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titan-fodder · 3 years

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Prima Vista Part IV

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Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao.

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings.

The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow.

The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway.

"Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!"

A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough.

"Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy."

"My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

"'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice.

Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you."

You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it.

"Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

"Didn't even notice," he reassures you.

Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen.

Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

"Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later.

"You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

"Uh, yeah. I could eat."

Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything.

"Sandwiches okay?"

Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth.

"Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich.

You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask.

He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days.

Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow.

After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer.

"It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free."

Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better.

You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie.

He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow.

"I can pick something else," he tells you quietly.

You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften.

"'S'fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be.

He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies.

"You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress.

Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep.

That's good. You could use a nap.

He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours.

But first.

As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf.

It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before.

The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses.

Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward.

They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother.

Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book.

Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole?

Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible.

It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on.

Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left.

The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album.

He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

"Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album."

Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"What's there to tell?"

Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth.

"It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books.

"Is it, though? Is it really?"

"I..."

Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language.

Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you.

It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

At least it makes sense now.

"I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it.

You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch.

Then, you flop back down on your pillows.

"So. Any questions, Zacharias?"

He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

"Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease.

"Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up.

"Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous.

"He left."

"Yeah."

And then he gets the full story.

Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

"Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom.

"He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick."

He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since.

"I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

"Were you ever close with him?"

You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him.

He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk.

"Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice.

Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him.

"I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies.

"Have you seen him since?"

You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction.

You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

"Anyway," he mimics.

"I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

"Is this why?"

"Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

"Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know.

Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months.

"So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

"For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

"Mm. I guess."

The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better.

Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster.

Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark.

When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest.

It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate.

You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth.

He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer.

He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth.

Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you.

After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other.

He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now.

If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back.

He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself:

I love you. I love you, I love you.

You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day.

You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear.

Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it.

And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening.

The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail.

Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence.

Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can.

Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

“Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

“Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip.

“Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you.

“I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way.

You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done.

Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it.

Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock.

He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying.

Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger.

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books.

It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice.

Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town.

It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway.

Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder.

The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!"

Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles.

"It's fine. You can calm down."

You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused.

The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him.

"You're Zeke Jaeger."

He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players.

You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face.

"Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself.

"Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

Your stomach flips at the mention of him.

"We're not dating."

Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

"No. Just friends."

He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain.

"Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try.

He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

"I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

"Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

"I'll walk with you," he states more than offers.

Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.

But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does.

Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip.

Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

“You listening, sweetheart?”

Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

“No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

“That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

“It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor.

Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

“Yeah, okay.”

He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said.

What a fucking joke.

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside.

“You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

“Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

“Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.”

He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day.

And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece.

If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

What is happening to you?

“So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car.

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys.

“I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

“Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

“I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes.

“Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

“Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

“You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

“I—”

“It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him.

But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that.

“What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

“Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

“Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.”

God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

“Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

“Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem.

“I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

“For some reason I don’t believe that.”

You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his.

He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth.

You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more.

And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

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#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #mels prima vista

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nastybuckybarnes · 4 years

Text

Monsters - Four

Pairing: Dark!Bucky X Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes is a man who just wants to do better. But he can’t stop the monster from coming out every now and then. As a last and hopeless attempt at calming The Winter Soldier, SHIELD finds him something they figured would help. An innocent young woman with not a lot going for her. Or, The Winter Soldiers newest victim.

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Language, Fluff, Sickness, Minor Injuries, Trigger warning kinda but not as bad as the last chapter

Word Count: 2.2K

A/n: here you go! I say fuck a posting schedule lol

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!!

~*~

You sleep for a long time.

Nearly three days.

Bucky grows increasingly worried with each day that goes by that you don’t open your eyes. It gets to the point where he’s tempted to call a doctor, but he has no idea how he would explain it to them.

You finally wake up, in the afternoon of the third day, and Bucky is so relieved he could cry.

“Hey,” he whispers, helping you sit up when he sees you start to struggle. You look around curiously, confused until your eyes land on the gauze wrapped around your arms.

You look up at him, bottom lip wobbling, and he shakes his head, shushing you.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.” During the days when you were unconscious, it was a struggle to keep the soldier at bay. He won the fight every night though, the guilt weighing heavier than the desire to fuck.

“Why didn't you let me die?” You whimper, sorrow in your eyes. He rests his forehead against your shoulder and sighs.

“You called me a monster, and I got mad because I didn’t want you to be right. And then I proved your point. I just... the monster is there, inside of me. I can usually keep him at bay but... I know it’s not an excuse, and I may never make it up to you, but I didn’t want to hurt you the way that I did. I... it’s like I wasn’t in control of my own hands.” You don’t reply, keeping your eyes on your arms.

“I’m gonna go make you some soup. You’ve been asleep for three days. You need to eat. And drink. Okay?” You nod glumly, still emotionally numb as your mind tries to block out everything that happened.

Bucky’s only gone for a few minutes before he returns with a steaming bowl of soup and a plastic cup full of water. He hands you the water first, and your hands shake as you grab it. You take a small sip the grimace as your stomach flips.

“I know you probably don’t want to, but you’ve gotta eat just a little bit. Okay?” You nod and let him spoon feed you the soup. It’s good. Chicken noodle, from what you can tell, but no matter how good it tastes or how warm it feels going down, your stomach doesn’t want it.

You gag, hand coming up to cover your mouth, and Bucky curses, putting the soup on the side table and grabbing you in his arms. He rushes into the bathroom but he’s not fast enough. What little you ate comes rushing back up, spewing out of your mouth and all over yourself and a little on him.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying not to get too grossed out.

Your head lolls back, eyes rolling as a dizzy spell overwhelms you. He sets you down carefully on the counter, peeling the sweater off of you and tossing it into the hamper in the corner. You take shallow breaths, body aching.

He turns the shower on then rids himself of his clothes before doing the same to you. The two of you are naked in no time, and then he’s bringing you into the shower, the water a little too cool for your liking, but you don’t have it in you to complain.

He holds you upright, hands supporting your weight as the water pelts down on the two of you. You feel like everything is spinning, so you lay your head against his chest and take deep breaths in through your mouth. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and rubs your back gently.

“You’re okay.” He grabs a loofa and squirts some body wash on it, then starts gently washing your body.

His actions are innocent enough until he gets between your legs. It’s like you can sense the switch when he goes from Bucky to Soldier.

His hands grip you just a little firmer, his breathing is a little harder, his eyes dark and slightly glazed over. He pushes you against the wall gingerly, and you’re surprised by how gentle he’s being.

He hikes your legs up, one knee held over each of his arms. You lie there, half-conscious as the water rains down on you.

He slides his cock through your folds a few times before impaling you, stretching you on his thick length. He grunts softly in your ear, muttering softly in Russian as he fucks you. His thrusts aren't rough and hard, they’re long and precise, each one making your cunt instinctively clench on him.

You keep your eyes closed, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep, but he keeps fucking you until he cums, spilling inside of you with a low groan. He stays sheathed inside of you, palms splayed on the tile by your hips, and you close your eyes tightly as another dizzy spell hits you.

He sighs and you know that Bucky is back. He pulls out of you and carefully lowers you to the ground before picking you up again and taking you out of the shower. He sits you on the counter once more, turns the shower off, then dries your body with a fluffy grey towel.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. You don’t reply. You don’t think you could speak if you wanted to. Your head won’t stop spinning.

He picks you up and brings you into his room again, laying you down on the bed and tucking you in. “I’m gonna go get you a garbage can, in case you need to go again,” he whispers, smoothing your hair around your face.

Your eyes are already closed and he sighs, hating the fact that he caused this. What’s worse, is that the soldier took over while he was trying to make it up to you. He took advantage of your vulnerable state.

He sets a new cup of water on the nightstand and a garbage can on the floor, hoping that you get better soon.

~*~

You do.

It’s nearly two weeks of consuming next to no food or water and throwing up multiple times a day, but you eventually start recovering, and for that, he couldn’t be more grateful.

