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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

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His Good Sweater: Chapter 18

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 7.6k

Abu Dhabi holds a special place in Pierre's heart. The food is great, the views are spectacular, and there is always plenty to do to keep him busy. Night races are some of the more exciting races too and Pierre appreciated the variety.

Coming into the final race of the season, Pierre holds on to seventh in the championship by a few points. Perez sensed the usurper creeping up on his seat and had cranked it up to eleven.

Exams had kept you in London for the race in Brazil, where Pierre had finished sixth and Checo DNF'd. You had managed to fly out for the weekend in Saudi Arabia, where Perez had finished fifth and closed the gap to Pierre to only four points behind.

If Pierre didn't finish ahead of Perez this weekend, he was fucked. And he was at the distinct disadvantage of his good luck charm being absent, stuck in London finishing up your final few exams of the semester. Two weeks without seeing you coupled with barely hearing from you had worn on him. It wasn't purposeful on your part but Pierre's stress was already compressed like the suspension on his car. Stray an inch too far over the racing line, hit a curb too hard and it was liable to snap, sending bits and pieces flying.

Pierre checks his phone for the millionth time as he waits to check in to the hotel. Wednesday was late for this many crew members to be arriving. His main concern though was that you hadn't responded to the text he'd sent you upon landing.

"Look lively, will you?" Max claps Pierre on the shoulder and he slides his phone into his pocket. "It's the last race of the season. We get to go balls to the wall and leave it all out in the track. And here you are looking like a kicked puppy."

"Easy for you to say," Pierre starts, grinning at his friend. "You clinched the title weeks ago. You don't even have to race this weekend if you don't want to and you'd still win."

"Doesn't mean I won't be shooting for a podium."

Pierre rolls his eyes. "Yeah well we can't all be so lucky, can we?"

"Next year you'll be playing with the big dogs." Max hands the receptionist his ID, says a few words and turns back to Pierre. "Looking forward to having you as a teammate again. It was fun for those couple races and I'm sure you'll be a challenge now that you've found your groove."

"You're gonna jinx it if you keep talking." Pierre laughs, praying that it covers up the old wound Max's statement picked open. Pierre hated the idea of moving back to Red Bull but he didn't have much choice. He was still contracted to one of four Red Bull branded seats for next season. A promotion, at the very least, would help him showcase his talent and further cement his value. If he had to spend any longer than that with the team, ripping out his hair was a real possibility.

"Wasn't someone supposed to be with you this weekend?" Max quirks a brow. "Where is she?"

"In London." Max bringing you up doesn't help the pit forming in Pierre's stomach. Win or lose, seventh or eighth, Red Bull or Alpha Tauri, come Sunday Pierre wanted you at his side. Interview requests were bound to roll in either way and Pierre would need someone to ground him, a task much easier to accomplish if you were physically at his side.

"Too bad." Max clicks his tongue and takes his room keys from the receptionist. "It's gonna be a fun weekend."

"I don't think-"

Pierre's vision goes dark at the same time someone whispers, "Guess who?"

Pierre sucks in a breath, spins on his heel and wraps you in a hug in one smooth motion. You laugh as he lifts you off your feet and presses kisses to your cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" He grabs both suitcases and tugs you aside. His room can wait.

"Tost asked me to come." Your grin is contagious, its twin appearing on Pierre's own cheeks. "He said that since you were flying out from Milan on your own there was an extra seat on the jet, so if I got myself to Nice I could fly out with the Red Bull boys."

"Seven hours trapped in a tin can with Max, Yuki and Checo?" Pierre rubs his chest. "I've got heartburn just thinking about that."

"It wasn't so bad," you say, finally giving him a proper kiss. "Yuki and I just played games on our phones the whole time. And I beat Max at Scrabble."

"How many Dutch words did he try to use?"

"Mmm, about half the words he tried were definitely not English."

"Yep, sounds about right." Pierre throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you back to the reception desk. He pays for an upgraded room when you aren't looking- though when you're assigned a suite there's not much higher you can go- and slips the woman behind the counter an extra bill for good measure.

"I could use a nap," you note, leaning against Pierre like you'd otherwise fall over. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

Pierre checks his watch. "We've got time for a nap."

"We?" Your raised eyebrow is question enough. Pierre smiles and swipes his key card once you're in the elevator with him. He hadn't looked at the price of the room but he was positive it was more than he'd spent on a single night in his entire career, considering it occupies an entire floor of the swanky hotel.

"It's date night," Pierre says simply. Initially his plan had been to invite Charles over for a game of Fifa but the Monegasque wouldn’t fault him for cancelling at the last minute. "We're in one of the most luxurious cities in the world and I'm going to show you off every chance I get. The restaurant down stairs is to die for."

Your attempt at nodding along with what he says is thwarted by a yawn. "Sleep first, eat later." Seeing as it was impossible to deny you, Pierre simply drops a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Wait until you see our room." The way your eyes light up when he says our room makes him want to say it again and again just to see you sparkle.

"I know you upgraded it, Mr. I-think-I'm-sneaky." You uncurl yourself from against his arm when the elevator chimes. "How much did it cost?"

"A few extra pennies."

The stainless steel doors open directly into the suite. The living space is dominated by a curving crescent of full length windows overlooking the cerulean harbor and the jagged steel of the city skyline beyond. Suitcase forgotten, your jaw drags along the floor as you toe off your shoes in favor of sinking onto one of the half moon couches situated around a low coffee table.

"Did you get some sort of bonus you didn't tell me about?" Pierre sees your inner engineer cataloging the chandelier dripping crystals over the carved dining table and the pattern of the black veined marble flooring. "This cost more than a few pennies."

"I didn't really look at the price so it's possible," he admits. In the end it was worth it to see you like this, happy as a pig in mud. Pierre was in his element at the track you were in yours in beautiful buildings. For all Pierre cared you could be sharing a dingy room at a motel; it would still be five star worthy with you there.

Every once in a while though, you deserve a bit of pampering for all you put up with. Late nights and months apart wasn’t easy on either of you, but you stuck by him. And when the day comes that Pierre retires or loses his seat, you would be the one there to comfort him. Spending frivolous amounts of money to see you smile was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

In Pierre’s world, money is temporary, you are forever.

"Well I have half a mind to tear into you for spending so much on a room we won't spend all that much time in," you start, your star-speckled gaze landing on Pierre, "the view is too pretty to be upset about."

"Mine isn't half bad either." You laugh, tucking an errant hair behind your ear. You both know he isn’t referring to the glittering bay or the expensive furnishings.

"Up," Pierre demands softly, holding out his hand. Your hand is warm and dwarfed by his long fingers but you barely seem to notice. The heart in his chest pounds for no discernable reason as he leads you down the narrow hall past doors leading to what he can only assume are bedrooms and bathrooms, to the one at the end of the hall. Based on his mental floor plan this one has the best view, if he's guessed correctly.

Your breezy oh confirms his hunch. You stutter at the threshold, coming up short behind him to bathe in the beauty of the sea, dotted through with white sails. Sunlight twinkles off the waves and if he breathes deep enough, he can almost smell the salt.

"Come on," Pierre says with a chuckle, urging you to fall into the fluffy down of the bed with him. You follow reluctantly, too enamored by the sights to pay any real attention to how Pierre arranges your limbs to his liking, your head resting on his chest and your joined hands laying atop his stomach.

"How about that nap?" He murmurs, running the fingers of his free hand through your unbound hair.

You sigh and snuggle in closer. It was rare that Pierre had the opportunity to steal moments like this during a race week, when he had nothing better to do than tangle himself in you.

"I'll tell you a story."

Just as he expected, you leap at the offer. "Can you tell me the one about the time you and Charles got in trouble when you were karting?"

Normally he opts for something fictional that allows him to embellish the details to fit his narrative. Pierre loved spinning tales rife with laughter and intrigue but he also didn't mind indulging your curiosity.

"Yeah, I can tell that one. Let me set the scene. It's midnight on a Friday at a little track outside Rouen. Two gangly teenage boys, one French and one definitely, positively not French, have nothing better to do than get themselves in trouble…"

**********

Fans began whispering when Pierre set foot in the lobby. The price of stardom was high and had taken years to get used to. Some days the bombardment of people asking for photos and autographs overwhelmed him to the point he was desperate for an out. Most people respected his boundaries and when they sensed it was too much, they backed off. Other days it was simply too much and he would mumble excuses and book it out the door.

The pressure increases tenfold when he steps into the lobby with you on his arm, the pair of you dressed to the nines. He clocks a group of women- clearly tourists based on their body language- perched on a sofa the minute their low murmurs turn into excited squeals.

Pierre mentally braces for you to stiffen or stop altogether but you do neither. You carry on unaffected, either ignoring them or completely oblivious to the women who do nothing to hide their pointed stares.

"Table for two please." You smile at the restaurant host and then at Pierre. You must not have noticed the fans then. You were getting better at coping with the photos and whispers, although your smile usually became forced the longer it dragged on, the polar opposite of you currently beaming at him.

Pierre's shoulders sag a bit when you're led to a secluded table towards the rear of the dining space. Privacy wasn't a luxury he was often afforded. With his back to a wall of windows, there were fewer angles for people to approach from which was a small comfort.

Apparently you find sitting across from Pierre unacceptable because you shuffle your chair to his side of the table before plopping down in it. Pierre shoots you a questioning look but keeps his mouth shut. Inquiring after your motives didn't tend to end well for him.

Instead he leans over to kiss your cheek, relishing the blush his lips coax to the surface.

“It all sounds good,” you say, scanning the menu. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah I have. It’s all wonderful.”

The fans from the lobby remain in the blurred fringes of his vision. Pierre does his best to focus on the waitress explaining the specials. He tunes in automatically to the fan’s heavily accented English as they argue with the host, vying for a table as close to Pierre as possible.

Their phones remain out as an annoyed waiter tries and fails to coax the gaggle of girls into ordering something. Pierre drags a hand through his hair.

Being the center of attention usually doesn't bother him. Coping with the spotlight and the scrutiny that accompanies it is second nature; if the press conferences at Spa in 2019 had taught him anything, it was the importance of a solid poker face. Fame is new to you though and interactions with polite fans make you nervous. Having your picture taken without permission and splashed on social media? Forget about it. Pierre didn't care to find out how you'd react.

"Don't be nervous." You lay a hand on Pierre's thigh. The touch is enough to temporarily pause his bouncing leg. "You're going to do amazing this weekend. All you have to do is finish in front of Checo and you're golden."

How you haven't noticed the girls giggling mere yards away is beyond him. The last thing he wants to do is ruin this perfect, beautiful moment of bliss. You look gorgeous with your painted lips and that sinful black dress that he doubts can be comfortable based on how it hugs your curves like water. To top it off, the pride in your gaze is something to behold, making it impossible to doubt himself when you so clearly and openly believe he can conquer the world.

But it's better to tell you now versus you finding out on social media later. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Oh?" You sit straighter and set the menu down. "What is it then? Because if it's Horner, I have no problem marching in there and chewing him out. Birdy will back me up."

Despite himself, Pierre can't hold back his smile. "Where did all this confidence come from, hmm?"

"I'm learning," you insist, nodding your head firmly. "I'm growing as a person and you should be proud."

"I never said I wasn't." Maybe you'd spent the last month at university interacting with racing fans on campus. Perhaps being exposed to endless questions in a setting you controlled was the key. "Did you take a course in confidence at university?"

You scrunch up your nose and laugh in the most adorable way. Pierre's heart lurches at the sight, regardless if it was him you were laughing at.

"No, but I did make a few new friends that have a habit of pestering me about you." You jab a finger in his side for good measure. "It helped, I think. I don't look for cameras as much anymore. You're my focus now, not paps that may or may not be lurking in bushes."

"I knew it." Pierre is slightly impressed that he'd hit the nail squarely on the head. "I figured there had to be someone at uni responsible for helping you out."

You shrug and purse your lips. "I guess we'll have to see how I handle this weekend. I mean, there's bound to be press trying to corner me, what with the stakes and all. But I think I can take them." You raise your fists in front of your face and Pierre has to laugh.

“Throw a punch like that and you’ll break a finger.” He takes one of your clenched fists in his and untucks your thumb from under your fingers. “That’s how you make a proper fist. And you hit with these knuckles here- make sure you distribute the blow across all four, or you’ll be hurting.”

“Regardless,” you say, jabbing the air a few times, “The shock factor of having little old me in their face ought to be enough to earn me an advantage.”

Pierre finishes the lap to circle back to the topic at hand. "How about we test your confidence?”

"Okay," you say, dragging out the 'a' until it hangs in the air between you like a spider's web.

Pierre rakes a hand through his hair and nods to the girls a few tables away. "They've been taking pictures since we sat down. I'm sure they'll be all over Instagram in an hour, if they aren't already."

You steal a glance at the table in question under the guise of grabbing something from your purse. You hum, contemplating how to go about responding. Pierre is almost certain you'll ask to head back upstairs where it's just the two of you, no cameras or outside influence to ruin your night. His wallet is already out under the table, ready to leave a hefty tip for putting up with your drink-and-dash.

“We aren’t doing anything interesting,” you point out, swirling the knuckle’s worth of whiskey in your glass. “Why do they feel the need to document every passing second?”

Pierre lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just what some people do. If you’re uncomfortable we can go.”

“Who said anything about leaving?” You scoff, the corners of your lips turned up in a teasing smile. “I figure the best course of action is to give them something worth photographing.”

“What do you-”

Pierre’s yelp is decidedly unsexy when you yank him forward by his tie and attach your lips to his. Caught entirely off guard, he flounders for a moment before he catches himself and sinks into you. One hand on your cheek and the other creeping up your thigh, Pierre slides his tongue over the seam of your lips. You don't hesitate to obey the silent command.

He should be embarrassed. He should be contemplating the consequences of this kiss being splashed across tabloids the world over. He can’t bring himself to care, not when you’re the only release he needs and something as simple as a kiss sets his skin alight and causes any sane thoughts to trickle from his head.

Nothing matters. You're kissing him and your hand is a few inches below his hip on his right thigh, burning a brand that he prays leaves a puckered pink scar. Your scent and your mouth and your unmistakable hiss of pleasure saps the worry from his limbs. He's floating up off his chair, lungs filling with helium as you steal every last molecule of oxygen from the room.

Just like that, Pierre is the one that's roaring to leave for an entirely different reason.

Your hand on his jaw keeps your lips a hair's breadth apart as you whisper, "Are they staring?"

A blissed out nod is all he manages. Thoughts evade him and speaking is utterly out of the question when your lips are within striking distance. He surges forward for another kiss, heavier on teeth than on tongue. He makes sure to hold your lower lip between his teeth longer than necessary, putting on a show now that you've given him permission.

"Pierre," you murmur, using the hand splayed on his chest to push him away. The whine that escapes him is wholly unintentional. Thankfully it's low enough that only you hear, pressing a finger to your sinful lips.

"Down, boy." You extricate his hand from the dimpled flesh of your hip and place it chastely in his own lap. "We've accomplished what I wanted to."

Saying you tossing a wink over your shoulder at the intrusive fans isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen would be a lie. Pierre needed to be sure to thank Daniel's girlfriend the next time he saw her for whatever the hell she said to finally bestow you with a healthy serving of self-assurance because this new you is an entirely different entity, one Pierre intends to explore at the next opportunity.

"Problem solved." You brush your hands together and Pierre half expects to see dust clouds in the air like you'd just finished a woodshop project.

Pierre's brain is operating on a ten second delay. So really, normal operating procedure when he was in your vicinity. "I don't think we've accomplished everything I'd like to get done."

"We have a dinner to finish first." You pick up your menu and resume browsing like you hadn't just forcibly ripped his appetite for anything other than you right out of him. "The salmon sounds good, don't you think?"

"You sound good," Pierre mumbles under his breath and picks up his own menu. God, he'd love to let his fingers drift to the apex of your thighs. You’re always cute when you squirm. It was so simple to do too, all you needed was a brush of his knuckle to your center and you'd be gasping.

"Are you ready to order?"

The soft-spoken waitress bursts Pierre's bubble. She brings fresh drinks and jots down an order of two salmon fillets and leaves with a smile.

How Pierre has managed to make it this long without fucking you is beyond him. From the moment you surprised him in the lobby, his limbs have been thrumming with energy. And now your surprise kiss had been the pebble that preceded an avalanche of feverish longing. Those red painted lips would look better wrapped around his-

The pointed toe of your shoe digs into his calf. "Quit staring."

"Either you let me daydream or you let me take you upstairs,” Pierre quips back, licking his lips before he can catch himself.

"Can we get through one date without you mentally undressing me?"

Pierre dips his grin in a vat of lust, his words dripping with waxy promise. "No. Not when I know that as soon as we're alone, you'll let me do what I want."

"And what about what I want?" Your pouted lip does absolutely nothing but push his mind further in the gutter.

"Your wish is my command." His hand floats under the hem of your dress to graze along your core. And there it is, that sound he would swim across oceans to hear, your chastizing gasp of surprise.

The cross way you whisper his name is a thing of dreams. No one else's name sounded like that on your tongue, that honor is reserved solely for Pierre. The two breathless syllables are more exhilarating than standing on the top step. The rush of adrenaline that accompanies them is ten times what he is rewarded with when passing a world champion on track. He'll give it all up to hear you repeat it when you're pissed or lonely or tired- he just wants your voice echoing in his ears like a broken record.

You move his hand a safe distance down your thigh, nearly at your knee. Pierre gives your leg a sharp squeeze. "Can we please get our dinner to go?"

"Not tonight. You can wait, mon amour."

The French rolls off your tongue awkwardly but Pierre will be the last to complain. Your encyclopedic knowledge of which buttons to press when had come back to bite him in the ass.

"That's not fair." His pout is a mirror image of the one you turned on him earlier. "You can't use my own language against me."

You pat your pockets as if searching for something and shrug when you come up empty. "I don't see a rulebook anywhere."

Reminding you what happens when you tease him shoots to the top of his to do list. "I'll play if you wanna play, ma chérie. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"I think you're forgetting who usually wins off track."

Pierre can't help it. He takes advantage of his superior reflexes and surges forward to claim another searing kiss. You did normally win and it wasn't for lack of trying on his end. No matter the tactic he employed, you generally got the better of him. Not that he minded.

"Why don't you come here?" He purposely grazes his lips to your ear as he speaks and grins when a shiver runs down your spine.

"Because we are in public," you hiss back, though the way your head tips to the side betrays you. Pierre's nose touches the underside of your jaw and you struggle to find your breath.

"We should eat." A self satisfied smile splits his face when he notices your heaving chest and wild eyes.

"When did our food get here?" Pierre did that. He got you so worked up that you blocked out your surroundings so thoroughly that you hadn't heard the clink of plates. Pierre wears that fact like a badge of honor.

"A minute or so ago. Remind me again who's winning?"

"We may be even," you relent, adjusting the skirt of your dress. Yeah, even isn't the word he would pick, considering how flustered you are. It's a good thing Pierre has learned to eat with one hand because he doesn't plan on moving the arm currently slung over the back of your chair anytime soon. His finger traces the letters of his name on the bare skin of your shoulder. Whether you realize what he's writing or not you lean into him as you eat, falling in closer with each lemon-scented bite.

"Excuse me?"

You don't bother to look up but Pierre does. Disappointment washes over him when he is met by one of the fans, apparently deeming now to be the appropriate time to approach him, while clearly on a date, in the middle of a meal.

"I'll be happy to take a photo once I'm done." Sometimes passive aggressiveness works best with people like this, who have no regard for personal space. "Right now I would prefer to be alone, thanks."

"Oh, right." The blonde giggles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "You two make a… cute couple?" The end of her sentence turns up and your fork falls to your plate.

Pierre tucks you a little closer to his side, both possessive and reassuring. "We know."

Your discomfort is plain, the way you curl in on yourself making his heart hurt. But you surprise him by taking a deep breath and turning to the woman with a smile.

"If you'd let us finish our meal, I would appreciate it. We can stop by on our way out and chat with you." Sylvie would be proud of that answer. Diplomatically phrased and said with a smile that negates any negative connotations.

"Of course." The blonde's smile is sickly sweet. To Pierre she adds, "Good luck on Sunday."

Pierre nods. The woman's rude behavior didn't warrant a verbal response. She mumbles a feeble goodbye before slinking back to her friends. If nothing else at least their whispers died down, put out by his behavior.

Pierre loves his fans. Without them he wouldn't have a sport to compete in, and of course he appreciated their endless support. Stopping for photos or autographs had gotten him in trouble with Marko multiple times for being late to meetings that usually turned out to be pointless anyway. As a whole, their enthusiasm gives him an extra boost on Sundays and lifts his spirits after a bad weekend.

And then sometimes there were people like the blonde woman that had interrupted his dinner. Those people he has far less tolerance for. Basic manners were imperative to Pierre giving someone the light of day, otherwise he saw no need to waste time and energy on them.

"All good, ma chérie?" Pierre rubs your shoulder, hoping it'll stave off any anxiety.

"I'm good," you confirm with a nod of your head. "Let's finish up and go to our room."

Pierre presses a kiss to your temple and scarfs down the remainder of his meal in record time. He flags down the waitress and hands her his card, leaving a substantial tip when she returns with the check.

“Can you distract that table?” Pierre asks, aware of how unusual the request likely is. “I’d like to get out of here without making a scene.”

“Of course,” the waitress says with a warm, sincere smile. Pierre waits until she loudly announces, “Excuse me? Your card has been declined, do you have another method of payment?”

Neither of you can contain your laughter as you stumble through the lobby. In the sanctity of the elevator, Pierre wraps his arms around your middle and molds himself against you. "You look especially gorgeous tonight."

"You're not too bad yourself." One of your hands finds the nape of his neck, guiding his face to the crook of your shoulder. Pierre takes the invitation at face value and nips at the sensitive skin. Your hum goes straight to his cock, twitching against the swell of your ass.

"I win," you purr, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging.

For once Pierre is glad to be in the world's slowest elevator. Since he's already lost, he might as well lose in style. He spins you to face the mirrored wall. And because he knows it'll make you tremble, he trails his hand lazily over your throat to grip your jaw.

A low moan leaves your parted lips. Pierre studies your reflection, from your hands gripping the railing to the skin dimpling beneath his fingers.

"Fine, you win this time. But I think you and I both know, I'll come out ahead in the end."

**********

Waking up to soft kisses will never get old. Thirty years from now when Pierre was retired and you fell asleep each night with his arms around you, you'd still yearn for the brush of his lips to your cheeks, neck, and shoulders to rouse you from the violet shores of sleep.

"Good morning," you mumble, a sentiment which Pierre echoes with his gruff, sleep tinged voice. "Sleep well?"

"Best sleep I've ever gotten. You tired me out last night." You both grin at the reminder. Fueled by a slight tinge of jealousy after the women at the restaurant made eyes at him, you had refused to let him tumble into bed until well past midnight, when you both were well and truly exhausted. Thursday is press day, nothing strenuous that he couldn't afford to be a little sore for.

Pierre rolls to straddle your hips, lips capturing yours for a proper kiss. The taste of freshly brushed mint makes your skin tingle when he tugs your lip between his teeth.

"It's too early for that." You throw your arms around his neck and urge him to bend his elbows until he falls atop you. It takes him a moment to snuggle in, his head on your chest and his arms sliding under your middle.

You're convinced that ten minutes in this position can cure any ailments, physical or mental. The weight of your soulmate pressing into you, forcing you to focus on breathing instead of whatever might be bothering you. It's easy to forget about the outside world when everything you require to be happy is wrapped around you like a blanket.

You stroke a hand over Pierre's hair until his breathing evens out, only rousing him when the sun peeks over the harbor. Amiable silence fills the space as hues of orange and pink paint Pierre in swaths of color. Suddenly you're seeing him for the first time, completely enamored by the angles of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his stubbled jaw. The golden hour of dawn shines on it's golden boy, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he turns towards the warmth calling him home.

"Pyry and I are going for a run soon if you'd like to come with us."

You cringe. Running used to be fun when you were in school, but seeing as you hadn't properly trained in years you doubted you could keep up with a pair of professionals. "How about you text me when you're back and I'll come to the gym with you? It looks fancy, if George's snaps are anything to go by."

Pierre trails kisses up your sternum, over your neck and only speaks once he's reached your lips. "Looking at other men, are you?"

"Shut up," you laugh, shoving him off you. "I'll have you know it was a rare shirt on picture, thank you very much. I don't need to see George shirtless ever again."

A satisfied, "Good," rumbles from Pierre's chest and he stands to stretch the lingering sleep from his limbs. Clad in nothing but a pair of white four inch inseam shorts and with his back to you, you grin as an idea forms. You scramble forward before he can process you moving and smack his ass so hard he yelps.

"Gotcha!" You devolve into a fit of giggles as he rubs the spot you hit, whining about you taking advantage of his distraction.

"You like it," you tease, and Pierre remains strictly pouty for two whole seconds before he breaks into a grin and nods. "Now put on a shirt and get downstairs before Pyry calls you and you get reamed for being late again."

Pierre leans down for one last kiss before rushing off to the lobby. Waking up before the sun leaves you plenty of time to laze about if you choose to. Kicking your butt into gear seems like the better option so you drag yourself out of the relative warmth of the sheets and shuffle to the kitchen in search of coffee.

Apparently the suite came fully stocked with a handful of different freshly ground blends, and much to your delight you recognize one of your favorites. You scroll through the room service menu on your phone while it brews. Without a doubt Pyry would rope you in to whatever workout he had planned for Pierre, albeit giving you a watered down version of what he gave the driver. Regardless, it would still be grueling and you needed to fuel up.

A hearty breakfast of fresh fruit and cinnamon sugar oatmeal shows up at your door ten minutes later. You're just finishing up when Pierre's snapchat comes through and you nearly choke.

Come on down baby

The sweaty, shirtless selfie that accompanies the caption is wholly unnecessary. Pierre's stupid tongue sticks out and the fingers of one hand are tangled in his hair. The muscle of his bicep is perfectly flexed, an obvious but appreciated attempt to rile you up. You shamelessly screenshot the photo before it disappears to save it for later.

You change into a simple set of leggings and a loose t-shirt and head to the elevator, curating your music queue on the way down.

The outdoor gym overlooks a pool of the same crystalline blue as the sea not far beyond. A few Alpha Tauri and Red Bull team members you recognize occupy a handful of machines. You wave at the ones you recognize, including Alana- she was a sight for sore eyes. You make a mental note to catch up with her at some point today, as you're sure to cross paths again.

Pyry spots you before Pierre does and waves you over. "Start stretching," the fin orders, "I'm glad you dressed for the occasion this time."

"I've learned my lesson." You plop down next to Pierre and lean into a stretch to stage whisper, "He drives you this hard?"

"Get used to it." Pierre shoots you a grin that sets you on fire. He's got a shirt on now, which means he only took it off earlier to send you that snap. Tease.

Any other time you'd chide him for his behavior but this weekend you let it slide. Tension has been brewing since the moment you spotted him across the lobby; simple things tip you off to the stress winding up in him. If flirting could offer him a small amount of release, then so be it, even if it was torturous for you to see him like this and be unable to do anything about it.

"If you two can't get through this without making heart eyes at each other I'll separate you," Pyry warns, pushing at your shoulders and helping you stretch a few more inches. You hide your wince and laugh, leaning into the slight burn.

"Sorry coach," Pierre chimes in, "I'll keep my hands to myself, don't worry." He accepts Pyry's hand to be pulled to his feet. Bouncing on his toes he throws a few punches at the air and catches your gaze over his trainer's shoulder.

"Definitely not you I'm worried about."

As Pyry says it, you blow Pierre a kiss. You quickly tuck your hands behind your back when Pyry's head whips around. Your cheshire grin gets you off the hook and Pyry just points to the stationary bike in silent command. At least he was going easy on you.

Headphones pumping a Pierre curated playlist, you lose track of time as you cycle mile after mile. Pierre sparring on the fringes of your vision helps distract you from burning muscles. Sweat soaks his black tee and is absorbed by the waistband of his oddly patterned orange and white shorts. No matter how incessantly you tease him for his fashion choices, he never fails to amaze you for how well he pulls it all off.

Lost in the music and the incredible view, it takes you a moment to realize Pierre's lips aren't just moving silently. You yank out an ear bud and blubber, "What did you say?"

Pierre's breathless laugh is accompanied by a shake of his head. He half curls in on himself, hands on his hips and mouth agape as he tries to catch his breath. The image stirs memories of the last night, when he was panting just like that but with nothing obscuring you from drinking in his godlike muscled body.

"I said," Pierre starts, walking over to kiss your cheek, "I need a shower before press. I'm going upstairs. You can stay here and Pyry can take you through some more-"

"No thanks!" Pyry shrugs off your immediate refusal. Training top tier athletes and training you sat at polar opposite ends of the spectrum and often times the Fin pushed you farther than you thought capable. You'd like to be able to function tomorrow, thank you very much.

The elevator ride to the suite is filled with salted kisses and wet touches. A breadcrumb trail of clothing leads from the stainless steel doors to the glass encased shower. There's not enough time to worship Pierre like you'd wanted to but he sighs when you run a soapy cloth over his body. Your lips follow the suds, leaving light kisses to the tender muscles. By the time you pour shampoo in your palm and lightly scratch at his scalp to work it into a lather, he's practically purring.

Media appearances are a necessary part of being a driver. Pierre usually handled them well enough on his own and occasionally with Sylvie's help when she could be bothered to get off her phone for a few minutes, but having you with him is different. You pride yourself on reading him well enough to know exactly what he needs. Some days, when the press isn't a pack of rabid animals, he returns to his driver's room and needs nothing more than a quick kiss to have him righted. On days when the pack of piranhas descend to feast on the bones of a bad session or the whispering of drama, a delicate touch is required.

If your suspicion proves right, today would be the latter. Being ahead of the frenzy might take the edge off when Pierre got in the thick of it.

When the tap cuts off, you step out and wrap Pierre in a fluffy towel. His smile communicates how grateful he is- and that he knows what you're doing.

You hand him a stack of Alpha Tauri branded clothes and sit on the foot of the bed. "Do you want me to come to the paddock with you?"

Pierre pauses with his shirt half on. "If you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind." You pluck a few of his rings from the nightstand and hold out your hand. "You have to complete the look."

"What would I do without you," he murmurs, slipping one on his pinky and one on the thumb of his opposite hand.

"Probably be ridiculed for your lack of fashion sense."

**********

As a driver's girlfriend, you had come to grips with being relegated to a background role when it came to team events. You have to ask Sylvie to repeat herself twice before her words sink in.

"Come with me to the media pen," the woman grits out. Apparently Tost intended to have some fun torturing the woman before he fired her at the end of the season. Hopefully whoever Pierre got stuck with next was a bit more personable than Sylvie.

"Pierre told me to wait here," you say, gesturing to the garage buzzing around you. You were a rock and the mechanics were the stream, parting around you without a care in the world. You were barely a blip on their radar, everyone too honed in on their tasks to pay you any mind.

"And now I'm telling you to come with me. The other wives and girlfriends are in attendance and it'll look odd if you're not there too." Clearly, Sylvie didn't like the idea. And any idea that pissed Sylvie off sounded like a good one.

"I know the way," you say and breeze past her. Your feet follow the familiar path to the cluster of reporters crowded around metal gates, keeping the drivers in like caged animals. It was fitting, considering how often people referred to the sport as a traveling circus.

Pierre is already knee deep in an interview with one of the more popular journalists in the bunch, Will Buxton. Careful to stay out of the lens, you lean against the guardrail to listen in. So far it seems to be going well, Pierre's laugh brings a smile to your face.

"So, Pierre." Will shifts on his feet, pausing to create a sense of drama. "Your seat for next year. We know you'll be in Alpha Tauri or at Red Bull. Only a few points separate you from being demoted right back to eighth in the championship, which would officially relegate you to keep your seat at Alpha for the upcoming season. Are you worried about a mechanical problem or an accident stripping you of your chance to prove yourself and leaving you stuck where you are?"

Your stomach sinks. Buxton knew how to phrase a question, you had to give him that. Each word had been carefully chosen to elicit an emotional response from Pierre. You hate seeing him backed into a corner, forced to answer the same questions again and again, helpless to prevent it.

