

“I’ll call Tony.”

***

Peter felt like he’d been hit by a train.

Had he?

Honestly he couldn’t remember what had happened. He opened his eyes to see Tony next to his bed (why was he in the medbay?) talking to someone on the other side of his bed. Soon his ears stopped ringing and he heard another hushed voice. Probably whoever Tony was talking to. Why did Tony look upset?

Peter turned his head to see Steve standing there.

And

What?

Without really having his wits about him yet, Peter jumped up and shoved the man back, pulling and knocking over his IV stand in the process.

“Woah, Pete! Calm down-”

“What? You didn’t get to kill him in Siberia so you thought you’d come and finish the job while I’m out?” Peter practically snarled.

Steve’s eyes blew wide, shock and shame overtaking his features, “Son, I-”

“And stop calling me that!” Peter shoved again, sending the captain into the wall, leaving a sizable crack.

“Peter!” Tony yelled, grabbing at the kid’s arm, “Calm down, bud. He’s not here to hurt me, or you for that matter. Can you please sit back down before you give me another damn heart attack?”

Peter obliged but his eyes never left Steve, who looked to be in too much of shock to really say anything.

“Cap, let the team know he’s awake, will ya?” It really wasn’t a suggestion or a question, more like a thinly veiled disguise to get him out of the room before Peter decided he hadn’t had enough.

Nodding, Steve hightailed it out of the room, but not before looking back at Peter and offering a quick apology.

It was quiet for a few moments, in which time Tony set the IV stand back up and made sure Peter’s IV was still in place. Finally the older man spoke, “Pete, buddy, what was all that about? How do you know what happened in Siberia?”

Peter’s demeanor fell slightly as he came back to himself, “Wasn’t hard to guess.”

“Mhmm. Wanna try again? Maybe with the truth this time?” Tony said as he sat back down next to his kid.

Peter crossed his arms and looked down at the floor.

“I hacked FRIDAY,” He mumbled.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Tony asked.

Peter sighed audibly before repeating himself, louder this time, “I hacked FRIDAY.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you were beat up and withdrawn after we got back from Germany. Which, okay, fine. We weren’t in a place for you to tell me what happened. But then the pardon for them was beginning to go through and every time Steve was even mentioned, you had these reactions like you were nervous or something. And I wanted to know why. I already had a pretty good idea. Then I saw the footage and I just… I don’t want him near you..”

“Peter, buddy. Look at me, please,” Tony gently held the boy’s chin and turned his head so that he looked at Tony, “Thank you for looking out for me. But that’s not your responsibility,”

“Yes it is! I can’t-” His throat catches and a lump forms, tears making their way to the surface, “I’ve lost everyone because I couldn’t protect them. I can’t lose you too.”

Tony pulls Peter in for a hug, and cards his fingers through the kid’s curls, “It’s okay to cry, honey. But I’m not going anywhere. Remember that. The universe will have to personally fight me before I let anything get between us. Understood?” Peter nodded slightly, but clung to his father’s shirt as he cried.

Eventually Peter fell asleep in Tony’s arms.

“I love you, kid. I’m not going anywhere.” Tony whispered, placing a kiss on top of the curls on his kid’s head.

And yes. Peter did end up punching Captain America. We don’t bring that up.

***

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Text

WIP #47

(Send me a number 1-60 [or a fandom/character I guess] for the corresponding wip) because I’m bored and brain-fried and have too many wips that’ll otherwise never see the light of day.

For @misssquidtracy who asked for “Number 47 - Thunderbirds (specifically da Gords)”. Luckily, this happens to be a Gordon PoV wip, so it’s all Gordon!

It’s also a Scott!whump, because it’s me and I’m terrible and I have way too many of these lying around, so watch out for that. There’s also a lot of this. Nearly 6k words, so enjoy :D

Gordon hated it when his squid sense started to tingle for no discernible reason. On a rescue, his squid sense was invaluable, warning him just in time that a building was about to topple, or that an aftershock was on its way. Lives had been saved by his mysterious power – hardly a power, more an instinct honed by too many years of military precision combined with a predisposition for pranks whilst living in a house with three older brothers. Alan joked about him being bitten by a squid, like that old superhero story about the guy and the spider.

It was easier to laugh it off than get into a debate with the astronaut about the biting habits – or lack thereof – of aquatic creatures his younger brother knew nothing more than the required basics about.

However, joking aside, Gordon’s sixth sense was particularly active, and while usually it was a life-saving boon, this time it was just a nuisance. He was at home, safe and comfortable in the clean water of the pool. He’d opted for lazy backstrokes, taking his time to reach from one end of the pool to the other before executing a neat flip to repeat the stroke back the way he’d come. None of his brothers were on missions, either. John was as ever up in Thunderbird Five, but from the far end of the pool he could see the holographic form of his brother just visible in the den. Alan was, last checked, also in the den – the two space mad brothers had decided to watch a documentary on, surprise, surprise, space, during what downtime they had – while Virgil had decided to do some maintenance on Thunderbird Two with Brains.

Scott was away on boring business, a stuffy CEO meeting that he couldn’t palm off onto the board of directors that were supposed to be handling that sort of thing for him, or even attend via hologram. They had insisted on a personal touch – literally – and as it was, apparently, a big deal, that meant Scott had to ditch the blues, send one last longing look at Thunderbird One, and let Kayo escort him in Tracy One to the meeting place.

The meeting had been due to start about an hour ago, if Gordon was getting his timezone calculations correct. Why Tracy Industries still had its headquarters in America, far too many hours behind Tracy Island, when there was a perfectly respectable landmass or two closer to home, he couldn’t quite fathom, but when he’d raised the point Scott and John had both fixed him with tired, don’t be an idiot looks, with just a hint of be glad you don’t have to deal with this nonsense to stop him from pestering further.

Kayo herself was who-knew-where, sneaking around in her sneaky Kayo way. He’d seen Tracy One return several hours ago, Kayo’s taxi service duties over until Scott called for her. Apparently, head of IR security did not equal anything in terms of Tracy Industries security, a fact that he knew grated on her. Still, she and Lady Penelope had run multiple background checks on all the men and women that made up Scott’s official security, and were as assured as they could be with Kayo not amongst their number that he was in good hands.

So if his squid sense could stop tingling randomly, that’d be great, thanks.

It didn’t, and annoyance turned to dread when the emergency signal went off, summoning them all to the lounge. A tingling squid sense, and an emergency? Gordon had a really bad feeling about that.

He made it to the den in record time, more damp than not with a beautiful trail of drips across the carpet that Grandma was going to murder him for later, and still in nothing but his swimming trunks. Alan made a face of disgust as he threw himself down onto the sofa next to him to face John. The documentary that the two astronauts had been watching was paused on what his old school lessons told him was a supernova eruption. The imagery of an explosion did nothing to help his jittery squid sense.

Virgil was last to join them, grease streaking up one sleeve and smearing onto the sofa he chose to sit on – at least he wasn’t the only one that would be facing the wrath of Grandma later.

“What have you got, John?” his eldest currently-home brother asked, looking far too laid back for Gordon’s liking. Not that there was anything wrong with it – Virgil still was far from relaxed, alert and ready for the briefing before launching himself down the slide of death – but Gordon found himself tense in comparison.

“A plane’s gone down in America,” John told them. “I intercepted a mayday call from the pilot; the GDF have already responded but it’s a bad one and they don’t have enough resources to get everyone out. Gear up; I’ll give you the details on the way.”

One of those, huh? Gordon flew towards the fish tank that housed his launch tube, slapping his palm against the hidden sensor and feeling the familiar downwards rush towards the hangars, splitting off from the route to Four and instead making a beeline for Two. He met Alan on the platform, his youngest brother jittering excitedly as always, just in time for Virgil to retract it, bringing them up into the cockpit.

Co-pilot was his chair, and the only person annoying enough to turf him out of it on ‘superiority’ grounds was Scott. Even Kayo knew better than to steal his chair, so Alan settled happily enough into the navigation chair behind Virgil, pulling up the screens ready for John to transmit the data straight though.

“You alright?” Virgil asked him as the hangar door rolled down, revealing rows of palm trees ready to bow in homage to the green beast.

“My squid sense is going haywire,” he admitted, no point in lying. Not on a mission. He expected John to scoff – his second eldest brother always slightly more dismissive of it than the rest of them. After all, there was no scientific explanation. All joking about fish and gills aside, Gordon was one hundred percent human. John didn’t scoff, and that made his squid sense reach an uncomfortable level. In fact, John didn’t say anything at all, his hologram not paying them any attention at all as he fiddled with something invisible up on Five.

“Well, it’s a plane crash,” Alan pointed out, his voice somewhat subdued. Virgil made a noise of agreement as Two’s engines roared to life behind them, punching them into the air. She was no rocket, but Thunderbird Two could still produce a decent amount of Gs. Gordon wished that was it, but the tingle had started before John briefed them.

“Guys,” John finally said, once Two was cruising at full speed towards America. “I’ve got hold of the flight details for the plane. It wasn’t easy; turns out it was a top-secret flight even the GDF didn’t know about.”

“That sounds ominous,” Virgil observed.

“It gets worse.” John’s face was grim. Really grim. Bearer of terrible news grim. “It was a private flight chartered for a top secret business meeting between the biggest aerospace companies in the world. Four CEOs were on board, including-” his voice broke in a very un-John-like manner, and Gordon’s stomach dropped.

“Don’t say it,” Alan begged. In front of him, Virgil’s knuckles were white on the yoke, Thunderbird Two’s engines whining as they went just that little bit faster.

“Including Scott,” John finished, visibly pulling himself back together. “In total there were thirty people on board, including the pilots. The reports from the GDF so far say that the rear of the plane is trashed but the cause isn’t yet clear. Two bodies have been recovered so far – neither of them Scott – but they can’t get into the main body of the plane. Scans suggest that approximately half of them survived the initial crash. I’m picking up fourteen life signs; two of them in the cockpit area so they’re most likely the pilots.”

“Scott’s communicator?” Virgil asked as sea gave way to land beneath them, the American coast looking unfairly beautiful.

“I’m not getting a response,” John admitted. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Anything from the telemetry?” Alan was tapping away at the screen by his chair, clearly manipulating the data John was sending him. Gordon envied him the distraction.

“It’s offline,” John sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. “Seems like it was damaged in the crash. EOS is attempting to reconnect but no luck so far.”

“Do you have any good news for us, Johnny?” Gordon asked hopefully.

“Colonel Casey is one of the GDF officers at the scene,” John offered, notably not rising to the bait. Well, Gordon supposed that was better than random officers, or worse, the ones that weren’t overly fond of International Rescue and didn’t fully co-operate. “Kayo’s just launched in Thunderbird Shadow for the airport they took off from. Lady Penelope is also on the way; she and Parker are already making enquiries to find out what happened.”

“They think sabotage?” Virgil asked.

“The CEOs of the four most powerful aerospace industries in the world were on that plane,” John pointed out. “It’s suspicious, at least.”

“Do you think it’s the Hood?” Gordon sent Alan a withering look. Not everything was the Hood’s fault, even if it felt like it.

“I don’t know, Alan,” John said. “Kayo thinks it isn’t his style. He’d have been looking to get money from them, not kill them.”

“He killed Dad.”

Gordon flinched. He wasn’t the only one.

“No-one said Scott’s dead,” Virgil said, voice steady even though Gordon couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so tense.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Alan asked. “I mean, it’s Scott. If anyone can walk away from a plane crash, it’d be Scott, right?”

“Let’s hope,” John replied.

The co-ordinates John had programmed into Thunderbird Two’s navigation system flashed up, warning that they were on final approach. Slowed to subsonic, they came to a hover alongside a GDF flier and got their first glimpse of the downed plane. It wasn’t pretty.

The final third of the plane no longer resembled the tail of anything remotely flight-worthy. Twisted and warped metal was crumpled and torn ragged. Men and women in GDF uniforms were hovering around the area, large lasers deployed to slice their way in. Gordon knew instantly that no-one who had been in that part of the plane could possibly have survived.

At the other end of the plane, the nose was also crumpled but not as far back as the cockpit windows. It looked as though whatever had downed the plane had occurred at the back, with the damage to the nose only made by the impact of the crash. More GDF were swarming the cockpit windows, cutting their way in with infinite more care than their counterparts were cleaving the rear.

The area of most interest to them was the middle third. While not the complete write-off of the rear, massive dents and warps in the metal warned of a serious crash. Any survivors would be in that area, but the condition of said survivors was unknown. All of the emergency exits were untouched; from a distance, Gordon couldn’t tell if they were wedged shut by warped metal, or if there was another reason that none of them had been opened.

“International Rescue!” Colonel Casey flagged them down, guiding them towards a space just large enough for Thunderbird Two to land. “You boys are a sight for sore eyes,” she greeted. “The fuselage is too thick for our lasers to get through without endangering the survivors inside. We’ve got the pilots under control, but we haven’t been able to make contact with any of the passengers.”

