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wolf-zer0 · 3 years

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Ya want some WORLD-BUILDING????

Have some world-building!

*REMINDER* This is based on characters, not real people. I’m not going to be writing any shipping/smut content, especially involving minors. Please be respectful of content creators’ boundaries!

The Crystallos Empire (AKA the Antarctic Empire)

Largest the countries (takes up most of the southern half of the map) but agreed to stop expansion after a bloody battle with Valeriana

Centered on a large snowy mountain in the middle of the tundra

Mostly stays out of other countries’ business, but will step in as a last resort

Has some of the most well-known citizens in the world because… they’re pure chaos

Attack at your own peril

Has vast deposits of ores and gemstones, and the metalwork from Crystallos (mainly weaponry, armor, and jewelry) is highly sought after

The only known food export is potatoes. Wonder why…

Associated Colors: Royal blue, light blue, crimson, gold

Aesthetic/Vibes: gothic vibes, white stone and large stain glass windows, not particularly opulent or extravagant but still impressively royal looking, think catholic cathedral but brighter and with less Jesus (can you tell I’m a recovering catholic yet?), spires shooting into the sky that’s visible even during a blizzard, cavernous halls full of sunlight and echoes, snow that can comfort and kill in equal measure

Notable Members:

Philza Minecraft:

Angel

Visible wings look like a harpy eagle

Probably the most powerful person in the world

Didn’t mean to start an empire it kinda just happened

Also didn’t mean to adopt kids but his Dadza alarm went off

Usually kind but will not hesitate to use violence when necessary

Technoblade:

Is pig.

With braid.

At least 8 feet all

Extremely adept fighter, skilled in almost every form of combat.

Not a people pig, prefers his potato farm to being a prince

Hella protective of his family but will not hesitate to bully when given the opportunity

Wilbur Soot:

Muse who can influence people through song

Can’t totally control people (yet) but can subtly push them in a certain direction

The public face of the imperial family

Would rather insult than fight but can and will cut a bitch if he needs to

Because inspiration is fickle he’ll have some … strange episodes (see: the Sand Incident)

Tommy Innit:

Child.

Chaos incarnate.

Is he human? Is he not? No one’s sure yet.

But he’s a gremlin and a hellion and willing to throw down at any moment.

Has a surprisingly caring side, but no one outside his immediate circle has ever really seen it.

The Kingdom of Valeriana (aka Dream SMP)

Oldest of the countries

Located in the middle of a massive forest at the center of the main continent

Home of the Fae Courts

Ruled by a single king who is chosen by a tournament held every 100 years

Known for causing chaos in other countries, but after an Incident with Crystallos they have kept their meddling to annoyances rather than outright declarations of war

Considered the most magical of all the countries, and traditional enchantments almost all come from Valeriana

Associated Colors: neon green (duh), bright yellow, forest green, light brown, blood red (more saturated than Crystallos), rose gold

Aesthetic/Vibes: spooky art nouveau (idk what else to call it), lots of plants and nature but with an edge of danger, poison gardens and carnivorous plants, hedge mazes that lead everywhere and nowhere, laughter deep in the forest, deer with eyes just a hair too human, Alice in Wonderland on steroids

Notable Members:

Dream:

Current king of the Fae

As long as he’s touching the ground, he knows where everything and everyone is

Can terraform

Unlimited in the boundaries of his kingdom

Much more limited outside of his realm

No one has ever seen what he really looks like, even before he took the throne

Since people outside the kingdom don’t know who he is, he’ll wander the outside world and challenge random people to fights

Never says what happens to the losers

Only one person has ever beaten him: Technoblade

He might have a lil obsession around Techno, but it’s fine.

A little competition is healthy.

Sapnap:

High Lord of the Summer Court

Dream’s right hand man

Likes fire a little too much probably

George:

Human that Dream took a liking too and yoinked from the mortal world

Dream and Sapnap made him immortal but he hasn’t realized it yet.

Skeppy:

Changeling who started growing diamond-like scales across his body

Is vaguely allied with Dream simply because he’s Fae, but is more loyal to BBH

Like a lot of other Fae, likes to make challenges but he makes them less deadly. Not totally safe, just less deadly.

Badboyhalo:

Demon who was kicked out of hell because he was too nice

Found Skeppy in the Overworld and the rest is history

Cursed by the Demon King that the moment he says a swear word, the entire world would end, but can never tell anyone that he is cursed

The Merchant’s Guild

Not quite a country, more of a international power

Oversees the largest and most important businesses in the world

Makes sure that no laws are broken between different countries and everyone gets a fair shake

Has a very large reach, so some members have dabbled in espionage for various groups

From the outside it looks like the whole thing is kept together with duct tape and hope, but its actually pretty functional

The main members are just… a lot.

More concerned with keeping things working than influencing other nations (although there are still jokes about it)

The most valuable thing they trade in is information

They have a lot of fingers in a lot of pots, but are trusted with their information

Associated Colors: dark blue, teal, deep yellow, burnt orange, copper

Aesthetic/Vibes: art deco babie, angles and lines, very modern and streamlined, sleek suits instead of armor or robes, whiskey in a crystal glass, wars won by words not weapons, knowing when someone’s lying without them saying a word

Notable Members:

Schlatt:

Ram-man with a plan

Not that bad of a dude, but is in a position where he is constantly in possession of highly sensitive information and that does things to someone’s mental state

Drinks pretty regularly but not a full blown alcoholic

Trying his best

Can be a snarky asshole sometimes

Quackity:

Lucky duck. literally.

Duck man with an uncanny ability to absorb good luck from people (typically Fundy) and apply it to himself

No one knows when or why he joined the guild, but now he’s there

Pretty damn smart, but hides it behind humor

Fundy:

FOX!

With BEANS!

Trying his goddamn best but life (and Quackity) make it very difficult

Usually is stuck with the shit end of the stick when getting jobs/contracts/etc.

Wilbur being his dad is an inside joke that’s gotten a life of its own.

(No Fishfuckers Allowed!!!)

Puffy:

Badass sheep lady who captains a ship and commands her own armada

Schlatt’s sister

Also part of Storm’s Landing’s council and acts as the main liaison between them

Do not fuck with her she will kick your ass.

Storm’s Landing

Port city that became a country after becoming a safe-haven for seafarers

Led by a council of important people, with the head of the council known as the Admiral

Closest ties to Crystallos and the Merchant’s guild because:

1) Clingy supremacy!!!!

2) it’s a good idea for a guild to have good ties with a large sea power

3) all the dads for Tubbo

Associated Colors: navy blue, scarlet, white, brass

Aesthetic/Vibes: Nautical (obviously) with heavy “Age of Exploration” vibes, barnacles crusted on treasure chests, think tall ships and pirates and shit, respecting the ocean because holy shit she’s gonna smash your boat to pieces on a whim because she can, has an edge of darkness because when you go deep enough who knows what you’ll find down there (maybe mermaids???)

Notable Members:

CaptainSparklez:

elected to Admiral after the previous Admiral went missing on a routine voyage

(idk who it used to be, I just wanted to make him new at leading)

not 100% sure about the whole thing, but handling it pretty okay

still answers to “Captain” instead of “Admiral”.

Niki:

If Storm’s Landing had a queen, would be it unquestionably

Never gets robbed even though there’s a well known “underbelly” in town

Could probably end wars with her croissants

Has a significant history of empathic abilities in her family, so she can tell how people are feeling at all times

Eret:

Owns a magic store in town that really only shows itself to people who need it.

Having a bad mental health day?

He’s got a warm blanket and a cup of your favorite warm beverage waiting.

Dysphoric?

She’s got the perfect outfit and affirming words already prepared.

Trying to find that specific book but can’t remember the title or plot, only vaguely know the color of the cover?

They’ve got it.

Ranboo:

Not sure why he decided to move to a seaside city when he’s not chill with water, but now he’s here and he’s too anxious to leave

Known for teleporting around town randomly when nervous, and the people who find him are always willing to let a hand if he gets lost

Tubbo:

This boi! Has so many dads!

Epitome of “Kindness does not equal weakness.”

While a lot of people underestimate him, he’s not some fragile little flower

He hasn’t fully grown into his ability to speak to animals (he can only understand bees right now)

He’s just as much of a shit stirrer as Tommy.

When they meet up, look out. Something’s getting destroyed.

The Astral Academy

An independent university focused on advancing knowledge in the arcane arts and engineering

Not a country, but has the political power of one due to their vast resources and building prowess

People can’t enter unless they are invited or have been given entry as a student

There are a bunch of potential doors scattered around the continent that could lead to the Academy, but no one is sure where the real entrance is

Associated Colors: royal purple, lilac, sepia, sky blue, silver, bronze Aesthetic/Vibes: bright academia, massive libraries with bookshelves stuffed to bursting, workshop benches covered in scrap and prototypes, open air observatories, runes waiting to be translated, the crackling energy that comes from successful collaboration, falling down a research rabbit hole, bursting with pride after a project is a success

Notable Members:

Sam

Purpled

Ponk

Punz

Antfrost

Jack Manifold

I don’t know much about these characters, so if you have any ideas please let me know!

Zero’s OC Land - The North Haven

Smallest and newest country

Recently gained independence from under a cruel dictator (not schlatt lol)

Located in a pine forest at the base of a huge mountain range

Has pretty good relations with the other countries, but outsiders don’t know much about them

Main exports are wood carvings and leather goods

Associated Colors: Maroon, dark brown, black, pewter

Aesthetic/Vibes: medieval but with a modern twist, dark wood lit by a roaring fireplace, snow-covered woods without a living soul in sight, half timber houses and detailed wood carving, no outrageous ornamentation or extravagance

Notable Members:

Tyr:

Lord of the North Haven

trying to keep his people safe and protected

one of the few remaining Spirits (higher in power than the Fae, but lower than angels)

Spirit of Justice

lost a hand in the war for North Haven’s independence

didn’t want to become the leader but does a pretty good job at it

Adopted 5 kids and is trying his best

Bragi:

Heir Apparent

24 year old human

can influence the world by speaking (not singing) but has to be careful about which words he uses

has a book full of phrases that have proven effects (a spellbook of sorts)

has a friendly rivalry with Wilbur

Freya:

Spymaster

actually the oldest but abdicated because she feels she’s not the right person to lead a country

age unknown because she’s the last known [REDACTED] (it’ll be revealed, but I wanna build suspense)

has gyrfalcon wings and heightened senses

chronic insomniac

Forseti:

Official Librarian

20 years old

hybrid with an unknown entity

has black fingers with sharp claws

always wears gloves to hide them

can create portals to places he’s been or to people he knows (the second is much riskier, but not impossible)

knowledge sponge

wants to join the Astral Academy but is too nervous to apply

Odin:

Older Twin

The “Sensible One”

17 years old

Has an uncanny sense of direction

Can’t get lost no matter what

Can manipulate magnetic fields

Loki:

Younger Twin

The “Hot Headed One”

17 years old

can manipulate fire

idolizes his older siblings, particularly Freya

The Institute

Creeping around in the background

Up to bad things

Something’s going on in the world, but no one’s noticed yet

They will though… soon

Aesthetic/Vibes: minimalism (the worst kind of vibes imo), think laboratories or empty hospitals, harsh artificial lights and cold floors, labyrinths of monotonous hallways with no doors

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

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BTHB: Working Through the Cold

I’m not entirely happy with this, but some advice from everyone here has me thinking I will post it anyway! Let me know what you think! (and thanks to @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @wildfaewhump, @robins-whump, Anons, @that-one-thespian, and others who were so nice about me being a schmoop yesterday)

TIMELINE: About a year before things get better for Killan

@badthingshappenbingo request: Working Through the Cold by Anon

CW: Extremely dehumanized whumpee, noncon touching (nonsexual), wing whump, muzzling, conditioning/training a whumpee, careless/casual/distant whumper, a kind of pet whump, referenced piercings, restraints, display whump

From inside the little shop, located on a busy street close to the central square, passing people might have heard the sounds of chirping birds, chittering small rodents (a southern delicacy, you know, when fed just the right mixture of seeds, nuts, and berries), two long, lean spotted cats built for the hunt and the chase, and one very old dog whose bark was much worse than his bite.

At least, he was missing enough teeth by now to undermine the threat.

A long-treasured travel companion, the old dog was fed rice cooked in a rich chicken stock with vegetables and chicken shredded so finely it didn’t require chewing. He’d had the dog for so long, now, and perhaps the old boy didn’t move much these days, but the merchant would rather rent a shop to help his dog keep warm over the harsh northern winters than be richer - and lonely without the old boy by his side.

The dog, of course, was not of much interest to his customers. No, they came to look at the rarities - to buy quill pens made from feathers saturated with a brilliant teal, or perhaps take home a pair of lovebirds cooing to each other, beaks just touching. An aristocrat or two with a taste for the meals in the far-off lands they’d traveled to might by the Sunning Hens for the soup pot, along with the packet of heady spices and tikla flour the merchant offered to recreate the spicy, thick stews from the south, where the people fought heat with heat.

They could come and see, while the weather continued to cool day by day, these reminders that there were lands, far away, who did not grow cold enough to bring out the painted lights in the sky at night, there were places that did not see the Longest Night at all.

They could see these things, for an easy, small price. In the large bay window of the shop, that angles outward and then in again, the people often paused to see something else entirely. No a reminder of the south’s bright colors and warmer clime, but… something new.

The summer’s warm air had been blown away by the oncoming winter chill, and autumn was in full swing. The trees in the small park in the town square were a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows, drifting down to create pools of color against the browning grass.

This far north, autumn felt like a luxury, a few weeks of middle-chill before the deeper freeze set in.

The people made the most of the time, and some of those people - when out their walks, or taking their children to and fro - stopped to look at the creature in the rarity-merchant’s window.

You couldn’t say anyone had ever seen anything like this before. In this part of the world, the fae were a whispered rumor of mountain folk more like birds than men, who swooped down to carry off lambs and calves and children alike. They were known to sour the milk and spoil the harvest using magic no human could quite master.

Here in this bustling city, the people had never so much as seen a feather that could be proven to be of fae origin - although many large hawk and eagle feathers were sold to excited children as fae feathers, the same way they might bring home a plush centaur or unicorn to line up in their beds.

No, nearly none of these people would ever see a fae in person, in their lifetime. But when looking at the creature strung up in the merchant’s window, they came as close as ever they would.

The creature shivered - the window did not hold out the chilly autumn breeze, and even through the slightly scratched glass the people could see the tiny bumps that rose on its skin, the minute tremors, the way its body fought to warm it.

It wore only a loose pair of pants - scandalous, if it had been a man. It looked a bit like one, of course, except… well.

Except for all the ways it didn’t.

In the window, they came to stand, one or two at a time - whole families on occasion - to look at the strange half-open blue eyes with tiny slit-pupils that stared back at them above a heavy leather muzzle dotted with little brass circles where it took in air to keep breathing. Wavy brownish-blond hair was chopped roughly, curling over rounded ears and against the nape of its neck, and only drew attention to the inhumanity written in the flatness of its eyes.