You’re sitting in his bed, sipping on some tea, when he comes into the room.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, hand resting on your knee through the blanket. You shrug, not meeting his gaze.

“I’m sorry. I... I don’t think I’ll ever be able to apologize enough.” You shrug again.

“I can tell.” He’s confused and you sigh, “I can tell when it’s not you. When it’s... him.” He raises his eyebrows and you look down, chewing your bottom lip for a moment before you muster up enough courage to speak.

“When... when you touch me... it’s softer. You might say mean things, but your hands don’t squeeze too hard. And when it’s him touching me... he holds me really really tight.” He raises his eyebrows, having had no idea that that was a thing.

“So I know when it’s you and when it’s him. And I know that you haven’t touched me since...” you trail off and he nods, scratching the nape of his neck. “It wasn’t all me,” he whispers again, trying to explain himself. “It was me at first, but then... it’s like he was controlling me.” You nod, not looking up.

“I don’t remember all of it, but I know your voice sounded different. Angrier.” He cups your cheek gently, cursing himself when you flinch away.

“Since then I haven’t been nearly as bad,” he whispers. “I can tell. The soldier... when he comes now he’s more gentle. He’s not nearly as rough as before.” He nods, happy that this is at least working.

You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes, exhausted beyond belief.

“It’s gonna take some time for you to heal up fully, but you’re making great progress. In a few days, you’ll be eating solid’s again. And then you’ll be up and walking around again.” You nod, eager to be healthy again.

He looks from your eyes to your lips, then back down, licking his lips.

“When I picked you... I didn't think they’d really go through with it. I thought it would’ve been another plan that never got to see the light of day. But then you were here and... I... I was in shock. You’re even more beautiful in person. And you’re so strong and resilient.” You look up, eyes finding his pretty pink lips.

“I know I haven’t been good to you, but can I please kiss you?” You nod meekly, eyes fluttering closed as he presses his lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

It’s everything a kiss with him should be, and so much more. His hands rest on your neck, thumbs gently rubbing the corner of your jaw, right below your ears.

You pull away after a moment more and rest your forehead against his, a small smile gracing your lips.

“This is how things should be,” he whispers, stroking your hair gently. You nod, hands coming up to hold onto his wrists.

“Yeah.” The word is whispered so softly from your lips, that if he didn’t have enhanced hearing, he wouldn’t have heard it.

He presses another gentle kiss to your lips then pulls away. “You should rest,” he whispers, leaning back to look at you. You hesitantly meet his eyes, and when you don’t see the darkness and anger that was there before, you nod.

“Yeah, okay.” You lay down and relax, smiling to yourself as he gently traces over your cheek, his fingers soft and feather-light, a drastic change from his touches three weeks ago.

~*~

It’s a week later when you can walk again, a week after that when he feels comfortable enough to leave you alone, with access to very few things.

He’s on the jet home, mind on you as the rest of the team celebrates a mission gone well.

“You were great out there, James,” Natasha says with a smile, patting his shoulder. He grins at her, cheeks turning pink.

“I see your new remedy is working?” Steve asks, grinning from ear to ear. Bucky scratches his neck and nods. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Nat looks between the two super-soldiers, brows furrowed.

“What kind of remedy is that?” Bucky shakes his head at the redhead. “Just something Fury recommended. Didn’t think I could do it but here we are.” She nods, looking up into his eyes with a gentle smile.

“I’m glad it’s working. It’s good to see you back to normal. I missed the normal you.” He nods, sighing softly as his mind goes to you. “Yeah, I’ve missed it too.” She rests her hand on his shoulder then sighs, letting it slide off and rest in front of her.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” He furrows his brows in confusion. “What’s tonight?”

“Stark’s throwing a little celebration. It’s just gonna be us there. But he wants to celebrate such a clean streak of missions.” He mulls it over, then eventually decides that you’ll be fine if he stays out for another night. You’ve proven that you’re not going to harm yourself anymore, and you seem like you’re starting to genuinely enjoy the arrangement.

“It’d mean a lot to me if you came,” She says, being vulnerable for a moment with him. He raises his eyebrows then nods, knowing not to take her vulnerability lightly. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

The night consists of soft music, card games, and drinks, all courtesy of one Tony Stark. Bucky spends a fair portion of the night beside Natasha, the two of them laughing and talking together for hours as they each have drink after drink.

Eventually, when things start winding down and Bucky’s walking her to her room, he brings up a painful topic.

“That night… when I tried to… you know... “ She looks up at him, smiling gently as he tries to express his feelings. “I’m sorry. It… it wasn’t me. And I know that that’s no excuse, but I mean it. But I’m starting to control the monster more.” She cups his cheeks, leans up on her toes, and presses a kiss to his lips.

“I know you’d never willingly hurt me. And I don’t blame you for what the soldier does. I know that the two of you aren’t the same person.” He wraps his arms around her and kisses her deeper, tongue brushing against her plump pink lips. She pulls him backwards until they’re in her room, and closes the door, panting against his mouth as his hands wander over her form.

Her curves are inviting, and he can’t help but grab her ass. She moans into his mouth and the two of them tumble to the bed, Bucky ready to apologize physically for all the things the soldier did, the things that he’s been wanting to do since he first laid eyes on her.

#bucky x nat #Dark Series #dark!fic #dark #dark!bucky barnes #steve x reader dark fic #bucky x reader dark au #Steve rogers x reader Dark!fic #dark!marvel #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes x reader #tw suidice

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burnedbyshoto · 4 years

Text

that final phone call

— Miruko is one tough rabbit, but eventually even the toughest of people need a helping hand. —

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pairing: usagiyama rumi (miruko) x fem!reader

warnings: angst, cursing, blood

word count: 5,836

a/n: this is for the bnharem angst april collaboration!!! here for the best girl miruko. I would die for her and yuh, im so tired its 5:40 am and I just finished this LMAOOO and its scheduled for 9am posting. lets hope for the best, enjoy bbs. angst masterlist here.

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Riiing.

“Pick up…”

Riiing.

“Don’t ignore this…”

Riiingggg.

“P-Please pick up,” Rumi mumbled into the phone, her head spinning, her breathing weak and faint. “Pick up the phone, y/n…”

Riiing.

“Please…”

Riiing.

Rii—

“H-Hello?” your tired voice answered, and just like that, warmth flooded Rumi’s chest. She had to resist the urge from cringing; there was no reason to cringe, she berated herself, accept your feelings Rumi. “If this a prank call, I swear—”

“Y/n,” Rumi finally whispered, the energy that always existed within her fading quickly.

She didn’t need to be in the same room with you; she already knew what you were doing. How your back stiffened at the sound of her voice and how your stomach clenched, remembering what had happened two months ago.

“Why are you calling?” you said so emotionlessly that it was a sucker punch to Rumi’s stomach. A sharp reminder of what she did to you, of what had happened because she was weak.

A ragged breath escaped Rumi’s lips while she closed her eyes, her head laying against the cold concrete, listening to the lull of the line.

“I needed to hear your voice…”

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One and a half years ago.

Usagiyama Rumi, better known as the Number Five Pro Hero Miruko was — to put it lightly — a powerhouse.

Known for her almost brash entrances, sturdy legs, and quick temper, it made sense as to why she wasn’t known as the Bunny Hero. She wasn’t soft enough to be a bunny, nor was she meek or gentle. No, Rumi was a hurricane of energy. She was fast, vibrant, and deadly. She was unmatched in her field of expertise, and she had no problem demanding people know that about her. She dived into her work, no matter how big or how small she handled everything with her fullest capability.

She was obsessed with her job because she always had something to prove.

But even a workaholic such as herself needed a break — or at least time outside of her uniform.

It was nearing midnight, and Rumi was strolling the dark streets of Hiroshima, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets. At the same time, she observed the neighborhoods she protected. It was a Saturday night, meaning that street life was quite busy. After working for two months straight without a single day off, her office staff had forced a two-day vacation on her. Still, it didn’t stop her from scouting these blocks for any sign of criminal activity.