“F.A.B.,” Virgil answered her. “We’ll get them out. John said fourteen life signs?”

“Affirmative,” she said. “We have visual on both pilots. The other twelve are randomly positioned within the front half of the plane.”

“We’ll get them out,” Virgil assured her, and ended the call. “Gordon, Alan, get as much cutting gear and first aid supplies as you can carry.”

“You didn’t mention Scott,” Gordon observed, and he sighed.

“No point worrying her. You two know we have to treat him the same as the rest?”

Alan frowned.

“But couldn’t he help us?”

“If he’s fit to help, then that’s one thing,” Virgil told them. “But I don’t like that none of the doors are open. Don’t get your hopes up; this is a nasty crash.”

“Come on,” Gordon muttered, grabbing Alan’s arm and tugging him towards the module. “Faster we get in there, the faster we’ll find him.”

“I know that much!” Alan grumbled, yanking his arm back. “I can walk by myself, Gordon!” He stalked off ahead. Gordon let him, hearing Virgil catch up with him from behind.

“You don’t think Scott’s okay,” he said, quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“If he was, he’d have got word out somehow by now,” Virgil replied. “Even if his communicator’s broken, there are GDF swarming the place. He’d only need to catch their attention through a window.” He made a beeline straight for his exosuit, pulling on the heavy gear with the ease of practice and charging out of the lowering module door. Gordon collected their last hand-held cutter and shouldered a medical pack before following alongside Alan, who was kitted out the same.

Virgil’s shoulder laser was powerful and made short work of the fuselage that the GDF had been too reluctant to touch. A wrench with the claw arm and a thick wodge of metal slammed down on the ground in front of him. The opening wasn’t huge, too small for Virgil with his suit to fit through comfortably, but it was the largest they’d been willing to risk with the unknown structural integrity of the fuselage. Gordon slipped through first, hand laser in hand for any further obstacles, and let out a shaky breath.

“Woah,” he muttered, pulling his helmet on. The air was murky, dust kicked up and swarming around from the warped metal. None of the seats were upright; sheered metal struts protruded from where they should have been, in a circle around what was once a table. That had broken in two, the far end buried under the start of the truly warped area. “Hello? International Rescue!”

Silence.

Alongside personal effects and broken pieces of aircraft, the floor was strewn with bodies. Some were obviously dead, impaled by shrapnel made from the very plane that should have been protecting them. One in particular was grotesque, a metal strut that had once supported a chair stuck straight through his chest from where he’d been thrown on top of it. Gordon recognised him as part of Scott’s security detail and had to fight to hold back the bile.

Scott. Where was Scott?

Despite Virgil’s words, he wasted a moment looking around the scene, but there was no sign of his eldest brother. Unable to justify hunting for him before checking for signs of life in those immediately visible, he crouched down by the nearest person not obviously dead and checked their pulse. It was weak but there.

“Woah!” Alan mimicked his own reaction upon entering. “What a mess.”

“Alan, I’ve got a survivor here!” Gordon called him over immediately. “Mind your step.” His youngest brother picked his way over to him. “Find a way to get him out. I’ll look for more.”

“Have you found Scott yet?” he asked, kneeling down and opening his med kit. Gordon shook his head.

“No sign. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” Alan nodded, and Gordon continued his search. It was a grim one. He’d suspected as such when no-one had responded to his call, but even when he found a warm body, they were unconscious. Virgil joined him, exosuit stripped off and replaced with more medical kits and a small group of GDF personnel courtesy of Colonel Casey. Between them, it was a far more manageable task to carefully remove the survivors from the wreckage. Those pronounced as dead were left for the moment as John’s countdown of life signs inside the remains of the plane slowly ticked down.

All in all, they’d so far found eighteen of the twenty eight passengers, including the dead pulled from the ruined tail section. Ten to go, two of which were still alive according to Thunderbird Five’s scans. One of the ten was Scott. Gordon felt cruel when he found another breathing body and mentally cursed her for not being Scott. It wasn’t her fault; she was lucky to be alive herself, torso contorted in a way he knew meant a broken back. He should be relieved to find any survivors at all, not cursing them for not being the one he wanted to be alive.

He flagged her up to one of the closest medics and moved on. It was almost too dark to see at the back of the plane, up against the crushed wreckage. His toe snapped on something soft and he tripped. Landing in a crouch, he turned around to face the obstruction. A dead body. He didn’t even need to check the young man’s pulse; the poor guy had been caught in the mangled metal and torn in half. His face was twisted in pain and terror, blue eyes wide and glassy with death. It wasn’t Scott, but Gordon knew he’d be seeing those eyes in his nightmares nonetheless.

Turning back around, he moved to stand before realising he was by part of the fallen table. Various limbs had been protruding from beneath the large slab at intervals during Gordon’s search, but here there was a gap. A seat, wedged beneath it, had left part of the table at an angle. It was too dark to see into it, so Gordon palmed a glowstick and snapped it, illuminating the area in an eerie green. Immediately the silhouette of a body greeted his eyes. Mindful of additional shrapnel, he reached in carefully, fumbling until he found their wrist.

Thump… thump…

Slow, but there. At the same time, a GDF woman called in another survivor. One more than expected.

“Virgil!” he called. “I’ve got someone under the table with a pulse. Going to need some heavy lifting to get them out!”

“F.A.B.” his brother replied. He raised the glowstick above his head with the hand not measuring the pulse and waved it around. “I see you.” A moment later, Virgil and a trio of GDF officers appeared. “How much of this are we going to need to shift?” he asked. Gordon shrugged.

“I can’t see. Got a silhouette but not much more. Give me your torch.” He dropped the glowstick and kept his hand open for Virgil’s gear. It landed in his hand and he carefully manoeuvred it down before turning it on.

A once sharp grey suit was covered in dust, but that wasn’t what caught Gordon’s breath in his throat. It was the dark brown hair, and the broken but unmistakable International Rescue communicator on his forearm, less than an inch from Gordon’s fingers on the slow pulse, that made him gasp.

“Gord-?”

“It’s Scott.” He cut Virgil’s query off. Behind him, the GDF murmured in surprise.

Virgil didn’t ask anything more. Gordon stayed where he was, watching the limp form of his eldest brother with a lump in his throat as they moved around him. His fingers didn’t budge from the pulse, a fear gripping him that if he stopped measuring it, it would stop altogether. Orders barked and a concert of groans resulted in a large part of the broken table slab being cut up and lifted, letting what pitiful light had reached so far back into the cabin illuminate Scott’s body.

It wasn’t good. Blood matted his hair, a mark of something striking him in the crash. One leg was twisted almost completely around, a dislocated hip at best, and more blood stained his arm.

Virgil took charge, nudging Gordon out of the way. He went willingly only because out of everyone in the world, he only trusted Virgil or Grandma to handle his brother in such a broken state. He tapped his communicator.

“John, Alan?”

Both answered immediately, eager for news. Inwardly he was glad not to be the bearer of tragic news, not sure he could have managed it.

“Found him; he’s alive.”

“How is he?” Alan demanded over John’s sigh of relief. Gordon winced.

“Alive,” he repeated. “Virgil’s got him. It’s too dark back here to tell past that.” That was a bare faced lie; even as he spoke he could see Virgil attaching the medical scanner to him, still glowing glow stick highlighting the frown on his face. Neither brother called him out on it.

“I’ll update the others,” John said instead. “Keep looking for survivors; you’re on one more than our scans showed. There might be more.”

“F.A.B.” He ended the call. “Virgil?”

“All in hand,” his older brother said shortly. “Keep looking.”

“Yessir.”

Seven dead bodies later, all thirty crew and passengers were accounted for. He exited the craft, removing his now filthy helmet, only to almost collide with Colonel Casey.

“You knew Scott was on board the flight,” she said without greeting. Her face was displeased, and he figured he was the first Tracy she’d managed to collar.

“Of course we did,” he confirmed. “But that didn’t change how we operated.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced back at the corpse of the plane, where Virgil was still inside with Scott, carefully transferring him to a hoverstretcher, last Gordon had seen.

“Because it didn’t change anything,” he repeated. “Excuse me, Colonel, but my job isn’t over yet.”

He didn’t wait to be dismissed, heading towards Thunderbird Two’s open module to prep it for Scott’s transport. The GDF might be taking the other injured to hospitals, but there was only one craft their brother would be travelling in, and that was their own. He wasn’t naïve; Scott’s injuries were bad, beyond anything Grandma and Virgil could handle at home. John and Kayo were already working to locate a hospital both capable of treating him, and with enough security that he would be safe from ill-wishers during his recovery.

None of them were convinced this was a simple accident. Not with so many high profile individuals on board. The Hood aside, there were many people that stood to gain from the deaths of the four CEOs. Lady Penelope was already digging into the employees from the other three companies who stood to benefit from the deaths. Regretfully, the only CEO still with a pulse was Scott. All four of them had been towards the back of the cabin, all bar Scott caught up in the twisted metal that was the final third of the plane.

Scott had been lucky, for all that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Gordon wasn’t a medical professional, but Virgil’s face told him that much.

“The medical carrier is ready to leave,” Colonel Casey told him. He assumed she’d followed him to Thunderbird Two, although had at least refrained from entering uninvited. “As soon as Scott is on board, they’ll be on their way.”

“They can leave now,” Gordon retorted. “We’ll handle Scott.”

“I know you are concerned, but this crash is a GDF investigation,” she told him. “All casualties fall under GDF jurisdiction.”

Gordon was shorter than her – the only one of his brothers bar the still-growing Alan with that distinction – but inside the module bay he could still look down at her.

“Scott is International Rescue jurisdiction,” he corrected her. “And as the CEO of the family business, also Tracy jurisdiction. He’ll be treated at a location approved by us, not the GDF, and if the GDF have an issue with that, they can take that up with our head of security.”

“And your other employees?” she challenged. Gordon pushed away the memory of a man impaled by a seat strut.

“None of them survived.” He turned his back on her, readying the finishing touches.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” she said, and he heard her walk away. He’d barely known them, the six men and women wearing Tracy Industries logos, but Scott had. John, too, and Kayo had hand-picked the four members of security.

Alan appeared beside him, putting away what remained of the medical supplies he’d taken out earlier and locking the hand-held laser back where it belonged.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked, and Gordon shrugged, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Do you think this was sabotage?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone do this?”

Gordon sighed.

“It might have just been an accident,” he reminded him, even if he doubted his own words. Alan looked equally unconvinced. “Come on, let’s get her ready to go.”

“F.A.B.,” Alan said quietly, and they headed out towards the loading platform, only to be brought up short at the sight of Virgil approaching them, hoverstretcher alongside. Immediately they got out of the way, letting their older brother brush past and secure the stretcher to the wall.

“Gordon, pilot,” he said. “John and Kayo found us a New Zealand hospital. It’s a fair distance, but it’s secure. Scott should hold on long enough to get there as long as you don’t dawdle.”

“F.A.B.” Gordon wasn’t a fan of the implication that Scott might not, but had no choice but to trust Virgil as he jabbed the button to raise the platform. Alan stayed behind – understandable, as he hadn’t seen yet seen their eldest brother – but Gordon didn’t say anything. He could pilot Two solo.

There were many words that could be used to describe the speed they left the crash site and headed for the other side of the world at, but ‘dawdle’ was not one of them. She was no rocket like One or Three, but Two was still one of the fastest planes in the world, and Gordon was determined to get as much speed out of her as he dared. Virgil could take her faster, another Mach at least, but he wasn’t Virgil and didn’t trust himself to keep her flight smooth at top speed. He just hoped it would be fast enough.

About halfway there, somewhere over the large expanse of water that Gordon would much rather be in than over, Virgil contacted him, a hologram flickering into life in his periphery.

“If I send Alan up, will you go faster?” he asked. Gordon’s heart sank.

“Is he getting worse?” Please no, please not Scott.

“I’ve got him stable,” Virgil reassured him. “But he’s still critical. The sooner we get him to the hospital the happier I’ll be.”

“More speed coming up,” he confirmed, reaching for the throttle. “Uh, yeah, send Alan up, would you?” He could probably do with a co-pilot if he went any faster.

“Sure thing,” Virgil agreed. “He’s on his way.”

Sure enough, no sooner than his older brother ended the connection, the door opened and Alan stumbled through it, all but collapsing into the co-pilot’s chair.

“He hasn’t woken up,” the astronaut offered as he reached forwards to power up the co-pilot controls. As soon as the second set of lights lit up, Gordon accelerated the craft towards top speed. “Virgil’s worried about the head injury.”

Gordon grit his teeth, remembering the red matted into the brown under the powerful beam of Virgil’s torch.

“Head injuries are tricky,” he agreed. “But Virgil knows what he’s going, and John’s found a hospital that specialises in them.”

“I know,” Alan replied quietly. “That’s what worries me. They’re not telling us something.”