"Well first of all I'd like to stay that I'm not stuck at Alpha." Pierre shifts his weight and you exhale. Buxton's poisoned dart had missed its mark.

"Given a few years of development I know we could have a really competitive car. But it's more so that I'm ready to move up, fight with the leaders now instead of waiting. I'm in my prime and I don't want to let that pass me by.

"So no, I'm not worried about things that are out of my control. My team has given me an amazing car this year and I'm not concerned about mechanical problems. Things out of my control aren't worth my energy. There's nothing I can do about it so I don't even give it thought. I'll focus on my driving and pushing my limit- if an accident happens, I'm just a passenger."

"Well said." Buxton nods and turns away, effectively dismissing Pierre. As soon as he's out of the camera's view he's reaching for you and you meet him halfway. Sylvie trails after you as Pierre leads you through to the Alpha garage.

"Five minutes until your briefing," Alana says the second you enter. "And hey girl. Don't think I've forgotten about that sweater I loaned you. I still want it back!"

Your friend doesn't leave any room for rebuttal before heading for the conference room, presumably to set up whatever presentation she had created. Sylvie had disappeared too, leaving you as the only one for Pierre to focus on.

"You think I can do it?" He asks quietly, playing with your interlaced fingers.

"I don't think." You tilt his chin up so he's looking at you. "I know. And I'll be right here when you cross that line on Sunday and bring home points. You've got this, baby. Don't doubt yourself now."

"Pierre!"

Your grip on his chin prevents him from following the voice, not that he would if he could. You shoot him a raucous grin, "Red Bull colors would look pretty good on me, huh?"

Pierre's smile is brighter than all the stars in the sky. "Anything with my name on it will do.”

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz @xeniarocks @teenwaywardasgardian @saintandrea-droidsmuggler

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#pierre gasly #pierre gasly fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 imagine #f1 rpf #f1 #reader insert #pierre gasly x reader #his good sweater

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mosswillow · 4 years

Text

Your room (Dark!Peter Parker x Reader)

Word count 3.3k

!!!!! This is dark! And explicit 18+ only !!!!!

Warnings: Noncon/Dubcon, oral (female receiving), spankings, punishment, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, unprotected sex, smut, vaginal intercourse.

Summery: Your life is bland and boring but not for long. What happens when you catch the eye of a certain super hero?

Your room has always reflected you as a person. In highschool you haphazardly filled the walls with quotes and posters. Your room was messy in the typical way teenagers rooms tend to be, but also like a typical teenager was filled with feeling and hope. In college you filled your space with pictures of you and your friends taken on a polaroid camera. Everywhere you looked had your life staring back at you. Now as an adult the pictures from college are tucked away in a box. Your room is simple and boring. Most people think of you as minimalist but you don’t do it to be trendy, you just have no passion. You’ve spent the years after graduating college working a job you hate in a lab, running the same tests over and over again. You’ve always wanted to be a scientist, working on something new and exciting. You’ve applied everywhere but you rarely even get an interview. Your dreams, unfortunately, will never happen for you. Sometimes you wish for someone to swoop in and take you for your bland life but you know that will never happen. Watching your friends get dream jobs and buy homes while you waste away has crushed your spirit. You’re tired.

---

“Hey Y/N, we’re going out tonight.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, you never come with us.”

“Ok sure.”

Your coworker is right that you never go out anymore and so several hours later you walk into a bar, grabbing a drink and finding your coworkers. The bar is bustling with activity and you lose track of time. You usually curl up in bed with a book on a friday night but you’re glad you came. You used to go out all the time in college and miss being social. Going out is good for your mental health and you decide to make more of a point to spend time with people.

You say goodbye to your still partying co-workers and head home a little past midnight. You start your walk and cut through an alleyway, wanting to get home before you vomit from the alcohol.

“Hey sweetheart. What are you doing all alone out here?”

A large man steps out of the shadows and walks toward you. You ignore him, keeping your eyes focused ahead and pick up the pace.

“Oi, I’m talkin’ to you,” He lunges forward and grabs your arm.

“Let me go.” You try to walk away but he holds onto you still, pushing you against the wall and landing a bruising kiss on your lips. His breath smells rancid and you feel bile rise in your throat. You cry out for help and the man is suddenly pulled away from you. You watch with disbelief as Spider man throws the stranger against the opposing wall.

“She said to go away buddy.”

The man slowly stands up and runs away. Spider Man shoots a web at the running stranger and he falls over, immobilized.

“You ok?” Spider Man turns to you, cocking his head.

“Yes, thank you Spider Man.”

“I’ll come check on you tomorrow”

You watch spider man pick up the stranger like he’s nothing and swing away. You walk the rest of the way home and lie in bed, unable to fall asleep. The next morning there’s a tap on your window and you look out to see Spider Man on your fire escape. You briefly wonder how he knows where you live but quickly brush off the thought and open your window.

“You sure you’re ok?” He steps towards you, looking you over.

“Just a little shaken up.”

He walks to your kitchen, filling a glass of water and handing it to you.

“This is too much, really I’m fine. You already saved me.”

“Drink the water,” He commands.

You sigh and drink it.

“That’s a good girl. Now get back to bed.”

You set the glass down and stare at the stranger you let in your home. Alarm bells start ringing.

“I’d like you to leave.”

“I’ll leave once I know you’re doing as you're told.”

Your heart beats rapidly and you take a step back.

“I appreciate that you saved me and came to make sure that I’m fine but I’m now asking you to please go.”

Spider man crosses his arms.

“I’ll call the cops” you say.

“And say what?”

“That there’s an intruder.”

Spider man sighs and walks to your window, standing at it.

“Get in bed and I’ll go.”

You walk to your bed and get under the covers.

“Good girl. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

As soon as he’s through the window you jump out of bed and lock every door and window, double checking your work. You get back in bed and let out a sigh of relief, finally able to sleep.

You wake up to tapping on your window. Spiderman is back. You make your way to the window but don’t open it.

“Let me in.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with you in here.”

Spider Man shakes his head and leaves without a word.

The next few weeks are filled with anxiety. You see flashes of red in your peripheral vision everywhere you go. Spider man is stalking you. You consider telling police but don’t think they’ll believe you. It sounds crazy, even to you. If it weren't for the bruises from the assault in the alleyway you would think you had imagined the whole thing. You stop leaving your apartment unless necessary and never go out after dark.

You get a voicemail one day.

“HI, this is Rebecca Johnson from Stark Industries. We’re looking for someone to fill a position in one of our labs. You had submitted an application previously and we wanted to reach out and see if you’d like to interview for the position. Please call back at your earliest convenience.

You squeal in delight, doing a celebratory fist pump. Stark industries is a dream job. You immediately hit redial and set up the interview. This would change everything. Just one year working at Stark would open up endless possibilities for you and that’s if you ever want to leave. You could afford a nicer apartment with more security. Maybe you will finally feel safe. You remind yourself that it’s just an interview and you shouldn’t get ahead of yourself.

---

You look up at the tower and take a deep breath. It’s intimidating, going for an interview at Stark tower. It’s been so long since you’ve interviewed anywhere let alone somewhere so big. You tug at your blouse, second guessing your outfit, maybe you should have worn something different. It’s too late to go back home and change. You walk in, mustering up all the courage you can and talk to the woman at the front desk.

“Hi, I’m here for an interview. Y/N Y/L/N”

“Oh yes, they’re expecting you. Here’s a temporary badge. Go to the 80th floor and take a seat.”

You take the badge and follow the instructions. You’re surprised to find yourself in what looks like private quarters. There’s a small couch near the elevator and you sit and wait.

Tony Stark himself appears in front of you and your mouth flies open. You stand quickly and hold your hand out.

“Mr. Stark, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tony looks you up and down, clicking his tongue.

“Likewise, follow.”

You half walk, half run behind him, getting in the elevator and taking it down a floor. You arrive at a state of the art lab and workshop and Tony leads you to a desk.

“The whole workshop will be open to you. This is your desk.”

He starts walking again and you keep following him back to the elevator and to another floor.

“Here’s where you’ll live. I’ll leave you with the contract and you can call my assistant if you have any questions.”

He hands you a tablet and walks out.

You look around the room dumbfounded. You thought you were just here for an interview. You guess this means you got the job. You swipe through the contract and your eyes widen at your salary. There are a few things that make you uncomfortable though. You’re required to live on site and there’s a curfew. You have to sign a NDA about anything you see in the tower. You also can’t decide to quit without permission, which you’re not sure is even legal. You call the number to Tony’s assistant.

“This is Rebecca.”

“Hi, this is Y/N. I’m looking through this contract and it says I have to live on site and there’s a curfew?”

“Yes. That is non negotiable. Living on site will give you access to the workshop 24/7. There will be times when you will work through the night. The curfew is for security as the tower is locked down every night.”

You would rather have your own place where you can come and go as you please but you’re willing to live here if you have to and the reason for a curfew makes sense. The tower has top of the line security, which is something that’s really important to you. You don’t usually go out late anyway and if you do decide to be out late you can crash at a friends house or get a hotel room.

“And the avengers? Will I have to work closely with them?”

“You might meet them or see them at some point but most likely not.”

“I know this sounds weird but I don’t want Spider man to know I’m working here.”

“Mums the word.”

“What exactly will the job entail? I see there’s a NDA.”

“You’ll be an assistant in Tony Stark's personal workshop and will work closely with him. He appreciates privacy.”

“I see, and the part where I’m not allowed to quit?”

“He just wants to make sure you’re serious. Tony picks his assistants personally and requires loyalty.”

“Ok, thank you.”

You hang up and sign the screen. When you open the door there's a man standing outside. He’s not a tall man, standing a few inches taller than you. However, he is muscular and something about him commands attention. You feel an immediate pull towards him.

“Oh, hi I’m Peter Parker.” He holds out his hand.

“I’m Y/N”

“I also work with Tony and live right next to you. I’ll be your direct boss.”

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Parker.”

“Peter is fine. I won’t keep you any longer, I just wanted to introduce myself.”

You immediately get to work rearranging your life. By the end of the weekend you’re completely moved into your new place and on monday you start your first day on the job. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, full of state of the art technology and free reign to do whatever you want. You walk into work every day with a smile.

You work alone most of the time, Tony and Peter working awkward, sporadic hours but you enjoy it when you do get to work with them. Tony is funny and brilliant, you learn more from him than from any college class. Peter is smart and sweet. He helps you with your work and makes sure you’re always taken care of, sending you back to your room if you’ve been working too long or making you take breaks to eat. You find yourself starting to develop feelings for Peter and your heart swells when he asks you on a date. Life is good and only getting better.

You meet Peter outside of your door and he takes your hand. The two of you walk to a little italian restaurant and Peter takes your menu, ordering your food for you. It’s very forward for a first date but you like the confidence. After dinner he walks you back to your door and kisses you. You see something in his eyes when he pulls away, possessive and dark. It makes you feel uncomfortable but also excited. Nobody has ever looked at you like that.

Over the next few weeks Peter becomes more and more comfortable around you, becoming more physical. It’s small things, like pushing your hair back when talking or touching you gently as he walks past. He asks you out again, this time wanting to cook you dinner and you decline, suggesting a coffee date instead. You don’t feel comfortable enough with him to be alone in his room. He clenches his jaw when you tell him, obviously upset you won’t come over but agrees.

A few days later you decide to go out with some old friends and crash on one of their couches. When you get home the next day Peter is standing outside your door.

“You missed curfew.”

“I know, I went out with friends and crashed on one of their couches.”

Peter clenches his jaw.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“It shouldn't matter if I want to stay the night somewhere else.”

“Well it does.”

You roll your eyes and unlock your door quickly, locking it behind you. The two of you have only been on one date. His behavior is a red flag and you decide to take things slowly.

The next day you decide to go out for coffee, pulling on a simple tee shirt dress and some flip flops. The elevator won’t let you down.

“Your privileges have been revoked.” Peter says from behind you.

You jump. “Why?”

“You know why.”

He stalks toward you, pushing you up against the elevator.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this Peter. You need to back away from me now.”

Peter takes a step back.

“I’m sorry but right now I don’t want any sort of relationship outside of work.”

“That’s not going to work for me.”

Something in Peter's eyes terrifies you. You need to get out of here. You try the elevator again but it still won’t open.

“I quit.” you yell at the elevator, feeling more danger every second you’re stuck in the hallway with Peter.

“You can’t quit baby.”

“There’s no way it’s legal to force me to keep working even if it’s in the contract.”

“There’s nowhere to go. You’re not getting out of this building and even if you did you’d have to find a lawyer to take your case.”

“You can’t do this, I'll tell Tony.”

“Who do you think suggested this in the first place? Most of the Avengers have gotten their partners this way. I was waiting for the right person and I knew you were them the moment I saw you.”

“Why would Tony help you trap me here? You’re just a lab assistant.”

“Oh no honey, I’m much more than that.”

He steps toward you, caging you in.

“You think it’s a coincidence I saved you in that alleyway?”

“Spider man?”

Peter gives a grin. He leans in and smells your hair.

“No.”

“I’m sorry it’s happening this way, I wanted to break you down slower. You’ll have a really good life, we’ll live together and work together. You’ll have everything you could need or want.”

“I want to leave.”

“You’ll change your mind, you just need a little motivation.”

Peter pulls you to his room and opens the door, pushing you into his apartment. You try to run but he easily catches you, picking you up and throwing you on his bed.

“Why are you doing this? Why me?” you scrabble to the far side of the bed.

“You’re mine.”

Peter's phone rings and he picks it up.

“Hey, yes I did... I know It wasn’t the plan, I had to improvise… Ok, see you in a few weeks.”

He hangs up and gets on top of you. you spit in his face.

“I’m not yours freak. Let me go.”

“You won’t be allowed to act like that moving forward. Now lie still.”

“Get off of me.”

Peter gets off briefly, flipping you over his lap and pulling up your skirt. He lands a smack on your bottom.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do this. You’ve been so bad baby.

“Not letting me in your apartment.”

Smack.

“Telling Rebecca you didn’t want me to you started working here.”

Smack

“Staying out all night.”

Smack.

“Shutting the door in my face.”

Smack.

“I liked you Peter, If you had just acted like a normal person we could have continued a relationship.” You say through tears.

“I don’t want a relationship, I want to own you.”

He lands another blow on your bottom and grabs your underwear, pulling them down and off of you. You try to wiggle away but he’s so strong and easily holds you down with one arm. He moves his hand between your legs and towards your sex, pushing a finger in and out.

“You’re wet for me.” He says smugly.

You close your eyes and turn your head away. You’ve stopped resisting and he lets go.

“There you go.”

He kisses your neck and cheek then grabs your chin moving your face and kissing you gently, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He pulls back and you hear him unbuttons his pants, pulling them down. You open your eyes and move away from him, pushing your back against the headboard. You watch as he holds his erection, slowly moving his hand up and down. He moves towards you and grabs your ankle, pulling you down the bed and positioning himself in between your legs. He holds onto your hips and kisses your inner thigh, moving toward your mound until his mouth is on your clit, kissing and licking. You arch your back and throw your head back, fighting against the rising orgasm. Right before you come he pulls back, smiling up at your dazed face. He rises up and slowly pushes his dick into you until you’re full. You whimper as he brings his hand down to your clit, stimulating it.

“That’s right baby,I know what you like.”

You can’t think about anything else anymore, only the orgasm that threatens to take over.

“Come Baby”

You reach out, grabbing his arms as you come. He grabs your shoulders and thrusts deep, filling you with cum before collapsing next to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm.

“Can I go back to my room now?” you ask.

“You won’t be leaving this room until I can trust you.”

“I won’t say anything. You won. You got what you wanted so just let me go.”

“You still don’t get it Y/N. You’re mine now. I know this is a hard adjustment but everything will be fine as long as you follow what I say.”

“And if I don’t obey you?”

“You’ll be punished.”

“Fuck you.”

Peter sits up next to you, grabbing his pants off the floor and pulling his belt out of the loops.

“I guess your first lesson starts now.”

---

You look around the room you live in. It’s no longer the empty minimalist space it was before you met Peter. Now it’s filled with him. Everywhere you look there are reminders of him. The shower has his body wash and razor. There are pictures of him hanging on the walls. Everything you own has been bought for you by Peter. He dictates what you’re allowed to wear, where you’re allowed to go, who can talk to. It’s all him. Every part of your life revolves around Peter to the point where you don’t know what you would do without him. You wake up to him, go to sleep to him, think about him constantly. You’re even sometimes woken up in the middle of the night to him touching you, wanting you. At some point you stop pretending you don’t want him back. You hate it but it’s true.

Your room has always been a reflection of you as a person.

#dark!peter parker x reader #dark!fic #dark!peter parker #dark peter #dark peter parker #smut

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beauregardlionett · 3 years

Text

i think i might understand the concept of home

AO3 Link

Yasha’s car had broken down on the side of the road in some tiny town she only meant to pass through. She hadn’t even read the welcome sign half-a-mile back, so gods knew where she was. Thankfully, there was a shoulder and a sidewalk, so she wasn’t stuck in the middle of traffic. She had the hood popped and stared helplessly down at the tangle of mechanics she did not understand.

Nothing was smoking, so she figured that must be a good thing.

“Need a hand?”

Yasha glanced up, catching sight of a woman standing just outside the coffee shop Yasha broke down in front of. She stood defined in the sunlight, composed of sharp lines and lean muscle, contained by planes of smooth, coffee-colored skin. She had on a simple grey sports bra under denim overalls littered with stains and distressed patches torn in random places on the legs. Her hair was in a low bun sat over what looked like an undercut all tucked messily beneath a backward cap.

Damn...she was hot.

The woman cocked an expectant eyebrow, reminding Yasha she had yet to answer.

“Oh, um...yes?”

Hot Lady smirked and stepped off the curb to stand at Yasha’s shoulder, leaning over the open hood and inspecting the mess. Yasha was busy inspecting the tanned slope of neck to bare shoulder, all of her quite a sight in the midday sunlight.

Gods, was that a tattoo on her back?

With abrupt yet easy precision, Hot Lady hauled herself up onto the lip of Yasha’s truck and shoved her hand between various pieces of metal. Startled, Yasha looked down at the engine, hoping she wouldn’t have to call emergency services for a hand lost in her car engine.

“The alternator might be shot,” Hot Lady said, squinting as she moved her hand around a little.

“What does that mean?” Yasha managed, only a little strangled.

“Means you need to get your car into a shop because you aren’t going to have much luck getting far without it.” Hot Lady removed her hand and gave a little hop back down to the pavement. She wiped her hand carelessly on her overalls and shrugged a little.

“It’s not a super challenging thing to fix, but it will take a minute. I can point you to a good garage if you need.”

“That would be very helpful. Thank you...um...”

“Beauregard,” the woman said, sticking out her hand with a grin. “Call me Beau.”

After hesitating a moment, Yasha grasped Beau’s hand and gave it a tentative shake, cheeks warm. Her face flushed even warmer when Beau raised her eyebrow again, clearly waiting for Yasha’s name.

“Yasha,” she blurted, horrid awkwardness muddying her chest. “I’m Yasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Yasha,” Beau said as she slowly took her hand back. Yasha already like the way her name sounded rolling off of Beau’s tongue - perhaps far too much for someone she just met.

“You might need to shack up somewhere for the night,” Beau said, pulling her phone from her pocket and texting someone. “Depending on how long the garage takes with your car. I haven’t seen you ‘round here before. You got a place to stay?”

“Oh...no,” Yasha managed. “I’m just passing through.”

“Well, I texted my buddy over at the garage to come get your car. He’ll be here soon. There’s only one hotel in this town, and to be honest, it sucks. My buddy Caleb moved most of his stuff out of his apartment, but he hasn’t turned the lease over yet. He got a big wig job two hours from here and they had him start early, despite the fact he still had a month on the lease. You can crash there if you want. I’m pretty sure he left his mattress.”

Yasha blinked, dazed and flabbergasted at the turn this conversation had taken.

“I...what?”

Beau looked up from her phone, fingers pausing in their rapid texting. She seemed to take in Yasha’s stunned expression and grimaced slightly.

“Sorry, that was a lot all at once.” Beau tucked her phone away and crossed her arms over her chest. Yasha recognized the defensive tactic attempting to look casual with ease. She performed that move often enough herself.

“This ‘helping’ thing isn’t my forte - more Jess’ thing. But uh...yeah. If you need a place to stay, you’ve got one. Promise there're no strings attached or anything like that.”

“But...you don’t know me.”

“True,” Beau shrugged. “But it’s not like there’s anything to steal from Caleb’s place. It’s basically an empty apartment he’s not getting anything out of. Might as well put the place to good use.”

“Okay,” Yasha said after a moment of strange quiet. What else was she supposed to say?

Beau blinked up at Yasha, then grinned, wide and delighted. “Cool.”

A few minutes later, a tow truck pulled up. Beau greeted the driver enthusiastically as Yasha watched on, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

“This is it,” Beau said, shoving open the door with her hip as she wrestled the key out of the lock.

Yasha followed Beau in, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her meager duffle bag. The apartment was near barren, as Beau had said. It had a small living area that faded seamlessly into a kitchenette. Down a short hallway appeared to be a bedroom and bathroom, both doors open. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The only sign someone had recently been occupying the space was the old mattress just visible through the bedroom door and the sagging sofa in the living room.

“Sorry there’s no food in the kitchen, but there’s a store about a block from here if you’re up for a walk. I’d hang around but I have to get to a class.”

Yasha twisted to look at Beau, something bubbling up in her chest that felt a lot like gratitude and a little like something indescribable. She watched as Beau fiddled with her key ring, only realizing what was happening when Beau pulled a key off and tossed it to Yasha. She just barely managed to catch it and not make a fool of herself.

“That’s the key to the door for ya. And,” Beau pulled a crumpled, folded piece of paper from her pocket, holding it out to Yasha. “My number, in case you have questions or you need anything. I’m a night owl and an early riser, so chances are I’ll answer whenever.”

“Thank you,” Yasha warbled after a long moment, clutching the key so hard the grooves of its identity imprinted into her palm. The notches stung like she would never forget their shape. “I mean it. This is...a lot.”

Beau rubbed the back of her neck, scuffing the toe of her sneaker against the worn floorboards. “It’s nothin’ really...”

“No,” Yasha insisted. “It’s a lot. Thank you.”

Beau’s gaze met Yasha’s intense stare, her bright blue eyes wide as they took in Yasha’s sincerity. A handful of seconds stretched into eternity before Beau ducked her head, rubbing at the back of her neck.

“Yeah...sure.”

Yasha was getting the impression she wasn’t the only one completely out of her depth in this situation.

“I’ll come around tomorrow with updates...bye.”

Yasha watched her duck out the door, disappearing down the hallway before she shut the door behind Beau and clicked the lock.

The garage had Yasha’s car fixed and ready to go after two days. Yasha was still in town three months later.

In all honesty, she’s not sure how it happened.

The night she planned to leave, Beau had swung by and insisted on seeing her off. They ended up at a diner, tucked into a booth, talking like they actually knew each other. Next thing Yasha realized, it was nearing midnight, and they were being asked to wrap up so the diner could close. The chef had called to them from the window, an older looking man with bright pink hair who gave Beau a knowing look and a wink.

Somehow, that unplanned extra night turned into months. Yasha had taken on the lease from the absent Caleb for his apartment. She found a job at the local florist, a job she quietly enjoyed. The gravity of her situation only set in after she bought sheets for the mattress.

She met Jess - real name Jester, or Genevieve, but Yasha couldn’t sure - a bubbly girl with deep blue hair and the sweetest attitude ever. Her fingertips were permanently paint stained, and she left hastily sketched dicks everywhere she went. Yasha also met the tow truck driver from the first day, a guy named Fjord. They were a weird mix of individuals, but somehow they got on just fine. They ate dinner together every Thursday night at the same bar owned by the guy who tended the bar - one of those small town things. His name was Mollymauk - Molly for short and sometimes they instead of he - with inordinately purple hair and makeup to match.

Yasha never really spent a lot of time in her apartment. She didn’t see the point, not when she had access to the florist shop, or the diner, or anywhere else with Jess, Fjord, Molly, or Beau. Especially not when Jess’ apartment she shared with Fjord was so much warmer, much more like a home.

It took three months before Beau stopped mid-sentence of a story and blinked at Yasha over their pancakes in the diner.

“This is probably a stupid question, but did you have somewhere to be?”

Yasha looked up, confused. “Right now? Uh...no? My shift at the shop doesn’t start for another three hours.”

“No, no, I meant like outside this town. You told me you were passing through, before.”

“Oh,” Yasha set down her fork and looked out the window. Her chest felt tight. That afternoon seemed like a lifetime ago - a whole other person ago. “Not really.”

“Do...uhm,” Yasha looked over at Beau to find her pushing her food around her plate awkwardly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This was difficult for both of them. If Yasha had learned anything in her time here, it was that they both struggled to convey their emotions eloquently. But that Beau tried meant everything to Yasha. The least she could do was meet her halfway.

“I was running, and I didn’t know where or when I would stop. But I guess this place is where I’m meant to be.”

“Why were you running?” Beau stared at her, gaze intense in a way Yasha found endearing. She watched like nothing else in the world could distract her.

“I...I had a wife. And I lost her rather abruptly almost six months ago. I tried to stay for a while, to keep what we had built together, but I wasn’t strong enough. So I ran and hoped that I would find something worth staying for again before I fell off the world.”

Beau stared at Yasha openly over their half-eaten breakfast, eyes wide.

“You stayed here. Does that mean you found something here?”

Yasha looked at Beau, at her messy bun and her undercut that needed a fresh shave. She took in the puddle of syrup, slowly saturating Beau’s pancakes and the half gone pile of bacon. Beau’s cellphone sat face down on the table so her attention stayed on Yasha. She realized the baggy sweater Beau had on was one Yasha had misplaced almost a month ago. Yasha lost her breath at the butterflies that fluttered to life in her stomach.

“I think so,” Yasha breathed, tethered and unhinged all at once.

They didn’t talk about it, because of course they didn’t.

But two weeks after their pancake conversation, Beau invited Yasha out for a night on the town. There were only two bars with decent night life here, and Yasha had been to both of them exactly once during her time here. (The daytime trips to Molly’s bar didn’t count, of course. She had only been to their bar for the night life once.)

She met Beau in the middle, and they walked together the rest of the way.

Beau had gotten her undercut shaved tight again, but it was hidden with the way her hair spilled loose and long down her back. She had a cobalt lace crop top on - the one with the built-in bra. The way it showed off the definition of her muscles was doing things to Yasha. The black cigarette pants didn’t help either.

A few drinks and way too many EDM songs later - or maybe only a few? Yasha couldn’t tell them apart - Yasha remained upright from adrenaline alone. Somewhere between the drinks and the beat of the music, Beau pressed up against Yasha, wiry arms winding around Yasha’s neck as they danced. Yasha wasn’t much of a dancer in any regard, but she was just tipsy enough to not care.

Beau’s hips fit comfortably in the space between Yasha’s hands, and Yasha resolutely tried not to follow that train of thought. For no other reason than she didn’t want to ruin a good thing, and there was no way Beau felt the same.

Beau pushed onto her toes, shiny black boots creasing with the motion as her lace top rode up her enticing torso.

“I really want to kiss you,” Beau called over the heavy thrum of the base. Her voice nearly got lost in the din, but Yasha heard her. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t. The weight of her heart dropping into her stomach hit too heavy and real to ignore.

Fuck, she wanted to kiss Beau, too.

Yasha’s t-shirt stuck to random parts of her torso with sweat, a detail she was now hyper-aware of with how little space existed between her and Beau. The press of bodies around them was abruptly unnerving. So much so, Yasha wound an arm around Beau’s shoulders and steered them both free, ducking into the hallway that lead to the bathrooms as Yasha gasped for air.

Beau leaned her back against the wall for support, peering at Yasha with far too much clarity for someone who could barely stand upright.

“Are you okay, Yash?” Her voice was quieter now that they had moved out of the main bar, but the base still pounded like a heartbeat through the floorboards.

With more confidence than Yasha would ever possess in her life, she caged Beau in, a hand on either side of her head against the wall. As Beau stared up at her with unabashed awe, Yasha’s face warmed with flushed embarrassment.

“I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Then do it,” Beau said. It sounded like a dare, but she said it as if she were asking permission.

With a quick swoop into Beau’s space, Yasha pressed her lips to Beau’s with the barest amount of pressure. A feather-light, electric brush of a promise, a question, and an invitation. Yasha moved no closer.

Beau leaned in, and as far as kisses went, it was simple. Neither of them surged toward the other, or grappled for purchase to deepen the embrace. It was an easy press of lips, testing the waters despite the alluring tug of the tide.

Tipsy seconds later, Beau pulled back first with a soft gasp. Yasha’s eyes fluttered open, and she felt like a cheesy teenager when she realized they had closed without her knowledge.

“Do you want to do this?” Beau asked, voice soft and a little wrecked despite the chaste kiss.

Yasha, never one for many words, gave a quick nod and ducked back in. It wasn’t confidence, more like the beginning of a realization.

Beau held onto her, this time hands back around Yasha’s neck and fingers tangled deep in Yasha’s wild hair. Yasha took one hand from the wall to cup the back of Beau’s head, fingers sliding easily over the short hairs of Beau’s undercut.

It wasn’t a fireball kiss, but it tasted like the whiskey shots they had done half an hour ago. Beau’s lips were soft and a stark contrast to the way she kissed Yasha. It wasn’t falling stars and fire lit in her chest, nor was it a cosmic shift of puzzle pieces snapping into place. As before, it was a realization, a revelation of something that might have been there for a while.

Beau kissed Yasha back, and she thought about pancakes at the diner and memorizing the way Beau’s eyes scrunched when she laughed. Yasha rubbed her thumb over Beau’s jawline and Beau’s sharp grin burst to life behind her eyelids. A tug to Yasha’s hair reminded her of Beau offering to braid Yasha’s messy locks every time they all slept at Jess’ place. Beau licked into Yasha’s mouth and all at once, Yasha pictured her apartment. She saw the walls she had kept carefully bare, the sheets she had bought, but no other furniture. The echoing emptiness of a place abandoned for a better chance, and inhabited by the echo of who Yasha used to be.

And what did people say about echoes being louder in empty rooms?

Beau kissed Yasha, and Yasha realized she didn’t want to be an echo anymore.

Beau made her feel solid in a way that was undemanding. She merely held out her hand and asked for the pieces of Yasha that were real, the parts she was willing to share. She helped Yasha make them into a complete picture.

Yasha kissed Beau back with all the gentle strength she could muster through the weight of her epiphany and the whiskey.

This time, Yasha knew she found something worth staying for.

#cr #critical role #beauyasha #beauregard lionett #yasha #writing #my writing

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apiratewhopines · 3 years

Text

This one is a gift for @teamhook because she is one of the most generous people I’ve ever met.

Thanks to @jrob64 for giving me advice on artwork and to ultraluckycatnd for reading over this chapter

Midnight

Chapter 1 — The Prince

Summary: In which our heroine meets cute

Chapter 1 of 7 on AO3

“But don’t forget folks,

That’s what you get folks

For makin’ whoopee”

-Makin’ Whoopee, Eddie Cantor

Emma Swan had been in some tight spots, but she’d never been in a run out of gas on a deserted highway with a dying cell phone battery and a stomach as empty as her bank account kind of situation before. In truth, she blamed this unfortunate situation on the same person she blamed all the misfortunes of her adulthood. Neal Cassidy.

There was a time a few short months ago she would have done anything for the man responsible for her current circumstances. Neal had been too good to be true. A real Prince Charming, down to the supposed trust fund and a smile that made her believe in happy endings.

She’d been a sucker. She heard one was born every minute, she just never thought her time would come. After all, one of the few things she learned in the foster system was how to spot bullshit from a mile away. But he looked at her with his soulful eyes and whispered promises in his smoky voice and she fell for it. More than once, actually, and all she had to show for the wasted years was a voicemail box full of collection calls and a wolf at the door.