But she stilled when she heard loud arguing many alleys ahead, and with an excited smirk, Rumi took off.

It took her approximately thirty seconds to travel an entire block and into an alleyway where a large and burly man was arguing with a small woman. Rumi stilled, her eyebrow quirking in her confusion, what was going on?

“You have to let me in!” you insist again, your nose scrunching in your annoyance, your chest puffing out, and your eyes blazing. “I have reason to believe that there is a drug-pushing gang in this very club!”

Rumi shifted closer to you, and this now apparent bouncer who was looking less than impressed with you. A drug-pushing gang? She had been trying to find intel on that gang but had been coming up dry, she wanted to know more, to find out more. It seemed that it was her lucky day that she wasn’t relaxing at home because it seemed that you had information she could use. It was ballsy of you to show up at a hideout with such demands… she liked that. Rumi’s eyes looked over at you, and her smirk turned into a grin.

You wore a charcoal grey pantsuit, a white shirt underneath the opened blazer with the first two buttons undone. Her eyes noticed the scruffed up short heels you wore, and the way that your hair was in a chaotic bun. How amusing.

“Oh yeah, little miss nosey? And who the hell do you think you are exactly?” he sneered, taking an intimidating step forward.

The bouncer was easily twice your height, and Rumi watched you, expecting you to take a submissive step back, but was surprised to see you hold your ground.

“The investigative journalist for The Daily Hiro!” you inform back, your eyes daring him without a single bit of nervousness in their blaze.

The bouncer opened his mouth, obviously ready to kick your poor journalist ass when another voice from the alleyway spoke up.

“She is not an investigative journalist,” the voice clipped, evidently very annoyed with your words. “She’s an intern. She makes coffee runs and edits my works, ignore her.”

Rumi’s eyes shifted on an angry reporter she knew by name. Hirano Naoko. A ruthless reporter that she often found herself at odds with because he didn’t agree with her... enthusiastic approach to being a hero.

A pained yelp escaped your lips when he grabbed your bicep and pulled you to him.

To an average person, there would be no way to hear the conversation between the reporter and the intern. Still, Rumi was not an ordinary person, after all.

“I thought I told you to take witness’s statements,” he hissed pulling you away into the darkness. “Not stir up fucking trouble! Drop the fucking gang shit before you get wrapped up in things you don’t want to get caught in.”

“But you don’t understand Hirano-sama, I saw—”

“I could give two shits about what you saw! That doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want! This isn’t some fucking cop show, grow the fuck up. You’re an intern, not a reporter!”

Rumi figured she had enough.

“Hold on!” she yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls of the alleyway, and all three heads snapped her way. Her arms folded across her chest while she tilted her head. There was nothing like the way all three eyes widening when they recognized the famed Rabbit Hero standing before them with a feral grin and civilian clothes. “I want to see if this intern is right, open the door, bouncer.”

The bouncer was like a mountain to the Rabbit.

Tall, muscular, and frightening in this dim and yellow light.

“M-Miruko!” he stammered, his fingers searching for something, and Rumi lowered her stance. Was he trying to inform them that she was here? “What a pleasure seeing you here!”

Then she heard it, the familiar noise of shuffling plastic. He was trying to alert someone.

In an instant, she was before him, her heel slamming onto his chin and sending him flying, knocked out cold.

“This is why we wear heels,” she snickered, watching the mountain of a man crumble to his face. How weak, pathetic. Her attention turned to you, the intern who looked both ready to pass out from this scare and vibrating with excitement. “Intern, you promise those villains are in there?!”

Your eyes flutter, and Rumi takes you all in. Strands of hair fall over your eyes, your painted lips pulled into a large ‘o’ from your shock, but there was that confidence in your eyes that made her lick her lips in anticipation.

“On my life.”

Rumi snickered, now that was an answer she wanted to hear.

And as a one-woman show goes, she flung open the door and, in under twenty minutes, single-handedly brought down the most extensive drug unit within Hiroshima. She had defeated them all, leaving her with significant cuts on her cheeks and arms, a fat lip, a broken heel, and bruises on her toes. But damn did she feel alive.

Rumi watched with a broad grin when the twenty-three men were put into police cars, their injuries far worse than her own. How amazing was that! Months of worrying disappearing on a leisurely night stroll! She couldn’t have done it without… her mouth frowned.

She did it with help?

Her eyes flew over to you, an intern, talking to the cops with a whole file that seemed to come from nowhere with incriminating evidence against this group. Rumi shoved off the medics that were applying more useless bandages on her and walked over to you.

“Oi, intern!” she called, and both you and the police officer turned around. Thankfully, the police officer was either done interviewing you or smart enough to leave once Rumi approached with her trademark grin. “You did good work out there.”

“Miruko-san, oh, um, thank you!” you smiled in return, bowing in greeting when she stopped in front of you. “Congratulations on closing that case!”

“How did you crack them? I’ve been working on finding them slip up for months now, but you figured it out?” Rumi asked, her arms folding and head tilting. “What did you see that I missed?”

Rumi could hear your heart stop and watched the way your eyes widened significantly. “O-Oh, well, I don’t know… I guess I have a knack of being at the right place at the right time?” you laughed, rubbing the back of your head. “To be honest, it was probably more important to me than it was to you… so I able to crack it before you?”

“What makes you say that?” Rumi asks, unsure if she should be offended or not. “Are you trying to say that I’m not working hard enough?!”

“Oh my god, no!” you panic, your hands out in a motion of retreat, your head shaking quickly. Rumi wanted to open her mouth and grill you for answers, but there was something about you that made her hesitate, that made her still. You shrug your shoulders, your hands clasping together. “My future career was riding on this case. The company thinks I’m a nutjob, so if I could prove my ‘conspiracy theories’ were right, I could finally be appointed a job as a journalist!”

Rumi hummed, taking a step closer to you, enjoying the way that your heart sped up when she did so, her head tilting in her amusement, “Well, you did what you had to do, congrats.”

“T-Thank you!” you brighten at the praise, and Rumi does everything she can to not throw an arm around you.

“Usagiyama Rumi,” she introduced herself to you, her hand extended.

You stared at her hand as if she was some goddess instead of a person. But that fire that had interested her well before that erupted back in your eyes. You extended your hand, grasping hers firmly.

“Y/l/n y/n,” you grin, and it’s at this very moment that Rumi solidifies that she indeed likes you.

You were a quiet fire, unlike her own raging one, but she was no idiot. You were something that would burn the entire world down because no one would see you coming, and she liked it.

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Six months later.

“RUMI!” your voice shrieks from the kitchen. “HAVE YOU SEEN MY LAPTOP?!”

Rumi was soaking in a bath right now, her eyes closed while absorbing the warm water. Two weeks of straight and intense battles had left her body a bit beat up, but hey, she was currently in her girlfriend’s apartment presently being taught how to relax.

Yes, shocking, her girlfriend’s apartment.

It took a solid week for Rumi to realize that she had feelings for her, something that took a while for her to sort out because she thought she was mentally ill for a second. Nevertheless, her good friend Hawks laughed in her face about how she was not dying but instead just having romantic feelings for you. After that, it took two seconds for her to confess and three minutes for you to say yes.

It was very new for both of you, but Rumi was very pleased with where everything was going at the moment. Dating certainly wasn’t something on her radar for years now, but for some reason, that fire that burned through your soul was enough to pique her interest.

“Check under the bed!” she called back, listening to your feet shuffling against the wooden floor to get to the bedroom.

“Aha, I found it!”

Rumi cracked open a single eye to watch you waddle into the bathroom with the laptop in your hands and a wide grin on your face.

“So, I’m a junior journalist now, nothing too big or fancy, but… I think I have something outstanding in the making!” you excitedly inform her, throwing open the laptop while sinking to the floor next to the tub.