“The hazards of being the youngest,” Gordon groaned, unsurprised but as annoyed as Alan about it. Scott was their brother too, dammit. “So, what are they not telling us?”

“Have you seen the results of the scan?” Alan asked him. Gordon shook his head.

“Nah, had to leave to look for other survivors once Virgil was dealing with him, and haven’t seen him since.” Five seconds of hoverstretcher rushing past didn’t really count. “What came up?”

“No idea,” Alan sulked. “Virgil’s been keeping it out of my sight all journey. But I know John knows.”

Gordon growled and slammed the comm button.

“John, Virgil, I want the result of those scans,” he demanded.

“You’re piloting,” Virgil responded immediately. “No reading while you’re controlling my ‘bird.”

“Then summarise for me,” he retorted. “Starting with that head injury.”

“Just get us to the hospital,” Virgil ordered.

“Already doing that,” he ground out, hackles rising. “Stop trying to keep us in the dark! He’s our brother too!” Thunderbird Two lurched under his grip before Alan hastily stabilised them.

“What are you doing up there?” Virgil demanded. “Be careful!”

“Letting my imagination fill in the blanks,” he lied – he was, in fact, keeping his imagination carefully blank.

“Is it that bad?” Alan interrupted before Virgil could find a fresh retort. “Is he dying?”

Silence filled the cabin, and Gordon’s temper flared.

“You said he was stable!” he yelled. “Dammit, Virgil, don’t lie to me about that!”

“I said critical but stable,” Virgil corrected. “He is stable, Gordo, but…” He trailed off, and Gordon glanced over at Alan to see his own growing panic mirrored back at him in blue eyes.

“He’s comatose,” John said quietly.

“What?” Alan yelped. Gordon stiffened, hands threatening to crush the yoke in his hands before he forcibly relaxed them.

“You didn’t think I might like to know that?” he growled, flashes of hospitals and white coats and bodiless voices stirring in the back of his mind before he trampled them down ruthlessly. Not now. Silence answered him. Clearly both his conscious older brothers knew they were in the wrong, and that whatever nonsense they fed him about not wanting to distract him while he was piloting wouldn’t pacify him in the slightest.

Alan’s face had gone white, big blue eyes focused on him, and he knew his younger brother was remembering the last time he’d had a family member in a coma – him. He forced a smile for his benefit, which had about as much of an effect as any pacifying words John or Virgil might have tried to use.

“Why?” Alan asked, voice shaking. “Who would do that?”

“Kayo and Lady Penelope are looking into it,” John told them. “Whatever happened, they’ll find out. I’ve got EOS doing some digging of her own, too.”

“But… is Scott going to be okay?” Alan pleaded, looking back at Gordon, who was clearly the resident expert on comas. He remembered the fight for consciousness, pleading voices turning to resigned ones as they talked about their day yet again. He remembered wanting to respond so badly but being trapped by his own body.

The idea of Scott going through that filled him with dread – if he even did. Comas were different for different people, he’d found out later, when he’d torn through everything he could get his hands on in a desperate attempt to understand what had happened to him. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, except maybe the Hood but then even only in his blackest moods. Scott had done nothing to deserve that.

“He’s a fighter,” was all he could say.

The hospital staff were ready and waiting for them when they finally arrived, a two hour flight that had felt far longer. No sooner had he touched down and opened the module than they were swarming, hurrying Scott inside with Virgil hot on their heels, presumably talking doctor-speak and filling in anything they hadn’t already been briefed about.

Gordon and Alan were left in Thunderbird Two’s cockpit, watching out of the windows as their elder brothers vanished into the maw of the hospital.

“Do we follow them?” Alan asked after a moment. Gordon looked at the doors with no small amount of dread, and shook his head.

“They won’t be allowing visitors just yet,” he said. “Virgil will have a fight to stay with him, and he’s our medic. We’ll just get shoved in a waiting room with sympathetic looks and no news.”

At least, that was the stories he’d heard from his brothers, regarding his own accident. International Rescue might have more weight than merely the Tracy name had back then, but a patient was a patient.

“Come home,” John said, popping up from the dashboard and looking them both over. He looked tired, too, and Gordon wondered how much worse it was for him, stuck up in space and fully reliant on holograms to see Scott. At least the rest of them had been able to see – and touch – him. It didn’t take much for Gordon to recall the thump-thump of a faint pulse beneath his fingers as he clung to the sign that he hadn’t lost anyone else.

Not yet, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. He silenced it sharply.

“But-” Alan protested, clinging to the edges of his seat as though it was the hoverstretcher carrying Scott’s limp body.

“Come home and get cleaned up,” John said firmly, reminding Gordon that he’d spent several hours in a wrecked plane with dead bodies. It was hidden slightly better on Alan’s uniform, but a glance at his own showed red drying into brown on his yellow baldric. “By the time we get back there, they might have news for us.”

“We?” Gordon locked onto, and John crossed his arms.

“I’m not staying up here waiting for news to trickle in,” he snapped, and Gordon raised his hands in surrender.

“Never said you were, big bro,” he soothed.

“What about the investigation?” Alan asked, even as he started flicking switches and preparing the massive craft for lift off once more.

“I’ve got EOS on that,” John replied. Following Alan’s lead, Gordon took control of the massive Thunderbird again, her VTOLs roaring as they peeled away from their landing spot back into the sky. “I’ll let Virgil know where you are once he gets in contact.”

“F.A.B.,” Gordon acknowledged.

He pretended it didn’t hurt to turn their back on the hospital where Scott lay comatose, but even if it fooled his brothers (doubtful), he couldn’t fool himself.

...tbc..?

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #wip excerpt #gordon tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #alan tracy #colonel casey #thunderwhump #thunderangst

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dessarious · 4 years

Text

Sort of a Poll

So I feel like I should apologize to everyone for the shitstorm my brain has unleashed on me, which I will probably be posting once I can stay awake long enough to write something more comprehensible than random bullet points. But I’ll get back to that in a minute.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it or not but I work in a factory setting. Basically I have a moderately physically demanding job that’s all but devoid of mental stimulation. So if anyone is wondering where my ideas come from it’s basically the only way to get through work with out dying of boredom. For awhile I was pretty successful at keeping myself focused on the stories I’d already started. I’m sure you’ve all noticed that’s dropping off a bit. Apparently the more tired I am, the more off course my brain goes.

As an example, today everything started out well enough with me brainstorming for MMM and Guilt and Consequences. Unfortunately my brain took a sharp left to brainstorm for an original story that’s been simmering for awhile, but I haven’t really wrote much for. Next it jumped to a different MLB fanfic idea that I’ve had on the back-burner for months because I didn’t want to start something new (we all see how well that worked). Next was yet another original story that I’m too much of a coward to actually post, then to one I started years ago and stalled out on. Now all of this happened within the first two hours of my twelve hour work day. As you can imagine, it just got worse from there.

I ended up taking a ten minute nap at lunch which was a terrible idea but after that my brain finally decided to find something to focus on. It was not any of my current WIPs because why would it be? This is what I need to apologize for because while you’re all waiting for me to finish literally anything I’ve been posting and/or start the BH sequel my brain has decided to fixate on a ridiculously random and convoluted BioDadBruce AU.

That said, given the fact that my current sleep deprived state is likely to continue for at least a month at this point and I have no clue what is going to come out of my daily boredom, I’d like to know what you guys would prefer I do.

A) Only post updates for the stories I’ve currently posted to try and keep some form of continuity.

B) Post whatever insanity makes it to the surface no matter what it is.

With option B there’s also a question of whether you want to me to just do fanfiction or if I should try posting original works as well. My normal filters are low enough at the moment that I could probably get something up without immediately having an anxiety attack even if I regret it later when I can actually get a decent amount of sleep. But at the same time I don’t want to start posting a lot of original content on a blog that people follow for fanfiction if you guys aren’t okay with it. So let me know.

Anyway... this was a lot longer than I intended and I have no idea if it makes sense at this point but let me know what you guys think. I’ll read through everything in the morning cause I’m about to pass out. Thanks for following and letting me ramble.

~Dess

#authors note #why can't my brain focus on one thing?#sleep is for the weak

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mandrs-writes · 3 years

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My Writing Advice

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I vividly remember writing stories about my dog way back when I was seven years old. And when I was eleven I was bold enough to think I could write my own novel and sent drafts to my older cousin for editing. Writing was my life, my escape, my passion. And it still is. But I haven’t always had a good relationship with it.

When I turned thirteen, I struggled severely with undiagnosed depression and anxiety. High school was terrible for me. All that passion I felt for writing? Gone. It wasn’t until I was older, that I was diagnosed with depression and began taking antidepressants. At the time, I was attending college to become a nurse, which was literally just a crapshoot because I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life. Finally though, I came to the realization again that English, or writing, was more my passion. So I changed majors.

I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English literature with a focus in creative writing. Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Wow! You probably wrote a lot during college!” Wrong. While I did write a lot of thesis papers, did a short stint in poetry, I think I wrote one short story for my fiction workshop. But other than that? Nothing. I don’t know when it happened, but I developed a severe fear of writing.

What is a fear of writing, you ask? Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is, I would write something and get literal anxiety over it because I hated it that much. I would agonize over every little detail until I was ripping my hair out. I despised my writing, something I used to be so passionate about, it was now something that caused me great distress.

Why am I sharing this with you? Well, as some of you know, I am now a very active fanfic writer for ereri. I update roughly two fics a week and sometimes I sprinkle a one shot in there if I’m feeling sassy. So how did someone like me, someone who used to agonize over my writing, go from hating every detail of it, to sometimes pumping out roughly 10k words a week and actually enjoy my writing?

While I am no expert on writing, I want to share my advice, regardless. I’ve come into contact with so many great writers who I know struggle with similar things that I once did, and sometimes still do (I’m far from perfect). Here are some tips I have when it comes to writing. I hope it helps:

Get in the right headspace. Clear your area of any and all distractions. Lock yourself out of social media, turn off your phone, kick your significant other out of the house— whatever that looks like for you, just create the perfect space for you to create. Any distractions could easily pull you out of your creative mindset and ruin your flow. I personally always work in my living room, away from my desktop because I just know I’ll play video games if I try to write in my office. I find the perfect playlist for the scene I’m writing (I seriously have so many playlists for writing. If you don’t have Spotify premium for playlist making, I seriously suggest you get it), sometimes put a Pinterest aesthetic board up in the background, and just get to it. My fiancé knows when I’m writing not to bother me and he stays in the other room. Make sure you establish clear boundaries with your housemates when you’re writing. Interruptions can sometimes not be pretty.

Once you’re in the right headspace, JUST WRITE! Seriously, I know it sounds like a no brainer, but it’s a lot easier said than done. Whatever is in your head, just write it out. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad, silly or irrelevant. Just write it. Writing and editing are two very different beasts, and when you’re in writing mode you need to focus ONLY on writing. Again, I know this sounds very obvious, but I know from experience that this is much harder than it sounds. My best suggestion is to find a writing partner to do sprints with. Set a timer for 20 minutes and see how much you can write in that time frame. When you’re writing with a friend, it becomes a challenge to see who can write the most in that 20 minute time. You’d be surprised what you can do in that short amount of time. And what you write might actually be amazing! I know I’ve surprised myself on more than one occasion writing like this.

Keep editing and writing separate. I mentioned this earlier but it’s so important that you do this. Our brains work differently when we edit and write. When we write, we put our heads into a creative mindset where we are inspired to create and expand on new ideas. However, when we edit, our brain slips into an analytical mindset which is great for critiquing and finding errors but TERRIBLE for creation! That’s why you MUST keep these two things separate. Believe me, I know this is hard to do. I used to be SO SO SO bad at this. I would write a paragraph, go back and read it, edit it, and rip it apart. My confidence would be shot, and I wouldn’t be able to write anything else for that session. Eventually, I forced myself out of this bad habit with lots and lots of practice (again, writing sprints are AMAZING for this!). You might think that what you’re writing isn’t any good and you might be itching to go back and read it and fix it. But I assure it, it’s probably A LOT better than you think it is. Leave it alone. Let it sit. And when you’ve finished writing your chapter, let it sit even longer. Don’t touch it for another 12 hours. I’m serious. When you have a fresh pair of eyes and your brain is in the analytical mindset, THAT’S when you should be editing.

Always carry something with you to write your ideas down. Whether it’s your phone or notebook and pen, always be ready to write down an idea! Sometimes a juicy idea or thought will come to you at an unexpected time like in the shower, while you’re driving, or while you’re trying to fall asleep. That idea WANTS to be written down! Whenever I’m laying in bed, thinking about my stories, I’ll grab my phone and write down a line or phrase or idea that pops into my head. It might not make sense, but my brain is trying to get it out on paper so that’s exactly what I do. I might not use it, but at least it’s there if it does end up being good!