For all the roundness of its ears - and didn’t everyone know the faes’ ears were pointed and moved forward and back like a cat’s - and the gentle rather than pointed curve of its chin, you couldn’t ignore those eyes, or the blunted, pitch-dipped talons that twitched on its right hand.

A thick chain ran from the buckle at the back of its muzzle, keeping its head pulled slightly back, exposing a wickedly curved scar that ran down its throat from pulse point to collarbone. Affixed to the window at even level with it was a small piece of paper that read TWO VOICES, TWO WORLDS: 10 Marks to Hear a Song!

Iron cuffs around its wrists were chained to the wall, keeping its arms outstretched, giving an easy view of the other large scar down its left side, traveling down over its ribcage, fading out only just above the hips. Another sign here read FLIGHTS OF FANCY: Could this scar have to do with the power of flight? Come inside to see more!

It knelt - or sat, as the day went on and on - on a small cushion, and the people came each day to drop a coin or two in the box outside the shop and drink in their fill of the visual of the strange creature, neither man nor fae. Afforded the respect given to neither - not terrifying enough to fear like the fae, and so clearly not human.

The old dog by the fireplace was given more dignity than this.

But it wasn’t like the creature understood that, right?

Near its talons, one more sign in the window read: Razor-sharp talons slice a rabbit to shreds in seconds! These are dipped in pitch for your safety. Feel free to inquire inside for a closer look!

Mostly, they stay outside. It was worth a coin, or two, perhaps - to look at the winding, stitched-in threads that adorned its pelvis in a series of constellations that directly echoed the shape of the stars on clear winter nights all the way up to its chest, where a spiral had been sewn directly over its heart.

Assuming, of course, it had a heart in the same place a human would. No one seemed to know, and there really was only one way to find out for sure. The merchant wasn’t ready to sell the thing off for parts, not yet.

Some of the people, curiosity and the chill air driving them inside, couldn’t resist the pull. They meandered into the little store feigning disinterest. They looked over the areas where the merchant sold the rarities he kept in cages - brightly plumed birds, the little rodents, those two great hunting cats - and pretended to be more interested in those. Maybe they even bought a bird or two.

In the end, though, they gave the merchant more money for a chance at the creature’s wings.

They were huge, to the eyes of humans who had never seen fae - spread to their full wingspan by chains hooked into the joints that ran straight up to the ceiling. The creature’s display took up an entire side of the room, really, the side farthest from the warmth of the fireplace.

The southern-bred birds and rodents needed the heat, after all. The creature in the window seemed largely dulled to the cold.

This close, a paying customer could see the creature’s ankles were chained down, too, to keep it from trying to stand or move away. The occasional man or woman might flick at one of the thin but solid chains hooked to its wings and listen to the creature’s answering whimper as it forced the joints, even for just a second, to stretch farther.

While the creature kept its eyes on the people outside, it was the ones within the store who touched it. Their curious, questing hands ran over its spine, pushing and prodding at the scar tissue there, murmuring with scandalized whispers about the way the ropey, knotted skin seemed unnaturally thick.

There were more stitched threads, new constellations humans had never thought of and never named, that twined and twirled around its hips at the back and skimmed up the center of its spine. Galaxies were marked, and no one in this city knew what those galaxies might be called, but the fae knew.

And the creature - the boy, who had been named Killan once, and who now was only monster or creature or stop that, it’s not so bad - had been taught each and every name to scream into the spinning void as the magic was sewn in. Not that he told the merchant that.

Even now, abandoned and sold and then bought and sold and bought and sold again, there had to be some things he could hold inside, secret and safe from even the deepest violations. They had taken nearly everything, but they did not - they could not, they didn’t know to - take this.

Everyone thought the galaxies on his back were some fanciful nothingness sewn there. Only the boy - and the fae who had made him, and the other fae who had turned away from the horror of his appearance and had been the first to call him monster - knew the names of the stars on his back.

But the hands never stopped on the galaxies, and when they moved to his shoulder blades, the creature drifted uneasily back into the haze, colored with nothing, that let him exist as an it, day after day after day.

If there was still a spark, it was so hidden that none of the customers could ever, ever find it to take it away from him.

No. That he was still him was his own private secret. To the gaze and the hands and the curiosity and the endless need to know to see to feel to own of the people who came, there was no boy.

Only the creature.

It continued to shiver as the cold air drifted through the imperfect seals on the glass window and ghosted over its front. Even in the haze, the thing would tremble more and more through the day. Stomach hollow and empty, it held as still as it could under the overhot, clammy hands of the paying customers behind it, but still there was a slowly growing coating of grime and dirt and grit from their fingernails scratching at a thread to see if it would pull up, or rubbing at the base of its wings in a violation so complete it pulled an unwilling keen from the creature’s throat.

Every other day or so, the creature at least knew there would be a bucket of water over its head in the stables, a harsh brush meant for cleaning the dust from the horses, its own skin nearly torn open and reddened from how it would clench the wood handle in its hand and desperately try to clean away the memory of their touch…

Well.

The buckets of water were something, at least. And if it could not be interesting enough to be sold, it could be interesting enough to see.

The merchant was a clever man. He’d begun to understand that no one wanted to pay a good price for the creature, not here, but they wanted to pay a smaller price to see it. Give the people what they want, he always said, and you’ll make your fortune.

So he gave them what they wanted.

He gave them something new, at an affordable price.

The days passed, and autumn turned to winter, and still the merchant led the quiet, unprotesting creature with dulled blue eyes from the stable where it slept with the horses to the window every day, fastening its chains, stretching its wings to an agonizing width.

At some point, to amuse himself, he began to make up little whistles to train it to respond to. A certain number of notes meant stand, a second meant lift your hands, a third spread your wings. The winters were long, and the nights stretched on and on to a nearly-constant twilit near-dark, and he began to keep the creature in his rooms at the back of his store for longer and longer each evening after its daily meal.

The creature proved eager and willing to learn, when offered an extra helping of porridge or stew or whatever he fed it that day.

Enrichment, the merchant thought, quite pleased with himself. Like the small wooden clickers he left in the bird cages, like the tiny wheel he’d fastened together for the smallest rodents. Something to do, to put in the creature’s mind. A way to please him.

Even the old guard dog’s tail thumped, now and then, when he brought the creature in and it stopped to give the dog a scritch behind its ears.

Funny, how the creature seemed to have quite the way with the animals.

Still, even learning to move by whistle, to answer his unspoken commands, something was… missing, from the eyes of the monster. Listless, unsettled. The monster began to remind the merchant of silt - a swirl of useless dirt covering up the depth of a lake, or river. Making it look shallow and unsafe to drink, and beneath the silt, in the depths… what?

Empty darkness? Or a raging torrent?

To make up for the loss of shine and the heavy shadows under the creature’s eyes, he began to paint a bit of kohl and shimmery gold, not quite transparent, over its eyelids.

He couldn’t completely hide the way its spirit had dulled nearly to dying, but he could disguise it.

The winter passed this way. There were always new customers, and returning visitors, and one by one the birds, the rodents, and the hunting cats sold to interested parties.

Until only a few cages of birds remained… and the creature in the window.

In the winter, the shivers started faster, but the warm hands of the paying customers inside the store were far more welcomed than they had once been.

The creature stopped pulling away from them, or trying, and began to lean back, pressing its spine into a questing touch, tilting its head back even further to seek out the palm and fingers that had run so kindly through its hair. It would trill and chirp on command for the children who came by, and there was a slight wrinkling of the nose, a hint of a crinkle to the eyes, that made the merchant think absently, on occasion, that the creature might be smiling behind the muzzle at their delight.

From the window came a bitter cold. The merchant rarely ventured to that part of the store, and kept his own fireplace stocked high and crackling, to keep the remaining merchandise and the dog as warm as he could.

The creature, though… well, fae did not get cold so easily as people did. Its shivering was a show it put on, he thought, to try and make him feel guilt. He was unmoved. He ignored the whines and keens of pain when he finally unhooked it at the end of each day and its wings were finally able to curl back against its back. Instead, he whistled, and watched it drop to its knees on the wooden floor instantly in the back room, eyes closed to soak up the relative warmth compared to its usual proximity to the window.

After its daily meal, the merchant watched it curl up near the fireplace by the old guard dog, wings tightly wrapped around itself. He had grown a little fond of the thing, and so often allowed it to go without its muzzle for a couple of hours and warm itself before he led it to the stables to be chained down to sleep.

Usually, when he came in the morning to feed the horses and pick it up to lead it to the store window, he found it sleeping curled against one of his horses. And he never stopped feeling the prickling worry that the look in the liquid eyes of his long-time wagon team was not knickering interest any longer, but a simmering hate that grew each time the creature required its pitch to be replaced over the talons, or they saw the muzzle remove and replaced.

Surely that wasn’t possible.

Horses didn’t hate.

The merchant put the thought from his mind.

Through the winter, each day was the same in the little store the merchant rented. Wake the creature at the stable, allow it to stretch and bend its muscles in preparation, allow it to drink its fill of water, and then get it set for the daily display. Each day the winter stretched onward, the creature seemed less present than the day before.

Instead, the creature began to watch the twisting northern lights in the sky that stayed vibrantly visible late in the morning as the days without sun continued on. Instead, the merchant found its eyes were tilted upward, not on the customers, but up at the grayish-purple eternal twilight.

One night, the merchant paused on his way leading the creature to the stables, and caught its eyes turned upwards. He’d left the muzzle off, for a bit, and with so much of its face visible, he saw a very sentient look of awe written across its expression.

Intelligence was in that face, however dulled and deeply repressed. Humanity was in that face.

“What are you doing, creature?” The merchant asked, to cover his own unease.

It turned to look at him, and for a moment darkness covered the inhuman eyes and concealed its tightly curved wings against its back and he was looking at a young man, nothing more. A young man in chains, and with the red marks of the muzzle pressed so deeply against the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones that starlight left them in plain sight for hours.

The creature had not spoken in so long that its voice came out hoarsely hesitant, struggling to form the words. The monster had a soft, slight accent, as though it had grown up far to the south.

“Listening,” It said. One word only, and even that was reluctant.

The muzzle in the merchant’s hand twitched, suddenly wondering if he should replace it before he let the thing say a single word more. Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “Listening to what?”

The creature, who looked like nothing more than a boy, turned its gaze back upwards. Above their heads, a brilliantly painted blue and green light snakes along the sky like a snake, the trace of some great dragon.

The boy was silent, for a second, and then clicked deep in his secondary fae throat.

“Stars,” He said, plaintive. Soft and sad. “Wish they could hear me. I hear them. Try to sing back. Don’t think I’m heard.” Reddish tears welled at the corners of its eyes and caught the starlight, and it was that that broke the spell the merchant had been under, transfixed by the sound of its very human voice.

All at once, he remembered.

Fae magic.

The merchant’s jaw set in a shiver of repulsion, and he yanked on the chain that went to the ring around the boy’s - the creature’s - neck. It stumbled forward, and he replaced the muzzle, fastening the buckles with a touch more cruelty than necessary, until the thing whined at the pain.

The animal sound the creature made soothed the uncertainty that had so briefly flashed inside the merchant’s mind.

It bedded down obediently enough with the horses in the stables. In the morning, it was back in the window, on display for the stragglers who might come by in the crowd.

The merchant did not ask it questions again.

---

Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @oceanthesarcasamfox, @whump-only, @just-strawberry-jam, @loopylunacy (if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

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justasparkwritings · 4 years

Text

The 1: Well Enough Alone

Previous: Making It Count

Pairing: Hoseok X Reader

Genre: Slice of Life / Angst / Strangers to Lovers / FWB

Rating: NC15

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Swearing, Drinking, Mentions of Recreational Drug Use, Mentions of Consensual Sex

Summary: Hoseok returns to New York to make sense of the mess he’s made.

Listen: the 1 by Taylor Swift

The beginning of summer in New York was a mixture of heat and stench, the smells of the city rotting under the suns unrelenting gaze. Summer in the city was a mixture of absolute hell and immense pleasure, as rooftop parties, pool gatherings and air conditioning entangled themselves with the sweat and grime of the subway. It was your favorite season, sun dresses and eyelet shorts with chunky sandals and sunglass fashion was enough to tide you through until fall.

It also meant that Hoseok would be returning, his first time back since your tryst in January. You decided to meet at the bar, and you hoped that you’d fall back into the ease and comfort of your first romantic escapade.

You stepped into the bar, the summer sun illuminating the typically dark and dingy business. You turned your head, craning to see the brilliant smile of Hoseok, only to come up short.

“Looking for someone?” A man said, arm slipping around your waist. You turned; eyes wide.

“Hobi!” You called, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him to you. He laughed cheerfully and inhaled your shampoo, the scent bringing him back to whispers over tequila and scratches in the night. He held you tight, savoring the comfort of your familiarity.

“I missed you, Y/N.”

“I missed you, too,” You blushed as you pulled away from him.

“Shall we?” He gestured towards the bar and you moved to take two seats in the corner, far from the growing crowd but close to the air conditioning. He left briefly to get drinks, and when he came back, he winked as he handed you your glass.

“Manhattan Goes Hollywood,” He said, taking a sip, “not as good as yours.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” He said. You blushed again. “Did you break our promise?”

“My promise to you? No, I didn’t.” You said.

“So tell me, what adventures did you go on?” Ho-Seok didn’t stop smiling.

“I went to Rome,” You informed him.

“No way,” He was surprised.

“I did, I got lost and had to ask no less than five strangers in broken Italian how to get back to my hotel.”

“Did you go alone?”

“My friends and I went, but we took a day to explore the sites we wanted to see, alone. Katie went to Verona, Emily went on an olive oil tour. I went to see the Saint Valentine skull and got lost.”

“No!”

“Yeah, it was awful, I had several panic attacks,” You sipped your drink, the alcohol warming your already too hot skin.

“But you made it back,” Hoseok tipped his glass to you, humor in his eyes.

“Yes, I made it back before dark, but barely,” You laughed, embarrassed at your blunder.

“What else did you do?” He was egging you on, daring you to share wild escapades you’d had while he was touring, the ultimate adventure.

“I took molly at a Kim Petras concert in Bushwick,” You were unsure how he’d respond to your foray into illicit drugs. In true Hoseok fashion, his shock came across in a raucous laugh.

“You didn’t!”

“I did, it was, euphoric,” You said.

“I can imagine,” He responded, eyes veiled with an emotion you couldn’t recognize. “You didn’t text me though.”

You bit your lip. There were unclear boundaries in your relationship, this cat and mouse, never sure what was okay and what wasn’t, putting things out into the universe to see what would stick, often coming up short as he crossed time zones and continents. By texting him, he meant purposefully seeking him out. Not the snapchats, drunken messages late at night or voice messages sent. Hoseok meant you hadn’t texted him or sought him out when you realized you’d be in Europe at the same time. He meant you didn’t reach out when you saw something that reminded you of him, or when you heard BTS in the speakers at Target. You’d written the texts, you’d almost hit send dozens of time, but each time you stopped yourself. Hoseok didn’t want a relationship. He wasn’t interested in settling down. It didn’t matter if you felt a connection to him, if your heart wanted his every day. He made it clear in January, no matter how many times you turned his words, his actions, over in your mind, you came to the same conclusion.