“I thought you said bath time was a no-work zone,” Rumi teases her lips perking and her red eyes drilling into your own.

An embarrassed look flashed across your face, but as you always did, you stood your ground and challenged her.

“I can give my information to a hero who wants it then!” you huff, moving to close the electronic device. “Like you care about my rule, anyways!”

“What a brat!” Rumi barks with laughter, her shoulders rolling in the warm and murky water. Her eyes watched the way her long white hair gently flowed in the water, something you had pointed out looked like moonbeams one night. It had been stupidly stupid, and she would forever remember the way you curled in a ball at your embarrassment. “Tell me!”

Snickering, you nodded, your fingers moving quickly against your keyboard while you searched for the document.

“I have information on the soon to be most dangerous crime group out there,” you inform her, your voice taking on a serious note when you look up at her. “Name it, they’ve done it, and worse yet, they’re a cultish family.”

Rumi felt a chill run down her spine at that information. That wasn’t a title you gave out quickly, nor with such confidence. Together the two of you had taken down four villain groups, and some of them had been nasty fuckers.

“What’s their name?”

“They go by the name Shinseina,” you inform her, your knees pulling up to your chest, the laptop balanced on your knees to show Rumi your document. “I got one tip about two months ago, and that’s all I’ve managed to find on them.”

Rumi stared at the document.

‘Organization Name: Shinseina

Symbol: A Black Sun

Number of Members: ???

Warnings: ???

Leaders: ???

Location of Base: HQ thought to be in Hiroshima, the possibility of there being more is very high

Crimes: Quirk canceling drugs, quirk enhancing drugs, murder, gang affiliation, rape, robbery, theft, illegal quirk usage, money laundering, and 12 more.

Number of Heroes Killed: 16+.’

Two months of hard work, and that was all you had managed.

Rumi didn’t even need to use her quirk to hear your hammering heart, this was obviously upsetting you.

Sighing, she pulled her wrinkled hand out of the tub to motion for you to place the laptop away, her eyes holding yours when you do as commanded. “Come here, loser.”

“That’s rude,” you grumble, but still, you slide to the edge of the tub and watch Rumi.

Rumi sits up in the tub, her lips pressing against yours in a sweet embrace.

Your eyes flutter close at the feeling of her soft and smooth lips against yours. The slight coldness of her skin from just sitting in this water, sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine. Rumi chuckled, and the next thing you knew, she was dragging you in.

Rumi relished in the way your pitched screams echoed off the walls, your denial of being brought into the water was useless. Eventually, she pulled your fully clothed body into the lukewarm water with her, and your cries of disapproval faded into beautiful laughter.

Your cheeks burned while Rumi’s fur stood up in triumphant victory.

“I told ya, squirt, I don’t lose.”

You slammed your head against her collarbone, moaning loudly in your defeat, “I hate you!!!”

“Sure, you do!”

Rumi could only dodge out of your way when you went in for a weak attack. It was okay though, she thought, teasing you again for your weak punch. She would always protect you.

Her eyes rapidly blinked when those thoughts fully sank into her mind.

Excuse me?

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Six months later.

“An obstacle course?” you repeated, your eyes looking at the bouncy house that was apparently a place for a date. While you pursed your lips, Rumi looked back at her friends who seemed excited. “I’m sorry, but in what world do you expect me — a journalist — to be able to keep up with you Heroes?

Rumi once again turned back to look at Hawks and his intern, who both seem ready to compete. So she turned back around to face you and nodded in egotistical confidence. Your mouth dropped when she finished nodding.

“The only time I exercise is when I chase after people who run away from me!” You cry, obviously not at all prepared to compete against people who practically worked out for living!

“Don’t worry, they won’t use their quirks, and this is a team obstacle course!” Rumi laughs, her arms flexing to show you that there was nothing to worry about. She would make sure you both won even if that meant she would have to carry you to the finish line. “I won’t let you get hurt,”

She knew you wouldn’t like the idea of it; after all, you hated losing. But you were not one to back away from a challenge, and Rumi loved that about you.

“Fine,” you huff, turning towards the obstacle course.

With a loud hoot, Rumi bounced after you, an arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders.

“This’ll be fun.”

The objective of the course was to get across some pretty insane things together. There was a maze, obstacles to climb over, crawl over, powerfully slam through, all leading up to a freakishly tall wall to go down a slide, which was the finish line. Rumi was brimming with excitement, if she had to launch you across the course, she would. No way in hell was she going to let Hawks of all people beat her.

Shoes came off, and Rumi bounced on her toes at the entrance. She was shoulder to shoulder with both you and Hawks, and her eyes were on the finish line. She was going to win with you, that was the truth.

The employee working the festival stand sighed, staring at the four of you and getting an okay from his coworker.

“You both need to be at the final obstacle at the very end, but only one person needs to cross the finish line to be the winner,” he explained, and his hand raised for a countdown. “Ready?”

Rumi turned toward you, her hand reaching out and grabbing yours and placing a reassuring kiss on the back of your hand.

“Set.”

“Stop being so gay, Rumi, how embarrassing,” Hawks teased to her right.

“Suck my lesbian ass, pigeon.”

“Go.”

Rumi took off instantly, tugging you along with her, and before she knew it, the two of you were on the course. It was actually going better than she was expecting, you weren’t as incapable as you thought. You were able to keep up with a bit of struggle, but Hawks had smacked into a wall earlier, so she wasn’t concerned.

Obstacle after obstacle, the two of you conquered until you reached the wall.

Rumi looked back and noticed that Hawks and his intern were still stuck on the second to last course. That maze had been pretty bullshit.

“I’ll climb first!” Rumi explained, and you agreed with a pant.

Rumi turned back to the wall and began climbing the poorly reinforced steps that were there. It was obviously constructed to be able to withstand a child’s footing and not anyone over the age of seven. So as it was already stupidly tall, it was a struggle to climb.

Rumi was almost to the top when she looked down at you. You were a few steps down, your face twisted in your attempt to concentrate, your arms wobbling under the strain of trying to support yourself. Her attention snapped over to Hawks, who seemed to be scaling the wall, and her eyes widened.

She needed to win.

She scampered up a few more steps before a cry came out.

“R-Rumi!”

Her focus slammed back to you and the way that your fingers slipped from the grasp, and in slow motion, you tumbled. It was without a doubt that this fall wouldn’t have hurt you, not a chance in hell would you have been injured, but Rumi’s instincts took over, and before she knew it, her arms were wrapped around you.

The trampoline bottom crashed onto her back, and you slammed onto her stomach.

Rumi had caught you.

She groaned at the discomfort caused by this action but lay still her hands stroking your cheek. Your eyes were wide, staring up at your girlfriend in complete shock.

“Are you okay?” Rumi asks in a rare moment of softness. “You weren’t hurt, right?”

“Why did you jump after me?!” you yell that amusement she loved so much burning brightly in your gaze. “I wouldn’t have been hurt, you dork!”

“I promised I wouldn’t let you get hurt,” Rumi insists, rubbing her nose against yours.

Once again, she can hear your hammering heart, and it relaxes her.

“But you let Hawks win!”

Rumi blinks at the realization, and suddenly the wheels in her head are turning rapidly.

“Would you ladies mind moving? The champions are ready to visit other stands unless you don’t wanna hang with us anymore!” Hawks calls out to both Rumi and you.

Rumi watches silently when you push off her, pressing a grateful kiss to her lips before responding back to the Pro Hero.

“Oh, Hawks! Has Rumi told you about the new detail about the Shinseina case I’m working on?” you called off, skipping to catch up with her friend that she had allowed to win.

Rumi gave up a victory for you… she threw it away to save you from nothing… she thought that there were things about you that she loved. It didn’t sit well in her chest, and she watched with a twitching nose when you exited the course with that captivating bright smile.

She couldn’t be in love… no, there was no way!

