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the-goddess-of-mischief-writing · 4 years

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Two halves becomes one whole {4}

Description; You’ve met Bucky and as if that wasn’t enough, he take up more of your thoughts than you care to admit. It seems however, that your brain pays to much attention to him then what’s good, leading to interesting times in the gym.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Chapter 4/9

Word count; 3.432

Warnings; fluffy bucky, flustered reader, suggestive undertones

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

SERIES MASTERLIST

After you had your initial meeting with Bucky, you suddenly saw him everywhere, unlike before. Of course, you knew it wasn't because of you letting go of your fear of seeing him, but it was the next step in the process. After the first meeting, you had left Steve to walk through the next phase with Bucky, though that didn't mean he wouldn't inform you afterwards. After an hour, of what you knew wasn't only a serious conversation, he came knocking at your door. Without hesitating you let him in and before even closing the door he started to talk. To yours and even his surprise, you learned, he said that Bucky had been pretty willing to take the progress further. That was the reason you saw him more, like now.

You were in the gym, one of your practices with Nat in full swing. You had noticed Bucky entering, about halfway into your session. Though you only had gotten a glimpse of him, it was enough to see that he hunched in on himself. You noted how he sat down on a bench at the far end of the gym, where not many people put their stuff. The same moment you knew your attention strayed a bit too long, you felt it. Your legs got swept from underneath you and with a heavy thud, a groan in its follow, you fell on the sparring matt, wrists stinging from trying to catch yourself.

”You need to concentrate”, Nat’s voice sounded from above and behind you. Rolling over from your stomach to back, you saw the redhead standing just a few feet from you. ”How the hell did you get there?” She couldn’t contain the smug expression as she answered. ”Seems your head was lost for longer than I thought”, she chuckled when you narrowed your brows while sitting up. ”You avoided a few blows, before giving me an open space”. You grunted, knowing very well that you only could blame yourself. ”You can’t make yourself fall for her like that”, the sudden voice made you turn to glance over your shoulder, immediately finding the blonde soldier walking towards you. "I'm gonna use that one towards you next time", you responded and heard his chuckle as he now stepped onto the sparring matt. "You need to take me down first", you raised an amused eyebrow to what he said, unable to hide your own smirk while answering. "You know I'm able to". "All too well", his words fittingly came as he stopped before you, smile still present as he stretched out his hand for you to take. Reaching for it, he helped you to a standing position again.

"Should I leave you guys to the showdown or?" Your attention was pulled towards Nat, who had closed the space between the two fo you. You saw the entertainment in her eyes. "Although I owe you since last week, I have my own session to go to", Steve declined and not until him acknowledging Bucky, did you feel the eyes which were on you. Your minor shift didn't go unnoticed by the blonde, which brows knitted together in the same old Steve fashion way, as he glanced towards Bucky's direction.

"When did he come here?" You didn't want the brown-haired man to feel pressured from multiple sets of eyes on him, so you continued looking up at Steve while answering. "A few minutes, maybe", you said in a hushed tone, one which Nat followed upon. "He's the reason her attention strayed", she nodded towards you and Steve's gaze trailed back towards you. "Only good I have an extra set of eyes to help me, how’s he doing?” ”Haven’t talked to him today, although if you remember we set a meeting later this afternoon last time. So, if it is anything hopefully he’ll tell then”, you further answered. You knew he was more than happy Bucky began socialising even the tiniest bit, but something bugged him, you as well. The frown Bucky had the first time meeting you seemed to be staying. Every time you’d met him, he had it, even when Steves was there.

”Feels like he needs it”, his eyes switched between you and Nat, seeming coming to a realisation. ”Well, I should excuse myself so you can continue”. ”It's okay we're done either way. If you don’t want your ass beaten again?” Nat smugly smiled at you, to which you chuckled. ”Without distraction, I think I owe you a face-full of matt”, Steve huffed out a laugh and patted your shoulder, before heading over to the brunette in the other end of the gym. Following Steve with your gaze, you only noticed Nat taking over his former place beside you from the corner of your eye.

”Are you sure you're gonna beat me? Because your distraction is still here...”, you whipped to look at her, greeted by a mockingly raised eyebrow and head tipped the way Steve and Bucky stood. You looked their way, noticing Bucky still sat on the bench. As if feeling your eyes on him, he turned to look at you.

”Piss off”, you playfully elbowed her, even so only a soft smile spread on her features. ”Sure thing, you coming or?” She glanced towards the soldiers, both now standing and warming up for their sparring. ”I’ll stay, need to fix my sorry ass anyway because of all the times I landed on it today”, you both chuckled while walking to where your things were. ”Understandable, can’t have you fall like that on the field, we need you trigger-happy”, you groaned so loud you think even the boys heard it, but with the despise for the nickname you were unable to do anything else. ”Why did he need to come up with that?” You muttered with as much despise rolling off your tongue, as laugh did when Clint mentioned it the first time in the interrogation room, right before an injured Steve had stumbled in. ”He thought it was funny”. ”It isn’t even accurate”, you threw up your hand in despair, the bag hanging on your shoulder inching down. Nat laughed when you muttered a few chosen curse words the archer's way, almost hoping he would hear them. "Complain all you want, he will not let it go”, she said, you let out a sigh while shaking your head, knowing she was right about that fact.

”Oh almost forgot”, you raised a brow, wondering what it was as she took a step back, coming to stand closer to you before whispering. ”Don’t work that ass in front of the boys, think their attention will be as good as yours”, your eyes widened to what she said. ”Jesus Nat!” You all but shouted, to which she only winked at you before walking away again. You debated on chucking your water bottle in the back of her head, but the eyes you felt bore into the back of your neck, made you conceal yourself.

As you turned around, you met Steves eyes, crinkled in the corners because of his smile. He knew you and the redhead get along well, also about your antics of teasing each other, so he had probably already figured that was the cause of your reaction. Although when you turned to Bucky, his eyes were set on you, a puzzled look on his face. You prayed to whatever god that he hadn’t heard a word Nat just said to you.

”You staying?” Steve asked, breaking the silence which had settled when only the three of you were left. ”Yeah”, you tried shrugging away from the thoughts Nat just planted in your mind. ”Will round up a few things, then I’ll be on my way”, you smiled as you began to walk further into the gym, passing them. Both nodded before engrossing in their conversation, mainly led by Steve, while they walked to the middle of the sparring matt.

You worked through your exercises while trying not to get distracted by the sounds echoing in the gym. Grunts, huffs and moans of displeasure together with heavy thuds and slams of someone falling into the matt was the background sound for you while training. You were happy that most of the machines you needed to use in the machine park were located further in, making you unable to see any of the soldiers sparring. However, even your luck seemed to have run out. When you only had one exercise left, you found yourself walking to the front row of machines. They were lined up alongside the sparring-mats, a safe few feet away although not enough for you. You now had front-seat to the sparring of the two super soldiers.

While piling weights on each side of the machine, Nat’s words kept ringing in your head like a festive banner-waving around. ”Bet ya’ would be laughing in my face if you saw me right now”, you grumbled to yourself imagining Nat standing beside you, laughing while you only tried doing your routine. You stood on the slightly angled platform, putting the top of the machine on your shoulders, hooking off the safety mechanism and started to squat. Clint was the one who had showed you how to use this machine, like the rest of them. Even though he didn’t use it so much himself, he said it could be beneficial for you, which you smacked him in the back of the head for saying. But now you maybe could muster up thanks to the man because yes, it had its effects.

One set in, one more to go and that were when you heard one of the biggest thuds yet. You’d already locked the machine so it wouldn’t come crashing down on you while resting between sets, so turning around you made in no time. Bucky was on the floor, Steve standing and smiling victoriously above him.

”You boys doing good?” The question slipped out from you before you even had the chance to think about it. ”Only minor distractions that’s all”, Steve's laugh eased into a boyish smile while Bucky staggered up to his feet, his furrow gone as he glared at Steve. ”Sure. Just play safe, don’t want anyone of you hurt”, you chuckled, while climbing out of the machine, the last set be damned. ”You don’t want to join us?” Steve asked genuinely, but one look at him told you he was up to something. ”No not really, I would be pinned to the matt more than standing up if going up against any of you”, you didn’t think about your choice of words before seeing Bucky’s raised eyebrows. Maybe he was just shocked about you including him in what you said, but even with his super-soldier enhancement and the metal arm, you highly doubted that was the only thing he reacted to. ”And I have other things to do”, you excused with a smile as you began heading towards the exit. Your eyes didn't stray from the door, not until you heard the baritone voice you’ve gotten used talking to the last two weeks, call out.

”Later?” You turned around, immediately meeting Bucky's gaze, which seemed to never have let you go. Your confusion probably showed in a puzzled expression as he continued his few worded question. ”Talking session?” You caught on quickly after that. ”Of course Bucky, I’ll meet you this afternoon as we decided”, you sent him a small smile and he nodded, turning to Steve who nodded goodbye over his friend shoulder.

You knew that therapy was a charged word, especially for Bucky, so it had come naturally to rename your meetings as soon as you become a regular part of them. Since four weeks back, you've met him three times a week for talking session, spending more time with him than anyone, besides Steve that was. It hadn't been easy in the beginning, the former soldier sparsely, if ever, initiated topics to talk about. Neither did his few worded answers help you, yet you didn't deem the sessions unproductive, as you came to recognise his patterns and triggers. Getting to know these were detrimental, as even Steve seemed oblivious to some, as he pressured for answers on the wrong topics. You had mentioned this to him a week or two ago, since then you noticed how he gave you more room to work with. At first, you feared he got too apprehensive speaking himself, but he soothed your nerves by repeating what he had said to convince in the beginning. You were the professional. Since then, you saw how Bucky slowly relaxed and crept out from the shadows and so did Steve. He started bringing it up often, of course when his friend wasn't nearby, that you were the difference which really helped the former soldier. You argued that there wasn't a difference between you and the other Bucky had worked with before you even knew he was in the tower, yet Steve didn't yield saying he never opened up and to a person quite as fast before.