You were both playing the game, but only one of you could win.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” You said, eyes unable to move from his.

“I did,” He said.

“You didn’t text either,” You reminded him.

“I know,” He said, eyes darting to your lips.

You stayed like that, unmoving, eyes trying to communicate what had happened in the months since you’d been in each other’s orbit.

“You saved the voice messages,” You said.

“So did you,” Hoseok countered. It was moot point. There was no upper hand.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You asked, ice saturating your drink, the unrest in your body making you uncomfortable.

“Your place?” He questioned.

“You’re forward,” You forced a laugh, a poor attempt at breaking some of the tension.

“We don’t have to-

“I know,” You stood.

“We can but, I’m happy just being,”

“Together,” you finished.

“Yes,” He nodded.

You nodded in response before standing up and much like before, your hands found each other’s as you guided him back to the street. Hoseok looked left and right, before glancing down at you.

“Are you trying to navigate us, or just being cute?”

“Can’t I be both?”

“Sure, Hoseok, sure,” You laughed again, guiding him down the familiar streets to your apartment. “How long are you here for?”

“Four days,” He said.

“Doing?”

“A photo shoot, somethings for MTV, Today Summer Concert series,”

“Holy fuck, how did I forget?” You stopped in the middle of the street, staring at Hoseok. “Friday, right?”

“Yes,”

“That’s so exciting! It’s going to be a fucking madhouse!” You were giddy, new BTS content? Yes, please.

“I know, I’m excited,” He took your excitement and leveled up. Euphoria seeping through his chuckles.

“How are the guys feeling?” You asked.

“Good, excited to perform again,” He said, energy flowing freely between you.

“It’s not like it’s been years since you performed.”

“No, but you still miss it after a week or two off,” Ho-Seok said.

Hoseok had a few weeks off… why didn’t he come to New York sooner? YOU’RE NOT HIS GIRLFRIEND, yelled the voices of Emily and Katie.

“What are you going to perform?” You asked, pulling yourself back to him.

“I can’t tell you that,” He laughed again.

“Please?” You begged, bottom lip jutting out, eyes swelling.

“What do I get in return?” Hoseok’s tone was teasing, you both knew he didn’t want anything from you.

“What do you want?” You asked. You had reached your apartment, and as you walked up the two flights of stairs, Hobi thought about what exactly he was trying to get from you. He didn’t want anything, and yet, he felt like he wanted everything from you and with you. He had kept your voice messages and wouldn’t delete your voicemails. He had a file of screenshots of drunk texts you’d sent, confessions late at night… He couldn’t count the number of times he reached to text you… the phone calls and facetimes he’d said were an accident but were really his feeble attempt at reaching out to you. All he wanted was to talk to you, to tell you about the shows, to fly you to him, to talk to you, to be with you. But he couldn’t.

“Come to the show on Friday,” He offered.

“What?” Your heart stood still.

“Come to the show, I’ll put you on the list.” He tried to brush it off like it was nothing, an innocent outing.

“Hoseok, would the guys be okay with that? Is that allowed?” Your mind began to race with possibilities.

“Why not? Yes, it’s allowed, we can hang out after,” He shrugged.

“Okay,” You said hesitantly.

“Yeah?” His smile was back.

“Yeah!” You smiled.

Hoseok pulled you to him, first in a hug, then his lips found yours. He missed the way you tasted, the way your fingers scrunched around his shirt, holding him to you by the thread count. He missed the sounds you made, the warmth he felt in your embrace. He’d missed you.

Hoseok slipped out before you awoke, a kiss on your cheek and a note on your nightstand. He’d have management send a car for you on Friday morning and bring you to the Plaza to watch. You’d get brunch with the guys after, some secluded five-star restaurant that the team had arranged. You were impressed that he’d scribbled this much before 6AM, and more impressed that he’d found a sticky note in your clusterfuck of a desk.

As you sat with your girlfriends the next day at lunch, you relegated your previous escapades.

“He’s your international fuckbuddy,” Katie said, sipping on her espresso.

“Isn’t that the best of all the worlds?” Emily asked.

“I think?” You said, unconvinced.

“You think? He fucks you when he’s in town, then it’s no strings attached the months he’s gone. What’s wrong with that?” Katie prodded.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” You said shrugging.

“You’ve caught feelings,” Emily said.

“I’m just not sure that that’s what this is,” You dipped your toe in the water of their judgement.

“Does he call you when he’s gone?” Katie pressed.

“Sometimes,”

“And you text often?” Emily asked.

“Often enough,” You said.

“Aren’t you just strangers who fuck? I don’t understand this confusion,” Katie said, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know if that’s all it is,” You tried to explain.

“What would give you an idea that you’re anything other than American pussy?” Katie asked.

“The way he looks at me, and the things he’s says… He waxes poetic every time we’re together,” You told them.

“To get you into bed?” Emily asked.

“Why would an international idol fuck with me?” You questioned, more force behind your words than you’d intended.

“You’re hot and intelligent?” Katie offered.

“Beautiful and charismatic?” Emily added.

“I just mean, he could be fucking anyone, right? But he’s sleeping with me on the off days he’s in New York. He says things… He doesn’t treat me like a fuck buddy,” You were growing flustered and upset. Couldn’t they understand what you were hinting at?

“Other than only fucking you when he’s in town?” Katie laughed; disbelief written across her face.

“And barely speaking to you otherwise?” Emily said, unlocking her phone to check her emails.

“Never mind,” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m just trying to understand-

“I don’t want to talk about it,” You said, disappointment in your eyes.

You’d shared almost every detail of your relationship with Ho-Seok. From how his hands felt on your body to the things he’d whispered to you as you laid in bed. They’d told you your relationship was nothing more than sex, that Ho-Seok was far too busy and important to want anything else from you.

If you thought about it rationally, it made sense. But in your heart, as you looked into his eyes, or read his texts, or saw the number of missed facetime calls you shared, you knew it was more. There was something there in his gaze, in his words, in his kiss. Why else had he promised that you’d see one another again, the next time he was in New York?

This was your mindset as you stepped out of the chauffeured car at the Today Show. The whir of the crew and BTS handlers buzzing as they prepped for the performance overwhelmed your senses as you were guided to where the men were.

“Y/N!” Hoseok called, moving from a conversation with Namjoon to hug you. The men glanced at you, taking in your appearance as Ho-Seok spoke to you. “You’re here! It’s going to be so great.”

Your smile faltered, you hadn’t expected a kiss, on the lips or cheek, but a brief hug? Hadn’t he been in your bed two nights ago, moaning your name, coming undone inside you? The prying eyes made you uncomfortable as you glanced around at the men trying to focus before their early show. The energy was electric, caffeine and adrenaline mixing with the vibe of an early summer morning in the greatest city in the world. It was intoxicating.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Hoseok called, looking at his six bandmates. “You can introduce yourselves later.”

The men were guided to the stage, where they were introduced and began their performance. You’d never seen them this close, and were in awe of every note, every step, every movement. Ho-Seok commanded the stage, oozing talent and sex appeal as he led the group through routine after routine. You were equal parts amazed and so turned on. You recognized his hip thrust, the slight twerk of his ass, the furrow in his brow. His voice was gorgeous, clear and strong over the throngs of screaming ARMY. Who wouldn’t want something more with him?

Your mind was hazy as they came off the stage, interview segments completed. Ho-Seok crashed into your arms, holding you tight.

“You were so fucking good,” You said laughing. He laughed to, merriment filling the dressing room.

“All for you,” He said, resting his sweaty forehead against yours.

“Ew, you’re so sweaty,” You said.

“That’s not what you said the other night when you were sticking to me.”

“Two can play that game,” You replied, eyes squinting.

“Oh?” He asked, daring you to say something in a room filled with his brothers.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your hips, or that furl of your brow,” Your words were hushed, an intimate conversation between lovers.

“Mm, recognized them, eh?” He smirked before untangling himself from you. “Give us a bit, we’ll go to brunch.”

“Okay,” You said, and you stood still, watching Ho-Seok walk towards the showers as his hand slowly slipped from yours.

The other men moved around you, showering, changing, thanking staff and wrapping up their time at the Today Show. It was the highest viewed concert series, with the largest audience that the Today Show had seen since One Direction and BTS’ last foray in the summer heat.

After thanking the hosts and signing a few merch items, BTS left, you in tow, to pile into a few vans headed for brunch. Ho-Seok insisted in taking a separate car, just the two of you, or at least it was until Jin decided he needed to chaperone.

“Oh, yeah, I hear this place is good, I did some research,” Jin said as the car moved through Manhattan.

“Mm, I’m starving,” Hoseok commented. His fingers were wound in yours, and your bodies were close together, shoulders touching.

“Y/N, what are you going to get?” Jin asked.

“Maybe eggs, but I’m kind of feeling waffles,”

“And a mimosa,” Hoseok laughed.

“Oh, bottomless,” You said giggling.

“Mostly champagne,” Hoseok said.

“With a drop of orange,” You added.

“Your favorite,” He glanced at you, smile crinkling his eyes. He remembered.

The three of you piled out of the car and were ushered quickly into the restaurant, Hoseok’s hand still in yours. As you sat down, Hoseok on your right, Namjoon on your left, you took in the Bangtan. Their striking beauty was blinding. How each of them had managed to find their way to Big Hit and stick it out was beyond you. There couldn’t possibly be anyone in the world more beautiful than them.

“Y/N, tell us, how is your friendship with J-Hope going?” Namjoon asked as he sipped on his Bloody Mary.

“I’m impressed you stay friends with him,” Yoongi muttered.

“I’m an excellent friend!” Hoseok exclaimed.

“It’s going well, yeah, I’m glad we get to see each other when he’s in town,” You smiled at the men, hoping they won’t notice how flustered you’d become.

“He’s a good friend, always so optimistic,” Taehyung added.

“Except when he’s blasting music, dancing at four thirty in the morning,” Yoongi commented.

“It was one time!” Jungkook said, coming to his hyung’s defense.

“Why were you even awake?” Jimin asked.

“I was preparing for –

“You barely slept,” Yoongi said, voice serious.

“Nervous energy,” Hoseok responded.

“The performance was amazing,” You interjected, noting the tension between the two men. “I love how you pull out your back catalogue for every performance.”

“We fight about it, a lot,” Namjoon said.

“Only because some of us are wrong,” Jimin said.

“You’re just mad because –

“Let’s not fight when we have a guest,” Namjoon interjected.

“Yeah, we can fight on our flight to Brazil,” Jin said. “Plenty of hours to bicker,”

“Y/N, do your other friends like Ho-Seok?” Taehyung asked.

“Um, they’ve never met,”

“They haven’t? But he spends so much time with you, talking to you, about you,” Jin rambled.

“Um, yeah, it’s just never lined up,” You took a large swig of champagne, “I’m sure they’d like him.”

“Unless he’s dancing at-

“Shut up Yoongi!” Jimin said through laughs.

“So Brazil, what will that be like?” You asked.

As the boys launched into their excitement for returning to South America, you sat and lost track of your thoughts. How many times had they called you a friend, said they were glad Ho-Seok had a friend like you, wanted to become your friend. Friend.

Is that what you were? You grew uncomfortable as the conversation lingered on, the men laughing and Namjoon translating quickly the funny things they were saying. Hoseok kept an arm around your shoulders, eating with his non dominant hand, just to hold you close. You felt no comfort in his gesture as your anxiety grew.

“They think we’re friends?” You asked, Hoseok’s hand in yours as the car took off towards Brooklyn.

“Yeah, aren’t we?” He countered.

“I don’t know, do friends know what it’s like to be inside the other?” You scoffed.

“Y/N,” He said, cocking his head toward the driver.

“I’m just asking,” You responded.

“Can we talk about this at your apartment?” He pleaded.

“I’d prefer to talk about it now,” You turned to face him.

“We’re friends,” He was treading lightly, you could hear it in the breath he put into the word ‘friends’.

“Aren’t we more?” Your voice betrayed your cool demeanor.

“I, I don’t think we can be,” Hoseok said.

You turned to face forward, hand slowly slipping out of his. You made a list of every sad song you wanted to listen to as you drank the half open bottle of Prosecco in your fridge, tears inevitable. Ho-Seok didn’t say anything, didn’t try to bring you back to him. The gravitational pull had been severed and you both were spinning.

“Thanks for uh, making sure I got home, and for letting me spend the day with you,” You said, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Of course, can I walk you up?” His eyes were sad.

“No, I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” You said opening the door to the summer heat.

“Y/N,” He was searching for you.

“Hoseok, have a safe flight, okay?”

He leaned in to place a kiss on your lips, but you turned, lips landing on your cheek. Getting out of the car, you didn’t look back.

Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?

Next: Never Gonna Grow

6 notes · View notes

cami-chats · 4 years

Text

Still Family

Fandom: Check Please

Pairings: Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Kent Parson & Bob Zimmermann

Warnings: Mention of canon overdose, brief mention of suicidal thoughts

Kent didn't know... he didn't know. Jack wasn't taking his calls. He wasn't answering any of Kent's texts. Kent didn't want to bother him, but he wanted to know what the fuck was going on. They'd had plans. They were going to be in the NHL and keep in touch with each other even though they probably wouldn't be playing for the same team. Kent didn't mention it to Jack because he'd already been so worried about someone finding out about the two of them, but he figured that they'd be able to come out when they retired. Hell, if they did good enough on the ice, they'd be able to do it before then. He knew that Jack didn't like hiding, and he thought that after a Stanley Cup or two, he'd be ready for something like that.

And now Jack wasn't taking his calls.

Kent had been completely cut off, like Jack didn't care about him at all. After a couple weeks of leaving voicemails and begging for Jack to tell him anything, he called Dad. He should probably get back to calling him Bob. It's not like everyone called him 'Dad', that was something Kent was allowed to do because he was Jack's best friend. You don't stop talking to your best friend and still have them as your best friend, therefore, Kent shouldn't call him that anymore. The thought made him feel like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, but he still hit 'call' and waited. After it rang out several times, he was afraid that Dad wasn't going to pick up either. At the last moment-- or at least what felt like the last moment-- the call picked up.

"Hi Kent," he said softly. Whether that was because he was trying to be nice or because he was trying to keep his voice down, Kent had no idea.

"Hey. Um, is Jack- I mean, is he-?"

"He's... as well as can be expected. Recovering. I'm sorry that he doesn't want to talk to you."

Kent wiped at the sudden swell of tears in his eyes. "It's fine," he said thickly, and there was no chance that Dad believed him, but he needed to pretend that he was fine or he'd fall apart. Jack would be able to salvage his NHL career after this, but Kent wouldn't be able to if he dropped out now.

"We'll be changing his number soon-- reporters, you know?-- and he asked that we don't give you the new one."

"Oh," Kent said, voice small. He wiped harder at his eyes. If Swoops came in and saw him now, he'd probably try to tell him that all rookies have trouble adjusting to a new city and if he ever needs to talk, he'll listen; all of that was nice, but it wasn't what Kent wanted to hear.

