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thewarriorspecial · 10 months

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Greenhill High (CH2 - The Faculty)

*Archive Edition* Previously only linked to AO3, full work now available under the cut.

Read on AO3

Rating: Teen | Guy Gardner/Kyle Rayner, Hal Jordan, John Stewart, Dinah Lance, Oliver Queen, Wally West, Katma Tui

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

A little something special for @hobicat!

Left on his own, Kyle meets some of the faculty.

Partners, Kyle thinks as he follows the signs for the cafeteria. He was on his own for the rest of the day. The emergency call Principal Lance had to take involved her husband setting his beard on fire while trying to boil water. Kyle shakes his head as he feels sympathy for the man. He know’s he’d starve if it wasn’t for the microwave and ever since the flaming waffle incident, he mostly eats out these days.

Much like the rest of the school, the cafeteria is lavish. There are two buffet sections; one with the featured meal of the day and the other with assorted vegetarian options. Everything smells so good and Kyle’s ravenous. He piles his plate up and starts looking for somewhere to sit. The high-ceiling space is a cacophony of excited conversation, squeals of excitement, and youthful energy. Groups of students have pushed tables together, pulled instruments out to play, and they pass phones around sharing memes.

Kyle remembers his high school days fondly. He always had a group of friends to sit with. He didn’t even have to know anyone in the group to feel welcome. He was easy-going and well liked. He wasn’t sure why—he didn’t feel cool yet, somehow, he drew people in. There was always some girl waiting at his locker, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking up at him through her eyelashes. Someone always wanted to see what he was drawing.

Of course there was also Douchey McSportball. He wasn’t even like, important on the team. He was the main guy’s hype man. He was like that little thing that hung around on Jabba the Hutt’s shoulder. Come to think of it, Kyle doesn’t remember him ever being out on the field. He just sat on the bench. Kyle struggles to remember the guy’s name but he remembers what he looks like; big gangly ginger, face was mostly forehead. Laughed like an incensed squirrel. He always had some reason to shove Kyle into things and make homophobic “jokes”.

“Hey, over here! New guy!” A voice calls out and pulls Kyle out of his thoughts. The man waved, and his warm smile lit up the room. He was sharply dressed; a white collar showed underneath his cerulean, quarter-zip pullover, and brown suede boots peeked out of his fitted tan slacks. He beckons Kyle over, his forearms flexing where his shirt is rolled up to the elbow.

First Principal Lance, then Coach Gardner—is it a requirement that everyone here is hot? Kyle smiles back and approaches, grateful for the welcome. He sits at the table, offering his hand to the man who invited him over, “Hi, I’m Kyle. Uh, Mr. Rayner.”

“John, or Mr. Stewart,” the man says. “I’m currently teaching Calculus and Political Science.”

“Oh wow. I’m just the art guy,” Kyle says, running his hand through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Nonsense! Fine Arts is a fantastic addition to our Humanities department,” John smiles and it’s infectious. “This is my beloved Katma, now Mrs. Stewart,” he continues and the smile he has for her could warm an entire planet for centuries.

“I teach Geography and World Cultures,” says Katma. Between her warm, husky voice and the sweater vest, Kyle gets strong, sexy librarian vibes.

The lanky redhead next to Katma is wearing a white lab coat and has clear goggles resting on his head. He unhinges his jaw to bite off half of a mega-burrito. With his mouth full he says, “‘Sup, I’m Wally. I blow shit up.”

“Mr. West teaches Physics,” Katma translates.

“Yeah, we make things heat up and explode, and then we talk about why that happened.” Wally explains around his burrito. “You’re up, nerd,” he adds, kicking the sneaker of the brunet seated next to him.

“Jordan. English,” the man says without pulling his nose out of the copy of The Once and Future King held lovingly in his hands.

“Quit reading Hairy Butthole and say hi to the new guy,” Wally says, grains of rice falling out of his mouth.

Jordan’s eyes snap up and he glares at Kyle, “Hi,” he says and then his eyes whip towards Wally, “This. Is not. Harry Fucking Potter.”

“Yeah, that’s uh,” Kyle starts, trying to take some of the heat off of the English teacher. He absolutely hates seeing someone get bullied and he decides he doesn’t like Mr. West at all. “That’s King Arthur, right?”

“It is,” Jordan answers stiffly. “You’ve read it?”

“I mean, it was a long time ago. In English class, actually,” Kyle says with a laugh, “But yeah, I really liked it. Like, when Arthur was a kid, remember? When he’s with the wizard and he says he hopes to fight all evil by himself so that if he dies, he’s the only one that suffers. It’s sad how it goes down but I think that his attitude is really admirable.”

“You admired Wart’s naivety?”

“I admired his idealism.” Kyle searches Jordan’s eyes for some glimmer of acceptance or understanding. He sees the shadow of a smile on the other man’s lips.

“Hm,” says Jordan, “I think you’d really like our Philosophy teacher.”

“Ph…Philosophy? High school philosophy?” Kyle asks.

“Oh yes! Ms. Iolande, she goes by her first name, teaches a few of the AP classes,” says Katma.

Wally coughs loudly, “Nerds.”

The bell rings and the room erupts into a flurry of activity.

“Gotta run,” Wally says, and he takes off at a frightening speed.

Kyle looks around at the several hallways he could take from the cafeteria. He mentally kicks himself for scoffing at the maps offered at the front entrance.

“Know where you’re goin’?” John asks as the rest of the faculty rise from their seats.

“Upstairs?” Kyle shrugs.

“I’ll show you the way.” John blows a kiss to his wife. She catches it and puts it in her pocket.

“You guys are so cute.”

“I know.” John grins and that makes Kyle grin, too.

John leads the pair through a series of hallways, explaining that while meandering, this is the best way to go. There are two bathrooms along the way and opportunities to check for students lurking in secluded spaces. John feels it’s equally important to make sure “his kids” are neither up to trouble nor late to class due to being lost in their little retreats.

“I always say, watch out for the quiet ones; they’ve got their headphones on way too loud,” John laughs, clapping Kyle on the shoulder. “You know,” he continues, leaning in, “I used to be a bit of an artist myself.”

“Oh yeah?” Kyle asks with a bright smile.

“Yup! I started out going for architecture,” John says as he hold a door for Kyle, “I wanted a little spending money so I took a tutoring job at the university library. Man, you wouldn’t believe the amount of tears shed over math homework.”

“Oh, I do. Trust me.” Kyle ducks through the door, scanning each hallway for any kind of landmarks. “The farthest I got was Algebra and thankfully that was enough for my degree.”

“Algebra’s great! You use It every day!”

Kyle groans.

“You do! When you’re cooking and adjusting recipes.”

Kyle makes another uncomfortable noise.

“Well, when you make your schedule,” John adults his trajectory away from personal life and back to work. Kyle shifts uncomfortably. “Or, when you do your taxes? Oh, grocery shopping! Figuring out what fits and if you have enough reusable bags.”

“I uh, I just eyeball it.”

“Spacial reasoning is our mind’s natural ability to parse out shapes and patterns. Those are reflections of algebraic equations!”

“I wish you were my math teacher, John.”

“It’s never too late,” John says, stopping at the second to last classroom at the end of the hall.

“Nah, it is. I’m cool with it.”

John shakes his head, still smiling, “I’ll try and convince you again later. This is you,” He says, gesturing to the open door. A few students are already seated at the long tables, towards the front of the class. A girl with pink hair already has her sketchpad out. “You ready?”

“I stay ready so I don’t have to get ready,” Kyle says with a playful grin.

“I dig it. You’re gonna do great here. See you soon!” John jogs back the way they came, leaving Kyle with his instincts and his passion for art.

Before Kyle can step into the room, he hears muffled voices at the end of the hall. He recognizes the odd-vowel accent of one of the speakers right away.

“…nut s’prisin’ curryin’ awn a’way yew dew.”

“Hooked on Phonics really worked for you, huh?” Kyle recognizes Jordan’s voice now as well. The pair are standing just outside of the classroom door, barely tucked behind a large, fake plant.

“Ya know, I’m not just some dummy, dummy. I know stuff. Like I know there’s no good reason you’re keeping Bobby off the field.” Gardner turns his head, watching for students and making sure to step out of their way. It’s hard to tell where exactly he’s looking with his wraparound sunglasses on.

“Robert needs to focus his brilliant mind on his writing. He doesn’t need it smeared all over the fake grass. And you need worry about your own job.” Jordan’s arms are crossed tight over his chest. He untucks one of his hands to stab an accusing finger in Guy’s direction.

“Lookin’ out for my kids is my job,” Guy says, pushing Jordan’s hand out of his face. “Stop talking him out of things he wants to try,” he says, fighting to control the volume of his voice as he points an accusing finger of his own at the other teacher.

“He made his choice. He chose creative writing. It suits him bet—“

“Suits him? Or suits you? What is your problem anyways? Is it that your boy likes boys? Or is it that your boy likes a football player?” Guy is starting to get too loud. The last of Jordan’s students hustle into the classroom with a knowing glance at the arguing pair.

Jordan is incensed, teeth bared. The second bell rings. He startles, forgets what he was going to bite back with. “Robert isn’t going to waste any of his time with boys like you—“ he hisses, shakes his head, “Like Tom. Go to class you obstreperous dog.” Jordan retreats into his room, trying not to slam the door and failing.

Guy barks at the door once and grins. He feels this is a win. He hopes to see Bobby at least try out. Everybody deserves a chance. Besides, exercise is great for the brain. He turns to stride confidently down the hall and notices Kyle. He pulls his Oakleys down to wink, “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey, Coach,” Kyle murmurs and immediately feels dumb. He feels warm and tingly as he watches Guy’s muscular back mosey away.

What on earth was that all about?

A/N: My, my! Drama abounds! How will Kyle handle his first class?

#*myfic #guykyle #highschool au

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity)#my writing #my fic

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blouisparadise · 3 years

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Upon request, here is a list of bottom Louis fics where Louis or Harry work at a coffee shop or where coffee shops otherwise play a major role in the fic.. This is a shorter list, but we hope you enjoy it! If you do, please remember to like and reblog to spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Breathing Underwater | Mature | 5135 words

Harry is a 27 year old business man and Louis is the 21 year old University student working at the coffee shop Harry comes into one day.

2) I Could Stay Right Here And Burn In This All Day | Explicit | 5964 words

Harry and Louis meet in a coffeeshop, and then they end up being kind of married without meaning to be, and then they have sex. The end.

3) Time Of The Season | Not Rated | 6031 words

Note: This fic has no smut, but it is omega Louis.

When writer’s block stands in the way of Harry completing his second novel, he turns to the sweet-smelling omega behind the counter of his new favorite coffee shop for inspiration.

4) Fall Into Some Velvet Morning | Explicit | 6038 words

Louis shrieks loudly as his body collides with the other boy’s, face smashing into said boy’s back which, of course, made him topple from his weird yoga pose. They lay sprawled on the ground, Louis on top of the weird kid who does fucking yoga in a park. Yoga Boy lifts his head out of the grass and mumbles in a gravely voice, “You ruined my vibes there, mate.”

Louis groans as he sits up and rolls off of Yoga Boy’s back. “Yea, well, you ruined my skateboard, mate. Think we’re quite even.”

5) Stay Forever | Explicit | 6841 words

For the last year and a half, Harry has spent his coffee break at the same cafe every day, not because he loves their coffee, but rather because of the gorgeous omega behind the counter making the coffees. As a beta, he’s sure he doesn’t stand a chance with him, so he goes online to find as close a substitute as possible.

6) Two Creams, No Sugar | Mature | 8341 words

Harry’s a young, successful, and rich music producer under Simon Cowell. Louis’ a college student, working part time at the local coffee shop while studying to be a pediatrician, just barely making ends meet. He has no idea who the cute boy is that keeps on popping up at his school and work is, or what Harry has in store for him.

7) It’s Hard To Look Right At You, Baby | Explicit | 14584 words

Coffee Shop AU where Louis is going through a dry spell, Zayn wants to be a good friend and help Louis find someone, and Harry ends up finding him instead.

8) Everywhere And Nowhere | Mature | 16547 words

Niall took a seat and said, “Apparently Louis’ downstairs neighbor is a fan of giving Louis creepy gifts. Maybe I should go introduce myself and tell him that Louis actually prefers food.”

“What has he given you?” Liam asked.

Louis shrugged as it were no big deal. “There was a rabbit’s foot keychain on the door a little after he left from introducing himself and there was a small teddy bear sitting by my door tonight. Obviously I can’t prove it’s from him, but they seem to have his scent. I could be wrong though.”

“Wow,” Liam said, looking deep in thought. “That’s old school.”

“What’s old school?” Niall asked. “Giving creepy gifts?”

“I’ve never known an alpha to do it, to be honest, but he’s courting you.”

Louis couldn’t contain his look of disbelief directed at Liam. “He’s courting me. Like some sort of romantic shit they’d do in the 1800s or something?”

9) Black And Blue | Mature | 19796 words

Louis is a barista who is a bit damaged from a previous relationship. Harry is a musician who is all warmth and light. Rebuilding a life takes time.

10) The Devil's In The Details | Explicit | 12704 words | Sequel

Seeing Harry as an actual professor will never get old to Louis as his eyes soak him in. The casual attire of a student-teacher is gone and now Harry’s got on a button up under a sweater vest that both have stripes on it because someone with a face like Harry’s can actually pull that off. His beige trousers ride up high on his waist, loose and wide around the legs like he’s been preferring lately. By the time Louis’ done taking all of him in, he’s got a smile stretched wide across his face, cheekbones feeling like they’re about to burst just from happiness alone.

“Hello Professor Styles."

11) And That’s The Tea | Mature | 27590 words

The one where Louis loses his soulmate before even getting the chance to meet them, and he is in no way prepared for the kind of distraction his new friend Harry proves to be.

12) All this Delusion In Our Heads | Explicit | 30453 words

Note: This fic features a tea shop, but we figured that is close enough.

The one where Zayn gets amnesia, Liam has regrets, and the entire universe conspires against them…until it doesn’t.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#fic recs #bottom louis #top harry #coffeeshop au #blp fic recs #blp

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spencer-reid-in-a-pool · 3 years

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All Cream, No Sugar

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! Here is my sfw fic that was submitted to my friend @writing-in-april for the 4th Fic Swap on @imagining-in-the-margins ‘s Discord! Not my best work because I have been struggling to manage time lately and balance everything with my school and personal life. But I hope it is enjoyable nonetheless!

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It was Thursday. Possibly the worst day of the week. Even more awful than Monday. It always felt like a barricade between the beginning of the week and the weekend. The glorious, lazy weekend. Honestly, now that I think about it...Thursday has the same kind of feel as November.

I chuckled to myself as I left my apartment. My mind was a special place, and I guess today was no different. Better than thinking about my finals, though. Literally anything was better to think about instead of final exams. That’s why I’m treating myself to a break at my favorite coffee shop. I deserve it, really, after the studying I have been doing all day. At least, that’s what I tell myself so I feel okay about spending all this money on coffee.

The car ride over there was quick enough. I lived on the outskirts of the city, but this place has the best coffee, and I would drive a ridiculous amount of time to get to it. No matter the distance, it would be worth it.

And maybe...just maybe…I would see that guy that comes in sometimes. The one with the messy hair and the sweater vests. He was so intriguing. I don’t even know his name, but I always notice when he comes in while I’m there. It was pretty much impossible not to. Hopefully one day I would work up the nerve to talk to him. Maybe that day would be today.

I walked in the building, and the smell of coffee and sweets immediately hit me. It was so comforting. Almost like a tiny sanctuary away from home, and I was always so appreciative.

As soon as the little bell on the door rang, the barista behind the counter looked up and shot me a smile. They recognized me quite often.

“Hey, (Y/N), the usual?” she called from across the floor.

“You know it,” I said with a wink.

I took my favorite seat in the shop and looked around. It was pretty empty today, which was just the way I like it. It means less time to wait for my coffee and I can sit in peace. The only thing that would make it better is if that guy came in and I got my big girl pants on to ask him his name.

After a few minutes, my coffee was brought to me and I handed the waiter some cash for my order, with a good amount leftover for a tip. His smile was bright and thankful, and it made me hopeful for today.

Each time the door opened and another person walked in, my heart skipped a beat. I stopped counting when I got to 10 people that turned out not to be him. It irked me more than I care to admit.

I was starting to lose hope, staring daggers at the dregs of my leftover coffee. Perhaps I thought I would find him there? I just wanted to see him.

A tap on my shoulder drew me out of my thoughts. Well, it startled me out of them more like. With a gasp, I jumped and looked up at the person who tapped on me. It was the barista who greeted me and made my coffee. Sophie. My favorite barista to spill all my problems to.

“You okay? You look like you’re really thinking hard about something.”

I sighed and almost smiled at how ridiculous I was being.

“Yeah, I’m okay. And I was thinking about something. Can you sit for a minute?”

She nodded, “I’m on break, thankfully.”

Once she took her seat across from me at the tiny table, I wrapped my fingers around the now room temperature coffee cup in front of me.

“So, what’s up? What could you possibly be thinking about that’s got you looking like that?”

“Um, well. There’s this guy…”

Her eyes widened and she leaned forward a bit, as if to ask me to continue.