Find a friend/beta reader to read your stuff. And I’m not just saying this for editing purposes. No, I’m saying this for confidence purposes. I’ve always struggled with self-doubt. Like I said before, I struggle severely with depression and anxiety, and sometimes I get into really bad slumps with my writing where I think I’m the worst writer there ever was. My imposter syndrome flares up and I wonder what the hell I’m even doing with myself. Luckily, I have a friend and beta reader who refuses to let me falter when times are hard. And maybe we don’t beta read each other’s works in a traditional sense (I don’t really know how a normal beta reader behaves, to be honest). What I do know is, my friend will leave interactive comments throughout my whole chapter, commenting on what she likes, what she thinks works really well or what could be better. Having her interact with my chapter and tell me what is good and what isn’t, significantly boosts my confidence and makes me feel loads better about my writing. Honestly, if it wasn’t for her, I probably would’ve given up on writing by now. But it’s reassuring knowing my number one fan is always rooting for me on the sidelines. Get yourself a fan that roots for you, too.

There’s no such thing as too many ideas. I always hear people say ‘I have too many ideas. I don’t know what to do with them’. I know what you can do with them… WRITE THEM DOWN, SILLY. If you have inspiration for an idea, WRITE IT. I know you might feel like you have too many projects and that might stress you out. And if you are stressed by the amount of wips you have then maybe you should set some aside. But if you feel a great amount of inspiration for a new idea when you already have another idea in the works, write it anyway. Whatever you do, do not squander that inspiration! That idea wants to be written. Even if you don’t think you’ll do anything with it, it’s great practice and if the inspiration is there, it should be relatively easy to get the idea out on paper. I’ve written multiple chapter fics before because I had so much inspiration for the idea and then never posted them. I was so overcome with inspiration that I just NEEDED to write them. So I did. Maybe I’ll go back to them and finish them one day when the inspiration strikes me. And if I don’t, that’s okay. It’s good practice to listen to your inspiration and use it as it comes. Stifling your inspiration will only hurt you in the long run.

That’s pretty much all the advice I’ve got. This might be a little rambly and I’m sorry for that. I literally was just thinking about this last night and wanted to get my thoughts out so that I could maybe help some people that are in similar situations that I once was a year ago. If you want to write, but you don’t think you can, just do it anyway. Writing takes practice. It’s not something you can master on the first go. It took me almost a year to find my writing voice and I’m still developing it as I go. Don’t get discouraged. If this is something you want, you can do it! Just write!

#writing #my writing #writing advice #text post #i hope this helps #advice

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millennial-ring · 3 years

Note

Can we get more info on 5-7?

5. Dear God

So this one is ANCIENT (2012!!!) and idk why it’s still in my WIPs folder because I do clean it out/reorganize it every few years or so (which is why that unfinished powershipping christmas fic wasn’t on the list, cause I moved it to a different folder). Sadly the title makes it seem more interesting than it actually is - it’s just a few paragraphs and nothing really happens at all.

Russet eyes were glazed over as they watched the rain pelt the ground, each drop making tiny indents in the dirt, puffs of the still-dry earth floating up with each splash before settling down again, the process repeating over...and over... Rain drummed against the body of a beaten up jeep, the only prominent sound within miles, save to the sound of the rain falling in the grass, and the dirt, and the leather jacket Bakura wore.

The man blinked as water ran down his face, following the curve of his brow and rolling over the crease of his eyelid, flowing into his eye. The water pooled between his lids, blurring his vision for a few moments until he blinked again, and the water was squeezed out to mingle with the rest on his face, like a single, solitary tear. He inhaled slowly, then let the breath out in a quick huff, turning away from the long stretch of dirt road in front of him. Behind him, another long chunk of drivable desert. He growled under his breath and began to pace, wet sand squishing under his boots, gravel shifting with each step.

How could be trapped here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, with a flat fucking tire and no spare?

It was inspired by this Avenged Sevenfold song and I vaguely remember that it was going to be thiefshipping, about the various trials Bakura goes through to get back to Malik after a fight or something but... 🤷

6. Domestic Disturbance

This one is also super short, more fleshed out in my mind than on paper, and I started writing it after we had to call the cops on our neighbors because they were having a very loud and long argument (like, over an hour of yelling). Inspiration comes from the dumbest places with me, haha, but this is another one of those “why is this still in my wips” documents because I don’t have any intention of finishing it. After writing what I did I kinda had a “maybe these kinds of situations shouldn’t be your inspiration for fanfics, weirdo” moment and I scrapped it. But anyway!

The story goes that Bakura was playing some Wii game, lost grip on the controller, and accidentally chucked it and broke a vase because he wasn’t wearing the wrist strap. Malik hears the crash and comes around the corner, lecturing him about “how many times have i told you i s2g bakura why are you like this” even as Bakura’s already beginning to clean up the mess. Bakura gruffly tells him to chill out because nothing important was broken anyway, just “that ugly ass vase” and he holds up a piece for Malik to see. The tension thickens immediately and Malik speaks with measured anger instead of the usual screaming, so Bakura knows He Fucked Up. “That was a gift from my sister.” Bakura panics a bit on the inside, but outside he scoffs and he’s all like “even better, tell her she has awful tastes” because ykno. He’s like that. Doesn’t wanna admit he fucked up, doesn’t wanna take responsibility or acknowledge he hurt Malik’s feelings. At this point I’d stopped writing it, but still have the basic outline. The regular bickering becomes a super intense all out screaming match about basically anything and everything, all the tiny little things they’d been burying for as long as they’d lived together finally coming out, start demanding why they ever thought this would work and they’re just about to get to that great crescendo where they're about to break up (”Well then maybe you shouldn’t have brought me back!” “At this point I’m inclined to agree!” Bakura’s shocked. “Well...then is this going where I think it’s going?” “I think it is.” “Then say it.” “...” “Say you want to break up!” “I...Bakura, I...” when someone knocks on the door. Heyo, it’s two cops, saying someone called in a domestic disturbance. Malik snaps that they’re fine, still pissed from the fight, but obviously like no Malik that’s not gonna help. So one officer brings Bakura out into the hall to question him and the other stays with Malik. Cop asks if they’re together, how long, what the fight was about, etc etc, and then if the fight had been physical at all. Bakura recoils in shock and practically screams “No!” “You never hit Malik?” “I would never!” “And Malik wouldn’t hit you?” There’s a few things there, bc I wasn’t sure how I wanted Bakura to respond; make an “only if he asked wink wonk” joke that the cop rolls his eyes at, or stammer that “i mean he’s smacked my head once or twice but it never hurt and i was being super annoying at the time and it was more like playful slapping” but either way the cop asks for a more direct answer or for Bakura to elaborate and Bakura gets pissed, says Malik would cut off his own hand before he hit Bakura because obviously. Cop seems taken aback but nods, and then lectures Bakura a bit about volume, tells him maybe one of them should pack a bag and stay with friends or family for a few days. Their partner comes out soon after and the two cops leave. Bakura goes back inside, where Malik is standing with his arms crossed, looking shaken with red rimmed eyes. They look at each other, feeling awkward, but then they make tea, sit down, and have a calmer “are we really like that?” conversation. they admit a lot of their fights are pointless and stupid and they’re just fighting to fight because it’s Their Thing and aha, aren’t we so cute and quirky, arguing is our foreplay - which it is, but they admit they’ve taken it too far, gotten too used to snapping at each other when something happens, and some of their issues (like Bakura disrespecting Malik’s siblings, and Malik’s control freak attitude) really need to be sat down and talked out, not screamed out. They apologize, foreheads pressed together, and Malik thumbs a tear from Bakura’s cheek. Bakura strokes his fingers through Malik’s hair. Malik makes a “well you know the best part about fighting, right?” and Bakura laughs, and then it ends.

7. But he came back

So if y’all didn’t know I recently commissioned a(n amazing) fic from @/sitabethel (not properly tagging cause i don’t wanna bother them). In it, Bakura promises Malik he’ll come back after his final showdown with Atem, but ten years pass and Malik gets engaged to Seto. It’s corporate theifshipping and obviously I recommend reading it - but it’s based on an RP I did with a friend of mine years ago. In the RP, Bakura was pissed Malik hadn’t waited for him and does the whole “why did I even bother coming back I literally only came back to be with you?????” and Malik being like “Sorry? But you took a long fucking time and I had to do something to stop the loneliness.” We never finished it, but when we dropped it Bakura was starting to heal and move on and we had plans to end it powershipping and tendershipping - and Bakura catching the bouquet at the wedding and Ryou immediately being like >:) but anyway. The concept stuck with me and I really liked the idea of Bakura coming back to that situation and more so rolling with it - maybe a touch bitter at first, but hey, he’s nothing if not adaptable, and he absolutely invites himself into the relationship in the clunkiest way possible.

“But he came back” was the start of my own attempt to write something with that kind of plot. When I write a fic, I start with a vague collection of ideas or scenes I want to write, and then when I have enough to work with, I begin organizing them into an outline. This doc is just a very small collection of ideas and dialogue, mixing some things taken from the RP and my own ideas. It’s mostly things like how Malik and Kaiba get to the marriage point, starting with an impromptu kinda tipsy make out session hidden away in the kitchen during a party Yugi’s throwing, and how they navigate each other’s trauma and fumble their way into a genuine romance despite everything. I’ve never managed to sit down and work it out into an outline of any kind, and the way I wanted to explore Malik and Bakura’s relationship before the show down, Malik and Kaiba’s relationship building afterwards, and then the relationship building with all three of them meant 30 chapters, at least (the original rp is over 2,500 pages and again, we had only just started with Bakura wanting to ask Ryou out and going to Malik for advice adjklj, when we dropped it) and well. yall know i’m bad at writing multi fic chapters

#wip tag

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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 4 years

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totally stealing @honeybabydichotomy‘s meme-adaptation concept re: i have a handful of things that could be described WIPs and nearly all of them i already can’t shut my mouth about, but here is a trip through the GOOGLE DOCS GRAVEYARD of abandoned fandoms past (mcu, trc, something too embarrassing to list above the cut so you’ll just have to CLICK and find out)

first up, the last fic i never actually wrote for, lmao, american idol season 8 RPF fandom, back in 2010... this was going to be a bigbang fic but in keeping with my terrible track record re: challenges etc. i did not finish it, although in my defense that had at least something to do with spilling coffee all over my laptop right around the time i started a very hours-intensive job with a huge commute. when i look at this now i’m like, this sure was me writing ten years ago, but i still love the emotional architecture of any story in which one deliberately shut-off and long-repressed individual is uncomfortably thawed by the miracle of someone else’s open-hearted joie de vivre; it’s the oldest story here but arguably the closest to an actual WIP in that the ghost of that idea is the seed for the divorced quentin AU i harbor hopes of one day writing; you can definitely see the Relevant Vibes in this exchange, i think, although i feel the need to clarify that adam lambert enjoying twilight is a thing he said on national television, i wouldn’t do that to someone on my own:

Veselka is crowded, but despite the bitter February cold, Kris doesn't mind waiting outside for twenty minutes, leaning against the glass display case of the expensive toy store next door, separated from Adam by little more than an inch. "So - okay, this is kind of terrible. Like, worse than the Twilight thing. But I feel like you should know who you're dealing with, so."

"It can't be that bad."

Adam just smiles knowingly. "Oh, can't it?"

"Hit me with your best shot," Kris says. Something twitches in his stomach as Adam raises his eyebrow to that.

Adam leans down to whisper in Kris's ear, sending inexplicable sparks down Kris's neck. "Sometimes, when I'm standing in the street or on the subway or something, I like to watch people go by and try to guess what they're like in bed."

Kris blushes. "Very mature," he says with a nervous laugh, embarrassed about his own embarrassment.

Adam holds up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Hey. We're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars," he intones. "Oscar Wilde."

"Do you think that's true?"

"I think it is. At least - " Adam tilts his chin up, a mischievous glint in his eyes " - I identify with it."

Kris searches for something to say that won't make him seem hopelessly square. "What's the view like from down there?"

Adam gazes at the night sky, where Manhattan's perpetual glow blots out all but the brightest lights. "I like it. You see more of them this way."

Kris thinks he's spent six years priding himself himself on keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding the pull of the horizon or the distraction of the sun. "So. Mr. Gutter." He points to a thirty-something man getting out of a parked Ford across the street. "What's he like?"

next up: an unpublished MCU snippet! this was a peggy character study set at howard’s funeral, also an excuse for me to have feelings about tony stark; idiotically, i actually have a complete draft of this, and got a really brilliant beta job from @nimmieamee, but then never went back and revised it and also could not bring myself to post it when despite being passable as done i could tell in my bones it was simply Not Working, even though parts of it i really liked:

Howard had not taken to aging with grace. It, too, offended him: the body betraying the dream of perfectibility. Dodging it had taken up an increasing percentage of his time. He took up jogging, early among the public, too late in his life: a few months in and a busted knee earned him doctor's orders to abandon that pursuit. His bones were already too brittle to benefit. Howard himself had become brittle long ago. You could blame the war; but that was what happened to people with no give to them. They were like the driest branches waiting for a storm, only unlike branches they recognized on some level the precariousness of their structure, and consequently dedicated themselves to forgetting it.