Love made you weak! Love made you insignificant! Love was a demonstration that you weren’t strong enough on your own, and to Rumi — no, to Miruko — that wasn’t okay.

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Four months later.

Rumi at the edge of your bed, her head down, ears wilted, nose twitching, and face clouded.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Bunny?” your tired voice called out in the silence of the night.

The noise surprised Rumi. It had so quiet until then, and it had completely caught her off guard. Her! The Pro Hero with some of the best ears around! Who could hear the quietest things meters away!

“Are you okay?”

Rumi wasn’t okay.

“I pulled a kick today,” she whispered to you, her hands shifting into fists on her lap. She shook with rage, her body trembling like a leaf.

“Is that a… a bad thing?” you yawn, shifting on the bed and finding her body, relaxing at the heat she gives off.

“Yes.” Rumi snaps, her body stiffening against your touch. “Yes, it’s obviously a bad thing.”

“Why?”

Why?

Rumi’s eyes concentrate on her bruised thighs, her frown increasing. How could she tell you the truth? How could she say that you were her weakness?

For years she had been a headstrong hero, someone who didn’t think but reacted. She lived her life to the fullest every day, and she gave it her all every chance she got. It applied to her social life and her work life, especially her work life. She wasn’t one to laze about; she would die on the job if she had to, and her opponents always knew that, but lately, things had changed.

She found herself praying to some god about making sure she lived through these battles so she could go home to you. She prayed that someone else would find the Shinseina and bring them down so she wouldn’t be taken down. Being weak wasn’t a problem; after all, she was motherfucking Miruko, so she was used to building on her weaknesses, but this was different. No matter what she did, she couldn’t love you any less. Fuck, did she love you.

She loved the way your eyes narrowed whenever you interviewed people. She loved how you were quickly gaining traction in the media for being the best investigative journalist ever. She was so in love with you, and that’s where the problem was. Her love for you was so pure, so genuine, she wanted to give you the fairy tale ending. She tried to think before she acted, and villains were starting to notice.

Villains were threatening to hurt you, and Rumi was trapped.

“We need to break up.”

You weren’t expecting that, not in the slightest.

“W-What?”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” Rumi lies, and she feels you move away from her body, and it takes everything in her to not cry.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice steely smooth.

“You were access to the information I wanted. My office team is ass, and you were always getting your hands dirty with cases I needed to solve. But it seems that you’re nowhere near close to figuring out the last group I care about,” Rumi wills herself to say, her ears moving back up to show that she wasn’t lying. “I pretended for a year to be in love with you, but I can’t anymore.”

“Y-You’re not a great liar,” you state, challenging her false words.

Rumi loved it when you challenged her, but there was no time for that. So with a tight chest and flaring red eyes, she snapped around towards you, lips pulled into a snarl.

“Do you think I’m lying, y/l/n? I stuck around because you made me stronger, but now? You’re no better than the dirt on my shoes. Pathetic, useless, and a disgrace. I don’t need you anymore, so I’m cutting this off because I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Standing up, Rumi storms over to the door, ready to leave.

She wishes she could say that it ended there, but it didn’t. Not even close to being done.

You spat acid at her, and she returned it at the same toxicity. Over and over again, the two of you verbally battled. False emotions taking the better of you both until you were in her face, tears streaming down your face, fingers shaking in her face.

“You are a fucking coward, Usagiyama,” you sneer, the effect only dramatized by your red eyes and deep eye bags. “Get over your stupid fucking commitment issues, being apart of a team i-is not weak! I’m here to make you stronger, not for you to want to be a one-man squad again! You’ll die alone that way!”

“I know being apart of a team isn’t weak,” Rumi states, her heart long frozen over. “I just don’t want to be apart of yours anymore.”

A humorless laugh escapes your mouth, and you shake your head, “Don’t show your face here again, if I see you, I’ll call the cops.”

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“— and Miruko, you’ll enter first. You’ll be alone for about five minutes if that’s okay.”

Rumi looked up, her mind freed from her daydream about what was happening.

It was two months since she had broken up with you, and things had only taken a turn for the worse. She threw herself into work. Overusing her quirk in ways that over-injured villains who were petty thieves, or underusing it in ways that she kept landing herself in the hospital. To put it simply, the rabbit hero was a mess.

“Yeah, got it,” she nodded.

Things with the Shinseina ended up being brought to the light finally by you. You had noticed a slight clue in your office that had been undetected and ended up having you thrown into the Witness Protection Program due to the severity of the secret. But still, you provided an updated and completed information:

‘Organization Name: Shinseina

Symbol: A Black Sun

Number of Members: 237 thugs and lower cult members, 57 leaders and mid cult members, 12 senior members of the cult, 1 leader.

Warnings: All have dangerous quirks that can be used for assassination.

Leaders: Hirano Naoko

Location of Base: HQ - Hiroshima. Other sites detailed in the secondary report.

Crimes: Quirk canceling drugs, quirk enhancing drugs, murder, gang affiliation, rape, robbery, theft, illegal quirk usage, money laundering, and 12 more.

Number of Heroes Killed: 84’

“Hey, you get one call on this, we don’t want them finding anything on us in case we fail,” the leader spoke to her. Miruko breathed in deeply, accepting the cellphone that was given to her.

“Got it, thank you,” she muttered, and with that, they headed out.

Five minutes, that’s all it was.

Five minutes for Miruko, the Rabbit Hero, was nothing. Especially when she was zipping through room to room, taking out cult member after cult member. Everything was a blur, and she could only see her streaming hair following her like moonbeams in her wake.

Moonbeams…

Rumi thought of you, your face when you were happy when you were sad, and that night you broke up. Her lip trembled when her foot connected with someone’s chin sending them flying. Panting harshly, she stood in a room full of unconscious cult members. She had three minutes before backup would storm through the door, but which door to—

“SHIT!”

She just felt the impact. An intense tingle, similar to a severe electric shock coursing through her body. Rumi realized then that thousands upon thousands of circuits have just been broken, and it was burning her up. The heat was nothing she could have ever imagined, festering strongly in her bleeding wound. But there was still no pain when her foot connected with the man’s throat, instantly knocking him out.

He had snuck up on her, his quirk concealing him even from her rabbit ears.

Rumi whimpered when she fell to the ground, blood pouring from her wound despite her best efforts. He had managed to land seven blows on her, and the world was darkening quickly.

Three more minutes until they came, but she could call them now…

When Rumi collapsed on the floor, her vision swam when she pulled out the phone, a warm and sticky puddle forming underneath her, staining everything that was white about her. Rumi’s fingers punching in the number she wanted to call.

Riiing.

“Pick up…”

Riiing.

“Don’t ignore this…”

Riiingggg.

“P-Please pick up,” Rumi mumbled into the phone, her head spinning, her breathing weak and faint. “Pick up the phone, y/n…”

Riiing.

“Please…”

Riiing.

Rii—

“Y/n,” Rumi finally whispered, the energy that always existed within her fading quickly.

“Why are you calling?” you said so emotionlessly that it was a sucker punch to Rumi’s stomach. A sharp reminder of what she did to you, of what had happened because she was weak.

A ragged breath escaped Rumi’s lips while she closed her eyes, her head laying against the cold concrete, listening to the lull of the line.

“I needed to hear your voice…”

“Do you even know what time it is?” you almost growl, and that fighting spirit sends a warm feeling in Rumi’s chest. “What in the fuck do you need?”

“It’s two a.m., I know that, but I need you right now,” Rumi staggers into the mic, your spirit bleeding through the call.

The line goes silent for a bit, and Rumi’s eyes feel heavier with every passing second. She wants to tell you she loves you, please give her the chance to say it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go back to you anymore,” you curtly respond. “You made sure of that.”