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"I don't think he wants for me to talk to you either," he said, and Kent's heart dropped. It was expected, but it still hurt like hell. He was going to have to make some excuse about needing to get off the phone, and that would be that: the end of the only good family Kent had known. "But," Dad continued, with barely a pause between one sentence and the next, "that's not really an option."

Kent had to clear his throat before he could say anything to that. "I'd understand," he said, and his voice scraped against his throat. He was crying, and there was no hiding it, no matter how much he wanted to. "He's your son."

"So are you, Kent." He had this way of talking when it was something important, like you were the only focus he had in that moment and he was going to do everything he could for you. His voice was soft, intense, and it reminded Kent of when he'd admitted that he didn't want to go home and Bob had offered to let him stay the summer with them. "Alicia and I didn't raise you, but we think of you as another son. I'm sorry I wasn't there to see you go first in the draft, kiddo. I'm so proud of you."

Kent put his hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. Tears were spilling over, making his cheeks sticky. His nose was clogged so he couldn't breathe, and there was snot running over his fingers, but he hadn't felt this good since before he'd found Jack motionless on the bathroom floor.

"I don't think I'll be able to make it to your first game," he said, and his voice was saturated with regret, like this was the biggest problem in Kent's life-- that he wouldn't there. "I'll watch it as soon as I can. I know you'll be amazing. And- and even if you aren't, even if you screw up, that's okay. We'll still love you, and- and you'll still be family. Okay?"

Kent nodded, then remembered that Dad couldn't see him. "Okay," he croaked.

"I love you. If you ever need something, you can call me. Okay?"

Normally he didn't stress things like this, but Kent guessed this was a byproduct of Jack's overdose. "Okay," he said again. He wanted to ask if he'd tell Jack that he missed him, but Jack was already planning to never talk to him again. He wasn't going to push Dad away trying to force it.

He'd ask about Jack calling him later, when everything had settled a little more. Jack was upset, he was hurting, and Kent wasn't at his side trying to help. Time. All he needed was some time, and they would be talking again.

Jack knew something was up the moment his parents sat at the table. He was doing homework-- all his papers and books spread out across the surface-- and they normally didn't bother him when he was doing homework. They all had their little alone time spots or ways of signaling that they needed some quiet. Dad would lay down on the couch, TV off and staring at the ceiling. Mom would sit at the piano bench, staring down at the keys but never raising her hands to try and play. Jack normally went to his room, but he also didn't like being interrupted when he was doing homework. They knew that, but they were here now, sliding into the other chairs around the table like they had a family meeting planned. If that alone hadn't signaled it, the way Mom folded her hands on the tabletop would have.

"Jack, honey, we wanted to talk to you about something," she said, sharing a look with Dad even though they'd clearly talked about this before sitting down.

Knowing that this wasn't going to be a casual conversation, he closed his laptop. "Yes?"

"Are you planning on going into the NHL after you graduate?"

Jack frowned. "Yes." They'd talked about this. He was getting his degree for something to do afterwards and to help him clear his head now. His therapist had recommended it as giving him something to focus on in his life other than hockey. He enjoyed his classes, but hockey was still what he loved. His parents knew that, so why would they bring it up now?

"We wanted to remind you that if you wanted to do something else, there's no pressure," Dad said. "You'll have a degree; you can make a career out of that, if you want."

Jack's frown deepened. "I know. We... we've talked about this. I'll be looking at different teams this year, remember?"

"Yes, of course, it's just-" Mom stopped, pursing her lips for a moment. "We don't want a repeat of your overdose. You almost died, and that was because of pressure in your hockey career."

Jack had to make a conscious effort to unclench his jaw. He was glad that they weren't tiptoeing around the subject, but it never felt good to be reminded of his biggest failure. If he'd asked for help, none of this would have happened. He didn't want anyone to think he hated his life-- because he didn't-- but it still felt like everything was a massive 'what if' right now. "I know, maman. It won't happen again. I've been doing better. I'm not like I was back then."

For a second, it looked like she was going to keep talking about it, insist that everyone was there for him if he did slip again, but instead, she let out a breath. "Okay. I trust you to ask for help if you need it." She got up and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then left.

Dad was still sitting there, looking like he had something he wanted to say, so Jack looked over at him in query. "I haven't brought him up because you asked me not to," he started, and Jack's stomach dropped. Oh god. This was a conversation he never wanted to have. Never. "But have you thought about calling Kent?"

Jack shook his head, looking down at the book in front of him as he wished for this conversation to come to a spontaneous end.

"He was your best friend. He's been in the league for the past few years; I'm sure he could offer some advice about the different teams and where you'd be strongest."

"That's what you and the GM's are for."

"He misses you."

"How would you know?" Jack asked automatically, derisively.

"You may have chosen not to talk to him, but I did nothing of the sort."

Jack's gaze jerked up to meet his father's, shocked.

"I know that he misses you because he asks about you every single month. I don't know why you still refuse to speak to him after all this time-- and if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to-- but I know that he would love to hear from you, even if it's to tell him how your classes have been. As a... personal favor," he added hesitantly, "I would like for you to consider it. I love both of you, and I would like to go to both of your games."

Jack didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about Kent or the way they had been on the ice. He didn't want to think about how, high off of their success, they would steal kisses and fumble their way through sex because they were close but they needed to be closer. He didn't want to think about how he should have been at the draft and signed right after him because he was a legend but Kent was fucking golden on the ice and he'd worked harder than anyone else to prove that he belonged there. Jack hadn't been able to talk to him because every time he so much as thought about it, it felt like he was drowning. Anger was easy. He got mad at Kent and didn't think about it. And now his father was asking him to think about it years after he should've gotten over it, and he wasn't ready. Dad had been a parent to Kent as well, so it made sense that he was still hoping they'd get along. The truth was that Jack didn't know how to talk to Kent anymore. They'd been filled with hope. So much hope that they were brimming with it, and sure, there had been anxiety to match, but together it had felt like they could do anything. He... missed it. He was also terrified of it. "I'll think about it," he promised.

Dad got to his feet and walked around the table to give him a hug. "Thank you. I know this is hard on you Jack, but you're not alone. Whatever you need, we'll be able to help."

Jack cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Thank you."

Jack had meant it when he said he would think about it, but he hadn't planned on thinking about it quite as much as he ended up doing. He'd meant to think about it for ten minutes after he finished his homework for the day so that he would have kept his promise, but he didn't plan on agonizing over it. He hadn't been able to concentrate on his homework when he was left alone again, and all he accomplished was staring blankly at his laptop screen before it went to sleep-- only for him to wake it up and do the same thing over and over again.

He asked Dad for Kent's number after he wasted most of the afternoon writing sentences in his notes that he had to delete a couple minutes later, and then he stared at his phone for half an hour as his finger alternated hovering over the call button and the create message button.

In the end, he didn't make a decision. His finger slipped, and it started ringing. He wasn't going to hang up, so he swallowed, raising the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Kenny," he breathed. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.

"...Zimms?" Kent asked, and he sounded heartbreakingly hopeful.

Jack swallowed. "Hey."

"I- shit, one second." There was a clatter, the sound of a door closing, and the background noise that Jack hadn't noticed before was gone.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No, just- y'know, hanging out with some of the guys. What's up?"

Jack couldn't help it; he laughed. "What's up? That's the first thing you want to say to me?"

"I- well- oh fuck off, it's not like I knew to be expecting this. I haven't heard from you in years and now you're calling me up like it's another Friday."

"It's Tuesday."

"So not the fucking point, go to hell. Uh, anyways, was there something in particular or...?"

"Euh, Dad said you've kept in touch."

There was a beat. "Don't ask me to stop talking to him," Kent pleaded.

"What? No! No, merde, nothing like that. I was... euh. How are you?"

"Um. Fine, I guess? Off-season, y'know. You?"

"Good. It's going to be my last year at Samwell, so I've been looking at the different teams."

"Are you-" Kent started to ask, then cut himself off.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, really Kenny, what?"

There was a long pause, and Jack had to check his phone to make sure the call was still connected. "Are you asking for advice on where to go?"

"Not... really." Jack blew out a breath. "I don't know. I want for us to be friends again."

"Jack, I-. You didn't talk to me. You tried to cut me out, and the only reason we're talking right now is because Dad forced you."

"He didn't force me, we just talked about it."

"Right, cause that's so much better. You feel coerced instead of being forced."

"No," Jack protested, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not- I want us to be friends again because I miss you. Talking about the next year seemed like the best idea." But now he was thinking that he should have started with an apology. The trouble was, he didn't know what all he needed to apologize for. For cutting Kent out, obviously, but it's not like he actually knew that he would do it differently if he was given the opportunity. He wouldn't have been able to handle Kent going to the NHL and him staying in the fucking hospital if he had to keep talking to him. He probably would've tried something, and this time, it wouldn't have been an accident. Jack shook his head to knock the thought loose; he didn't want to think about that or anything like it.

"Uh, yeah, I mean, it's good to hear from you," Kent said, but he didn't sound like he really believed Jack.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Evidently, that was all Kent needed to hear. He didn't ask for specifics for what Jack was sorry about, and he didn't question Jack's motivation. It was still awkward, but they managed to make it through a mostly-normal conversation with promises to keep in touch.

The next day, Kent sent him a picture of his cat with the caption Isn't she just a perfect little princess? Jack squinted at the picture and decided that Kent needed glasses because that cat looked like a fucking gremlin. To save himself from having to respond, Jack took a picture of his homework table and said College was a mistake.

Kent stepped inside the party and his first thought was I can't believe Jack joined a frat. His second thought was I can't believe he invited me to his frat party. It was more like Kent was nearby for a game and Jack didn't want to miss this party that his hockey team was throwing, so Jack told him to come so they'd get to see each other. And since when did Jack drink? Yeah they'd gotten totally wasted at parties back when they were in Juniors, but he'd kind of assumed that Jack stopped that when he was in rehab. Dad hadn't mentioned it, but that was either because Jack never fessed up to that or because Dad liked to pretend that they hadn't done that.

Jack was busy telling someone a story when Kent spotted him, so he slunk up next to him and waited.

"...his buddy threw up in there? I had to drag 'em both outta the Haus."

Kent had meant to wait until Jack was done with his story, but he found himself interrupting, "Since when do you get physical off the ice?"

Jack turned to look at him and fucking lit up. "You made it!" he said, smiling, and then he was hugging Kent, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as the hand holding his cup kind of smushed against his chest.

Kent blinked in surprise. Since when did Jack get physical with Kent in any place that wasn't tightly locked and completely private?

He let go before Kent could force his arms to get with the program, but he didn't let go completely. He shifted to the side so his arm was around Kent's shoulders, and now they were facing the guy he'd been talking to before. "Kent, this is Bitty. Bitty, this is-"

"I may not be a hockey expert, but I recognize Kent Parson. Oh lord, so nice to meet you," he said, a pink flush highlighting his cheeks. Whether that was from alcohol or something else, Kent didn't know and he didn't really care to find out.

"Nice to meet you too," Kent said with a practiced smile. Jack had mentioned Bitty when he was talking about the team, but not as much as some of the others. It's not that Jack didn't want to, it's more like he sensed that Kent didn't like him and steered clear. And beyond that, it's not that Kent didn't like him, it's that he got the uncomfortable feeling that there was something between Jack and Bitty and he didn't want to think about it. Their friendship was going well, and he wanted to keep it that way. Kent missed the hell out of Jack, and Jack had missed him as a friend. It was better than nothing, and Kent sure as hell wasn't going to ruin that by getting jealous.

"What are you doing at our haus party?" he asked, looking innocently confused but also eager.

Kent didn't blame him, but he also had the completely uncharitable thought that if he knew who Kent was, and he knew who Jack was, he should be able to figure out why Kent was here.

"I asked Parse to drop in so we could catch up," Jack said, which was a perfectly good response. But then- fuck. Then Jack glanced at him and smiled the same way he would back at Juniors when Kent would think that Jack was in love with him. "Think I'm gonna head upstairs. Enjoy the rest of the party, Bitty."

"Thanks for coming down at all, Jack," Bitty said with a smile. "Have fun catching up!"

And then Jack was pulling Kent up the stairs and locking the door to his room the moment they stepped inside.

"I can't believe that's-" Kent started to say, only to stop when Jack kissed him. He was pressed between Zimms and the door, and while it was nice as hell to be kissing him again when he never thought he'd be able to for the rest of his life, the feeling of the door behind him reminded him too much of what they did at the Q. "Zimms, I can't- I can't do this if you're gonna..." Kent trailed off, not sure how to say it. "I'm not a kid anymore," was what he settled on.

Jack gave him enough space that he didn't feel like he was trapped, but he was still close. "I know. We're not the same we were back then, and I don't want to be. Can we- christ, Kenny, can we talk about it later? I've been thinking about sucking you off all day."

Kent's dick was definitely interested in that proposition, and his mind was already starting to fog with all his blood rushing south. But... "You're not going to ignore me again."

"Never."

Kent nodded, and this time he was the one who initiated the kiss.

#check please #pimms #kent parson #jack zimmermann #fanfic #my writing

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emerald-equ1nox · 6 years

Text

Décalcomanie || 9

Summary: He needed a job done and the only people who could do it hated each other. Well as they say, you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet.

Series Trigger Warnings: violence, cursing, drinking, possible smut in later chapters

With a smile, (Y/N) pulled a hoodie on and grabbed Yoongi’s keys. “I’m taking your car!” she called.

“I’m sorry what?!” Yoongi exclaimed, poking his head around the doorframe of the bathroom.

“Your car, I’m taking it. I need to go to the library.”

“Um, I don’t think so. There is no way in hell that you’re taking my baby, take the bus.” (Y/N) shook her head.

“I’m taking the car and you can’t stop me.”

“Yeah I can.”

“Have fun chasing me in a towel bitch.” (Y/N) grabbed her wallet and hurried out of the apartment. She heard Yoongi’s footsteps on the hardwood in the apartment.

“(Y/F/N)! Get back here with my keys!”

“Nope! Go take a shower, you smell!” (Y/N) hurried outside to the car, unlocking it as soon as she saw it. Once inside she started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. The drive to the library was uneventful and when (Y/N) got there she locked the car and went inside. She made a beeline to one of the open computers and logged in. After that, she plugged in her usb and printed out her acting resume before printing off a copy of the sheet music for A Guy That I’d Kinda Be Into from Be More Chill. She grabbed the two things from the printer at the end of the row of computers she was sat at and then returned to the computer to sign off. Once she did that she spent some time browsing the shelves but decided against checking anything out. A tap at her shoulder as she stood looking at the small pin board on the wall caused her to jump. She spun around to come face to face with the redhead from the gang. “Oh! Um, Wonho right?”

“Call me Hoseok,” he said. “Wonho’s my nickname.”

“Well, Hoseok then, what are you doing here?” He held up a large book. It looked to be the first Game of Thrones novel.

“Returning this monster.” (Y/N) chuckled. “You?”

“Printing out my resume, I’m auditioning for a musical in about a month.”

“That’s cool.” Just then, (Y/N)’s phone began to buzz.

“Oh, that’s probably Yoongi,” she said as she pulled her phone out. “I’ve gotta go, but it was nice seeing you.”

“You too.” Hoseok looked like he wanted to say something else but simply waved as (Y/N) left.