Because Neal Cassidy didn’t just leave her. He stole her identity, maxed out her credit cards, and took out half a dozen loans in her name. Then he proceeded to use the money to wine and dine a wide assortment of women, the sheer number of which would make Casanova blush. All the while professing his undying love and spending his days eating all her food and watching television from his favorite seat on the couch.

Seriously, you could still see the faint outline of his backside on the cushion.

As countless victims of his schemes started showing up at her door looking for the man who made them feel alive while killing them one dollar at a time, she listened to tears and rants and misery with ill-disguised impatience. How had she become the counselor to the trail of broken girls he left in his wake? When was it going to be her turn to moan and groan and swear she’d never love again?

Well, she did get around to the swearing to never love again part. Some mistakes don’t bear repeating.

The final straw happened two months ago. Neal had disappeared after their final fight. His righteous indignation at being called on his crap and inability to find a plausible excuse for the stack of overdue bills and statements she found stuffed in the back of his gym bag made it difficult to share the same space. She wanted him gone even as her hands itched to touch him one more time.

Unfortunately, leaving her drowning in debt with the knowledge he cheated on her for the majority of their relationship wasn’t enough for him. He decided to do some collateral damage on his way out of town.

He did the unforgivable. He went after Granny.

His target was meant to wound her. While he lied and schemed the entire time they were together, she had been an open book for the first time in her life so he knew Granny was the sole connection she formed as a foster. Her brief stay with the woman before she aged out of the system was a time of peace and healing. Granny was responsible for helping her get on her feet and the two maintained a friendship years later.

Emma received the frantic call from Ruby explaining her grandmother had been tricked into giving Neal a blank check so he could do her grocery run. Hours later, she received a notification from her bank saying her checking account had been wiped out. At that point, the tenuous control Emma had on her emotions disappeared. She sat on the kitchen floor of the apartment she was about to lose, staring at empty walls that still echoed with his laughter in her weaker moments, and she broke into a million pieces.

So it was no wonder she vowed to have her vengeance. To do anything and everything to make him pay. Luckily, since he skipped out on a court date, catching him would also get her paid.

Tracking him had taken more time than she liked to admit. She was good; even penniless and running out of options, she recognized her worth and knew she possessed hard to find skill sets. But she had a sinking sensation that he might be better.

Now she was stranded on the side of the road with nothing except her most uncomfortable shoes to keep her company. But damn did they make her legs look good and with everything else in her life collapsing around her, somehow that seemed important.

Squaring her shoulders, she climbed out of the car and pondered her next course of action. She was unfamiliar with the state road connecting the two small towns on the Maine coast, so she had no idea what the odds were that a good samaritan would happen along. She had just enough juice in her battery and lettuce in her account to call for an Uber to take her to the seedy nightclub where Neal was last seen. Or she could walk the rest of the way in her mile-high heels knowing she never looked better, even though she would probably not be able to move the next day without a significant amount of pain.

What she would do if she found him or where she would stay if she didn’t weren’t questions she was ready to entertain.

Sighing, she pulled out her phone and with a huff of frustration opened her app. Pleading with whatever powers that be to let her last long enough to see herself through to the other side of this, she leaned against her beaten down yellow Bug and waited for the black sedan to show.

Of course, her phone died immediately after she booked her ride, finally giving up the ghost even though she didn’t get a chance to see the name or license plate of her hired car. Getting more anxious by the minute, she paced along the shoulder, careful to keep on the pavement since the ground was soft from recent rain. After what seemed like forever, but had probably not been more than half an hour, the headlights of a lone car crested a nearby hill.

“About time,” she muttered. To make sure the driver knew she was not pleased with the delay or the prodding pace he maintained despite the fact the sky seemed ready to open at any moment, she moved out into the middle of the lane and placed her hand on her hips. Pride kept her from squinting even though the bright high beams made her eyes water as the car approached.

Slowing from a crawl to a stop, the driver put the car in park and jumped out. It was dark and the man was dressed all in black, but as he moved around to the front of the car, she got the impression of blue eyes and a stubble-covered jaw that could probably cut glass. Great, just what she needed. A sexy Uber driver.

“Alright there, love?”

With a British accent. He probably smelled like bacon, too.

“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting all night.”

Moving closer, he smiled with a hint of confusion. “Had I known you were waiting for me, I would have been along sooner. Tell me, do you always accost strange men in the dead of night on empty roads?”

“Only when I’m paying them to take me where I need to go,” she grumbled, walking toward the back door on the passenger side. She pulled it open as he protested, and glared at him over the top of the car.

“Love, I think there may be a bit of a mix-up—“

“It’s fine. I won’t give you a bad rating for being late as long as you don’t talk to me. I’ve been driving for hours to get here and I need to think.”

She heard him sigh and saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled at her again. “Very well. Would you like me to get your bags?”

“You’d have to go to a pawn shop in Boston to accomplish that,” she joked, dropping into the leather seat and noticing for the first time the expensive luxury of her rented carriage. She supposed if she was going to spend her last dime on a ride, she could have done far worse.

She resisted the urge to use the low ambient lighting of the dashboard to get a better look at her temporary chauffeur. The glimpse she got outside was more than enough to know she needed to keep her distance. It didn’t stop her from feeling the weight of his stare as he peeked over his shoulder while clicking on his seatbelt. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw his tongue flicker slowly over his bottom lip before he turned his attention back to the road.

“Nice dress. Where are we heading this fine night, Miss…?”

“You’re really terrible at this. Is it your first time being a driver for hire?”

“What gave it away, love? It’s quite an unexpected development that came about just this evening. But you know what they say, you never forget your first.”

It was everything she could do not to laugh. She had a feeling it would only encourage him and if she was heading into battle, she needed her wits about her. “The Snakehole Lounge.”

“At the risk of sounding cliche, why would a nice girl like you want to go to a place like that?”

“I’m not a nice girl,” Emma informed him without a hint of irony or bravado. “And your rating is going down with each syllable out of your mouth.”

“Tough lass,” he murmured. “But do yourself a favor. Stay away from the Snake Juice.”

Little did he know that even if she wanted to have a drink, and boy did she ever, she used the last of her meager funds to get to this backwater place and she wasn’t sure where her next meal would come from. “I’ll do my best.”

The rest of the ride passed in silence. She spent the time looking out the window at the trees flying by and trying to ignore how every time she looked away, her eyes caught his in the rearview mirror.

Honestly, it was probably a good thing they were the only people for miles around or he would have gotten them both killed.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of a shabby nightclub. Even the multitude of neon lights flashing “Girls! Girls! Girls!” and “Half-Price Beer Buckets” did little to enliven the dingy exterior. They didn’t bother with a bouncer, probably because no one actually wanted to get in.

Before she could say anything, her driver was out of the car and rounding his way to her door. She didn’t have a chance to object as he opened it and looked at her with avid curiosity. She had to admit she was impressed he didn’t give into it and ask any questions.

“Since we’re out of the car, am I allowed to speak again?”

Perhaps she had been too hasty in her internal praise. “Thanks for the ride. I hope your next passengers are more chatty since that’s what you’re into...overall, a solid three stars.”

“Three stars? I’d be surprised, but I had a feeling you were warming up to me between the baleful stares and eye-rolling.”

Gifting him with another of the said eye rolls, she adjusted the hem of her skirt to show a little more leg and walked away. She knew if she stayed a second longer she would give in to the almost magnetic pull of him and say something foolish like, ‘What’s your name?’

—

The inside of the establishment was every bit as horrible as the outside. The low lighting obscured the grime and wear that would be glaringly obvious otherwise. She wasn’t surprised. It seemed like the kind of place Neal would gravitate to since he was a dirty little rat.

Music heavy with bass pumped out a rhythm entirely too fast for the energy of the place. The few patrons who persevered this far into the night looked anemic as tired dancers did their best to act like they wanted to be there. Pulling her ID from the scrap of a bra she wore under her dress, she flashed it at the lone employee who manned the entrance and the bar. He gave it a cursory glance and turned back to his phone.

Snapping her fingers under his nose to get his attention, she pulled out a grainy photo of her quarry from the same location and asked, “Have you seen this man recently?”

“I’ve never seen anyone. Ever.” The man grumbled, not interested in the slightest. She wondered if he would stop her if she walked behind the counter and helped herself to a drink. She was leaning toward no and tempted to try.

“Tell you what buddy, take a good look at this picture. Then look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t seen him and we’ll end the night without any trouble.”

Something in her tone must have penetrated his disillusionment and he gazed at her with more interest than he’d probably shown anything in years. She waited as he glanced at the photo for a few seconds. “No, sorry. If he’s been here, it wasn’t during any of my shifts. Is he your husband or something?”

“He’s something alright,” she muttered. Defeated, she turned around without another word. She used the last of her resources to fund a wild goose chase, but at least it got her into town. Only thing left to do was find a park or quiet bench somewhere safe to sleep for a few hours and then she would tackle whatever came next. It wouldn’t be the first time she roughed it, although she had never attempted it in formal wear before.

Pushing the door open with unnecessary force, she immediately froze. Her three star driver was waiting at the curb as if it wasn’t the middle of the night and she hadn’t given him the brush off.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes, especially since I’m pretty sure our business is done,” she replied, walking past him and wishing the man could be a tiny bit less handsome. Now that the streetlights of the small town were there to illuminate their interactions, she couldn’t deny he was ridiculously attractive and exactly her type, complete with a black leather jacket and messy hair begging to be pulled. And, heaven help her, he was determined to extend their acquaintance apparently.

“It’s just good sense, love. I figured you’d be in need of transportation again, so why waste the gas to leave when I’d have to turn around after you called for your next ride.” He matched his stride to hers as she did her best to increase her pace.

Sighing, she stopped at the corner and looked at him. “Listen, I could tell you my phone is dead and I need to make a few more stops, that I’d pay you when you drop me off at my place at the end of the night, but it would be a lie. I’m chasing down a bounty. I need the money to pay for a ride and I need a ride to make the money. A smart man like you can see the problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

She turned away again but felt him leap into action behind her. He moved to cut off her escape and said, “Double or nothing.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Double or nothing, sweetheart. I take you to wherever you need to go tonight and when you collect your fee, you pay me double whatever the normal fare is for jaunts like these.”

“What if I don’t find him?”

“That’s where the nothing comes in, lass. A smart woman like you can see the benefit of such an arrangement.”

She studied him, hoping to find some ulterior motive in his seemingly selfless offer, but all she saw in his expression was an earnestness bordering on being painful and a thirst for adventure barely contained. Perhaps this was how he got his kicks in an isolated town. He propositioned strangers and gambled on fate. “No strings? No funny business?”

“This whole business is funny, but I’ll behave myself if you will. We’ll have much less satisfaction that way, but I’ll do my best to rally my spirits and overcome my disappointment.”

With a rueful shake of her head, she stuck out her hand and introduced herself. “I guess we’re doing this. I’m Emma Swan.”

“Killian Jones, driver extraordinaire and captain of this fine vessel, at your service. Where’s our next stop?”

“I need to go to every seedy bar and filthy dive in the area so you tell me, Captain.”

—

She wasn’t sure what it said about her newfound companion that he was able to rattle off several places in a matter of seconds, but as the night stretched on and the miles racked up, she found she rather liked her tour guide. Which was probably a good thing since at this rate, she would be splitting the bounty fifty-fifty with him. Who knew the twin cities of Storybrooke and Misthaven had so many sleazy places to hang out?

“I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of the line, Swan. Are you sure he’s in the area, because every traveler worth his salt makes a point to stop by Moe’s Tavern while visiting our fair city.”

“I can see why. The thrift-store ambience is delightful and the watered down drinks are to die for,” she murmured as she rested against the side of his car. She was tired and weak from hunger and as much as she wanted to curl up in the back seat and sleep, she was scared she’d get used to the comfort he was offering and do something she might regret later.

She was trying to figure out how to cut and run without seeming ungrateful when her stomach growled loudly.

In a playful tone belaying the concern in his eyes, he asked, “Was that your stomach? Bloody hell, am I in danger? Are you going to try to eat me to satisfy the beast within?”

Feeling a blush color her face, she avoided his gaze as she said, “Sorry, I...um, I skipped dinner.” And breakfast and lunch for that matter.

Taking up a position next to her, he nudged her with his shoulder. “Tell the truth, when was the last time you ate something, lass?”

“Hmm, what day is it again?”

“As I suspected. Come on, I know just the spot.” Pushing off from the car, he gently moved her and opened the door to the backseat.

She wanted to fight, to tell him she could take care of herself. She would have too, if she had any energy at all. Meeting his eyes for the first time, she joked, “You lost a gamble, Captain. That doesn’t mean you have to feed it.”

“I consider it an act of self-preservation. I figured you for a man-eater the first moment I laid eyes on you, but I’m afraid you might prove me right in unexpected ways if we don’t get some food in you soon.”

“As long as eyes are all you plan on laying on me, I accept your gracious offer,” she replied with a narrowed stare. Before Neal, she trusted her instincts. She would have insisted they were infallible, but he had shaken her confidence. She couldn’t risk being wrong about Killian Jones of the electric eyes and perpetual helpfulness.

“No strings. No funny business, Swan. Those are the rules. Get in, your chariot and dinner awaits.”

He stood a few feet from her, urging her into the car and she wasn’t sure what drove her to say it, but before she could change her mind, the words were out. “I’d rather ride in the front this time if that’s okay with you.”

His smile could have melted metal, tempted angels to fall, and inspired devils to repent. It was probably lack of rest and food causing her stomach to do flip flops. Or at least that was what she was going to tell herself.

“Your heart’s desire, Swan. I promise that’s all I want you to have…” He closed the back door with a firm finality that echoed through the night and somehow felt momentous in the thick air of summer. When he opened the passenger door, the light seemed warmer and it bathed him in softness and shadows. He waited patiently as if he knew something had shifted between them and he didn’t want any sudden movements to break the odd spell.

Then her stomach growled again, angry at the promise of food being delayed while she gawked at the man who was determined to rescue her in every imaginable way.

“And dinner, of course.”

“Of course,” she whispered, taking care not to make contact with his body as she slid into the seat. She was glad the door was already closed when she left out a huff of air. Good thing she had sworn off love or she may be in some danger.

@teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @stahlop @motherkatereloyshipper @xarandomdreamx @xsajx @klynn-stormz

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new-sandrafilter · 4 years

Video

The Making (and Re-Making) of Timothée Chalamet

BY DANIEL RILEY / PHOTOGRAPHY BY RENELL MEDRANO

He found superstardom and artistic acclaim instantaneously. Now, with unique candor, the actor of a generation reveals what it’s like to come of age in our very upside-down era.

The day after the Oscars in 2018, everything that had changed, changed back again. Timothée Chalamet had spent the previous months becoming known. He had acted in a film, Call Me by Your Name, which was critically acclaimed as well as an instant object of cultish admiration—and his performance had made him, at 22, the youngest person nominated for best actor in 80 years. He had, simultaneously, been transformed into the rarest of pop confections—fawned over by younger women, older men, and every demographic in between. And he had traveled without pause on the awards circuit since early autumn, back and forth from New York and Los Angeles, practically living out of the first-class lounge and the lobbies of the Bowery Hotel and the Sunset Tower.

But the day after the Oscars, the moment the clock struck midnight and his carriage turned into a pumpkin, Chalamet was right back where he'd been before the whole fantasy had begun: in New York, with no credit card, no apartment, and no longer any structured demands on his time and attention. Outsiders who had witnessed the arrival may have regarded this 22-year-old as being in possession of wealth and clout, but he was suddenly back on his own dime, which amounted to maybe five or six dimes, reticent to stay with family and friends whose lives he felt he was disrupting with all his new baggage. Of course they couldn't possibly comprehend the chemical reaction that had just transpired. They were still hydrogen and oxygen, and Timothée Chalamet was all of a sudden water.

And so, for three weeks, he disappeared into the wallpaper of the Lower East Side. Specifically, the wallpaper of a little apartment that the French street artist JR kept for visiting collaborators. Chalamet holed up against the ugly New York weather of late winter, and did the only thing he could think to do: learn lines. The King would be his first film since his pivot into fame, and he was anxious to get back to acting after such a long stretch of merely talking about acting. Even more, he needed to blot out the unrecognizable icon the internet was already beginning to make of Timothée Chalamet.

I met Timothée for the first time at the onset of that initial blush of fame, when all of us were being introduced to an actor who had both rare talent and the un-engineerable it that chings like an audible sparkle off a jewel in a cartoon. I wrote a story for this magazine about that first chapter in the arrival of a film star. This is the second chapter, the story of what's happened since. It wasn't evident yet, but those three weeks in New York in 2018 were the starting line of what would amount to a 30-month stretch of four new films, two new Oscar campaigns, some refreshing romance, an incessant awareness of the confusing image of himself as—what else to call it?—an emerging global movie star, and a constant concerted effort to figure himself out as both a young actor and a young person in the unceasing spotlight.

This summer, we were talking about all this on a little screened porch out back of a modest cabin in Woodstock when Chalamet recalled those three weeks. “My world had flipped,” he said. “But if I kicked it with my friends, things could still feel the same. I was trying to marry these two realities. But I don't even think I knew that was what I was doing. That dissonance was real. And thank God. Because I feel like if I'd caught up to it immediately, I would've been a psychopath or something.”

Out on that porch, I asked him a version of the same question over and over: What had the last two and a half years been like for him, as a human being? His response was a multi-hour monologue that I would characterize as: intense. He expressed unadulterated gratitude for his great good fortune. But he also expressed confusion and tension. He is firmly in a moment when he is concerned that everything he says or does or thinks will look or sound wrong. He backtracked a lot (“Wait, let me try that again”). He jumped on and off the record (“Sorry, sorry, sorry, this is just for you…”). It was important for me to know, he said, in order to communicate the context of his experience, if not the specifics.

“I want to get back to the undefined space again. I'm chasing a feeling.”

He lives in the same world all of us do—only with the potential for adoration and blowback turned up to 11. He seems, at once, to trust his own instincts while also second-guessing most thoughts the moment he's convinced of them. It is an exhausting way to be. At times, when he was up on his feet, in his T-shirt and shorts, pacing around the little screened porch, hands tugging at his mane, I could feel the gears grinding to the point of smoke. He wanted so desperately to get this right, to express what he really meant, to feel the right feelings, to live the right way, to be the right kind of man for the people in his life that he knows he can and should be, despite everything else, despite the noise. He's doing his best.

Timothée had rented the house for the month of July, as a little escape but also as an opportunity. He was slated to play Bob Dylan in a new biopic. No telling when it might film, given everything, but for now he had more time to himself than he'd had in years, which meant time to maybe huff the vapors of some Woodstock Dylanalia. “It's not like I'm suffering from lack of connection otherwise,” he said, “but it just really feels like I'm connecting to something here.” When he arrived, he discovered that his little house had a wall devoted to Dylan—to the albums he'd recorded in the run-up to his timeout in Woodstock in the late '60s. Timothée relished happening upon that wall his first day in the Airbnb. The universe offered signs if you nudged it toward coherence.

He knew what the cabin might seem like—like some young actor taking himself way too seriously, “treating himself like an artist.” But he was back and forth between Woodstock and New York all month, bombing up and down the interstate in the Honda sedan he'd rented from Enterprise. (He learned how to drive on Beautiful Boy.) All the while Dylan was top of mind. Timothée was late to the party but helplessly obsessed. He quoted him generously. He fixated on both the art and the persona. He marveled at the way the artist could be out there so much, making such an impact, while also keeping the real person obscured behind the music, the characters in the songs, the language. In the city, we spent time walking around Greenwich Village, Timothée in an identity-concealing face mask and bucket hat and sunglasses, able to search out old Dylan addresses in an invisibility cloak. He ran from site to site, with notes he'd kept while reading Dylan's memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, barreling up stairs and peering into windows. He was a 24-year-old actor, taking advantage of the pause between the second phase of his career and the third and thinking hard, daily, about how to play the next few years.

He rented the house in Woodstock, too, so that he could have a little space all to himself. He craved the privacy to try things and to fuck up. To make small mistakes now, out of view, when it was just him, when he was still young, so that he didn't have to worry about it later. At one point, he stood up and slapped an empty water bottle off the table so that it clattered against the screen of the porch. “I want to know what that sounds like!” he shouted. He hadn't taken many missteps yet, and it made him uncomfortable, wary, that he would someday. The month felt like a controlled burn. In the most innocent way, that was what Woodstock was about. He got to practice his guitar and harmonica in peace, cook himself his “shitty pasta” without judgment, permit himself space to keep growing up. So much was in the spotlight now. But in that cabin, he could sit on the couch for a while and re-familiarize himself with “the crease in the cushion” that he'd lost touch with over the past few years. The quiet. The stillness. That sunlight there coming through the trees. He could breathe a little. Sleep a little. It had all been so good for him so far. But the goodness made him anxious. When will the other shoe drop? Not there. He'd deleted Instagram off his phone. He'd stopped posting on Twitter. He was reading again. Listening to albums all the way through. Slowing down. What was it like to have lived these past two and a half years? It was like a lot of things, but here at the end of it, it just felt good to sleep.

Back at the start of the 30-month run that led to Woodstock, Timothée turned over the keys to JR's studio and went to Europe to shoot The King. The role was like none of the films he'd just received notice for. “Here I am on set with all these Hungarian men with scars on their faces, and they're like, ‘You're the center of the shot, you're the badass! And we know you tried to put on all this weight, but like: You're wearing all the chain mail.’ If they took the chain mail off, my throat is still this big…” There he was trying to keep in perspective this new fame, this new validation, this new temptation toward ego, all while being thrust into the center of “something called The motherfucking King.”

When he returned to New York that summer, he skipped off the atmosphere again with another awkward reentry. One moment he was on the battlefield of the biggest-budget drama he'd yet experienced, the next he was “back in New York, on the A/C/E at Port Authority, just like, What the fuck is going on?” It was a pattern over the past few years. The calmly intense immersion into work, the “thud of lost purpose,” as he called it, when the work ended. It happened the same way in the fall of 2018 with Little Women—reunited with Greta Gerwig and Saoirse Ronan and the crew from Lady Bird. There was just an ease with which he plugged in with them, “a vocabulary of friendship” that existed there.

Timothée's career thus far has been filled with these sorts of friendships, notably those across generational lines. Even a casual observer may have picked up on it. Those glommings-on to older people in his life. Armie Hammer. Kid Cudi. Greta Gerwig. When I asked Gerwig to comment on the arc she's witnessed up close, from Lady Bird to Little Women, she wrote a note about “my friend Timmy”: “It's hard for me now, because I'm his friend, to see him strategically.… I love talking to him. We can get on the phone and talk for an hour or more without even realizing it, just skipping from subject to subject, making jokes, me feeling old and happy and him being funny and anxious and delightfully all over the place.” It's an odd gap he finds himself in—forced to be more accelerated than most 24-year-olds while also having not lived enough life yet to fit in absolutely with the people he enjoys spending time with most. On a recent visit with his grandmother in New York, she surprised him by saying, “I wish you would hang out with people your own age more often. It must be so weird.” It made him chuckle. Even she'd noticed. She might be right. But how could he resist the orbit of these creative geniuses he'd so long admired and who were filled with so much knowingness?

“I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles.”

In the winter of 2019, another Oscar campaign left him feeling disoriented all over again. Everything, Timothée said, was exactly the same as the first time except him. He'd put in this undeniable performance, but maybe one that sparked a little less for Oscar voters than that first kiss with a stranger. Now he was in all the same rooms as before, the same lunches and dinners and cocktail parties, shaking hands with the same Academy members who showed up at everything to get a little nibble of the freshest biscuit, growling ominous things at him, like: You don't have my vote yet.… “I really don't know how to talk about this stuff, man,” he told me, “because my experience of it is at the center of it. There's just some dark energy at these things, and this time around I felt like I could see it. And yet I'm thinking, Why isn't this going the exact same way?”

He wasn't nominated for Beautiful Boy, but the fresh air came, as it always seemed to, on the set of the next film: Wes Anderson's The French Dispatch. The movie is about a fictional English-language magazine (based on The New Yorker of the midcentury) and is structurally organized like the magazine itself, featuring short pieces at the “front” of the movie and a triptych of long features at the back. Timothée costars in the second feature, about a May '68-style student-protest leader named Zeffirelli and the middle-aged magazine journalist (Frances McDormand) assigned to report on his cause.

“I had seen Timmy in Lady Bird and Call Me by Your Name,” Anderson wrote to me, “and I never had the inconvenience of ever thinking of anybody else for this role even for a second. I knew he was exactly right, and plus: He speaks French and looks like he might actually have walked right out of an Éric Rohmer movie. Some time around 1985. A slow train from Paris, a backpack, a beach for 10 days in bad weather. He's not any kind of type—but the New Wave would have had a happy place for him.”

The privilege of early fame that Timothée most appreciates is the ability to choose the directors he works with. His role in The French Dispatch is a minor one, but it's a Wes Anderson movie—it's as simple as that. Due to the episodic nature of the film, some of the other “stories” were already being shot when Timothée arrived in Angoulême, a town that reminded him of the one he spent time in growing up, “so French it was like a caricature,” he said. Timothée had the opportunity, then, to hang with some of the elders he doesn't act with, like Jeffrey Wright, Bill Murray, and other seasoned members of the Wes Anderson troupe. “It was immediately as if it wasn't his first time with our group,” Anderson explained. “He was somehow already part of the family. The youngest member.”

Timothée had seen McDormand around for years, but he'd never felt like she was someone he could approach. “We'd shared an agent,” he said. “And it was no disrespect to me, but I hadn't been in any movies yet. What business do I have talking to Frances McDormand? But now, and this is the gift of acting, I really feel myself coming into my own as a community of thespians, as opposed to actors. And man, that sounds pretentious, but I just mean it's not about the fucked-up ladder of success and un-success, and being the guy or the girl, and then being off the list… That's not what I'm talking about with her on set, that's not what she's espousing to me. She's talking about a long career. She's talking about marriage with a creative partner and consultant. So to be able to have conversations like that and then a story line in the movie where they're kind of on an equal field? Even if she's an experienced, wise woman and he's an idealistic, naive boy? That's the exact relationship of exchange I want with my intergenerational peers.”

There's a particularly memorable scene in The French Dispatch, reporter and subject having fallen into bed together, when there's a knock at the door. Timothée looks at McDormand, anxious about who's there, mortified when McDormand informs him it's his mother. There, in that scene, we see all the desire of Zeffirelli—this energetic young man with all the right intentions, who strains to be intellectually and emotionally riper—clash with the reality of his age. It felt familiar to me, and no doubt to Timothée. It was some of my favorite acting in the film. I asked McDormand if there was anything in their scenes that struck her as particularly mature for someone his age. “Maturity is not something a fellow actor is the most concerned with,” she said. “Playfulness, discipline, and rigor. I do recall, during our scene in bed, the crew responding to his work with true respect for his focus. He was bringing it and we sat up and paid attention.” Anderson added: “I think my favorite moments with Timmy during a scene were the ones where I saw him pause and find a new attack. A new angle, which he does very clearly and assertively. What I love is how he will surprise you with something new, completely unexpected and perfect.”

One night, while McDormand was shooting a scene without Timothée, her husband, Joel Coen—he of the Brothers—asked Timothée if he wanted to go out for a steak. Over dinner, Timothée grilled Coen about Dylan. He knew Coen was a fan and had steeped in it on Inside Llewyn Davis. “He almost seemed weary of even talking about this stuff, it was so big and potent,” Timothée told me. But Coen noted that the truly incredible thing about Dylan was not so much the quality, which was obvious, but the quantity—the rapid amount of work in short succession, one groundbreaking album after another, in those early years. That takeaway resonated deeply with Timothée. Especially as he reflected on it from summer 2020, during the pause, during the moment of no work. That gush from Dylan made him want to work—harder, longer, better, more.

A week after our conversation in Woodstock, Timothée and I were in New York City, sitting on a bench along the Hudson, talking about what he's looking for when work resumes. “I want to get back to the undefined space again,” he said. “I'm chasing a feeling. When you think you're doing some great thing, it's probably something you've done before, and when you really fucking have no clue, that's when you're doing something on the edge, good or bad.”

Timothée's mask had slipped down his face as he was saying this, and two young women, about his age, approached cautiously. “Would you mind if we got a…,” they asked, and he hopped up without hesitation. “How'd you recognize me?” he said, friendly, but genuinely curious, as if he hadn't just been shouting about art in a voice that sounded a lot like Laurie from Little Women or Timmy from late-night shows.

“Was it the scrawny limbs or the hair?” I asked him as he sat back down.

“Definitely the first.”

From France, last spring, it was straight to Hungary—right back to the exact apartment in Budapest he'd stayed in while shooting The King—to start work on Dune. Very few actors had become as famous without a blockbuster. And while he'd really gotten it down how to act on an indie set, how to make every second and every take count, he knew this would be something altogether different. It wasn't just the shoot that would prove taxing. A film of Dune's scale would likely be the can opener to a whole other stratum of Hollywood prominence.

Director Denis Villeneuve told me Timothée was his “first and only choice” to play Paul Atreides, “the one name on the page.” When they met to discuss the prospect, Villeneuve told Timothée how happy he was to finally meet the young actor. And Timothée had to remind him that they'd met before, when Timothée read for Villeneuve's Prisoners. “ ‘Of course!’ ” Villeneuve remembered. “He did a great audition, but he didn't physically fit the part. He was probably swearing at me because I didn't take him.” Timothée was party to so many stories like that one—glancing interactions with these heroes of his before he'd broken through. It reminded me of the relationship between freshmen and seniors in high school. The freshmen remember everything about the seniors; the seniors hardly notice the freshmen. But we all become peers eventually.

“I felt there was one being on this planet right now that would be able to portray Paul Atreides,” Villeneuve said—referring to the hero of the 1965 Frank Herbert novel, who transforms from an unassuming heir into a messiah figure, a charismatic outsider and commander of men and women (and sandworms). I read Dune for the first time this summer and was shocked by the source material, how much I'd consumed in culture that had borrowed from it. Star Wars. Alien. The Matrix. Game of Thrones. Paul, therefore, is a type we're familiar with but also possessing singular characteristics Villeneuve wanted Timothée for: “He has a deep, deep intelligence in the eyes. Something you cannot fake. The kid is brilliant. Very intellectual, very strong. And you see that in the eyes. He also has a very old soul. You feel that he has already lived through several lives. And at the same time, he looks so young on camera. Sometimes he'd look almost 14 years old. He has this kind of general youth in his features and the contrast with the old-soul quality in his eyes—it's a kid that knows more about life than his age. Finally: He has that beautiful charisma, the charisma of a rock star. That Paul will lead the whole population of a planet later. Timothée has that kind of instant charisma onscreen that you can find only sometimes in the Old Hollywood stars from the '20s. There's something of a romantic beauty to him. A cross of aristocracy and being a bum at the same time. I mean, Timothée is Paul Atreides for me. It was a big relief that he agreed, because I had no plan b.”

“If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.”

I asked Villeneuve if he noticed Timothée struggling at all to adjust to the larger-scale production. “It didn't show when he was on set, but I think for him the big thing was to learn how to create his own bubble on set. So that he would not have to try to be the friend of everyone. When you're on a smaller set, when there's 25 people, you can be friendly with 25 people. When there's 800 people around, you cannot be friends with 800 people.” He chuckled. “It's too much. So how to save your energy, how to focus, how to give himself permission to be in his bubble and make sure that his bubble is respected.”

As ever, Timothée had a special affinity with those people on set who were a little older, a little wiser. Villeneuve said Timothée was constantly speaking with him and his wife in this open, vulnerable way about his concerns, his fears, how to deal with certain pressures. Villeneuve also described for me Timothée's relationships with his fellow actors, particularly the trio of Josh Brolin, Oscar Isaac, and Jason Momoa. “I felt like Timothée was deeply seduced—or maybe not seduced, but I just felt it was like a kid being with older brothers,” Villeneuve said. “He was younger, he was the little one on set, and everybody loved him. There's a scene in the movie where Timothée runs into the arms of Jason Momoa, and Jason grabs him like a puppy and lifts him into the air like he was a feather. And that's real! They really loved each other. It was very beautiful to see this young man being influenced by these people he admires.”