How ironic, Rumi thought, because now she would never go back to you anymore… never…

“I know,” she hoarsely responds back, her mouth trembling and tears slowly pouring from her eyes. It hurt so much, how horrible it was to go out because of stab wounds. Of all ways to go out, she never expected it to be like this, nor did she expect it to be done with regret in her actions. Because fuck, she regretted how she ended it with you. She regretted letting you go. She thought of your face and how you looked the first time she admitted she loved you, of how dorky you were for your first anniversary. How your eyes glowed whenever you corned the people you were investigating with something that seemed straight from a story. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, y/n…”

“Are… are you okay, Usagiyama?”

“I love you…” she whispered before the phone fell from her fingers, crashing onto the bloodied floor.

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

You stared at the phone, confused.

Frowning you placed it down, the call had ended, but why was she calling you?

How this stupid bunny pissed you off sometimes. Turning your phone back on, you went to recent calls and recalled the number she had reached you on.

Riiing.

“Sorry, but the number you’ve tried to call is no longer available, please try again. Thank you!”

Beep.

You frowned a pit forming in your stomach, but you put your phone away, and for some reason, you couldn’t fall back asleep that night.

It was eight in the morning when your phone blew up, and with a heavy hand, you grabbed your phone and looked at the billowing messages. And at the headliner, your stomach dropped to your toes, and bile climbed to your mouth.

‘RABBIT HERO: MIRUKO KILLED IN ACTION DURING Shinseina RAID!: It’s being reported that she was stabbed several times while alone, and while she was given a phone for backup, she used it on a call they cant trace.’

You couldn’t read it anymore, your heart hammering erratically while a blood-curdling scream escaped your mouth.

She was gone, she had called you last night to say goodbye, and you didn’t give her the time of day. She was gone, and you would never get the chance to convince her that having a life partner wasn’t weak.

Usagiyama Rumi was gone, and no amount of hoping, praying, or crying was going to bring her back to you or to redo that final phone call.

#miruko x reader #mirko x reader #usagiyama rumi x reader #bnha #bnha x reader

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magniloquent-raven · 3 years

Text

See What This is Worth

Harringrove Week of Love: Day 4

Teacher AU || School Dance

Rated: T

Read on Ao3

Billy is not, by nature, the kind of person who likes to be overly helpful. He doesn’t go out of his way for people he doesn’t know. He’s not especially charitable.

And yet here he is, taking time out of his Friday night, setting up tables and supervising idiots with no upper body strength who think they can move a whole stack of chairs on their own. He has better things to do than hang out at work and chaperone a bunch of middle-schoolers trying to score their first kiss to some truly grating top 40 shit.

He didn’t even like school dances when he was a student. As a middle-schooler he was too fucking terrified that some girl might ask him to dance, so he just never went. And in high school...well. He ended up more the type to get high in the parking lot and ditch with whatever chick was too drunk to notice he didn’t put out.

There was never a boy he liked well enough to do this shit with. Get dressed up and pretend not to want to dance and get flustered when he so much as touches a hand. No one in school was worth suffering through this shit for.

Until now, unfortunately.

He’s a grown-ass man and somehow feels like a dumb, lovestruck teen and it’s all Steve Harrington’s fault.

Him and his fucking face, and his ass, and his looking unfairly good in a suit.

He looks good in his stupid dorky khakis and paint-splattered apron too, but holy shit Billy never really got the phrase cleans up nice until he saw Steve in formal wear. His hair all combed neatly for once, wearing a blazer and slacks that have clearly been tailored.

Billy is seriously considering sending a thank you note to whatever tailor Steve visits, because they are very good at their job.

Good enough that Billy’s spending half his goddamn time staring at Steve’s ass instead of setting up. He’s bossing some volunteers around, gesturing animatedly about crepe paper and streamers and it’s so distractingly endearing that Billy kind of forgets he’s supposed to be doing anything other than watch Steve work.

And he gets caught. Steve turns, spots Billy staring. Scowls. Which is kind of his default expression when looking at Billy.

As much as Billy secretly wants to have Steve look at him like he can actually stand spending more than five minutes in the same room, the irritated frown kind of suits Steve. It’s cute. And when he gets pissed it’s hot. His eyes get all intense, mouth set in a firm line and Billy may or may not have had a fantasy or two about Steve making that exact face right before absolutely destroying his ass, so...Steve might not like him, but Billy’s dealing.

By being annoying, but still.

He wiggles his fingers in a sarcastic little wave, leaning a little more pointedly. He’s been lounging against the wall for way too long, his shoulder is going numb, but he’s not about to scramble to look like he’s doing something just because Steve spotted him.

Steve’s shoulders heave as he sighs, eyes rolling skyward. He hands his clipboard to the nearest volunteer, whispering something before turning on his heel and marching over.

Billy’s inspecting his nails when Steve reaches him. Stops a few paces away and folds his arms.

“Something I can do for you, Harrington?” He knows the bored tone gets to Steve, so he plays it up.

“Yeah. You were supposed to be helping Nancy put chairs out. You know, the thing you signed up for?” There’s still an edge to that statement, has been since Billy walked into the first committee meeting with a big, shit-eating grin and Steve glared at him looking like he was about to pop a blood vessel. He always says it all accusatory, like he’s not sure Billy even did sign up, and he’s just hanging around to be a nuisance.

Which, he is, but he’s doing it officially.

Has his little chaperone badge and everything. It’s pinned to his jacket, which he isn’t actually wearing, but he has it.

“Got tired,” Billy says with a dramatic weariness, head lolling to the side, rolling back against the wall. He looks up at Steve through his eyelashes. “I’m allowed to take a break aren’t I?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hargrove, you’re telling me moving flimsy plastic chairs tired you out? You’re built like a brick wall.” He puts his hands on his hips and gets the same look he gets when his students start throwing clay around.

“Are you objectifying me?” Billy puts a hand on his chest with mock-offence, the corners of his mouth turning upward with genuine delight. His grin brightens when Steve’s cheeks flush, gaze darting away, the annoyance flagging a little, replaced with something else for just a moment.

“I’m stating a fact. In a completely...imparted way.”

“Think you mean ‘impartial’.”

The flush darkens, a splotchy red instead of the petal pink he was a moment ago, and his mouth twists. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’ve been standing here for like ten minutes, man, get back to work.”

He stalks off in a huff, leaving Billy wondering how the hell Steve knew how long he’d been slacking off for.

Then again, he is in charge, so. He’s probably keeping tabs on everyone. At least that’s what Billy has to tell himself so the butterflies in his stomach don’t get any ideas.

He wanders off, back to where he was supposed to be, but Wheeler doesn’t actually need his help. She got most of the chairs in place while he was checking out her ex. He gets an impatient brush-off when he half-heartedly asks her if there’s any more work to do.

She never did like him much.

Not that he’s bothered, he doesn’t care for her either. She’s too snooty. Up her own ass. Self-righteous. ...and Steve’s ex.

Rumour has it Steve’s finally over her, but Billy will believe it when he sees it, the man hasn’t been on a date since Wheeler tore his heart to shreds three years ago.

Heather gossips, okay. She’s nosy, and her family knows Wheeler’s family, who know Steve, and word gets around. These upper class assholes never have anything better to do than talk behind each other’s backs. Especially when the only son of a wealthy family is, at 28, single and teaching snot-nosed brats how to fingerpaint.

And Billy has a vested interest, sue him. He asks some pointed questions here and there.

God, he’s never gotten this fucking desperate over a guy before. Pining away. Putting up with Nancy Wheeler bossing him around at meetings because he doesn’t want to piss her off too much just in case that’s the final straw for Steve. The thing that tips their rapport from not-friendly to outright hostile.

Because for some reason the guy still gives a shit about the ex who cheated on him. Fucking martyr.

Billy’s not sure if he’s jealous that she gets forgiven and he gets angry glares for no goddamn reason, or if he’s just flabbergasted that anyone would be that self-sacrificing. Both, maybe. It’s a little impressive, honestly. How far out of his way Steve will go to forgive people.

Except Billy.

Who still doesn’t know what he did wrong in the first place.