You stopped your writing for a second, shaking your head while watching a few of the notes you had scribbled down on the paper before you. You couldn’t understand how Steve thought you were the cause for Bucky's slow but steady socialisation with the team. Especially not when reading some of the topics you thought the session today could orientate around. You weren't afraid of silence during these meetings, though, you always had some questions prepared in advance to occupy both of you. Because you knew, he wouldn't feel as comfortable having you studying him in silence as in dialogue. Glancing at the time you saw it was only a few minutes until you would meet Bucky, so you began making your way up there.

You didn’t run into Steve any time walking to Bucky’s room, so when you knocked on his door, you assumed you would see a blonde head greeting you. Only that it didn’t happen. Bucky opened the door, his appearance much different from the first time you saw him. He stood straighter, the height difference separating you much more apparent now. His hair, although damp from what you guessed was his post-workout shower, seemed better kept. Neither did his eyes look as hollow, his face radiated instead of the dullness it had before.

”Hello Bucky”, you greeted him and he mumbled out a greeting before gesturing for you to enter. It was the first time he did that, motioning for you to pass him first instead of he turning and walking in. You weren’t surprised by it but simply didn’t expect it. With a smile, you nodded thanks and walked in. You quickly scanned the room, something you found yourself doing every time coming here, this time perhaps more in search for the blonde man.

”Steve hasn’t come yet”, you acknowledge finding his usual seat empty. Turning around you watched Bucky just about letting go of the door handle, the wooden piece now closed. ”You want to wait for…”, you hadn’t the chance to finish the sentence before he cut you off. ”He won’t come”, he began, probably noticing the blunt tone of his voice when you let out a shocked oh because when continuing, he uncrossed his arms looking down at the floor. ”I thought I could talk with only you this time”, he glanced up from the locks which had fallen in his face. ”If that’s alright?” You smiled at his words, happy with the trust that had begun to settle. ”Of course it’s, you’re the one choosing, we’re just here to help”, you answered him sincerely glancing down at the armchair Steve usually sat in. Perhaps Bucky saw your hesitation because his voice shortly made itself known again. ”It’s ok”, glancing over your shoulder, you saw him slowly walk closer to his usual place. Sitting down, you saw that he did the same, smiling for yourself as it seemed he was a bit more comfortable in your presence than usual.

”So how did the training go?” You didn't think any further about what your question could lead into, not until you saw the familiar tug of a smile in the corner of his lip. ”Good, until Steve whopped my ass one time”, you watched him as it looked like he drifted away in the thought. ”Only one time?” You asked him. The teasing tone which you hid in your voice, instead showed itself as a bit back smirk. ”You think he did it more times?” ”I am positive”, you tried holding your smirk invisible for the man opposite you. ”You’re right he did it a few more times” when he’d said this his eyes flickered away from yours, the frown, which you hadn’t noticed until now hadn’t been present, taking its place. ”Is there something bothering you Bucky?” It looked like you dumped him in ice by his wide eyes snapping to you. ”You just have the same frown Steve sometimes get when in thought, is it something you want to talk about?” You hurried to explain so he wouldn’t get uncomfortable and when he kept looking shocked, you started trying to excuse yourself, thinking you missed a trigger. ”I’m sorry…”

While you got worried trying to find a fault in what you had done, Bucky was in his own head. He zoned out as soon as you wondered if something was wrong, something you noticed simply because of his frown. He was shocked you asked or rather, that you noted it in the first place, but he reminded himself it was your job to do so. No, it wasn’t your job to help him. Steve had asked for it as a favour and while he wasn’t upset about the fact, it bugged him. He didn’t know what you were to Steve, you were close, almost too close to only be friends. The thought of the first time he saw you with his friend made him remember how pleasant your simple present had been. How you had treated him as someone and not something. Yet that was not all, he hadn't needed to verbally express everything he thought. You could read him easier than others, almost even better than Steve. It was nice somehow, not needing to word everything, yet he would feel more at ease if he could've done the same with you. The only things he knew about you he got from observing, besides your name from asking Steve the first time. He knew the blonde noticed his curiosity in you, yet he never brought up the conversation, standing by his words he said after you left the first time. If you want to know more about her, just ask.

What brought him back from his thoughts was your sudden movement and his eyes instantly snapped to you. Your eyes continuously flicked over his features and though he didn't know exactly why he tried reassuring you. ”It’s ok, it ain’t anything I just…”.

You couldn’t tell what he was about to say and after the zone out he just had you didn’t dare to guess either. So you stayed silent until he continued by own accord. He looked up at you, eyes searching your face, the insecurity shining in his own.

”I just wanted to ask you a question?” You furrowed your brows, this was not in the least what you imagined. You nodded, not wanting to offend him if this is what bugged him. ”How are you?” Bucky cringed when asking you, but you couldn't help a soft smile spreading from spreading. ”I’m good, thank you for asking”, you looked at Bucky standing opposite you, he was still timid, but something began telling you that he held himself back. ”Do you have more questions?” You tried saying it gently, mainly as you have seen how tense he became before. You watched him and you saw him take a deep breath and nod.

”I have an idea if your all ears?” His head tilting answered your question, which made you proceed to tell him the plan you thought about before the session. ”Because I ask you a lot of things, getting to gradually know you… it would only be fair that you ask me some in return”, you purposed the thought and even if you couldn’t read his reaction of it being good or bad, his answer confirmed it. ”It would”, his answer came in a more self assure tone and the smile he gave you was the first one you’ve seen been directed towards you.

Taglist: @flowerchild1216 @krystallynx @haven-in-writing @thejamesoldier

Series taglist: @buckysforeverprincess

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whumptasticwednesday · 5 years

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Insult to Injury ft. Dadneto (Peter Maximoff - X-Men)

Author’s Note: Hey, ya’ll. I’ve been burning the midnight oil to get this fic out on time, AKA 2 consecutive nights of staying up till’ 3 am. I’ve had the idea for a Peter-centric Dadneto whump fic for a decent amount of time, and after receiving a lovely anonymous prompt, I decided to incorporate both my idea and theirs. Here we’ve got Peter after the events of Apocalypse, debilitated, and accidentally giving himself a nasty case of salmonella, before Erik comes to help. I’m pretty proud of this one, so I hope you enjoy it! This fic is unedited, sorry, so please let me know if there’s any glaring issues. For my next fic, I’m shifting away from X-Men for a hot sec so I can write a nice Detroit: Become Human whump fic with our favorite android son, Connor. I’ve been super excited about my plot concept, so I’m ecstatic to start writing it. Anyways, I hope you like this one, I worked very hard on it, and I hope you’re all excited for the DBH fic coming soon!

-Ash

Word Count: 6299

Warning: Emeto and decently graphic descriptions of physical illness

Setting: Post-Apocalypse/Pre-Dark Phoenix

If there's anything Peter Maximoff knew in this moment, it was that not being able to do the one thing your body was genetically enhanced to do, sucked. A lot.

It had been only a few days since the X-Mansion had been rebuilt and things all fell back into this synonymous routine as if the entire building hadn't exploded a short while ago. In Peter's opinion, it was all kind of creepy how easy it seemed for these kids to all just go back to learning when their home and school just got eviscerated in a hellfire, but he didn't think much of it.

All he could think about in this moment, was how immensely bored he was. Peter always had something going on with him; he was either thinking about his impending dad-related issues, plotting a prank, or deciding to go off and steal an entire Walmart's worth of Twinkies in the blink of an eye, there was always something.

Yet now, the rest of the X-Men were off with Charles helping cover up heat from the international press by cleaning up all the damage and destruction in Cairo and showing what Charles had dubbed: "diplomacy", which was too huge of a word for Peter to ever use in an everyday sentence; too many letters, and Peter was left back at the mansion since he really couldn't use his powers effectively at the moment, so it would be pretty useless for him to be tagging along.

Peter normally wouldn't have given a damn, maybe even excited at the prospect of being able to rig his friends' rooms with elaborate traps with Jello and staplers or something of the sorts while they weren't around, yet now, when faced with inescapable boredom that followed him wherever his broken leg did (everywhere), he was dying to have anything to do. As the team was suiting up to get on the jet to go back to Cairo, Peter had pathetically hobbled down to the X-Men bunker on his crutches, begging to be taken with. But they'd simply gassed up the plane and flew off, leaving Peter alone, and oh so very bored.

Which brings us to Peter now, attempting to create an omelette with 6 different cheeses, 8 different and poorly-diced peppers, a heaping assortment of minced tomatoes, and a sprinkling of those off-brand fruit snacks that are always better than the on-brand ones for some reason. It wouldn't be a Peter breakfast without some form of sweet, and in his eyes, it stuck to the healthy-ish theme. It had fruit in the name for a reason, didn't it?

The kid always had a massive appetite, and everyone that knew Peter knew this as well. You'd be hard pressed to find him without some snack or form of sustenance in his hand, scarfing it down like there was no tomorrow. It was all a byproduct of his enhanced metabolism. All that energy to run had to come from somewhere, didn't it? Little did he know, this super stomach of his would come to kick him in the ass in a few short hours. But for now, the silver-haired man child of a mutant was limping around the mansion's kitchen making a very... exotic breakfast for dinner meal.

Peter plopped the strange looking (decently gooey) excuse for an omelette into a large plate with some Twinkies and orange juice on the side. As he devoured his dinner, Peter thought anxiously about Erik. It had taken him 10 years to connect the dots, work up the courage, and even think of confronting the man to tell him of his true parentage, yet wimped out at the last minute, leaving the ambiguous: "I'm here for my family too." Peter groaned audibly to himself as his mind once again replayed the events he'd already replayed a million times before. It was embarrassing as all hell. Luckily, nobody that did know told Erik anything, which Peter was very grateful for.