“You might have seen him in here before. He comes in as much as I do, which is why I noticed him.”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s tall. He wears sweaters a lot...um…oh, his hair is kind of messy, but in a cute way. And he has this dumb little satchel he carries sometimes-”

“Does he look like that guy?” Sophie asked as she pointed behind me.

I followed where her finger was pointing by the door and sure enough, he was there. But he was there with another girl I had never seen him with before. She had dark hair and striking eyes, along with a certain air about her that just gave off badass vibes. Of course he would have a girlfriend. And a gorgeous one at that.

I turned back to Sophie quickly before he noticed me staring.

“Uh, yeah. That would be him. But I’ve never seen that girl before. It figures, though. Just my luck.”

The pair began walking farther into the shop, talking quietly as they approached the counter to order. The more they talked and smiled at each other, the more my heart seemed to falter.

“Oh, (Y/N),” Sophie said quietly so only I would hear, “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t respond to her. I didn’t have to. The look in my eyes was enough to let her know what I was thinking and feeling.

Her break was about to be over, so she placed a hand gently on top of mine, and with a small smile, left me there.

Well, there was only one thing left to do. Get another coffee, and maybe something sweet to drown my sorrows in.

I took a deep breath and stood up, grabbing my empty cup to throw away when I got to the front to order. I didn’t see them anywhere now. They must have ordered already and found a seat. But truthfully, I didn’t look around for them long. I didn’t want to.

I ordered a black coffee and a doughnut, and waited for a second for them to hand me my order instead of going back to my table to wait. Sometimes they put too much creamer in the coffee, so this way I could go over to the cream and sugar stand and make it myself.

Coffee and doughnut in hand, I made my way over to the small fridge they left out for customers to put in their own creamer and milk. I wasn’t really feeling the flavored seasonal creamers they had, so I just grabbed the half and half and started pouring. I didn’t really want any sugar either. I had my doughnut, which I probably wouldn’t even eat to be honest. My stomach was in knots.

A sudden voice behind me knocked me out of my thoughts.

“All cream, no sugar, huh? I’m the total opposite.”

I was so startled that my hand seemed to seize up, causing me to jerk the carton of half and half away from the cup. Now there was liquid all over the counter.

“Oh. I’m so sorry- Here, let me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I still hadn’t looked at who was talking to me, so when the footsteps got closer and I felt someone next to me, I decided I should finally look up.

It was him. The guy. The one I came here for. Except now he was standing right next to me.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and started wiping up the mess on the counter while I stood wide-eyed and in shock. I should probably say something.

“I’m so sorry. I was...thinking about something and you startled me. I feel so clumsy.”

He looked up at me with a hint of a smile on his face.

“No, it’s really my fault. I’m not good at talking to people.”

Once he had finished cleaning up, he threw the paper towels away and turned back towards me.

“What’s your name? I see you in here sometimes. I guess you could say we’re both regulars.”

A lump formed in my throat that I had to swallow down forcefully. He saw me in here sometimes? He noticed me? Did he ever see me looking at him? Oh no.

“Um, my name is (Y/N). I see you in here sometimes too. The coffee here is really good, yeah?”

He smiled again, but bigger and more pronounced this time. Nodding his head, he shifted his bag and looked back at me.

“My name’s Spencer. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

Now it was my turn to smile. This was going pretty good, all things considered. It’s too bad about that girl he’s with, though. Speaking of the girl, she was walking towards us right now. Fantastic. Just what my anxiety needed.

“Spencer, we just got a call. Did you not pay attention to your phone?” the woman said in a hurry as she came closer.

Spencer jumped a bit and started to dig in his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and laughed nervously.

“I have it on silent. Whoops.”

The woman rolled her eyes and then seemed to notice me standing there.

“Ohh, I see. You had it on mute so you could talk to this girl you were telling me about, hmm? Better hope I don’t tell Hotch”

Spencer opened and closed his mouth a few times, and I was simply shocked. He wanted to talk to me? Like, on purpose? He told this woman about me?

“I’ll meet you outside, Emily,” Spencer groaned at her.

The woman named Emily smiled at me and winked before leaving. So now it was just me and Spencer, standing awkwardly together. Great.

“I, um...ignore her. She’s a colleague from work...and apparently my wing woman now.”

I couldn’t help but sigh in relief. So she was just a friend. I had gotten myself all sad and anxious for nothing. Honestly, that’s typical for me though, so…

I could only smile. So much so that it made my cheeks hurt.

“So, do you have to leave? For work or something?”

Spencer shifted his weight nervously.

“Yeah, I um, yeah I’m sorry. I really would like to stay and talk more. I hope you don’t find it weird I told her about you, by the way. I just notice you in here a lot and I think you’re really pretty and I just-”

He cut himself off suddenly and looked at me sadly.

“I have to go, but here.”

Hurriedly, he pulled out a scrap piece of paper from his bag and a pen. He leaned over the counter and quickly wrote his name and number on the paper and handed it to me somewhat forcefully.

“Text me or call me...you know, if you want. Um, I really have to go. I’m sorry.”

He turned on his heel and began walking towards the door.

“Spencer!” I called across the shop.

Spencer stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me, almost with an excited glint in his eye.

I held the paper he gave me gently in my hand and took a deep breath to calm my pounding heart.

“I noticed you, too.”

308 notes · View notes

falloutjay · 3 years

Note

Can I please have the boys with a S/O with short hair and wears vintage suits, newsboy hats, vintage casual clothes and sometimes steals the characters clothes?

Happy to be done! I hope it came out to your liking and I tried to stick as close to your requests as I could.

Next up is the Mysterion/Civillian!Reader request, so stay tuned you fabulous beings! 🌸 (っ◔◡◔)っ ❤

__________________________________________

The boys x vintage!Reader

Cartman:

Any stupid comment about your style from anyone and they will have Cartman personally torment them.

The boys would have never guessed that Eric can be so head over heels for someone like you, because they would have guessed he would bully you or make stupid comments.

But no. He is just a fool in love and adores your suits. There are some he doesn’t like as much, but mostly he likes them.

He ain’t a big fan of short hair, but since you rock it so well, he likes it.

When it comes to the roller skates, he rather just watches you. Roller skating isn’t his thing and as most people know, if he doesn’t want to do something, no one can force him.

Eric generously lets you borrow some of his clothes. “I wasn’t gonna wear that anyway.” “Yeah, I guess you can have it.” He won’t admit that he actually loves seeing you in his stuff, so he tries to play it like he doesn’t care. (But you see right through him)

Stan:

Stan likes how different you are compared to others.

He loves it when people are unique and do their own thing, express themselves.

Big fan of the roller skates.

He’s not good at skating but gets better over time.

He’s not the one to copy anything from your style but loves lending you his clothes.

You’re not allowed to take the horrible Farm-Merch that is buried deep in his closet though.

Otherwise, he doesn’t care what you want to have. Be it his favorte sweater, some sweatpants or his hat. He doesn’t care, he just loves seeing you in his clothes.

He doesn’t have a strong opinion about your hair. Its your thing. Hes just here to support how you express yourself.

Kyle:

Kyle calls you his little time traveler, since he thinks you look like one.

He will certainly copy some nice shirts with fancy vests from your style, since he loves how stylish you look.

Regarding your hair, he loves it. He likes how fluffy it looks and likes touching it. He will also gladly accompany you to any hairdresser and you even inspire him to also let something be done to his precious hair.

Roller skating is somewhat new to him, he certainly didn’t do it on the regular, but like Stan, he gets better over time and actually enjoys it.

In his closet, there are some things you aren’t allowed to take, like expensive shirts that his mother got for him. But he will make a pile with clothes that are for you, that you can take as you want.

Kenny:

Kenny can’t help but wonder, how much your style costs. His mainly consists out of the same clothes that can be bought in big packs and that are cheap.

He felt so touched when you asked for one of his simple white shirts. He was about to cry from joy.

Kenny loves messing up your hair and digs your style.

When is comes to the roller skates… He will try a few times and do it for a while when he comes along, but he will rather quickly tell you he’s tired or something and just watch you.

If he can, he will love to match with your look, since he thinks he will look great in your style.

Butters:

He will ask you to show him where you buy the suits so he can copy your style a little.

He absolutely loves and adores your style and loves to go shopping for new outfits with you.

Loves the short hair. Butters loves the confidence you radiate and how good you look.

Did anybody say roller skates? Because oh boy, he will so be your man. You guys make people jealous with how angelic you look on the rink.

He’s the one you can have actual big performances with and learn cool figures to make everyone gasp.

Happily lends you anything you desire from his closet.

Butters is a big supporter in everything you do and loves copying things you do, since you inspire him so much.

Clyde:

Clyde is a fan.

He loves how good your style looks and how well thought out all of your outfits seem.

While he’s a big fan of long hair on girls, he has come to accept your short hair and has even grown to like it.

He is a clumsy boy on roller skates, not like you would have expected anything else. You try your best to help him but whenever he screams: “Look Y/N! I can do it!” He will fall over. Its like he is cursing himself.

Clyde has shirts you’re not allowed to take, like his lucky-shirt, but he gladly gives you his football- college-jacket or some sweatpants.

He loves seeing you in his jacket, it makes one proud boyfriend.

Token:

Token will adapt a little to your style.

Most stylish couple in the whole school? Oh, hell yeah!

You two just rock the vintage look and make everyone turn their head.

Token is happy to lend you anything you desire. Some slick shoes you fit in? Sure, take them. He doesn’t care all that much.

He has no preference when it comes to hair and will only support you in whatever you do.

“You do you Hun!”

He will gladly try roller skating and he’s surprised when he grows to like it. He even pretty decent at it and it becomes a nice mutual hobby for you two.

Craig:

He is pretty nonchalant about your style. Craig is someone who doesn’t care all that much about how his partner looks or how they dress.

To him personality matters and that you don’t look like a slob.

He likes how you dress and the vibe you give.

Craig doesn’t get the appeal of borrowing clothes but if it makes you happy, he doesn’t mind giving you a shirt he doesn’t care about.

Like Kenny, Craig will give the skating a try, but isn’t a big fan. He will stop after some round and relax, watching you do your thing.

Tweek:

Like Craig, Tweek cares about personality, not looks.

That doesn’t mean he wont like how you dress.

It has a certain appeal for him, but he won’t copy your style, as its too much for him.

He also doesn’t care about how you do your hair. He will like anything on you.

Roller skating is a scary thing for him at first. He will be nervous about, asking if you are sure, he wont break all of his bones.

Once he gets a hang of it, he will be godlike.

Tweek has no idea why you would want any of his clothes, but he gives them to you. He just asks you to be careful with them.

Jimmy:

He has a big thing for the newsboy hats, and he will so definitely ask you where to get one and which suits him best.

He loves the suits and the whole aesthetic you represent and his head over heels for it.

As one of his hobbies is writing for newspapers, he loves to partner with you and have you both look like old school newspaper boys when he goes around school handing everyone their news.

Jimmy doesn’t care how your hair looks, he just likes if it fits your vibe, and it sure does.

Roller skating is a no-no with him for obvious reasons. He will happily watch you though and maybe sketch something in his notebook or something alike.

#eric cartman x reader #stan marsh x reader #kenny mccormick x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #butters stotch x reader #clyde donovan x reader #token black x reader #craig tucker x reader #tweek tweak x reader #jimmy valmer x reader

200 notes · View notes

greenninjagal-blog · 3 years

Text

Let Me Hear You Scream pt2

Ready for more spooky vibes? If you missed the first part you can find it [here!]

Summary: Upon waking up in a forest he doesn't recognize, Roman vs a Bear Trap goes almost exactly how you would think it goes.

Words: 6374

TW: Bear traps, blood, violence,

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

Roman has always had an unusually high pain tolerance. He had to, being twin brothers with Remus and all that. The sheer amount of danger the two of them got into as kids delegated that if he was anything less than completely indestructible, he’d be dead the next time Remus started a conversation with “I bet you won’t…”

He remembers that summer when Remus dared him to ride his bike down the concrete stairs, and he remembers how the wheels pitched him forward and his helmet cracked on the sidewalk, his knee skidded on the concrete, and his arm went snap with pain so white hot that Roman actually thought that the whole thing had popped right off his body entirely.

He remembers lying on the ground so shocked that he couldn’t even breathe, much less cry, and he remembers Remus laughing in the background, “I didn’t think you were going to actually do it! Oh shit, Ro? Roman! ROMAN!”

He remembers it so clearly.

“REMUS!” Roman shrieks into the forest, with tears rolling down his cheeks. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, YOU FUCKER!”

His ankle burns. He can’t feel his toes, he can’t feel his ankle, he can’t feel anything, but there’s blood all over his hands and he can’t look down in case he faints.

His hands are trembling as they blindly work over whatever the fuck he stepped on. He can feel the slushie that he last ate, swirling in his stomach, boiling and bubbling until he feels it corroding his back molars. His fingers fumble around the… the metal teeth, oh god he’s going to vomit. His ankle screams in pain when his fingers prod too close to his actual limb. His ears echo with the painful awful SNAP of the jaw mechanism like its seared right into his soul.

“Remus,” He sobs, “I’m going to fucking kill you--”

Because there was a line here; Yeah, Remus dared him into a prank war with one of his stupid “I bet you wont, you prissy goody two shoes…” and Roman poured glitter into Remus’s laundry once, then Remus replaced Roman’s toothpaste with mayo, then Roman put white hair dye in Remus’s shampoo, and Remus swore he would get some type of revenge, even though he loved that look so much that he kept a stupid white streak in his hair. At least Roman thought he did-- He did, right?

Remus wasn’t the type to keep it to himself if he was upset. Neither of them were: Roman had perfected the art of loud sighs and dramatic monologues into a microphone and Remus had set things on fire to make people pay attention.

He didn’t-- wouldn’t--

He wouldn’t drag Roman into the middle of nowhere and make him walk into a bear trap for hair dye that would come out in another few weeks.

((Wouldn’t he?))

Everyone said Remus was insane, through whispered rumors and gossip that dissipated the moment that Roman walked into the room. Roman hadn’t ever seen the insanity himself; he grew up with Remus chasing squirrels in the park and diving into dumpsters for cool treasures and it was normal. Remus had always found humor in strange and weird things and as they had grown up those things had become less real and more abstract and Roman still didn’t think it meant that Remus would do this.

The forest is dense around him, stupid, dark; Roman isn’t sure he could recognize it even if he had a map in front of him, but then again Remus was always the more environmentally aware person of the two of them. He doesn’t know where Remus went the fuck off to either-- he’s brain is fuzzy at everything more than a few seconds ago when he blinked opened his eyes and took one step forward into a metal death trap, but he… he thought Remus had been right beside him, so close that… that…. His head is singing with pain and the backs of his eyes are melting.

“Hey!” A voice calls out and Roman flinches so hard that the metal spikes dig into his ankle and his scream strangles him.

Roman blinks back his tears just in time to see a figure stumble right out the thickets nearby, with the grace of a new born fucking dear. Roman swears in every language he knows and then some he doesn’t as the person scrambles back to their feet and zeroes in on him with an expression that Roman usually associates with the memory of his science teacher right before she demonstrated how to break a frog's ribcage for their dissection.

“No,” Roman says, “No, back off--”

He tries to scoot back and agony shoots up his leg so bright and violent that his vision whites out.

“Don’t move,” the person says, holding up their palms up suddenly to show they were unarmed or something. Roman isn’t sure what that’s supposed to do when he knows that Remus himself has never needed a weapon to be a lunatic. “I’m going to try to help.”

“Do not fucking come near me,” Roman snarls. “Who are you? One of Remus’s fucking little friends--”

“I assure you I don’t know a Remus, but you are in pain and believe I am qualified to help.”

“Fuck off!”

Roman swears that the pain is getting to his head, meddling with his thoughts like alcohol except not fun and Roman would not suggest anyone repeat this experience. The stranger-- Remus’s friend or whatever-- is staring at him with a patient impatience: like his mother waiting for him to finish his story before she runs off to answer a call on her work phone. They’re older than Roman, by a year or two, with sharp cheekbones and back framed glasses of a stereotypical nerd but a height that makes it hard to even imagine anyone looking down on them. Their eyes are colder than ice, and frost wafts off their breath. They’ve got a sweater vest on, with a tie, and converse dotted with glow in the dark paint in the shape of space nebulas.

Between his teary eye lashes Roman thinks that this guy looks incredibly tame for someone who associates with Remus and he fights the urge to vomit.

Is his leg supposed to be feeling cold?

Oh god, was he going to lose his foot? His breath swells up in his lungs, like a balloon pressing against his ribs. He wouldn’t be able to walk without a foot-- He wouldn’t be able to move or leave these woods or get help-- Remus and his psycho friends could easily cut up the rest of his body and let the wolves get him and then at school when someone would ask what happened to that dumbass who used to make dumb jokes on air during the football games, everyone will be like “Who?” and “didn’t Remus used to have an annoying twin? What happened to that guy?” and no one will ever find him because no one would car--

“Please,” The Doctor Who-ever says, in a faux calm tone as Roman nearly swallows his tongue. “I have medical knowledge, and you are clearly in distress.”