“His positive energy is infectious,” Zendaya, his nearest peer in the film, told me. “He really is so much fun to be around. We have very similar humor, and we can keep a joke going for a long time, but when the cameras start rolling and it's time to work, you can see it's game time, and he just taps into this brilliant intensity. It's awesome to witness.” Villeneuve underlined the energy as well, describing for me just having seen Timothée the night before we spoke, and marveling at “that beautiful, strong candor.”

“I will say that looking at Timothée working, I had a deep feeling that I was watching the birth of something,” Villeneuve added. “Not that it's for me—I say that with humility, because I feel that birth in all the movies he's done so far. I'm feeling it's someone that has insane potential. When I say potential, I don't want to reduce what he's doing right now, not at all. It's just that sometimes you are in front of somebody and you have the feeling you are in contact with a strong artist and that artist, his identity is still growing, building itself, learning its boundaries, learning how to protect some part of it. I think that we are witnessing something beautiful right now.”

At the end of summer 2019, Timothée finally resurfaced from Planet Dune. He had been on social media only sporadically while shooting for most of 2019, and so, for his vast base of fans, it was an overdue glimpse of the object of their affection. First up was the Venice Film Festival and the premiere of The King. There were clothes and Kid Cudi cameos and charming red-carpet interviews. It was an example of the sort of stretch, in the gaps between shoots, when Timothée could indulge his passions for hip-hop and fashion and all these things he'd loved all his life that were suddenly accessible. It was another of the delirious disorientations of the past few years—the way that people who were once subjects of his intense fandom were suddenly a part of his life as friends or acquaintances happy to have him around. He might still embarrass himself at times, helplessly rapping back lyrics to his hip-hop heroes or gushing like a broken dam about new music or clothes or art made by the makers in his life, but they were cool with him so long as he actually kept his cool.

Timothée also spent the end of last summer promoting The King, alongside his costar Lily-Rose Depp, whom he'd been dating for about a year. He is serious about keeping his former relationship with Depp to himself, but he did share one very sweet, very funny, very sad anecdote that encapsulates the spectrum of great and terrible that accompanies the private life of someone new to mega-fame like Timothée.

After Venice, he and Lily-Rose took a few days for themselves in Capri, where they were photographed by paparazzi. One image, in particular, circulated in which they were making out on the deck of a boat. Timothée is contorting himself into the kiss and looks a little awkward. Many people had their laughs. And some even suggested that the photo was staged for publicity. “I went to bed that night thinking that was one of the best days of my life,” Timothée told me. “I was on this boat all day with someone I really loved, and closing my eyes, I was like, indisputably, ‘That was great.’ And then waking up to all these pictures, and feeling embarrassed, and looking like a real nob? All pale? And then people are like: This is a P.R. stunt. A P.R. stunt?! Do you think I'd want to look like that in front of all of you?!”

This was how things worked now. He'd disappeared into those four straight films and emerged into a new paradigm—one that followed him into the holiday season of last year and a whole new level of exposure with Little Women. Here was this film about sisterhood, female intimacy, and a feminist critique of art and commerce. And yet Timothée was still the shiniest object in the set for so many fans. “I'm very used to answering questions about Timothée's hair from 15-year-old girls,” Saoirse Ronan joked with me. “I imagine that's probably what you're going to ask me about?”

Ronan has the unique perspective of having filmed and then promoted two movies with Chalamet during the past three years, and has as clear an eye as anyone onto this early phase of his career. “He's had such incredible opportunities, and he doesn't let the reality of that pass him by,” she said. “He's incredibly gracious and grateful in relation to his work and the people he works with. I think he's become more open as an actor. He knows his instrument more. I think he works even harder now because there are projects that are on his shoulders in a way that they weren't before. And of course he's been totally catapulted into this whole other realm of attention and notoriety. So he's also having to balance the incredible fame and attention, which would completely freak me out if it was something I had to go through.”

“I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

When Timothée and I were sitting by the Hudson that afternoon back in summer, there were those two young women who approached him for a photo. But there were also two other young women who caught an eyeful of his profile as they strolled by and then surreptitiously positioned themselves out of his sight line but still in mine. They did that thing where one pretends to take a picture of the other while actually shooting back over her shoulder in selfie mode. That charade went on for five minutes or so while Timothée exercised his guts about reuniting with Gerwig and Ronan on Little Women, and though I was nodding along, I was also marveling at the lengths to which those two fans were willing to go to get a picture of him.

I asked Ronan what she's noticed about that level of attention, sitting beside him for so much of it. “I'm always kind of shocked by those things—when any one person can just completely take over people's lives so much,” she said, laughing a little incredulously. “But I'm also not surprised. There just aren't many other young male actors out there like him, who are able to hold an audience in the way that he does. His look is so magnetic and beautiful. One of the things that we spoke about a lot when we were doing Little Women, in terms of our characters, but also in terms of myself and him as people, is that we both have this masculinity and femininity equally. And I think that that's one of his strengths, is that he can be incredibly sort of feminine and sensitive and sensual, and also he's a guy that, you know, girls fancy. So he covers so much ground in terms of popularity. But at the end of the day, he's always gonna have this skill. He can be cute, but that only gets you so far.… And so I've seen him learn how to separate himself from all that other stuff when he's on set, when he's working.”

In Woodstock, Timothée had described to me with greatest admiration the way that Ronan can act in these films, at this highest level of acclaim and attention, but also remove herself, uncomplicatedly, from all the fuss: “She is like a superhero when it comes to this sort of thing, going through it so healthy—with the asterisk being excellent work across the board and four Oscar nominations. I think her, like, DNA of self is really morally right.” She knows herself extremely well, he said, and has the confidence to give up only so much of herself. Whereas he feels he is calibrating constantly how much of his true self to reveal. “Saoirse's one of my best friends in the world—at least I think we're best friends. And she's never judged me for…the Coachella of it all.” That is, the part of him that can't resist fanning out backstage with his favorite musicians or occasionally allowing himself to be in the spotlight even as he talks about preserving his privacy.

“He's 24, and he's gonna have a great time, and I would never judge him. I've been to Coachella; I just never got photographed at Coachella,” Ronan said, chuckling. “But yeah, we talk about that sort of stuff all the time. We've weirdly gone through this together for the last few years. We've both become more accessible. But he's had one sort of attention—I do feel like boys get it on a whole other level. I know that ultimately what he wants is to be good at his job. And that will always steer him on the right path. I've always let him know, and he's always let me know, we can talk to each other, and we do. He has good people around him, and I'm one of them, and Greta as well—we all kind of look out for one another.”

Timothée spent late May and early June asking questions of himself: What can I do? What is my role in all this? He felt conflicted when he sprang to action and conflicted when he stood still. But never did things feel less uncertain, less self-conscious, than when he was marching, anonymously, alongside hundreds or thousands of others in Los Angeles in the wake of the murder of George Floyd. It was an active way to participate—meaningful action, without being showy, without flexing any of the levers of fame or power. He was going to get hit no matter what he did, so he tried to follow his instincts of what felt humble, responsible, right.

“This idea,” he said, “that power is the mass body politic organized—and how many bodies can you get together—that makes sense to me.” He didn't disappear but, rather, stripped himself of his him-ness and became one body, among many, taking up space and participating in an unequivocal statement. “With a mask, a hood, a hat, glasses—my face is deleted,” he explained, “and I'm literally presenting a physical form, you know?” A single body in space that, like a vote cast in an election, is democracy embodied, but anonymous. The same unit of power as anyone else. “People might find it disingenuous, but I found it really grounding,” he said. “It was Oh shit, I don't feel out of place—and yet I haven't been in a crowd like this for years.”

He spent much of the summer talking with others about how a person should be in a cultural and political moment such as this one. “After a day of protests,” he said, “I'd ask friends if they ‘felt good.’ If we do, is it a good thing to feel good, or does that mean we're doing it for the wrong reasons? How much do I want to put on social media? Is it a virtue signal to put it on social media? But all social media is performative, right?” I heard him ask dozens of self-interrogating questions like these. He cares so genuinely about doing the right thing, about doing well by his family, his friends, and his fans. But he didn't want to misuse his privilege or his platform, to overreach so that the gravity of his fame sucked up anything from anyone else whose moment it was to speak. He didn't want to take up room; he wanted to help center other voices. On Instagram, he posted videos each day during the first week of marches in Los Angeles—no directives into camera, just an implicit charge to his followers: Show up. Listen. Be a body.

“I have so many thoughts on so much of it,” he said, “but I don't see the benefit of putting it down for consumption until I've really worked out exactly how I feel about it all. Who benefits from my half-baked ideas?” Who cannot relate to this in 2020? Who would want any of their dinnertime conversations with family and friends these past months chiseled into the stone of the internet? “I care so much about this stuff. But I would never want my caring to be misconstrued. I don't want my caring to be about me in any way.”

God, this stuff twisted him up. He knows how much has gone his way. But from the summit of good fortune and power, is it better to speak constantly—or to shut up, put on the glasses, pull down the hood, and live and act according to one's convictions as one individual among many individuals? To march. To vote. To speak through action rather than words. Staying in motion, showing up, being a body—it's a good place to start while he works out the rest of how he's meant to live a life true to his values with everyone watching.

He's seeking out the right path, the right people—with help from his “intergenerational peers” and Dylan and anyone else he can find. He wants the benefit of their knowledge and experience, and he's okay if it's slow going to accrue it. He's open to playing the role of the novice still. But there have also been things in his life these past of couple years that have made him realize, as he puts it, “adults are just kids a little bit older.” When he returned to New York from Los Angeles this summer, it wasn't to his childhood apartment or to a borrowed living space of an acquaintance. It was to his very own apartment, his first, in a little wedge of Manhattan he loved for being nowhere, but on the edge of several somewheres. He relished the mundanity of setting up his own place. To hear him talk about a first trip to CB2 was like hearing another person talk about their first trip to a movie set. “But I think if people saw what my apartment looked like, they'd be like, ‘Oh! This kid has no fucking clue what he's doing.’ ” He is so young and he is so old. It is his gift. He is so patient when he can suppress being so restless. So careful with the long arc of a career when he can resist obsessing over the instant. He is so confident when he centers on the work and so searching when he gets sucked down into questions about the rest of his life. Will he always be this way? This pliable and open? This self-reflective and intentional? He trusted so little of his new life, but he trusted his talent. That was the key. He knew he was as good as anyone at playing other people, even if he was still figuring out how to play himself.

We spent a good amount of time in Woodstock and in New York City and on the phone talking about where his career might take him from here. With great humility, he acknowledges his skill. But he has been thinking a lot about the difference between preternatural talent and mastery—the work that's required to ascend from that floor of young greatness to the ceiling of realized potential. That said, he's wise enough to know that his career could pivot in an entirely different direction—that the world could change or the opportunities could dry up or “eventually there's gonna be an Oscar Isaac in his 30s who's gonna bust out of Juilliard who's gonna be the next great actor and make me feel like a piece of shit. But right now…”

He told me, “If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.” To show up with Call Me by Your Name—he knows that that film was a unicorn, the sort an actor works his whole life to find. And the immediate Oscar nomination had freed him up to not spend the rest of his career chasing a certain kind of role that might lead to a certain kind of validation. “I'm not gonna be bashing my head against a wall trying to prove that I'm an actor,” he said. “The train can run over my leg and leave a track forever, and yet the point of entry for me…,” he said, trailing. “That's a good feeling.”

He looks at all these careers—all the careers you might expect: DiCaprio, Bale, Phoenix, Depp. And he does his best to separate the strands of each of their careers that might still apply to his. But all of the rules for acting success that those performers played by, for how to be in the public eye, for career arcs and longevity—those rules are irrelevant now. Hollywood is different, the media is different, fans are different, movies are different, the world is different. “I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

And so it's occurring to him that the next few years will be Timothée finding the path that's right for him. Lately, he's thought about this next phase as shining a flashlight into the dark. There are potential projects that excite him considerably, some of which he's had a greater hand in engineering. There is, of course, the Dylan movie. But there's the question of how to spend the rest of the year, when most Hollywood productions are still paused. “The rest of the year,” he says, “I'm just thinking about Trump, man.” But after that…maybe Europe for a while? The Woodstock experiment did what he'd hoped it would—a little space, somewhere else. He would love to just breathe some different air again.

He was at another pivot point, as he had been when he and I were first together for Chapter 1. In the winter of 2018, the work had been validated, the public profile had developed suddenly. But the temptations, the confusion, the money—those were all lagging indicators. By mid-2020, all had caught up. And the money, in particular, was on his mind one afternoon in New York. We were talking about how a person might stay true to one's roots with that sort of thing when the reality, for him at least, had changed with Dune. I told him that one of the things that seemed to differentiate him from young stars of the past, and perhaps was a feature of his generation, was the way that material possessions didn't consume him. He didn't buy much stuff. He didn't own a car or a house. He liked borrowing clothes, but not necessarily keeping them. He agreed with the characterization, but then got immediately twisted up about a potential future hypocrisy: “But Dan, what if I do grow to like fancy shit?!”

Boomeranging back home after the surreal adventures out in the world—that was a good and grounding thing for him. Over the weeks we were talking, he spent time with his folks, delivered some COVID groceries to his grandma, and was in touch with his sister daily. And in New York, he and I kept running into ghosts. One afternoon, when we crossed the West Side Highway at Houston Street, he gestured at the athletic complex at Pier 40, where he played soccer growing up. He scampered over to a vending machine there to grab a bottle of water. When he pulled open his wallet to pay, he had only twenties. “Bad metaphor! Bad metaphor!” he screamed, jumping away from the vending machine, as though it were one of the great threats to his selfhood. This was the sort of innocuous moment that will hum with outsize resonance for me when I think about Chapter 2 from the future. All the things that one would expect to happen had happened in the first two and a half years since the arrival of a comet, and yet he was suspicious of so much of it.

Here is another way I will remember him from this moment: sitting on that porch in Woodstock—breeze and birds in the trees, sunlight in the leaves—looking for a higher power. Or at least expressing openness, as a nonreligious person, to the idea of some central organizing force in the universe—because, given everything lately, there has to be or we're fucked, right? Some of these searching things he said to me could be mistaken as a person spinning out a little. But that wasn't it at all. There was such calm. There was such contentment with the grace that had been afforded his life and career thus far, and where each might take him next. He was questing, yes—but he was firmly at the controls. The flashlight in the dark. Someone moving forward with great confidence into the unknown, with eyes wide, mouth shut, and ears listening more than they ever had before. There were no models for how a person like him should be anymore. There were no longer any adults who weren't just kids a little bit older. There were no blueprints for how to shape a career—so much had changed. There was only a head and a heart, his, and a feeling for the moment. “Maybe I'll never do a great work of art again, but I just feel like I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles,” he said on that porch in Woodstock. “When you think about Dylan. When you think about what Joel Coen said about the rapidness of the art, I'm just like: Trust the beat of your own drum. Give this its best shot. Give your artistry its best shot.”

Daniel Riley is a GQ correspondent and the author of ‘Barcelona Days,’ which was published this past summer.

A version of this story originally appears in the November 2020 issue with the title "Wild Heart."

PRODUCTION CREDITS: Photographs by Renell Medrano Styled by Mobolaji Dawodu Tailoring by Ksenia Golub Produced by Wei-Li Wang at Hudson Hill Production

#timmy #timothee chalamet #gq interview #super long post

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collecting-stories · 3 years

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Flowers on the Grave - c. 10 - JJ Maybank

Summary: Everything finally comes to a head.

A/N: So...massive thanks for following this series all the way through to the end. Seriously, means so much to me cause I was so unsure of this when I started it.

You Are Ok Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

✞ I was on the verge of breaking down when you came around ✞

The phone rang, shrill in your ear, and you felt like a weight had settled on your chest as you waited for someone to answer.

Timothy was talking about the same three things that he had overwhelmed you with at the Wreck. Getting his pilot’s license, becoming a missionary, and his strength in the Lord. When he said it you could almost feel your father’s gaze burning into you, your own strength barely a register on the scale.

He had questioned you further the night before, after he had sent everyone home you had spent nearly the entire night sitting at the kitchen table with the two of them, demanding a repentance for your sins as you tried not to tell them everything that you had done to betray them. If they knew half of it...if only there were nunneries for Baptists. Your eyes had stayed on the clock, watching minutes turn to hours and knowing that JJ was waiting for you. That you wouldn’t make it.

Now you sat in the living room, watching those same minutes tick away, an escape plan the only thing on your mind as you listened to all the voices around you mingling. All you could imagine was yourself with JJ in Charleston and you desperately wanted to be there, wished you could transport yourself there.

You excused yourself from the couch beside Timothy, walking into the kitchen under the guise of needing something to drink. In actuality you just needed the moment to breathe. Everyone in the living room seemed fixated on the impending nuptials, regardless of the fact that Timothy had yet to propose to you. It didn’t seem to bother anyone, Timothy’s mom and your’s gushing about what sort of dress you would wear and your flowers. Every second spent with them felt like you were sinking further beneath the waves, unable to get your bearings, you imagined yourself drowning in all of this.

You glanced over your shoulder to make sure no one was watching you before sneaking out the kitchen door, pulling it closed behind you so that it didn’t make any noise. The back patio had been cleaned off and all the kids were around the front of the house, playing between the church and the front porch.

“Ace,” the familiar voice came from your left and you almost burst into tears at the sight of JJ stepping onto the patio, careful to stay out of view of the window.

“JJ...I-”

“It’s okay,” he said, cutting you off. His eyes looked bloodshot, more so than when he smoked too much and you realized that he looked like he had been crying. “It’s okay...I know your family is inside and all, I just wanted to stop by to, uh, to see you...” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“What, I don’t-”

“I understand, I swear. I knew that you might not come, that wasn’t like...I get it.” He insisted.

“No, JJ...” you shook your head. Careful not to draw attention to yourself as you slipped passed the window to meet him at the edge of the patio, you placed your hands on either side of his face, heartbreaking at the way he turned his eyes away, “my parents found your vape pen in the house. I...my dad like freaked out on me, I’ve never seen him like that. I couldn’t come to see you, I wanted to, so badly...I still want to.” You swore. “I love you.”

The words processed a little slowly, giving you the opportunity to watch JJ’s face as realisation sunk in. You hadn’t left him waiting at the Phantom because you were choosing what your family wanted, you hadn’t been able to get there. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I swear. I told you I was coming and I was. I just-”

“Hey, it’s alright, I get it.” He promised. He knew how dependent on your family you felt. How dependent they made you feel.

“Is it too late?” You asked, looking back to the screen door as if someone would walk through. The bruise on your arm was still there, stinging under the sleeve of your dress but somehow it didn’t feel as harsh as before, as much like a shackle as it had last night, “is it too late to leave?”

JJ looked surprised, “you still want to?”

“Yes. But we have to go now.” You knew there was no way you could go back inside that house.

The renewed sense of optimism that gripped JJ was not without understanding that your window oy opportunity was limited. Leave now and you still had the chance to make it to Charleston before dark, wait and there was a chance someone would step outside and see you.

“Okay.”

Your absence was becoming increasingly noticeable until finally your mother stood up, promising that she would be back in just a moment, she needed to find you first. “She has a tendency to wander off, probably playing with the children.” She explained as she walked into the kitchen, positive that she had just heard the screen door creak shut.

Stepping out onto the porch, she looked quickly around the yard, a survey of the area within the trees, looking for you by the clothesline or the church or the old swings that had been set up nearly five children ago. You weren’t there though, the yard was empty. She pushed the door open again, walking back into the kitchen and catching sight of the refrigerator. A note, scrawled on the grocery pad that was kept by the door, had been tacked to the front of the fridge along with a delicate gold cross hanging from a chain.

Mom + Dad,

Sorry, I told dad I wouldn’t marry Timmy and I meant it. Call you when I can.

Ace

Your mother screamed so loud it was a wonder that you didn’t hear it, running through the trees with JJ, your hand in his. Once the woods parted to make way for the closest drive-way you saw JJ’s dirt bike. There were plenty of times that you had almost taken him up on the offer of riding on the back of the bike with him but you always backed out at the last second, far too terrified of falling off or getting hurt. Today you hardly thought twice of it, climbing on the rungs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You leaned forward, kissing JJ’s cheek before he kicked up the stand and took off, “I love you.”

“Love you.” JJ replied quickly before taking off, grinning at the feeling of your grip on his shoulders tightening.

The middle of the afternoon was far different from midnight and Heyward’s was open, Pope and Kiara coming out when they heard the sound of the dirt bike, as if they’d been waiting. The moment you each dismounted Kiara was pulling you into a hug, swearing that she ‘knew it’, knew you weren’t standing him up. She passed you over to Pope, who hugged you and whispered in your ear that he was glad you came, knowing without having to tell you that you understood just how much this relationship meant to JJ.

“Come on,” JJ grabbed your hand, pulling you away from them. “We gotta go.”

“You can take ten seconds to give me a hug JJ,” Kiara said, already pulling him into a hug.

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, hugging her back and lifting her a little off the ground before letting her go, “we need to leave, I love you guys, I’ll see ya soon.”

“See ya man,” Pope hugged him, “call us.”

JJ was guiding you away from them again, over to where he had docked the Phantom. He had taken your duffel bag the day before and it was still sitting there under the bench along with his backpack. The last time you had been on a boat with JJ had been out on the Pogue, in the Marsh. This was a lot different, the outlet to the ocean just beyond your vision but getting closer as JJ steered the Phantom. Kiara and Pope shouted their goodbyes from the jetty and you waved, suddenly feeling like that weight that settled on your chest was gone.

“Are you freaking out?” JJ asked, catching your attention.

You got up from the bench, careful as you walked over to him. “No but I'm sure my mom is.” You replied, laughing a little when JJ wrapped his arm around your waist and guided you in front of him, putting you between him and the wheel. You turned your head, tilting back to kiss him.

A police car rushed past Kiara and Pope as they stood outside of Heyward’s, heading in the direction of the church and your house. When Shoupe pulled in, the yard was quiet. Your siblings and their families were all inside, your oldest sister trying to do damage control with Timothy’s family while your mom and dad stood outside, your mom clutching the letter and the necklace.

The cross was something that your mom had given you on your thirteenth birthday, a symbol of your devotion and love for the Lord, now it was tucked in her hand as she tried not to absolutely fall apart. Timothy’s mother was simply upset that you had seemingly skipped out on her son but your mom was dealing with the reality that you were gone and she had no idea where you would even go.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Shoupe asked, skeptical as he took down your information. You were 18, according to your parents, 18-year-olds didn’t need permission to leave home without telling anyone. So far, he was unconvinced of a crime.

“Hardly an hour ago.” Your mom replied, thrusting the note into his hand, “she left this...I know that boy she was sneaking around with put her up to it.”

“Do you know this boy’s name?” he asked, looking over the vague note you had left.

“JJ Maybank.” Your father said.

Shoupe frowned, if there was any name that immediately sparked his interest it was JJ’s. It didn’t matter whether JJ was guilty of something or not, nine times out of ten Shoupe was positive that any misconduct on the island could be traced back to JJ and his friends. “Look, usually in cases like this I would tell you that, your kid is 18, if you haven’t heard from her in 24 hours then I’ll file a missing persons. But I know that Maybank kid...I’ll talk to his friends, see if anyone knows anything. You hear from your daughter, you let me know.”

“Thank you, deputy.” Your father said, his arms around your mom as she continued to cry. You were gone and he wasn’t sure if he was angrier that you had walked out on your family’s expectations of you or that you were embarrassing them in front of a potential future husband. Either way, the thought that something they did contributed to your disappearance never occured to them.

Charleston wasn’t half-way between North Carolina and Florida. There wasn’t anything special about the place and even Pope had asked why JJ didn’t just take the Phantom down to Georgia for a stopover. JJ’s only explanation was that he knew a guy in Charleston and, technically, he did. When Luke had served an 18-month sentence for a petty misdemeanor his cellmate had been an in-the-process-of-reforming drug addict who took himself down to South Carolina to work in a program for recovering addicts. He kept in touch with JJ, making sure that Luke was treating the boy right and JJ always lied through his teeth that everything was great.

“Nothing to worry about.”

But he’d called a few weeks before with an odd favor. One that Luke’s cellmate readily agreed to, no questions asked, but a strange request all the same. “Meet me at the courthouse in Charleston.”

Now you stood outside, scuffing the toe of your converse against the pavement, JJ’s cellphone held in a vice grip against your ear. Independence didn’t exist in your family, at least not for you. You belonged to your father until you belonged to a husband and there was no other way around it. JJ was sitting on the hood of his friend’s car, talking about heading down to Flordia, watching you as you stood a few feet away, fiddling with the strings that tied the dress he’d bought you in Chapel Hill. You’d dug it out of a drawer in your mom’s room and wore it now, a small symbol of freedom.

“Hello?” Your mother’s voice came through the phone, a little grainy.

“Mom?”

Suddenly she was shouting for your father and you could practically hear her switching the phone over to speaker so he could hear you too. His footsteps were heavy in the background and when you were sure he was in earshot you spoke again, not ready to hear whatever bible verse he had earmarked for this very specific occasion.

“I just wanted you to know I’m okay, JJ and I are heading down south. We’ll be staying with a cousin of his until we can get our own place.” You told them, “but we’re safe. Kiara told me you called the police; you can tell them you made a mistake...I left on my own.”

JJ stood up, walking over to where you stood, nodding to you as if silently asking you to put the phone on speaker. You held it away from your ear and tapped the button on the screen, your father’s reprimanding voice pouring through the phone.

“Stop, stop,” your mother insisted, cutting into the conversation with the only thing you knew she cared about. “What am I supposed to tell Timothy’s parents?”

“Tell ‘em she’s already married.” JJ answered for you, winking at you when you smiled. Charleston wasn’t anything special, expect they let you get married the same day you applied for a license and you knew it was the only thing your parents would listen to. When you had told JJ he’d been more than onboard with the idea. Surprisingly okay, eager even.

“What?” Your father practically shouted through the phone. He had sat up the night, waiting for the call you promised them only for it to come through early in the afternoon the next day with this, news that you had married this kid.

“Ace-” your mom seemed like there was something more she wanted to say, something that she couldn’t say with your father hovering beside her.

“I’ll be in touch, love you.” You said, ending the call and realizing, as JJ pulled you into a hug, that you were crying. “I really hate them sometimes but I don’t...want them to hate me.”

“Trust me,” JJ reassured, “I know all about it.”

Your shoes sat abandoned on the small front lawn, socks stuffed inside as you stood a few feet away, ankles deep in a plastic kiddie pool that was slowly filling with hose water. You still had your uniform on, a short sleeved, short-hemmed, yellow waitress dress that buttoned up the front. Balanced on your hip, your arms around her, was JJ’s cousin’s daughter, his niece for the sake of simplifying things. She wore a white bathing suit with rainbow flowers all over it, a frilly skirt around the waist. Her Elmo submarine bobbed in the water as it got higher.

“Look, Daisy,” you cooed, drawing her attention to you and then pointing to the object of your interest. An older model Ford truck pulled into the driveway, JJ behind the wheel. “Whose that?”

“JJ!” Daisy clapped her hands with each syllable, thrilled at the sight of him.

The car door slammed behind him, standing there with his coverall’s tied at his waist, white wife-beater dirty from work. His cousin had gotten him the job at the autobody shop that he’d been promised and JJ was enjoying it more than he thought he would. The smile on his face when he saw you was infectious.

“Where’s Brett?” He asked, looking around the small yard of the trailer. It was nothing terribly special, a double-wide trailer that JJ’s cousin Brett had bought after his girlfriend got pregnant. Now he lent out the room that Daisy had been sleeping in to you and JJ, asking only that you pay for groceries every other week and babysit whenever need be.

“Went to meet April for lunch.” You replied, “you’re early.”

“Don’t act so excited.” He teased, getting close enough that you could kiss him, Daisy reaching out for him and calling his name again. “As soon as I change Dais,” he promised, kissing the baby’s head.

“Kiara called, asked if we’ll be up for Pope’s birthday?” You mentioned, setting Daisy down in the kiddie pool and getting out to shut off the hose. “I said yes.”

“Yeah, definitely.” He nodded, pausing at the steps as if he wasn’t quite sure what he had intended to do next, finally turning to look back at you as you kneeled down on the outside of the pool in hopes of keeping your uniform clean. “You okay with going back for a weekend?”

“Now that I’ve fallen into like, total debauchery, definitely.” You joked, “my parents probably won’t even recognize me if I don’t, you know, get stuck down by lightening just walking onto the property.”

JJ snorted, “slow your roll there Cheech, you still can’t smoke and you definitely can’t handle your liquor.”

“Go get changed so I can...Brett basically handed me Daisy, threw a shirt on and left. I didn’t even get to change.” You mentioned, pointing to the dress, “I know it’s some weird turn-on for you but I’d like to put a bathing suit on.”

“Hey, I’m happy to oblige,” he called, the screen door clambering behind him as he disappeared into the trailer.

You had tried to imagine a few times, what you would’ve been doing right now if you had stayed in the Outer Banks, if JJ had never asked you out to begin with. Probably packing for Tennessee, signing off on a life-sentence with someone who thought your greatest contribution to his life would be in how many children you could give him and how well you kept his house. Certainly not living in a trailer in a small town, saving dollars in a jar, with a future ahead of you that was as much yours to decide as JJ’s.

“Alright, get your ass in there and change.” JJ said, coming out of the trailer. He’d left the white tank on but changed into an old pair of swim shorts, climbing into the kiddie pool as if it was intended solely for him.

You stood up, brushing grass off your knees and leaning over to kiss JJ one more time, “be right back. Don’t have fun without me.”

“Oh we’re gonna have all the fun!” He called as the door shut behind you.

As you passed the mirror on the door you stopped to look at your reflection. You looked the same as you had when you left for Florida four months ago but there was something there, something so different that you couldn’t recognize yourself sometimes. A good different though, the kind that settled over you like a warm sun in the summer, the kind that blossomed up in your chest and let you know that all these decisions that led to right now had been the right ones.

Taglist: @outrbanks @mendesmaybank @thehomeiknow @minnie-bby @katiaw2 @2kayla64 @stevie-buck @bijleegiregi @vitaminekabc @minigranger @teamnick @just-smile-darling @obxsummer @damonsalvawhore27 @isqbella @tomzfrog @fangirlvoice @phantompogues @98starkeys @ilovejjmaybank @lemur46 @khiaraaa-in-spacee @babygal-babygal @niya-savage @divvrx @princess-of-the-fandoms @thecaptainsgingersnap @jenjie @yourprincess-maybe @wowmaybankk @goldeng1rl8 @heavenlymama @vindictive-hearts @alexa-playafricabytoto @dontjinx-it @randomficsandshit @niamhobrien @strangerthanfanfiction713 @tovvaa @freckled-and-daydreaming @harleylynn @bibliophilewednesday @dpaccione @bolaurel @poguestyleskye @beautyandthebleh @under-a-canyon-moon @outerbankspreferences

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iwritesickfic · 3 years

Text

"i kinda have a crush"

synopsis: Henry has a crush on his roommate's best friend Tom. When he gets sick, he's not sure whether Tom's concern means he feels the same.

Henry doesn't have time for a cold. Especially not now. Finals start next week, and between studying for exams, finishing final projects, and going to class, pretty much all his time is going to be occupied. Today, he woke up with a headache and a sore throat, which he's trying to convince himself is just a product of poor sleep, but deep down he knows is just the beginning of something worse to come.

Now, he's in his room, wrapped in his comforter and highlighting passages in his bio textbook, hearing his roommate Sam and his loud friends watching something equally loud in the living room. It's useless trying to ask them to quiet down - he learned after the sixth or seventh time asking that even though they all seem accommodating, they forget pretty quickly. Normally he'd be able to tune them out, but his steadily worsening headache is making it near impossible.

He gets up and starts pulling on clothes - the walk to the library may be freezing, but at least he'll get some quiet. Leaving his room, he's aware of how pissed off he must look, but he doesn't care enough to feign politeness to Sam and his friends.