Not that it bothers him. No, not at all. He’s just constantly thinking about it, and trying to hold on to every detail of the early days of their interactions so he can analyze those moments for clues, and sometimes lying awake at night wondering if he’s just fundamentally unlovable and he’s never gonna figure out what he did wrong because he just is wrong.

He’s fine. It’s fine.

Thank god Steve is occupied for the rest of set-up. Always finding someone who isn’t Billy to boss around when he isn’t physically doing something himself. Gives Billy some room to breathe. And watch, like a weirdo.

He gets a couple weird looks from other volunteers but that’s nothing new. Wheeler glaring at him. Heather smirking. That one parent chaperone who’s here early and was making eyes at him at first, but it’s devolved into side-eye.

He thought maybe the dance actually starting would be a distraction, but it’s just loud. He’s still constantly stealing glances at Steve. While he’s making small talk. While he’s repinning some streamers that got knocked loose. He looks gorgeous, even under the harsh fluorescent lighting of a school gym, and Billy really wishes he had a flask on him right now.

Yelling at some rowdy kids doesn’t help either. Just earns him a dirty look from that one overprotective chaperone mom. No one asked you, lady, the kid was bouncing around like an over-caffeinated gerbil, someone was gonna get hurt. It’s Billy’s job to break that shit up.

He needs a smoke. This is unbearable.

Slipping out of the gym unnoticed is easier than he thought it would be. No one seems to give a shit that he’s sidling out, which is a little insulting, honestly. But useful.

The hallways are quiet. Empty. It’s always a little creepy being here at night. The squeak of his boots on the linoleum, the artificial white light keeping the nighttime gloom out, it always feels a little dream-like. Nightmarish maybe. Liminal.

He props the door open on his way out, with a chair he lifted from a nearby classroom. The last thing he needs is to get locked out. Embarrassing. He’d probably just leave, but then he’d get chewed out for ditching.

He sighs, turning his face skyward for a moment to breathe before he lights up.

The cool air is a relief after being cooped up with so many rambunctious pre-teens. Billy’s still not a fan of Indiana weather, and he probably never will be, but anything is better than being in there another goddamn second.

This was a terrible idea. It was barely an idea. An impulse decision that got his ass stuck babysitting on a Friday night just so he could spend more time staring at Steve.

Pathetic.

Maybe he should just ditch right now.

He’s weighing the pros and cons when a familiar voice cuts into his contemplation.

“Hargrove, where the hell did you—” Steve’s face appears when he pokes his head out the cracked-open door. His pinchy annoyed face. He wrinkles his nose when he spots Billy, and the cigarette in his hand. “Seriously?”

Billy shrugs. Puts the cigarette between his lips and takes a pointed drag, cheeks hollowing.

Steve, who was trying to sidle out past the chair, trips. The chair clatters to the ground, Steve stumbling in the opposite direction, arms out and flailing.

The door slams shut behind him.

Billy gapes, incredulous gaze flicking between Steve, frozen in place, and the closed door. “Seriously?”

“...Shit. I—” Steve grimaces. Runs a hand through his hair, tousling his neatly combed locks. “You have your key, right?”

The glare Billy levels at him is positively icy. “Yeah, no, of course I do, the chair was there for fun. I wasn’t worried about being locked out at all.”

“Okay, okay, Jesus. You don’t have to be such a dick about it.”

“Don’t I?” It comes out far more bitterly than intended. Steve stares at him.

“No? What kind of—” he huffs, loud, frustrated, “What the fuck is your deal, Hargrove?”

Well. That’s a layered question. One he isn’t going to answer even a little bit. He scoffs instead, turning away and taking another angry pull off his cigarette. It warms him but does nothing for the pit in his stomach.

They stand there in silence for a beat. The muffled noise from inside is muted, distant.

“Fine, whatever,” Steve mutters. “I just don’t get why you hate me so much.”

And he sounds hurt. He sounds sad, and it throws Billy for a loop. Knocks him down a little. But then his chest gets tight, his heart flip-flopping around in the clutches of something caustic and resentful.

He flicks ash in Steve’s direction with an emphatic gesture, a petty vindictiveness. “You’re kidding, right?” he snaps. Steve’s jaw drops, just for a second, surprise passing over his face, before his expression hardens, his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching.

“Alright, fine, I get it, what’s not to hate.” He clutches his elbows, not quite folding his arms. It looks more like he’s hugging himself. “Good talk.”

Billy squints at him. The tense line of his shoulders, the way he can’t quite meet Billy’s eye. He’s struck with the absurd urge to pull Steve into his arms. The impulse just pisses him off more. “You know what, princess, you get what you give, alright? You can’t treat someone like shit from the jump and then get mad when they don’t want to be your best fucking friend. Fuck you.”

“What? I never—”

“Oh, you never? You never asked Heather why she ‘puts up with such an asshole’?” He tosses his hands in the air, air quoting around the phrase, and takes a step towards Steve. “The day after we met? And you never talked over me at my first staff meeting, right? You would never.” Another step. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t do it on purpose, but he ends up standing inches from Steve. The cold air mists their breath, and it mingles in one seething cloud between them. “You’ve been treating me like the dirt under your shoe since I got here, Harrington, don’t you dare act like you haven’t.”

Steve sets his jaw, a stubborn tilt to his chin. “You were an asshole. I still don’t get why she puts up with you!”

Billy grinds his teeth. He’s asked Heather that himself. With varying degrees of seriousness. It stings hearing it from someone else.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be people pleasers,” he spits, hands clenching into fists at his side. To channel his anger, more than anything else. He isn’t seventeen anymore, he can’t just start throwing punches at a co-worker.

His nails bite into the skin of his palm, sweat stinging the shallow scrapes, and his hands tremble, itch.

“I’m not—you know what, I’m not doing this with you.” He steps back. Just like that. Like it’s that easy to walk away. Like none of this matters to him, and he’s just...venting frustrations that have nothing to do with Billy. Because Billy doesn’t matter to him. This is about getting locked out of his own stupid party. Or Wheeler saying something bitchy maybe. Or any number of things going on in his life that Billy doesn’t know about because he’s not a part of it.

And the tumbling, tangling web of twisting thoughts wrap around each other ‘til none of them make sense, ‘til he doesn’t know what he’s upset about he’s just gutted, just standing there in the cold staring at Steve, his eyes stinging and his toes going numb because he didn’t wear his good socks today.

He shouldn’t give a shit about this either, but he does.

Story of his fucking life, apparently.

Steve’s gaze wanders, looking for what, Billy doesn’t know, but his profile lit up by a dirty streetlamp has got to be the most beautiful fucking thing Billy’s ever seen. He wants to kiss Steve so badly it hurts.

And he hates that he still does, even when he’s angry. Even bitter and hurting he still wants.

He flicks his cigarette butt away and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“The fuck are you looking for, Harrington,” he asks flatly, as Steve cranes his neck peering around the building.

Steve shoots him a glare. “Trying to remember if any of the doors got left unlocked.” He shivers violently, and sticks his hands in his armpits. “It’s freezing out here, in case you didn’t notice, and I’m not really into the idea of frostbite, so.”

“What, Mr.Born-and-raised-in-Indiana can’t handle a little snow?” Billy sneers. It’s petty, he knows. It’s not fair. Because Steve is out here in a dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, dressed to be in a sweaty, crowded gymnasium. Billy at least grabbed his jacket before he came out here, knowing he was going to be a while, and he’s still clenching his jaw against the urge to let his teeth chatter.

The look that earns him is withering, though it’s undercut slightly by the awkward way Steve shuffles his arms around, trying to unroll his sleeves without exposing his fingers to the cold.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Forget it, pretty boy, Wheeler made her boytoy check all the doors before the dance started. Either wait ‘til someone notices you’re gone or break a window.”

“Great,” Steve mutters, and shudders again.

“Why do you still talk to her, anyways?” He tries for casual and misses by a mile. Steve’s eyebrows shoot upwards and Billy tries again. “Just making conversation. We could be out here a while.”