Imagine learning about a woman you left 2 and a half decades ago actually birthing a son you had no idea existed and just now learned of... but not from him, despite several encounters beforehand where he had ample opportunities to do so. It'd make Peter feel like even more of a loser than a 27 year old who still lived in his mother's basement. But, to be fair, Peter was no longer a grown man living with his mom, he was a grown man living in a school where he was many years past the oldest enrolled student, while not teaching a single class; it was a step up from the basement, trust me.

Once finished with his omelette, Peter quickly washed his dishes and made his trek up the small flight of stairs to reach his room on the second floor. Over the past few days, Peter had learned just how high a set of stairs could be, especially when you end up falling down them on several attempts to slide down the handrail (and failing miserably while being laughed at by dozens of impressionable pre-teen children.) What a loser.

After reaching his room, particularly winded from this dinner excursion, Peter was grateful to see that he hadn't unplugged his television from the wall after his embarrassing fall in an attempt to get to the bathroom by himself, without his crutches, or the lights on. A simple recipe for disaster in nearly all circumstances, yet for some reason, the universe held pity for Peter and his debilitated state, and decided to not make his day any worse than it already was.

Peter ultimately decided to entertain himself with a good night-long play session of Pac-Man on his Atari 2600, also still miraculously undamaged from last night's fall. He booted up the inferior version of the game (seriously though, he'd have to get Kurt to help him teleport his arcade cabinet from his basement to the school, playing this one was getting a bit tiring on the eyes.) It sufficed, he thought as the TV harshly flashed on.

Now normally, Peter would have been up all night with his video games and rock music blaring in the background, yet tonight, something (besides his immobile leg) felt really off. Each distinct 'WOMP' from the console as the yellow circle man consumed the dashes and dots felt like a sledgehammer into Peter's eardrums, leaving a resonating ache at the base of his skull. He didn't think much of it and brushed it off, simply turning down his music a notch and backing away from the TV a few inches.

The next confusing sign that something wasn't quite right was the disconcerting shivers wracking his body. A chilly breeze seemed to sweep the room as if the AC was on full blast with the windows open on a November midnight, yet it was July and all the windows were closed and when he went to check if his AC unit was acting up, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. That's whack, Peter thought to himself as he plopped onto his bed, Atari abandoned on the rugged floor.

He didn't know how long he spent staring at the unmoving chandelier hanging lamely from the ceiling, but it felt as if seconds later, the room was not only freezing, but spinning, and suffocating. Everything felt way too close. Peter could feel every fiber of his shirt rubbing against his jacket, the itchy inside of his cast pressing up against the entirety of his right leg, and the presence of his goggles resting on his neck, now seeming like a noose closing in on his throat. He hastily tore off the eyewear and tossed them on his nightstand before deciding to shed his jacket and weakly throwing it across the room. Another move he regretted.

Without the jacket to keep his arms warm, the newfound seemingly frosty atmosphere felt like a icy flurry against his skin. In spite of his mind's confused wishes, Peter ripped the heavy blanket off the end of the bed and closed it around himself like a caterpillar ready to emerge as a butterfly the next time it saw the daylight. Peter sure as hell didn't feel like a caterpillar, but if the feeling of metamorphosis was a growing sense of intense nausea and cramping in the stomach, then hell yeah, he was crushing this butterfly business.

Fuck, what's wrong with me?! He thought to himself as he rolled onto his side. Peter rubbed at his eyes, hoping to clear the dizziness, yet only further irritating them. God damnit, he sighed internally as his face scrunched up in discomfort, releasing one of his hand's hold on the blanket to cradle his aching stomach.

"Is this karma for all that shit I stole when I was younger? That's just mean, man," Peter rasped to nobody in particular. He thought about it more though and responded to his own question, "Then again, I think that's pretty fair. Haha...Shit, man. Never thought I'd say this, but I think... I think I need help."

The sledgehammer-like headache was pounding with every bass drum beat lightly emanating from the sound system Peter hadn't turned off, another move he regretted. He couldn't decide if the pros outweighed the cons: hobbling through the dark to possibly remedy a source of his suffering, but relinquishing his hold on the only thing keeping him from feeling like freezing. Peter played it safe, much to his cranium's dismay.

Peter stared off towards the wall at nothing in particular as he tried oh so hard to draw his mind's focus from how terrible he felt to literally anything else. It wasn't working out so well. And so, Peter laid there, blanket tossed over himself, single leg drawn up to his chest, shivering like a leaf in a rainstorm, as nauseous as a toddler who just rode their first roller coaster, feeling like he was about to cry, and alone. What a miserable way to spend the night.

------

If there's anything Erik Lehnsherr knew in this moment, it was that he was beyond irritated that Charles wasn't at the mansion to run his own school. Despite leaving the school once he'd helped rebuild it to try and seek solitude to wrap his mind around his place in the world and everything that'd happened to him, Erik was back at the mansion once again. He was ready to lay down the foundations for his new mutant hideaway, Genosha, and needed Charles's connections to the government to help smooth over his charges and get clearance to have his isolated society where he might truly find happiness and solace. The universe had spoken, and he obviously wasn't cut out to be a nuclear family kind of guy.

Unbeknownst to him, Erik had once again meandered into a setting with his unrealized son. Also unbeknownst to him, that son was currently cooped up alone in his room, feeling like death.

Erik uncomfortably paced around the mansion, checking Charles's office, the X-Men bunker, and all the other places he might have been, yet the telepath was nowhere to be found. Erik sighed, he knew coming this late was a bargain, one, it turns out, he'd come to lose. The school itself was eerily quiet. It was if the entire mansion was empty or something. Peaceful, yet unsettling for a man who knew nothing but chaos.

Erik was about to borrow a book someone had abandoned in the foyer when he heard the muffled melodies of American rock music echoing from the upstairs floor. It must be that problematic Peter child, Erik thought to himself. From what he told himself was a civil duty to the rest of the sleeping kids in the school (but was actually his own way to cope with his curiosity) Erik decided to check up on the snarky young man to ask if he'd turn down the tunes.

As he approached the door, Erik was bracing himself for something extremely untamed. Perhaps a messy, greasy slophole of a living area, or maybe a drunk and uncontrollably obnoxious man dancing to his music in the nude. You never really knew with Peter, and Erik had come to expect the strangest out of the boy from the few genuine interactions they've had.

Erik gently tapped his knuckles against the door, waiting patiently for a 'come in', or something along the lines of those words, yet it never came. Raising a questioning yet not too surprised eyebrow, Erik knocked again, using slightly harder bangs, not wishing to make a ruckus and wake anyone else in the hallway up. Again, nothing. Although it could have simply boiled down to Peter not hearing him from his loud and abhorrent music, Erik was growing slightly irritated with the lack of a response. So with his last reserves of patience, he knocked one final time, once again listening for a signal or cue to enter. He was met with nothing yet again.

Wondering for the worst and fully expecting to meet a blackout drunk Peter when he opened the door, Erik tentatively jiggled the doorknob, which just so happened to be unlocked, and stepped inside. Thankfully, he was not met with a naked dancing or woefully drunk mutant speedster, but most would probably argue that what he was met with was quite worse. And that being a rancid stench of sick and sour nastiness lingering in the air, a poorly plopped pile of blankets draped over the culprit of the odor, and the culprit himself lying pale and flushed on the floor beside his bed, covered in his own vomit.

Erik's nose crinkled up from being met by the strongly nauseating smell of the room, reaching for the light switch on the wall to aid the sad little table lamp and glow of the TV in illuminating the room. Now he truly saw the pity-worthy situation for what it was. Peter laid in a heap on the ground next to his bed; he'd clearly trying to make it to the en suite bathroom just a few feet away. However, with his dizzy mind and immobile leg, he didn't make it very far and ended up expelling his dinner in a much less... dignified location (if you could consider a toilet bowl a very dignified location), that undignified location being all over his lap and onto his faded Pink Floyd t-shirt.

Not knowing how to really handle the situation, Erik called out a soft, "Peter?" hoping to elicit a response. Yet, just like at the door, he was met with nothing. As he approached the boy, thoughts of anxiety and panic circled through his mind. What would he say to him when he woke up? Would he be uncomfortable with Erik of all people coming to help? Would he be confused? Would he not care? He felt undeniably and inexplicably awkward. Erik shook the thoughts from his conscious as he knelt down to try and meet Peter's face.

"Peter?" he asked again. Erik tentatively reached over to tap the boy's face, which was contorted in a pinched expression of discomfort, marred further by the vomit drying in a trail down his chin.

Once Erik's hand made contact with Peter's cheek, he wanted to retract it. From the split second interaction, Erik had felt the clammy, sweaty, and scorching hot skin and was growing concerned. The slight physical prodding finally made Peter respond.

"Mom?" he asked groggily, voice cracking, "I'll put my dishes in the sink in a minute... I'm tired..."

Erik let out a harsh sigh, bending his neck in an attempt to make eye contact with the boy.

"Peter, I'm not you-" Erik was cut off.

"Yeah yeah... I'm not your maid. I know, Ma. Just... give me five."

"Peter." Erik stated bluntly yet with a hint of unease, unsure if Peter was delirious or just messing with him, "look at me, please."

Peter cracked open his eyes and blearily met Erik's stoic and collected face. He blinked a few times, slowly and deliberately, calculating who was kneeling in front of him, before letting out a weak and wheezy chuckle, "hey there, refrigerator ornament. Wassup?"

Erik rolled his eyes, responding with, "I came to ask you to turn down your atrocious music so you won't wake any of the other children who are trying to sleep. When I came in here, you were passed out on the floor. Would you like to explain to me what happened?"

"Nah... it isn't all too interesting"

"Peter, can you please act like an adult for 2 minutes? Please?"