Howard was undeterred. (Being deterred also went against his every principle.) He had swimming pools installed, outdoors in Los Angeles, adorned with artificial rocks arranged just so to give the impression of a hot spring, and indoors in West Hampton, heated, lit underwater with a yellow-green glow throwing tendrils of light on smooth white walls. Fitness gurus and nutrition consultants were put on retainer, a bicoastal platoon to prevent malfunctions; physical therapists were brought in to recalibrate around malfunctions. They quit with increasing frequency, as his temper frayed along with his body. He gave up, in sequence, smoking, alcohol, red meat, all meat, alcohol, sugar, processed grains, alcohol, salt, and direct sunlight--although by the time of this last pronouncement, it produced little noticeable effect.

Lately he had become obsessed with the idea of cryogenic freezing: the fantasy of going to sleep and waking up in a time when his intellectual heirs had figured out how to repair and replace his rusted pieces. Skin firmed and thickened; knees stitched back to mint condition; a whole new heart, perhaps, grown in a jar or assembled from compounds yet to be constructed. "Wouldn't you take the chance, if you had it?" he had murmured, eyes going dreamy as they did when he talked of his latest missiles.

Peggy pictured Steve in the Arctic, his hyperactive cells stilled by the indifferent cold. She shivered, like a child hearing a ghost story, and said no, she wouldn't.

finally, two stories from a fandom i actually never published any stories with, or engaged with in any meaningful way: the fuckin raven cycle. the dumbest books on god’s green earth. the first was a ronan story where gansey actually dies and stays the fuck dead, and ronan handles it by being a huge asshole, and then, unlike in these hideous godforsaken books, actually decides on purpose to be a better person.... i’m realizing revisiting this now that some of the itch of this story i’ve finally gotten out of my system via damage control, but the GENIUS IDEA of ronan giving matthew an actual soul by giving up the dream power and thus becoming an actual human, sadly, does not really transfer, even though it’s the best concept i’ve ever thought of in my life. anyway, whatever, i have a type:

He opened the door. Adam and Blue were looking at him with expressions he couldn't decipher. Noah was looking at the floor.

"Are you—" Adam started. Ronan watched the word okay die of its own irrelevance in Adam's mouth.

"None of you were invited," Ronan said.

Blue started, "We just—"

"Sorry," he said, loud enough to drown her out. "But this is a very exclusive party. That means no rednecks"—he pointed at Adam—"no bitches"—Blue—"and no pussies"—Noah. "So I'm going to need you all to leave."

He focused his eyes on Blue. She looked like she wanted to slap him. This was familiar. He wanted to go back to the time when his only interactions with Blue Sergeant involved saying something and watching her look at him like she wanted to slap him. Things had gotten complicated after that. Then Gansey had died. Ronan couldn't articulate the connection, but he felt strongly that it was there.

"Maybe I wasn't clear," he said. "What I mean is: get the fuck out of my house."

and last but not least, another TRC story, motivated initially by dreaminess and then sporadically continued after TRK came out (seriously like ever 18 months i dig this one out and write another 500 words and give up again) out of spite - a story where, because fuck stief, adam parrish gets a cell phone, ronan lynch gets a job, and no one assumes that finally having sex means you’re basically married forever without even talking about if you’re boyfriends. this one is like, so close to being “done” in that it almost goes beginning to end and has a lot of individual lines i actually like, but has always been very difficult to pull together because of the reality that maggie stiefvater wrote a series such that ronan lynch acting like a decent boyfriend or experiencing character growth or talking about his emotions is literally out of character, which makes it hard to write a dreamy summer hook-up story; i was actually thinking earlier this year of picking it back up YET AGAIN, but then damage control ate my brain... one day, perhaps, for the satisfaction of having finished... or i might just listen to “cruel summer” by taylor swift while meditating on it for a couple million more hours:

“Did you call me over just to give me the fucking silent treatment in person?” Ronan said. It sounded less vicious than it should have. Like he had been aiming for a growl and somehow landed on a mumble.

I didn’t call you over, Adam wanted to say, but it wasn’t actually true. He had. That seemed wrong, though. Ronan Lynch wasn’t someone to be called over. He was too wild and spiteful for that. Even Gansey couldn’t manage it. The rest of Ronan’s world had given up trying long ago.

But when Adam had called, Ronan had come.

He felt like he might throw up.

“I’m not giving you the silent treatment,” he said instead. “I’m just—“ But he didn’t know what he was doing. So he switched tacks. “You just—“ But he didn’t know that, either. And asking Ronan what the fuck are you doing had never yielded helpful results.

So Adam stuck to the truest thing, what he had worked his whole life to make true. “I’m leaving in three months.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything,” Ronan spat. This time he was closer to the expected intensity, but there was still something strange under his voice. Maybe not. Maybe Adam was just having a nervous breakdown.

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calumance · 4 years

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La Devotee - Part XIV

Warnings: cussing (probably), gets a little racy but not many details, fluff

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: The first night with Calum gone, Emily decided to get a little brave over FaceTime.

A/N: It’s Saturday (kind of, it’s midnight so technically it’s Sunday), but as promised I am updating so that I don’t forget about this lovely WIP. Thank you to everyone who continues to read!! 💖💖🥰🥰(also thank you to @thesubtweeter for finding that gif for me, love you mucho 😘) Feedback and requests are always welcomed!!! (Want to be tagged? Let me know!)

Masterlist

After the guys were out of sight, Crystal held onto me and allowed me to cry for a while. Once I composed myself and we walked out together. She parted from me as I approached Calum’s Range Rover, and I waved at her. I was standing at the driver’s door, I realized I had never driven Calum’s car, only driven in it. If it had been up to me, we would’ve taken my car, but he thought his baggage fit better in the back of his car. As I sat in the driver’s seat, I ran my hands up and down on the steering wheel. I turned the key in the ignition and listened as the engine roared to life. Before pulling out of the parking spot, I dialed Mikayla’s number. If I didn’t actively talk to someone, I was going to cry the entire way home.

“Hey, Em.” She knew today was the day Calum was leaving, and she knew how it was absolutely destroying me. “How’d it go?” Even though I knew she would literally take my call at any point during the day, I glanced to the clock to see what time it was. A sigh fell from my chest realizing she was at lunch, it meant I had the entire drive home to talk to her.

“I ugly cried in the middle of the airport.” I ran my hand over my forehead and sighed. “I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I just, sobbed, and it’s not even like he isn’t coming back. I just wasn’t ready.” My elbow leaned on the edge by the window as I turned onto the highway.

She sighed, trying to console me. “Did you tell him?” I wanted to slam my head on the steering wheel. Of course I wanted to tell him, that would’ve been the best moment to tell him. It took everything in me to not tell him. My resounding silence gave away my answer. “Emily, why did you not tell him? You made it very clear to me that you want to tell him in person, that was your last chance for the next two months.” She kept going.

I hit my hand on the steering wheel, the anxiety and the anger finally boiling over. “Because what if he doesn’t love me back?” I yelled, and she stopped talking, almost as if I stole her voice right out of her throat. I cleared my throat and spoke softer, “What if he’s not at the same point I am in our relationship? I don’t want to tell him I love him right as he’s leaving for tour and have him just say, like, ‘okay’ or something.” Mikayla stayed quiet, just letting out a sigh. My eyes closed for a split second, trying to calm my own mind. “I know I should’ve told him, but he didn’t exactly make me feel as if he wanted to hear it.”

The sound of her fork clinking told me she was getting frustrated with me. “Emily, he is in love with you. It’s obvious by the way he looks at you. He’s probably just waiting for you to say it first.” My stomach twisted with regret, but it wasn’t like I could go back and say it. With a sigh and another minute of absolute silence, I changed the subject and continued to drive towards the house. Our timing was perfect since right as I pulled into the driveway, Mikayla said it was time to go back to work. I bid her a goodbye and quickly made my way into the house.

The house was eerily quiet, and eerily empty. My heart twisted as I placed Calum’s car keys in the bowl next to the door. Duke came padding towards me, tail wagging. As I walked behind him toward the back door, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to text Calum. “I just got home. It’s quiet here without you. I hope you have a safe flight. Call me when you land. Xx” My phone found it’s home in my pocket as I tried to continue the rest of my afternoon alone.

It was around nine in the evening when I found myself cuddled underneath a blanket on the couch with Duke sleeping in the bend of my knees. My phone started to ring, causing both Duke and me to jump. Realizing how long it had been since I got home, I scrambled to grab my phone. My stomach filled with butterflies seeing his face on my screen. “Hey, handsome.” I answered, my bottom lip finding its way between my teeth.

“Hey, sunshine. We just landed, we’re headed for the hotel and then we have an insanely busy day tomorrow.” His voice was like angels singing. My stomach twisted as all I could think about was touching and kissing him.

My eye shut and I rubbed my cheek. “I’m glad you had a safe flight. Do you want to face time me once you get to your hotel room?”

“Yeah, I should be settled in like a half hour. I’ll call you then?” There was voices all around him, sounding like they were directing him. Then it suddenly got loud, like he was in a crowd. “I’m sorry, babe, I have to let you go. Talk to you in a bit.” I wasn’t able to get a word in before he hung up. I tapped my phone against my forehead a few times before standing up and heading towards the bedroom. Duke followed behind me and jumped onto the bed. I started shuffling through the drawers that held my clothes remembering I had something that I had bought a long time ago that Calum would enjoy.

I looked at myself in the mirror, the blue lace nightie still fitting the way it had when I bought it almost four years ago. I lifted my arm and ripped the tag that was still attached off and then spun around and looked at the little dog who’s tail began to wag. “What do you think? You think your pops will like this?” Duke barked as if he completely understood what I was saying and I giggled, leaning forward to scratch under his chin.

Just as I finished scratching Duke’s chin, my phone rang. I answered, holding my phone just far enough that Calum was only able to see from my shoulders up. When he showed up on my screen, he was laying on a bed, covered in white sheets. He looked tired, but not tired enough to flash me a bright smile. “Hello, my love.” He said while lifting his free hand to place it under his head.

“How’s the hotel, darling?” I sat on the end of our bed and held onto the phone. Duke trotted up next to me and I looked down at him.

Calum shrugged and looked around. “It’s alright. I’ve stayed in so many hotels that they all are kind of the same at this point. Nothing will be as good as my own bed with my girl in it.” He turned to reach for the lamp and I felt my cheeks flush.

“Your girl, huh?” He looked at the phone, a smirk pulling at his lips. He just nodded, and then put his hand back under his head. My eyes flickered down at my specially chosen outfit for him, and I pulled my lips into my mouth out of nervousness. “You don’t have to share your room or anything, do you?”

He shook his head. “No, we always get our own rooms. I love those guys, but not that much.” He chuckled and I couldn’t help but chuckle back.

My eyes flickered back to my phone screen, and I pulled my eyebrows together. “Can I show you something?” He nodded, eyebrows furrowing. I pushed myself off the bed and held onto the phone perfectly still as I placed it on the TV stand. “Promise you’ll be nice?”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled, “I’ll be nice, what are you going to show me?” After I was sure my phone was stationary, I stood up, exposing the lace outfit. His eyes widened and he shifted so that he was sitting up and ran his hand that had been under his head down his face. His fingers paused on his lips, but the wide smile behind his fingers could not be hidden. “When did you get that?”

I looked down and ran my hands down my sides. “Like, four years ago? I’ve never worn it, the tags were still on it when I just put it on.” My head lifted back to my screen and I bit my bottom lip. “Do you like it?”

Calum let out a breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck, yeah, I like it. What does the back look like?” He asked, his face flushing a slight pink. As he chewed on his bottom lip, I turned to show him the open back and the large amount of exposed skin. He released his lip and replaced it with his finger and stared at the phone, his eyes darkening. As I turn back around, he smirks and runs his hand through his hair again, only this time leaving his hand on the top of his head. “So, if this is what I get for being gone one night, what am I going to get when I’m gone for thirty nights?”

I smiled and shifted my weight, biting my bottom lip. “Not sure, I guess we’ll have to see in thirty days.” As I picked up my phone, Calum blinked and his eyes returned to their normal color. Calum cleared his throat as I sat back at the end of the bed. “I think I might go change and get ready for bed. Do you want me to let you go and we can talk tomorrow?”

Calum ran his hand up and down his cheek, “Can I see your outfit one more time?” I nodded and put my phone back on the TV stand. “You’re so beautiful, Emily. Can I see the back again?” Without a word, I turned around. “Thanks, baby. I just wanted to see you one more time. Will you call me back when you get into bed?” I smiled and nodded. He smiled back and hung up.