He heads to the kitchen and grabs his travel mug - he's going to need coffee if he's going to last at the library. He's just filling it up when he hears a voice behind him.

"Hey! Henry! I didn't know you were home!" It's Tom. He's probably Sam's best friend - at the very least, he's the friend who's over more than anyone else. Henry suppresses a sigh. Tom is the exact kind of guy he doesn't like. Bro-y, athletic, always overly friendly to everyone - it just comes off as phony. It also just so happens that guys like this are always very attractive, and Tom is no exception. He turns around to grab milk from the fridge.

"Hey," he says, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.

"If I knew you were here I would've been a little quieter - you have finals coming up too, right?" Tom asks, leaning against the door frame in that way he always does.

"Mmhmm. It's fine. I'm going to the library." Talking to Tom is not helping the throbbing in his head. He starts to add the sugar and milk to his coffee.

"Are you sure? I can ask the guys to quiet down."

"No, it's fine." He snaps the cover onto his coffee and starts toward the door.

"Alright, well have a good day!"

"Thanks, you too." When he closes the front door he sighs, rubbing his eyes. He starts down the stairs. Being around people like that is exhausting on a normal day - Henry's always been quiet. Reserved. With the beginnings of a cold it's almost aggravating.

The frigid air outside makes his throat burn and his eyes water. His nose starts to run too, and he hopes it's just the temperature and not a new symptom. Knowing his luck he's going to be the one annoying person in the library constantly sniffling.

His time at the library is mostly uneventful, apart from going through a pack of travel tissues and getting dirty looks from other students. By the time they're ready to close, he feels significantly worse than he did this morning, but he's finished his biology review and is almost done with a paper for Transformative Design.

The trudge home feels like it takes forever - it's only about a 15 minute walk, but between the cold and feeling like crap it seems neverending. He can hear from the hallway outside the apartment that Sam's friends are still here, which makes him want to tear his hair out.

It's almost midnight when they leave, so it's only about that time he can get to sleep. He has class the next morning at 8, and when he wakes up with his alarm, he knows he's in for a full blown cold. His head still aches, and his sinuses feel sore and swollen. His throat kills too, and he feels shivery, despite the heavy comforter.

He lets himself lie in bed for a while, sniffling and trying to absorb as much warmth as he can from the comforter, before he drags himself up. He immediately pulls on his warmest sweater, even though he's just going to the bathroom. It doesn't help the shivering much, but it's something. He probably looks ridiculous, in just a pair of boxers and his oversized sweater, but he feels so shitty he doesn't really care.

Walking by the couch, he sees Tom asleep, shirtless. His heart flutters - he knew Tom was fit but it was something else to see it. The butterflies are almost annoying. There a million guys on campus, why does he have to get so worked up over this one?

In the shower, he cranks up the heat and lets the steam ease the aching in his sinuses. He's in there for too long, but the thought of having to actually walk to class in the cold makes him reluctant to get out.

He arrives to class a few minutes late - nose still dripping from the cold. Luckily today is just a lecture, but it's a five hour class, and he didn't have time to make any coffee this morning. He brought another little travel pack of tissues, but he's definitely going to have to ration them.

He's still shivering. It's worse after being out in the cold, and even though it should get better over time, nothing changes. He just sits there, achy and shivering and congested and miserable until 10:30, when the professor calls for a 10 minute break. Thank god. He needs coffee. There's a small shop in the building, so he forces himself up and out of his seat - which leads to a few seconds of particularly bad throbbing in his head - and out into the hall.

He almost groans when he sees who's working. Tom. Of course he's been to this little coffee spot a million times and he knows it's where Tom works, but he didn't think he'd have to see him this morning. Part of him is annoyed - he definitely does not have the energy to deal with him at the moment - but another part is a little embarrassed at how awful he must look. Not that he should care what Tom thinks of him, he reminds himself. Regardless, he walks up the counter, half occupied rubbing at his nose with a tissue.

"Hey," he says, and is surprised how congested he sounds. Tom turns, eyes lighting up.

"Hey!" He dims a little when he takes in his full appearance. "You ok?" Henry sniffles.

"Yeah. Fine. Can I get-"

"Large hot coffee, oat milk and sugar, right?" Henry's taken aback.

"Uh, yeah. You know my order?"

"Of course. It's an easy order." He goes about starting to make the drink. "Hope we didn't keep you up last night. I kept telling Sam to shut the fuck up but he doesn't listen to me."

"It's fine. I'm used to it." He sniffles again.

"You sound like you're coming down with something."

"And you sound like my mom." That makes Tom laugh, and again, Henry feels a stirring in his chest. Tom puts the lid on the drink and hands it to him, and Henry tries to hand him the money. Tom shakes his head.

"That's ok - on the house." That draws a little smile out of Henry. Tom smiles back, and for a minute he forgets how shitty he feels. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks."

He heads back to class and sits down, taking a sip of the coffee. It tastes great, as always when Tom makes it, and the warmth helps to ease the chills at least somewhat. The rest of the lecture is spent half paying attention, and half worrying his sniffling and nose blowing is annoying. When it's finally over, he wants nothing more than to just go home and take a nap, but he has a problem set for calculus due tomorrow that he hasn't even started. So, reluctantly, he makes the trek to the library. He's able to work for most of the day uninterrupted - he's not very hungry, which maybe should be concerning but is convenient nonetheless.

By the time he's done, it's already dark out, and the walk home is brutal. The wind is whipping, and his scarf and hat aren't doing much to keep the cold out. His nose is running like a faucet and the cough he developed over the course of the day drags the cold air even further into his lungs. The coughs hurt, like they come from somewhere deep in his chest, and by the time he gets home his throat is destroyed.

When he gets home, he's glad to see Sam isn't making a racket for once. Still, he knows he's in for a restless night anyway. He puts a can of soup on the stove to heat up while he changes into sweatpants and a hoodie. His reflection in the mirror is definitely a sight - he's flushed from the cold, his hair a mess, and his eyes red rimmed.

He knows he should really fit in some more studying before he calls it a night, but after he picks at his soup and does the dishes, he's ready to fall over, so he just curls up in bed, coughing and shivery, and goes to sleep.

He wakes up a few times in the night coughing, and the soreness in his throat makes his eyes water. He's barely able to drag himself out of bed the next morning. His shivers have become more like shakes, and his cough feels like it never stops. He got a decent amount of sleep, but he still feels totally exhausted - even his muscles are sore.

His classes are a blur - he's too preoccupied with feeling awful to focus, and by the time he's done at 6, all he wants to do is go home and sleep until tomorrow morning. But, he knows he has to get at least one assignment done. After tomorrow, he'll have the whole weekend to relax. Not totally, but still.

Just the assignment tonight, classes tomorrow, then he can finally get some rest. The library probably isn't a good choice - his cough is too distracting, and he knows the walk home later will be torture. So instead, he goes back to the apartment. The cold air always exacerbates the cough, so the whole way home he's hacking, his nose running like a faucet. His ribs have started to hurt from all the coughing.

He almost wants to cry when he gets home and hears the sound of Sam and his friends in the living room. Why tonight of all nights? He trudges into his bedroom and changes - he's started to feel warm, which is a relief after feeling so cold all the time, but now it's becoming a both too warm and too cold feeling, so he tugs on his sweater and a fresh pair of boxers.

He starts to work on the physics problem set - there are only three problems total, but each of them usually take an hour at least, and that's when he's not feeling like death. He works for a while, but it's only when he starts to feel lightheaded he realizes he hasn't eaten yet today.

So, he heads into the kitchen and rummages around for a can of chicken noodle. He finds it, but he's too weak and shaky to work the can open right. He tries for a good three minutes before he feels a lump form in his throat.

"Hey, do you want some help with that?" He turns to see Tom standing in the doorway. Self consciously, he sniffles and clears his throat.

"Uh, y-yeah, that would be great." Tom smiles softly and walks over, making quick work of the can. Henry expects him to just go back into the living room, but he grabs the pot from the cabinet and turns on the stove.

"You've got quite a cough there." Henry feels himself blush. They all must be able to hear him from his room.

“Sorry, I-”

“Hey, no, no don’t be sorry. We make enough noise, you’re allowed to be sick.” He pours the soup into the pot and starts to grab spices from the shelf.

“I’m not sick.” Henry isn’t sure why he’s being so defensive, but Tom doesn’t challenge him, just smirks.

“Well whatever it is, it sounds brutal.” He shakes a few of the spices into the soup, stirring slowly.

“I’m ok. Really.” There’s a bit of an awkward silence before someone calls Tom from the other room. He looks a little dismayed, but puts on a smile.

“Feel better, ok?” He rests his arm on Henry’s upper arm, giving him a soft smile, before heading back into the living room. And there’s that fluttering in his chest again.

On his way back to his room, he catches a bit of a conversation.

“I think we should go out.” That’s Tom’s voice.

“Nah dude, it’s freezing.” That’s Sam.

“C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright, whatever.”

Henry smiles to himself. Maybe it’s reaching to think Tom did that specifically for him, but part of him really hopes he did.

The rest of the night is blissfully quiet, apart from his incessant cough. By the time he’s finished with the last problem, it’s midnight, and the world is swimming. He’s never been happier to lie down. But, it’s short lived. Despite being exhausted, his cough and what he suspects is a fever are making it all but impossible to sleep. He drifts in and out of half-sleep, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold. Luckily his class isn’t until the afternoon, but he spends the whole morning much like the night before. When he finally gets up, he feels truly ready to fall over. His headache is horrendous, throbbing and pounding at the slightest provocation. His sinuses are still swollen, along with his poor throat that makes him wince with every swallow. The cough is the same if not a little worse, except now it sends cramping pain through his ribs.

On the walk to class, he just keeps repeating the same idea in his head. Just three hours, then you can rest. The class is truly a blur, but the walk home is too unpleasant to tune out. Once again, the freezing temperature isn’t any help, and forcing his aching body to walk through the snow gets harder with every step.

He turns the corner for the front door of his building, and a wave of relief washes over him. But, he’s confused when he sees someone standing near the buzzer. He’s even more confused when he realizes it’s Tom.

“Hey, uh, Sam isn’t here. He’s gone for the weekend.” He says, embarrassed at how thready and weak his voice sounds. Tom turns, looking confused.

“Why are you out here? It’s freezing.” He says, and Henry isn’t sure whether it’s the fever that’s keeping him from putting the dots together or this just doesn’t make sense.

“Sam isn’t upstairs,” he repeats, and Tom sighs gently.

“I’m not here to see Sam.” It still isn’t clicking. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

“Ok…” He unlocks the door and clumsily shakes the snow off his boots before getting into the elevator. Tom follows, and Henry figures someone else must be in the building that Tom wants to see, but Tom follows him right to the door. Henry sighs and rubs his eyes. “Tom, what do you want?”

For the first time, it looks like Tom might actually be nervous.

“I came to check up on you.” Henry suddenly feels a strange bundle of emotions unfurl in his stomach.

“Oh,” is all he can manage to get out. Tom bites his lip.

“Is that ok?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s fine, uh…” He takes a deep breath, but breaks into a fit of coughs before he can speak. He feels a steady hand on his back. After he’s done with the fit the world swims, and there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go inside so you can sit down, ok?” Henry just nods, and after a few moments of struggling to fit the key into the lock, Tom does it for him. Immediately, he strips off his scarf and coat and practically collapses onto the couch, pulling off his boots. He leans back into the cushions, closing his eyes.

“Fuck…” he breathes, and he hears Tom laugh quietly. When he opens his eyes, he sees Tom sitting in front of him on the coffee table, still looking nervous. “Why would you wanna check on me?”

“Well you didn’t seem so good last night, and I wanted to make sure you were ok. Even though you hate my guts,” he says with a smile. He starts to rummage through his backpack, and pulls out a bottle of tylenol and a thermometer, as well as a quart container of soup.

“I don’t hate your guts,” Henry says quietly, and Tom gives him another smile.

“Well that’s good to hear.” He leans forward and starts to move his palm toward his forehead, but hesitates. “Is this ok?” Henry nods, and sighs when he feels the cool palm on his overheated skin. He moves his hand to his cheek. “Jesus, you’re really burning up.”

He lets out another volley of coughs, and Tom rubs his back again. It feels nice, but it doesn’t make the confusion go away. For now though, he’s happy to just be looked after.

“Here.” Tom slips the thermometer under his tongue, brushing some of his hair away from his face. When it beeps, he takes it out. “102. Not so bad.” Henry has a feeling he’s saying that more for his benefit than his own. “You want me to grab you some more comfortable clothes?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles in return. “Alright.”

He gets up and walks into the bedroom, leaving Henry alone on the couch, finally giving him a moment to process all of this. Why on earth would Tom care about him? They’re not really friends, are they? And Tom was straight, wasn’t he? And even if he wasn’t, there’s no way he’d actually like Henry of all people. And did Henry even like him? Sure, he’s sweet and funny and impossibly hot, but he’s friends with Sam. And he’s on the soccer team. And he’s so outgoing and friendly all the time, wouldn’t that get annoying?

He almost doesn’t notice when Tom gets back.

“Here you go. You want me to go in the kitchen while you change?” He hands him the clothes, and Henry bites his lip.

“If you want to.” Is that a weird answer? Tom smirks.

“I’m fine if you’re fine.”

Henry starts to take off his shirt, but he’s so shaky and uncoordinated, Tom has to help him, which probably killed any romance the situation offered, he thinks. The clean fabric feels nice against his feverish skin. The pants go the same way, and he didn’t realize how uncomfortable he was until now.

“Here, lean your head back,” Tom says, and he does. Tom presses a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, and he sighs softly. “That feels good?” He nods. There’s a few moments of silence while he just relaxes into the feeling. Then, he sits up straight.

“Why are you doing all this?” Tom looks nervous again.

“You’re my...friend. And I care about you,” he says, and Henry feels his heart sink a little.

“Oh. Ok.” He must sound disappointed, because Tom smiles.

“Hoping for a different answer?” Henry shrugs, and Tom rubs his jaw.

“I mean, it’s a little embarrassing but I used to...have a crush on you. But I think you made it kind of clear you weren’t interested.” Henry can’t hide his confusion.

“I made it clear?” He’s genuinely not sure what Tom is talking about. Sure, he’s never out right flirted with him, but he always thought he was straight anyway.

“Just...one word answers to everything, always seeming like you had somewhere else to be - it’s fine. I don’t know why I even brought it up. You want some soup?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles. “Ok, sounds good.”

He heads into the kitchen, and Henry’s mind runs a mile a minute. There’s no way he’s telling the truth right? But why would he lie? He comes back through the doorway and leans against the frame.

“It’s on the stove, just have to wait a few minutes. You feeling ok?”

“Yeah, uh...I wanna tell you something.” Henry doesn’t know how he can make leaning against a doorframe look so good.

“Shoot.”

“I kinda had a crush on you too. Or...have.” He can feel himself blushing. Tom laughs.

“You have a really funny way of showing it.” He’s beaming, and it makes Henry smile too.

“Well it’s not my fault you’re so annoying,” he says, and Tom walks back over to the coffee table and sits down. Tom’s hand rests on his forehead, then makes its way down to his cheek. It feels so steady. Stable.

“I’m not the one that got themself sick with pneumonia because I wouldn’t miss a class, am I?” Without thinking, Henry wraps his arms around him as tight as he can - which isn’t very tight, but still. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and takes a deep breath. Tom rubs his back gently.

“Thank you, for doing all this,” he whispers, and Tom squeezes him a little bit tighter.

“Anytime.”

#my writing #oc henry #oc tom #two more boys pining for each while one has a cold what's new?

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dameronology · 3 years

Text

tea & whiskey {jack daniels x reader} - 1

part one: an insight into how microwaving tea should be a capital crime (fem! reader)

song for this chapter - ldn by lily allen

summary: you’re Percival; reigning queen of the Kingsman, certified bad-ass and one of the most self-sufficient women to have ever graced the City of London. A mission with the Statesmen is a chance to further your career and tighten your grip on international success - it’s a shame that Jack Daniels already has his eyes on the throne. He also has his eyes on you, and it proves to be a problem for you both. {series masterlist}

this has all the kingsman characters but doesn’t follow the canon of golden circle. eggsy, tequila, champ, merlin etc all crop up throughout the series as well! if u want to be tagged, gimme a shout

- jazz

You didn’t usually answer the door when someone knocked after 11PM.

It was just common sense, really. Only serial killers, creeps and people who had the wrong address would knock that late. You could have taken on any of those three regardless - you were a bad-ass after all - but you were also busy. You’d been tirelessly working all day at the office, and the grind didn’t stop just because you’d got home. The stack of paperwork beside your computer felt like it was never ending and you simply didn’t have the time to answer the door. Working as Kingsman was more of a lifestyle than it was a job.

‘Oi!’

You almost jumped out your seat when the banging moved to the window beside your desk. It overlooked your front lawn and the quiet street you lived on - well, as quiet as a street in central London could be. Classic to the city, rain was lashing down on the glass, obscuring your view of whoever your visitor was.

Right, you could add Eggsy Unwin to the list of people who knocked this late.

‘What the hell, Eggsy?!’ You sighed, opening the front door. Your colleague quickly rushed from where he was standing by the window, elbowing past you and into the dry warmth of your house. ‘It’s almost midnight-’

‘- I’ve been calling you for hours!’ The agent exclaimed.

‘I’ve been working all day.’ You replied.

It wasn’t the first time he’d turned up at your doorstep at a stupid hour. Eggsy was your colleague, but first and foremost, he was your best friend. He had a tendency to drive you up the fucking wall and right back down again, and had done since you were in your school years, but he’d always been a little dependent on you. Whether it had been letting him crash on your sofa when his stepfather became too much, or giving him a lift home from the police station at 2AM after he’d been arrested, you always had his back. He had yours too, but you rarely needed it. Even after becoming a member of the Kingsman and essentially saving the world, you were still the first person he came too.

After wrapping Eggsy up in a towel and escorting him to the kitchen, you placed a mug of warm tea on the table and sat beside him. Work could wait - for an hour or so at least. Chasing an internationally-reclaimed terrorist certainly took precedence over whatever your friend’s problems were, but if he needed you, he needed you. Bros before hoes might not have been the perfect saying for the situation, but the sentiment was definitely there.

‘What’s happened now?’ You quirked an eyebrow. ‘I know it ain’t an arrest because you would have called from the station otherwise.’

Eggsy thinned his eyes at you. ‘I haven’t been arrested in two years.’

‘So what was it?’

‘I had a fight with Tilde.’ He admitted. ‘I don’t know what happened, but she’s mad at me.’

‘Were you talking before she got mad?’

‘Yeah.’

You raised your mug in the air. ‘That’s probably it then.’

‘Y/N!’ He swatted your hand away, causing tea to spill out onto the table.

You sighed. ‘D’you wanna talk about it?’

‘No, I just need a place to crash.’

You stood up, leaning over the table to give his shoulder a squeeze. ‘You know where the spare room is, right?’

‘That’s it?’ He pouted. ‘Tea and a squeeze on the shoulder? My life is falling apart!’

‘Don’t be a drama queen.’ You replied. ‘I have to work - and you should be too. We’re close to getting Calahan.’

Calahan was the codename for the terrorist you’d been tracking - at least his current one. The man had worked under several aliases, jumping from country to country before finally falling under the jurisdiction of the British secret services. The MI5 and Scotland Yard were too well known to work such a sensitive case; the location of their offices were publicly known, making it easier for Calahan to slip in double agents. The civilians, however, had no knowledge on the Kingsmen. A tailor’s shop was a perfectly good front for a place to set up base and track the man down.

Thanks to your success on your previous missions, Arthur had put you in charge of finding him, with Eggsy assigned as your partner. He was just as good an agent as you, but you had little sympathy for his domestic issues.

‘I was working on it all day.’ Eggsy held his hands up in surrender. ‘But with all due respect, Percival, I don’t work into the late hours of the night. I know how to switch off.’

‘That’s because you’re a man, Eggsy.’ You reminded him. ‘I am one of three women at Kingsman.’

‘That’s still three more than there used to be.’

‘You’ve already pissed off one extremely patient woman tonight.’ You warned him, referring to Tilde. ‘Do you want to go two for two?’

‘No.’ He huffed. ‘Women are just complicated.’

‘Or maybe men are just dumb.’ You smiled sweetly, before brushing a hand through his hair. ‘You should get some rest.’

‘So should you.’

‘I’m fine.’ You shook your head. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Merlin in the morning. We’ll have to leave at eight.’

‘Do I have to go? Merlin hasn’t said anything to me-’

‘- yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I said so.’

He couldn’t argue with that.

The following morning, you were headed for the Kingsman headquarters by 9AM. Having filled Eggsy with some coffee and half a bacon-sandwich, he had cheered up considerably. You did feel for him - he had been right when he said that women were confusing - but your attention was still very much on work. That was the norm, really. You lived and breathed for your job. It wasn’t your whole identity but it was certainly your whole life. You were recruited at eighteen and now, it was all you knew. The other agents were your family.

‘C’mon, Eggsy!’ You demanded, practically leaping out your car. Your arms were piled high with files, keys dangling from your fingers as you kicked the door to the Mustang shut. It had been a present from Kingsmen for a particularly successful mission.

‘There’s no rush.’ Eggsy chided from behind you. ‘You should enjoy a little leisurely stroll once in a while. It might do that vein on your forehead some good.’

Whilst you were decked out in a blazer and black jeans, Eggsy was in his usual snapback and sports jacket. He trailed beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets as you both slipped inside the shop. It was quiet inside, the only sounds coming from the bell on the door and the sound of your heels on the polished wooden floors. You didn’t just wear them because they made your legs look endless - they doubled up as weapons too. Merlin hadn’t done anything special to them, it was just that anything was a blade if you tried hard enough. Your five inch Christian Louboutins were no different. The fact the bottoms were already red was purely a convenient coincidence.

‘She still hasn’t called me.’ Eggsy murmured.

‘I’m sure she will.’ You gave his arm a light squeeze. ‘Tilde loves you, Egghead.’

‘Fucking ‘ell.’ He let out a snort. ‘You haven’t called me that in years.’

The two of you made your way down the hall and towards the meeting room. Merlin was already sitting at the table, pens and notepads laid out in front of him. Considering that you’d worked together for years, you hardly knew the man. He was always working, always building new gadgets or arranging missions. Did he ever sleep? You wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out that he’d been a droid this whole time. Someone had mentioned his name being Hamish once, but he didn’t seem like a Hamish. You always pegged him as more of a...Simon. Or a Mark.

‘You two are late.’ He greeted you.

‘It’s nine o’clock.’ You shot back, dropping into the seat opposite him.

‘Early is on time.’ Merlin folded his arms across his chest. ‘On time is late.’

You rolled your eyes at the agent. ‘You know how London traffic can be.’

Choosing to ignore your comment, the Scotsman hit a few buttons on the table in front of him. The whiteboard in front of you jumped to life, lighting up with a picture of New York City - specifically, Midtown. You’d been to the city several times for work, usually to do recon or on protection details for British politicians before diplomatic visits. Outside of that, any missions in North America were outside of the Kingmen’s authority. That was when it fell to the USA’s secret services - a bunch of people you weren’t particularly fond of working with.

‘Calahan slipped out of the country.’ Merlin stated. ‘He’s been spotted in Manhattan by several of our contacts at the Bureau.’

‘What?!’ You guffawed. ‘I thought we had tabs on him. You told me we had tabs on him-’

‘- let me finish, Percival.’ He cut you off. ‘We let him.’

‘You…’ you scoffed in disbelief. ‘You let a known terrorist escape the borders?! You know that I’ve had tabs on him for months! Are you trying to waste my time?’

‘Calm down, agent!’ Merlin repeated, this time in a more firm tone. It was easy to let your temper get the best of you - but at the same time, it was the very thing that had allowed you to force your colleagues into submission. ‘He has more charges on his back in American jurisdiction. We have a better chance of convicting him over there.’

‘You could have told me that before I spent six months tailing him.’ You dropped back in your chair, folding your arms tightly across your chest.

‘Your mission isn’t over.’ Merlin replied. ‘You know more about Calahan than any men here or across the pond. I want you posted in New York for a few months.’

‘Oh?’ You sat up, interest peaked.

Working internationally was usually the first step to becoming a senior agent. It was one thing to commandeer the respect of your colleagues but to throw your name into the ring on a global scale? That was how you made it big time - and big time meant big time. Your work would go from being based in London, to taking you all over the world. Kingsman who worked on an international level could be in Moscow one day and Bogota the next. Once they retired, they were legends. It was the kind of success you’d dreamed of your whole life.

And New York was the first stepping stone.

‘It’s only if you want it, of course.’ Merlin pulled you from your thoughts. ‘The Statesman have agreed to accommodate you, should you choose to accept.’

‘Statesmen?’ You tried to hide the displeasement in your face. ‘Like...the cowboys?’

‘Is there a problem, Percival?’

‘No!’ You quickly replied. ‘It’s just...I worked with one of them once. It wasn’t great.’

‘Here we go.’ Eggsy murmured from beside you. ‘She witnessed Agent Tequila make tea in the microwave.’

‘And I swore never to work with them again.’ You hissed under your breath, fists clenching.

‘I can see how that would be disturbing.’ Merlin agreed. ‘Though I’m not entirely sure it’s enough reason to turn down a potentially career changing mission.’

‘No, you’re right.’ You nodded. ‘But I can bring my own kettle, right?’

‘I can’t believe you brought your own fucking kettle.’

‘And I can’t believe that Merlin is making me drag you along-’

‘- it’s only for a week.’ Eggsy held his hands up in defense.

Eggsy, who had momentarily forgotten his relationship woes, had been posted out in the city with you for the first five or six days. Merlin and Arthur had been pretty insistent on him joining you - something about making sure you didn’t blow your lid at a cowboy. It was funny, because you were usually the one babysitting him. That being said, deep down you were glad to have him there with you. It would have made settling in a little easier.

You were moving faster than him, the sound of your heels clicking on the marble floors of the Statesman headquarters as you floated towards the front desk. The building was right in central Manhattan, bang in the middle of all the beautiful things New York had to offer. Not that you were going to experience many of them - you were here to work, after all.

‘Percival!’ Agent Tequila was posted by the front desk, a grin spread across his face as your eyes met. ‘And...I know they told me your name, but I’ve forgotten.’

‘He’s Galahad 2.0.’ You stuck your hand out to Tequila, offering him the kettle. ‘This is for you.’

‘A...a kettle?’ The agent gave you an odd look.

‘If I’m going to be working with you for the next few months, I cannot witness you making tea in a microwave.’ You explained. ‘I may murder you in your sleep otherwise.’

‘Jeez, lady.’ He muttered. He would have argued, but if there was one thing he’d learnt from your last collaboration, it was that nobody entered into a fight with you and won. ‘But it’s okay, you’re not with me this time.’

‘Oh?’ You quirked an eyebrow. Tequila began to make his way to the lift, signalling for you and Eggsy to follow.

‘No, you’re with Whiskey this time.’ He explained, pressing the button for the top floor. ‘He’s a little more senior than me.’

‘Whiskey and Tequila?’ Eggsy muttered in your ear. ‘What’s their boss called? Pale ale?’

‘Champagne.’ You replied.

‘Good one.’ He snorted.

‘No, Eggsy.’ You whispered back. ‘He’s actually called Champagne.’

‘Fucking hell.’

Yeah, you thought, that kinda sums it up.

The three of you stepped out the lift and onto the top floor. The views from the windows were almost breath-taking; it wasn’t often that you got to see 360 degree views of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The skyscrapers stretched out further than the eye could see, eventually melting together in the distance where the sky met the land. It was almost breath-taking just to think about - the people, the opportunities, the magic that New York had to offer. London was your home, and you couldn’t even begin to dream of leaving, but your mind did wander off a little.

‘Whiskey! I got your girl!’ Tequila yelled, pressing a button on an intercom outside one of the offices. He gave Eggsy a quick glance. . ‘And...the other one.’

‘Sweet Jesus, Tequila!’ A strong Southern accent came back. ‘You don’t gotta yell every time you use the fucking thing! I’m gonna be deaf as a goddamn doornail before I’m fifty.’

A moment later, the door to the office opened and Agent Whiskey stepped out. He was about the same height as Tequila, but a little older. He was wearing a cow-boy hat and there was a...was it a swagger? A spring in his step? Either way, the temptation to stick your foot out and stop him in his tracks was overwhelming.

‘Well hello, pretty lady.’ Whiskey greeted you with a shit-eating grin. ‘I hear that you’re the little birdy who’s gonna give me Calahan?’

‘I prefer Percival.’ You monotonously replied. ‘And if I’m the little birdy that’s gonna give you Calahan, then you must be the yankee who stole him from me.’

‘Girl’s gotta bite.’ He gave your hand a shake. ‘I like that.’

‘This is Galahad.’ You pointed to Eggsy, who was inwardly holding his breath at the whole exchange. He was mentally counting down the minutes before you smacked off Whiskey’s cowboy hat. ‘Let’s see if you can acknowledge his gender three times in one breath-’

‘- okay, that’ll do!’ Your best friend pulled you back, taking Whiskey’s hand in place of yours. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Whiskey.’

‘Please, call me Jack.’ The cowboy replied.

‘Whiskey. Jack.’ Eggsy murmured under his breath. ‘Oh my days! Imagine if your surname was Daniels.’

After a brief conversation with Jack about his surname - during which you had seen Eggsy Unwin more entertained than ever before - you were taken down the hall to the agent’s office. Meanwhile, Eggsy and Tequila were escorted off to exchange some files that you’d both gathered.

Whiskey’s office was exactly as you could have predicted; a mixture of dark wood furniture and red tones. The air smelt of his aftershave, with a hint of brandy and earth.

‘Your desk is that one there.’ Whiskey gestured to a slightly smaller set-up in the corner.

‘I don’t get my own office?’

‘Since we’re gonna be working in close proximity, Champ figured it was best we double up.’ He explained. ‘Saves us doing a whole revolving door movement when we gotta talk to one another.’

‘Makes sense.’ You placed your bag on the desk, admiring the view for a moment. All of your files on Calahan had been uploaded to the Statesmen’s online cloud, whilst your other belongings had been delivered to the apartment you were staying in. ‘Nice view.’

‘It ain’t bad.’ Whiskey nodded. ‘You been to this neck of the woods before?’

‘Only when British diplomats need a babysitter.’ You replied.

‘Babysitting?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what you Kingsmen do? You babysit?’

‘Why d’you think Eggsy is here?’ You shot back. ‘To babysit me.’

‘Now why would a well-mannered redcoat such as yourself need a babysitter?’ He could barely hide the grin in his voice, leaning back against the window as he peered at you over his glasses.

‘How would I put it in your terms?’ You pondered for a moment, offering Whiskey a sweet smile. ‘Is there a Southern term for I eat cowboys alive?’

He gulped. ‘I...I don’t think we got one for that yet.’

You nodded, turning your attention back to staring at the view in front of you. ‘You should come up with one. It might be useful.’

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mrsmalfoymagic · 3 years

Text

Card Five

I didn’t take long to find its owner. There seemed to be a force between the two of us to always find each other in a crowd. Like gravity pulling me to him.

And as my eyes made their way towards the fireplace, finally catching glimpse of Remus Lupin hunched into the heat, lost in a book as he always was, I began to blush.

I put down my own and tried to delicately approach as to not startle him. He had a reputation for being clumsy, and - whilst holding a novel beside an open fire, I didn’t like his chances.

“Uh, Remus.” I announced quietly. He jerked his head up, face filling with crimson as he acknowledged me.

“Y/n. Hi.”

We’d only ever spent any length of time around each other at the library where we’d reside solitarily during our free periods or stupidly late hours. We were never ones for small talk, so outside of class I don’t believe we’d had a single conversation. In fact, I don’t believe I’d ever even heard him speak.

My face replicated the same blood red as his and I squinted awkwardly, holding up his card to inform him of our fates.

“I picked you.”

“Oh. Alright. I suppose we should go.” His accent was strong and educated, but anxious and timid. He stood, brushing down his robes and poising himself straight, shadowing over me and blocking the cloud of warmth crackling behind him.