"Oh man, the Nazi-hunting, president-killing, horseman of the Apocalypse is bustin' out the PLEASES. Look out, world, Lord of the Vacation Souvenirs has a new tactic... MANNERS!"

Peter burst out laughing at his own adolescent joke, ending in a wheezy struggle to catch his own breath. Erik couldn't tell if he was just screwing with him or genuinely needed help. This behavior seemed pretty normal for the immature mutant.

"Look, Peter, I really just need to know if you're okay. Can you answer that simple question, please?"

"Man, your tactics are workin' like a charm. I guess I'll tel-" Peter was cut off by a repulsing gag, hunching over and expelling his stomach's contents... again, this time, however, onto Erik's shirt, quickly travelling in a sad trail down onto his freshly-ironed pants. Peter's bloodshot eyes went side with embarrassment as he quickly transitioned his gaze to the floor.

Erik's face was caught frozen still as his mind caught up with what had just happened. As repulsed as he was, it wasn't like he hadn't seen worse. But that still didn't make the fact that he was just puked on any less disgusting. After audibly exhaling through his nose, Erik once again focused on the miserable man child in front of him, who was now anxiously tapping his fingernails on the hard plaster of his cast, deliberately trying to avoid eye contact.

God damnit, Peter, He thought to himself as he continued tapping, it's bad enough leaving him with a painfully ambiguous response during a battle to save all of humanity, ultimately ruining a perfectly good chance to fess up, but now look what you've done. You fucking threw up on him. Peter felt himself growing smaller as his subconscious shamed him for his uncontrollable bout of illness. It was stupid and ultimately all in his head, but it didn't make him feel any less shit about his situation.

After taking the few quiet seconds, Erik stood up, and whether it was out of pity or some subconscious moral quest, grabbed Peter by the armpits and dragged him to the bathroom.

"W-what the?" Peter asked, confused by the harsh white light of the bathroom and the sudden shift in scenery.

"Well I'm not going to let you sit in your own disgusting clothes. I have standards, you know. Can you undress yourself? I'll get us both some clean clothes."

Peter grunted in response. It meant: yeah, I think I can take off my own clothes, bro... once the room stops spinning. Erik, however, had already up and left, stripping off his own soiled shirt and rifling through Peter's dresser drawers, and taking the opportunity to flick off the television and silence the music that had been awkwardly filling the room's background space up until now.

Peter didn't have much variety in his clothing, dark jeans and band logo t-shirts were most of his dresser's arsenal. Not wishing to be clad in a Metallica shirt for the rest of the night, he dug a bit further into the seemingly endless assortment of shirts till he found a plain white short sleeve, sighing in relief. He grabbed a random shirt from the top of the assortment which just so happened to have the Journey logo on it, and set off to find new pants for the boy.

Back in the bathroom, Peter was still laying slumped against the bathtub, shivering. Everything around him had seemingly slowed to a halt, not unlike when he was running past the speed of sound, but this time deceleration just felt... wrong.

The crashing rhythm of the rock music had come to a halt, yet it didn't cease the incessant throbbing ache in his head, as if the bass riffs and the harsh taps of the snare were on a permanent loop with earbuds permanently glued to his ears. He was trying his best to prevent himself from groaning or whining as to not sound like even more of a child in front of Erik, but honestly, he didn't want his nonexistent father right now, he wanted his mom.

Peter was snapped from his self loathing by Erik's footfalls growing progressively louder as he approached him. Erik had thrown on a pair of track pants and a random white shirt. He was holding a pair of sweatpants and another shirt for Peter so he could be free of his sweat-slick and vomit-covered clothes.

"Hey, you don't get to keep those. I like those pants," Peter stated sarcastically, still trying to put up a front, although he was unsure why. He'd needed help, it was painfully obvious, so why was he still pushing his father away? Resentment? Anger? Pride? No... fear.

"Arms up," Erik instructed, preparing to take Peter's shirt off for him.

"Yo, you know I'm not a toddler, right? I can take off my own god damn shirt."

"You sure don't act like you're a day older than one, and I don't wanna risk you accidentally suffocating getting stuck in your own clothing so... arms up."

Peter sighed and did as he was told. Erik swiftly peeled the top off the boy and felt around his back, finding it clammy and warm. As if he'd just went from the tropics to Antarctica, the shirt leaving his skin exposed his skin to a whole new level of cold. The sensation ripped through his spine as his teeth started chattering. Hoping Erik had a brain underneath that skull, Peter was (im)patiently waiting for the man to save him from the frosty winds of his newly installed Arctic bathroom and slip the new shirt over him already. However, much to Peter's dismay, Erik turned on the tub's faucet, soaking a hand towel in cold water before leaning over and placing it on Peter's exposed back.

The second the frigid cloth made contact with his skin, Peter recoiled, back arching backwards, arms frantically bending to try and remove it. Erik sighed, slightly out of pity, and continued holding it down.

"Is this some cruel punishment? What did I do?" Peter pleaded, hoping to distract himself from crying by use of humor.

"You're scorching and sticky and it's just disgusting. I'm cooling you down, so relax," Erik explained. "It'll be a few more seconds, I just needed to get all the sweat off of you."

And as quickly as it had begun, the endeavor was over and Erik was threading Peter's strikingly pale and flimsy arms through the shirt holes. Peter audibly sighed, feeling like he'd just spent an hour in an industrial freezer and was now back into a normal temperature.

Erik's eyes drifted to Peter's legs, immediately noticing a flaw in his plan. How was he going to change Peter's pants with that full leg cast?

"Peter, how do you typically change your pants considering your current... situation?" Erik asked.

"It's pretty simple. I don't," Peter replied bluntly.

"W-what?"

"Well, after I got my leg set a few days ago, I changed into jeans, not wanting to be in flight suit pants for the next week of my life, and I haven't swapped since. It's like, physically impossible."

"So... you've been wearing the same (disgustingly dirty) pants all week?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Hank says I should be grateful that it'll heal in a couple days, most people you'd find passed out on their floor covered in vomit with a full leg cast would have been wearing their nasty pants for weeks."

Erik sighed, tossing Peter's soiled shirt and the sweatpants back into the bedroom before meeting his gaze.

"Alright, Peter, I'm going to set you up in bed now."

"Sounds grea-" Peter was once again, clamping his hand over his mouth, pathetically dragging himself over to the toilet to prevent throwing up all over himself again.

Erik saw his distress and lifted the toilet lid and seat, prompting Peter to start heaving into the sad and dreary porcelain bowl. Each dry or productive heave sent another pulsing wave of pain and violent nausea from his stomach to seemingly every conceivable inch of his body in a viscous cycle of suffering. Erik could do nothing but watch as the silver-haired boy wretched in agony, each heave causing his breath to hitch, caught in his throat, as another bout of sick rushed up past his lips, crashing into the toilet bowl.

Erik wanted to reach over and rub Peter's back or offer a semblance of physical comfort for the anguish he must have been feeling. He'd often do this for his daughter, Nina, whenever she had a stomach bug. Erik reached out his hand, only to quickly retract it, shaking haunting thoughts from his mind. This boy was not his child, and in no way would he ever come close to being Nina. What was he thinking?

Guilt quickly overtook the memories as Peter finished his session of sickness. He sagged limply against the side of the toilet, face still partially hidden by the rim of the bowl. When he looked up at Erik, he looked awful. Beyond awful.

Red-rimmed eyes, clearly there as Peter attempted to stop the obvious tears from spilling over, met cool yet collected ones, the former's being full of pain, not just from this embarrassment or the physical turmoil he'd just endured, but something else. Erik knew those eyes. He knew them because for so long, they were the ones he'd stared at in the mirror, day after day, for years, until he'd found Charles, only to come face to face again with those demonized eyes in the form of an immature mutant puking his guts out on his bathroom floor. They were the eyes of a young man who was lost, feeling alone, hiding a part of themselves they wanted to let go, to set free, so they could truly be happy, yet he couldn't possibly decipher what could be internally destroying the boy.

"I-I'm sorry you had to watch that..." Peter said softly as his head lolled over.

"It's fine," Erik replied with a tone to match that of Peter's.

"I'm pretty sure... that I'm done. For now?" It came out as more of a question, but at this point, Peter wasn't trusting any signal his body was sending him. Every impulse had been smudged and cloudy in his mind, and paired with the seemingly endless headache and the relentless chills racking his body from the fever, Peter was sure that if his mind were a computer hard drive, it would have self destructed out of a deadly virus slowly hacking into the hardware.

But alas, Peter was no computer, and so he was stuck with this mystery illness, cooped up in his room, unable to run, with Erik mother-hecking Lehnsherr. His fever-addled mind was barely functioning at this point, so he didn't register anything but dizzying blurred images swirling around his head and slightly-grumbled voice swimming in his ears as Erik scooped the kid up like a newlywed bride and carried him off to bed.

Peter had never been more grateful to grace the comfort of his duvet, ready to sleep. He halfheartedly grabbed at it in an attempt to cover himself and finally warm up. Erik sighed with pity, grabbing it for him and draping it over his shoulders before moving over to stand by the nightstand and awkwardly watching Peter try and get comfortable.

Despite the obvious fact that his body wanted him to sleep, Peter's mind was racing everywhere except the realm of unconsciousness. Every thought was emphasized ten-fold as it bounced around his head until the only things remaining were his want, heck, his need, to tell Erik the truth, and the hesitant and unsure anxiety lingering in the background of his subconscious that was stopping him from doing just that.

Fevers, though, as Peter was quickly learning, tended to do weird shit to what your brain was really trying to accomplish, often scrambling any message you tried to expel to the point where it may or may not have even been your true intentions. And hell, it was an even bigger gamble if you'd remember any of the dumb shit you'd done or said. It was as if the heat had boiled all the potentially embarrassing memories away, which was at least kinda nice.