Agony races up his leg and Roman whimpers again. He swears he can hear the sound of metal grinding against his ankle bones, biting in deep and forcing the marrow to crack and shatter and explode until it's just a bunch of broken glass-like fragments under his skin. His head feels light and he frantically breathes deeply because he is not going to pass out, he is not going to make it that eas--

He’s cut off by a sudden crashing from behind behind himself: snapping of branches like a wild animal is tearing through them, the crunch of dead leaves steadily getting louder and heavy and deadlier, the swearing that are all tell-tale sounds of Remus crashing directly into someone and both of them eating the dirt as they barrel through the thickets and roll to a stop a few feet away.

Nerdicus jerks back like they were expecting anything less of Remus’s spectacular grand entrance.

Roman bites down on his tongue to stop himself from outright whimpering. Remus, his twin, his mirror image, rolls back to a sitting position like a possessed doll coming to life, untangling his limbs from another crumpled, groaning form that must be some other friend of his, and snapping them back in place because what are limbs to a maniac like him? The setting sun paints him in an eerie light and Roman’s skin itches with equal parts rage and terror at him, for dragging them out there, for putting out bear traps, for doing all this as pay back for a stupid little prank in a prank war he fucking started--

Remus’s laughter is obnoxious as always and Roman tries not to flinch at the sound of it alone, holding back a white wash of fear with just his force of will.

His other friend is another person that Roman hasn’t seen before-- not that he spends a lot of time getting to know the faces of the delinquents that his brother hangs out with. They’ve got on black jeans and a black T-shirt with one of those reversible sequin designs in the shape of a skull. Their blond hair dances in the last dregs of the evening, even as they pull a leaf from their bangs and yanks their dirty yellow beanie back over their head.

“Holy shit!” Remus says, spitting out dirt from his mouth. “Is that a bear trap?”

“Remus!” Roman whimpers with a tight throat. “This isn’t funny!”

“Au contraire! I left you alone for like five seconds and now you’re in a bear trap!” There’s a glint in Remus’s eyes and Roman recognizes it from those times when Remus climbed too high in the trees back at home, when he stared at a growing flame of a match too long, when he reached across the console and yanked on the steering wheel, screaming Roman’s name--

Roman brain pulses to the point where he can feel it knock against his skull and that hurts almost as much as ankle and he swears he sees stars on the backs of his eyelids and he does not want those to be the last stars he ever sees.

Remus swoops towards him and Roman flinches back, nearly screaming when his leg jostles.

“Chill out, Prince Charmless,” his twin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna get it off. What’s your range of movement?”

“Do not come any closer to me, you asshole!”

“You can’t get that thing off yourself,” Remus says.

“And whose fault is that?” Roman snaps.

Remus freezes, tilting his head slightly to the side. His rat's nest of hair creates an unearthly silhouette as he looks down at Roman, something straight out his Halloween horror films, and Roman bares his teeth in warning. He’s not thinking about how Remus’s foot can stomp down on his injured, trapped leg, he’s not thinking about how there’s no one around for miles, he’s not thinking about how there’s nothing and no one to stop him from straight out fratricide--

“Why am I suddenly getting the feeling you think I know what the flying fuck is going on here?” Remus asks.

“Don’t you?”

“No!” Remus says, delightedly, happily, cheerfully and his voice makes some distant bird caw. “I thought you snapped and took me to the woods to kill me yourself! This is much more boring now that I know I haven’t managed to break your last shreds of sanity.”

“Why would I--”

“This is ridiculous,” Glasses McGee cuts in sharply, adjusting said glasses with their index finger. “We need to remove your foot from that trap now.” They look at Remus and the other person. “Are either of you knowledgeable about the mechanics of bear traps?”

Remus throws two thumbs up, and Roman remembers vaguely a rant from a year or two ago about unethical bear hunting and steel jaw traps and how animals would step in and then lay there for days suffering as their mangled limb held them captive regardless of them trying to chew it off for freedom and oh god he’s going to be sick--

“Roman,” Remus says somewhere beyond the screaming in his head. “Oh shit.” It sounds like he’s far away and distant, or maybe underwater and Roman is drowning. He can’t seem to breathe anymore, like the teeth biting into his ankles had wrapped around his chest and was slowly crushing him.

People are moving around him, faint voices talking and then suddenly burning blinding white hot pain that shoots all the way up to the back of his eyes.

He screams and bites down only to find there’s something in his mouth-- fibers and the unmistakable taste of wool and Roman nearly gags on it. He blinks back the foggy pain and finds that he’s leaning on Remus and Webster Dick-tionary is pressing a multicolored sweatshirt to his leg delicately with the bear trap fully closed a few feet away, tethered to the ground with a heavy metal chain coated in a red paint that makes Roman’s vision sway all over again. The slushie claws back up his throat and he gags.

There’s someone new standing just behind the nerd: a very pretty person in a pretty skirt and headphones with cat ears on them around his neck. The splash of freckles and the round glasses makes them look a bit younger than the rest of them, but that could also be Roman’s brain twisting things around the moment that they wince in sympathy as the nerd prods part of his ankle.

They’re magnificent, Roman decides with a dizzying certainty. They’re the sun in the middle of this dark and dreadful forest, the stars in the night sky, the lighthouse in the storm guiding Roman back from complete devastation with just those shiny eyes behind cracked lens.

The other person, the one in the black skull shirt, Sid from Toy Story come to life, is standing just behind him and Remus, looking on distastefully from a good distance away. It takes Roman a moment to realize he’s biting down on the guy’s beanie, and gross. He spits it out at the same time as the nerd presses too close to where the trap had caught him.

“Son of a Witch!” He hisses. “A dragon witch, a fucking---”

“Oh, boo,” Remus says. “He’s alive.”

“He was not in any immediate danger of dying,” Space Case says firmly. “And isn’t he your brother?”

“Looks like someone is an only child,” Remus says. The person in black reaches out and snatches back his beanie, his entire face curling into some disgusted expression as they hold the part with Roman’s saliva away from themself.

“Wonderful,” they say in deadpan and stuff the beanie in their back pocket.

Roman blinks, struggling to sit up by himself. He scrubs his face trying to get rid of his tears, and buries that boiling humiliation being the center of attention like this. Of course, he has to be grievously injured for anyone to care about him, for anyone to take a moment to look at him, for anything--

Remus lets him go, stretching up and yawning like nothing about this is weird or strange or scary to him.

Part of Roman is reassured by that. Like, of course Remus isn’t terrified out of his mind; what is there to be scared of when he’s the most terrifying thing in a 100 mile radius? When he handcuffed himself to the doors of the city history museum to protest its demolishment even though the wrecking ball was right there, when he wore a mini skirt to school to protest the dress code even though he’d been beat up for less before, when he marched into the Governor’s office when he was refused a meeting about the rescinding of the pollution standards in the the county and laughed in the face of the armed guards that told him to leave.

Remus had an endless supply of guts and determination and Roman had wished for so long that his reckless bravery could be contained, controlled and banished, but now it kinda felt like Remus slipping a familiar jacket over Roman’s shoulders and telling him to relax.

Google.com-- Roman is seriously running out of names for them-- leans in and tears the new holes in Roman’s jeans further-- Roman grimaces at the thought of having to buy another pair to make up for this, but the nerd expertly uses the excess fabric to tie up his wound with a professional precision.

“Alright, Doc Oct,” Remus says while they work. “What is the diagnosis? Amputation? Do I need a body bag?”

“I just said that he was not in danger of dying,” they say, finishing the knot which only causes Roman to grunt a little bit. “And my name is Logan, if you must know. I am not a full medical doctor by any means, but I believe that he will recover fully; the trap broke skin and there will likely be a nasty amount of bruising deep in the muscle tissue, but he will recover in a few weeks of rest. It will probably be best to keep weight off your foot as much as possible.”

“See, drama queen?” Remus says to Roman, shoving his shoulder. “You’re fine.”

Roman gives him double middle fingers for his trouble and tries not to shake too hard with relief. He stares down at his leg, forcing a steady breath through his lungs and out his nose, and wonders with a dizzying amazement how his leg was not only in one piece but recoverable, after all the pain. He isn’t sure that it’s not just the placebo effect of someone saying that everything’s going to be okay, but he wiggles his toes and swears that the pain only wracks his limb moderately this time.

Even closed, the bear trap looked menacingly at them: Roman’s blood on the jaws that were curled into a ghoulish grin, just waiting for someone to get close enough to open and bite down on. He’s not sure how Remus and the Doctor Doolittle-- Logan-- managed to get it off him.

Logan turns and offers the sweater to the person in the skirt. “Ah, sorry, I’m afraid the blood has…”

Roman sucks in another breath at the sight of it: the bright splotchy blobs of red that bled through the pastel tye dye design that would likely never come out and eternally remain a reminder of how Roman put his foot directly in a bear trap like an idiot-- What would he have done if there was no one around? Died? His own stupidity had ruined such a nice piece of clothing and--

“It’s okay!” The angel says with a somewhat cartoonish voice. Roman blinks in surprise at the sweetness of it, tasting sugar even as the words hold over the air. He swears he can envision their I’s dotted with hearts; a soft and kind tone despite the fact that Roman had ruined their sweater. “I’m much more relieved he’s going to be okay!”

“Let’s not get too excited,” Doctor Doom says, causing Roman to stiffen and Remus to glance back curiously towards them. They’re turned away from the rest of the mismatched, miscellaneous group, looking into the trees with a gaze that makes Roman’s stomach roll over and not in any way that is even remotely good.

“What?”

They glance back at them with an expression something that Roman can only call shifty. Like a snake before it strikes, they’re poised on the balls of their feet, coiled with the power to move at a seconds decision. Untrustable, Undependable, Unkind-- and Roman squares his shoulders just to prove to himself that there isn’t actually a dagger point about to plunge into his back.

The person’s voice is silky smooth, but Roman can’t find it in himself to be jealous when the meaning of the next words hit. “I don’t suppose any of you remember just exactly how we came to be here, do you?”

The woods echo with a strange emptiness, like the trees themselves are holding their breaths. The silence is eerie-- Roman’s never been a forest this quiet. He’s never been anywhere this quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck raise up.

Logan and the shining, shimmering, lovely vision share a look and the former shrugs, occupying their hands with tying their sweater around their waist.

“It’s fuzzy,” they admit, thoughtfully. “I was leaving my dorm...and then…” They grimace, which is downright awful to witness: Roman doesn't think anyone deserves to look so uncomfortable, and certainly not a beauty like them. “...then I was here.”

Logan makes a sour face like he managed to misplace a decimal twenty seven steps back in his math equations. “I was uncharacteristically late to class, but I seem to have some form of amnesia surrounding the hours since then as well; It was just past two.”

Dr. Facilier-turned-teenager turns to Roman, their eyes asking a question they already know the answer to. And part of Roman wants to snarl at them, tell them to knock it off with the creepy aura and better-than-you-expression, explain to them exactly how they ended up all here together because there’s a logical, causal explanation.

But Remus is already laughing. “Oh come on! We were…. What were we doing again?” Remus freezes for a moment, some of the smile leaving his face. “Ro? Where were we…?”

Remus is dressed in another one of his ripped T-shirts, the Save the Turtles one that he wore to that protest a few months ago and when he volunteered to clean up beaches for the weekend. His sleeves are ripped off to show off the endangered Tiger tattoo on his shoulder up to his neck, and his jeans are the recycled ones that he bought second hand and begged Roman to repair rather than buy a new pair and “give his money to the capitalists that are trying to kill us all”.

In comparison, Roman is wearing his letterman jacket, with his name engraved on it that he got for being the announcer for the football team three years in a row. He’s wearing his announcer uniform too-- his hair is styled and his colors are coordinated to the white and red of their school, but Remus never comes to the football games anymore.

Or well, he’s not allowed to come to the games anymore after he stole the tuba from the band players and charged into the field during the game back in their freshman year.

Still he-- remembers… he thinks he remembers... They were in the car together, Remus needed to go somewhere and Roman had to drop him off and then speed off to the game, right? Remus' feet were up on his dashboard, mud flaking off into his freshly cleaned car, his air fresheners weren’t working, they were fighting over the radio, Remus’s hand reached out, latching on to the wheel and a scream--

“Fuck,” Remus says, rubbing the side of his head like Roman had slapped him. “Did you crash our car out here?”

“Me?” Roman says, incredulously.

“Yeah!” Remus says. “Did you get brain damage in the crash too? Are your brains going to fall out? You were the one driving, dumbass.”

“You grabbed my steering wheel!”

Remus snorts. “What? No, I didn’t?”

“Yes you did!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

“I wouldn’t get anything out of--”

“Boys!” Skeletar says, clapping to get their attention. “Less arguing, more answering the question.”

Remus looks at Roman and Roman glares right back because he did not crash the car. Between the two of them Remus was more likely to crash a car-- proven from how he totaled their green Ford Fiesta nine months ago and now even around the pounding headache he can still remember the feeling of surprise as Remus’s sporadic movement jumbled through his own, the yank that caused him to lose control, the-- the--

He doesn’t remember what happened after that, but he knows that then Roman had opened his eyes out here, taken a step forward, and nearly lost his foot to a bear trap.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Logan says. “Even if perhaps you happened to have a car around here, that does not explain how the rest of us came to be here. And likely from the events that you are describing the car is not in functional condition-- although I’m unsure how your persons would have come out of such a thing without a few visible injuries…”

“I didn’t crash the car,” Roman says firmly.

“Oh, like you didn’t step into a bear trap?” Remus asks innocently antagonistically.

“Why are there bear traps out here anyway!” Roman hisses. “Isn’t bear hunting or whatever illeg--”

Roman almost doesn’t hear it: it starts so softly and then it raises in pitch and suddenly it's ringing in the air like cracks in the fragile glass silence. He feels his breath disappear right out of his chest, his body tensing and everyone jerks towards the direction the sound comes from, like they’re expecting to see something out there.

Roman remembers hearing people yell at Remus to get out of the way of the wrecking ball, remembers hearing the teachers snap at him to go change into his gym clothes, remembers the armed guard spitting on Remus’s face, his own shouts turning to something just above an animalistic growl when he told Remus to knock it off, you’re making me look bad.

And still he doesn’t remember hearing anything sound so horrified. So desperate. So despondent.

It is the noise that causes Roman to break out in goosebumps, electricity dancing along his skin causing all of his hairs to raise, and himself to find it suddenly very hard to swallow. Roman is scrambling back before he can remember that his foot should not be moving and he bumps into Logan as he does.

It cuts off short and disappears like someone took a pair of scissors to the sound itself, snipping the scream for help away before it reaches the end.

And Roman doesn’t think anyone is breathing anymore. His heart pounds in his chest, waiting for the rest of it.

The trees cast shadows so deep and dark that not even the moonlight will touch them. Somehow without Roman noticing, the temperature had dropped until the air feels like frostbite licking his exposed skin. Roman doesn’t dare move another inch-- doesn’t like the idea of what might happen if he reminds the rest of the world that time is still passing.

“I…” the person in the skull T-shirt says, in a very low, strangled tone. “I don’t think bears are what's being hunted.”

“No,” Roman says, “No.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna be sick,” the person in the skirt says.

“No!” Roman says, throwing out his arms before his thoughts can catch up. “This is not--”

“We need to leave,” Logan says, face pale. “Now.”

“I think I saw a gate,” Remus said, no hint of his unhinged grin. He thumbs the direction that he and Kaa came from. “I pulled the switch but it didn’t open. I thought about climbing but there are no holds and barbed wire around the top--”

“It’s likely lacking a power source then,” Logan says steadily calm and Roman feels like he’s losing his whole goddamned mind. “Let me take a look at--”

“We are not being hunted right now!” Roman blurts out.

The others stare at him for a solid, endless second and Roman’s stomach threatens to crawl up his throat. He waits for them to agree with him, waits for them to laugh and call it a joke, waits for Remus to tell him he’s so easy to scare, come on Ro, did you really think there was a murderer in these woods? This is grade school level effort!

Roman gets the feeling that he’s going to be waiting a very long time.

“Guys,” Roman says, slightly more wobbly than he means it to, slightly more softer than he means it to, slightly more terrified than he means it to. “We aren’t being hunted for sport, right?”

Because-- Because he’s seen horror movies. And he remembers once how Remus poured a bag of popcorn over his head and said that if they were ever in that situation, he’d leave Roman to rot, maybe even toss him to the killer himself, laugh as Roman screamed and begged and cried.

He doesn’t look at his foot. He doesn’t look at his foot and think about how he can’t run. He doesn't look at his foot and realize that they’re going to leave him behind and no one will ever know what happened to him and no one will care--

Remus is suddenly right in front of him, offering a hand right into Romans face. Roman blinks back the burning tears on his cheeks and looks at the limb with a trembling lip.

“Come on,” Remus says. “You’re a little bitch when you ruin your mascara, Ro.”

And Roman tries to articulate the billions of insults he has in his brain, but all that comes out is a whimper as Remus latches on to his wrist and pulls him to his feet. He stumbles the moment that he tries to put weight on his foot, flickers of pain echoing in his brain although it's not nearly as bad as he was expecting. Remus pulls Roman over his shoulder with his injured leg raised between them and all of his weight on Remus’s shoulders.

“I’m not leaving you behind, dumbass,” Remus says.

((Why wouldn’t he?))

“We need to help them,” the person in the skirt, the good and just and wonderful person in a skirt, says suddenly.

“I don’t think they need our help,” Hans Gruber-minus-the-German-accent says. “In fact, I don’t think they need anything, anymore.”