After I was sure he had hung up, I pulled out a pair of shorts and grabbed one of Calum’s sweatshirts that he left behind. Duke and I traveled around the house for a while, making sure everything was locked up and grabbed a glass of water. Once all the lights were off and I was sure the doors were locked, Duke and I made our way back to the bedroom. Duke jumped back onto the bed as I set my glass on the night stand and then made my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I leaned against the door frame to stare at the empty bed in front of me, Duke’s tail wagging slightly, as if to remind me that it wasn’t completely empty.

I climbed into bed, leaving the blanket around my hips. The face time tone rang out a few times before it ended and asked if I wanted to try again. Today had been a long day, so it wasn’t surprising that he probably fell asleep in the amount of time it took me to get ready for bed. After I placed my phone on the night stand, I rolled onto my side and pulled Calum’s sweater over my nose to take in the scent of his cologne. Tonight was going to be a rough night.

My eyes were wide open when my alarm started going off. I closed my eyes in frustration and groaned. The entire night as spent tossing and turning. If this is how I am going to sleep every night for the next two months, then I have no idea how I am going to survive. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest and rubbed my eyes before stretching my arm out to shut my alarm off. As I shut the alarm off, I grabbed my phone and saw there was a text message from Calum. The time stamp was from two hours ago. He must’ve had problems sleeping as well. “I’m sorry I missed your call, sunshine. I fell asleep, been tossing and turning all night. Have to be up in a few hours for an interview, I miss you so, so much. Have a great day at work. Xx Cal.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tapped a message back to him. “It’s okay, you had a long day yesterday. I tossed and turned all night as well, the next two months are going to be horrible. Have a great day as well, honey. Xx” My phone bounced a little as I tossed it onto the bed to head into the bathroom to shower, and get ready for work.

My shower felt refreshing, but it still didn’t rid of the exhaustion sitting behind my eyes. After curling my hair and putting on my make up, I pulled on a pair of tight black jeans, a white tank top, a pale pink, loose fitting, long sleeved button up, and a pair of pointed toe high heels, the same color as my top. I grabbed my phone and placed it in my back pocket as I opened the bedroom door and followed Duke into the kitchen. The door slid open as I opened it for him and he went bounding outside into the grassy patch in the backyard. I left the door open for Duke to come back in when he was done when I turned and started making my coffee. Duke came trotting back in as soon as I put his food bowl down on the ground and gave the top of his head a light scratch.

After locking the back door, I grabbed my bag, and my coffee and squatted next to Duke, “Have a good day, handsome boy.” I kissed the top of his head and headed out the front door, locking it behind me.

“Welcome back!” Mikayla announced, turning in her chair to greet me. “How was your first night with Calum gone?” Mikayla put the straw hanging out of her cup to her lips as she spun to watch me as I made my way to my desk.

I placed my bag in the bottom drawer and closed it with my foot. “I tossed and turned all night. I don’t know how I’m going to survive two months.” Mikayla gave me a look asking if anything else happened. I placed my hands over my face in embarrassment as I plopped down into my chair. “I found this lace outfit I’ve had for a long time. The tags were still on it, I figured he’d enjoy it.” She raised her eyebrows. “It was your idea! Why are you acting so surprised?”

She dropped the straw out of her mouth and laughed in offense, “I told you to do something sexy, not basically stand naked in front of the phone.”

“Oh god.” I laughed and put my hands over my face again. “I don’t even know how to top that? Now he’s going to expect me to be half naked every time he calls me at night.” My phone vibrated in my back pocket and I pulled it out. “Busy day ahead of me. I’ll FaceTime you tonight when I get back to the hotel. Thinking about you, I know I haven’t seen you today, but you look beautiful. Xx Cal.”

My cheeks flushed, and I tapped my phone, trying to think of what to say back. “Thank you, maybe I’ll take a picture and send it to you later. Can’t wait for the FaceTime date tonight. Sorry I don’t have any sexy outfits planned. Xx”

The gray bubble appeared and I waited for the message to come through. “That’s okay, sunshine. I just want to see you, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I would love a picture, you always dress so wonderfully for work. Michael says hi. Xx Cal.” I set my phone on my desk and concentrated on my work before my boss bit my head off.

When lunch came around, I told Mikayla that I’d meet her downstairs. As I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, I pushed the door to the restroom open. Quickly, I stood in front of the floor length mirror and snapped a picture of myself. Before leaving the restroom, I sent the picture to Calum without a caption. When I opened the door Mikayla was standing on the other side, causing me to jump out of my skin. “What-cha doing, Em?”

“I know what this looks like, but all I did was send him a picture of my outfit.” I turned my phone towards her to prove it. Mikayla shook her head with a laugh and we walked together towards the elevator. Once we stepped into the elevator, I sighed. “Do you want to come spend the night on Friday?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I’ll have Trevor drop me off here on Friday morning, that way we can go to your house together.” Mikayla smiled and nudged me.

As I opened the front door, Duke came running to greet me. I set my bag on the floor and squatted down to scratch his head. He ran away satisfied by the interaction and I reached down to take my shoes off. I carried them into the bedroom and tucked them away and changed into some sweatpants and Calum’s sweater that I slept in the night before. The house was lonely without him, and it never failed that I’d turn a corner and expect him to be there, and it never failed to surprise me that he wasn’t. Calum had made sure to make a trip to the grocery store with me before he left so I had food to last me a while. Which was nice, but the thought of eating right now made my stomach turn. Instead, I grabbed a glass of water and made my way to the living room and turned on the TV.

I was on my tenth consecutive episode of The Office when my phone started ringing, scaring the ever living hell out of me. Calum’s contact photo appeared on my screen and I answered the Face Time. He was lying in the same hotel bed he had been lying in the night before, he was wearing a grey hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. He smiled a tired smile, “Hey, gorgeous.”

My back touched the back of the couch and I smiled back at him. “How was your day?”

He turned his head and yawned, moving the hood off his head as he scratched through his blonde hair, “Busy. Sometimes we don’t even get a chance to eat, thankfully most interviews are accompanied by snack tables. How was your day?” He rubbed his eye, trying to keep the other one open.

I shrugged, most days I have nothing exciting to report to him, it’s been that way since we met. “It was alright, nothing exciting ever happens.” A chuckle left my chest and he let out a chuckle as well. His eyes stayed closed and I could tell he was absolutely exhausted. “Cal, do you want me to let you go so you can get some sleep?” He protested against hanging up through fighting off sleep. “Honey, you’re falling asleep.”

He hummed and got in a more comfortable position. “Can you just leave the call on and I’ll go to sleep?” He opened his eyes long enough to place his phone up right on the night table next to him. He reached above the phone and switched off the lamp. “Good night, sunshine. You can hang up in a little bit. I just want to fall asleep seeing you.” He kissed his fingers and then pressed them to the camera. I mirrored his actions and watched as he pulled the comforter up to his chin. Just as he finished getting comfortable, I placed my phone on the coffee table, propped up by my glass and returned to watching The Office.

Duke jumping off the couch startled me awake, not realizing I had even fallen asleep. When I looked over at my phone, it had died while the FaceTime had continued. I pushed myself off the couch to let Duke out then riffled through the kitchen to find a phone charger. Once I found one and Duke came running back inside, I shut the back door and made my way back to the couch. My phone came to life and I set an alarm for the morning and laid back down, promptly falling back asleep.

************

tag list: @thesubtweeter @thinkofmehlgh @viiirg0

18 notes · View notes

yeats-infection · 4 years

Text

@sqvalors tagged me in a lil writing meme... if you’d like to participate please do and tag me!

ao3 name: fluorescentgrey but i also post some things as drglass (dr. glass is the second song on the fluorescent grey EP by deerhunter, so if i make another pseud it will be likenew, then washoff, etc.)

fandoms: about two thirds of my fics are harry potter or star wars but there are a lot of random little goodies. currently i have shifted into the terror (2018) mode.

number of fics: 59 right now... i will throw a party when i get to 69...

fic i spent the most time on: this is funny because some of these technically took me like six months or more of working on them extremely intermittently... namely, bone machine. the series in the garden has taken me the most time generally... and in that, minuet did take me several months of working really hard while i had a schedule / commute that was not conducive to having a creative practice...

fic i spent the least amount of time on: hilariously, literally my most popular fic by ninety miles, the witcher PWP that i wrote out of spite in two or three hours.

longest fic: the source codes series... particularly heelstone which is 102k. i wrote these two stories in a single summer like a crazy person and i hate talking about them because i find them WAY too gooey. honestly, that’s why they are so long. it’s all the gooeyness!!!!!!

shortest fic: yes, the answer is the witcher porn again (this silly thing is going to be the answer for many other questions in this little meme but i’m just going to stop talking about it while i’m ahead). the west end is just about 50 words longer and is much better and is a much better and more interesting story.

most hits: we’re just going to pretend it’s sex and dying in high society, which has the second most hits. this is certainly due to the fact that @wolfstarwarehouse hypes this story a lot for which i am endlessly grateful!

most kudos: recovery position has the second most kudos so let’s go with that one! i have been very touched by the response to this story, though i do personally like the sequel beachcoma a little more... i understand why not everyone wants to read it because it is a little more bittersweet. but it also comes from my soul.

most comment threads: the two stories in the source codes series are leading here, because i only posted two chapters at a time so that i would get maximal validation, lol.

most bookmarks: in order to talk about a story i haven’t talked about yet, the rosary has the fourth-most. i think this fic is truly my r/s swan song... i said everything i wanted to say and did everything i wanted to do. it’s a really good mystery/noir story that i didn’t think i could pull off until i did! and i love the OCs in it who have sort of manifested these secret headcanons for me that i may expostulate upon someday. thank you to @piovascosimo for the inspiration to write it.

total word count: 1,000,478. lol!

favorite fic i wrote: cannot possibly choose but probably the top five in order of date posted are: desperado, a handful of dust, doom town, beachcoma, jump into the fire

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: i already said all of source codes because it’s way too gooey, i also could make hard time killing floor blues a lot tighter, and a memoir of the flesh deserves a way better ending because i was rushing to make the yuletide deadline...

share a bit of a WIP: i was trying for a while to write a band of brothers AU where they are vietnam vets who start growing cannabis... based on the steve earle song “copperhead road.” this could have been SO good but the plot was too huge and unwieldy so i gave up. my roommate is obsessed with this idea and keeps asking me how it’s going so i may yet finish. but there’s a bit below the cut.

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

#my fic #asks

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scrunchyharry · 4 years

Text

RIP WIP: if you see this post, respond with a snippet of a fic you (sadly) won’t be completing.

So, this inspired me to go through my google drive and unearth this fic that I’ll most likely never finish. I haven’t touched it since March 2014, so, you know. I might as well have not written it myself.

meet this 1950s, Oxbridge, shy librarian worker meets bad boy AU that almost was. the title of this google doc was “kill your darlings - library sexcapades”, so you can see where my mind was. I was in library school, I’d just gone to see Kill Your Darlings in theatres, it was so predictable, really. reading through it earlier, I realize that I used many of the underlying ideas I had for this fic in fondre ton absence, which I first started only two months after I abandoned this one (and I only posted it in 2019, I know.)

I abandoned it because, if I remember correctly, it was only my second ever historical AU (the first one wasn’t in this fandom, it’s a glee fic, if you bully me enough I can provide a link) and I really, really struggled with it, not only with keeping it free of anachronisms, but also relevant to 1950s British culture rather than American culture, which I am more familiar with as a Canadian. I vividly remember panicking when I couldn’t figure out if Brits went bowling in the 1950s, or even now???? we had different problems in ye olde days before the pandemic, hm?

now, of course, I’ve come to love the pain of researching historical AUs, it’s literally the only thing I’ll write, but 6 years ago was a different story. also, I’m not in grad school anymore, so I have more free time. this helped a lot with fleshing out my fics, this whole “no longer being in university” thing (that I say while being 5 years out of university and now only posting a single fic per year).

anyway. enough from me. here’s the fic. it’s 6500 words long and stops abruptly.

Lying awake in his bed, Harry listened to the steady pitter-patter of the rain hitting the windowpane, the yellow streetlamp outside his dormitory room’s window casting distorted shadows on the floorboards as it filtered through the water running down the glass and the sheer curtains. On the other side of the room, Niall was fast asleep, his breathing regular and slightly wheezing from the cold he’d caught playing football out in the rain the day before. Every six or seven inhale, he’d snore loudly, rousing Harry from the half-sleep he had managed to slip into. Staring at the ceiling, Harry was trying to tell the shadows of the bare tree branches from the cracks in the off-white plaster. The room smelled dank like the rest of the building, the wood creaking and beads of water oozing from the walls from the rain that had been plaguing them for close to a week.

Harry turned on his side, wincing as his joints ached in the cold, humid air of the room, Niall’s congested nose asking for the window to be left ajar, which only let more humidity in. His bedsheets were moist and stuck to his skin in a way that made him feel queasy and promised to rob him of sleep for the entire night.