“What’s up?” (Y/N) asked as she answered.

“You done yet?” Yoongi asked.

“I haven’t even been gone that long.”

“I know, but I miss you.” (Y/N)’s eyebrows furrow.

“Yoongi?”

“Could you swing by the store on your way home though? We need beer.”

“You just finished that six pack, you’ll be fine for a couple more days.”

“‘Scuse me,” Yoongi said quietly. The sound of hushed footsteps reached (Y/N)’s ears. “They just showed up.”

“What? Who?”

“Shownu and them. Well, not all of them but most of them. They said that Wonho would be here soon.” (Y/N) climbed into the car and sat the stack of papers in her hand on the passenger's seat.

“Yeah, I just bumped into him.”

“Seriously?”

“Mhm.”

“Damn.”

“I’ll head to the store right now. I’ll get a twelve pack and be there in a bit.”

“‘Kay. See ya.”

“See ya.” The sound of another, less quiet pair of footsteps reached (Y/N)’s ears.

“Love you baby,” Yoongi said quietly, fondness saturating his voice.

“Love you too,” (Y/N) replied in case whoever had walked over to Yoongi could hear her. She hung up and pulled out of her parking space before making her way to the convenience store down the street. She grabbed a twelve pack and a bottle of Coke and took it to the cash register. She pulled out her credit card and her ID and slid both across the counter to the cashier. After grabbing her purchases and returning her cards to her wallet, (Y/N) exited the store and went to the car. She noticed a small scrap of paper under the windshield wiper and cursed. “Please don’t be a ticket, please don’t be a ticket.” She hurried to the car and plucked the paper up. The words scrawled across the paper chilled her to the core.

The same handwriting from the bathroom mirror stared up at her. You’re not fooling anyone, the note said. “Motherfucker.” She unlocked and opened the car, placing the twelve pack in the passenger’s seat on top of her papers and placed the Coke bottle in the cup holder. She closed the door forcefully, sliding the piece of paper in her pocket and putting the key in the ignition. The drive to the apartment was filled with (Y/N)’s nervous mumbling. It seemed all too obvious that Hoseok was the one who did this, way too obvious. When she got to the apartment, Yoongi was stood outside. He pushed off of the side of the building and strode over to the car. He opened the door for (Y/N) and grabbed the twelve pack as she handed it over to him. He watched as (Y/N) grabbed her soda and papers before climbing out and shutting the door. He held his hand out to her once the car was locked and (Y/N) grabbed it. She pressed the slip of paper into his palm with a sigh. “We have a problem.”

“What?” he asked.

“You’ll see when you read the note.” Yoongi frowned slightly before pressing a kiss to her temple as they started walking down the hallway to the apartment. When they walked in, they were greeted by six smiling faces. “Okay, that’s creepy.” Yoongi chuckled.

“Look at Wonho,” he muttered. (Y/N) searched for him and when her eyes landed on his face she almost snorted. The best way to describe his expression was constipated. Yoongi sat the twelve pack on the coffee table before grabbing himself one. He pulled (Y/N) behind him to the arm chair to the right of the couch. He then sat down and pulled her down into his lap. (Y/N) sat across his lap, one arm around his neck and the other in her lap. Yoongi took her papers and sat them on the floor before opening his beer and taking a drink of it, watching as the other men all grabbed one as he did so. His arms wrapped around (Y/N)’s waist and he tapped at the can in his hand, feeling the slip of paper he held become damp. He discreetly slipped it into (Y/N)’s pocket under the guise of simply letting his hand rest on her thigh.

“So, what brings you guys here?” (Y/N) asked as she leant into Yoongi’s chest.

“Just wanted to get to know you guys better,” Hyungwon, the one that Yoongi and (Y/N) had dubbed “Shōjo man,” said simply. Yoongi hummed quietly.

“What d’you wanna know?” he rumbled.

“How’d you guys meet?” Minhyuk piped up.

“High school,” Yoongi and (Y/N) chimed.

“Junior year,” (Y/N) said with a smile.

“Best day of my life,” Yoongi said. The look in his eyes was extremely believable and even (Y/N) felt like she believed his fictional statement.

“I thought that was the day you got the car.”

“Okay, second best day of my life.” There was a collective chuckle from the men in the room.

“How long have you guys been together then?” Jooheon asked.

“Since our last year of high school,” Yoongi said, “so seven years.”

“Damn,” Shownu laughed, “where’s the ring man?” (Y/N) blushed lightly when Yoongi grabbed her hand and squeezed tightly

“Someday dude, someday.” A small chuckle left (Y/N)’s mouth.

“Yeah,” she said, “twenty years down the line when we’ve got two kids, a house, and a mortgage.” The other guys laughed as Yoongi frowned slightly.

“Rude.” (Y/N) laughed and leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“You love it.”

“True.” There was a beat of silence before Kihyun piped up.

“Where are you guys from?” he asked.

“I’m from Daegu, she’s from Seoul,” Yoongi said. “I moved up here back in the summer before junior year with some friends to pursue my music career but that obviously hasn’t panned out yet.”

“Which is bull,” (Y/N) spat. “He’s hella good.”

“What do you do?” Changkyun asked, perking up.

“I rap,” Yoongi said simply.

“And?” (Y/N) egged.

“And play piano and produce my own stuff. Doesn’t really pay the bills though.”

“No, but we are lucky in that Dad was willing to help you with your music.”

“Yeah, still think he hates me though.”

“Bullshit! He loves you, he thinks of you as the son he never had.” Yoongi shook his head.

“Sure.” (Y/N) smacked his chest lightly.

“Stop doubting yourself.” She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before leaning down to set her soda on the floor. Her head dropped into the crook of his neck and she glanced lazily at the others out of the corner of her eye. Yoongi began to rub his hand up and down her back as he conversed with the other men in the room. The conversation revolved heavily around Yoongi’s music, Changkyun being the most interested.

“Could I hear something?” Changkyun asked, giddy smile on his face. The chuckle that left Yoongi’s lips was a very real one.

“Maybe later kid,” he said simply, the soft smile on his face betraying the happiness that simple question had brought him.

“That’s a yes,” (Y/N) stage whispered as she brought her hand up to thread through the hair at the nape of Yoongi’s neck. Yoongi pinched her side slightly, soothing over it with his thumb after wards. (Y/N) stayed perched in Yoongi’s lap, watching the men across from them with lazy eyes. She would occasionally let out a small laugh or give her two sense but she found it much easier to simply observe. When their seven visitors decided to call it a night, Yoongi pushed on (Y/N)’s side lightly to get her to rise. The two saw the others to the door and waved as they left, sighing exhaustedly when the door was closed.

“I need a drink,” (Y/N) exhaled as she made her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine and leant up against the counter, watching as Yoongi walked in holding a beer. He leant against the counter across from her, studying the way she sipped from her glass. No more than a few seconds passed before he pushed off of the counter and crossed the small distance between them.

His hand fished into her pocket and he pulled out the slip of paper. He unfolded and read it, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s gotta be Wonho, he was the only one not here when the others showed up.”

“Yeah, but that’s too obvious.”

“Well how could any of the others have done it?”

“They’ve got people under them, it’s not hard to tell one of them to tail me and put it on the windshield after they realized that I wasn’t here.”

“Yeah but how would they know what the car looked like?”

“They could’ve been following me since I left.”

“And not put it there while you were in the library? They had the most time then compared to what they had when you went into the store.” (Y/N) sighed heavily before shaking her head.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Yoongi frowned slightly before smoothing a hand over (Y/N)’s hair.

“A gang Sweetheart.” The soft way that Yoongi said the pet name felt like something akin to home, something (Y/N) hadn’t had in awhile. And it scared her. Yoongi wasn’t someone who was supposed to make her feel at home, he was the one person standing between her and her father’s favor and she was supposed to hate him. She did hate him. But then why did she giggle at the pet name that had lost its meaning after everyone decided to call her it more than they did her actual name? Why had she leant into the light kiss he had placed on her temple earlier as they walked into the apartment building and why had she felt a sense of loss as she left his grasp to see the others to the door? And most importantly, why was it that everything Yoongi did to make the relationship seem real actually felt real? This whole thing was supposed to be an act, just like all of the other missions like this that Yoongi had been on and all of the past musicals that (Y/N) had taken part in. So why was it starting to feel real?

#bangtan bookclub #yoongi au #mafia au #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic

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daebakinc · 6 years

Text

Pennies and Dimes

Pairing: Minhyuk x Reader Genre: Fluff, Kindergarten Teacher Minhyuk AU Word Count: 4.2K Summary: Your surprise knight in shining armor turns up at a kissing booth.

The instant Hani leaves you at the picnic table alone to find the bathrooms, he pounces.

“Hey, long time no see,” Greg says as he slips onto the bench opposite you, his disarmingly charming smile already in place.

So too is every single hair on his head and every thread of his clothes. You’d think he’d dress down for a primary school carnival, but Greg is still dressed to the nines. Everyone else got the memo for a dress code of jeans and t-shirts and floating summer dresses like the one you’re wearing. Yet here he is in khakis and a pastel polo. An almost carbon copy of what he wore in his profile picture. Really, that should’ve keyed you in before the first date. Why he was here, you have no idea, but you really wish he wasn’t.

“Hello, Greg,” you reply, your tone painfully civil. Only the manners your mother ensured were ingrained in your very soul keep you from just walking away. Sometimes you wish she hadn’t raised such a lady. This jerk is no gentleman.

“It’s been two weeks since our date.”

“I am well aware.”

“You never called me back.”

“I thought my text was sufficient in indicating I didn’t want a second date.”

“It was a good starting serve, but you didn’t follow up. Not a good way to keep me interested in the game,” Greg smirks.

What the hell is taking Hani so long? Biting back a few choice words, you retort, “I think your giving the waitress your number after ogling her assets all night was end game enough.”

He has enough courtesy to look a little embarrassed, but any good feelings towards him that might have been restored immediately go right back out the window when he reaches across the table to grab your hand. “Maybe I was looking where I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I’m a man with eyes. And I didn’t give her my number. It was just a little scribble thanking her for her excellent service.”

You nearly choke on the bark of laughter you hold in. This guy really has some balls. He hadn’t even tried to be subtle. Not to mention you can read upside down and that heart he’d put around his number was big enough to see from the moon. “Let go of my hand, please.”

“Come on, one more date. Just promise me one more and I’ll let go.” With a starry-eyed look he’s clearly practiced in the mirror like a B-movie love interest, he adds, “I think we have a real connection.”

“The only connection we’re going to have is my foot connecting with your shin if you don’t get your hands off me.”

Instead, Greg’s grip tightens, and he leans in, uncomfortably close. “You’re so sexy when you’re playing hard to get. Give me one more chance and I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.”

Someone’s watched ‘The Notebook’ too many times. Haven’t men learned that being this pushy is no longer appreciated, if it ever was, nor is it acceptable in today’s world. That is unless they want a restraining order slapped across their too touchy palms.

“I said,” you reply frostily, in vainly trying to pull your hand away, “let go.”

Finally, a scowl breaks his perfect image. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not hurting you.”

Well, you did warn him. You sigh, already regretting making a scene at a children’s event, but he’s leaving no choice by ignoring your politer requests. Maybe the happy screams of children on rides, the hawking of vendors, and ringing of games’ winning bells will mask his yelp of pain. Just as you’re rearing back your leg as best you can, a warm arm slips around your shoulder and someone’s hip bumps into yours as they slide beside you.

“There you are, babe!” the man exclaims, pulling you against his chest with one arm and successfully breaking Greg’s hold on you. With your body stiff with confusion against his, he whispers, “Just act natural and we’ll get rid of this guy, okay? Trust me.”

At first, you can only think how good your strange knight smells, your face pressed into his neck. When his words register, you nod your head. This man can’t be any worse than the one you’re trying to escape.

The stranger’s breath ghosts across your cheek in a phantom kiss before he eases away from you. Keeping the arm on your shoulder in place, he shakes a playful finger at you while sporting a puppy pout. “How could you leave your Minhyukie hanging like that? You told me to meet you by the bumper cars ages ago! I got so bored waiting by myself with no one to play with.”

His childish tone has a cringe-worthy level of syrup, but his theatrics and clever way of telling you his name has you giggling rather than wincing. Jutting your own lip out and clasping your hands, you saturate your own voice with the same baby sweetness, “_____’s sorry, Minhyukie. Hani had to go to the bathroom and I was going to come find you right after, promise.”

Minhyuk laughs. His mouth stretches in a wide grin as he tucks an invisible hair behind your ear. “Ah, how could I stay mad at you, sweetheart? I just missed my baby so much I thought I was going to die!” He glances over at a stiff Greg and starts as if noticing him for the first time. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt a conversation with your friend? I don’t think we’ve met?”

“No. He’s just a guy I went on a date with once.” You lightly poke Minhyuk’s chest with a finger. “That was before I met you of course, baby. He just stopped by to say ‘hi’ when he saw me.”

“How nice of him.” Minhyuk squeezes your shoulder and smiles at Greg. “I suppose I ought to thank you then.”

The increasingly sour look on Greg face drops into a mystified one. “Thank me?”

“Sure. If you hadn’t somehow screwed up, I wouldn’t have had a chance with this beautiful lady. So, thanks, man.”

Minhyuk sticks out his free hand towards Greg with the most guileless smile. Greg’s face turns an ugly shade of red. Mumbling something, he shoves away from the table and disappears into the crowd.

Minhyuk waits until there’s no sign of Greg before he drops his arm from your shoulder and shifts a respectable distance away. Foolishly, you instantly miss his weight and warmth. Then, you catch yourself. You’re not the type to swoon easily. You’re too old for that.

“Where the hell did you find that guy?” Minhyuk snorts, still watching the crowd. “Did he leave his fedora at home this time? I thought they were permanently attached to guys like that’s heads.”

Without thinking, you dryly retort, “Trust me, they had to perform surgery in the doorway of the restaurant on our date to get it off. Very messy but it was too late. The douche venom had already leaked into his brain. The effects were irreversible.”

Minhyuk stares at you for a full second before collapsing onto the table, his shoulders shaking with full belly laughs. You can’t help laughing along, his amusement as catching as a winter bug.

“That delivery,” he finally manages, sitting up and wiping at his eyes. “Classic. Perfect. Oh boy, I can’t breathe.”

“Please do. I’d rather not be the cause of your death when you just saved me.”

“All in a day’s work, ma’am. I see someone as clearly in distress as you were, and I have to help.” Minhyuk gives you a jaunty salute. “Besides, he looked like a piece of work.”

“Oh, he was. I deleted that dating app I found him on as soon as I got home.”

“I bet.”

“Really though, thank you,” you sigh. You hold out your hand, “I’m _____, to officially introduce myself.”

He laughs again and gives your hand a quick, friendly squeeze. “Minhyuk, to officially introduce myself.”

As you shake his hand, you take your first real look at Minhyuk and find yourself captivated. You’ve seen gorgeous men before, but there’s something special about this one. If you had to settle on one word for it, you’d go for puckish. Humor and intelligence light his eyes and gives his already handsome features a quality Hani would probably label “umph!”.