With everything happening, Peter thought it best for Erik to just pack up and scoot from the premises, as not to accidentally say or do something stupid that might come back to bite him in the ass later, but Peter wasn't about to pull an asshole move on the man who'd just helped him despite not being obligated to at all.

So, instead of verbally asking, Peter did the next most "mature" thing he could have in his debilitated and helpless situation. He pretended to be asleep in a pathetic hope that Erik would leave on his own. He didn't. Peter ended up looking like he was trying way too hard to be asleep than any real asleep person, and after a few minutes, Erik caught on.

"Peter, I know you're not actually sleeping," Erik said, not putting on any sort of specific emotion.

Peter cracked one red and tired eye open, meeting Erik's gaze yet again. Peter sighed and turned over onto his side, back to the other man, bleary eyes trying to focus on anything that wasn't Erik. Sleep, a seemingly effortless task for most, eluded Peter as he let out an a low whine. This was miserable.

"Hey, Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I umm... never mind..."

"What were you going to say?"

"It's nothing... I just feel stupid since I can't even do the easiest thing on the planet."

"Is there anything I can do?"

The question struck Peter like a cold dagger to the heart, it sounded so much like something his mom would say, who was practically the only person he wanted in that moment. Peter didn't like to be weak or expose any of his fears. He preferred to be distant and reserved, to hide all that insecurity with stupid dry humor and sarcasm. His mom and his sisters were really the only ones who he'd truly been open with, and when faced with these new circumstances, finally able to reconnect with the father he never had, he was frozen in place, and after pushing people away and closing himself off for so long, not knowing what to do to reach out and truly face what he needed to.

Completely internally and externally overwhelmed, Peter let his dam of pride burst, letting his emotional flood pour out of his eyes in the form of earnest, choked sobs. He bit his lip and weakly rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to hide his distress.

Erik was taken aback, taking a step towards him, before backpedaling as fast as the initial paternal instinct had seized him. He didn't know what to do. Erik was conflicted, scared of overstepping boundaries, but wholeheartedly wanting to comfort the clearly suffering boy lying in bed in front of him.

And in a flash of instinct, an unspoken, deep-rooted, yet unknown draw towards the silver-haired boy, Erik sat down on the mattress, back meeting Peter's, and leaning over his shoulder to rub his back

Erik's hand was shaky, unsure if it should truly be there. He felt the heat radiating off Peter's skin through his t-shirt. Erik glanced down further to Peter's face, and despite the hands trying (and failing) to cover his eyes, saw it covered in a new sheen of sweat quickly mixing with his tears, pale and pasty with angry crimson patches sitting pretty as pictures on his cheeks and forehead. Everything in that moment accentuated both how awfully awkward Erik and truly terrible Peter felt.

Erik didn't even know if Peter was lucid anymore. He was breaking down into tears, shivering and being comforted by someone who was practically a stranger. Eventually, the sobs dwindled into whimpers and Erik's nerves were starting to taper off himself. The room fell into a weirdly calm silence as the two decided to not say anything. Until Peter's shaky voice cut through the room.

"Y-you know... when I was a dumb little kid, I thought I-I could outrun germs. Look at me now. I can't even cook a f-freakin' omelette without making myself sick... I never needed to cook for myself, it was always my mom, or Hostess cakes."

"..." Erik wanted to say something, anything, but he was unsure what, or if Peter would understand.

"I can't do anything right... life tosses me chances and I just fuck em' all up."

Erik soon realized Peter was no longer talking about his omelette, but something deeper.

"I just wish... you could've d-done this for me when I was still that dumb little kid. I wish for so much to be different. I'd always wanted a d-dad, and when I finally figured out who he was, I learn he'd gone off to kill the president! I-I don't know..."

"W-what?"

"I m-might not be able to outrun germs, but my entire l-life, I've outrun everything. The law, my responsibilities, adulthood... But now, the one time when I finally can't run from anything, out of all of my problems, I gotta face you of all things. N-not the way I thought this would happen..." Peter's words died out as he fell silent.

Erik wasn't sure he'd heard Peter properly. Until something in his mind clicked. Everything he's done up until now: "my mom once knew a guy who could do that..." and "I'm here for my family too..." Oh my god, he thought, I'm... I-I'm Peter's... father? Who else had he been with before his wife... Magda. Oh god.

Erik pulled his hand away from Peter's back. This caused Peter to moan and flip onto his back, staring directly at Erik, eyes cutting straight to his heart like knives.

"W-why'd you stop? It was nice..." Peter admitted shyly.

"I-I need a second, Peter. I'm sorry," Erik sighed as he pushed himself off the mattress.

Peter said nothing as his eyes drifted back to his bedspread. Disappointment lurking behind his bloodshot irises.

Erik walked off to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stared up at himself in the mirror, hands gripped tightly around the basin. This couldn't be happening. Not after Nina, not again. Erik was just... terrified. Terrified of the idea of getting close again. Anyone who's ever been a part of Erik's family... had died. His parents, his wife, his daughter; he didn't want Peter to join the list of people the universe was just deemed to kill. He knew that Peter was far from dying, it was a simple fact that the kid couldn't cook and he'd fed himself something underdone. Yet, it was all happening, it was all too fast, and everything felt so damn scary.

He knew, deep down, that this was the truth. It only made sense that the Magda didn't wanna tell her son that his dad was an internationally targeted terrorist that's murdered dozens of people, and this kid had no reasons to lie about it. God... Erik didn't know how to feel, what he should do, but he did know that had a need to comfort Peter, who'd just confessed a secret he'd been hiding for who knows how long, and was now laying alone, probably feeling abandoned again, after pouring his heart out knowing full well it might be shot down.

Whether it was all intentional was yet to be seen. Again, fevers did weird shit.

Erik let out a low sigh and opened the door, finding Peter curled up on himself as best he could, softly whining, mumbling incoherently to himself. Erik stepped over and sat down on the bed again, the entire mattress dipping from his weight.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I am very happy you told me..." Erik was searching for the right words, "the truth."

" 'r welc'm" Peter mumbled as his puffy eyelids slid over his tired brown eyes.

"Is there anything you need me to do for you right now?"

"J'st... stay please. I-It's embarassin', I know, but I just... my mom used to do it..."

"Alright, Peter. I'm not gonna leave, so just try to sleep, okay?"

Peter didn't need to be told twice as his mind and body worked in harmony, finally allowing Peter to be lulled off to the realm of unconsciousness. And although he knew it wasn't necessary, Erik wished to add to the intimacy of this quiet moment, a type of moment so rare and inconstant in both of their lives, so he pushed himself up against the headboard, laying out flat on the bed, and carded his fingers into Peter's silky silver locks. And out of habit, maybe a sort of tendency he'd developed from doing it with Nina, or an obligation to share what he felt Peter deserved, he began to hum his family lullaby, ever so slowly and softly, drowning out any other thing the world wanted to toss at them. Because in that moment... Erik and Peter had found something they'd both been missing for so long, peacefulness and contentment. And for that short night, it was all they needed.

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x-useobwa-x · 5 years

Text

༄ Fix me | Part 4 - Min Yoongi

College! Yoongi x Reader sm/au

➺ Word count: 1,7k

< Previous | Next >

Genre: Crack humor, heavy angst, romance, fluff, !TRIGGER WARNING! (This chapter contains mild swearing and mild description of sexual activities.)

College finally starts for you and your best friends and you are excited, very excited. You were going to make your college years the most memorable of your life, but then you met your roommate, and your life started to take turns you’d never had imagined…

Start reading!

⇣ ⇣ ⇣ ⇣ ⇣ ⇣

You sighed as you lock your phone and slide it back into your pocket. It wasn't all too hard to find the main building, with its ridiculously big sign in front of it. You grab the handle of your suitcase and make your way towards the entrance, full of hope to figure out how to get to your damn room. Seems like you're not the only lost soul here - the line is pretty long. You exhale in regret; if only you'd have gone here with Jin and Namjoon, you would most likely already be through by now. But you had to choose trying to bound with your roommate over that, which turned out to be one of the worst ideas you had today. You shake your head as you abandon those feels as you figure they'd only drag you down, and decide to just be excited you'll know your way soon. Watching your surroundings more carefully now, the campus wasn't all too bad, to be exact, it was actually really beautiful. You are reaching the end of the line. Scanning through it to count how many people are in front of you, you run your eyes over a familiar silhouette.

Isn't that the hot guy that spoke to me while getting snacks?

He doesn't seem to notice you, though, so you keep counting.

Twenty one.

If none of them is completely brain dead and gets the idea of where to go within one minute, you could be on your way in about 22 minutes. You figure that that's completely managable and you pull out your phone again.

No one's messaged you so far, which is understandable, the boys probably arrange their room and unpack, and your mysterious roommate doesn't want to talk in the first place.

You scroll through Instagram to pass time as you get hung up on a certain picture.

It is a picture of Jin, a picture you took.

Jin always makes you feel good about your work, you love photography and you love capturing beautiful motives, and your friends certainly are something you'd consider ‚beautiful motives‘.

Jin always asks you to take his photos, you are -except for his own hands- the only one he trusts with taking pictures he'd actually post somewhere. You would be lying if you would say that it doesn't make you feel special, in fact, you feel incredible. Your thoughts run wild on Jin as they get cut by the words „Next, please!“ as you look up and realize its your turn now.

„Hello, uhm, I- I am trying to find my room, would you please tell me how I will get to Room 713? That'd be a great help!“

The old lady looks at you with a kind, understanding smile, as if she was about to say ‚oh honey, you aren't the only one, no need to be so shy‘.

She quickly explains you the way, which turned out to be very easy, and you thank her while leaving.

It takes you about five minutes to get to the building. You step in and walk up to the first floor. Now you only need to turn left and—— there it is!

You knock at the door and wait patiently.