His manner was polite as he assisted me through our classmates towards the cupboard. I had expected nothing less than chivalry of him. We were library partners, but never confirmed it through spoken – or even written word. The only exchanges placed were little smiles from above our pages, stealing glances between our world-escaping plights. Like perfectly placed bindings in time. Baring ourselves at our peak vulnerabilities to share in each other’s entertainment.

Despite the immensity of its size, we’d somehow know to not stray too far apart in the library; subconsciously finding our settlements a few tables apart, but always managing to achieve a perfect opposing line of vision; allowing the ability to master responses to new books or topics by the speed in which we completed them, the oftenest of locking eyes, or - in Remus’ case - if he’d fall asleep against the spreadeagle spine; something he seemed to do a lot.

No, I didn’t know him, admittedly, but from these - our shared moments, I had come to recognise enough of his behaviours to learn he was wise above his age, caring and loyal beyond measure.

Yet somewhere, I sensed a fragility. Like a goose-feathered pillow hiding deeply an explosion that didn’t have a specific means of detonation.

He lit up the room as we entered. The door which Sirius and James were ardently protecting locked behind us and my cheeks burnt with nervousness. This wasn’t my usual idea of fun, but keeping myself under the radar with my classmates, I consenting to participating. And who better to face the music with than Remus Lupin. Without even knowing the remainder of cards still yet to be drawn, he was the best of all outcomes. I’d already made my silent connections with him. He’d become a peaceful existence in my life. But I wasn’t used to these interactions and felt lost in the realisation of this game’s objectives.

So as much as my inexperienced-self wished, there was no cowering behind books in here.

“Hello.” He grinned, again barely uttering. His cheeks expanded broadly through his expression and I couldn’t help but giggle. He was a charming discovery, to say the least. And despite my trembling fingers clasping behind my back, I felt safe.

“Any closer to finishing that book?” He took a step towards me, “I couldn’t help but notice it was a hardship.”

“Not at all. It’s my Astronomy class. Ironically, I feel I’m learning less the more I read about it.”

Another step closer.

“Perhaps I could help. What part are you studying?”

“Selenography. The moon.”

His smile widened and he was now upon me; directly in my space; his brogues hitting the tips of my own. There was a new glint in his heavy, restful eyes. No doubt his lack of sleep was from staying up all night reading new books.

“I know a thing or two.” His voice was gentle, almost seductive.

What I couldn’t help but note was his odour – crisp pages and the incense of ink. He had ash residue on his robes from the spitting logs, and I could still smell the fire against him. It was addictive and was guaranteed the blame to my momentary out of character response.

“You’re still talking about my class, right?”

I couldn’t believe it - it just came out. I shocked myself realising I was flirting.

He reacted coolly but tilted his head with a squint of curiosity.

“No, I don’t believe I am.” His expression suddenly shared the same self-intrigue as mine. We were both flirting.

Taken aback by his own response, he tried a subtle retreat, but began to stumble over his robes; hobbling backwards to catch himself until eventually, with a small grunt, landed harshly against the door with a shocking bang.

He was intelligent and adorable beyond compare, but heavens, was he uncoordinated.

“Damn it.” He cursed, gripping on the doorframe to support himself upright.

“You two alright in there?” Sirius yelled out on the adjacent side of the door with a few determined knocks.

“Yes.” Remus replied loudly in an irritated mortification and lowered his face into his palms.

I watched him for a moment, a glint of pity against the reassuring smile I had pinned to my lips in case he looked up. Until suddenly, and unexpectedly, I started to laugh.

It was provoked by shyness and pure embarrassment, I was sure - feeling the knot cripple me into submission and before I knew it, I was wiping the tears out of my eyes and steadying myself against the stone wall.

“Sorry.” I breathed, believing my response was humiliating him further. But, as my hands fell back to my sides, they grazed at the form of Remus, who had now approached me again.

I looked up to find his manner bothered. His eyes blinked harshly as he considered himself.

“May I?” he asked, lifting his hand, and holding it upright towards my cheek. I nodded, keeping my eyes firmly on his fluttering ones.

Using the stub of his index finger, he carefully tucked the falling wave of hair behind my ear. Exhaling in relief, a new smile formed upon his full lips, like he had just performed a task of great difficulty.

“I can’t do justice to the full expression,” He muttered kindly whilst still admiring the tiny details of my facial outline, “But you have an entrancing effect on me.”

His fingers were now lacing around the curls against my shoulder, inspecting the silky texture.

“You aren’t to understand. I would never expect you to.”

After half a minute of combing at my hair and being lost in reverie, he gulped away a forming sorrow before lowering his head on his shoulders.

”I wish it were as simple as telling you.”

I pinched at his chin and lifted his face to find mine once again, showcasing the similar smile I had previously.

“Then show me.” I said softly.

In any other setting I would be out of place with these interactions, but with Remus, it all felt natural.

He considered my words for a moment and the seriousness of my focus against his almond eyes, before finding my hand.

“Are you ready for your first Astronomy lesson?” his lip ticked to a short smile.

I nodded innocently and allowed Remus to direct me out of the closet and begin heading towards the Astronomy tower.

We walked in silence, making sure to hide in the shadows of the halls and columns whenever we suspected a prefect or professor was heading our way, before at long last we made it to the highest point of the castle. The Astronomy tower was webbed with rails and structures, architectural beams lined the extent of the room. A brass sundial pointed outwards towards the cloudless evening. Golden and intricately detailed telescopes were poised at all four corners of the open bays.

Other than the basic tools to marvel at the heavens, there was little as far as interior to the tower – its masterpiece of course being the view it held - displaying full range of vision to every area of Hogwarts including as distant as elements of the Forbidden Forest.

Staying adamantly in the darkness of the room, Remus issued me towards the centre directly in front of the magnificent global display, illuminated by the full moon now baring down from the midnight hour and in through the widest, banistered opening which welcomed a deadly, multi-story drop.

“Lesson one.” He started, wandering in the pitch blackness. His voice rippled through the tower, “The moon is separated into three parts. The light, dark… and grey.” He hesitated.

“I’ve been studying the light side. You know, the part we can see through a telescope.” I informed naively.

“Right. And the dark is not all that important. The grey area, however, is what I want to talk about.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“For good reason.” I lost him in the night, but could sense the trouble in his tone, “So before I tell you, are you absolutely sure you want to know?”

I shuffled in my spot, a sense of discomfort overcoming me but nodded; knowing that – despite not seeing him – he had firm eyes on me.

“Then rest assured, whatever the outcome, I won’t hurt you.”

The suddenness of the claim trickled unease against my spine. What was I doing here? What was Remus going to do?

That feeling of safety never seemed to slip away but I knew with any ounce of logic, I should never have followed him here. And, as a group of footsteps and voice came from the entrance, these newcomers felt the same too.

“What are you doing? Have you gone barmy?” Sirius Black yelled out as he fully emerged into the room, tailed closely by the two final Marauders, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew. They’d clearly chased us here from the party, knowing the suspicious activities Remus was due to perform.

“Moony, don’t be stupid.” James insulted with a knowing attitude. It was as if they all had a sense of understanding of the situation. All except me.

I could hear the shuffle of feet ahead of me in the closest area of shade and knew Remus was before me.

“Wait. I just want to try. Trust me.” His arms appeared from the distance and held out in a terrible attempt of reassurance, but he was unconvinced himself.

“In the castle? In front of her?” Sirius directed his attention to where I was stood, a wave of worry across his brow.

“You know what will happen if you take that step.” Peter reminded - his eyes focused on the blinding of the full moon upon the rest of us. I followed his sights, still trying to piece together this encounter.

“I’ll handle it. I’m ready.”

Remus took a single step closer making way towards the lit-up ground. James, unannounced, lifted his wand and licked his top lip anxiously.

“You know I don’t want to hurt you.” He recoiled, his wand ready and pointed, and face contorted in anguish.

“You won’t have to. I promise. Y/n…” he found my hard and intense eyes. I could feel it.

“Remus, what’s going on?” I pleaded; my tremoring hands now unable to settle.

“Y/n, get behind me.” Sirius stood forward, reaching over for my hand, “Now.”

I didn’t take it.

“Let’s all just calm down, alright.” Remus was more impatient, “I think I know what prevents it. I can stop this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please, y/n.” James warned, his hand tightened on the wand still firmly fixed on his friend.

“Before you.” Remus resumed, “Before I ever met you, I was dangerous.”

The sound of another shuffle.

“Lupin – “ Sirius cautioned lowly, now standing in front of me to shield me.

“- Let me finish.” His voice was irritable now, feeling the hostility of the room become dense in his breath, “I was terrified of myself. The darkness inside was overwhelming. I began to go the library to distract myself. I thought it a good place to escape. It was safe, away from prying eyes. Away from who I really am; a monster.“

“- Are you sure you want her to know?” Peter questioned. Remus ignored him. And so did I.

“You’re not a monster, Remus. I at least know that about you.”

My voice was begging, filled with panic and honesty. I heard a half-hearted sigh.

“When I saw you, everything changed. I finally felt at ease.”

He took a slow step towards the light and we could at last see him. His eyes were low and his expression solemn. The boys stirred.

“And over time I slowly realised it had nothing to do with where I was at all. I’d found comfort in where you were. So -”

As he was about to take the last move into the direct beam of the moon, Sirius jerked forward.

“Really think about this, Remus. What this will do.”

Remus pursed his lips together defiantly and took a brave inhale through his nostrils, before moving aside, burning himself in the glow.

The boys all flinched and reacted in alarm. For a moment they seemed reassured as nothing happened. Remus’ eyes remained closed and face deep in concentration.

We all stared onwards, my breath heavy and out of sync.

Then out of nowhere, Remus’ body began to seize, an agony crippling him in half. He began to cry out in pain, his voice becoming hoarse from the scream.

Sirius’ stance against me widened as he paced forward, and with a confirming nod to James, began to hunch himself over. I was frozen in disorientation; completely useless to help him because I had no clue what was causing any of this. James had not fired any spells; Sirius had not flung himself at him yet. There was no logical explanation for his reaction - his turmoil. Or even theirs.

“Remus, I’ll have to change.” Sirius looked over his brow at him, bracing himself.

“No!” Remus desperately reached his arm out, preventing him. He fell to his knees, soaring in twitching intensity.

“Y/n, you really ought to go.” Peter said with a quiver in his voice as he approached me.

“She stays.” Remus wheezed, “She needs to know.”

And suddenly I did. Like a jolt of lightening to my system. Him saying that - I knew. I finally knew.

The library. The restless sleep. The grey part of the moon. Somewhere in my subconscious I had read it during my studies. This was it - his detonation.

Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

“Remus, this is ridiculous. James!” Sirius looked to the wand, but before James could do anything, I had bypassed the chaos and, fuelled by unprecedented compassion, made way towards Remus.

Kneeling before him, I rested my hand against the trembling, vein-popping one gripping at the cold floor. Sirius aimed for us, but Peter held his robe and pulled him back, suspecting my intentions.

“Remus, you don’t have to prove this to me. This isn’t who you are.”

He was looking down, begging for release from the boiling against his skin.

“I can control it, I swear. I just –“

He was letting go, being defeated by the pain of his harsh reality - his disbelief that he was anything other than a violent beast. He thought bringing me would make him see that it wasn’t true - that he could command it. But now, with the magnitude of celestial torment against his back, the strength of his curse running through him as thick as his poisoned blood, he couldn’t stop it. It was overbearing the test he so desperately wished to pass. He wanted to stand in front of the moon, and for once, be human.

And I understood it now. It all made sense, it always had – our ties together, our purposes for being so close without uttering a single word, being calming presences for each other. Why we were so drawn to one another. The control, the distraction. He couldn’t master it himself.

Maybe all of this was never his choice to make.

Maybe it was mine.

Under my palm, I could sense the stubble of hair bursting from his pores and nails expanding to ferocious claws.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t - you have to go.” He admitted in surrender. I felt the air thicken behind me as the three friends prepared for a battle once this would inevitably get ugly.

I shook my head and grabbed his in my hands, allowing the risk of his free forming claw to attack at any given moment. But I trusted him. As he said, he wouldn’t hurt me. And I knew it.

I stole his eyes, begging into them to see me. His were squinted in terror, budding with tears. His lips trembled in fear and sincerity.

“I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

My throat pulsed with adrenaline filled oxygen and just like that, my lips crashed onto his. It was painful and severe and with purpose. His skin was white hot, but it was fragile all the same, filled with desire and need, and a magnificent vulnerability.

I could feel the twitching against his mouth, the irregular beat of his heart as my arms found their way around his shoulders and to his back to comfort him in an embrace.

Suddenly, his own cupped around me and stole me into his whimpered stature. I gasped, and clenched my eyes shut – for a moment I had thought he had fully transformed and was initiating an attack. But I began to feel warm, gentle hands, with gracious tips and no sharp talons.

He was softening in the hug, returning to his own senses. His skin was cooled and still, his bones stopped vibrating, and the boy I had so deeply considered, so earnestly cared for was back.

“How in the fu-“ James mouthed, slumping his arms to his sides, and dropping his wand. Sirius looked over to him, finally able to let out a bewildered breath that had left him since the beginning of this confrontation. Peter stared on with a cheery, relieving laugh.

Remus refused to let me go, and I could feel his content as he wrapped me up in his body. I began to smile through his kiss pressed safely against my own. He pulled away, watching me with admiration.

We both stood, Remus still encasing me in his cuddle, and as we both finally found steadiness from the sting of the concrete floor, he noted the moon still highlighted across my face.

Swallowing in anticipation, I awaited his response.

“I knew it.” He exhaled brokenly, still sore and shaking his head subtly in disbelief as he stared intently at me.

“Not clumsy.” I giggled tenderly, brushing the flustered strands of hair away from his clammy temple, “Just a little reckless.”

He pecked at my forehead before lowering his to mine, “Thank you.”

“Uh, hello?!”

We both stared back at the friends now inspecting the pair of us in befuddlement.

“I told you to trust me.” Remus squinted from the unaccustomed brightness and teased a smirk.

With murmured cursives, they all approached, playfully retrieved Remus, and tackled him under the hue of the full moon, completely free of the fear that had devastated the entirety of their friendship. At last, but not knowing how long or how guaranteed the freedom, they weren’t looking to the night sky to determine their friend’s fate. Or even their own. The conversation could wait, for now they wanted to savour it, and by the looks on all their faces, they certainly were.

After the ruckus, Remus took my hand and aided me back to the room of requirement where the party had died down, and students were dispersing to their dorms.

“I can finally have a night off from your wolfy shenanigans.” Sirius joked as they all gave quick exchanges of farewells; James tapped me on the back gratefully while Sirius winked his thanks. Peter ruffled up Remus’ hair before the three of them headed back to their own rooms with new skips in their steps.

As I swivelled to face him, ready to declare my own goodnight after quite possibly the best, craziest and most mentally exhausting night of my life so far, Remus had made way towards the other end of the small area that we had spent the larger portion of our evening; back at the grand fireplace to retrieve the book that had been awaiting his return. The flames were still high, and the room dimly-lit. He glanced over at me with a look of pure welcome.

The reality was, I didn’t want to go to my dorm. Not one bit. I was finally able to be alone with Remus tonight, for its majority had been plagued with self-loathing and misunderstanding. Now, stood against the heat of the room with a look of unimaginable adoration, I couldn’t resist enjoying his company longer.

I came to, inviting myself into his space and ran one hand up against the chest of almost tattered robes while the other caressed against the top of his fingers clutching his book.

He raised his brow with a cheeky expression.

“No more funny business. How about you just… read to me.”

He stole a light approving kiss and ushered me to sit beside him on the large sofa. Wriggling my way below the arm he now had raised for me to rest under, he skimmed the pages and creased spine to find his place in his story.

He gave me one last check, beaming with appreciation, and comforted himself into my embrace.

“The day had finally arrived. After four years in the waiting, the infamous Robert Grimshaw would return home. Whenever the appropriate occasions called, the locals would greed themselves on talk of him - his woeful story, and his inevitable demise. Whispers were regularly made of his return, often retold, and largely falsified…“

I settled in, feeling my heavy eyes lower into a soft slumber against Remus’ low beating heart.

It was turning to be a quiet night and at long last for Remus…

Peaceful.

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solange-lol · 3 years

Text

"why don't we be friends (why don't we make out)" - (1/1)

words: 2,373

read on ao3

—

There are very few people that Nico forgets about. At least, as far as the people that have stuck around with him for most of his life.

He’s known Percy and Annabeth since they were young, remembering watching the two of them chase each other around the schoolyard and purposefully try and get desks right next to each other before they were inevitably separated by alphabetical last name seating. He remembers trying to convince Piper to do his french project and Jason sitting in the halls with him outside of the music room when they wouldn’t want to go outside for recess in middle school. He can still hear the alarm when Leo accidentally knocked over a bunsen burner in their sophomore year chemistry class, and the feeling of paint on his skin when Hazel tripped and sent half of her palette onto him in their art class.

Nico can even recall moments with the people he was never particularly close to, like when Rachel told him she loved him backstage of their winter concert after only having known him for five minutes (in a very lesbian/gay solidarity way, of course), or when Grover spent an entire hour hiding out in their school library to get away from their math sub.

It’s strange now, looking across such a large circle of people piled into Jason and Thalia’s house. They’re all people from his grade (or class , he supposes, now that they’re officially graduated), Each one of them, Nico can remember at least one conversation he’s had with them, one story he’s passed into his closer friend group that is laughed over and then inevitably moved on from.

It was supposed to be a big party celebrating all their friendships throughout the years.

Ironically, so many people that had such little impact on him, in retrospect.

Which is why it comes as a surprise to him when he sees a flash of blonde curls and freckled skin among the sea of people. He’s hit with what feels like a wall of memories of the two of them, laying in the same bed trading quiet secrets, and walks to the store to get an inhumane amount of candy that they can go share at the pier. Images of blue eyes, warm hands in his, and the sound of stifled laughter at midnight feel all too familiar. Nico is stuck on them.

He hasn’t seen Will in years.

It wasn’t exactly his choice. It wasn’t either of theirs, really. They had gone to middle school together, and from the ages of 10 to 14, Will knew the most about him.

And then their middle school graduation came and went, and Will left for a boarding school. Nico remembers, vaguely, Will asking him to come with them.

“They offer more classes, and there are more opportunities for help,” they had said, or something along the lines of it. “And we could be roommates.”

Part of him wanted to. All of him almost went. But it was the same year he lost his sister, and while moving to another state for school sounded like a fantastic way to avoid all his trauma, he had to stay with his family. Not that his father would have stopped him, but Nico knew he couldn’t go. Not yet.

So he stayed, and Will left, and it all worked out fine. They texted every other day, facetimed once or twice a month when their schedules lined up. Will came home for Christmas that year, telling stories about the other kids on their floor and their girlfriend. Then, when he came home for that summer, about their boyfriend.

Nico would listen, then catch Will up about what was going on at his public school. He had gone out on a date with one boy which was nice but didn’t turn into anything, and Will told him he would find someone eventually. They took trips to the mall together instead of the pier, mostly just to get milkshakes and have a place to walk around.

One morning, Will convinced him to bike to the beach in the morning to see the sunrise. The sky ended up being too cloudy, but they still sat together on the empty lifeguard chair, swapped sweatshirts and bagels with cream cheese, and talking about summer jobs and college.

Then Will left for their sophomore year, and school caught up to both of them and whatever kept them going was lost. The most Nico talked to them was through the occasional Snapchat sent to each other or on a group facetime

The last time Nico had called Will alone, it was in a panic to ask advice on how to break up with the boy he was dating at the time because he realized that relationships weren’t really his thing, at least not yet. Will had sat quietly, giving him occasional advice, and mostly just comforted him.

And that was it.

Nico had gotten a new phone later that year, and all their call logs and long text threads were lost into the depths of his phone memory.

It was bittersweet, in all honesty, and pretty painless for the most part. Maybe it’s because Nico never really forgot about Will. There was never any clear ending; no hard feelings between the two of them. He still sees their posts on social media, sees their mom in the store on occasion. He remembers passing Will at their local fair when they came home again for the summer of their junior year with their boyfriend that they were still dating, and then later again the next when he noticed that all posts had been removed from their Instagram including the ones with said boyfriend and nothing but will - they/them in their bio.

He wondered, briefly, where Will had gone when he didn’t even see him in passing over the following summer. Was he still going to the boarding school? Had his family moved out of the state entirely?

It never felt like a friendship breakup. It was clear now, though.

Nico wonders at which point it became one. He didn’t mean to stare at Will as long as he did. Everything had just come washing over him at once, and he was frozen in place staring at the person Nico had once called his best friend.

He doesn’t even realize he was staring until Will looks back. Their blue eyes meet his brown ones, and reality sets back in. The loud music he had drowned out in his daydream came filtering back through his ears, and he stumbles as people shove past him towards the kitchen. Still, his gaze locks on Will.

Neither of them makes a move towards each other at first.

Then, a moment later, Will is right next to him.

“Hey,” they say it slowly, almost like they were testing the waters, like they knew how long it had been since they had spoken.

Nico doesn’t know what to say. His first instinct was to hug them.

He withstands it, though, instead grabbing onto their wrist and pulling them past the crowd of people and into one of the rooms off of the main hall, which was miraculously empty. He can still hear the pounding music, but it was a little bit quieter with the door closed. Quiet enough that he can think again.

“Uh, hi,” Will tries again, and god, their smile never changed.

“Sorry,” Nico says once he realized he had just seemingly dragged them into a secondary location with no explanation. “It was just… loud. Out there.”

“I get it,” Will says, sitting down on the couch pushed onto the far wall and looking back up at Nico. They were wearing a pinkish-orange button-up Hawaiian shirt that looked straight out of their dad’s closet (Nico would know, he’s seen it before) that was half-tucked into mid-rise light wash jeans that were cuffed just enough that you could see a glimpse of where their socks met their Converse. Yellow, possibly the same pair they had bought at the mall two years prior when Nico was there.

They got taller, he thinks vaguely. Nico had too, but Will still has at least half a foot on him.

“So, what’s up?”

“Not much, I guess,” he shrugs, twisting his ring. “I mean, I graduated. I assume you did too.”

Will nods. “I did. Lou Ellen invited me as her plus one. You know her, right? Friends with Rachel.”

Nico nods. Shoulder length, cloud-like hair that was a different color every other week. Wore lots of random thrifted t-shirts over big pants. Loud personality, even louder voice. Band kid. Friends with Cecil; her good grades probably being the only reason he hasn’t been kicked out of the school yet. Once debated the legitimacy of gender binaries with him in an English class.

“Sorry for, like, staring at you before,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

They nod again. “All good. I was staring at you before anyway.”

“You were?”

“Yeah,” Will shrugs. “You’re easy to look at.”

Then, a moment later, “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. You’ve changed a bit.”

“Have I?” They ask. “I think just my look, maybe. I’m still just as obnoxious.”

Nico snorts. It’s comforting to know they could just slip back into it like this. Like no time had ever passed, and Nico is back in their bedroom creating each other in The Sims.

“Are you still dating Connor?” Nico asks, vaguely remembering the last conversation they had.

“Nah, we broke up last winter.”

“Any reason?”

Will squints a bit like they’re curious why Nico’s asking. It makes Nico blush, immediately regretting saying anything.

“Dunno. We just grew apart,” they say. Then, “Sounds kinda familiar, doesn’t it?” followed by a laugh.

“I didn’t mean to stop talking to you,” Nico says quickly because he didn’t. There are days where he sees Will’s Instagram story or a tweet and knows that even though he could still comment, it wouldn’t quite be the same.

“Life got busy,” Will says. “It happens”

“I didn’t want it to. Not to us.”

“So let's restart.”

Nico blinks. “Just… start over our entire friendship?”

“No, just pick up where we left off.”

“Just like nothing happened?” he asks, sitting down on the couch next to them.

“Just like nothing happened,” Will affirms.

They’re both quiet for a moment, then—

“Do you remember what you told me when you first came out as bisexual to me?”

It was in the basement of Will’s house. Nico had come out as gay a few weeks prior, and when he was talking about the boy he liked, they just casually mentioned it. Being with Will like this again reminded him of something they had said, and something he later found out.

“I think I just, like… told you, right?” Will smiles. “And I said you were a big part of helping me figure out.”

“Yeah. I always thought you meant because I had already come out,” Nico said. “It wasn’t until, like, last year that Piper mentioned you meant that because you liked me.”

Will laughed again. “I figured you didn’t. You were always talking about what bad of a couple we would make.”

“Yeah,” Nico said, and his heart picked up pace as his knee knocked against Will’s by accident. Neither of them moved. “I actually had a massive crush on you for a while. I think I just said that because I wanted to try and get over it, so I wanted you to indirectly reject me.”

“Did you ever get over it?”

Nico laughs. “Not really. But I moved on.”

He notices Will shift closer, notices how their hands are now on top of each other and their legs are fully pressed together.

“Same,” Will says, moving their head closer to Nico’s until their foreheads are pressed together and their breaths mingle. They look at him for any sign to stop, and Nico doesn’t move.

“Good thing we’re starting over then, right?” they continue, practically a breath of a whisper before their lips connect, and god Nico did not think this was where his night was going but no way in hell was he about to stop it. (He’s not sober enough to care, anyway, and seemingly neither is Will judging by the strong scent smell of weed coming off of his shirt.)

Their hands laced together, subconsciously, almost like muscle memory from all the days walking hand in hand down the dock. (Nico wonders if his younger self was ever trying to tell his mind something.) Nico’s other hand comes up to rest on warm skin, brushing Will’s cheek with his thumb like he’s trying to wipe the freckles off.

Will wraps one arm around Nico’s waist, pulling him closer until he eventually just shifts so he’s in their lap. Will certainly doesn’t complain, only tilting their head to deepen the kiss and breaking apart their hands so they can run one hand through Nico’s hair.

They have to break apart after a moment, and Nico can help it when he laughs.

“Guess we were a little dumb when we were younger, huh?”

Will’s breathing heavy, but Nico doesn’t miss the familiar playful glint in their eye. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re still an idiot,” they say, pressing a kiss to the underside of Nico’s jaw, and another one right next to his ear.

He wonders if Will has thought about doing this the same way Nico has.

“Says you,” Nico says. “You were far more oblivious than I was.”

“I’m not the one who said we would make a bad couple,” they remind Will.

“Yeah?” he says, then leans back in to kiss Will again. Their mouths slot together, and god, they’re an even better kisser than Nico ever thought they could be. Something in his mind tells him maybe it’s not relationships he didn’t like, maybe he just knew it wasn’t the right person.

Perhaps Will’s that person he was always looking for.

Nico leans back, just barely so he can mumble “Lucky for you, I’m willing to test that theory,” against Will’s lips just before they pull him in once more.

—

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@unicornsgomooo @anxiouswinter @soulangelou @number-of-fucks-i-give-0 @underworldystuff @theeloquentsnake @solangelover@thefandomsaretakingover @internallyexplodingrainbows @hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon @motivatedcryptidtamer @emilyfairchild @wherethewildthingsare-nt @hetapeep41 @blavk-dahlia

#solangelo #will solace #nico di angelo #pjo #heros of olympus #my writing #liz writes.com #i like this update for the automatic italicies but holy shit just let me type my tags tumblr dear god

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bittersweetmelxdy · 3 years

Text

the other end of my scarlet thread...

Words: 4,255

Summary: Every year at midnight of Christmas Night, everyone is able to see the red string of fate connecting them to their soulmate. Y/N has spent the last few years, chasing hers with no avail and is just about to give up, and simply spends her Christmas at the LFG company party, and then goes home alone. Victor has known who his soulmate is since the first year Y/N joined the company, however that was also the year he heard Y/N say in a drunken ramble (due to spiked punch) say that in a tier list of ‘who she’d date in LFG’, Victor didn’t even make the list. This year he plans not only to get on that list, but to be her only option.

Merry Christmas @chibienvychan03, I’m your Secret Santa, I hope you enjoy it <3

Standing in the lobby of LFG, you tried to psyche yourself up to deliver the report to Victor, it would be your last report this year and you and your team had spent countless sleepless nights writing and refining the report so you could hopefully end the year on a glowing report. However, knowing Victor’s nitpicking tendencies you had literally stressed about this all night and even on the drive up to LFG, you had practiced the report with Anna, adding answers to questions you felt Victor would ask. However, the time had come, and Goldman walking up to you signaled that Victor was ready to see you.

“You look like death warmed up.” Goldman said as he got close to you.

“Gee, Goldman glad to see you too.” you replied playfully.

“I’m serious, you look even worse than the very first Christmas party you attended at LFG and you were so drunk.”

“Remind me, not to trust the communal punch bowl again.” you groaned, rubbing your forehead as if to banish the memory from you.

“Though I have to say, I didn’t think you’d have even less of a filter drunk than you did sober, it was pretty entertaining.” Goldman nudged you, as he laughed, “I mean that tier list, I didn’t even know you knew the main employees at LFG.”

“Of course, I do, I make a point to know all the people I interact with.” you said in a prideful tone.

Goldman scoffed, “Sure, you’re such a model business partner, you should give lessons.”

“I think you’re just mad I only put you as a ‘B’ on my list.” you stuck your tongue out at him.

“I wouldn’t date you if you paid me.” Goldman threw back, at your scandalised gasp, “I think everyone was more shocked our CEO wasn’t even on your list.”

“There is no way I’d go out with a man who doesn’t even call me by my own name.” you pouted.

“Don’t you think maybe it’s just affectionate teasing?” Goldman asked.

“You’re on thin ice Goldman, keep talking and you won’t be getting away of my famous gingerbread.” you threatened, pointing a finger in his face, as you both stopped in front of Victor’s office.

Goldman grabbed the finger lightly, moving it from his face, “Alright, alright, I’ll stop. Go and give your report.”

You turned your head, noticing you had reached your destination, and quickly stepped away from Goldman. Fixing your appearance and taking a deep breath, after throwing a final glare at Goldman you raised your hand and knocked thrice on the door. After a minute you heard a deep “Come in.” and you stepped over the threshold to accept your fate.

After you finished your report, having answered ten grueling questions from Victor, and barely stuttering through the questions that despite your careful planning you somehow hadn’t prepared for. You now stood with bated breath, wondering why Victor hadn’t let you leave yet, as you shifted your weight from foot to foot as the silence grew between you. Watching Victor shuffle his papers and sign documents you kicked the floor slightly with the toe of your shoe, the slight noise alerting Victor.

“Hey, take a seat, I’ll be done in a minute and I’ll give you a lift back.” Victor gestured at the couch in the side of his office, and without waiting for your response went back to work.

Swallowing the barb dancing on the tip of your tongue, you walked over and plopped down on the couch, pulling out your phone to watch some videos whilst you waited for Victor. After a few minutes, you suddenly felt your phone being pulled slightly out of your grasp, and looking up you noticed Victor hovering over you, already dressed in his coat.

“Come on Dummy, let’s go.” Victor called and then stood back to his full height turning around to walk back to his desk to pick up his briefcase and file folder.

You couldn’t help admiring the fine figure Victor cut in his winter get up, checking him out but quickly averting your eyes when he faced you once again. Standing up, you smoothed your outfit and then followed Victor, thanking him as he opened the door for you to exit the office. Passing through the corridors you passed Goldman, who seeing you with the CEO raised an eyebrow at you, but just as you took a deep breath to yell at him, he quickly called out.

“Remember, I don’t eat peppermint.” Goldman said patting you on the shoulder before leaving quickly before you could retort.

Shaking you head, huffing out a laugh and rolling your eyes as Victor behind you furrowed his brows casting his eyes between you and Goldman in confusion. However, he didn’t breach the subject until you were both sitting in his car and as he drove you home.

“So... what did Goldman mean?” Victor coughed once and glanced at you almost bashfully, but all this was lost on you as you kept your eyes on the scenery outside of the window.

“Oh, I bake a whole batch of gingerbread every year for my friends and stuff. And I do different flavour combinations for different people depending on their taste.

“You bake, does it taste good?” Victor said, and sadly his intended tease fell flat at your response.

“It’s good enough for people who aren’t gourmet chefs at least.” you threw back spitefully, and Victor winced slightly, deciding to change the topic instead.