You give your head a mental shake to get your love-crazy friend out of your head. Falling for strangers in her thing. Nothing wrong with it, it’s just not your thing.

Dropping his hand before you do something stupid like drool, you take a breath. “So, can I do something to thank you? Like get you funnel cake or something?”

“That’s really sweet of you, but it’s alright,” he says, waving your offer away. “No one should be having a bad time at a carnival. I really have to get back to work too.”

“Oh. Do you work here at the school?”

“Me? No, no. I do work at a school though. I’m a kindergarten teacher in the next township over, but my friend who does work here asked me to, well more told me-”

“Lee Minhyuk!” A man whose looks shouldn’t exist outside of a fashion magazine strides from between tents and gestures at Minhyuk. “Quit flirting for free and get your butt to the booth! It’s our shift.”

“Guess I really have to go now.” Minhyuk sighs and gets up, but not before giving you another smile. You wonder if his mouth is just one made for smiling. “If that ass comes around again, kick him like you were planning to. I’ll vouch for you. Try to have some fun though.”

“I will. Thanks.”

He waves and follows his friend. It’s sad watching his back disappear, but Hani quickly fills in your vision. Dressed in cherry red overall shorts, she’d be hard to miss even if she wasn’t inches in front of you.

“Who was that?” she asks with a grin, enunciating every word for emphasis.

“No one,” you immediately respond.

“Didn’t look like no one.” Hani bends down, pushing her face into yours. If you weren’t good friends, it might uncomfortable, but Hani might as well be your other half. “Hmm, nope. Still there. Not a trick of the light.”

“What are you talking about?”

She bops your nose. “I haven’t seen you ever look at anyone with puppy eyes. Ever.” She draws the last word out while wickedly fluttering her eyelashes.

“Oh, shut up,” you giggle, snapping one of her overall straps. “He was just someone who helped me get rid of Greg.”

“Eww. He’s here? Why?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. He’s gone now, thanks to Minhyuk.”

“Oh, so Mr. No-one actually has a name?”

Ignoring her comment, you say, “He was more help than you were. What the heck took you so long? Did you circle the whole carnival?”

Hani’s smile goes from impish to sheepish as quickly as a summer storm.

“What?” you ask suspiciously, narrowing your eyes and poking her in the ribs.

“I found out there’s a kissing booth and I got distracted, okay?” Hani slaps your hand away and slumps backwards against the table. “The three people they have are gorgeous, baby. Gorgeous, I tell you, with the prettiest, softest lips. I can’t imagine what kissing them for real for real would be like. I’d probably die.”

“Let me guess. You kissed all three. Multiple times.”

“Just once each. The lines were so damn long.”

“Language! There are children!”

“Sorry, ‘Mom.’ The lines were so dang long.”

“Better,” you laugh.

Hani suddenly jumps up and tugs you along with her. “We should go see if the lines are shorter! Come on!”

Because no one says no to Hani, you follow along as she leads you through the maze of people, tents and rides. As it turns out, the kissing booth isn’t far away, it’s a ludicrous shade of sweetheart pink canopy that’s a true stand-out among the other tents. The triple lines keep you from seeing the interior booth itself.

“Oh, thank goodness! They are shorter!” Hani races to put herself at the end of one of the lines. She looks back to you and points at the lines on both sides. “What’re you waiting for? Get in a dang line. It’s all for charity!”

Chuckling to yourself, you shake your head as you join her. You’ll admit the idea, the spontaneity, the blitheness of it, is a little exciting. Gods, you’re so lame.

“Oh, right, here.” Winking, Hani presses a penny and a dime into your hand. “They’re doing a competition with some other booths to see who can raise the most money in coins. It’s a penny a second up to ten seconds, so up to your discretion.”

“You went and got a load of change while you were gone too, didn’t you?”

Your friend says nothing, only putting her hands in her pockets to produce a merry jingling.

Hani keeps up a constant chatter as you wait in line as if sensing you’re having second thoughts the closer you get to the front of the line. A white with bright red hearts tablecloth covers the long plastic table. Someone rigged curtains in front of each of the three kissers for a bit of merciful privacy for shyer clients, but you catch glimpses each time they’re opened. A beautiful girl waits at the opposite end of the table from you. In the middle, you’re surprised to find Minhyuk’s friend, the model guy standing there looking slightly bashful.

The butterflies in your stomach flap harder and harder. You’re too nervous to sneak a look at the person you’ll be locking lips with in a few minutes. Instead, you focus on the large canning jar sitting a little to the person’s right. Judging from its generous collection of small coins, the booth is doing very well. You try estimating how much they’ve raised so far, tuning Hani out, but then it’s your turn.

When you lift your eyes as the curtain slides open, a soft “oh” slips out.

“Hi, again.” Minhyuk beams at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for. How did he get even more handsome in no time at all. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you giggle. Some of the butterflies escape with the relief it’s him, but they’re replaced by even more. Damnit, get yourself together, kid.

“So, what’ll be your pleasure?”

Startled, you ask, “Excuse me?”

Minhyuk nods towards the jar. “A penny for a second, a dime for ten. Lady’s choice.”

“Oh, duh, right.”

Hani’s coins burn into your palm. Just do it, you tell yourself. You’re a grown woman. It’s not a big deal to kiss someone attractive for one second or a hundred. Other people are doing it too, so no one’s judging. Despite your pep-talk, you chicken out. You tip your palm to drop the penny into the jar. But instead of one clink, there are two. Your hand is empty.

Minhyuk looks at the jar, clears his throat and flicks his black bangs from his eyes as he leans forward. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper so only you can hear, he says, “Technically we’re only supposed to do ten seconds, but I think I can get away with giving you the new friend special and bump it up to eleven just for you.”

“It’s okay, we can just do ten,” you reply in a rush.

“Nah, you paid for eleven, you’ll get eleven. Gotta be fair.” He beckons you closer with two fingers and like a bee to a flower, you obey.

You jump when Minhyuk pulls the curtain closed behind you. Unfortunately, he notices. Slowly bringing his hand back to himself, he asks, “Nervous?”

Sighing, you nod. You owe him the truth. “Yeah. A little. It’s been… awhile since I’ve… kissed anyone…”

“That’s fine. Kissing’s like riding a bike, probably even easier: your body never forgets.” Minhyuk gives you another look over. His expression and tone soften. He lays a hand lightly over yours, “You don’t have to if you don’t want. No one’ll know but us.”

That makes you laugh. “Trust me, my friend who dragged me into this will, so I better just do it.” Realizing your words could be offensive, you hastily add, “Not that I think kissing you would be something to “just do” or unpleasant. I mean, you are really cute, like really cute.”

“Thanks.” Minhyuk squeezes your hand. “Just lean forward and I’ll do the rest.”

Grateful for his taking charge, you do as he asks with one last jittery look at his pink lips and close your eyes. You wait with baited breath, every other sense heightened. The sticky plastic tablecloth beneath your tense fingers, the scents of fresh cut grass and confectioner’s sugar mingle, the sound of Minhyuk’s quiet inhales, the tingling taste of anticipation on your tongue.

Minhyuk’s finger starts tapping down the seconds when his soft lips brush yours. The touch is light, the very opposite of intrusive. It’s a kiss of a nervous teen unsure of its reception. Yet it sets your knees shaking so you have to lean against the table edge. The butterflies settle and melt, pushing your lips apart with a faint, feminine sigh.

Like a puzzle piece slipping into place, Minhyuk’s mouth adjusts to the new position. A hum, somewhere between a moan and a purr, rises from his chest to spill into your mouth like pure sugar. Your lips part again, seeking, and Minhyuk answers. The kiss heats, burning away the sounds that overcrowd the summer air and even time itself. Unbidden, your hand finds Minhyuk’s neck and clings there like it’s your only anchor to reality. Minhyuk’s hand that still rests on yours slides to your wrist and tightens as if to tug your closer.

“Minhyuk,” his friend’s voice hisses from outside the curtain. “Did you two suffocate in there?”

With the deep, heavy breaths you both suck into your lungs as you jump apart, you have to wonder if maybe you did. You can only imagine Minhyuk’s wide eyes and glistening lips are mirrored on your own face. The thin skin of your lips still tingles with the unexpected rush of the kiss.

“I think our eleven seconds are up,” Minhyuk says dazedly, his eyes on your mouth.

Neither of you have removed your hands.

“I guess so.” In slow motion, your hand slides away from Minhyuk’s skin. “Um, thank you?”

He withdraws his hand as well. Still a bit breathlessly, Minhyuk chuckles. “I guess I don’t need to apologize?”

“I was about to apologize to you.”

“How about we call it even then? Since it was mutually enjoyable.” His dark eyes fall to your lips again, lingering.

The thrilling swirling in your stomach stirs. You almost lean back towards him, but a floating hand reaches from beyond the curtain to poke Minhyuk’s shoulder, hard. It rudely reminds you where you are.

You back away, needing the distance to reclaim your head. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.”

An emotion akin to regret flashes in Minhyuk’s eyes before he quickly hides it behind a cheerful smile. “What if I liked you being in my hair?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. You can’t think of words, let alone a witty, flirty response. you back out of the curtain. Another woman pushes past you and into Minhyuk’s curtains with a giggle. You stand there, eyes frozen on the fabric, shocked at the surge of jealousy suddenly bubbling ugly in your chest.

It’s irrational. You kissed Minhyuk, but that doesn’t give you any kind of claim over him. Hundreds of people have probably kissed him since the carnival began. Who could blame them. You didn’t even know he existed before today. But you realize now that you do, you really want to know him. All of him.

Hani pops up at your elbow, all satisfied smiles. “So, how was the smooch?” she coos, nudging you with her elbow.

You study her. Hani is always encouraging you to take more chances, to follow your heart or dreams or whatever. Honestly, you’ve accused her of ghostwriting for Disney with how cheesy she can be with that kind of thing. Maybe your best friend is on to something though.

You must have gone too long without blinking because Hani’s smile becomes a puzzled frown. “What? Did my lipstick smear or something?”

“I need another penny,” you say, holding your hand out. “And that Sharpie you had earlier?”

Your friend’s frown vanishes into a brilliant smirk. As she fishes the Sharpie from one of her many pockets and hands it to you with another penny, you grab a clean napkin from a taco stand.

“Go get him, girlfriend,” Hani hoots as you get back in Minhyuk’s line, giving you a hearty swat on the butt for good measure.

As you shuffle forward in the line, you carefully hold the napkin so your damp palms don’t make the ink you hurriedly scribbled run. You must be crazy doing this to someone you just met, and admittedly kissed, but only the good ones are crazy. Or so you’ve heard.

When you finally reach Minhyuk, his eyes get a little bit wider and his mouth drops slightly open. Definitely surprised to see you, which very nearly makes you turn around and abandon your quest. But then that mouth that stole your breath with one kiss splits into a wider grin than any he’s shown you yet. It gives you courage to hope.

“Back-”

Stopping his words with a quick peck on his lips, you lean up to his ear as you slide the scrap of paper beneath his fingers. “Call me, if you want,” you whisper. Without waiting for an answer, you drop your penny in the jar and fly back out of the booth.

“You did it?” Hani asks, already bouncing when you return to her side. At your nod, she screeches in delight, earning more than a few stares. She could care less, grabbing you in a celebratory dance. “I knew I’d rub off on you sometime.”

“We’ll see if he even calls,” you answer, giggling despite yourself. Heady giddiness over what you just did has your body soaring higher than the flying swings.

“Pft. When he calls, not ‘if’ or ‘even.’” Hani hooks her arm with yours. “In the meantime, we passed a clay-oven fired pizza stand that’s calling my name. Now that I don’t have to worry about garlic breath, I can submit.”

To resist keeping your phone screen constantly lit in the fading light, you shove your phone into your dress pocket. Of course, not before making sure the volume is at its loudest and the vibrate function is on for good measure. As you wait in in line for the pizza with Hani debating on which toppings to get, you try to ignore the phone’s weight against your thigh. Willing Minhyuk to call you won’t do anything. As much as you wished for it when you were a child reading Harry Potter, your wizarding powers never manifested.

Indeed, you concentrate so hard on not thinking about Minhyuk that when your phone does ring, you jolt and squeal in surprise.

Hani’s hand dives into your pocket when you don’t move fast enough. She slides her finger on the screen to accept the call and thrusts it against your ear. Her own ear goes right next to it.

You clear your throat. Trying to balance calm and pleasure in your voice, you say, “Hello?”

“Hi. This is ____, right?”

Minhyuk’s voice is forever embedded in your mind, so you have no trouble recognizing it. “It is. I’m… really glad you called.” “And I’m really glad you gave me your number,” Minhyuk chirps. “So, before this goes any further, I have a serious question for you.”

“Yes?”

“How do you feel about cotton candy?”

“Who doesn’t like?”

“Correct answer! Meet me and the cotton candy at the Ferris Wheel then.” Teasingly, Minhyuk makes a kissing noise into the phone before he hangs up.

#monsta x scenarios #kpopwritingnet #KWritersKollection #boy group writers net #minhyuk scenarios #monsta x minhyuk #lee minhyuk

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narniasummerexchange · 6 years

Text

Modern Romanticism

for @little-narnian-notes

Word count: 2423

Summary: Modern!au. You meet Susan at university and your emotions snowball.

The university is beautiful. A roving campus steeped in centuries of history and knowledge. A gorgeous lawn you can imagine yourself studying on in the warmer months and a name and plaque for everything.

Downside? The fact you think you’ve made a grave mistake with your classes for the semester. You can just feel the thousands of dollars gurgling down the drain in the pursuit of intellectual enlightenment. Still, you plough on in the hopes that the next set of classes is better now you know what you don’t want.

You stifle a yawn and frown at yourself. You’ve held off from coffee for this long, but it’s getting to crunch time and there’s no more room for being strong and exercising self-restraint. You need caffeine.

Standing in line at the little cafe down the road, you rub at your eyes as you examine the menu. It’s a fairly average place - cream walls with old mass-produced paintings and stiff wooden chairs with rocky tables that you wouldn’t dream of resting your drink on. The usual or drink of the day, you ponder.

“One medium latte, regular sugar please.”

The voice in front of you sounds nice enough, gently pulling you from your early morning daze. Shifting in your worn jeans, your eyes follow the figure to their bag. The satchel is familiar, with its gold lion badge against warm brown leather. It sits a few rows in front of you in your Wednesday morning and Friday afternoon Intro to Poetics lectures. Someone clears their throat and you leap forward sluggishly to place your own order, coughing out a general apology. You stand aside once you’re done, eyes wandering till they fall on the customer in front of you.

The young woman is devastatingly pretty. Quiet, attentive eyes that seem to fragment light. Feathery lashes that tickle the fainest of freckles, surely earned from summers gone by. A glow to her cheeks and a striking lip colour flawlessly streaked on. If you had some kind of artistic talent, you might have gone on about her for longer. Her order is called and she drops the barista a whisper of a smile with her thanks, leaving you with your inadequate thoughts.

You find out through plenty of coincidence and eavesdropping - a rather bad habit of yours - that her name is Susan. An old school name, but you don’t question it. In fact, it suits her. Sophisticated and timeless.