“How could you say that?!”

“Easily,” they respond, shortly.

The person in the skirt is shaking, Roman realizes. They’re shaking and hugging themself and they look slightly green in the face.

“I came from over there,” they say from behind trembling hands. “I-- I didn’t hear anyone else over there but they must have been there and I-- I can’t--”

“They’re dead,” Dr. Jerkyll says clinically, like a surgeon with a knife. “Us rushing towards that area is only going to get us attacked next. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to die, thank you very much.”

“We can’t leave them!” The other argues.

The person in the skull shirt steps towards the other and grabs their upper arm to spin them back to the direction the scream came from. Then with a derisive and terrible sneer, they shove. The cutie in the skirt stumbles forward, nearly face planting on the uneven ground.

“Then you go help them,” they say, with streaks of faint and awful moonlight painting them in a pale halo. They wave back to Logan, Remus and Roman, and Roman feels very much like he doesn’t want to be included in this group all of a sudden. “Don’t drag the rest of us into it.”

“Hey, don’t be a dick!” Roman says, stepping forward and hissing when he places a slight weight on his foot. “What if it were you out there?”

They scoff. “Me? I would never let myself get caught by a psycho murderer in the woods. But if I did, the last thing I would want is my valiant savior to come charging to my rescue and then get slaughtered right beside me like an idiot!”

“I’ll keep that in mind, you slimy snake,” Roman says.

“I bet you will, Hiccup,” they shoot back. “The gate is this way. Try not to step in another bear trap, won’t you?”

“Damn!” Remus says, “You’re a bitch! What’s your opinion on plastic in the sea?”

Roman slaps Remus’s arm and gives him a glare because really? Right now? They’re in the woods, someone just screamed and probably got murdered, they don’t know how to get out, Roman’s injured, and Remus is doing one of his weird flirting attempts.

Great.

The person in the skull shirt at least looks slightly thrown by the question, narrowing their eyes and shaking their head as they turn away as if they can brush off the rest of the group. “The sea turtles are dying.” They say blandly, without a hint of actual emotion. “Oh no. Next time I see one I will give my condolences about it’s mother.”

Remus’s mouth pops open for a retort that Roman knows is going to be bad, but before he can get the words out, there’s a loud sound of cracking branches from behind them. Remus drags Roman back from the area, planting himself in front of Roman like some kind of human shield and Roman wobbles, without anything to put his injured leg on.

“Jesus Christ!” A new voice screams, as they trip over a thicket and fall into the clearing.

They move like a blur; barely more than a shadow with the ungodly amount of black they’re wearing. Roman can make out a pale face, dark bangs and terrified eyes, before the scramble back in the ground leaving… leaving smears of deep red on the ground in front of them. Their flashlight goes flying off to Logan’s feet, but they don’t seem to care as much about that as moving away from whatever is behind them.

The air tastes like metal, like copper, and Roman swears the world sways under him. His heartbeat blares in his ears almost louder than the newcomer’s hysterical sobs.

There’s a thud. And another.

And the trees themselves seem to shake and draw from the shadow that takes form. It peels away from the others, massive, hulking and distorted in all the wrong ways: at some point it must have been human, Roman thinks hysterically. It has two legs and two arms and a torso and a head, but it's elongated towering over even Logan at his ridiculous height. Its skin is covered in soot and dirt, layers upon layers to the point where Roman almost thought that it was wearing some kind of leather armor. It has rubber overalls on, strapped...strapped to its body with metal hooks that catch the thin moonlight peeking out of its bulging bare shoulders in a way that looks…looks self mutilated. The patchy ugly skin is healed around the metal, molded to it, absorbing it. In one hand is a cleaver, cobbled together from various metals with an unfinished touch and dripping scarlet all the way down the handle to its massive hands. Roman thinks that with one hand it could easily crush one of their skulls.

But worse than that, than the blood, than the stench coming from the thing, than the bloodlust that's echoing out of it: worse than all that is the mask welded to its face. A pale white skin that nearly glows in the darkness, framed with jagged sharp edges of bladed teeth in a terror inducing smile. Soulless orbs exist where eyes might have once been: now there are empty voids without a human behind them.

In a slow, almost robotic motion, it raises the cleaver in its hand. Blood rolls down the handle onto it’s hand and Roman watches the bulb of red drip down into the grass right between the newcomer’s sneakers.

Oh, Roman thinks suddenly very clearly without any room for a single doubt, This is what death looks like.

“NO!” The person in the skirt screams and suddenly they shove forward and throw themselves in front of the swing of the cleaver. Roman isn’t sure who screams louder at that: him, the person in the skirt, or the person on the ground bleeding out.

His brain is on fire, every atom in him is screaming so loud that he can’t hear his thoughts. His own breath flees his lungs with abandon that Roman’s brain somehow hadn’t gotten because instead of running away he’s running towards the monster. His blood boils in his veins and he pushes through Remus with the sort of reckless abandonment of sanity he never would have thought he’d ever make.

His vision locks onto the kid on the ground and his fingers latch on their left shoulder and he hauls them back.

The air next to his ear whistles as the cleaver misses them by centimeters and the person in the skirt screams as they fall to the side, and specks of something wet and warm and sticky flings through the air like its a water fountain; Roman feels it splatter across his face and his brain heart thuds in his chest.

Remus appears on his other side, grabbing Roman’s hostage by their other arm and they both pull them to their feet, ignoring the way they scream in pain. Their torso drips ruby into the dead grass at their feet and Roman-- Roman--

The hulking monster in front of them gives his cleaver a shake and drags it over its own arm to wipe away the blood, like it's nothing more than a hindrance. It turns its entire body towards the person in the skirt, the gorgeous selfless angel of a person that Roman hasn’t gotten the name of-- of someone he isn't going to get the same of because the abomination raises the cleaver again.

Roman screams because he does not want to watch someone die, please he doesn’t want to be in this nightmare anymore, wake up wake up wakeup--

There’s a brilliant white light that explodes at the last second. Roman himself jerks away from it, but that’s nothing compared to the inhuman howl that the creature makes as it stumbles back to the edge of the forest, covering its beady eyes with its massive hands.

Logan flicks the flashlight off and grabs the person in the skirt by their uninjured arm and looks back at them only briefly with an air of finality.

“RUN!” He says.

And Roman does.

#dbd au #sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #logan sanders #Janus sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #tw: violence #dead by daylight #Roman is incredibly unlucky #I ran out of nicknames #But heyyyy Virgil's alive!#isn't that great guys? :D #I am trying horror for the first time

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rudysrings · 4 years

Text

Twin Pogues of the OBX - 6

A/N: Shortest part yet, but I promise more is coming tomorrow and I just couldn’t bring myself to figure out a good stopping place other than here :)

Warnings: underage drinking, cursing...I think that’s it for this one?

Word Count: 2.2k

Masterlist

The next morning, you guys took out the HMS Pogue, before realizing the only way you could figure out the location of the wreck and with it, the gold, was to get access to the internet and plug in the coordinates.

Of course, with the power out on the Cut, there was no way you could get online from home. JJ worked as a busboy at one of the fancy hotels on the kook side, and offered to let you guys in.

As always, the familiar warmth of the sun felt nice on your skin. Somehow, after the events of yesterday, it felt like forever since you guys had just hung out on the boat—tanning, swimming, drinking.

You felt uncomfortable today, uninterested in your usual bikinis and shorts. Instead, you borrowed one of your brother’s long-sleeved shirts, usually saved for the winter, and pulled on some faded, worn skinny jeans over your bikini bottoms.

Of course, Kiara noticed, giving your ass a friendly slap as she asked, “What’s with the fit today?”

You threw an arm over her shoulder, hers circling your waist as you walked towards the van. “I just wasn’t feelin’ it today.”

“You’re gonna get real hot, real fast. It’s breaking 100 today.”

“I’ve got my suit under. If worse comes to worse, I’ll just strip down to that.”

“Suit yourself.”

It was rare that you felt insecure. You weren’t ashamed of your physical appearance, no. It might’ve been the realization that your dad had intentionally abandoned you that had shaken you so much. You were feeling vulnerable already and being exposed all day would be a physical manifestation of your fear.

You were quieter than normal, but the pogues didn’t question it, noticing the opposite in John B. It was as if last night had given your brother purpose, something concrete he could actually put his mind to, rather than wonder for days on end.

Once inside, you guys had found out it was about 900ft down, almost off the deep end, but reachable. Though not totally legal, the pogues hatched a plan to ‘borrow’ the drone from the salvage yard that JJ’s dad used to work for.

You asked if you could sit this one out, and, taking one look at your defeated figure, no one disagreed. “I’m going to go and try and write for a bit today, alright?”

You had been a part of a band with a few kids from school, scoring gigs here and there to scrape in whatever money you could. It allowed you a living while doing something you loved at the same time. You were thankful for it, and for Kiara’s dad, who made sure you knew that the band was always welcome to play at the Wreck and earn something for the time they performed. Part of it had to do with the fact that the band always improved business, people staying longer for dessert just to hear you play one more set, but part of it was that he just liked you. Though you were just as crazy, if not crazier than the other pogues, it was easy to see that you had an idea for your future and that’s all that Mr. Carrera ever wanted for his daughter. Though the band had broken up before the summer, with both the drummer and the lead guitarist having graduated high school and moved out of the outer banks for college, you still wrote from time to time. It was your own sort of therapy, the cathartic ritual of trying to reach somewhere within your mind to actually create something.

Kiara grinned. “Yeah! You should definitely come down to the wreck later tonight; it’s karaoke night!”

You assured her you wouldn’t miss it for the world.

John B gave you a pat on the back as you exited the van. They dropped you off at the Chateau and drove off, JJ shooting finger guns at you and making you smile.

You spent the day at the Chateau, working through your songs and nursing a rare bottle of old wine you had managed to hide from the others underneath your bathroom cabinet.

You contemplated the last few days, not just about how unloved you felt by your parents, but also the growing thing between you and a certain blonde haired boy.

You smiled as you strummed the guitar that your brother had given you for your thirteenth birthday as you remembered when you and JJ had first met.

The third grade was hard enough without a twin brother that radiated energy, leaving you looking like the evil twin who lived in the shadows and collected the limbs of barbies in different containers. Which you did, but you didn’t expect to be so ostracized for it.

You were alone that day at recess, walking across the black top with your arms hugging yourself. Your dad had done a poor job of helping you with your hair, leaving it a stringy mess across your back.

Suddenly, your face met the ground and you groaned, turning your head to see a halo of gold behind you. You blinked quickly, pushing yourself up to see a blonde boy with crooked teeth apologizing profusely.

“Dude! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, this guy—”

You noticed something in his hand. A Gameboy?

Behind him, a pudgy boy with a sweater vest and khaki shorts was quickly approaching and you soon understood what was going on. So this blonde little boy was a thief?

On instinct, you grabbed the gameboy from the blonde boy and shoved it in your backpack as his attacker came running up.

He shoved the blonde boy to the ground and shouted. “Where is it? You took it, you thief!”

Furious at the violent treatment of the blonde, even though he had stolen, you threw yourself at the bully, your nails scratching him.

In the end, all of you got in trouble, but when you walked to the bus that day, you gave the blonde boy the game boy and invited him to your place, where you had your own. He gave you a wicked smile, before giving you a big hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, pretty. I’m JJ.”

You didn’t know why, but you had always been protective of the boy, without a single good reason. He had always hidden his best qualities, but maybe some part of you recognized a part of yourself in him instantly. A kindred spirit of sorts. A hotheaded mess that was awful at suppressing his emotions but didn’t know how to deal with them any other way. A boy that would do anything for his friends. You didn’t know it at the time, but you found a mirrored version of yourself in that nine year old boy, and you brought him home with you.

At sunset, you gave up on your songwriting. You had made little progress anyways, instead heading to the Wreck as you promised Kiara.

When you walked in, the pogues were already shoving their faces happily after a long day. Kiara gave you a huge smile and beckoned you in to hear what had gone down.

You gave JJ a kiss on the cheek for no reason at all, and he blushed, quipping, “Hey, wifey!”

You pulled your brother and Pope in for a big hug, feeling nostalgic after your lingering thoughts of childhood memories today.

Before the pogues could comment on your drastically improved mood and sudden need for affection, you suggested that you all get started on karaoke before downing a beer, getting all of them excited.

You danced with Pope John B’s awful, fast-paced rapping of fifty-cent, but that was the point of karaoke, you guessed.

Pope twirled you, before grabbing your hands and pulling you towards him, shaking his head in a silly fashion. You threw your head back and laughed, catching JJ smiling at the sight from his seat.

You continued dancing with Pope as Kiara kept vibing on her own a few feet away. She finally had enough of John B’s voice and stole the microphone from him, replacing his screeching with her gorgeous velvet tones as she began singing her go to — Come and Get Your Love. You watched as JJ finally stood up, striding over shyly, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, raising his eyebrows at you in question. You let John B whisk Pope away as you pulled JJ to you by his forearms.

You turned around, letting him cage you from behind as you swayed within the comfort of his arms. John B and Pope were waltzing beside you, making you chuckle.

JJ sang softly to some of the lyrics, so low that you barely heard, only catching some when he bent close to your ears. “What’s the matter with your mind...And you’re mine, and you look so divine...If you want some, take some.” You tried to keep down the goosebumps, but of course, you failed, the fluttering of emotions you always tried to bury making its way up your throat. Or was that the alcohol?

He dropped his head to your shoulder, smiling as his hair brushed your collarbone. “You smell nice.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and turned in his arms. “I haven’t even showered today!”

JJ shrugged. “You always smell nice.”

The beer made you giggle, “Do I? Are you getting soft on me, Maybank? You dance and sniff girls’ hair now?”

JJ scoffed, before saying. “Soft? Me? Get outta here, Trouble.” He added smoothly, “And it’s only your hair I sniff.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s a little stalkerish, don’t you think? Should I be concerned? C’mon Bear, you’ve gotta live up to your rep.”

JJ shook his head, pulling you back towards him so that you were chest to chest, forced to wrap your arms around him to keep your balance. “Fuck that, just dance with me for fuck’s sake.”

You felt Kiara’s eyes on you, smiling as she moved on to another song.

Eventually, you got tired and let Kiara pull you away from the guys for a breath of fresh air.

You walked across the beach, arms crossed over your abdomen. Kiara kept looking at you with that teasing smile and you finally had enough. “What?”

Kiara shook her head. “Nothing, just, you know it’s kind of obvious? You’re so thick headed sometimes, but you clearly –”

“Have feelings for JJ?” You finished for her. She looked at you in surprise as you turned back to the waves. “I’m not so thick-headed. I know what I feel. I’m not stupid.”

She nudged your side, giggling. “Well, he’s really feeling you, too. Like all the butterflies and shit, I swear.” Kiara gave you jazz hands, emphasizing the jittery feeling of a crush.

You smiled. “Yeah, I know.” You knew JJ liked you. You knew it in the way he was always looking out for you, no matter what was going on or what he was doing, his focus was involuntarily always on you. Even your own twin brother didn’t pay that much attention to you. There had always been a tension in the air between you two, a sort of understanding of mutual attraction. It weighed heavy, not just in the air, but on your shoulders, on your heart. Because you knew that you couldn’t let anything come of it.

Kiara stopped, holding your elbow to keep you from walking any further. She looked confused. “Then why don’t you do anything about it? The rule’s bullshit, anyways.”

You took a deep breath, looking at your friend with heavy guilt as you tried to put into words why you knew that it was a bad idea. “Because we’re so similar. Neither of us have our heads screwed on right. We’d eventually destroy each other. And the worst part is...After the chaos, I wouldn’t have my best friend to help me pick up the pieces.” You shrugged. “I figure if there’s one time in my life I’m going to think before I act, it’s with this. Because this is one of the most important things in my life and I know there wouldn’t be any coming back from that.”

Kiara opened and closed her mouth multiple times, before finally asking, “But what if it works out? What if you create something beautiful?”

You laughed in denial, your throat tight. “It wouldn’t, Kie. It kills me to say it, but I know myself. I can’t be what he needs. I can’t bank on what ifs, anyways.”

Kiara pulled you towards her, wrapping you in a warm embrace. She looked behind you at the guys, who, from the looks of things, were beginning to get suspicious of you guys.

You and Kiara began walking back. Right before the two of you were within earshot of the rest of the pogues, Kiara took your hand and said to you, with complete surety, “For the record, Y/N, I think you guys are being idiots. You were lucky enough to find something real and you’re throwing it away. Because what? Because you’re scared? I just—I just don’t get it.” She scoffed, shaking her head as walking back inside, leaving you back at square one, wondering if you were being foolish and cowardly.

Masterlist

Tag List (If there is a strike through your user it’s bc I couldn’t tag you bc tumblr is wack sometimes...)