“Anyway... you got any plans for Christmas?” Victor asked.

Deciding to cut him some slack, you humoured him in the change of subject, “No plans, apart from the LFG Christmas Party.”

“No... no plans with your soulmate?”

You laughed bitterly, raising your left hand to stare at your pinky finger, “I’ve spent years chasing after them and he obviously doesn’t want to find me, I think after this year, I’m just going to give up.”

Victor choked on his breath as he stopped outside your apartment building, turning to look at you with slight panic in his eyes, “What if he IS looking for you, right now?” he asked. You shrugged unbuckling your seatbelt and hopping out of his car, not answering his question you then shut the car door, turning to enter your building, missing how Victor stared at your retreating figure with determination in his eyes.

A few days passed and you found yourself navigating the supermarket at an ungodly hour of 1am so that you it was finally quiet and the only people accompanying you were tired college students and insomniacs. You picked up a basket, yawning as you walked through the automatic doors, before first navigating through the fruit and veg aisles, to pick up fresh ginger, oranges and other ingredients. You snapped a quick picture of the empty aisles, uploading it to your Moments with a yawning and sleepy emoji as the caption alongside the words, ‘Night Owl’, as you entered the dairy section. Crouching down in front of the various pots of double cream, you unlocked your phone to check the quantities you needed when you felt a cool sensation atop your head. Looking up, to your surprise, was Victor standing next to you, still dressed impeccably, a stark contrast to your very casual outfit. Grabbing the appropriate double cream containers and carefully placing them in your basket, you stood, and Victor placed a can of tea in your hands, before bending slightly and picking up your heavy basket with ease.

“You need anything else?” Victor asked softly, and you tilted your head as you once again saw the rare appearance of “soft Victor”, something that never failed to make you heartbeat race.

“Ah... um...” You stopped and collected your thoughts under Victor’s amused gaze, “No, I think I got everything. How come you’re here I thought you preached “8 hours of sleep a day”, and “if you don’t get enough sleep, you’ll continue to make stupid mistakes”.” during your quotations you deepened your voice to mimic Victor, before realising that it wasn’t the best idea to mock the prime investor of your company and you covered your mouth with your hands.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” you apologised quickly, looking in the opposite direction of Victor.

Victor sighed, switching the basket to the outside and reaching out he placed his larger hand atop your head, ruffling your tresses affectionately, “If you have time to practice impressions of me, you should instead put that energy into proofreading your report.” you looked up and stared as Victor smiled softly at you, but you chalked it up to your sleepy state, and you spent the next half hour wandering the aisles of the deserted supermarket with Victor, picking up various ingredients and supplies, and finally once you reached the checkout, as you fumbled in your purse for your wallet, Victor took the opportunity to swipe his black card and pay for your groceries.

Leaving the supermarket holding the lighter of your bags, you turned to Victor to admonish him for his act, “Victor, I could’ve paid you know!”

“I know that, just thought I’d help you out.” Victor shrugged before raising a hand to halt your open mouth, “No, you do not need to pay me back,”

You shut your mouth, and after a couple beats of silence, you erupted in giggles as Victor watching you also began to laugh at the silliness of the whole situation. Your combined breaths swirling around you both in white whisps, as you both calmed down. Once you had both regained your composure, you extended your hand out for Victor to return the bag to you so you can go home. But to your surprise Victor shook his head silently at you and then grabbed your right hand, leading you over to his car. As you walked the short distance in the still night blanketing Loveland City, you furrowed your brow as you felt a weird tingling feeling in your left pinky and looking down there was no visible change but shaking you head you dispelled such thoughts and simply followed the CEO with full trust.

A few more days passed, and you were window shopping in the New Light Mall, looking for a dress for the LFG Christmas Party. You had planned to just recycle a dress you already owned with a different jacket and some new accessories, but to your horror you noticed it had a stain on it, and it was in a pretty noticeable spot. Taking it to the drycleaners, the workers sadly informed that due to the holiday season, they would be unable to get it back to you before the Christmas Party date, knowing it was a fruitless endeavour, you apologised to the workers but still left the dress with them so you could at least have a clean dress for the next fancy function.

Leading you to the current predicament, aimlessly wandering through the shopping centre, window shopping and hoping something would catch your eye. After an hour of searching, you were just about ready to give up when a simple dress caught your eye. Approaching the window, you noted that although the dress seemed simple in its cut and style, the choice of slightly shimmery satin gave it an air of elegance, and even better because of the simple but fashionable cut you could easily rewear the dress and change the look with different accessories. Casting your eyes to the side of the mannequin you saw a small plaque with the pricing of the dress, and your eyes lit up seeing it was an affordable price. Entering the store, you prayed silently that the store would carry your size, and lo and behold, it did. You held the dress up against your figure, as you watched yourself in the full-view mirror, giggling lightly and swishing out the skirt to admire the cut.

After purchasing the dress, you noted the sky had grown dark and as you left the shopping centre you decided to take a detour through Creek Ancient Street where you knew there was a light display, before heading home. Just from approaching the bridge that led into Creek Ancient Street you could see the steady stream of people and the faint glow of the Christmas lights. Skipping your way past the colourful market stalls and following the pathway of lights, you found yourself in front of a large tree in the middle of the crossroads. The silver lights twinkled in the branches and in the darkness, it looked like scattered stars and casting your eyes to the side you saw that for a small price you could purchase a small ornament which you could attach a written wish to and then you could hang it on the tree’s branches. Walking towards the stall vendor, you examined the rows upon rows of Christmas ornaments, before spotting a small, cute snowman that wore a simple santa hat and a red sparkly bow around its neck. Pointing at it you asked for the vendor to take it down for you, when the vendor’s comment made you pause.

“Miss, this snowman comes in a pair would you like to buy the other one too?” the vendor handed you the smaller snowman, and then retrieved the snowman’s counterpart, a taller snowman with a deep red scarf, black hat and thick eyebrows, and showed him to you.

Looking at how well the pair looked together, you felt awkward in splitting them up, so you were about to hand the snowman back when a large hand appeared over your shoulder and plucked the snowman out of the vendors hand, replacing it with money to cover both ornaments. Turning your head quickly, your eyes widened as the sight of Victor, who simply thanked the vendor, who smiled in thanks for the purchase, and then he spun you around and led you over to the tree.

“Victor, what are you doing here?” you questioned.

“Just passing by.” Victor coughed into his fist and averted his eyes, and you could be mistaken but in the low hazy lighting you were almost certain that the red on the tips of his ears was out of embarrassment rather than the cold.

You squinted in skepticism at Victor’s response, with how far away you were from LFG it seemed unlikely that Victor was simply “passing by”. But shrugging you turned your eyes to the ornament and after running over the snowman with your thumb, you uncapped a pen from the jar on a table next to the tree and thought about your wish.

“You not going to wish to meet your soulmate?” Victor asked.

Noting this was the second time in the last week Victor had brought this up you queried him, “Why are you so interested in my soulmate?”

“Maybe finding your soulmate will make you better at your work.” Victor teased, poking you directly in the middle of your forehead.

“Hey!” you rubbed your forehead pouting, “What about you?”

“What about me?” Victor asked, not watching you but instead finishing to write his wish.

“Is your wish about finding your soulmate?”

Victor stopped looked at you for a few seconds, before reaching up and hanging his ornament on the tree branch before answering with a simple, “Something like that.”

You hurriedly finished your wish with hopes of the coming year to make your father proud, and whilst handing the ornament to Victor your fingers brushed his palm, and as he turned to hang your ornament next to his you felt that tingling sensation in your pinky finger once again. Thinking it was simply pin and needles you rubbed it with your other hand until the feeling faded once again.

Stepping into the rented, lavishly decorated rented hall that was the location of the LFG Christmas Party, you marveled at the decorations, snapping pictures of the decorations to quickly add to your Moments. When you felt a hand on your shoulder, and you jumped with a small yelp.

“Goldman!” you called, spinning around, and seeing the drink in his hand you looked around for a waiter.

“Don't even think about it, the waiters know not to give you any alcohol.” Goldman told you.

“Come on, one glass.” you pouted.

“Talk to me when you stop being a lightweight.” Goldman deadpanned, despite your sad puppy dog eyes, “Anyway don’t you want to spend one party sober so you can find you soulmate?”

You scoffed, “Fine, but when I don’t find him, you owe me.” you pointed at him accusatorily.

Goldman nodded and then you and him after a short conversation, you both parted and you spent the next few hours talking to various employees of LFG, and taking some fun selfies with Kiki, Willow and Anna. Finally, as midnight drew closer your social battery was running low and you made your way over a deserted balcony, and you sighed leaning your arms on the railing.

“Please tell me no-one gave you alcohol.” a deep baritone cut through your reverie, and you opened your eyes to watch as he approached you and at your shiver Victor began to take off his coat, reaching to put it around your shoulders.

“Shouldn’t you save this behaviour for your soulmate?” You teased.

“Be worried about a certain Dummy’s health isn’t something my soulmate would get mad at me about.” Victor threw back, his tone softer than usual but you felt this was due to the festive period.

You sighed, casting your eyes to the stars twinkling above, “How come you’re so calm?”

“Sorry?”

“Most people your age seem more concerned that they haven't found their soulmate.” you mused.

“My age?” Victor teased, standing next to you and placing a hand next to your elbow, so he could lean over you slightly, “Am I so old to you?”

“You know what I mean.” you rolled our eyes.

“Aren’t people YOUR age still full of hopeless fantasies about your soulmates?”

“Yeah, some of us aren’t.” you sighed, drawing a circle on the stone railing.

“Really, with an imagination like yours I’d expect you had your whole future planned out by now.”

“I did once,” you smiled, rested your hands flat against the railing and leaned backwards, “I still have the scrapbook I made with my high school friends, it may seem silly but it was really fun at the time.” you didn’t know why, but you suddenly felt you had to justify embarrassing younger self to Victor.

Victor reached out and placed it on your head, stroking your hair gently, “It’s not silly, not at all.” his soft tone, caused a heat to prickle under your cheeks.

“Thanks Victor, you’re really sweet when you want to be.”

“I’m glad even someone like you can see my good points.”

You scoffed, “You’re a good guy Victor, anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Even you?”

You laughed, “Yeah even m-”

The clock struck midnight, and you looked down seeing a bright scarlet thread materialise around your left pinky finger, a neat little bow adorning it. Following the thread with your eyes, to your absolute horror for the first time in your life you saw the end of the red thread, neatly tied around Victor’s finger. You felt like ice cold water had been poured down your back, and you felt faint, stumbling backwards as you realised the only one who was shocked was you.

You lifted your trembling left index finger, pointing it Victor, “Y-y-y-you knew?”

Victor realising this was going south, tried to placate you, “Listen y/n-”

“How long?”

“...”

“How long, Victor!”

“... the first year you collaborated with LFG.”

“It must have been real fun for you, to string me along whilst you laughed behind my back.”

“No, that’s not it.” Victor took a step towards you, but you shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, stepping back once more, you ripped his jacket from your shoulders throwing it haphazardly at Victor’s face, before fleeing the venue.

Reaching home, you threw yourself on your bed not bothering to take off any of your clothes and started sobbing into your pillow. It wasn’t that you were disappointed in WHO your soulmate was, in fact part of your tears were full of relief, knowing that the guy you were beginning to fall for was your soulmate. Now the guilty feelings that were beginning to surface, that you were betraying your soulmate could be put to rest. You rolled over onto your back, teary eyes staring at your ceiling and hugging your pillow tightly to your chest. ‘What am I going to do now?’ you wondered closing your eyes and slipping off into a dreamless sleep.

You had spent the last week, avoiding Victor at all costs. If you had a meeting at LFG, Anna subbed in for you, saw him in the corridor, you hid behind a potted plant until you were certain he had gone. you had even recruited Goldman to give you updates on Victor’s movements, and although he had no idea what was going on, bless his heart he was still helping you avoid his boss.

You sighed, leaning against the wall of an empty hallway in LFG on New Year’s Eve with Goldman staring at you confused.

“So... why are you avoiding the boss?” Goldman asked, passing you a water bottle from the vending machine.

“Hah... I... Goldman I-”

“So, you found out?”

You whipped your head up to look at Goldman where he stood next to you taking a sip of his own water bottle, “Y-y-y-you knew?”

Goldman shook his head, “Not for definite but I had a feeling, most of the office did, there’s still an active betting pool on when the two of you are going to finally get together.”

You felt the heat prickle in your cheeks, “A-a-are you part of it?”

Goldman snorted lightly, and offered no response, which meant he was definitely in on it, “Do you like him?”

“Who? Victor?”

“No, the other CEO who’s your soulmate.” Goldman deadpanned.

“I... I do, it’s just he never-”

“For someone who runs around talking about how everyone has different love languages, you really fail to see when someone’s speaking yours.” Goldman pushed off the wall and stood in front of you, “I know I poke fun at you at lot, but I mean it when I say please don’t do that thing you do when you run away from your problems.”

“I don’t-”

“Y/N.” Goldman said sternly.

You sighed again, watching out the window at the city lights blinking as the city prepared to celebrate the new year. “I’ll think about it.” you finished the conversation there and made your way into the streets of Loveland City.

After aimlessly walking around the streets of Loveland City, your heart twinging with sadness every time you passed a happy couple snuggled up to each other whispering softly to each other in the wintery air. In a strange coincidence you ended up back at the large Christmas tree where you had bought the ornament. As you approached the tree you noticed that the shop vendors were taking down some of the ornaments and by chance the vendor you had bought the snowman from the first time spotted you and waved you over.

“Miss!” he called smiling at you brightly.

“Hello.” catching his infectious energy you smile brightly in return, “How come the ornaments are coming down?”

“City Council wants to take down some of the ornaments, so we don’t harm the tree, but I’m glad I caught you.” he then handed the two snowman you and Victor had bought over to you.

“Um, this one isn’t mine...” you started.

“Could you pass it to the gentleman that came with you?” the vendor smiled and then ran off before you could clarify to the vendor that you and Victor weren’t like that.

‘Yet’ your mind whispered, and you shook your head vehemently as if to shake it out of your head.

Stepping into the square, you saw that the minute countdown had started for the new year and you stood stock still amidst the happy people anticipating the new year, caressing Victor’s snowman with your thumb, before the crinkling of the paper caught your eye. Your curiosity winning over your conscience, caused you to turn the paper over to see in Victor’s neat handwriting.

“Please let Y/N, love me back.” a deep baritone voice was heard above you, and you looked up in surprise to catch Victor’s soft eyes.

“Victor?” you whispered, as he approached you, his large hands reaching out to hold your cold cheeks.

“You never let me finish, before you ran off.” Victor said, “I’ve known since the first year, but you got drunk and wouldn’t even put me of your list of people you would date in the company, I’ve spent few years trying to get you to see me in the way I see you.”

“You like me too?” you said in disbelief, the multiple times that Victor was sharp with you flashing through your eyes before overlapping with all the times he was soft with you.

The countdown hit zero as Victor rested his forehead against yours, and as the cheers of the public became background noise around you as the only thing you could hear was Victor’s deep voice saying sincerely to you.

“Dummy, since the moment I met you, I’ve been waiting for you to see the light.”

#mlqc scenarios #mlqc victor #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc zen #mr love queen's choice #mr love victor #mr love li zeyan #mr love zen #koi to producer #love x evol #mlqc

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ivushk · 3 years

Note

HELLO. MAY I PLEASE HEAR MORE OF YOUR VAMPIRE AU…. 👉👈

OH MY GOD I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

Okay, SO. BUCKLE THE FUCKLE UP 'CUZ here's what I've got so far:

Nishiki and Kiryu are still orphans at Sunflower. They come from a tiny village just a few kilometres west from the orphanage. It's a very close and closed-off community. The boys' parents died in a fire when they were very little (which is a common theme for the kids at Sunflower and isn't that a crazy coincidence? *smiles mysteriously*), however the Nishikiyama family house wasn't as badly damaged as Kiryu's so it's just sitting there, waiting for its former residents to reclaim ownership as soon as they're able to (I imagine Kazama would help them with that).

In the next years it becomes a home for Nishiki, Yuko and Kiryu (and Yumi, too, though she feels like a visitor for the most part) in everything but name. It's their hangout spot, their "base of operations", their not-so-secret meeting place. When Yuko's health deteriorates so much that she can't stay at Sunflower anymore, the siblings actually properly move in to make arranging the doctor's visits easier.

It's Nishiki's 17th birthday and all three of them are celebrating and playing games and eating cake and having a good time at the edge of the woods not far from the Nishikiyama residence. They're young and loud and stupid (and ignoring the fact that several people went missing over the course of the last few months) and if Nishiki's heart beats a little too hard in his chest when Kiryu gives him his gift - a beautiful, heavy silver pendant on a slightly-worn leather cord - he doesn't think about it too much (and if he notices that Kiryu stares at him just a bit longer than usual without saying a single word but his gaze is so, so, SO fond-- he doesn't think about it either). (he leaves these kinds of thoughts for restless nights because thinking about his best friend in that way during the day... it hurts. the hurt is good sometimes but it's overwhelming).

They're drunk on the cheap beer they've smuggled from Gen-san's fridge and high on happiness. Unaware that the very same night it would all go crashing down.

At some point they all quiet down and go a little further into the woods than they normally would but no one pays any mind to that. And when suddenly their trio turns into a duo with the sudden absence of the birthday boy himself no one immediately starts panicking. He's been gone for ten minutes, twenty, half an hour. Kiryu tells Yuko to go back to the village, to gather everyone, make them start a search party or something while he keeps looking for her brother (the only things he'll find are the pendant he's gifted to Nishiki with the leather cord torn and the broken shards of his own hope). They never find him.

A year goes by and they hold a funeral for Nishikiyama Akira. Even though there's no body for them to bury. Yuko doesn't cry (she doesn't believe he's really dead). Neither does Kiryu (he used all of his tears up that night, the guilt choking him, and the night after that, and the night after that, and the night-). Yumi does, however. And the nice old lady who gave both Nishiki and Kiryu money for helping her do chores around the house. And the man who gave Nishikiyama a part-time job at his shop (to put at least something towards the cost of his sister's treatment, he felt so indebted to Kazama, and that debt weighed down on him). And a few of the girls and boys from Sunflower too.

Another two years pass. Kiryu moves away to the big city at the behest of Kazama. "It's important for you to continue your education," he says. ("It's important for you to move on," he keeps these words to himself). Kiryu really tries his best. Even makes a few friends (although he's still on the fence about whether he can actually call Oda his friend). It goes as well as it could have considering his circumstances. They say that time heals but Kazuma Kiryu never finds out if there's any truth to those words because he recieves a very short letter - an invitation, actually. To another funeral. But this time it's Yuko they're burying. This time they actually have a body to bury.

Tachibana offers his condolences. Oda offers him a ride to the village and back. Kiryu accepts both.

He can't help but compare this funeral to the last one he's been to. There are fewer people. Fewer tears, too. More flowers. It's quieter and feels something like closure (in truth, it's anything but). Yuko also left behind a will (more like a bunch of wishes since it wasn't an official document but the community decided to honour them anyway). Almost all of her possessions went to the kids from Sunflower, except for the Nishikiyama family house (which on paper actually belonged to Shintaro Kazama) which she left to Kiryu. He can't quite believe it when he hears it and feels his heart break under the onslaught of childhood memories. Still, he goes there later that evening. He finds that little has changed in the time he spent away from the house, from the village, from... all of this, really. There are the same pictures on the walls collecting only slightly less dust. The same books on the shelves and under the broken legs of the old pieces of furniture. The same medicine bottles and equipment in the bedroom, though doubled in quantity. Kiryu's not as devastated as he thought he'd be when he walks around what he used to call his home.

He goes through all the rooms, taking notes of every single thing he finds and every single thing he doesn't. He probably misses a bunch of things (he's not as good at that sort of thing, Nishiki's always had a much better eye for details). Once back outside, he looks for the secret stash they made back when they were teenagers. It's like going through a time capsule. There's a pack of cigarettes he and Nishiki once stole from the teacher's bag, copybooks filled with ugly doodles, dreams for the future and dried flowers and leaves, caps from soda bottles, rocks they thought looked cool, photos and birthday cards damaged by time and weather... the pendant Kiryu gave to Nishiki the last time they saw each other. And a small notebook Kiryu's never seen before. A diary of sorts, a recounting of their days together and their days apart. The handwriting is unmistakingly Yuko's.

It fills him with nostalgia, tears welling up in his eyes, unshed. His heart sinks when he finally reaches the pages where Yuko recounts the last few weeks before she-

She writes about her brother, which is understandable. What's less understandable is the fact that she speaks of him as though he was there, with her. Physically present. Kiryu could chalk it up to the girl being delusional in her dying moments but it doesn't feel right to do so. It's stupid, it's absolutely impossible, he's confused, he's hopeful, why would Yuko hide her notebook there?

The last page. A message. For Kiryu. "Please, Kazuma-kun, help my brother".

Against his better judgement, Kiryu decides to spend the night in the house. Sleep doesn't come to him but that's fine. He sits in the living room, trying to make sense of everything. He sits there until it's way past midnight, until the distant barking of the dogs quiets down, until the rustling of leaves stops, until the very air around him grows still and silent and somehow charged with strange energy. And then he hears it. Three uncertain taps against the window. Kiryu turns his head. It's him.

"Kiryu... Let me in. Please."

He does, without thinking. (He could never very well say no to Nishiki. Even if it got them both in trouble. Even if he's not real.)

The quiet is deafening. It really is him. His best friend (whom he thought dead). His kyoudai. Before Nishiki could say anything, Kiryu wraps him in a tight hug. The only heartbeat between them is Kiryu's own, thundering against his ribs. Nishikiyama doesn't let the hug last, putting some distance between them. He looks guilty, tired; looks at Kiryu with sadness, with longing and something else that he can't quite decipher yet (and it makes him scared but why?). Nishiki also looks older than Kiryu remembers. Not a 17-year-old boy anymore, no. About the same age that Kiryu is now.

Has his gaze always been so sharp? Have his fangs always been this pronounced?

They talk until their throats are hoarse. Until Nishiki pulls out a bottle with some liquid that smells strongly of iron and drinks from it and in that moment Kiryu believes everything his friend has told him. It's crazy, but he does.

Nishiki was abducted that night. Taken from them. By vampires. They hurt him. Forced him to fight other humans (just like him then) for his survival. They fed on him.

It went on and on and on... Days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years. Only thoughts of Yuko, and Kiryu, and Yumi kept him going. He wanted to see them again. He hoped he would. That hope was crushed when Nishikiyama met his match in the arena. No, not his match. Someone far stronger. He lost and was tossed out to die. But another vampire saved him. It was a woman, whose face he saw often among the spectators of his fights. She stood out from the crowd, since she never cheered for any of the humans. Never put any bets. Only looked at all that madness with quiet horror. "Reina" she said her name was.

She gave Nishiki blood. Her own blood, and the blood of the vampires that were much stronger and more powerful than her (but not wiser), and human blood.

He turned and it was even worse than the years of anguish he had experienced. The pain and constant thirst almost drove him mad until he was taught to deal with them.

Nishiki was given a second chance. He escaped. And ever since that moment he's been trying his damndest to help other victims of those monsters. Both, the poor imprisoned souls and the villagers who might have shared his fate otherwise.

THAT CONCLUDES MY MAD RAMBLINGS BECAUSE I HAVEN'T THOUGHT OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT THAT WELL

also i don't remember the last time i wrote this much in one sitting and i'm tireeeeeed. i'm not cut out to be a writer and it shows nghghghhhhhh

but! but! but! i have a couple thoughts on where the story goes:

kiryu decides to stay in the village and help nishiki

they uncover the vampires evil plans and recruit a few other characters to fight on the side of JUSTICE (i.e. kazama, who up to that point has been kind of in cahoots with the vamps - hence trying to atone by means of creating the Sunflower orphanage; kashiwagi; yumi; reina; tachibana and oda; majima, and yeah he was actually the one that defeatead nishiki and unknowingly caused him to become a vampire, also majima himself turns into a vampire later in the story thanks to a certain mad simp nishitani)

yuko comes back as a vampire

at some point the scene from my fanart happens; something along the lines of kiryu and nishiki being found by the evil vamps and being attacked. then of course nishiki saves kiryu (who's still baffled that this shit is happening to them and vampires are REAL) and tells him to run which he doesn't but it works out fine in the end

the scene of nishiki drinking kiryu's blood is a MUST because i. love. that. shit. (it's also extremely horny dfjvhsdkfhiasdfhisd)

nishiki's personality is somewhere in between his ykz0 and ykz k*wami self (like, he's much colder now but he still cares about others and does things not just for the sake of his own ambition)

idk about the end but immortal boyfriends? sounds nice?

#i'm so sorry anon this took so long #i went to bed and slept for like 12 hours and then my neck and back were really bothering me ghjklkjljfkjg #i had to take a few smoke breaks along the way #writing shit is hard #OKAY I'M DONE WITH EXCUSES SORRYYYYY #nishikiryu #yakuza #vampire!au #ask

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jaehyunhour · 4 years

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for the first time... | na jaemin

summary: a collection of firsts with na jaemin.

warnings: suggestive at one point, but it’s mostly just cavity-inducing sweetness.

3.1k words. (i’m writing these for other members per request, so if you want to see another member please send me an ask!)

jeno | haechan | renjun ...

the first time jaemin… kisses you.

you huff out in annoyance as you reach out for a bowl up on the top shelf of the cabinet and graze it with your fingers, unable to fully grasp it. “fuck this,” you say, pulling the shirt you’re wearing further down your thighs and turning around, nearly bumping into jaemin.

“oh, shit, i’m sorry.” you say, as he smiles at you.

“it’s okay… is that my shirt?”

you both look down at the shirt you’re wearing and a blush arises on your cheeks.

“oh my god, is it? i’m so sorry, i just pulled the first shirt i saw out of jeno’s closet and slipped it on. i was going to go home but jeno fell asleep before he could walk me home so i’m just sleeping on the floor next to his bed.”

jaemin giggles, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it. you look better in it than i do.”

there’s a moment of silence, then he continues talking. “i can walk you home next time, just let me know.”

“okay, sounds good.”

“do you need that bowl still?” he walks past you, grabbing the bowl and handing it to you.

“oh, yeah, thank you. i wanted some cereal.”

“mind if i join?”

and he joins you in your midnight snack, sitting across the table from you and telling you all about what he’s been up to these days, and you admire the way he can look so cute while eating with his mouth open. you end up talking with jaemin for hours, and don’t realize how loud you’re being until renjun grumpily walks into the kitchen to tell you to be quiet. you apologize softly, and as soon as you hear renjun’s door close you both break into a fit of giggles.

“we should go to bed,” you suggest.

“yeah, we should.”

jaemin tiptoes with you back to the rooms, walking you up to the door to jeno’s room.

“hey, y/n?” jaemin whispers, careful not to wake anyone else up.

“yeah?”

“would you ever want to go on a date with me?”

you give him a big smile. “i would love that.”

“i’ll stop by your room before i leave in the morning and get your number, okay?”

“okay, goodnight.” you stare at each other sheepishly as he scratches the back of his head.

“should we kiss?” you ask.

“absolutely,” he says, stepping closer to you. he places his hands on both sides of your face and leans down, pressing his lips to yours. you kiss him back, not daring pull away until jaemin himself pulls back to catch his breath.

“goodnight, jaem.”

“goodnight.”

and with that, you sneak back into jeno’s room to sleep.

the first time jaemin… takes you out on a date.

as promised, in the morning you snuck into jaemin’s room while jeno wasn’t looking. he gave you an ear-to-ear smile upon seeing you, and brought you in for another kiss. you exchanged numbers, and he offered to walk you home instead of jeno. since you weren’t as close with jaemin as you were jeno, he didn’t know the usual route you take home so you led him on the long way back to your place.

“so what’s your perfect first date like? i want to make sure i get it right,” jaemin says.

“hm, i’m not sure about that. i mean a perfect first date would be like… flying to italy and eating pasta or something like that, right?”

“i guess so.”

“i like simple first dates. getting something to drink, going to the park, just hanging out and getting to know each other.”

“where do you like going?”

“i like going to gongcha, and this park in my neighborhood, and sitting on the swings and talking.”

“that’s the kind of first date you like to go on?”

you nod your head.

“alright, let’s go then,” he says, intertwining his fingers with yours. his other hand reaches for his phone, and he reroutes you two to the nearest gongcha.

“what do you like to drink?”

“i get something new every time i go, i’m trying to work my way through the menu.”

“hey, i like doing that too.” he says, smiling.

“maybe that could be our thing,” you suggest, hopeful.

he takes you to gongcha, orders the two of you drinks, and lets you guide him to the playground near your place, never once letting go of your hand. he pushes you on the swing, taking you higher and higher, soaking in the sound of your laughs like it’s the last time he’s ever going to hear it. eventually, he sits on the swing next to you and swings lightly, listening to you talk about everything that pops into your mind, and smiling.

the first time jaemin… says i love you.

if there’s one thing to know about jaemin, it’s that he falls hard and fast. you were no exception to this rule, from the day he kissed you outside of jeno’s room you had him wrapped around your finger. and you were wrapped around his finger just the same. the first time he says i love you, you are shocked but not surprised. it all happened so quickly, you didn’t quite process it at first or even realize you had said it back.

jaemin walks into his room, seeing you laying on his bed. he had spent the last 15 minutes in the kitchen, cooking for the two of you and came rushing into the bedroom.

“can you help me find a bandaid?” he asks, gesturing to the paper towel wrapped around one of his fingers. “i cut myself a bit while chopping some vegetables, nothing too serious.”

“gross,” you say, getting up. “there’s no blood in our food, right?”

“no ma’am, now help me find one? i think there’s some in my top drawer.”

you open the drawer and begin moving around his clothes, pulling out a bandaids box in the very back of the drawer. “you need some alcohol to clean it first.”

“there’s some in the bathroom.”

you leave for only a moment, returning with the rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. he pulls the paper towel back, you gently clean his cut, and wrap it in the bandaid.

“you’re all set, baby.”

“thank you, i love you so much.” he says nonchalantly, getting up and heading towards the door.

“love you too,” you say, falling back onto the bed and going on your phone. it takes you a few minutes to process what happened, and you jump out of bed when it finally hits you and you run to the kitchen.

“did that just happen?” you say, eyes wild as you look at jaemin.

“you look scary. did what just happen?”

“did we just say that? that we love each other?”

jaemin pauses for a second and thinks back to just minutes earlier, when you helped clean him up and he laughs.

“oh. yeah, i guess we did. i meant it.” he goes back to making your dinner as you stand there, stunned at how casual he’s being about the situation.

“i meant it, too.”

“great, so we’re in love.”

“y-yeah, i guess so.”

“you two are so gross,” jeno says, walking past the two of you and grabbing a water bottle out of the fridge.

the first time jaemin… makes love to you.

jaemin wanted the moment to be special so he waited until your 100 days to finally go all the way. you had explained to him that you were ready whenever he was to finally cross that line, but jaemin held off until he could make it completely perfect for you. you walked into your apartment after a long day, just to see jaemin sitting on your couch half asleep.

“aw, my baby,” you coo at his sleeping figure, the sound of you struggling to take your shoes off waking him up.

he jumps slightly and quickly stands up to greet you, pulling your body into his for a hug and placing a kiss on the top of your head.

“what took you so long? i’ve been waiting forever! i made you dinner, it’s on the table and i have a few presents for you.” he says quickly.

“baby, you didn’t have to do all this for me. i told you i didn’t want to make a big fuss out of our 100 days,” you pout. “i do have a few gifts for you, though.”

jaemin wines and dines you, treating you to the best meal you’ve ever had, giving you an array of gifts that you had mentioned wanting, and pulling you into your bedroom. there are petals all over the floor and bed, r&b playing lowly on a bluetooth speaker, and a matching red lace lingerie set placed neatly on the bed.

“is this all for me?” you say, pulling the lace between your fingers and examining it closely. jaemin comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and placing a few kisses leading from your shoulder up to your ear.

“i was thinking you could put this on for me, and i could make you feel nice all night long.”