From somewhere down the hall came a peal of laughter, the sound piercing through the still night air and drifting to Harry’s ears. The sound was almost comforting, breaking through the oppressing bubble of his insomnia to remind him that he was not stranded, or alone. There were other people alive, other people asleep in the rooms next and above and below his, and the sun would rise even if it was behind grey clouds, and not being able to sleep was not the end of the world, no matter how it felt as he lay in his bed, restless and exhausted.

He reached for his alarm clock, the bells quietly chiming as he moved it, and he frowned when he saw that it was half past three. He had to be up in four hours, hours which he knew he wouldn’t sleep. With a final sigh and a resentful glance at the sprawled shape of Niall, Harry rolled out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown, a plaid atrocity his sister had given him as a joke two Christmases past.

The hallway was quiet as he made his way down to the creaking staircase, holding on to the railings as he went down so his slippers didn’t skid on the polished wood. He nodded at the night guardian reading a library copy of A Christmas Carol, his feet up on the desk by the double, windowed entrance doors.

“I’ve still got two more days to read this, haven’t I?” the man asked, lowering the book to squint at Harry in the dimness of the hallway.

“Three, sir,” Harry replied, hands deep in the pockets of his robe and shoulders slumped forward as a shiver ran through him. He could smell the fireplace burning from the common room and yearned to reach it soon.

“Greg, give Harold a break, will you? He’s not working right now,” Zayn said, appearing out of the dark hallway and stopping by Harry’s side. “It’s already tedious enough to watch you read a Christmas novel in November, don’t make it worse on us by bothering poor Harry here about his job in the middle of the night.”

With a wink to Harry, Zayn dropped a pack of cigarettes on the guardian’s desk before walking past him again, back where he had come from, a quick nod inviting Harry along. He followed and closed thankful eyes as he crossed the common room’s threshold and was met by a wall of warm, dry air.

“Liam’s nicked logs from the hall across campus,” Zayn explained as he slouched in an armchair by the fire.

“Bless him,” Harry said, sitting opposite Zayn, close to the hearth. He extended his feet and let the flames warm them, feeling as if every crackle eased his weariness from the past few days.

September had been a neverending blur of mixers and social events to try and make friends as quickly as possible before it was too late and you were relegated to the ranks of social outcast. By the time October rolled by, Harry had managed to be late in all of his classes and had found himself locked in the library even when he did not have to work, his entire universe reduced to the dusty smell of books and ushed voices whispering about classnotes and midterms. On most nights he had to stay up well into the early hours, the grey light of dusk filtering through his foggy mind like through dirty glass as he tried to read three novels at once. Now that midterms were over, he had hoped he might be able to sleep while he counted down the days until finals, but he had managed to well and truly mess up his sleep rhythm.

“No offence, mate, but you look like shit,” Zayn commented after a while, startling Harry out of his most-welcomed doze.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry let out a small laugh. “Can’t sleep.”

“I know a guy--”

“No, thanks,” Harry cut him, not unkindly.

Zayn always knew a guy, who knew a guy, whose brother could get you whatever you needed. He himself took nothing, keeping a record as straight as his ridiculously white teeth; scholarship kid, they said. Harry knew better than that, because he was one himself and had never seen Zayn at any of the disastrous mixers the financial aid office tried to organize. Besides, scholarship students were expected to work on campus, which Zayn did not do. He always seemed to be drifting from place to place, black hair carefully styled so that a swirl appeared to carelessly fall on his forehead and jacket nonchalantly hanging off his shoulder like something out of a magazine, without a care in the world. Harry figured it was the sort of attitude you had to adopt when you had a name like Zayn Malik. Not that Harry gave a damn about any of that, but, to put it mildly, it was not because people were quick to point a finger at Germany for what they had let happen that they were willing to face their own ignorance. In short: people whispered, and all of this despite the thick Northern accent that surprised the wits out of Harry the first time he heard it come out of Zayn’s mouth.

“It’s not healthy, though, is it? You should go see a nurse or something about it, you can die from sleep deprivation.”

Blinking slowly, Harry stared at his oldest friend on campus silently for a moment. “I hope you never make it into medical school, you’re going to be a shit doctor. ‘You can die from sleep deprivation,’ you tell the insomniac at four in the morning.” With a long sigh, Harry shook his head. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Zayn laughed. “Don’t worry, mate, I’ve heard worse. Have you met Louis?”

Harry rolled his eyes at Zayn. “Yes,” he replied despite knowing that this was a rhetorical question. “I know Louis.”

He shifted in his seat. Mentions of Louis had the pesky side-effect of making Harry’s stomach churn uncomfortably. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the curls as he yawned. He watched as Zayn light a cigarette and shook his head when offered one, instead pulling his legs up on the chair and curling up in it, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m still up at this hour?” Zayn asked after discarding his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

Tearing his eyes from the fireplace, Harry blinked slowly at him. “Do you want to tell me?”

Flashing him a wicked grin, Zayn winked. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Harry rolled his eyes again. “I should have seen this one coming.”

“But you didn’t and that’s why we love you, Harold.” Zayn stretched and got up, picking his jacket off the back of the armchair and shrugging it on. “With this, I’m off to bed.” With a pat to Harry’s head, he headed out of the room.

“Goodnight!” Harry called after him before turning back to the fire, resting his chin on his knees with a sigh.

Harry considered following after Zayn for a moment, but the thought of his cold room made him wince. Instead, he carefully placed more wood into the hearth and pulled the armchair closer. He wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself and then closed his eyes, turning his face to the warmth with a smile as his thoughts drifted through his memories.

The first time he had seen Louis did not technically count as the first time he had met him. His first glimpse of him had been a fleeting one: a knock at the door of his room and the flash of a crooked grin before a sharp voice called Niall out and the door slammed shut. It had been a whirlwind of sights and sounds, there and gone in a matter of seconds, and promptly discarded as one of Niall’s many boisterous friends.

The first time he met Louis, on the other hand, had made a much stronger impression. Harry had been working the counter at the library, alternating between reading a novel he kept hidden under the desk and staring off into space, eyes on the specks of dust as they drifted through the sunbeams pouring in from the tall windows. It had started with a gust of autumn wind sweeping into the room as someone threw opened the heavy oaken doors, causing the occupants of the library to look around in disgruntled curiosity. Harry himself had found himself craning his neck to try and see who was the utter idiot who was entering a library like it was a barn.

Louis had come running at top speed, muddy wingtips squeaking and skidding on the linoleum and his opened jacket flying behind him. He braced himself on a table as he took a sharp turn to the left and headed towards the counter, vaulting it and crouching down before Harry could stop him. He had stared down at him silently, blinking slowly, until the boy had pulled him down by the front of his shirt so he would kneel next to him.

“You can’t stay here,” Harry had said lamely, feeling ashamed of the yelp he had let out as he looked at the red-faced, breathless boy still holding his shirt in his fist.

“Hi, I’m Louis,” the boy had said, letting go of his shirt to extend his hand for Harry to shake.

“You can’t stay here,” Harry had repeated, ignoring his hand. “And I’m Harry.”

“I know,” Louis had replied, smirking. “So, I may or may not have dressed the statue outside the principal’s office in a dress. And I may or may not be currently running away from the school security.” He had paused to look up at Harry with big, pleading eyes. “My life depends on you, Harry. Please, hide me.”

“You--what? Why would you do that?”

Louis had squinted at him, an amused smile playing on his lips. “For fun?”

“Well, you can’t stay here, we--”

Louis had shut him up with a hand over his mouth. “Please, Harold. I’ll owe you one.”

“No, I mean, there’s--” Harry had mumbled against his hand, eyes darting to the top of the heads of the guardians he could see coming closer to the counter.

“Harry Styles, I am begging you, please let me hide here.”

Prying Louis’ hand away, Harry had rolled his eyes. “Shut up and listen to me, there are two guards coming over here right now, you need to run.” He wouldn’t be able to tell what took him, but had he found himself adding, in a quick whisper, “I’ll distract them. Go.”

Louis had grabbed Harry’s face to plant a loud, wet kiss on his cheek before repeating in a rush that he owed Harry his life and running back the way he had come.

A month had gone by since their meeting and Harry still winced with embarrassment when he thought back to it. He had looked like a proper fool in front of Louis, who, it turned out, was friends with all of his friends. He always turned up, no matter what they were doing or where they were going, teasing and joking and mocking, always constantly there in Harry’s peripheral vision. He was a third year, the rumour was that he had the lowest average in the history of the university (which made no sense, considering he still managed to pass his classes; besides, Harry had checked in old yearbooks during a quiet afternoon in the library and had found that a certain Lionel Hearst allegedly had the lowest average back in 1931--chances were that each year had their own Lionel Hearst, and the class of 1954 had elected Louis Tomlinson as theirs), and he was quite possibly the most annoying person Harry had ever met.

And there was another problem, a massive one that was threatening to destroy Harry’s sanity: he was gorgeous. Not your inoffensive “I can recognize that, objectively, Humphrey Bogart and James Dean are attractive males”, which Harry could very easily and comfortably live with. No, Louis was the kind of gorgeous that had poisoned Harry’s mind until it was all his twisted mind could conjure whenever he had what a psychology textbook he found in Liam’s room had called ‘nocturnal emissions’.

When combined, Louis’ irritating personality and Harry’s inability to get him out of his head were a dangerous mix. One that he never missed an opportunity to use, because on a misguided evening, Harry had made the mistake to go out with Niall and had tragically confessed, over his fourth pint, that he was having unbecoming thoughts about Louis. The news had obviously rapidly travelled all the way to Louis’ ears and now it seemed he had made it his mission to make sure Harry never lived his shameful infatuation down.

Not to mention that, well, he was a boy infatuated with another boy. The same psychology textbook had told him that what he was had a name, and that it was diagnosable, and thus curable, but Liam had walked back in before Harry could read exactly what they meant by ‘aversion therapy’. He hadn’t dared ask Liam, not while Louis was sprawled on his bed, smoking with slow drags and slower exhales, winking at Harry whenever their eyes met.

Louis had asked what Harry was reading and he had mumbled something about insomnia (which had been his first goal, mind you) and a wicked grin had appeared on Louis’ face.

“You were reading about paraphilias, weren’t you, you naughty boy? Which one was your favourite? I’m quite fond of homosexuality myself.”

Zayn had thrown a wrinkled jacket at Louis at that, saving Harry the embarrassment of having to reply by saying through a laugh: “The shit that comes out of your mouth is astounding.”

“It’s not shit! What’s it classified under, again? Payne, help me out.”

Reciting dully, as if he was used to the question - and Harry suspected he was - Liam had rolled his eyes. “Sexual deviations are under personality disorders of the sociopathic subtype.”

“Thanks, mate. I didn’t understand half the words in there, but I like the ring of ‘sociopathic’, don’t you? It makes it sound so dangerous, so ‘I will kill you in your sleep and then shag your corpse’.”

“Someone’s won the roommate lottery,” Niall had said, earning himself a slap upside the head from Liam.

This particular exchange, and more specifically the image of Louis talking about sexual deviations while lying on a bed like some sort of caricature of a French painting, was running through Harry’s sleep deprived mind as he hurried to his morning class under the cold drizzle that had replaced the rain. He had managed to get a couple of hours of sleep, but had woken up when the fire was out and the room had turned frigid. Going back to his room, he had collapsed on his bed, only to hear his alarm clock ringing what felt like three minutes later. And now, as he hurried up to the fourth floor on the slippery stairs, he realized with a groan he had forgotten to do the assigned readings for the class.

He took his usual seat near the centre of the lecture hall, unpacking his notebook and fiddling with his pen to keep his mind busy and, more importantly, awake. A three hour lecture on Shakespeare was the last thing he needed at the moment, his eyes unable to focus on the board for more than a handful of seconds before they closed heavily, his entire body jerking back as he drifted to sleep and started to fall forward.

The door opened loudly and Harry didn’t have to look to know who had just entered. He always banged doors opened, making his entrance known as if his presence itself wasn’t enough to get him noticed.

“Harold!” Louis’ voice echoed around the half-empty hall, off the wood-panelled walls and the high, off-white ceiling. He was holding a notebook in his hand, the poor thing in tatters like most of what Louis owned. The usual swirl of hair was falling on his forehead, disheveled in a way that felt more genuine than Zayn’s calculated styling, with the sides ruffled and looking mostly unkempt.

Harry waved at him, shifting in his seat as he watched Louis climb the steps up to where he was sitting and make his way to the empty chair next to Harry. He rubbed his eye and braced himself for the tornado of Louis’ personality.

“Hi, Louis,” he said once Louis was settled. “How are you?”

“I’m brilliant. My day’s always off to such a good start when I get to see you first thing in the morning.” He patted Harry’s knee, a smirk on his lips. Harry swallowed around his dry throat. “You, on the other hand, look terrible.”

“Insomnia,” Harry replied with a shrug, stifling a yawn with his hand. “Nothing new.”