@hurricane-abigail @omigodyall @timotaychalabae @kaelyn-lobrutto24@caswinchester2000 @meghanisdeadinside @harrysbbby @official-maddibrown @xdelicates@maybebanks@yourwonderbelle @treestarrrrrrrr @loco-latte@sspidermanss@theradvibes @eviction-notice-no666@screamingnewsies @the-fandom-life-forever @dolanfivsosxox@vibin-n-thrivin @em-aesthe @the-real-jort @riverdaleserpent04@free-pool-trash @mileven-reddie @drewswannabegirl@queen1054 @eternalharry@alwayshopelesss @superqalifragilistik@smileyxdolans@fangirling-all-day @dianaillusion@catonthesideoftheroad @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise @thelovelydreamer17 @http-cherries @pit-zuh @kisssmefree @starryblueeyesandstarryblueskies @outerbankstings @oliviadrake1

I’m also kind of new to tagging and rlly bad at it so if something is wrong, I’m sorry and pls let me know and I’ll try my best to fix it!

I also lost my updated tag list i’m so dumb so let me know if I told you i would tag you and i didn’t oop

Stay safe and stay healthy!

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elysicndrcvm · 3 years

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━♡ guess the 23 YEAR OLD FEBRUARY baby just arrived to dallyeog! it makes sense, because CHU EUNHA is just as BEDAZZLING as the month of FEBRUARY. wait, why do they remind me of JACOB BAE? beyond that, they seemed JOYOUS and SAVVY upon first glance. i heard someone say they’re sort of DELICATE and QUIXOTIC though. i hope they get acquainted here in COMPLEX 1 / APARTMENT 0215 / FLOOR 3 ; HE seem(s) to have a lot going on with HIS job as a PATISSERIE OWNER/NUTRITIONAL SCIENCE STUDENT. ( ez, 21, she/they, gmt. )

well hey there !! im ez but you fellow dallyeogers can call me ezzy, i have been in dallyeog before so some may remember me as having someone v different to my new bb i bring u now, i joined before with miss tam carmen !! anygays i return with this lil angel who i am all ‘ i say that’s my baby and i’m proud ’ over already even tho i literally came up with him like two days ago. you can find his pinboard here ( which btw i fuckeN love like he’s so aesthetic to me u go king ) and i made him a lil playlist which u can vibe to here. you can learn more about him under the cut but he’s a super soft-hearted gentle dove of a muse and quite...simple for me ?? sdhdh that’s not the right wording but U GET IT djjflg he isn’t super full of angst or trauma he’s just kinda viBIN livin his best life so that’s fun !! but ye without further ado:

so as u kno from his app he owns a patisserie, it’s his lil babey and he is very dedicated to his craft and makin sure all his ideas for the place and the baked goods he sells are like rlly quirky and avant-garde. like he is so passionate about it u dont even KNOW, he tries to make sure most of the stuff on his menu is something like fun and new u wouldn’t get at just any old patisserie or cafe and that it’s super varied and also kinda aesthetic af? the place is very like trendy. it’s called patisserie d’elysian cause ya know he’s an extra biTCHH and proud.

he has three pupperino’s. all as adorable as each other, snickerdoodle is his golden lab and often ppl shorten it down to snickers, butterscotch is his dapple daschund pup, shortens the name to scotchie often. toulouse is his fancy toy poodle boi, shortens the name down as toto. if u are on the shortened name basis with his pups then u can consider urself one of his close pals.

he’s actually adopted by his aunt but she raised him like she was his mother so that is what he considers her, she’s on his mother’s side but they are half-siblings. in terms of first name reasoning as well she just liked eunha as a name and didn’t even think about how it is traditionally for a female, she liked that it meant gift from heaven so it stuck. his father is still around, he’s just quite elderly so it felt like a better living situation for him to be raised primarily by his auntie. unfortunately his mother has passed on but no tragic story, she just went peacefully in old age.

he dyes his hair quite often, it’s currently like a really pastel blue with black streaks consistently throughout like lil ones so it looks super cool. but he’s also had it be a more electric blue, lilac, and a duck egg kinda faded silvery blue. it’s naturally dark brunette. has brown eyes kind of a hazel hue.

his style is kinda androgynous ig?? he just lives for soft retro fashion, lots of color in his wardrobe but also lots of tapered short and t-shirt fits frequented, sweater vests, rolled up jeans, high skater boi socks, soft jumpers with shirts, shirts in bright colours or satiny texture worn over plain white t-shirts, cardigans, pastel denim jackets, jeans with printed patterns on like clouds, flowers etc, favors yellow and blues. sometimes does eye makeup, occasionally wears heels bc he’s a baddie or super heeled boots/chunky shoes.

obsessed with music, can play violin and guitar. he’s a big mitski and rina sawayama fanatic, likes anything that sounds peaceful or calming or has like a good fun vibe to it. also likes the trademark gay icons like carly rae jepsen, lorde, etc. he’s not ashamed. obsessed with mamma mia movies. but also likes rap which is rlly funny cause its like the bad bitch female rappers only and like he’ll listen to it while arranging his sock drawer or making his bed or something ajdjdj it’s like hype anthems for being a baddie and a hoe and he’s just doing his night sleepy routine adkfkf.

showers, blankets, music, baked goods especially bagels are his happy places.

very much a sensitive lil romanticist, falls in ‘love’ like five times a day, he just likes to giggle and smile around pretty people and admire the artwork hnghdh, he’s like yeARNS though ya know?? like he’s all i will flirt by making prolonged eye contact, i made you a playlist, this song makes me think of you etc. it’s either memes as flirting with him or elaborate love letters u never know what ur gonna get akdkd.

awful sense of humour, loves his friends more than anything on earth except his pups, would fully live in a huge house of just like his pups and all his closest buds for all eternity. likes fruits way too much, enjoys puns about fruits way too much. milkshakes, sushi, orange hues and bus rides are some of his absolute favorite simple pleasures of life. clouds, flowers, salt lamps, the sunrise over the sea, skateboarding, fresh soda, teddy bears, busy street markets, parasols, fish tanks with exotic fish, sorbet, bike riding, polaroids, record players, rain at night against floor to ceiling windows with a fresh steaming pot of tea on the desk beside it and warm fresh sheets from the laundry on his bed, ponds, skateboarding. all little joys in life that give him like the biggest pleasure dopamine hit in the world.

his cousin actually owns a florists so he has flowers just littering his apartment like a lot and it just looks like he has ten million suitors from the late eighteenth century attempting to court him but no all these flowers are from him to him or worse from his aunt djfjg she sends him some for valentines every valentines, pls help him, pls send him flowers.

studies nutritional science and he fucken hates it. do not ask him shit cause he doesn’t KNOW OKAY? he doesn’t understand it either. he took it because he needed something to go alongside the passion for baking that was a real ‘qualification’/job so that is the only reason he’s doing it. no point doing a baking degree after all when he’s already a baker with a business, he’s super young still he gotta keep his prospects open. so YAH. he’d rather be doing culinary arts but eh. nutritional science sounded better and more logic based. the real miracle is he still gets top grades all the time even tho he spends his life like wtf am i even doing is this even legit akdkdk. school is the worst thing in the world for him watch his mood instantly deflate the second its brought up.

despite being a quixotic, he’s a lil afraid of intimacy. like oh god does he love it, those small touches and acts of affection u kno? the subtle things that normally go unnoticed, eye contact, brushing of hands, linking of little fingers, rubbing a thumb, kissing eyelids or foreheads or palms or shoulders in little gentle pecks, back massages and rubs or finger tracing patterns absent-minded, shoulder massages, laying your head on someone’s shoulder or on their lap, knocking knees together, exchanging a small glance only the two of you get before bursting into laughter, smiling into kisses, napping together, having blankets placed over you warm and fresh, or towels put ready like it, someone making you something they know you like a lot. that’s his sHIT. but like he’s terrified still, someone skimming their fingers on his skin makes his breath hitch like he’s a scandalized and alarmingly aroused victorian woman sjdjd. he’s literally still a virgin, he hasn’t even had his first kiss okay my baby is delicate be gentle with him akdkd but he still LIKES PASSION AIGHT kfkf.

real soft spoken, honey tinted voice like i shit u not this boy talks like he’s an angel sent from heavens above to guide you to the paradisaical garden of eden or some shit akdkd. ur gonna fall in love with eunha’s voice before u even fall in love with any other part of him like his adorable beaming smile or stunning eyes akdkf.

has dance parties around his room when getting ready in the morning, listens to bella’s lullaby unironically yes from twilight yes u heard right, bit of a himbo streak sometimes in his obliviousness djfjf. quite silently subtly funny actually much like jacob himself.

he is gay, afraid of driving, cannot do math, blanks out often and he is valid for all of those things. has a collection of cartoon and disney animal movie dvds. has a dream notebook. always has blue painted nails in some kinda shade.

does not enjoy turning in assignments bc he is scared he’ll fail, avoids looking at his grades for weeks after they’re released and hates knowing that they’re out.

cannot dance, dances often. collects vintage stuff esp clothes and mostly sweaters. likes midnight trips to corner stores and fields where he can just lay and look at the stars. makes friends rlly easily but has super bad performance anxiety. cannot ever have a messy room like even the tiniest bit messy. even like clothes being stacked on a chair instead of away.

bakes peanut butter, banana and choc chip muffins (they r called monkey bites normally) whenever he’s super stressed. if u want to cheer him up when he’s anxious or stressed then u should give him french lavender honey, chia seeds and caramelized pear on toast/bagel. it is his comfort food. he fancii when he needs a pick me up. treat urself and all that.

#dallyeog:intro #i'm literally in love with him he's the softest most goodest boi muse i have ever made and i just #im that meme of the samari sword guy with the cat in his arms akfkfk #IVE ONLY HAD EUNHA FOR TWO DAYS BUT IF ANYONE HURTS HIM I WILL KILL THEM AND THEN MYSELF AKKDK

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jalapeno-princess · 4 years

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Foreign

Park Jinyoung X Reader

Genre: Fluff, angst (really bad smut I’m sorry I cannot write smut to save my life)

Word Count: 7.1K

Summary: Park Jinyoung is a foreign exchange student who just so happens to transfer to your high school. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak too much English and this causes him to get bullied. In the beginning, he finds himself hating America and wants nothing more than to return back home to Korea. But then he meets you and it entirely changes his perspective. (I tried to base it on mean girls key word TRIED)

A/N: Hey guys, so this was requested and this is my first imagine that isn’t about Mark so I will admit, I had a pretty hard time not writing his name (I CAUGHT MYSELF SLIPPING SO MANY TIMES) and i’m sorry if this story sucks or if there are any errors I wrote this so fast y’all don’t understand ok bye (BTW I am in no way teasing Jinyoung in here when I write about him struggling to talk in English this is strictly FICTION ok I am completely aware that man can speak better English than I can and this is my native language

The first day of school was always so nerve wrecking. Especially when you were transferring to a completely different country you’ve never been to before in order to learn a language you barely spoke nor understood. This was Park Jinyoung’s dilemma. His parents wanted him to learn English in America. They felt he could receive a better education in America than he would in Korea. No matter how hard he tried to talk them out of sending him away, it was no use. Their minds were made up and he soon found himself on a plane to California.

He couldn’t help but wish he tried harder in convincing his parents to let him stay back home in Korea. Jinyoung had a hard time understanding why he couldn’t have just taken English classes at his current high school, but apparently those who can send their children abroad seemed more high class and Jinyoung was well aware of how obsessed his mother was over their social status. After 10 exhausting hours on the plane, he had finally arrived in California. It was a huge cultural shock for him. Americans dressed completely different than that of Koreans. He also took in how noisy his surroundings were and how polluted their air seemed so far and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go on the next plane back to Korea. However, he decided he wouldn’t quit before actually getting to experience California and all it had to offer.

The taxi ride to his dorm was long and the driver wouldn’t stop talking about something he didn’t understand. Why did Koreans feel like life in America was better? He couldn’t fathom in to words how much he already hated it and he hasn’t even been there for more than a couple of hours. When he arrived to the dormitory after paying the driver almost a whopping $50 for an hour ride, he made the trek upstairs and went on the hunt for his room. Once he opened the door, he was upset to see that someone was already vacating the room. At first, he thought he was at the wrong dorm. That was until a tall and very broad guy came out of the bathroom and nodded in his direction.

“You must be Jinyoung. I’m Jaebum. Your roommate.” Hearing Jaebum speak in Korean took a weight off of Jinyoung’s shoulders. At least he had someone who reminded him of back home that wouldn’t make him feel like an outsider.

“Roommate?” Jinyoung wasn’t familiar with having a roommate. Being the only child, he always had his own things. His parents spoiled him rotten. He had his own room, his own car before he even got his license and he even owned a plot of land back home. But here in America, he was a nobody. Nobody would care that he was practically a prince in his parents eyes. Here in California, he’d be considered the freak who hardly speaks any English.

“Yeah. This is the foreign exchange student’s dormitory. Everyone has a roommate. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless I have to.” The older boy took a look at what Jinyoung was wearing and released a soft sigh. “Dude, Korean fashion isn’t going to cut it here. Get rid of the sweater vest and the khakis. You’re going to be ripped to shreds before you even make it to your first class.”

The two of them talked for a couple of hours, getting familiar with each other seeing as how they would be living together. Although he gave off very intimidating vibes, Jinyoung learned that Jaebum was the biggest softie. He was a huge cat lover. Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to take his five cats with him when he was sent here by his parents. But he did get a job at the local pet store so he had an excuse to be around animals all day. Jaebum was also the biggest momma’s boy and he wanted to attend school abroad in order to get a good job and be able to provide a better lifestyle for his mom. Seeing all his tattoos and piercings made Jinyoung wonder what kind of people he surrounded himself with because an appearance like that would not be accepted back home. How long had he been in America for and what exactly made him want to go against their cultural values?

As cool as Jaebum seemed so far, Jinyoung knew he wouldn’t want to stay in California for longer than he had to. Once he got settled in, he decided to call some of his friends back home to let them know how his first day went.

Honestly, the first day hadn’t even started and yet he couldn’t wait for school to be over with. The next day, the two boys went off to school together. Jaebum offered to show Jinyoung around and helped him find his classes. He didn’t want to jinx himself, but with the way Jaebum was treating him as if they were long time friends, he found himself liking America so far. That was until Jaebum had gone his own way to head to class and left Jinyoung all alone. To his dismay, he didn’t have any classes with Jaebum; but Jaebum made sure to give his contact information to the younger boy just in case he needed it.

“Text me around lunch time. You can sit with my friends and I. Try to stay out of trouble yeah? And don’t speak in English unless you really have to. I’ll see you later.” As he made his way to his locker, he noticed how people started moving away from the center of the hallway and he had yet to understand why. Once he put some of his books away and started making his way to class, it was then that he heard a couple of people gasp. He felt a bunch of eyes on him and it began to worry him. Were people aware that he was a foreign exchange student? Jaebum didn’t mention anything about Americans treating foreigners differently. So why was everyone looking at him as if he was an animal in the zoo? Before he could continue his thoughts, he was soon being shoved in to his locker and ended up on the ground.

“Watch where you’re going dumbass.” As he looked up, he saw four girls walking past him as three of them and everyone else in the hallway began to laugh. However, his focus was quickly averted to you. You glared at your friends and gave him an apologetic look. As much as you wanted to go and see if he was okay, you knew what would happened if you did. Therefore, you continued to follow after your friends. He hated that he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying about him and he despised the fact that nobody did anything about what just happened. If this was only the first day, he didn’t want to imagine what the rest of the semester was going to be like.

When lunchtime finally came around, he decided to get in contact with Jaebum and see where he was. Jinyoung was exhausted. His first three teachers made him introduce himself and he never felt more stupid. All he knew how to say was his name and where he was from. Then whenever the teachers would continue asking him more questions, he just stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Finally when lunch time came around, Jaebum found him outside of his classroom and explained to him how ordering food from the cafeteria worked.

“So, how’s your first day of school so far?” Jinyoung released a frustrated sigh and furrowed his brows.

“I hate it here. How do you put up with all this bullshit? They literally treat me like I’m some wild animal. And the teachers act like I’m stupid for not speaking English. I wanna see any of these assholes go back to Korea without knowing any Korean and see how they do.” The older boy chuckled at Jinyoung’s grief and felt sorry for him. Things were easy for Jaebum seeing as how he was a little more familiar with the English language and how scary he portrayed himself out to be.

When they walked in to the cafeteria, it seemed as if all eyes were on the two boys and it made Jinyoung uncomfortable. People began whispering amongst themselves and he could feel his blood boiling at the sight. Is this how all the foreign exchange students were treated? Or was there something wrong with him that everyone felt the need to target him for no reason?

“Ignore it. Things will get better. You have me, remember that. If anyone tries to fuck with you, they’ll regret it. Follow me. I’ll introduce you to my friends.” He led Jinyoung to his usual table and scowled at anyone who continued to stare at Jinyoung. From afar, your heart hurt for the poor boy. Your friends began spreading rumors about him right after what happened in the hallway. As much as you liked your friends, they could be a little much sometimes.

“What a fucking nerd. I can’t believe Jaebum is actually hanging out with him. He must feel bad for the loser. I don’t know why foreigners feel the need to come to America, they obviously don’t fit in here. That boy won’t last a week here. He’ll probably be crying his ass off on the next plane back home.” You felt yourself getting more and more irritated the longer you listened to them talk about the new boy like that without even knowing him. Sometimes you wondered why you stuck around with them. They were always so negative, talked about people like they weren’t human beings with feelings. The only reason why you continued being friends with them was because you felt you would be all alone if you didn’t have them. And if you were to leave them completely, you knew you’d become the next target of their bullying.