Two minutes go by, as you decide to knock again.

The door swings open and a young man with the most expressionless face stood in front of you.

„What do you want?“ he exhaled, while one hand is holding the door knob, as his other arm is leaning on the doorframe. You can't help but stare, thinking that if he wouldn't look so utterly annoyed, he would actually be a good looking man.

„I'm not going to ask again.“ his voice is now sharp as it cuts through your thoughts, and you blink a couple times as you fall out of your daze.

„I'm sorry! Hey, we texted earlier, I'm y/n. I'm moving into this room with you!“

He doesn't answer, all he does is rolling his eyes in the most subtle way you've ever witnessed, as he steps away from the door.

„And your name is...?“ you ask curious, but he meets you with silence.

Is he ignoring you? You decide to let it slide as he might still be in a bad mood because no one told him he'd have a roommate. You step in and look around. He points to a door, quickly letting his arm fall to his side again as he lazily walks over to another door. He turns the light off and quickly shuts the door behind himself.

You press your teeth together and take a deep breath. It'd be an understatement to say that his attitude is kind of pushing your buttons.

Once you got a hold of yourself again, you turn the light back on and start to scan the room. You pass a sofa, a table, some shelves, as your gaze falls on a desk, with documents on it that look exactly like the brochure of basic information the college mailed to you weeks ago. You walk over and take it into your hands.

You flip open the first page to where details about the student that's being adressed, are written down.

„Min Yoongi...“ you whisper to yourself as you run a thumb over the name.

You discard the brochure, since you got the information you wanted, and move over to the door he pointed to. When you open it, you're pleased to find your room to be in great condition, and you quickly start to unpack and arrange.

••••••

It wasn't until a high pitched voice cut through the air that you realize you had fallen asleep. Still a bit sleepy, you sit up and run a hand through your hair. The voice continues to screech annoyingly through the peaceful silence as you feel your mood drop a little. Standing up, you decide to figure out the source of what's been probably already getting on your roommates nerves as well, judging from how he presents himself.

You walk out of your room, surprised that you can't seem to figure out where the noise is coming from, until you hear a certain.... bang.

‚Bang?‘ you think to yourself as you start do get a damn well feeling of whats going on.

You move closer to Yoongi's room, holding your breath to eavesdrop.

Now you are sure, very sure of whats going on and you burn with anger.

Merciless you open the door without any warning, and seeing that you were right, makes you question yourself whether you want to kill him, or drop dead.

There he is, Min Yoongi in all his glory, hooking up with a girl. You wonder if his bed is just so loose or if he decided to give his all, according to you being able to figure the situation out by the sound of Yoongis headboard meeting the wall.

His head turns around and he shoots you a glare that would send daggers all through your body if only possible.

Much to your own surprise, you're so angry that you are rather unfazed by Min Yoongis death stare.

„The fuck you think you doing here?!“ he yells at you.

„Me? What the fuck I AM doing? How about you tell me why you are here, banging this girl first night in?! Are you fucking kidding me right now?“

„Can you fuck off and leave? As you can see I am BUSY!“ as those words leave his mouth, the girl beneath him seems to have different plans. She covers herself as she collects her clothes and throws them on hastily, excusing herself and leaving immediately.

You can't help it, but some sort of victorious smile is tugging at your lips as you send a nod Yoongi's way and walk out of his room. Just a few steps out, Yoongi shoots out of his room after you, grabbing your shoulder and roughly turning you around.

„What the FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!“

He's shaking in anger, lips pressed together, while you can't help touching your shoulder where his rough grip left nothing but pain.

You just watch quietly with furrowed brows, which seems to make him angrier all the more.

„Answer me!“ he demands, but you only respond with „As you answer me when I'm asking you something, Yoongi?“

His mouth falls open, for a second completely confused.

„Where did you get my name from?“

„Why does it matter so much? I just wanted to try to be your f—“

„My what?“ Yoongi cuts you off. He seems conflicted, he knows exactly what you wanted to say, yet he needs you to say it again.

„I... I mean, we're going to live together for a while now so I thought, it'd be great if we could be... friends.“ you nervously say.

You look up to Yoongi, his brows furrowed, eyes staring holes into the floor. He looks as if he's fighting an inner war, so lost, so angry, so vulnerable, but yet cold as ice.

He murmurs something under his breath, as silent laughter is escaping his mouth.

„Sorry? I didn't under-“ before you finish your sentence, Yoongi looks up, right into your eyes.

„Mind your own fucking business, y/n, you can't and won't ever be a friend to me, so please just go and FUCK OFF, YOU HEAR ME?!“

You flinch at Yoongis words.

The twisted look in his eyes is telling you to leave as quickly as you can, and so you do, you slip into your shoes, and rush down the stairs. Finally outside, you walk over to the next bench that isn't too public, and sit down while hot tears form in the corner of your eyes.

Why did you have to get such a roommate? This isn't how you expected your first day to go.

You rest your face in your hands where its all covered, as a fresh breeze of the late evening is playfully whirling around the fallen leaves.

This'll be a lot harder. Your only wish right now was, that your friends aren't going through anything similar.

__________________________________________________

a/n: oh my god heLLO FRIENDS!!💘

So, seems like we finally got to meet Yoongi, huh? 👀 I wonder whats going on there?? �� also i'm so so so super sorry if my writing style is a pain in the ass to read, it's not THAT easy for me, since English isn't my native language 🥺💕 please love it nonetheless, even though its long af! 🥺❤️❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @hxseok-honee @thatswheremydemonshide

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whimstories · 6 years

Link

BalconyAU Pt 8

Part 1 // Part 7// Next >>In Progress

Word Count: 5k

A/N: I sometimes stare at the Explicit rating and think, when is that going to happen. That’s all they wanna read, come on.

I’d like to dedicate this chapter to the amazing, AMAZING anon comment on FF. I wrote this faster because I was so moved, honestly.

Also, this chapter is super prose heavy. Lots of descriptions and too much narrative, probably, which I learned I need to work on until my fingers are blue.

I always write to improve, so comments and critiques are welcome! Please rip this to bits! Thank you!

Manon’s comment is a silk thread, hard to identify and impossible to get out of her hair.

She frantically leafs through her memory of their interaction. Did she say any numbers while they talked; a name, perhaps? She glances over at Adrien behind her, recalling his strange stare off, and her mind flares at a possibility.

“Adrien,” she addresses. “When you said, ‘a certain someone’ to Manon, you meant Chloe, right?”

Adrien’s brows furrow. “Of course,” he pauses, then his brows raise to alarm, “You don’t think—I’m not dating every girl in the building.”

That never occurred to her and she has to nibble her bottom lip to prevent laughing. Imagining Adrien entertaining a harem of female neighbors from different floors of the apartment wasn’t that hard to conjure.

In actuality, she suspects Adrien might know Chat Noir, something of high probability when he’s such friends with Plagg and, apparently, Manon. But it seems she is wrong—unless he’s dating Chat Noir, who is in fact not a female, and wouldn’t that be a piece of humble pie to unravel the mystery.

She lifts her shoulders and comments, “Just clarifying.” She witnesses the raise of his shoulders, preparing to defend his honor from her supposed preconceived notion, but they reach her floor and she cuts him off with orders.

She directs Adrien to change into comfortable athletic clothes and meet in the lobby as soon as he’s done. He sulks during the instructions, a puppy pout pursing his lips, but he agrees all the same.

The idea that Adrien isn’t aware of her perception of him puts her in a strangely good mood. It could be a small kind of revenge after he sent shivers to her skin at the shoot, and it’s satisfying that he’ll never know she’s a little affected by him. She skips out the elevator when she meets him twenty minutes later.

Marinette has changed her winter layers for fitted, breathable clothes: black leggings, leg warmers, lace up boots, a long sleeve thin shirt, and a red crop hoodie. In these moments, she really appreciates being a designer because she added custom pockets to her leggings that relinquishes her from carrying a bag.

Adrien is lurking near the rotating doors, clearly hiding from attention, and Marinette pauses a few feet from him when she catches his attire. He is wearing black skinny harem pants, a long fitted green t-shirt, and a black zip up hoodie with his hair tucked into a beanie, which flattens the locks to his head and makes him look younger. This is the first time she’s seen him in anything other than professional clothes, which augments his arrogant figure, and damn if she doesn’t prefer him in street clothes.

“What is it?” Adrien asks.

“Sorry?”

“Is there something weird about my clothes or…?” His brows climb to a knowing stare.

“I was just thinking about where we need to go,” Marinette dodges. She walks out the doors and heads in the direction of the metro. Adrien follows suit, close in step. It’s a five minute walk and along the way they pass an open square, and Adrien slows his pace next to her.

A sizable crowd is gathered near a fountain where a busker band is playing swing music. A few couples of various ages are dancing, some are snapping and clapping to the rhythm, and generally there’s a lightness to the gathering.

A motion next to Marinette causes her to look over. Adrien’s hand faces palm up in her direction, clearly an indication for her to grasp it.

“I’m having deja-vu,” Marinette remarks.

“I’m not tricking you; I already learned my lesson. I’m asking.”

There’s no rush to catch the metro now, the sun still hanging in the East, and she would be lying if she wasn’t affected by the energy of the music. Marinette accepts to indulge in the joyous scene, but whether she trusts a dance with Adrien Agreste is another question. She stares at him, dubious, but his expression continues to be open and unassuming. He looks so simple then, not the aristocratic son of her favorite designer or the roguish flirt without a filter, but just any man wanting to dance with a woman. The sloping bob of his neck as he swallows, a plain nervous gesture, seals it.

She takes his hand and Adrien, beaming, tugs her to the crowd. They take a place to edge of the group and he weaves their fingers in a loose grip in one hand and places the other on her hip.

“Don’t think,” he whispers in her space.