It’s silly. You’ve never even had a proper conversation with her, why is she suddenly so interesting to you? Now you know she exists, as much as you try to stop yourself, you start seeing her everywhere.

Susan is very keep to herself, despite the many people she knows and enjoys. A spectre that weaves the quad pillars between classes. Long, whispering hair and a glide to her step. It contradicts all of the tidbits that you’ve picked up about her.

Most mornings you see her in the cafe, sometimes with a latte - usually those days entail vibrant makeup, maybe to distract from the long nights - other times with a green tea. You still haven’t introduced yourself during lectures, which you’re fine with - at moment, you’re existing educationally.

When you finally speak, your thoughts by now have gotten away from you and you’ve put this poor girl on a pedestal of beauty and curiosity. The lecturer for poetry - a kind woman who wears flowing tops in kaleidoscope floral, just the type of person you expect to teach such a class - asks for a group brainstorm on romanticism in the 18th century. Your partner in crime, Jonathon is away with the flu, leaving you high and dry on the buddy front. Susan is looking around, till her eyes land on you. She makes a little gesture at you and you nod, pulling your stuff together to move to her.

“Hi, I’m Susan.” She says brightly, holding out her hand.

You utter your own name, firmly gripping your hand. She looks at you, with a glitter to her eyes and a twitch to her pink lips.

“We get coffee around the same time, don’t we?” She drops your usual order.

“That’s about right. I’m surprised you recognised me, seeing as I’m always behind you.”

Both of you laugh at your attempt for humour then get down to it, knowing there’s only a limited amount of time.

Conversation flows easily with her and it’s not a struggle to remember what was said just ten minutes ago when her mind races eloquently and jump starts your own. Between your interpretations of what it all means, to how it’s seen today, ideas bounce back and forth constantly like the ebb and flow of the waves. It’s a little painful when time is called. Still, she smiles at you, the edges of her mouth curling.

You grab her phone number at the end of class, as she assures you that she’ll find you on messenger later. It feels like some sort of victory really.

She messages you the next day, asking if you were up for a party on the Friday. Spontaneous and filled with emojis. Much more like the nuggets of facts you;d heard. You decline though, stating you had too much to catch up on that weekend. Maybe next time, she replies. But, honestly, you’ve never been one for the night life of university. Of the house parties and pub crawls till your eyes fall out and you fall over. You get pictures on her snapchat story of that weekend, her make up sharp and figure flattered in the same kind of red that swirls in her glass. This was more common of her.

Anyway, there’s always still the cafe in the morning. Now you smile when you make eye contact and make brief small talk while you wait. Names pop up here and there, mixed with if only’s and back when’s and you wonder if the people who she’s made these memories with are very far away. You walk in time with one another back to campus and she babbles about what happened on the weekend and about how she wishes her roommate would tone it down on the punk rock for a moment so she can think - or at least share the speaker. She asks you about your days and feelings and that need to look at her blooms again. To take in every single part of her, because there is just so much there to admire.

Nowadays, you meet up to proofread work before handing it in or just to study in general. You excel in Shakespeare and the Elizabethan language - begrudgingly - and she seems to have the hang of everything else. Sitting in the cafe is your new favourite thing, especially in the mornings when the sun isn’t too strong as it filters down the street and into the big glass window the both of you have claimed as your own.

Susan looks at you, warmth rounding her cheeks and pen poised above paper. Her burgundy sweater devours her adoringly but you know from the cut of the fabric that it probably wasn’t hers to start with. “Has anyone told you that you’re quite the romantic?”

You splutter, her lovely aesthetic stationary feeling too pretty for your tactless grip. “P-Pardon me?”

She laughs. It’s not bell-like, but full and soft, like cotton sheets and a cat’s purr. She taps her pen to the spiral-bound notebook pinned under her wrist. You’ve managed to stuff a pie of paper under a table leg so it doesn’t rock and you’re careful not to be the one to kick it.

“Your way with words. It’s long and flowery. But not in a bad way! You just sound like a lovesick teenager about everything. Even coffee if I’m reading this right. There’s a pause and she smiles, turning it from a sharp beam to a glow. "It’s cute.”

Your face feels red and you can’t look her in the eye as you croak out a broken thank you.

It’s just getting to autumn and she’s suddenly gone very quiet. It’s mothers day and you’re both situated in the cafe, comparing notes again on what you suspect to be your own lecturer’s work. Her make up is a bit more subdued and her long hair is tied up off her face in fluffy, slept in waves. She reminds you of your first meeting, the colours de-saturated. She hasn’t done a very good job of hiding her weariness, from the way her nimble fingers tick slowly to the dullness in her eyes.

You clear your throat shyly. “Su, are you okay? You’re awfully quiet.”

She stares at you for a long moment before sighing. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“How come you aren’t at home, though? Didn’t you say that you lived close by?”

If your parents weren’t overseas for their anniversary, you would have made the long trip back home to cook breakfast and dry cupcakes along with binge-watch that murder mystery series you mum adores so much. She nods and shrugs, pulling her hands away from her tea into her lap.

“My parents aren’t very well at the moment. None of my family is. Just before the start of the semester, there was an accident - the train that derailed down by the south tunnel?” You nod for her. “We were all coming back from holiday. I missed the train in favour of one last night at the festival- James was really cute - but the rest of them - my parents, my three siblings, a cousin and a few family friends - went ahead on time. They were all in the front carriage. So at the moment, it’s just me. Everyone else is in hospital. Seriously injured or in a coma.”

You can’t resist the urge to reach out your hand to grip her arm. It jerks her eyes up to make contact with yours.

“How horrible! Su, I’m so sorry. I’m here for you, you know that right?”

She gives a melancholy curl to her lips and nods, twisting her arm to squeeze back. “I know, thank you.”

You make it your mission afterwards to watch over her. Insist on her messaging you when she got home from a night out, even though she was making all her friends do the same to her. Offering a cookie or two in your lectures - warm and just slightly soft in the middle with gooey choc chips, her favourite. Popping up with notions to go out and explore the town. She had been so kind to you before, you felt the need to return the favour.

This is when things went down hill.

You thought you had her on your mind before, not it was borderline obsessive. Not just her well-being, but just her. Did she like what you wrote? Did she know it might have been about her? Susan’s rapid existence had snowballed violently into a full-blown crush. You try your best not to stare at her too much, pressing crescents into your palms to quell the urge to hug her out on the university’s front lawn. She talked more about her family now that her burden was off her chest. How Edmund would read poetry with her, no matter how little patience he had for it. That Peter would we livid she was wearing on of his favourite sweaters out so quickly. Eustace would be prodding Lucy’s innocent buttons, with his best friend Jill holding no loyalties except to women. She hugs you when you part now, her rosy, floral scent surrounding you in a pleasant haze and her silky hair brushing elegantly against your cheek. Oh, if you had a truly creative cell in your body, you would have written great stories of her by now.

Together you sit in her living room, on a well-loved but slightly bowed sofa, some tv series you wanted to binge on playing softly on the screen. Legs innocently tangled and in your most comfy pyjamas, while she whines just a little for the bag of snakes on your other side. She’s devoured the chocolate pretzels you brought around, knowing she would enjoy them. Your insides are coiled tight and your heart thudding out of your chest warmly. You kick the bag aside and turn to face her, still almost shoulder to shoulder. You can’t not say something. Now with how soft she looks and the comfort and perfect familiarity seeping into your bloodstream.

“Let’s go out sometime.”

She blinks at you, argument cut short. “W-What?”

“We should go out sometime. Just us. Like on…on a…a date.”

The tension spikes and thickens like whipping cream. She stares at you, beautiful glowing eyes flashing with the screen. The blanket smells like her, floral but not too strong with a hint of something else underneath. Her freckles stand out under the artificial light and you wonder for half a breath what you must look like to her.

“I really like you, Su.” You take a breath and a moment to gather your thoughts. You don’t want to sound like rom-com, even if you both like them. “You’ve become really important to me since we met and I’d like to try this with you. Know I can make you happy, especially now and be there for you. Hope you feel something. So, can we?”

You lay your hands out on the blanket between you with bated breath, so much so you might turn blue, but you wouldn’t mind. There is a pensive moment where her eyes examine you before she bridges the gap to twine her cool fingers with yours. Her cheeks bloom red and you grin at her, so bright that you can’t see through your lashes.

“I - of course. You’ve been with me in a way most of my other friends haven’t. I’ve - I’ve thought about you a lot. So, yeah. Let’s give this a go.”

The sigh that passes your lips is heavy and your face floods back with colour. Her next action leaves your breath caught in your throat again as one hand slide up your arm to cup a cheek. Eyes bore into you and her narrow nose is a breath away from yours.

“Can I…kiss you?” She murmurs. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about since we sat down, really.”

You laugh breathlessly. “If you want.”

When her lips press against yours, all your thoughts finally settle so it’s just…Susan.

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absumink · 5 years

Text

April: the sky looks like it was injected by a needle-point sewing machine, my eyes look like a paint-by-number dream. nobody told me life eventually got stale, i thought the people who warned me of dullness were all crybaby misfits who were prudes towards colour. maybe i should've payed more attention in science class when they spoke about how the illusion of getting cold is really the absence of heat. my father started making buttermilk hot-cakes every Sunday, he said the weather is just right. it's really because he buys too much cream.

May: heat has crept up on me. the stale breath of the orchids down the street started seeping down the drainage pipes and up evaporated concrete. i didn't have time for lunch because I'd rather be filled till i'm full on decadence and watch plagiarized clouds till my pupils dilate. i turn fifteen and watch my skits start to wrinkle, i'm just paranoid; but maybe my life really is collapsing. my mouse pad was peeling so i ripped it right off. it's sad that i have a tendency to pick at the imperfect, that may be why i have so many scabs. summer is relaxing alone while bluebirds are basking in riverbanks, the wind feels like ghost-silk on the nape of my shivered neck. this is what it's like to be afraid of home.

June: savoury solitudes are spread across my bedsheets. i've been trying to find sweet ones for too long because i'm tired of sleeping on spiced spruce and sourdough that rots of dead roots. the shipwrecks of ice-caps have found their way to the bottom of the pond. i used to run above seaweed when i was six till i got sick of the feeling of fingers on my feet. i wear socks now so my toes don't get so pale. the ocean's sea spray stings my throat but only for cleansing because it knows im hooked on the alcohol that i've let control me. sometimes i wake up in the dead of night, watching it screech up my floorboards in red and yellow and blue. the band-aid on my left ring-finger-knuckle is gnarled and frayed from how many times i scrub it with salted soap. i've wasted eight now.

July: my brother buys a shirt that has the pattern as one of my own, similar at least kids at school scream profanities, it's for a girl. he doesn't care. i remember when he'd crack as deep as a sidewalk crevasse when someone else disagreed. i daydream about what it's like to live a life that free. my body has never looked normal to me, i've always hated how my thighs remind me of jelly fish in southern oceans and my smile as wry as bruised bone structures at age ninety-nine. gulf streams soak up too much of my black pants so I'd rather not put them on at all. but i have to, i'm insecure. speaking of, the pockets on the side of my jeans cup my hands like my mother used to. her skin was softer than this denim. but then again she washed the dishes four times a day. i'm now used to the dampness behind my knee-caps and screams under the slits of my tongue.

August: a birthday party under the saturated sun leaves me singed on the back with a ringing in my cars. my brother is growing up and it's not long until he's dead. it's like everything ?ye ever loved is evacuating from flames. i don't see them but i'm engulfed anyway, i smell nothing but God. there's grapefruit slices in the sky and my window broke its nose trying to breathe so loud i woke up. i remember when sunrises looked more cool toned and took no back to alpine mountains, now it looks like the devil under my bed has thrown up blood and burn stains. pain accumulates on my palms, when he looks at me i'm blue, no i'm red. at least, i feel like it.

September: i see him again and statistics are proof i am no longer shallow. something tickles my throat when we kiss so after i go home, i gargle with cough syrup. my teeth are putrid of grape flavouring and dye number 16185. the dog across the street finally shuts up and whimpers when the sky bleeds. it's not that i'm afraid. i mean. i am but it doesn't matter. my new desk at school smells like rotting moons and werewolves that scream at new ones, maybe they haven't yet marked their territory. tomorrow i'll find carved hearts and ill-fated fantasies. my father said i shouldn't get so caught up in love; i am too young.

October: banshees lay their heads on my shoulders and their tongues shackle to my wrist. i feel as if i can't move without waking up the guard dogs and making them shriek. everyone i ask tells me to keep going, they must not know what it's like to balance demons against your hips and listen to the secrets they say underwater. i wish my collarbones would be striking enough to strangle me like the briar brushes strangle rabbits at the edge of my neighbours yard. fences twist metal words from safe to scared from new to old and old to young. they have stories engraved in their bones. i see him at school and i puke out nervous water weeds, the ones that have sprouted inside me. he says i'm becoming broader and that i should stay small, he can pick me up that way. he sounds like a city man 3 thousand in his pocket and his name scrawled on half the town. i loved a small town boy who smelled like the cherry tree its front of my bedroom blinds, not whoever he is now.

November: i'm homeschooled and i don't see him anymore. he swore he'd come around but his excuses echo how little effort he's flossed between his gums. i guess i shouldn't be complaining but the air i'm surrounded with now tastes technicolor ebony, a muted damsel in distress, a silenced plead. snow attempts to bite at my cheeks, i bite back, except it won't budge and i do. i'd trade the clothes i'm in and the food in my stomach to go back to when things were easy. all the mistakes i made no far have been moulding between my pillow cases. i didn't mind the stench before but now that i spend my life indoors i'm starting to cough a lot more. my father won't make breakfast so I'm stuck with bread and curdled milk.

December: i don't wash my clothes. i've been wearing this sweater for a month and a half and i've only showered twice. every time i step into cold air i look at myself and wonder how anyone could love her. people look for happy girls with shrivelled hips and baby blue eyes. i am the opposite. my front door lock has rusted shut because of how no one will open it anymore. our house is a spirit home made of aged mumbles and clenched fists, the old ache of love has bludgeoned me. i forgot to colour my hair black, he said that was his favourite shade and at the time my hair was a charcoal brown. i promised i'd fix myself and he promised he'd stay so i believe that makes both of us liars. how cliché.

January: people say a new year is a fresh start but the sixty seconds between yesterday and today has done nothing but make me nauseous. i'm done hurdling over high trees trying to reach heaven. i think i'm here already. he hasn't called in 3 months and today i don't care. because people say a new year is a fresh start and maybe their fresh start can be shared. i've stopped missing sun rays because i have hope they'll come back tomorrow. if not i'll still have hope then. i refrain from cracking my knuckles. he did too. it makes me sick to my stomach, which has already been bruised. i'm not fixed but i'm getting there. every afternoon i've began blowing the snowflakes off our tree swing so i can swoon below the sky. i'm waiting for blue to move to gold and gold to wave goodbye.