“Y/n..earth to y/n. Are you okay?” You broke out of your thoughts and nodded in agreement.

Jinyoung was very grateful for Jaebum. He was sure he would’ve pulled out all of his hair if he did all of this on his own. Jaebum introduced Jinyoung to all of his friends. Mark, Youngjae and Bambam seemed like a nice group of guys and Jaebum informed the younger boy that they were all foreign exchange students and that they all went through bullying at some point of their American high school experience. He still found it unfair that there were people who took advantage of these poor students who came to America for more opportunities and a better education.

Once lunch was over, Jinyoung made his way to the next class in which coincidentally he had with Mark and Youngjae. The two boys got him caught up with the do’s and don’ts of their high school and he was very glad there were people who cared about his well being. Thankfully, this teacher didn’t make Jinyoung speak in front of the entire class. Twenty minutes in to the lesson, you came running in to class and apologized to your teacher for your tardiness. When Jinyoung’s eyes landed on your tiny frame, he felt his breath hitch. When he saw you earlier in the hallway, even if it was only a quick glimpse of you, he thought you were extremely beautiful. Sure, he’s dated a few girls back home and he’s seen a lot of pretty girls before. But your beauty was indescribable and with the way you looked at him so apologetically, he knew he was done for.

“Whose that?” Jinyoung whispered to Mark and nodded in your direction. However, Mark was quick to shake his head and before Jinyoung could open his mouth and ask the question that was on his mind, Mark spoke up.

“She’s off limits. Don’t even think about it.” Jinyoung shrugged and turned his focus back to the teacher, but he couldn’t get what Mark said off his mind. Off limits? What exactly did that mean? As you went to take your seat, Jinyoung couldn’t keep his eyes nor his mind off of you. He knew if Mark was telling him to stay away, you were bad news and maybe it was better that he did. Mark knew more than he did anyway.

He went to his dorm later on that night and decided to ask Jaebum what Mark meant earlier when he said you were off limits. Jaebum just shrugged. “Apparently she’s fucking around with the captain of the football team. Jackson Wang or some shit like that. I honestly don’t give a fuck but he’s telling everyone they’re a thing. Plus, her group of friends are like the it girls of the school. I wouldn’t even think of trying to get close to her if I were you.”

After a month of living and attending school in America, Jinyoung accepted the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere and was slowly adapting to life in California. Unfortunately when he was alone, he still found himself getting bullied by many of his classmates and even if he learned a few phrases and sentences, it still wasn’t enough for him to have a decent conversation with anyone. But when he was with his group of friends, nobody had the guts to bother him. Everyone was fully aware of what Jaebum was physically capable of if anyone dared to mess with Jinyoung in front of him.

To both his dismay and delight, your teacher had assigned a month long project in which you were selected to be his partner. When Jinyoung found out the news, to say he was excited was an understatement. He was over the moon. Although he still had Mark’s words lingering in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but feel thrilled at the thought of working with you. However, his excitement was quick to change in to worry when he realized there would be a language barrier between the two of you. Once he saw you approaching him with that bright smile he found himself falling for over the past month, he felt himself returning the grin.

“Hi. I’m y/n. It’s Jinyoung right? Do you have an idea of what you want the project to be about?” God, you were so beautiful. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Although he had no idea of what you were saying, he would listen to you talk for days on end if he could. He knew he was dozing off when you politely waved your hand in front of him to get his attention.

“Sorry. I..I..English..no.” You nodded understandingly before taking out your phone and pulling up the translator app. You found his stuttering cute and the fact that he was trying his best to communicate with you using the small amount of English that he knew made your cheeks warm. The two of you passed your phone back and forth between each other until the bell rang and a part of you was sad that you had to leave him. In the hour that the two of you got to spend together, you learned quite a bit about him and you found yourself craving more; but you knew it was dangerous to feel that way. Your friends, for reasons you were still so unsure of still did not particularly care for him. You overheard one of them talking about purposefully tripping him out on the football field. You would also see people constantly push him around while he was making his way to class and the thought made you upset. Before he could get up and walk away, you pulled his arm in attempts to get his attention.

“Let’s exchange numbers so it will be easier for us to get in touch with each other.” He nodded in agreement and although he seemed calm and collected on the outside, he was freaking out on the inside. In the first few weeks of working together, you tried to keep it a secret from your friends just in case they made a big deal out of it. The two of you would meet in the back of the library or sometimes in little coffee shops that you knew they’d never go to. You found yourself falling for your very handsome classmate and in the beginning, you tried your best not to for his sake, but you couldn’t stop your feelings for what they were.

After a while, you came to accept them and it only became harder and harder for you the longer you’ve spent time with him. One night, the two of you were working on your project at the coffee shop when he got a phone call. He began talking in Korean and hearing him speak his native tongue made you smile. He spoke with so much confidence and radiated such positive energy, you couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. When he got off the phone, he looked at you curiously, confused as to why you were smiling. Not that he minded, your smile did wonders on Jinyoung’s heart.

“Everything okay?” You nodded and went back to your work. However, an idea popped in to your mind and you wanted to see how Jinyoung would feel about it.

“Hey Jinyoung?” He hummed in curiosity and you thought it was the cutest thing. “Would you maybe wanna..hmmm...Teach each other our native languages? I could teach you English and you could teach me Korean. That way it might be easier for you to interact with everyone and maybe if I were to speak Korean, I’d have a better way of understanding you?”

The smile that rose on his face sent butterflies to your tummy. Park Jinyoung in more or less words was honestly going to be the death of you. If it wasn’t his charming good looks or gentle personality, it was his optimism. Even if he wasn’t put under the best circumstances, he wasn’t one to see the glass half empty. He nodded his head in agreement.

Your weekly sessions turned in to daily sessions and on the days you weren’t able to meet up with each other, you’d text and call just so you could teach each other words and phrases here and there. When Jaebum found out about your friendship, he warned his younger friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you. If anything, Jaebum was completely aware of the fact that you weren’t anything like your friends. He never understood why you wasted your time with them when you could do so much better. But he didn’t have the right to ask you. However, he was looking out for Jinyoung and didn’t want you to end up hurting him if it came down to choosing between him and your group of friends. The more and more the two of you hung out, the deeper Jinyoung’s feelings grew for you.

He found himself missing you on the days he didn’t get to see you and sometimes he would ask to meet up with you even if it had nothing to do with your lessons or your project. Not that you didn’t want it to, but word got out that the two of you were friends and began seeing each other on a daily basis. This upset quite a bit of people, especially your friends and a specific football captain Jaebum warned Jinyoung about just a few weeks prior to becoming friends with you. Jinyoung wasn’t surprised when he saw said captain approach him, but he didn’t think he would be shoved up against his locker by someone he didn’t even know.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? If you know what’s best for you, leave y/n alone. She’s mine.” Although Jackson tried his best in intimidating Jinyoung, he was all talk. And Jinyoung had barely any clue what Jackson was telling him anyway. But he didn’t care if people bullied him for being friends with you. Other than Jaebum, Mark, Youngjae and BamBam, you were the only other friend he had. And his favorite one at that.

Out of the blue, Jinyoung started to avoid you. He kept coming up with excuses not to meet with you and when you would find him during school, he would ignore you. It hurt. Did you do or say something to upset him? You couldn’t remember insulting him in any way, so what exactly happened for him to be treating you so coldly? You left him countless texts, asking him what you did wrong, but to no avail. It was then that you over heard your friends talking about his little run in with Jackson and your heart hurt for him. Jinyoung was such a sweet guy, you didn’t understand how anyone could be so mean to him.

You decided you would confront him in order to see why he was ignoring you. A part of you wanted to leave him alone, just so that people would stop being so mean to him. But deep down you knew whether or not you were to stay friends with him, they would continue to be so rude to him. His heart both sank and fluttered when he saw you approaching him. He hated being away from you, but he could no longer put up with the bullying that came with it.

“Y/n-“ to both of your surprise, you pulled him in to your embrace and placed your face in the crook of his neck.

“Jinyoung, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault that everyone is so mean to you. But please don’t give up on our friendship because of it. I’ll take care of you from now on. I promise.” He smiled down at you and pulled you closer to him. He loved the feeling of being intimate with you. Jinyoung could get used to being in your arms.

From that day on, you became more than friends but less than lovers. There were lingering stares, gentle kisses and hand holding shared between the two of you. After what went down with him and Jackson that one day, you had explained to him Jackson was nothing but a friend. Every time one of your friends felt the need to attack him, you were quick to defend him. Now that he had Jaebum, his group of friends and now you, he wasn’t afraid of anything. You tried to help him with getting used to American culture, along with his English skills. And even though you found his fashion choices very cute, you knew it wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Therefore, you took him shopping for clothes that you felt would make him fit in. Seeing him in flannels and skinny jeans compared to what he normally would wear was so attractive. He even became better in English the more you two spent time together.

For every English sentence he mastered, you’d reward him with a kiss. Little did you know, he’d tried really hard with studying English in order to get as many kisses from you as possible. It was December now and you couldn’t believe that four months have passed since Jinyoung came in to your life. He made you the happiest you’ve ever been and you refused to let anyone get in the way of that. Although they accepted the fact that Jinyoung was somebody important in your life, they would still try to change your mind from time to time. The more time you spent with Jinyoung and his friends, the less time you spent with yours. However, the four of you signed up for the school’s talent show.

You’ve been practicing for months now and you weren’t too excited when you saw what they were planning on having you wear. Most of the contestants were either going to sing, dance or play an instrument. You weren’t surprised when you found out what your three other friends had planned. If you really listened to the lyrics, Santa baby wasn’t the most innocent song. So you knew you were in for one hell of a ride and wanted nothing more than for the performance to be over with. When the night of the winter fest finally came, to say you were nervous was an understatement. You were freaking out. The overly sexual routine mixed with the tiny outfit your friends prepared for you all to wear made you uncomfortable, but you had no choice.

As the crowd began to fill up the auditorium, your heart rate increased. However, the sweet words of encouragement that Jinyoung sent your way made things easier. When it was finally your guys turn to perform, you forgot all about your worries and began to think about Jinyoung. You wanted nothing more to impress him and make him proud. A huge wave of confidence that you didn’t even know you were capable of surged through your body and soon, you began moving your body in ways you didn’t think were possible. Jinyoung couldn’t keep his eyes off of you from the moment you walked out on stage. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t have let you wear such a revealing item in front of anyone but himself.

As much as he knew he had no right to feel that way because technically, you weren’t together, he couldn’t help it. You were extremely beautiful and he was sure you were stealing the show. By the way everyone seemed to be cheering you on, you were obviously the fan favorite and he completely understood why. Days before the show, you voiced to him your worries about how you didn’t think you’d do well. But seeing you dance so gracefully yet so tastefully sexy brought a warmth to both Jinyoung’s cheeks and the tent in his pants. He couldn’t wait for the performance to be over with. Once the show was done, you had texted him to let him know where you were. When his eyes landed on you, a grin rose on his face and he quickly ran towards you.

You felt him before you saw him in more ways than one. As he covered your eyes and pulled your body against his chest, you could feel his hard on against your ass and the feeling sent warmth to your core. “Hey beautiful. That was..wow..you were..perfect.”

You turned to face him and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you. You um..I..someone’s excited.” You couldn’t see it, but a blush rose immediately on his handsome face. Of course he was turned on, that performance was so erotic. A part of him felt wrong for thinking such racy thoughts about you, especially because the two of you were unofficially official. It made things even harder for him because he wanted to make you his before having you completely. But who could blame him for getting so turned on? As much as he loved seeing that outfit on you, he couldn’t wait to rip it off. That’s if you allowed him to.

“Yeah. You’re so fucking sexy y/n. Since you caused this problem, would you wanna help me solve it?” You were shocked to say the least at his very naughty words. The Park Jinyoung you met all those months ago could barely introduce himself. Now here he was insinuating that he wanted to fuck your brains out and you weren’t going to let the moment go to waste.

“My place or yours?” He growled lowly in to your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“I made sure Jaebum was out of the room tonight for a reason. I can’t wait to taste you.” He reached for your hand and pulled you towards their dorm. You were about to offer to drive the two of you there so it would be quicker, but you knew you weren’t in the right mind to be driving. Your thoughts were clouded with him and what you were hoping would go down between the two of you in a couple of minutes.

After what felt like hours, the two of you finally made it to his dorm room and he gave you no time to think before he threw you up against the wall, leaving wet kisses along your jaw. He roughly wrapped his arms around your waist and hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. His cool fingers ran up and down your back while he roughly kissed you. It all felt like too much. Your body felt as if it was on fire and the only way for it to be put out was to become one with him. He continued his ministrations and you decided he was going too slow for your liking. As much as you loved his kisses and loved how he was touching you, you craved more.

“Jinyoung. Please.” Hearing you moan his name sent him in to a frenzy. In that moment, he was willing to do anything for you, be anything you wanted him to be. All he had on his mind was the thought of pleasuring you in any way possible. When you brought his fingers down to your soaking wet panties, he let out an exasperated groan and the sound went straight to your core.

“Fuck. You’re soaking baby. What did I do to deserve you? God y/n, you don’t understand the effect you have on me.” You giggled against his neck and placed a quick kiss there before slowly removing your underwear. The sight of you practically naked was driving Jinyoung crazy and he was pretty sure he could cum just by seeing you completely bare.

“Show me.” You didn’t have to tell him twice. He brought his index and middle fingers up to your slit and dragged it back and forth agonizingly slow and you could feel yourself on the verge of screaming. You started grinding yourself against his fingers, trying to create any sort of friction but when he realized what you were doing, he pulled his fingers away; earning himself a frustrated sigh from you.

“Jinyoung, what the fuck?” He playfully pulled on your bottom lip with his teeth before taking off his shirt. You only ever saw him with clothes on, so you never really knew what he was hiding under his dress shirts and turtle necks. Seeing his washboard abs and his v-line made your mouth water. If girls knew how ripped he was, you were sure they’d be all over him. However, you were glad Jinyoung was your little secret because you were the only one who’d get to have him like this.

No longer being able to stay away from you, he reattached his lips to yours and carried you over to his bed. He lifted your shirt off before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra and when your breasts were freed from their restraints, you heard him whimper and you were pretty sure it was your new favorite sound. Hesitantly, he brought his hands up to your chest and you found it adorable that he was being so shy about touching you. With how rough he was being with you, you almost forgot how much of a gentleman he really was.

“You’re so beautiful y/n. Such a pretty girl. These..so pretty. Mmmm.” He gently laid you down on his bed and immediately wrapped his mouth around one of your perky nipples while toying with the other side. He licked, pinched and nibbled on your breast, sending you to peak euphoria. Everytime you would hold hands with Jinyoung, or watch as he typed and wrote essays, you would always look at how long and skinny his fingers were. You would always think about how they would look like wrapped around your throat or buried deep in to your cunt. Seeing them pinching and twisting your swollen buds was such an indescribable feeling that you never wanted to end. You were so deep in to your thoughts that you failed to notice him pull his soft lips away from your breast as he made his way down to your pussy until you felt his warm breath against your clit.

He kneaded your inner thighs with his thumbs and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to your end. You needed him in any way possible. The feeling in your stomach was only getting tighter and tighter and you had a feeling he was going to make you beg. You were never one to beg for anything when it came to sex, but Jinyoung was going to make you work for it and you were willing to do anything at this point.

“Jinyoung..please..do anything..your fingers, your tongue..I’ll take anything..please..OH FUCK..” as soon as you felt him drag his warm muscle along your slick wetness, your hands found purchase in his hair and lightly tugged on it. Multiple curse words, groans and moans left your pretty little throat and Jinyoung wanted nothing more than to replace his tongue with his throbbing and very painful cock. But he wanted to get you warmed up and ready before actually penetrating you. To add on to your indescribable delight, he brought his two fingers back in to your folds all the while licking up your juices.

“J..Jinyoung..fuck..you’re so good to me..mmmmm...just like that baby..please don’t stop.” Hearing you moan for him was something he would never get used to. He didn’t know how to put it in to words, but he would eat you out all day if he could. You tasted amazing and he was upset with himself that he didn’t know how to voice his opinions to you. Jinyoung could only hope that the way he was eating your pussy like a man starved would show you just how much he loved doing so. And God, did Jinyoung love eating you out.

As much as he wanted to continue licking you until his tongue became numb, the feeling of your glistening walls tightening around his fingers only made him want to feel his cock buried deep in to your cunt. He wanted to be deep inside of you. However, he wanted to bring you to your release before fixing his problem.

That’s one of the many things you loved about Jinyoung. Love. There was that four letter word. The word that could either complicate things between the two of you or make things even better. You realized you were in love with him only a month after becoming friends with him. You fell in love with the way he always checked up on you, how he would stay up till the wee hours of the morning to study English on his own in order to impress you with his progress. You fell in love with the way he said your name and the way he looked at you as if you were the prettiest thing on this earth. Although the two of you were committing such a sinful and naughty act, your heart fluttered because of the way he looked at you with so much love and admiration in his eyes. You were going to make sure he knew of your feelings the minute the two of you were done with your love making session.