The first few steps, she’s stiff, almost like an alien controlling her body and not sure how to move against a partner. Then Adrien takes Marinette’s hand and twirls her one, two, three times, blurring everything around her into boisterous tunes and joyous motion, and she’s laughing.

He uses the momentum to swing her opposite him—she’s hanging on the tether of his hand and squeaks at the fast motion—then she’s being pulled back and flushes bodies, so he’s grasping around her waist and twirling them together. Then he repeats the motion. They’re swinging in and out together like synchronized yo-yos, the cold of winter melting from their bones and the electricity of motion fills their wake. She follows his lead and he rewards her with an impressed quirk of his mouth, but its clear he has the stronger affinity with dancing.

He demonstrates said skills when he does solo numbers such as tapping, moonwalking, and the Charleston, which is so spirited she claps to the music to encourage him. When he gestures for her to do the same, her shoulders jolt from the unexpected request. She doesn’t think and mimics the dance her mother always did: the finger wag. Adrien laughs, of course, but claps for her as she did him.

They’re clasping hands again and each time its more natural and leaves goosebumps in its wake. They’re taking each others cues and never speak, they don’t need to; and Marinette’s world narrows to only him for that moment. No teasing, no flirting, but wholly expression and joy in motion and sound, and her heart sings to it. It’s not easy, like floating in a sea, but like surfing a wild wave and conquering it in the same way it can conquer her. It’s a respect, a partnership, an agreement.

Adrien grasps her waist— she squeals into a laugh— and spins them together. On the first turn she is raised above him and every turn following she’s sliding down his chest and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Then he is there; mere inches from her face and grinning like a madman, gazing at her. A thrill buzzes to her head; she’s spellbound. She didn’t realize she was grinning so hard until it falls, and she’s gapping at him like a guppy. Butterflies are creating a tornado in her stomach and the slight sheen of sweat on his brow is so tantalizing she wants to swipe it for an excuse to get closer.

She imagines this is what all those rom-coms are talking about, because if Adrien tangled his hand in her hair and tugged her forward, she wouldn’t have stopped him.

“Excuse me, darling.” A voice breaks in.

Marinette jerks away in an instance, unwrapping her arms from his shoulders and hopping to the ground. Her head jumbles to focus on anything else and she’s realizing the buskers are now preparing to change songs and she’s wondering how long she was in Adrien’s arms and how it looked. Her face floods like a red light bulb.

A senior couple stands to the left, and the female addresses them, “Mind if I cut in?” She gestures toward Adrien. Marinette glances at him, and then darts away, realizing she’s embarrassed to even see his expression. She jerks a nod.

The elderly male puts out his elbow and asks her, “May I?”

Marinette unwinds at the sweet gesture and agrees. Dancing is different with the older man, she should praise the universe for such an obvious fact. It’s bouncy and fun and she’s not self-conscious of her movements . She glances at Adrien and he’s treating his partner wonderfully, smiling and keeping eye contact. He dips and twirls her at her cues, and it’s clear the experienced woman is giving him a run for his money in terms of leading, which he doesn’t seem to mind a bit.

When the song ends, Adrien and the woman walk back; she’s patting his hand while he’s talking in low tones, crouching a bit to be at her level. He nods and kisses the sides of her cheeks. The elderly man walks up to pat Adrien on the back, and Adrien tucks his head, sheepish.

As the woman passes by Marinette, she says, “You got a good one.”

The woman walks away before Marinette could deny it, though convincing strangers not really a favorite past time. Adrien is looking at her and beaming, with a flush on his face from dancing. She wouldn’t be surprised if the elderly man said something similar to him. What a cliché.

She’s about to tell Adrien they should go but he directs her to sit in the square for a moment, a bit of urgency to his tone, so she sits near the band until Adrien returns. About ten minutes later, he’s carrying two items in his hands has full pockets. Marinette views a folded crepe in one hand and a pie dish, which she assumes is a quiche, in the other. Her stomach rumbles from the cloying scent of fresh food.

“Here, take your pick,” Adrien holds both choices in front of him, “I heard you’re not very good about eating meals.”

Marinette notes, for the millionth time, how much she regrets having chatterboxes for doormen, but exceedingly grateful when the warm buttery crust of the quiche passes her mouth along with the cooked vegetable and egg center. She practically moans.

Adrien eats his crepe with relish, Marinette notes she’s surprised he allows such a thing, and a few smears of chocolate linger on his lips, which Marinette gestures towards, stopping her raised hand mid-motion from wiping them herself. They continue their walk to the metro, finishing their small meals along the way. Adrien pays for their fare and they hop aboard within ten minutes. The bulging items in Adrien’s pockets are revealed as water bottles and he hands one to Marinette who gulps half of it down.

“I never pegged you for such a great dancer,” Marinette mentions.

“Was I?” Adrien tilts his head.

“You were capable of leading me around. That’s impressive.”

“I thought you were wonderful,” he contends.

Marinette raises her hand, as if to stop him, and shakes her head. “It wasn’t me, at all.”

Adrien frowns, troubled. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Marinette.”

She blinks a few times. “What do you mean?”

“You act shy and quiet, humbling yourself to everyone’s level, but push the right buttons and you’re unparalleled, like it’s no effort at all. I’m just at a loss.”

Marinette flushes, never receiving such a profound compliment. “I-I dont—I’m not…” She considers her words, finding she can’t pinpoint one, and looks around the train. “I’m not perfect.”

“I wasn’t saying you have to be.”

She turns to him. “Weren’t you?”

“I’m saying, when you allow it, no one would ever fault you, because you’d be too busy dazzling them with your passion and extraordinary talents. I’m amazed no one is singing your praises somewhere.”

She knows he’s being sincere, his sparkling eyes say it all, and she’s stunned to silence. She’s not sure she can say another word to him ever again. Her eyes flutter, trying to process if such a man can exist in front of her, but she takes a shuddered breath and relents to listen to the metal squeaks of the metro’s flight through Paris.

“W-what, um, happened to you and Chloe? You mentioned it earlier.” She hopes focusing on his romantic tendencies could help subdue any of her emotions that deign to consider him.

“Ah, well,” Adrien gives a pregnant pause, like even he couldn’t explain it. “I thought she would be someone and then she wasn’t. Pretty normal for short relationships.”

Marinette squints at him. “What sort of person did you think she was?”

Adrien glances at her then his cheeks raise to a light pink, which Marinette thinks is kinda cute and not helping her case to liking him more than she wants. “Well—um, just different. Kind, reserved, beautiful inside and out.”

“Chloe? Really? Were you in the Twilight Zone?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

I’ll say, she thinks. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so she smiles instead and sits in silence. She theorizes Chloe destroyed hoards of property during the break-up, and Marinette would feel bad to be reminded of that too.

They transfer to the RER after twenty minutes—

“Aren’t the Catacombs near here? You’re really that mad?”

“What would I do to you there? Really?”

“I don’t know how far you take a favor.”

—then another twenty minutes pass to reach their destination. It’s only a five minute walk and they reach large open metal gates. Adrien doesn’t reveal any recognition to the place, staring curiously at the large walls encompassing the property and allowing Marinette to lead the way.

The grounds are extensive, to say the least, with four large stretches of lawn and three parallel walkways leading to an old castle. Marinette turns, now walking backwards, and gestures with her arms out, “Welcome to Parc l’Akuma.”

“Sounds haunted.”

“It might be,” Marinette shrugs. “But it's perhaps the most lovely haunted grounds in Paris. Come on.”

Marinette leisurely waltzes past all the amenities of the park: the art museum inside the castle, the wonderfully tended gardens, and the open areas where families take their picnics and pets. Adrien glances at her every few seconds for a sense of direction, and she bounces in step as they approach her goal. She turns a corner where they are met with a large hedge wall, about twelve feet tall, with a singular entrance.

“Here it is.” She waves with flourish.

“And, what is this?” Adrien inquires.

“Le Papillon Labyrinthe. One of the most difficult mazes in Paris, and when seen from above, looks like a complicated butterfly.” His expression lights up so she continues. “If you want to try solving it, go ahead, but I had this idea that I use to play with my best friend. It seemed like a fun idea at the time.” She becomes embarrassed as she says it aloud, looking at the wall in the hopes she becomes less self conscious, which is perfect timing when you already took a train trip to get there.

“We would run around the maze trying to find each other. Sort of an extreme hide and seek. It’s really fun, and requires a bit of attention…” she trails off. Marinette is met with silence and she has to look back at him.

His smile is near to bursting, she expects him to combust like a male Violet Beauregarde.

“What?” She asks.

“You liked playing Ultimate Mecha with me.” Marinette’s shoulders stiffen. “You liked it so much you sent us an hour outside Paris to challenge me in a hedge maze.” Adrien is absolutely blinding with smugness.

“That’s—no. Not true,” she argues.

“You could’ve asked for something simple. Anything within city bounds and been done with it. But you wanted to share this moment with me.”

“I had an urge and you offered to take me. It’s…not as fun without a friend.”

“So, I’m a friend?” He perks. Marinette groans, keeping her satisfaction at the phrase in check. “Princess, it feels like you’re the one doing me a favor.”

Marinette doesn’t know how she survived his presence this long. Adrien just continues to look smug and walks into the entrance which winds to an open circle with a singular bench. Marinette explains it’s the true entrance to the maze and he asks the general layout.

“There are two paths to get to the end; two wings to the butterfly. But there are also paths that lead to the other wing.”

“So, what happens if I find you?”

“Then you win that round.”

“You know we have to have stakes. Betting pools, favors, dinners, and so on. We’re adults. ”

Sensory memory of him combing through her hair releases tingles down her spine. “Adults have friendly competition,” she notes.

“Our enthusiasm for competition isn’t ‘friendly’, Marinette,” he counters.