“Yeah, I see that, the bags under your eyes are terrifying.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but then forgot to close it as Louis reached up and stroked a thumb under Harry’s eye, lightly touching the paper thin skin. He could wax lyrical about how soft Louis’ skin turned out to be, or how unexpected the touch was, but neither of those things would be right. The fact of the matter was that being touched, stroked, petted or any other synonym describing fond, affectionate physical contact were common when Louis was concerned. That did not mean that Harry was used to it, and he found himself freezing under Louis’ careful finger, his words dying in his throat.

“It looks like you’ve got shiners,” Louis said, voice quiet and soft. “You have to take better care of yourself, Haz, or else someone will have to do it for you.”

Louis’ fingers were still lightly brushing his cheek, close to his ear, as his thumb moved back and forth, barely touching his skin, and Harry absolutely could not let out any sound resembling modern languages. Instead, he nodded, remembered to close his mouth, and cleared his throat to try and speak. All of his efforts were ruined when Louis patted his cheek and moved back, slipping lower in his seat and winking at Harry when their knees bumped.

Harry blinked to realize that the hall had filled while Louis was busy making him forget English. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his glasses and slipped them on, not missing the pleased noise Louis let out next to him. He glanced at him, frowning.

“Love the glasses, Harold.”

“Me too. They help me see.”

Harry did not particularly consider himself a religious man. He went to church when it mattered and tried not to do unto others what he would not want done unto him, but for the most part, he never really had God at the back of his mind whenever he did something. And yet, as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered what he had done to anger God. His eyes widened and he felt a blush blooming on his cheeks, his skin burning with the shame and embarrassment of his reply. They help me see, way to state the obvious, Styles. Louis was obviously flirting and the only thing he could come up with was bloody “they help me see.”

Louis let out a bark of laughter, pushing his knee against Harry’s. “Good for you, mate. You wouldn’t want to strain those pretty eyes of yours.”

The professor walking in and setting up his papers behind the lectern saved Harry from having to answer. Harry kept his eyes trained on the front of the class for the first hour of the lecture, pointedly ignoring Louis’ constant shifting and squirming around in his seat. Liam often asked if he had ants in his pants, which usually prompted Louis to let out a vulgar joke about what he did have in his pants. It was better if Harry ignored him, then. He was already struggling to keep up with the deadpan droning of their professor, he didn’t need to think about the way Louis’ thigh brushed against his every time he moved.

The lightbulb closest to the door kept flickering, the rhythm varying from every other second to one every two or three minutes, and Harry found himself captivated by it. The ventilation buzzed in the background, a low metallic rumble pushing moist air into the suffocating hall. A strand of hair had escaped from his comb-over, falling into his eyes and curling from the humidity. He blew on it, watching it rise and fall and repeating the motion over and over again, until Louis elbowed him.

Harry turned to him, bracing himself for a witty remark that would turn him into a blubbering mess, but instead he was met with Louis’ profile, face set and serious as he had his hand raised in the air. Squinting, Harry turned to their professor in time to see him calling on Louis, who lifted his eyebrows, once, before an amused smile curled up his lips.

“Sir, there is something that has been bothering me since I read through the assigned pages last night. See, I can’t quite figure out what Shakespeare meant when he had Aufidius say: ‘Let me twine mine arms about that body, where against my grained ash an hundred times hath broke and scarr’d the moon with splinters,’ and then later when he adds: ‘but that I see thee here, thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart than when I first my wedded mistress saw bestride my threshold.’”

Louis glanced up from the copy of Coriolanus opened in front of him, several lines underlined in blue ink, to give Harry a wink before looking back down and continuing.

“And when he writes: ‘thou hast beat me out twelve several times, and I have nightly since dreamt of encounters ‘twixt thyself and me; we have been down together in my sleep, unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat, and waked half dead with nothing,’ what I don’t understand, sir, is that it sounds to me like Aufidius is courting Marcius, doesn’t it? All this talk of,” Louis glanced down again, “nightly dreams of what sounds to me like some sort of wrestling? All of this leads me to think that there is a certain passion to Marcius and Aufidius’ relationship that you haven’t talked about, yet.”

Louis sat back in his seat, the line of his shoulders disagreeing with the look of candid innocence he had schooled his face into. The entire hall seemed to be waiting with baited breath for their professor’s response, the poor man looking terrified and offended and minuscule in his bulky tweed jacket. His lip quivered, making his grey, toothbrush moustache dance, and he narrowed his eyes at Louis.

“Ignoring Mr Tomlinson’s depraved mind, let’s have a short break. Class will resume in ten minutes.”

Chatter rose around them and Louis shook his head, a look of annoyed resignation on his face.

“I knew he’d do that. I bloody knew it. They’re always too stuck up to address the blatant homoeroticism of the material they assign us.”

Homoeroticism. The word rang in Harry’s ears, filling up his skull and flushing out everything else, leaving him with images of--with images of things he’d rather not put a name on. Of Louis’ lips as they curled into his trademark smirk, of Louis’ spread thighs as he lay on one of their beds, reading out loud from whichever book he had found on the bedside table, of Louis’ eyes and the way they had to always seek Harry’s, but also of older memories. Memories of swimming in a lake with his older cousin as a child and watching the drops of water running down his chest and shimmer in the sun. Locker room memories, a seemingly endless number of them, all strung one after the other in his mind like a neverending series of discomfort and shame as he caught glimpses of changing bodies. Memories of feeling wrong and twisted, an abomination that would bring shame to his family if he said anything.

There was a word for all this, a simple word which Louis uttered like it didn’t carry the weight of the world with it. A word which didn’t sound as ominous as the others did. That word wouldn’t be in Liam’s textbook. That word evoked ideas of art in Harry’s mind, not of therapy.

“Harold? Are you all right? I’ve lost you, here, haven’t I? Wake up, Styles, you’re not in your bed. I understand that it can be confusing for you right now because we all know you see me in your dreams, but--”

“That word you used,” Harry said, cutting him. He cleared his throat and decided it was better to ignore how accurate Louis’ teasing was.

“Which one? You’ll notice I speak quite a lot, so you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that.”

Lowering his voice, Harry leaned in. “Homoeroticism.”

“What about it?”

“It was the first time I heard it. I didn’t know it existed.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about.” Louis patted his thigh with a pout. “But don’t worry, I can teach you. I owe you one, remember?”

Harry let out a strangled noise and looked away so he would not have to see Louis’ smirk.

Harry spent the rest of the lecture in a haze, his mind preoccupied with what he tried so hard to ignore during the first half: Louis’ elbow brushing against his on the armrest, their knees bumping when he moved, the sound of his breathing, regular and deep, the way he tapped his pen against his notebook, the muscles in his forearm shifting as he took notes. By the time his torture was over, he realized with horror that he had not listened to a single word of the entire second half of the lecture and he bit his lip.

“And they say I’m the worst student this school has ever seen,” Louis commented after seeing the blank page that Harry failed to hide.

“I couldn’t concentrate,” Harry explained as he packed his bag hastily and followed Louis to leave the lecture hall.

“You can borrow my notes, don’t worry.” Once out of the hall, Louis turned to walk backwards, eyes on Harry. “Why, though? Why was Harold Styles, scholarship student, not paying attention in class? Thinking about boys, maybe?”

Without thinking about it, Harry lurched forward to put his hand over Louis’ mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed.

Unfazed, Louis lowered Harry’s hand with his, his expression softening. “So, you were? This is an interesting turn of events.” Looking up at Harry, he frowned. “Oh, you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” At the sight of Louis raising his eyebrow in disbelief, Harry licked his lips. “I’m terrified.” He glanced around, feeling like all eyes were on the pair of them as they stood in the middle of the hallway and blocked the traffic.

Louis nodded and took Harry’s elbow, dragging him along and out of the building. Outside, pale rays of sunlight were peeking through the clouds and the air felt light for the first time in days. Harry tried to avoid the puddles covering the cobblestones while Louis kept pulling him along, mindful of keeping his socks dry even as an outrageously flirtatious man he barely knew was taking him somewhere unknown.

“Do you have work today?” Louis asked over his shoulder as they crossed the campus towards their dormitory.

“No. Where are we going?”

“My dorm.”

Harry stopped abruptly, causing Louis to stumble forward before he caught himself and turned. “Why?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to molest you.” Letting go of Harry’s arm, he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I just thought you’d prefer to talk about your innermost secrets in private. Assuming you want to talk about it?”

Harry looked down at Louis for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Louis held his gaze, eyes wide and earnest, almost begging for Harry’s trust. Gnawing at his lip, Harry breathed in sharply and nodded, making the jump, stepping off the edge of the metaphorical cliff and choosing to trust Louis.

A small smile appeared on Louis’ lips, more subdued than what Harry was used to see, and it warmed up the bottom of his stomach in a way that was not unpleasant.

“Very well. Let us be on our way, then.”

A sense of dread descended upon Harry as they neared Louis’ room. His nerves were setting in, sparking up, exploding in bright flashes of what felt a lot like terror at the prospect of the conversation he was about to have and of its ramifications. Thinking it was one thing, admitting that he was thinking it was another, but voicing it was in the realm of impossibilities. The door shut behind them with a quiet click and then they were alone, shielded. Louis sat backwards on his desk chair and motioned for Harry to sit on his bed before he folded his arms and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Harry, tell me. How long have you known?” His voice was quiet and soft, so unlike Louis’ usual loud squawks that it eased Harry’s nervousness, if only partially.

Harry found that he could not look at Louis’ face and he let his gaze drift to the wall behind him, hung with pennants in the colours of Liam’s favourite teams. He brought a hand up to scrape his teeth against the knuckle of a finger, a nervous habit he’d been trying to get rid off for years. He could feel Louis’ steady gaze on him and he swallowed thickly, breathing out.

“I don’t know.” He forced his eyes back on Louis, briefly, to see him frowning. “How long have you known?”

“That I’m gay?” Harry winced at the word and it made Louis smirk. “Summer 1943, there was this bloke billeted at a neighbour’s house. He’d pop by to play with my sisters and I some times and I’d seen him almost every day for months, but that one particular day, he helped my mother with gardening and took off his shirt because of the heat. It changed my life.” He chuckled and scratched his cheek. “I was twelve. I spent the entire day in my bedroom, watching him from the window, absolutely confused about what was happening. I thought I was ill.”

“What’d you do?”

Louis shrugged. “I masturbated, obviously. That was a first. What a day.”

Heat spread on Harry’s face, bright red spots blooming on his cheeks at the words, and he muttered a scandalized ‘oh, my god’ that made Louis laugh.

“Have you never?” Louis asked, giving Harry a curious smile. “Have you really never touched yourself?”

Putting a hand over his eyes, Harry groaned. “Of course, I have, but I don’t talk about it with everyone,” he blurted out, ashamed.

“Why not? You have to stop listening to your minister, kid. It’s perfectly normal, everyone does it.”

Harry shook his head and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers. He could not remember having ever been as uncomfortable as he was in that instant. His nerves were raw and he felt too hot and too cold at the same time, safe and cloistered at once in the cramped dorm room. Looking at Louis, he found him observing him with a steady expression. Harry appreciated that he was not pushing for answers despite his obvious curiosity. He didn’t feel pressured to answer, but the possibility was there, hanging in the still, humid air between them. It was his choice to seize it and, with a shaky sigh, he did.

“I’ve always had, hum, suspicions that I wasn’t normal. I can’t--” he waved his hands around, “--put words on it, or tell you about specific incidents, but I’ve been having doubts since grammar school.”

“You’re normal.” There was an unexpected fire behind Louis’ words that made Harry frown.

“You can’t be serious. You heard Liam the other day, we’re sociopaths.”

Louis rolled his eyes, digging in his pockets for a cigarette. He placed it between his lips and cracked a match to light it, eyes on Harry through the rising smoke. “Do you feel like a sociopath?”

Harry shrugged. “Not particularly.”

Blowing smoke, Louis raised his eyebrows. “There you go. You’re not. Simple as that. Admitting a bloke needs to have his hands tied above his hands to be able to come, would you say he’s a sociopath?” When Harry shook his head, Louis continued. “But that’s still a paraphilia, ergo he’s mental. We’re not perverts, we just love differently. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Harry licked his lips and nodded, transfixed by Louis’ verve. “And they say you’re the worst student of your year.”

Louis laughed, sharp and clear, smoke coming out of his nostrils. “I’ve had a bad freshman year and the reputation, sadly, stuck with me. Of course, I’m not a scholarship kid, so I don’t compare.” He winked a Harry.

“How do you know so many things about me? We’ve rarely spoken.”

Louis laughed again, but the sound was softer, more intimate, in an odd way. “Well...” He rubbed the back of his neck, discarding the butt of his cigarette in a dirty ashtray on his bedside table. “I asked around. You helped me a lot when you befriended Zayn.”

Harry shifted on the bed to rest his back against the wall, kicking his shoes off quickly to pull his knees up against his chest. “Why?”

Louis’ eyes widened, almost comically, before he shrugged. “Curiosity. You looked interesting.”

#caro writes fic #larry #larry fic #my fics #rip wip meme

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