With the way he was rapidly fingering you and nibbling on your clit, it was only a matter of time you felt yourself releasing your orgasm all over his tongue and Jinyoung licked up every ounce of it. He left a few kisses on the inside of your thighs. It was then that he decided in between your legs was his favorite place to be. Once you felt him begin to come up, you pulled him against you and placed a sloppy kiss on his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. He pulled away and placed your foreheads together, giving himself a moment to breathe. You took this time to bring your hand down to his very hard bulge and you gently palmed him. When you saw him close his eyes and bite his lip, it made you want to tease him some more. You pulled him out of the confines of his boxers and the sight of his angry, red cock made you whimper. He was huge. You couldn’t wait for him to stretch out your walls.

In order to rile him up, you ran your thumb along his dick. You glided your fingers against his slit, spreading his pre cum all around his erection and hearing him sigh sent fire to your bones. However, before you could continue, he ripped your hand away. As you were about to ask him if everything was okay, he all but gently pushed you down on to the bed and hovered over you. His left hand brushed away any hair that was out of place while he gripped his dick with his right hand and guided it to your opening.

“Is this okay? Are you sure you want this? We can wait baby-“ you quickly shook your head in disagreement and your heart warmed at the thought of him being so considerate and gentle with you.

“Fuck me, Park Jinyoung. Make me yours.” He slowly pushed himself inside of you and groaned at the feeling of how tight and wet you were. He hid his face in the crook of your neck while he tried his best in staying still. You know it was taking a lot for him not to start pounding in to you. Jinyoung wasn’t going to move unless you were to tell him to. You lifted his chin up from off of your shoulder and placed a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“It’s okay Jinyoung. You can move.” Once he heard you give him the okay, he released a sigh of relief. He wanted to be a gentleman so badly. His main purpose was to take care of you. However, as much as he wanted to take his time with you and have slow, passionate sex, that was going to have to wait for another time. Whenever you had sex in the past, missionary was such a boring position. You were sure it only brought pleasure to the man. But with the way your hands were intertwined and how he placed your legs around his neck in order for him to go deeper, you knew he was trying to put your needs first.

He left sloppy, wet kisses along your face all the while plummeting in to you like his life depended on it. The sound of skin on skin slapping echoed throughout the room and you were pretty sure the room wreaked of sex with the way the mirror was fogging up. Although you thought hearing him laugh was one of your favorite sounds, hearing him moan and whimper because of how good you were fucking him was your new favorite.

“Y/n..you’re so..tight..you feel so fucking good. Fuck. You’re not real. You can’t be. I..I love you so much my pretty girl.” Hearing those words fall from his pretty, heart shaped lips made you tear up and he chuckled when he noticed. He was so busy admiring your beauty that he failed to notice he was slowing down and it wasn’t enough for you.

“Faster..please Jinyoung. I need you to go faster..” He quickened his pace in order to please you and also went harder. The friction was such a euphoric feeling, you found yourself tightening around him.

“Stop. Don’t do that.” You snickered before you felt him slap your ass cheek as payback for clenching around his cock. If anything, the sensation made you want to clench around Jinyoung some more in order for him to get rough with you. It was official, the quiet ones are the freaks. You squeezed his bicep to get his attention and an adorable pout grew on his face when you pulled away. However, it was quick to change once you said the next words.

“I love you too.” He grinned widely at you and you were sure he was actually going to be the death of you. Hearing you tell him you loved him back was such an amazing feeling and he loved how those words sounded coming from your mouth. With every thrust, he whispered out his love for you and soon, the two of you were coming together. He shot his load in to your cunt as you came all over his dick. Once you both experienced your euphoric orgasms, he flopped on top of you and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. Jinyoung loved cockwarming. He wanted nothing more than to keep his cock buried deep in to your pretty pink cunt.

Sex with you was such a mind blowing experience and he was already planning the next time in his mind. He placed his head against your chest and listened to the sound your heartbeat as the two of you tried your best to slow down your breaths. Did tonight really just happen? It was actually one of the best nights of his life and now that he had you, he was sure he would never get enough of you.

“Y/n?” You hummed in curiosity and motioned for him to continue.

“Say it again.” As much as you wanted to tease him and pretend that you had no idea what he was talking about, you were tired and you knew he was too. Teasing was just going to have to wait for another love making session.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” You placed kisses across of his handsome face and playfully pinched his butt. If someone were to tell you months ago that you were going to fall in love with a foreign exchange student from Korea, you would’ve laughed in their face. But looking down at Jinyoung softly grazing the skin surrounding your belly button only made you realize just how much you loved him, how thankful you were to have him in your life and how you’d be nothing without him.

Although he was thousands of miles away from his family in Korea, being in your embrace made him realize that he never felt closer to home than he did in that moment. You were all he knew and wanted to know. Sure, he hated how life in America was when he first moved almost a year ago. But you showed him so much love, warmth, support and happiness since he arrived and he couldn’t have been more thankful to his parents for making the decision to send him abroad. The two of you had yet to learn to communicate with each other completely, but love was a language you both could understand and he would continue to show you just how much he loves you for as long as time allows him to.

#got7 imagines #got7 #got7 drabbles #got7 scenarios #park jinyoung #got7 jinyoung #got7 smut #kpop imagines #got7 fluff #man I am the biggest hoe for park jinyoung #yall dont understand

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marcelstyles-notjustanothernerd · 4 years

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Been A While Marcel x Reader

Author's Note: Because I think it's SO lovely that people are still finding this account and liking what I wrote in 2012/13, here's a little treat for you :)

It was a Friday evening and your apartment was a frenzy. You had hastily flipped through clothes in your closet, tried a few items on, and discarded them on the floor because they just weren't hitting the mark. A few shades of lipstick accompanied with lip gloss were scattered on your counter. This due to you swatching them on your wrist with your outfit choices.

You were now on your knees in front of your dresser. You began to toss clothes over your shoulder in desperation. As you pulled out the final drawer with a loud screeching sound, you found something you had not seen in a long time.

You paused your swiftness and picked up a Polaroid picture that you had forgotten about. There was you in a rose gold dress that delicately landed just above your knees. It was glittery with silver sequins outlining the neckline. It was accompanied with a silver clutch you borrowed from a friend and uncomfortable silver flats that cut the back of your heels. Next to you, however, is what stood out the most.

A boy with thick, black glasses with his hair perfectly kept. He had ditched his usual tan attire for a crisp, black suit with shiny dress shoes to match.

You turned the photo around in your hand. In cursive script it read: April 24th, 2013. Marcel and Y/N Forever ♡

You smiled and placed the photo on top of your dresser. Marcel was someone you hadn't spoken to until a week ago when he reached out. You each went to college and lost contact with each other. You had never forgotten about him, just contacting him made you anxious since it had been do long.

He reached out and you had made dinner plans. It was so exciting and nerve racking for you. You'd always cared about him, but figured he didn't feel the same.

You stood from your spot in front of the dresser, knowing exactly what you were going to wear when you saw Marcel again tonight.

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

You tugged at your cardigan as you approached a diner you loved to go to in high school. It was where you and Marcel use to study for Chemistry and other classes. He was the one who suggested it and it warmed your heart that he remembered.

"Y/N?" a voice asked cautiously.

Marcel had barely changed. His still awkward, but sweet demeanor remained. However, his style seemed a bit more bold. He wore navy blue tailored pants, a short sleeve button up, and a blue sweater vest decorated with sheep.

"Marcel! It's so wonderful to see you!" You reached over and embraced him tightly. You could feel him stiffen at first but then adjust.

"Y-you too, y/n. Want to go inside and catch up?" he asked somewhat sheepishly.

You smiled and nodded. You both went inside the outdated diner and sat in a booth positioned in the corner of the restaurant. The waitress popped over to where you both were, taking each of your orders quickly.

Afterwards, you two began catching up. You had forgotten how great it was to truly catch up with someone you missed. He told you about his involvement in chess, his first ever experience with alcohol, and humbly bragged about his GPA. You gladly rambled back about your family and your life at the university. At the end he smiled at you.

You return his smile and then your expression quickly changes to realization. You open your purse quickly and take out the picture of you two from your junior prom. You had nearly forgotten to show him.

He takes the photo in his hands and blushes. He notices the dress in the photo is like the one you have on now, except with less of a homecoming vibe.

"I haven't seen this in forever,” he said in amazement. “I can’t believe you have a dress so similar.”

You laughed and rubbed your arm slightly embarassed. “I wanted to remember a little piece of high school.” You paused and took a sip of the water that just arrived at your table.

“I’ve really missed you, Marcel.”

His cheeks flushed with red. He coughed and tried to keep his calm.

“I’ve really missed you, Y/N. But we’ll always have each other.” He replied confidently, reaching out to grab your hand.

It was your turn to blush.

“We most certainly will.”

#marcel styles #one direction imagines #hiatus #marcelstyles-notjustanothernerd

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shakespeareintellectualbadass · 3 years

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http://andthenshesaid.co.uk/expertsofourownexperience/queer

Feels weird to advertise a blog on a blog, but I'm writing a series called Experts of Our Own Experience around pieces of my personal experience of life - being neurodivergent, dealing with depression and anxiety and an eating disorder, and most recently, being visibly queer for the first time in my life. I've learned more about myself from hearing others talk about their experiences, and I'm a big believer in learning about experiences other than your own, so whether any of these things apply to you or not, maybe you'll find something connective.

If you're interested, check it out, lmk if you have thoughts ✌

I’ve known I’m not straight since I was seventeen.

I went to all-girls school for fourteen years, from age four to eighteen. All my friends were female until I got to college. For most of my youth I was more consumed by the romantic stories my imagination conjured up, and generally those stories starred princes rather than princesses. I never spent any time overanalyzing it because it never felt wrong, to imagine either but focus more on boys.

And yeah, I’m definitely attracted to men. I obsessed over the boys we met at parties in high school like my friends did. I enjoy flirting with and dating men (most of the time…). I have a longstanding, embarrassingly strong celebrity crush on Jensen Ackles (like full blush, swooping in my stomach listening to him sing or when he winks at the camera). I remember one particular boy who my best friend and I fought over for about an hour at a friend’s quinceañera freshman year (that might be the most heated fight we’ve ever had and we’d only met him at that party, which is ridiculous). I also had really intense female friendships I didn’t think anything of. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see how those friendships with girls I liked and admired - the really earnest ones where I’d go out of my way to do things for them and be around them because I just really want her to want to be my friend - were actually crushes. I’m a people pleaser (with people I care about anyway), but I recognize that higher intensity now that I’ve been through more serious relationships. Definitely bisexual.

It clicked in the autumn of senior year, when I fell for one of my friends from school. We spent a few months pining and then dated for about half a year (though we were both dealing with shitty mental health struggles at the time and were overall not very good for each other) and broke up right before I graduated. All our friends knew we were together, as did my family and probably hers and probably quite a few more people than we knew. What can I say, I’ve never been known for my subtlety, especially when romantic interest is involved.

But right now is the first time I’ve been obviously queer. Visibly, aesthetically queer in how I choose to present myself.

I’ve easily passed for straight all my life. I’ve had long hair and lengthened my eyelashes with coats of mascara, worn low cut tops and tall heels and tight jeans. I’ve flirted with men more than women and leaned into my soft, feminine energy more than my assertive, masculine energy.

But I’ve never had to adjust to being bisexual, to accept that about myself. I never worried about what my parents would think. I know I’m enormously lucky because of that. That said, there’s a difference between coming to terms with being bisexual and being comfortable presenting as queer. My parents are both artists; they both went to college for performance (acting for mum, singing for dad) and are wonderfully open minded and raised me with that same open-mindedness. I don’t think I ever actually came out to them. I could tell they knew about my interest in my high school girlfriend, so I just started talking about it, and that was that. My whole extended family is very accepting, and there are other LGBTQ+ members of the family. One of my cousins is trans and bi; we make a lot of jokes about being the gay cousin (“every family has a gay cousin; if yours doesn’t, you’re the gay cousin” “but if I’m the gay cousin, and you’re the gay cousin, who’s flying the plane?”). My dad’s mom and her partner have been affectionately dubbed The Grandmas for my whole life. Grandma Natalie is as much my grandparent as Grandma Gayle, though we’re not related by blood. I don’t know how many members of my family know I’m queer - I’ve never specifically come out to any of them either - but I don’t worry about it. It’ll become obvious at some point, or I’ll drop it in conversation like I do so often now.

It does vary, how out I am - in high school I was comfortable with it in my personal life, but I never considered joining the LGBTQ+ club - and it’s been different when I’m in a relationship. Both my long term boyfriends were queer/on the bisexuality spectrum, but we presented like a heterosexual couple so never had to worry about coming out. While my high school girlfriend and I weren’t subtle, we also weren’t fully out as a couple. Her family was religious and she was worried about their reaction. On top of that, we were both fairly femme, and in Catholic school the general assumption is that everyone is straight. When I got to college, I only dated men. Part of that was residual fear left over from how badly that high school relationship ended. Part of it was I went to a Catholic university (seriously, how did I spend eighteen years in Catholic institutions when I’ve never been Catholic). A lot of it was compulsive heterosexuality - something queer women fall into a lot because our society is set up with men as the be all and end all (“how could anyone not be attracted to men?” “Of course the ultimate happy ending is settling down with a man...”). A lot of it was how much more I was around men. For the first time, there was a lot of choice, which was an exciting prospect. Even when I wasn’t in a serious relationship, I tended to only focus on men as romantic prospects.

Again, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how much I’ve been and still am guided by that ingrained need for male attention and validation. It’s also easier to pick up men than women - there’s no is she flirting or is she just friendly to deal with – because men and women are socialized so differently that men don’t usually gush and compliment women they’ve just met in the same way that women do. Maybe it’s just easier to assume men are flirting because of the stereotype that men always want to get laid. Maybe it’s scarier to flirt with women. Maybe both. It’s certainly possible that’s my own projection rather than fact. That said, I did once have a two hour conversation with a lady in a shop during which we effusively complimented each other multiple times, and I have no idea if she was flirting with me or if she was just nice. Girls in bar bathrooms consistently hype each other up without ever exchanging names. It’s wonderful, but it does make things a little foggy when one is trying to flirt with a lady.

Anyway - I was talking about being obviously queer for the first time. It’s odd because I’m very comfortable talking about being bisexual. I bring it up in conversation easily. I post about it for pride. I talk about it a lot on my podcast. I’ve been comfortable with it since I recognized it - I have a wonderfully supportive family, and accepting that part of myself came easily. Presenting it to the world aesthetically is different - more personal, more vulnerable. Even writing about it here, thinking of you reading this, I feel more shy than I would were we face to face. While I didn’t spend any time reassessing my personality when I realized I’m bi, I’m just now recognizing that I do have internalized biphobia and compulsive heterosexuality I need to work through. I think the difference right now is about presentation, that I’ve never felt like I looked bisexual. Which is silly, right? As much as we talk about gaydar and queer trends (bisexuals cuff their jeans, etc), both within the LGBTQ+ community and out, you can’t actually tell anyone’s sexual orientation from their appearance. Queer people just tend to be more adventurous with their self-expression, perhaps because they’ve spent time at one point or another repressing who they are. Perhaps there’s just a joy in exploring something different, that makes you stand out. I don’t know - that’s true for me, though I’m only just starting to experiment myself, and I’m sure it’s different for everyone. I certainly don’t know if I would experiment with my style in the same way if I was straight, having never been straight.

My style has slid less feminine during this year of lockdown. Part of it is that I’m rarely going anywhere, and when I am, I’m walking a lot, so sneakers are a must. I exercise a lot more now, so often when I leave the house, it’s for a workout in a park and I’m dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt. I’ve gravitated toward looser trousers for the last year and a half or so; after years of skinny jeans, I’m obsessed with how comfortable they are. Now that it’s winter, I’m more focused on being warm and comfy than being fashionable. Also, I sort of feel like any moment an apocalypse movie is going to start and I need to be dressed to live in the woods. This added up into a vibe more butch than I’m used to, but with my hair longer than it had been in years, I didn’t really notice.

And then I chopped all my hair off. Like actually all off. A full pixie cut, shorter than I’ve ever gone.

Leading up to it, I guessed I was going to want to lean more into feminine fashion again to balance the cropped cut. I like being feminine and I’m in no hurry to give it up. I planned to pull out my comfy knit pencil skirts and my heeled ankle boots. I expected to forget about my new habit of dressing like I live in the woods. That hasn’t really happened. I’ve still been dressing for comfort, and my style choices have gravitated more toward sweater vests and flare trousers. Both Harry Styles and Phoebe Waller-Bridge in the “Golden” music video. The other day I caught sight of myself in a window and needed a moment to recognize myself: the combination of loose jeans, sweatshirt, raincoat, sneakers, and short hair just didn’t feel like the me I remembered. I looked at myself and didn’t see the femme, straight passing person I’ve looked like for most of my adult life. Let me be clear - I am by no means saying that looking obviously queer is a bad thing. It’s new to me, but I’m rediscovering myself. I still saw me - and that’s key, that this haircut has always felt like me - but a different me than I’m used to seeing in the mirror.

I have a lot of affection for this new aesthetically masculine and feminine mix, and the other day, stuck in the house at the beginning of lockdown no.3, I felt the urge to dress up a little. I put on lipstick for the first time since May, pulled out a plunge bodysuit and a pair of one-of-a-kind flare jeans I found in a vintage shop on Brick Lane the other week (looser jeans are a masculine leaning I’m embracing wholeheartedly). I decked out my fingers in rings and pulled out my wire-rimmed blue light glasses (my eyesight is so bad that my actual glasses look like something from the wardrobe of a nerd from a 1980s movie, so I stick with contacts). I snapped this photo, just to see the full effect as I no longer have a full-length mirror, and - bam.