Marinette recalls his own attitude when he played against her. Yelling, dirty ploys, victorious shouts, and disbelieving grunts come to mind; which she completely forgot since the events after left such an impression. He matched her energy without a beat, and she would be a bald faced liar if she didn’t find it exciting at the time.

“Fine. Name a price,” she relents.

“Your phone number.”

“What?” She says. “I could just…give it to you?”

“Nope,” he asserts. “I want to earn it. Otherwise, whenever I want to see you, I’ll have to hover around your floor, but since Chloe is next door it's pretty dangerous. See? I have all the motivation to win.”

Marinette does not miss the insinuation of facing Chloe for the sake of her company, the sizzling delight in her stomach notices as well. “Well, same for me, then.” His eyes grow wide and she stumbles around her response. “I get your number, then I’ll know who to block all my calls.”

“That’s low, princess.” He chuckles.

“Get off your high horse then, Agreste.”

He smiles and the game is afoot. She explains it simply: one person will have to hide for ten minutes from the seeker. If they are spotted, the seeker has to tag them to count. If they happen to have a draw, whoever found the other faster is the victor. They’ll use their phones as timers, and, if they’re not found, they’ll call out time and meet in the center for the next round.

They synchronize their timers on their phones and Marinette hides first. She sprints to the left, getting some warmth in her blood, and uses her thirty-second head start to become familiar with the twists and turns. She’ll be unlucky if she meets any dead ends, since Adrien’s taller stature gives him a longer reach in case she tries to juke him. She hopes ten minutes is not sufficient time to familiarize the entire maze, and she may survive staying to one spot, but if touching Adrien at the shoot amounted to anything, she’s aware he’s fit enough to cover a lot of distance.

She chooses a long open path to wait, intending to run across if he catches her, and checks her timer, which indicates Adrien entered forty-seconds ago.

Four minutes pass, a constant anticipation pounding in her chest, and she stands to look around the corner, and to her luck, he’s ten feet away and jogging. As soon as she catches sight, a thrill kicks her in the bum and books it the opposite direction. She’s unsure if he saw her, but he must have heard her breathe hitch or the following running steps. She hears fast strides behind her and she shrieks, cutting corners and almost falling several times.

“Your prince has come to rescue you, princess! Don’t run away!” Adrien teases and her startled laugh almost slows her enough that she feels the air of his hand passing her back. Somehow, she makes it to a path that opens three ways and prays she takes the most confounding one. She finds a winding path with a lone square hedge and shuffles to a crouch behind it and holds her breathe so he passes her.

Another two minutes go by, and he didn’t even make it down her path. She breathes easier.

The remaining time is uneventful. She wanders the maze without a sound from Adrien, though she was spooked by a couple birds landing on a hedge and she’s glad no one saw that. Her timer blares and she shouts for him. She thinks she hears a huffed shout back, but it was far away.

They meet back in the center as promised. His hair sticks to his head in parted frays and there’s a flush to his cheeks. “I’m surprised you lost me,” she starts.

“You have no idea,” he inhales a deep breathe, still winded from his jog she assumes, “how frustrating that was. One round is not going to cut it.”

“You’re so sure you’re going to lose?” She says around a smile.

“I already told you, you can best anyone.” He looks more frustrated to the admission this time but the kind sincerity is there, creating a ruckus to her heart.

Into the next round, she doesn’t find him. Not even a spare glance like he did her, and she wishes he wasn’t wearing a beanie so the sun can reflect his location.

They try a second round each, and somehow it becomes harder because they found optimal locations that are harder to navigate. So, they make a new rule that every minute they have to make a noise, any sort, so the other person knows which direction to go.

Marinette is simple and says, ‘Marco’ and Adrien replies ‘Polo’ each time. It scares the life out of her because every time she hears him over a hedge and getting closer.

There is one minute left, and, at the last shout, she heard him a few hedges over. She’s crouching around a corner, and yells as she’s supposed to, then right above her is victorious whispered response, “Got you.”

She whips her head up, intent on turning tail, but is waylaid by a tight grasp around her shoulders and a smooshing pressure of a male chest to her face. He lifts her into a tight hug and twirls them around, she throws curses at him in return.

He releases her, patting her arms amicably. “Looks like this will have to be a draw, or I win.”

“Not if I find you faster.” She raises her chin.

“But can you catch me?” He leers in her space, his confident, cocky character breathing down on her like dragon’s fire. She vows to slay the reptile.

It is not easy. Besides the fact she technically has nine minutes instead of ten, Adrien decides instead of shouting ‘Marco’, he yells flattery.

“I bet the sun rises just to see you smile!”

“I bet the wind blows just to feel how gorgeous your hair is!”

“I’m looking for directions to the quickest way to your heart!”

“I bet the flowers bloom just for you!”

“Is it hot in here or is it just you?”

She doesn’t have to respond, and some of them her hands are covering her face from the shame of it, but eventually she shouts at him for purposefully wanting to distract her. He doesn’t deny it, the rascal.

Adrien does a final shout—‘Is your dad a jewel thief? Because you're a real gem’—and Marinette jumps because she hears him around the corner. She proceeds with careful steps and Adrien is ambling with his hands in his pockets and grinning across an opposite corner.

She has to take him by surprise since she’s so far. With a deep breath, she readies her stance and bolts across the grass, not worried that he might hear her. He turns his head, barely glancing and she panics.

She tackles him.

He wasn’t ready for the impact, jutting forward and exclaiming ‘ack’ as he tries to find equilibrium. Marinette bounces against his back when they hit the ground and she’s cackling next to his ear, surprised at herself for the desperate pounce. He rolls her off, she slides to the cold, prickly grass next to him, and turns to her with a disbelieving expression, his hat askew and one eyelid squinted like a twitch. Then he sniggers; she sniggers back; then they’re laughing together.

They roll in the grass, clutching at each other’s arms and quaking for breath. When she can open her eyes without shaking with mirth, the occasional chuckle still in her chest, she looks upon him. He is staring forward, towards the half clear sky, a goofy grin on his face. She can admire a peacefulness to his manner, the gentle slope of his neck and his relaxed brow. His strong jawline curves wonderfully to his glee and a warm emotion sits in her throat.

He catches her staring and turns. Marinette can view the flecks of gold in his eyes; she never saw it before and wonders if she’s imagining it now. She suddenly can’t remember her prior emotions to him, being confused and unnerved because he’s strange. Now she’s confused and unnerved because he affects her and she doesn’t know what action to take. She’s scared, unsure, and sometimes doubts his sincerity.

Cold breath mingles into clouds between them and they gaze at each other in comfortable silence. Then Adrien moves and Marinette just…can’t. He alone shifts closer, the scent of grass and coconut fills her nose. Its like watching something inevitable happen from outside herself and she couldn’t stop it even if she wanted to.

She closes her eyes in anticipation. A soft pressure lands on her head, solid and warm, and it's almost worse, so much worse, than what she expected, because it feels like contacting stardust.

Just their foreheads connected, his entire presence is like a force of nature—a force that can counter and twist her own. She is the ocean and he’s the wind creating ripples to her toes. He’s the sun and he’s casting light on her moon until she’s full to glowing. It’s as mushy as it gets, the sort of BS Hollywood sells you along with a bag of regret, but she’s buzzing and yearning for it.

There’s a tug at her hair, a gentle swipe of a finger. She almost makes a move herself, opening her eyes and barely tilting her head towards his breath, then Adrien brings his hand between them. She jolts backwards to focus on it.

“Ladybug,” he smiles. The tiny bug, indeed a ladybug, is perched on his crooked pointer finger and crawling towards the tip. It must have been the thing in her hair.

She giggles, the haze in her mind settling into her chest like a heavy burden. “In winter?”

“You must have tremendous good luck.” He flashes his teeth and his eyes dart to her mouth for a second before retreating to getting on his elbows. Marinette licks her lips and sits up with him. “Shall I honor our bargain?” He digs into his pants pocket and takes out his phone.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She swipes at the tendrils of hair falling around her ears then takes out her phone to take his number.

They call it a day after that. The journey back home on the metro is quiet but electrically charged by what Marinette is scared to acknowledge and, for unknown reason, what Adrien isn’t going to force. She doesn’t want to consider his motivations or true feelings, in case she’s encouraged to act on it, but she isn’t silly enough to not recognize his attraction to her.

Men don’t flirt with you and let you monopolize half their day for fun.

The sun is at its lowest point when they walk back into the apartments. Barry and Bruce are working and she narrows a short glare at both of them, not forgetting their chattery natures. They ride the elevator and Adrien doesn’t hesitate to walk her all the way back to her door.

She turns towards him, struggling to keep eye contact. “I—um, thank you. For offering to take me out. Not many guys admit to their mistakes,” she chuckles.

“The last thing I want is to lose your good opinion.” His gaze is soft and he quirks a brow. “You do have a good opinion, right?”

“You’re a roguish flirt, a selfish brat, and probably hoarding various lovers in your apartment. Is that good enough?” She intones.

Adrien gives a blank stare, stock still and owlishly blinking. It doesn’t take long before she cracks a smile, failing to hold her jest, and it transforms his expression to something fond and sweet, and her heart won’t be able to take it.

“I’ll talk to you later?” She closes off, turning towards the door to avoid his gaze and digs out her keys to unlock the door.

“Yeah, of course. I look forward to it,” he breathes behind her. She cracks open her door but she doesn’t enter. She peeks towards the elevators and watches Adrien stroll away. When he presses for the elevator, he looks back and catches her lingering, making her jump and dart her eyes around like she wasn’t the most open book on the planet. Adrien just beams and waves, so she gives a feeble wave back before scurrying inside.

Then for the second time in a week, after she walks around her home with lingering butterflies and doltish, trance-like smiles in their wake, she happens to look towards the balcony and the rest of her brain finally remembers to function.

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“Well, fuck.”

#balconyau #adrinette #marichat #ML #storytime #writing

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