“now how can i say no to that?” you say, turning around to look at him face to face. you press a chaste kiss to his lips, then push him back onto the bed. “i’m going to go change, and when i get back i want to see you in just your underwear. understand?”

“yes, ma’am,” jaemin says, nodding and pulling his shirt over his head.

when you return back from the bathroom, adorned in the red lace, jaemin quickly pulls you into his lap and fulfills his promise, making you feel oh so nice all night long.

the first time jaemin… argues with you.

it wasn’t a serious fight. jaemin made sure to communicate well with you, letting you know his feelings often to avoid fighting with you. he didn’t like fighting with any of his loved ones, and especially you. he never wanted to hurt you. but sometimes, he can be just a little too much. he invited you over to the dreamies game night, requesting that you bring your switch and mario party. during the game, the teams were shuffled and you ended up playing with jeno, against him and jisung. you tried so so hard, but eventually lost to jaemin and jisung. while jeno wasn’t too upset that you had lost, you were.

you weren’t a sore loser, but the sight of jaemin and jisung boasting in front of you that they had won was enough to get you heated. jaemin continuously poked at your sides and face, giggling and rubbing his victory in your face.

“stop, jaemin,” you said sternly, obviously not in the mood to listen to his boasting.

“i won and you lost, i won and you lost,” he said in a sing-song voice, poking you in the face again.

“jaemin, i said stop!” you snapped, slightly raising your voice at him. the room fell silent, the only sound being the mario party music coming from the tv. “you are so irritating sometimes,” you huff in annoyance, getting up and stomping to jeno’s room.

“i’ll be right back,” jaemin announces. “you guys keep playing.”

he heads over to jeno’s room, trying to remain quiet so you don’t hear him coming and lock him out of the room, but you hear his footsteps anyway. he knocks gently on the door, “baby, can i come in?”

there’s no response, but jaemin opens the door anyway to see you sitting on jeno’s bed with tears in your eyes.

“baby,” jaemin says, coming to sit next to you and quickly pulling you into his arms. your head rests on his chest as he pets your hair, and the tears began to fall freely. “baby, i’m sorry, i didn’t think it was that serious. i wasn’t thinking.”

“it’s not that serious, jaemin, you were just being annoying and i couldn’t take it. i told you to stop and you didn’t listen.”

“i know, i know, i’m sorry my love.” he presses a kiss on top of your head. “it’s just a game, okay? there’s no need to be upset, i’m sorry for rubbing it in your face. next time we’ll make sure that we play together and beat everyone else, okay?”

you pull back and nod at him, and he wipes the tears away from your face.

“i love you, alright, baby?” he says, to which you nod again.

the first time jaemin… buys you a present.

jaemin bought you presents often, but you could never forget the first time he bought you a present. you were sitting peacefully on your couch, a week after your first date with jaemin, mindlessly scrolling through your phone while the tv played in the background. suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

you got up quickly, not expecting any guests, but happy when you pull the door open to see jaemin holding two bouquets of flowers, chocolates, sour candy, and a small teddy bear.

“what’s all this?” you ask, reaching out to help him with what he’s holding. he hands you one bouquet, the chocolates, and the teddy bear.

“i, uh, was in the neighborhood and wanted to bring you something,” he says, stepping into your home and taking his shoes off, before heading into the kitchen to place everything down.

“you don’t live around here,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“okay, i lied, i just wanted to see you.”

“cute, but why did you get so much?”

“oh, i was at the store and i didn’t know what you would like so i just got you a little bit of everything so you wouldn’t be disappointed with what i got you.”

you look for vases to put the flowers in, filling them with water and sticking the flowers in before setting them on the counter next to the kitchen sink.

“you are so cute,” you say, coming up to jaemin and wrapping your arms around his waist. he looks down at you and places a kiss on your nose. “i would like anything you get me, because you got it for me, jaems.”

“i’ll remember that for next time.”

the first time jaemin… goes away.

“my loveeee,” jaemin coos through the phone. “what are you still doing awake?”

“shouldn’t i be asking you the same thing?”

“nooo, isn’t it like 3 a.m. where you are?” he asks, the pout on his face almost audible.

“baby, you’re in japan, there’s no time difference between japan and korea. it’s only midnight.”

“oh what, really? i didn’t know. it’s been a long day,” he sighs.

“i can tell.”

there’s silence on jaemin’s end but it’s comfortable. you fall deeper into your bed, trying to remember what it was like to sleep alone, and sigh.

“i miss you already,” he confesses.

“i started missing you the moment you walked out of my door, baby.”

jaemin left just that morning for the dream show tour, and it tore you apart inside to have to part with him. but you knew that jaemin had a career, a job to uphold, and you were not in the same position as he was. you were still a student, studying and working part time at a cafe to pay your bills, while he had the pleasure of being a famous idol.

“do you think you’ll be okay without me?” he asks.

“it’ll be hard, but i think i will manage.” you roll over, cuddling into the stuffed animal jaemin had left for you before he had to leave. he sprayed it with his cologne, to make sure that it had his scent so you could sleep peacefully. he knew how restless you got when you had to sleep without him.

“i think i’m going to struggle more than you,” he admits. “i didn’t think i would at first, but now that i’m here and jeno won’t cuddle with me, i’m realizing how much i really miss you.”

“you’ll be just fine, baby, don’t worry. i, uh, put something in your luggage for you, though.”

“really?”

“yeah, in the front pocket.”

jaemin stands, heading towards his suitcase and reaching into the front pocket and pulling out a pair of your lace panties. he sucks in a breath before stuffing it back into the suitcase, hoping jeno didn’t see.

“you are insane,” he says quietly, closing his eyes and willing the tent in his pajama pants to go away.

“don’t wear them out too much, yeah? i want those back once you’re home.”

the first time jaemin… introduces you to his family.

jaemin introduced you quite quickly to his family. shortly after he showed up to your house with all the flowers, candy, and the teddy bear, he asked you to be his partner. and by shortly after, i mean that exact same night he asked you to be his partner and you did not hesitate to say yes. approximately two weeks after that night, you sat next to jaemin across from his parents at their dining room table eating a meal that his mother had prepared.

“eomeonim, this is really delicious, you have to teach me how to make it,” you say, eating as quickly as you can while still being polite.

“of course, honey, you’re too cute. where did jaemin even find you?”

jaemin groans, “eomma, you can’t just ask that!”

“yah, i’m seriously curious!” she retorts.

“i was actually friends with jeno for a while before i started talking to jaemin. i was at the dorm hanging out with jeno, and he fell asleep before he could walk me home and i ran into jaemin in the kitchen.”

“and did he walk you home?”

“he did in the morning! i slept on jeno’s floor and then once i woke up in the morning, jaemin offered to walk me home.”

“yah,” his mother turns to look at him. “you didn’t even offer to let her sleep in your bed? you should’ve been the one sleeping on the floor, jaemin-ah!”

jaemin’s dad lets out a laugh, “adeul, you should’ve offered her the bed.”

“appa, i had just met her that day! don’t you think that would’ve been weird?”

you giggle watching them go back and forth, thoroughly enjoying their banter while you continue to eat your food.

“y/n-ah, if jaemin ever does you wrong you just let us know, and we’ll make sure to punish him, okay?”

“haha, okay, i understand,” you say, turning to look at jaemin and giving him a wink.

“eomma, appa, i promise you i will never do y/n wrong.”

“you better not,” his mom and dad say in unison.

“i like her,” his mom says, serving more food into your plate.

“me too, get in line,” jaemin says, now turning to look at you and giving you a wink.

#nct #jaemin #nct smut #nct fluff #na jaemin #nct jaemin #nct dream #nct reaction #kpop drabbles #kpop #kpop scenarios #nct au #nct angst #nct scenarios #kpop fluff #kpop smut #jaemin au #na jaemin au

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compo67 · 2 years

Text

8 Years Difference: Photo Op Chapter 6

Here we go, because this chapter's edit is super important. Notice the difference in setting clear boundaries. Shared vulnerability. I like the edits so much better.

Chapter Six (OG from a 2014 verision)

The rest of the evening goes remarkably well.

Jensen orders the porterhouse and Jared gets the lobster and filet mignon. They eat until Jensen begs to stop, wonders where Jared puts it all, looks under the table to see if Jared’s secretly putting food there.

The older man lets Jared take a sip of his wine. At first Jared’s nose scrunches at the bitterness of it and he has the pleasure of hearing Jensen’s natural, easy laugh. That makes the second sip go down better. Jared’s eyes still light up at the sight of dessert and he eats most of it, scraping at what’s left of dark chocolate and raspberry drizzle.

Throughout dinner things are less awkward. They’re Texan boys and they find things enough between them to talk about, to debate. At one point they are the loudest people in their section of the restaurant, and they share a sly laugh about it.

At midnight, the bodyguard lets Jensen know that he has a six a.m. flight.

Bright green eyes look at Jared; he’s rosy cheeked now, after finishing the bottle of wine by himself.

“I’ve got to go,” he announces, leaning back in his chair and sighing contentedly.

“Call me a cab then?” Jared asks simply, smiling and flushed as if he had had the wine.

Jensen frowns, which makes his lips pout. Shit, Jared flinches, shouldn’t look at that mouth too long. “Nah, we can drop you off at your apartment.”

Softly, Jared reminds him, “I’m from out of town, remember?”

“Well,” his dinner companion insists, standing up and stretching. “I can drive you back. What are we talking about? Plano? You know I grew up in Richardson.”

Jared joins him in standing and realizes that there are only two tables left in the entire restaurant. He forgot it was a Sunday night. He has work in the afternoon, only fourteen hours away. “Uh, yeah, I know. But nope, not from Plano.”

“Well c’mon, tell me so I can shake off this wine and take you there myself.” They start walking towards the entrance and Jared steadies Jensen once or twice; there’s no way he’ll be driving.

“Nice try Mister Sauvignon,” Jared laughs. “I’m from Smithville. It’s a three hour drive and you’re not fit to take a spin around the block.”

Outside, the cold breeze is welcome. The bodyguard has the car running; it looks warm already.

This time there are no paparazzi and therefore no sunglasses. So Jared sees the look in Jensen’s eyes, a look that probably got him into trouble more than once.

“That’s far, Jay,” Jensen mumbles. They’re standing close already, like personal space isn’t a thing between them though they’ve only just had their first meal together. Jared smiles and nods, meeting those green eyes. They’re about the same height; Jared’s got an inch on Jensen, which is strange because on screen Jared couldn’t imagine Jensen in person.

“It is far, Jen.” Well, okay, that might be overly familiar but it’s only fair.

“Stay at my room. I’ll take you back in the morning.”

“You won’t have time.”

“I’ll cancel my flight.”

“You’re drunk, Jensen.”

It seems like Jensen is about to argue but he closes his mouth, nods, and sighs. “I am kinda drunk, aren’t I?”

Jared nods. “Yep, couldn’t pry that bottle away from you.”

Perhaps it’s just Jared’s over active, over eager imagination but they are close enough to kiss. He wonders what it would be like. What it must feel like to have that mouth—that one pair of lips out of the entire world—pressed against his, hungry and warm and searching.

He notices that Jensen’s eyes flit from Jared’s mouth to his eyes.

“Come to the room,room; let me make stuff up to you. I’ve got two beds.”

“It better,” Jared half warns. He likes Jensen—likes him a lot—but this is still the real world. And as much time as Jared has spent being a fan boy about Jensen Ackles the actor, he knows that person is different than Jensen Ackles the person.

And besides, (Jared decides as he slides into the warm car), he isn’t easy. At least not for guys who show up late and then try to bail. He tells this to Jensen, who replies with a soft, snuffling sorry, followed by a yawn, which turns out to be an arm reach in disguise.

“You’re so gross,” Jared laughs and knocks their knees together.

“Uh huh,” is all he hears as the car pulls forward.

Chapter Six (The Great 2022 Edit)

Miracles upon miracles, the rest of the evening goes remarkably well.

It shocks Jared how easily things fall into place, considering their less-than ideal start. It helps that Jensen apologizes more than once, flustered, yet sincere.

What seals the deal is Jensen's smile.

Jensen orders the porterhouse and Jared takes a gamble on the lobster and filet mignon--two things he would never eat at home or anywhere in Smithville. The chef herself delivers their food and asks for a picture with Jensen. He obliges, then encourages Jared to dig in.

They eat until Jensen begs to stop. He asks how Jared can continue eating, then answers his own question by chalking it all up to Jared's youth. After a laugh and a smile, Jensen hands over his glass for Jared to taste the wine. At the first tiny swig, Jared’s nose scrunches at the bitterness of it. He basks in the pleasure of hearing Jensen’s natural, easy laugh. It makes the second sip go down better.

Jared’s eyes light up at the sight of dessert. He eats one piece of cheesecake, a small serving of creme brulee, and a small tower of macaroons. He can't finish the very last dessert--chocolate cake--so he settles for scraping at the dark chocolate and raspberry drizzle on the rim of the plate.

Throughout dinner things become progressively less awkward. They’re Texan-raised, which means they find things enough between them to talk about and debate. Favorite Blue Bell ice cream flavor. Favorite Tex-Mex dish. Favorite way to kill someone by saying something clever, yet devastating. At one point, they are the loudest people in their section of the restaurant. They share a sly laugh about it.

At just around two in the morning, John gently reminds Jensen that he has a six a.m. flight. Bright, green eyes look at Jared. After finishing the bottle of wine by himself, Jensen's face holds a slight flush and his lips curl into easier, more relaxed smiles. Jared can tell Jensen isn't drunk, but slightly buzzed. He himself has only experienced that sensation twice before, at a bonfire and then at a sleepover. The world takes on a different view, like looking through a beaded curtain.

“I’ve gotta head out," Jensen announces. He leans back in his chair and sighs--too content to actually follow through with his words.

Jared smiles, his own face flushed, as if he had helped drain the bottle. "Guess you should. I'll get a cab."

Jensen frowns, which makes his lips pout. Jared struggles with the view--he can’t look at that mouth too long. Too many fantasies spring to mind, none of them appropriate for general audiences. This, combined with the warm glow of the candle on the table, the vase of fresh flowers between them, and the lull of noise in the background--Jared's liable to slip into one of those daydreams at any moment. The chandelier above them adds a rose-gold flicker to Jensen's eyes.

“No need," his dinner companion murmurs, "we can drop you off at your place.”

Softly, Jared reminds him, “I’m from out of town, Jensen, remember?”

“I can drive you back home, if you wanna skip the hotel. What are we lookin' at, Plano? That ain't too far.”

Jared also stands. He looks around and realizes that at this point, only two tables remain occupied in the entire restaurant. They've stayed so late on a Saturday night, past all the usual foot traffic and regulars. And of course, he needs to be on a train just a few short hours from now. “Nope, not from Plano.”

“Tell me, so I can shake off this wine and escort you there myself.”

“Nice try, Mister Sauvignon,” Jared laughs, as they walk towards the exit. “I’m from Smithville. It’s about a four hour drive. I bet you'd fall asleep after the first spin around the block."

Outside, the cold breeze of a late night-early morning causes them both to flinch and shudder. Jared takes comfort in Jensen's arm around his shoulder--an attempt to keep Jared warm on the short walk to the car. John went out ahead of them to start it. It looks warm already. This time, at this hour, there are no paparazzi, just an empty, quiet street. Jared catches a glimpse at the look in Jensen’s eyes, a look that may land Jared into trouble of the best, most breathless kind.

“Okay," Jensen admits, with a small laugh. "That's a bit far, Jay."

They’re standing close already, like personal space isn’t a concept that exists between them, even though they’ve only just had a meal together. Meeting those charming, green eyes, Jared smiles and nods. Jared stands at the same height as Jensen, which feels strange, because on-screen, Jared thought Jensen would be an inch or two taller. Then again, he's only seen Jensen on big screens, in theaters, which could account for this perspective. That, and the setting of theaters--where Jared watches films not just for entertainment, but with humble reverence of everything that goes into making a movie.

Maybe he's getting a little too deep. Just a little.

“It is far, Jen.”

It's official. They've traded nicknames. This isn't the first time anyone's called Jared, "Jay," and he's certain it's not the first time Jensen's been called, "Jen." But these nicknames sound so good together.

Jensen taps his chin, lingering in thought, trying to put the pieces together. “Would you consider staying at my hotel—in my room?" The chill in the air makes his breath visible. "Or is that too forward?”

“It's only a few hours," Jared quietly answers and opens the car door for Jensen. He adds, "And I'd only sleep. Nothing else."

With the boundary clarified and set, Jensen nods. They climb into the car and John waits for instructions.

"Sleep and only sleep--that sounds... great, actually,” Jensen says, his eyes closed. "That's a new one for me."

Jared muses Jensen's words and his response. "Staying up all the time sounds exhausting.”

It seems like Jensen is about to argue but he looks up, nods, and sighs. “Is it exhausting if you haven't realized it yet?”

With a nod, Jared takes a few things into consideration. The evening flew by. Does he want it to end? Would he prefer his own hotel room or another? It's not like they stuck to the superficial, the basics, or castaway truths. Maybe this is what deep is supposed to feel like. “Yeah.”

He waits a beat. Perhaps it’s just Jared’s overactive and enthusiastic imagination, but they are close enough to kiss. He wonders what it would be like. What it must feel like to have that mouth—this one, specific pair of lips—pressed against his, hungry, warm, and searching.

He notices that Jensen’s eyes flit from Jared’s mouth to his eyes. Could he be entertaining the same thoughts?

“There's two beds," Jensen murmurs. "We could both rest. I'll get breakfast delivered. Push my flight back so I can at least get you to the station."

Jared likes Jensen—likes him a lot—but this is still the real world. And as much time as Jared has spent being a fanboy over Jensen Ackles the celebrity, he knows that the actor is different and separate from the actual person.

Jared knocks their knees together. "Hey." He brings in Jensen's full attention. "I wanna say yes. I do. But I need you to know that it's a big leap of trust. And I mean it when I say that all I'm gonna do is sleep. That's non-negotiable. Otherwise, my hotel isn't far away and I can get to the station on my own."

What's different about him since May? Confidence.

The car pulls forward.

#compo67 #authorial rambles #photo op verse #photo op verse edits

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fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years

Text

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 15 - Net Zero Change

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, what’s the truth?, 2.9k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

WARNINGS: death mention, swearing

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14

Alex, Reggie, Flynn and Kyle all sat at a table inside the record store while Willie took care of closing procedures, currently sweeping up around them. Flynn sipped on her soda, eyeing everyone else with a mix of piqued interest and uncertainty.

“I can let you guys stay and talk for about another half hour, but then I’ve gotta kick you out,” Kyle told the three at the table.

“Thanks,” Alex said. “We really appreciate you being so understanding.”

“Not at all,” Kyle said casually. “And Willie’s in the clear, so long as he never pulls a stunt like that again.”

“Thanks for covering for me, man,” Willie said repentantly at Kyle’s rightfully miffed tone.

“I also covered the cost for that jacket, so you owe me for that.”

Alex looked at him, still unable to wrap what had just happened around his head. Climbing somewhere high and screaming felt like an ideal thing to do right then. He wasn’t angry - at least, he didn’t think so - but he still felt like a bottle of Coke that someone had just shaken and dropped a Mento into. His punching bag was already being worn down enough, but since he didn’t have his drums at home it had been a lifesaver recently.

There was Willie, right in front of him, like a miracle. He was so wonderfully unaware of everything, and there was no doubt he hadn’t forgotten Alex. It brought a strange sense of euphoria that battled everything else that had kept his mind dark for so long. He’d used to imagine running into Willie, even for a while after Caleb said he was gone, and thought he’d be the one to catch Willie off guard and rush toward him with joy. Mostly, he’d wanted to knock Willie off his board as slight payback for that one time, but also because it would’ve been satisfying to surprise him for once.

Kyle had gotten up from the table and joined Willie in closing up the store.

“So, you guys all know each other, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah!” Flynn exclaimed. “And I’d like to think that it’s all thanks to me,” she added smugly.

“How so?” Reggie asked in curiosity.

“I helped Willie get into Julie’s concert in Vegas,” she said. “And I’m the reason you two stuck around here.”

Alex looked at her in surprise. Without Flynn, he imagined going with Willie to the Stratosphere or anything else that night wouldn’t have happened. He owed her a serious favor; he wasn’t going to forget that.

“Are you sure you don’t have, like, magic powers or something?” Reggie asked.

Flynn only smiled and quietly sipped her soda again, keeping the mystique for herself.

As Willie disappeared into the kitchen to clean there, Alex looked at Reggie.

“So, do you have as many questions as I do?” he asked.

“Yeah, man,” Reggie said, peeking back toward the kitchen door. “I mean, does Caleb not know?”

“For someone out of the loop,” Flynn butted in. “What’s going on?”

Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took in a deep breath. “So you know how we got signed?”

Flynn nodded. “Uh huh. And congratulations, by the way.”

Alex merely shrugged in acknowledgement.

“Well, the guy who owns the label used to be Willie’s caretaker.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Reggie muttered. Alex suddenly felt a little guilty for missing that detail when talking with the guys.

“Yeah, sorry I forgot to mention it,” he apologized. “Anyway, the day that we signed on, Caleb personally told me that Willie had died in a fire.”

Flynn stared in disbelief.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s fishy.”

“No kidding,” Reggie commented. “But why would he do that? Caleb’s been nothing but good to us.”

“You guys should be careful. He was Willie’s guardian? If his story is that far off, I’d watch out.”

Peering over toward the kitchen, Alex couldn’t get a view of Willie at all. He was dying to hear his side of things.

“I guess we’ll have to see. Flynn, how are you getting home?”

“Oh, I was just gonna take the bus.”

“With your equipment?” he said, already worried. It was a lot for her to be lugging around, whether she could carry it alone or not. “Flynn, let us get you a taxi.”

She looked at him, and he expected her to protest and say she could handle herself. To his surprise, she simply huffed.

“You’re right. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, and one of us could go with you to make sure you get home safe.”

“I’ll go,” Reggie volunteered. He glanced at Alex and it was clear he was giving him an opportunity.

“Thanks Reggie,” Flynn said. “You guys have gotta keep me updated with everything going on, though. I smell drama. A lot of it.” She finished the last few gulps of her soda and stood up to grab her gear.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, man,” Reggie murmured to Alex, patting him as he rose to help her out.

“See you.”

As he watched them make their way outside, Alex sighed.

“So, Vegas, huh?” Kyle said as he reentered the room, making him jump.

“Uh, yeah,” Alex replied warily. This guy seemed fairly nice, but he could never be too careful about how much he told strangers. He watched him dust the shelves, trying to relax in his seat.

“Willie doesn’t talk about it much, so I’m kinda surprised he had such a reaction tonight. I got the idea he hated the place.”

Puzzled, Alex didn’t respond immediately. He wondered what could’ve happened.

“Well, I’m sure he has his reasons. But when I met him we had a pretty good time.”

“Hmm,” was all that Kyle said as he looked into space thoughtfully before moving on to locking things up.

Alex realized then that he was the only customer left in the store and he’d simply let his friends leave him. His head was certainly not on straight. The time was nearly midnight, and the options of transportation and his experiences with them only dialed up his anxiety. Busses were just weird because everyone could watch him, taxis were expensive and he’d given most of his cash to Reggie, and the chances of having Bobby pick him up were very low.

“Hey,” Willie was standing over him, skateboard in hand. Alex looked up, startled once again, but the feeling of Willie’s hand on his shoulder softened it.

“Hey.”

“Where did Reggie go?”

“Oh,” Alex started. “He’s making sure Flynn gets home safe.”

Nodding, Willie glanced outside.

“What about you?”

Alex rose with a sigh.

“I’ll figure something out.”

They left the store and slowly walked to the corner. Willie still gripped his board as he gazed up at the red hand on the opposite side of the street.

“Do you...wanna walk with me to my place?” he asked Alex. “‘Cuz you look like you want to talk. Then we can find you a way home.”

Sticking his tongue in his cheek, Alex eyed him thoughtfully. It was almost like they hadn’t just spent four months apart - Willie could read him like a book.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Unfortunately, that made him stuff his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. He’d let himself take Willie’s hand before and have high hopes because he’d let himself ignore reality back then. Even when the guy who he admittedly still had a crush on was back from the dead, Alex didn’t want to tempt fate again. As they both crossed the street, he felt himself hunch inward just as he had earlier with Reggie.

“So, I’m guessing it’s a little weird to see me, since you thought I was a goner and everything,” Willie started nervously.

“Dead,” Alex said, looking at him seriously. “You were dead.”

Willie slowed his pace and sucked in a breath.

“Yeah.”

For a few yards they didn’t speak. Something ate at Alex’s insides, and he couldn’t put a finger on it. Change had always been his worst enemy, but this was a good change. Willie was alive, then he was dead, and now he was back. It should’ve been like net zero change, cancelled out like math. He should be fine about this, right? Why was he not fine?

“Alex, are you...are you mad?” Willie dared to ask.

He paused in his tracks, arms slacking against his sides. Looking over at Willie, then down at the sidewalk again, he nodded.

“Yeah, actually.” Immediately the eating feeling worsened. “I don’t know why that is, but you’re right. I am kinda mad.”

Willie furrowed his brow, but remained quiet for a minute as they continued walking.

“Are you mad at me?” he wondered aloud, finally.

“Maybe?” Alex said, feeling the temperature in his veins rise the more he went on. “That sounds silly, I know, because it wasn’t you who lied to me and put me through absolute agony for weeks on end. You were just the person I thought was dead and so every time I thought about you, it hurt. I don’t even know why it hurt so much. It’s not supposed to hurt when you’re still practically a stranger to me. All I know is that we kind of liked each other and then I thought I’d never find out anything else. I mean, we only knew each other for one day. One fucking day. That was it!”

Alex saw Wilie flinch at the unexpected use of language. A little too late, he realized he should’ve been more gentle. While it was true that he needed to finally release more than just self-pity, it wasn’t worth making Willie miserable for it.

“Wow,” Willie murmured. It already sounded more wounded than Alex could bear.

“That was harsh; I shouldn’t have blown up like that.”

He looked over at Willie to be sure he hadn’t done too much damage already.

“I can’t imagine how awful that was,” Willie said simply.

The pressure that had heated up his veins rapidly began to cool down as Alex realized he was handling this all wrong. He’d momentarily lost control and already saw its potential for harm.

“It’s not you I’m mad at. It’s Caleb.”

“That makes two of us,” Willie told him. “You want to know what really happened?”

“I want to know everything.”

They continued walking along as Willie seemed to try summing up the past few months properly in his mind.

“I don’t know exactly where to start,” he said.

“Well, why don’t you start where we left off?” Alex suggested. It was only fitting that one of them was walking the other home, just like they’d been doing the last time they’d seen each other. There was a funny sense of poetry to it.

“Okay,” Willie began. “I guess what really started it was when we were up on the Stratosphere, remember?”

“Uh huh.”

“I told you that I have amnesia because I had a memory come back.”

“Right, about your dad.”

“You remember this really well,” Willie commented. Alex bowed his head, feeling his lip curl the tiniest bit. “Anyway, I started drawing the things I remembered. And I mean, I drew every detail I could. Even though back then it was just the one about my dad and then the first time that I ran away from Caleb - ”

“Wait, what?” Alex blurted.

Willie cocked his head to the side as he tried to keep the narrative easy to follow.

“Oh yeah that was weird, I had this dream where everything was backwards and it happened like every night and it took me forever to figure out that it was a memory. Anyway, the reason I have amnesia right now? I was trying to run from Caleb because he was a total a-hole and then I got hit in the head!”

Alex looked at his casual expression with mild horror.

“That’s a lot to process,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, I guess he was putting on a face after that, because he didn’t really get nasty until right before I left him for good.”

By the time Willie finished dishing everything to Alex, they had been standing by his front door for a solid ten minutes. Alex could only stand there and let everything turn over in his mind like a taffy pull. Moreover, a pit of dread was forming in his stomach at the same time as a spark of joy grew in his chest.

“So...Harrison Ford?” he said.

Willie smiled. “Much cooler than Han Solo.”

“I still can’t believe you were literally planning to skate your way here. Even I would’ve ruled that out after a minute.”

Lifting a hand defensively, Willie opened his mouth but couldn’t find words.

“I - I will never live that down,” he chuckled.

Alex chuckled in turn. “No.”

For a moment he just looked at Willie. It was the first time that night where his vision wasn’t clouded with questions or overwrought with mixed emotions. This time, it was just as he’d seen him that first moment when they’d sat across from each other at the diner. That was ages ago, but it didn’t seem to have dimmed or faded one bit in Alex’s memory. Here, he was just Willie. It was so nice to see that again.

“What made you come to LA?” he asked. He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“You did.” Willie looked right into his eyes as he said it.

The words were plain and honest. Something swelled in Alex’s chest as he heard them. If anyone else had said that - the guys, Julie, even his sister Abby - he would’ve doubted it a little. That was the awful thing with his anxiety is that it immediately twisted everyone’s words into betrayal. Not Willie’s, though.

“Why me?”

Willie got thoughtful, eyes unfocused for a moment.

“I don’t know. I’d do anything for you,” he said, gazing back up at Alex again.

Alex shifted his weight.

“Because I helped you start regaining memories, right?”

It made sense that if he’d been in that position, the person who’d been with him in those moments would mean a great deal to him, too.

“No,” Willie said. “Just ‘cuz. I still like you.”

Alex blinked and his mind emptied of all thought - a feat he’d never imagined occurring. Soon he found himself caught looking into those brown eyes, and instead of wanting to throw in a line, he wished he could plant himself there and spread roots. If it were up to him, he had no desire to go back home and he would just stay happy where he was.

It took a while to realize that he’d slowly begun to lean forward, lips parted as he gazed down at Willie’s mouth. Their noses were just barely not touching, and they hung in the balance waiting for the other to cross that threshold. Willie looked vaguely hypnotized, if not a little indecisive. His thoughts finally caught up to his actions, and once Alex saw what he was doing he turned away.

Dammit, how could you mess that up, Alex? he berated himself. He was already so out of focus and not thinking about the consequences of his actions; he couldn’t go around treating Willie like something else to dump his turmoil upon. Clearing his throat, he straightened his posture. Willie nervously ran a hand through his hair, visibly confused.

“So....” Alex began awkwardly. “You have your own place?”

Willie nodded, not looking him in the eyes anymore.

“Yeah, it’s kinda nice,” he said plainly. “You’ll have to check it out one of these days. You could see Sheldon, too.”

“Yes,” Alex said quickly. “Yes, I would totally be down to come see you and Sheldon. That would be great.”

He hated that the natural cadence in his voice was so sarcastic sometimes. Right now, it didn’t sound genuine at all and he desperately wanted to convey how much he meant every word.

“Bet you’re sort of busy with the band and school and all, though,” Willie said, clearly a little despondent. Alex really wanted to go back and fix the moment they’d had before. He wasn’t making it any better.

“Well, I’m free all next Saturday. You’re not working, are you?”

“I can arrange things with Kyle to get covered. I’m usually on his good side and he doesn’t stay mad for long, so I’m not worried.”

“That’s good.” A pause. “So it’s okay if I come on Saturday?”

“Sure, sure,” Willie rushed to say. “I’m totally down for that. Uh...I just remembered that we’ve gotta get you back home. Did you know how you were gonna do that?”

“Uh yeah, I was gonna just catch the bus,” Alex said, entirely impromptu. After embarrassing himself so badly with Willie, he could override any fears about using public transportation. All he wanted to do was lift his hood over his head and pull the strings so it closed over his face.

“Got it,” Willie replied.

“But I’ll be excited to see you next Saturday,” Alex added. He saw Willie’s eyes light up a little and it made him smile in relief as he began stepping away from Willie’s door. Biting his lip in his usual cute manner, Willie nodded at him.

“See you then.”

Alex exhaled in excitement as he made his way up the steps to the street, barely able to take his eyes off Willie. Only when he couldn’t see him anymore did he force himself to turn away.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #fanfic #jatp fanfic #sunset curve #alive au #willex #willie #alex mercer #luke patterson #reggie peters #bobby wilson #julie molina #flynn taylor #viva las vegas #net zero change #fiddlepickdouglas

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