I love how I look. I’m obsessed with my hair, with the bright red lines of the bodysuit (and isn’t me in a bright color shocking enough!). I love the jeans, love that they’re a little too big in the waist and just keep flowing out from there, a feminine line in a masculine fabric. I love the wire rim glasses (even if I do look like my dad in the 80s). I love the muscle I can see in my arms from months of pushups and calisthenics. I love how much space I take up, both physically and just in my presence. I am feminine and masculine. I am impossible to miss. Once, even a year ago, that would’ve been stressful. Now, I feel like shouting from the rooftops. This is me.

It’s gone up on Instagram. It’s my new profile picture on various apps. The only caption has been a peace sign emoji - a joke within the LGBTQ+ community about how bisexual people never know what to do with our hands (“point a camera at a bisexual and see how long it takes them to flash a peace sign or finger guns”). It’s a very different vibe from my last profile photo - almost two years ago I smiled at my friend behind the camera from a flowering yellow bush as I watched my last relationship coming to an end.

I keep coming back to how much it is different. This is a change - not of who I am, but of how I reflect it to the world. Proud and excited as I am, and as much as I want to care only for what I think, the fear of rejection lingers. The fear that my friends’ love isn’t malleable and won’t fit this new me anymore. The yearning for the people I love and admire to be proud of me. And on top of that, I wonder how I am different, how my change in appearance reflects an inner shift. How it necessitates it. I’ve always felt the inner shone through to the outer - now that I’m changing the outer, does that come from a shift I’ve already made or is there one still to make? Do I have to act more queer because I look it? What do I feel I need to prove?

Maybe I’ve spoken so much and so easily about my sexuality because I knew it wasn’t visible. Now it’s far more clear, and I feel both more confident and shy. Who is this woman who wears red and casually takes up space? I know her, have seen her in flashes, but this is the first time she is stepping out so boldly. That’s it: I am bold in a way I haven’t felt before. I know, logically, that I have been (again, I’ve never been known for subtlety), but not so consciously. Not with so much intention behind my choice. Some boldness comes so easily I never think of it, but this - this was like bursting out of water for that first breath of air. Natural, intuitive, but not easy.

All this comes in the middle of a period of great change in my life. I’m moving back to my home country after living in London for almost three years, back to my parents’ house after living alone for a year during this pandemic. I’m reconsidering everything I want to spend the next few years doing, much less the rest of my life. I’m trying to figure out how to fund seeing the world and how to organize running a podcast with guests from everywhere I go. I’m consciously focusing on myself and what I want rather than delaying or sacrificing my goals for anybody else. I’m putting off putting down roots for a bit and relying on the knowledge my family is there to come back to. My future see-saws between the safety of family and the unquestionable boldness of adventure.

There is an apprehension that comes with change, an acknowledgment that I am growing and becoming something new, something that is always myself though I did not know it was there. It is freeing and exhilarating and terrifying, growing. Like jumping off a cliff, I have to squeeze my hands into fists and tighten my core and rely on the knowledge that the water below will catch me, that I will catch me, so that I can enjoy the fleeting moment of flying into something new.

#selfpost #experts of our own experience #and then she said #queer #lgbtq+

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hoodoo12 · 4 years

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Ménage (6/13ish)

SFW chapter; unexpected visitor reveals himself, anger, verbal warfare

@thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @yogsathot @dilfyjuice @janitor-boy

Enjoy!

It had been so long since he’d had a corporeal form in the human realm, he had almost forgotten what sunlight--real sunlight--felt like. It was . . . nice. Warm.

Dewey rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, nose wrinkling at the smell of demon saturating her sheets. He had hoped she wouldn’t go through with it, hoped he could influence her to see reason and say no, but her loneliness was too strong, too loud. He had nearly cursed aloud when she led the infernal spirit to her bed; becoming corporeal, unless a subject’s life was in immediate danger, was impossible, and required snipping through a bog of bureaucratic red tape. If he had known being a guardian angel came with so many regulations, he would have just stayed dead.

But looking after her had almost made it worth it. Molly was slotted for tragedy and heartache in her life, and he had walked beside her for every step of it. Dewey had kept her alive, kept her safe, out of harm’s way, and in the process, she had grown on him.

But this . . . this, he couldn’t save her from. His charge was corrupted, her soul stained with a demon’s mark. And now that he had physical form, he could speak to her, make her see sense . . . or at least bodily remove her from harm.

She walked into the bedroom, smelling of warmth and fresh roses, and he smiled. “It’s good to hear you sing again, Molly.”

He wasn’t expecting her to scream. Shit.

⁂

So far he had found an interesting collection of random bones and a book that gave off a heavy vibe that warned him off. Beetlejuice stared out her kitchen window at the extensive gardens outside her house, and wondered if she'd think him odd to want to walk through it.

His ear caught her singing over the sound of the shower running, and he thought to surprise her by stepping into her bathroom before she got out, but the water shut off before he made it back through the house.

With his hand on her bedroom door, he stopped short at the bright aura moving in ripples coming from inside.

He peeked in, and his eyes narrowed as he felt tendrils of red work their way into his hair.

A fucking angel was in her room?

⁂

She shrunk back, squeezed between the dresser and the wall, a death grip on her towel to keep it from falling as she froze. He . . . he had wings. Large, snow-white wings that were now folded snugly against his back. She was hallucinating. Had to be. She blinked. They didn’t disappear.

“Wh-Who the fuck are you? Get out!”

Through the haze of fear and shock, Molly could see his lips move and heard the sound of speech, but wasn’t quite able to process what he was saying to her. With a jolt, she remembered her other guest, and prayed he was close enough to hear her. She called his name once, only once.

⁂

How frustrating. Summoning a demon into her home had impressed and fascinated her, but an angel in her bedroom caused her to scream in terror? Dewey could have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t concerned with calming her down.

“Just take a breath and let me explain, Molly, please?”

Instead, she yelled her lover’s name, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had hoped the two of them could talk without getting the demon involved, but he supposed everything else was going sideways, so why not this?

There was never a good time to deal with celestial beings, but Beetlejuice wasn't going to let Molly deal with this on her own, especially since she used his full name. If he didn't go in, she might mindlessly repeat it twice more and then where would he be? Plus, she'd called him accidentally; how did he know she didn't call this angel as well?

With a sigh, Beetlejuice walked into her bedroom with as much confidence as he could gather wearing women's sweatpants.

"Hey babe, good morning," he said brightly, as if seeing an angel in her bedroom was a common occurrence.

When the angel's wings spread a little bit, in a show of intimidation, he finally deigned to give him a look. Granted, he didn't make a habit of hanging around with celestials, but this angel, despite his wings, didn't look anything like he expected. Where were the shining robes? The aura of brightness, from standing so close to God? This guy didn't look like that at all. He was only moderately tall, with messy hair, and wearing a sweater vest? Beetlejuice wrinkled his nose.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you just appearing in a woman's bedroom was incredibly rude? What do they teach you, up in angel school?"

Immediately upon the demon's entrance, he bristled, wings expanding as much as they could within the confines of her room. "What, was I supposed to wait around out there to make pleasant conversation with you? I'm here to speak to her."

As soon as Beetlejuice stepped into her room, Molly moved closer to him, eyeing her new visitor with a distrustful eye. Beej didn't seem too worried at his appearance, and that set her a little more at ease. Until he said the word "angel."

"Wait . . . so . . . he's really an angel?" Her brows knit together, still a bit shaky from the initial shock and more confused than she could ever remember being. "Like, wings and halos, 'be not afraid,' actual angel?"

Suddenly, Molly remembered what Beej had said last night about summoning a celestial. "Did . . . Did I do this?"

When Dewey eyes turned to Molly, he softened, holding both hands up in a display of peace.

"Yes, Molly, I'm a real angel. Your angel, actually." For the first time since she had entered the room, he looked a bit sheepish, ruffling a hand through his messy brown hair.

"I'm...well, I'm kind of what you'd call . . . a guardian angel," he explained further. "To be specific, I'm your guardian angel. And I'm here because this," he nearly hissed, eyes narrowed as he pointed at the demon, "is a bad idea. I can't stress enough how bad an idea this is."

Beetlejuice slipped an arm around Molly's waist as she came near him, subtly laying claim that he knew didn't go unnoticed. In fact, it was probably the reason the angel's voice became a hiss, instead of staying smooth. He smirked.

"I thought guardian angels were young things. Kinda . . . " he paused and pursed his lips, as if trying to think of the term. " . . . like probationary angels? Like, not quite good enough to make it as real angels, kissing God's feet or whatever. Baby angels! Is that true? Do you have to meet some kind of quota and then you get promoted?

An angel. A real angel. Not just any run of the mill messenger of God, but her own personal guardian angel. Molly stepped out of the protective arm slung around her waist, stepping forward a bit as if to get a better look at him. She was nearly at eye level with him, and she was realizing now that aside from the wings and faint golden corona, he seemed very human.

Her hands shook as they fell by her sides, but not with fear or shock; the clench in her jaw and the sudden narrowing of her eyes gave away that they were shaking with rage.

”How fucking dare you.”

Her tone was low and venomous; the angel looked shocked, but she didn’t give him time to reply or explain.

“You mean to tell me you’ve been here this entire time, and you’ve just stood by and let all that shit happen?! What the fuck kind of guardian does that?! Where were you when my family died? Where were you when I was on my own for four years? Were you just sitting back and watching each time I tried to take my life? Where were you when Rebecca died? Did it matter at all to you how heartbroken I was? What use are you if you can’t keep me from hurting?!”

Her hands were clenched into tight fists at her side, her entire body rigid and practically thrumming with anger.

“You’re a piss-poor excuse for an angel,” she said, her tone lower but no less sharp. ”Get out of my house. I don’t want you here.”

Oh, if it wouldn’t have cost him his wings, he would have taken a swing at that smug, grinning bastard, just to wipe that smirk off his face. Hell, he still might have, if Molly hadn’t turned her wrath onto him. Dewey had been expecting it, but if he was being honest, it didn’t make her anger sting any less. He stood there and took it, looking rightfully guilty, wings folded meekly against his back.

“Sweetheart,” he started, wanting so badly to take her hands but not quite daring to, “I’m sorry. If I could have spared you all of that, I would, but my hands were tied. As long as your life wasn’t in immediate danger, I couldn’t do anything. But I promise you, I was there.”

He came closer, eyes wide and warm and earnest. “Why do you think you decided to go for a walk that day? Do you think it was an accident that each suicide attempt failed? I was there at your side the whole time. It gutted me, having to watch you suffer and knowing I couldn’t help you through it, couldn’t have done anything to help. But . . . there’s a higher plan. An order for everything.

“Which is why I’m here now.”

Again, he sent a pointed look toward the demon. “Molly, do you have any idea how dangerous he is? I can’t take corporeal form for anything less than immediate danger of death or corruption, and you’re so close to losing your soul.”

Her mouth opened as if to ask a question, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Summoning a demon is one thing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s accidental, and the demon runs off to be someone else’s problem. Keeping the demon around? Consorting with it? That’s another matter.”

Dewey turned his attention away from his charge, eyes narrowed as he addressed Beetlejuice. “Why are you still here? Hoping for one more lay before you hit the road?”

Her anger first startled, then amused him to no end. Most people were awed when they first encountered angels; celestials liked to dazzle. He wished he could just sit down and watch the show; this was prime reality TV right here.

But when this uppity angel took a step forward, right into her personal space where the rage was the strongest, Beetlejuice stepped back towards her too. She'd shaken him off, yes, and he was still only wearing sweatpants--he really should just get back into his suit, but didn't want to risk a moment's distraction--but it was obvious the angel wanted nothing more than to take Molly's hands and probably hug her, and that was not going to happen with him around.

His eyes flashed a deeper amber as accusations flew from the celestial's mouth.

"She has a point," he spit back. "You were pretty hand's off, it sounds like, and now you waltz in like you're some knight in shining armor? Molly wanted company, which if I'm understanding correctly, you knew and did absolutely nothing about!"

The angel retorted the same drivel about "his hands being tied", and he spoke over him, addressing Molly directly.

"See the difference between us, baby? Demons are straight forward. Angels fucking "watch over you", which basically means spying." He flicked a poisonous glance back at the winged being. "Don't deny you weren't watching us last night, or you wouldn't have asked me about 'one more lay'. Were you rubbing one out, watching us like your own private porn? You're jealous! You wished you'd had the balls to come down here and actually spend physical time with your charge!"

He hated to admit it, but the demon’s words stung. He was jealous. He had spent years wishing he could hold her, could stroke the tears from her cheek, could offer her any kind of comfort or support. It was forbidden, taboo, and in very bad taste, but he had also entertained less innocent thoughts about her. How her lips would feel. How soft her hair would be against his bare skin. And seeing that demon touch her? Kiss her? Stain her body? It was almost more than he could bear.

“I couldn’t watch,” he spat, his wings ruffling irritably, his cheeks reddening. “I couldn’t stand the sight of you pawing at her.”

He turned to Molly, who seemed shrunken in on herself, as if folding beneath the emotional weight of the situation. “I . . . I’m not always watching. I’ve never . . . seen anything you wouldn’t want me to see.”

That was a bit of a bend in the rules; angels were supposed to be by their charges' sides at all times, supposed to be above human urges like lust or longing, above such silly notions as embarrassment over a naked body. But he couldn’t be, not with her. It felt . . . violating, somehow.

Their voices, whether addressing her or spitting venom at each other from their respective sides of the moral spectrum, sounded muted and faint behind the pounding of her pulse in her ears. It was so much all at once; would there ever come a time in her life when she could just have peace? If she had known her little summoning spell was going to toss her right in the middle of a supernatural dick-measuring contest, she would have just left well enough alone.

A shiver trickled down her spine, and suddenly she realized how cold she was, standing in nothing but a damp towel with her wet hair stuck to the back of her neck.

“Guys,” she said softly, still unable to fully process that she was standing in her bedroom with a demon and an angel. “Can you go out into the living room or something so I can get dressed?”

Perhaps she would feel better equipped to deal with this situation once she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable.

Beetlejuice didn't want to leave her side, especially with an angel who was obviously trying to hide a holy boner over the woman standing beside him, but if it was going give him a leg up on a celestial, he'd do it.

"Sure thing, baby girl," Beetlejuice agreed, leaning into her to kiss her cheek while keeping his eyes on angel, just to see his reaction to the familiarity.

Then he left the room, confident that he would be followed. As he suspected, a faint footfall accompanied by the sound of distant bells trailed him. As soon as Molly's door was shut, he spun back on the angel.

"You fucking think you're “protecting" her?! What a line of horseshit! If you really are spying on her, then you'll know I didn't coerce her into calling me--she did that all on her own! Plus I actively tried to leave! I told her to try again, get something else here instead of me! You'd have had an open door to come to her! But you didn't. You let her feel like she was alone in this fucking void!

"Are all guardian angels," he put the two words in finger quotes, "as shittily ineffectual as you?!"

He expected some retaliation, whether verbal or physical, but didn't expect the angel's eyes to roam his body as if judging him--well, that's how angels viewed everything, really. Superior bastards.

At his last outburst, Dewey scoffed, finally allowing his eyes to roll. “You could at least put a shirt on. It’s not like it would kill you.”

"No, I'm not changing into something else," he finished, snapping the elastic at the waist of the sweatpants for emphasis. He didn't pull them out enough to showcase he wasn't wearing underwear, but he figured the angel was smart enough to figure it out. "I'm comfortable in these, so suck it!"

It was all he could do to keep his eyes from rolling when the demon cozied up to her, pressed his profane lips to her cheek in a display that was more territorial than affectionate. He nodded and followed suit behind him, shutting the door to let her have a moment’s privacy, and as expected, as soon as they were in the next room over, the demon rounded on him. His arms folded across his chest, a brow arched, like an exasperated parent waiting for a child throwing a tantrum to tire themselves out.

Now that the demon, who she had called Beetlejuice earlier, was silent, he spoke, careful to keep his tone measured and even.

“I don’t expect you to get it. There are rules, procedures, structures. We’re supposed to be silent guardians.” He smoothed some of the ruffled feathers in his wings, attempting to remain aloof. “Anyway. I don’t have to explain myself to you, and you’ll be gone soon enough.”

His eyes drifted toward Molly’s closed bedroom door, brown eyes stormy. Truth be told, he absolutely useless as an angel; if he could have been with her, held her hand, dried her tears . . . maybe none of this would have happened, and she wouldn’t have put her soul in such mortal risk. Hell, he would have settled for just being able to speak to her, to coax her to sing with him, to assure her that she wasn’t alone.

He could have been everything she needed if not for these stupid rules. Angels, he had noticed, had a habit of thinking they knew better than the humans they were placed with, and he had a feeling that if given the opportunity to appear at will, they would use it to manipulate their charges’ choices, altering the course of their life. If there was anything the Boss was a stickler for, it was maintaining free will.

tbc . . .

#writing #fanfiction #Beetlejuice #Beetlejuice x OC #Dewey Finn #rp #Beetlejuice based on Blumjuice

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