Februaq: Hallmark's profit went up this month but it was no longer because of me. 'he' is just a pronoun and love is something i'm no longer familiar wills. am i complaining'? no, not any more than i am about my body. which, by the way, isn't as bad as it seems. i still feel like i'm an antiseptic to an open cut but i hope it'll pass like everything else has. a program on television told me i needed weight loss pills and wrinkle cream? i think i look fine. skin folds come with aging and maybe i'll still look beautiful its pounds over one hundred-twenty-five.

Mairh: team broke through my stained glass walls and strained my eyes to purple. everything's in a blue hue and i'm afraid i've gotten bad again. i've worked so hard to climb this peak, this prominent place of ease. i am scared that what i'm looking for at the top of the next one. the veins in my arms haven't yet grown back. they look more like agitated vines on corroded brick walls. rain has visited me again and unfortunately it's making me miss how comfortable i felt knowing i was slowly dying. alas, i'm no longer worried of the dark that looms after six. i go walk for five miles in hopes someone will strike me with their front license plate instead of passing me with their back one.

April: well, this is it. relapse is okay, recovery is better. i'm not afraid to love. yes i am vulnerable but i'm not strung together with cuttable cord. my limbs are stationed with metal pipes and i'm not as fragile as i was before. nobody told me life eventually got harder, i thought the people who warned me of the lack of light were pessimistic outlanders who were afraid of their own shadow. maybe i should've payed more attention to the world when it told me i'd eventually come home. the sky now looks like cotton candy and my eyes breathe burgundy butterflies. i've travelled further than i started, i understand that's the whole point. i find beauty in the most mysterious things, this ground beneath me has bellowed in praise. i've accepted things may become difficult, but i'm no longer afraid of the change.

— ; g.k.

#fav

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jolioiseau21-blog · 7 years

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The Falls

So today was all about the Falls. With the late night yesterday, we slept in a bit. We will need to sleep in at some point on the trip. After we started moving, we had to park. The remote (cheap) lot is not open yet. This caused a bit of tension in our morning. We settled on parking at Table Rock Welcome Center. Ended up being very convenient. I had purchased an Adventure Pass online, so we just went and redeemed it. Super quick and easy. The lady behind the desk was very helpful. She helped us plan out our day down to lunch breaks and where to camp next time.

First stop was the river walk. What an impressive way to start the day! Class 6 rapids. Pretty much anyone who tried to go across in a boat died. The elevator assistant said the last group to try flew 50 feet in the air! At some point people decided barrel rides would be a good idea. Not sure you would find an insurance company to agree on that nowadays.

Forgot to mention that it was raining…since we got out of the car. Good think they have stock in ponchos and hand them out like water. A little wet we hopped back on the WeGo, the great public transport system they have, and headed to the Hornblower cruise. The Horseshoe Falls are impressive, might be more impressive if it was not down pouring on you.

Soaking wet, we tried to figure out where to eat that would not require us to take off our dripping ponchos that covered our saturated raincoats. After indecisive chatter, the rain stopped and we walked the path back to the Welcome Center to grab a bite instead of the WeGo bus. The Falls really are very impressive.

We had about 40 minutes to eat before we did out last 2 activities. We stopped in at Elements on the Falls and they said if we knew what we wanted when the server came, that should not be a problem. The hostess walked us to our seat… right in front of the Falls!!! Never in a million years would I expected that seat when we just randomly chose to eat and one of the nicer places in Niagra. And the food…delish!

We will skip the part where the server was a bit slow so we missed our activity time by 2 minutes…good thing it was not super busy. Lines moved fast and we were behind the falls in no time. I tried to not let fear set in as I knew I was in a tunnel under the Falls. Hearing Horseshoe Falls thunder over your head…powerful. We walked to both portals and looked out from behind the spray. Surprisingly seemed a bit harmless? Traveling back through the tunnels, we landed at the observation deck. We hear the squeals and laughter and know we need to prepare our ponchos. We had a choice of upper or lower platforms. We chose right. We were more drenched than walking around in the downpours earlier. Wind can pick up and shift on a dime…no need for a pancho because there was nothing you could do to stay dry. Walking back to the elevator, I was one of those laughing. Last stop, Fury the 4D experience. It was more geared towards the kids but a neat way to see how Niagra came to be. If you are thinking no big deal, how wet can you get inside…haha! What about Betty? The poor girl was in Poddington all day! So we took her out to Lake Ontario. She was in heaven. Climbing, playing in the water, walking on the beach.. our dog was meant to live on the beach. One more stop and she is a H.O.M.E.S. dog!! What else does Canada have you ask? Why the best Costcos! Seriously…a great selection! C would move here just for the Costco’s. Yes, we left with a Coleman outdoor rug. The one we have collects tons of dirt and does not clean up easily. And Finally Chocolate etc. Hazelnut gelato for C and chocolate ice for me. This is not pansy a$$ chocolate. This is stick to the roof of your mouth and back of your throat chocolate. The color alone lets you know it means business. Good night Canada! We learned 1. Summer seasons starts in July. 2. They really don’t take Discover 3. The Costco’s are frickin’ awesome! Mr. would move here just for them. 4. Niagra is the Pancho capital of the world.

Firsts 1. Everyone went in Lake Ontario 2. Me seeing the Falls 3. Eating at Tim Horton’s 4. International Costcos

Bathroom sits King Waldorf did not appear to have the best bathrooms. They seemed a bit run down, cleanish. I had no desire to really check them out so I showered in Poddington.

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claraduffy · 7 years

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Lynda

Over the summer, Lynda watched a Spanish film with her mother called Palmeras en la Nieve, or Palm Trees in the Snow. In the movie, the characters were on an island, watching sea turtles come out of the ocean to lay their eggs. When someone asked the main character how the turtles knew to come back to that specific shore, he said “They will always know this place. This is where they were born. It’s in their blood.” At this, Lynda sat up straighter, a chill running down her spine. Is that why I feel so connected to the valley? she thought, because it’s where I came into the Earth? Kemps Ridley Sea Turtles also find their home in the valley on the shore of South Padre Island.

The Rio Grande Valley spreads across 5,000 square miles at the southern tip of Texas. Lynda calls it a space caught in between two countries. Known as “the Valley” to its residents, the region doesn’t feel quite like the U.S. to Texans, or like Mexico to its many immigrants. The Valley possesses a culture and pace of life so distinct from the rest of the country, newcomers sometimes experience culture shock upon arrival. Spanish and English mingle and marry to become Spanglish, and the social customs are more Mexican in their warmth than abruptly American. Families are close knit and several generations often live together in the same house. The Mexican food is greasy and authentic and the cities feel small, though they often have 60 to 70,000 people.

The first time Lynda visited the Valley, she had just graduated from high school. This trip was her graduation present: a week at the beach with her parents, and a chance to see the place where she was born, Weslaco. Lynda didn’t know anyone who had been there; she hadn’t seen pictures. It was the type of place that in such silence grew slowly in her mind, and by graduation it had become so mystical that even the drive through the monotonous King Ranch felt charming. Gone were the Hill Country limestone and clear, swift rivers she had known in Kerrville. The landscape became scruffier with mesquite, salt cedar and cactus, as if it was some great, burly man trying very hard to grow a beard. Her parents, Mirta and Ramón, and Lynda drove down I-35 then I-37, finally to 77 which runs through Harlingen, Texas, to the Mexican border town of Matamoros. Out of the car window, she watched how the landscape slowly became flatter and wider. It feels like something unfolding, she thought.

She was born there, but nine-month-olds cannot remember the suffocating humidity, jarring compared to the coolness of the Texas Hill Country where she grew up. Throughout the week, the South Padre Island sun saturated her skin and her parents showed her the roots of her life. The chance to explore a place abounding in Mexican culture had Lynda grinning and taking pictures, instead of feigning embarrassment at the antics of her parents. It was while driving home that she realized the what had been the first major crossroads of her life: to grow up in the valley or to grow up in Kerrville.

As the story goes, the spunky and decisive matriarch of the Gonzalez family, Tia Lily, decided they needed a place further north in Texas to settle. The Gulf War put economic strain on the valley, and Lynda’s father, Ramón, wasn’t finding good construction work in Weslaco anymore. Initially hoping for a job at the Veterans Hospital in Kerrville, Tia Lily found a job working as a waitress at a local Mexican restaurant. She called her brother immediately, and Ramón rolled into Kerrville in an aged and rusty truck, holding a gas container atop the car with one hand and driving with the other. He took a job at the restaurant his sister was waitressing, and has worked there since the drive north in 1991. His wife and small daughter, Lynda, joined him a few months later.

The truth is, Kerrville is very white. And Lynda’s family was Mexican, through and through. As an immigrant, her mother especially missed Mexico and held tight to her culture. Even though her parents had always worked for low wages, their incomes had stretched further in Weslaco. In the valley, a much lower average income affords a tightly knit community of struggling families. In Kerrville, Lynda’s family was an island. She always felt that Kerrville was her home, but not quite like she belonged there or was wanted there. The conservative culture in rural Texas meant Southern hospitality didn’t always extend to Mexican immigrants.

She wore overalls every single day of 7th grade. It was a comfort blanket for me, she remembers, I always felt awkward at school because I didn’t look like anybody, and I was already freakishly tall for a 12 year old. Her dad teases her from time to time, randomly bringing up the year of the overalls. “Mija that was so cute. Why don’t you wear them now?” he asks.

When she moved to Austin to attend the University of Texas, Lynda found the world as she had never known it before. She spent her first semester being a good student, but by second semester, she wanted to be something else. She joined the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) and Ballet Folklórico. For the first time, she grew upset at how much of her mother’s culture had been repressed in Kerrville, and how little she knew of the politics or artistic accomplishments of Latinos.

As a senior at UT, she wondered what would make her happy after graduation. A Teach For America representative reached out to her in an effort to recruit “high performing Latino students” into becoming teachers, and invited her on a recruiting trip. She took a risk and climbed into a van headed to San Juan, Texas, thinking of the last time she had been to the valley after her high school graduation. Stepping out of the van, Lynda hit a wall of humidity and smiled. She later walked into a high school, and every single student in eye shot was Latino; her jaw dropped. Lynda hadn’t known schools like that could exist. The exclusion she’d felt at Tivy High School in Kerrville would never have happened here.

She was walking to class several months later when she received the acceptance email from TFA. Immediately, an overwhelming sense of bewilderment and relief washed over her as she thought, Here is this thing I’m doing with my life now. I’m moving to the valley.

That May, Lynda graduated from UT among a great crowd under flashy fireworks. This remains one of her proudest moments. She will later warn me never to graduate in December—there are no fireworks.

“Mami, where in the valley should I apply to be a teacher?” she asked her mother from the couch that summer, studying a map of the Valley. Mirta was making mole in the kitchen.

“Your Dad and I always really liked Harlingen,” said Mirta.

Lynda’s eyes widened.

“Do you think that’s where I would have gone to high school?” she asked her mother.

“Yeah, probably,” said her mom. “I think we would have moved there. Your dad always got a lot of construction work in Harlingen.”

Lynda sank back into the couch, wondering about this place called Harlingen.

June was sneaking up on May when it was time to begin interviewing for a teaching job. Lynda was sporting a heavy cast on her arm due to a serious car accident shortly after her UT graduation, so Mirta drove her to Brownsville for her Texas certification test and subsequent interviews in towns all over the Valley. It was at a baseball game at UT Pan American in Edinburg—a community activity with the rest of the TFA corps—when she was surprised by an email from Clarkson, her former English and newspaper teacher, UIL Journalism coach, and her greatest influence in high school. The email advertised a high school journalism job in Harlingen. It felt too magical to her that Clarkson would lead her to her first teaching job, but she wasted no time in texting her TFA recruiter.

“We don’t have anyone at Harlingen High School,” he replied, “but if you get hired by them in the next 48 hours, I’ll stop making appointments for you elsewhere.”

At the job fair the next morning, she practically ran to the Harlingen High School table, and handed her resume to the recruiter, Joe Montemayor.

“Hi! I’m interested in the journalism job,” she began, “I’m certified by the state because I just got my degree in it. I’m with TFA—” Montemayor cut her off.

“Wait, you want the journalism job? You have the paper from the state?” He turned to the woman sitting next to him and squealed, “We found her!” He insisted that Lynda was the answer to their prayers. He even called the principal in front of her. “Stay there,” he said, “Don’t talk to anyone else. “I found her!!” he blurted into the phone, leaving numerous voicemails when the principal didn’t pick up. Lynda’s shoes were glued to the floor.

That night, Lynda wrote in her journal, I get to be a Clarkson for someone else. If I’m lucky and I do this right, I get to be like Clarkson to someone else. I know how this story ends, because Lynda was my Clarkson.

On the first day of school that August, Lynda wore a red dress with a collar and a wide black belt. She stood tall and strong and welcomed her first period yearbook class. One student was five minutes late, rushing in as Lynda was telling the class where she was from, where she went to school…

“Sorry!” the late girl called out, “I had to drop my brother off at middle school!” Her impish smile did little to counteract her rude interruption. Lynda had expected this; she’d trained for this. “You can just sit there,” she told the freckle-faced girl, trying to remember where she was in her introduction.

It’s very hard to know to understand some things at 16. It’s difficult to see beyond your own nose, to stop looking in the mirror. Luckily, there are people like Lynda who choose to be teachers, and step into the worlds of bumbling 16 year olds, who are continually running into walls with their egos and wearing their ignorance like horse blinders. Lynda showed up to that classroom, 9104, and she engaged with students. She listened first, spoke second, and consistently told them there was more to it all than the tip of their noses, the reflection in the mirror, the notifications on their phones. Her room became a haven at lunchtime and during her conference period. She was hardly ever without a shadow.

Years later, she would tell me, “Teaching my first year was so hard. It was a continual process of questioning whether or not I was doing a good job. But at the end of the year, I realized I really loved my students. And I kind of really liked living in Harlingen.”

As Clarkson had done for her, Lynda guided me through the publication of a Literary and Art Magazine, weekly newsletters, meetings, and later a poetry slam (pictured right). She was patient with me when I threw my assignments at her in the form of paper airplanes, when I lost enthusiasm, when I was inconsistent. She guided our creative writing class through “Novel November,” a 50,000-word writing project that challenged me the way nothing had before. She expected big things of us. But the best part of having Lynda as a teacher was also getting her as a friend. There is no one else I talk about quite as much, when I explain anything about my interests, my career path, my major, my plans. She has touched all of it, simply by giving that late, freckly girl in her first period another chance.

In Spanish, the word “querencia” is the noun version of the verb querer, which means “to want.” The closest words in English are fondness and longing. I am bold, but hopefully accurate, in saying that Lynda has a querencia for the palm trees, taco trucks, and high school students in the valley. Years after I walked in late to her first period class, she said to me, “When I am driving down 77, it is like gears shifting and clicking into place, and they finally lock into that place where they are supposed to be resting. And I feel very whole there. It’s mine, and I feel lucky because I don’t know if everyone gets to find that in their lifetime.”

Lynda is a Kemp’s Ridley sea turtle winding up back on South Texas shores. She is a clear voice of goodness, a raspa con chile y limón in the afternoon with a classroom key stub dangling from a necklace around her neck. She is Lynda, full of truth and grace and loyalty and questions and ideas. And I’m just thankful she followed her querencia to my hometown.

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