“And that was what you—whatever. She and I are friends. Why wouldn’t I talk to her.”

“C’mon,” Billy scoffs, “Plenty of reasons. You still hung up on her or something? Hangin’ around hoping for another shot?”

“Definitely not.”

It shouldn’t make Billy’s heart leap but it does. Just because he’s not still sniffing around after Wheeler’s granny panties anymore doesn’t mean he has any interest in Billy. “Really now.”

“Yes, really, Jesus Christ. Why do you care.”

“I don’t.” Billy lies, and looks away, affecting disinterest. He sniffs. “It’s just weird, is all. I sure as shit wouldn’t hang around someone after they cheated on me.”

Steve is staring. Billy can feel his gaze boring into the side of his head. He glances out of the corner of his eye, watches Steve furrow his brow and frown. “It wasn’t—It was more complicated than that. I wasn’t...good. We weren’t good together.” He stops himself, biting his lip, and shakes his head.

“Hm.” Billy chews his thumbnail. It almost feels like they’re getting somewhere, but it’s so fragile Billy’s afraid to open his mouth and ruin it. The silence stretches, filled only by Steve’s rustling shivers, and Billy’s own unsteady heartbeat. “My car keys are in my jacket pocket,” he ventures, after long enough that the silence has gotten awkward.

“What! How long were you going to keep that to yourse—”

“Do you want to take advantage of my heater, or not.”

“Jesus Christ, yes.”

“Alright.”

They don’t talk on the walk over. Snow crunches beneath Billy’s boots, and Steve slips a few times on patches of icy pavement.

And Billy feels somehow nervous. Like he’s invited Steve to his goddamn bedroom or something.

Or maybe he’s just worried this tentative peace will end with their conversation going where it always does, blowing up in his goddamn face. But they’ve never actually spent that much time alone, he has no idea how this is going to work.

Best case scenario it ends with Steve half-dressed in the backseat of his car, but he’s not stupid enough to hope for that.

Fantasize about it, sure, but…

Steve actually being in his car is a surreal experience. Filling the small cab with his clean laundry scent, sweet and subtle, faint enough to be a tease, and he has to restrain himself from taking big embarrassing sniffs to satisfy his sudden craving for more.

He wonders if the smell will linger. How long Steve will be a phantom presence in his space.

Waste of time to think about it now, while he’s actually here.

Billy distracts himself by keeping his hands busy. Fumbling with the keys in his stiff fingers. Poking the overhead button to flip on the interior light. Flicking the dials on his console. The heater’s fan drones almost as loudly as the engine. Somehow the white noise makes the silence less stressful.

Steve rubs his hands together in front of the nearest vent, hissing through his teeth. “Fuck, fuck, I can’t feel my goddamn fingers,” he mutters, the hair on his forehead flopping as he moves.

“You weren’t out there that long,” Billy chuckles. Steve’s clumsy flailing is stupid endearing, Billy is shamelessly turned in his seat to watch him, the doorhandle digging into his spine, his knee pulled up and leaning on the seat’s backrest.

“Oh come on, you grew up in California, how are you fine right now?” Steve groans, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. His gaze darts up and down Billy’s form before flicking away again.

It’s common knowledge where Billy is from. He doesn’t exactly hide it. There’s a goddamn Malibu postcard tacked up in his office, pictures of his old surfboard. But it still makes Billy a little giddy that Steve pays enough attention to know that.

“I run hot,” Billy says casually, and grins, tongue between his teeth. Truth be told, he wasn’t fine, he was fucking freezing, he’s just good at hiding physical discomfort.

Steve’s cheeks flush a little pinker, and his gaze gets suspiciously focused on the vent in front of him.

“So…” Steve licks his lips, pausing, “Uh. What was it like? California.”

Billy blinks at him. “Warmer than this shithole, for starters.”

He feels off balance suddenly. First-date-jittery. Which is ridiculous because he’s never gotten first date jitters. And this isn’t a date. Not even close. But still, when Steve laughs quietly it gets the butterflies in Billy’s stomach far too excited. Like he’s ten and discovering the wonders of holding a boy’s hand all over again.

“I uh. Can’t go back there.” Billy chews the inside of his cheek, watching Steve closely.

“Why, you a wanted criminal or something?”

Billy snorts. “Glad to know you think so highly of me. No, I meant...lotta shit happened there that I’d rather not remember.”

There were good things too. More good memories in California than after they moved, but that doesn’t stop the awful shit from tainting the whole goddamn state for him. Just makes it harder that it does.

Hard to want to go back to a place where you almost died, no matter how many times your mom took you to the beach there.

Steve meets his gaze, his eyes soft, and it punches the breath from Billy’s lungs for a second. “Yeah, I get that.” He hums, and tucks his hands between his thighs. The position makes him look oddly demure. “I, uh. Have some experience with avoiding bad memories, y’know. Doesn’t end well. Repressing that kinda shit.”

“Pff,” Billy leans his head back against the window. The cold seeps through his curls. “You sound like Kali.”

“...Who?”

“Biker boots. Side shave. ‘Bout yea tall.” Billy waves his hand around his shoulder. “You met her once. I brought her to that stupid Christmas party couple years back.”

“Oh.” Steve looks down at his lap. “Your girlfriend.”

Billy chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“...Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, no, uh. No. Not even a little bit, man,” Billy laughs a little hysterically.

“She was your date to that party though, right? Did it not work out, or…?”

“Jesus,” he mutters, and rubs the back of his neck. Steve’s staring, all wide-eyed and confused and fucking adorable. He weighs his options. Wonders how much he should divulge. The easiest way would be to just say no, and move on. The safest way. They’re stuck out here alone and he doesn’t know how well Steve would react to finding out he’s stuck alone with a queer.

It’s something Billy tends not to take risks on. If guys can’t figure him out on their own, he isn’t going to tell them. But in this case...he’s just annoyed that Steve hasn’t noticed yet.

And besides, Steve spends half his time hanging around Robin Buckley—who Billy has his suspicions about—so it’s not like there’s no chance Steve would be okay with Billy being gay…

He takes a breath. Exhales slow and stares at the roof of the car. There’s a burn mark next to the rearview mirror where he might’ve stubbed out a cigarette. He’s had this damn car so long he doesn’t remember doing it.

“She’s a friend, Steve. And I borrowed her from her girlfriend that night,” he says, testing the waters. Steve blinks a little, lips parting, but doesn’t react any more than that. Doesn’t seem angry, or judgemental, or disgusted. “I’m not really ready to be out at work. So.”

“Wait, Robin was right?” Steve blurts, sitting a little straighter, eyebrows shooting up.

“Of course she noticed,” Billy mutters, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. He doesn’t ask why Buckley was talking to Steve about him in the first place, let alone about his sexual preferences. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“I mean, she kept going on about lesbian psychic sense, and I told her if anyone’s got a lesbian psychic sense, it’s El, not her, but—” he cuts himself off, flushing. “I, uh. Oh. Huh. Guess I shoulda listened to her when she told me my gaydar was busted.”

Well. That’s...something. Not the reaction he was expecting. Not that he did know what to expect, but still. “Yeah, you usually need to be queer to spot one,” he shrugs. Like he hasn’t been hoping Steve would pick up on his not-so-subtle hints this whole time, while dreading the possibility with equal fervour.

But Steve freezes then. Shoulders going stiff, his hands stilling. And Billy’s heart leaps.

“I...” Steve fidgets, his palms rubbing together as he shifts his thighs. “Um. Am. I am. I’m bi.”

“Huh...” Billy licks his lips. “Well, shit, Harrington.”

He wonders how well he pulled off cool and unbothered. It’s usually something he’s alright at, but he’s not usually reacting to the goddamn man of his dreams telling him he’s into guys. His whole chest feels like it’s gonna explode.

“Mhm…” Steve hums, staring at his own hands, his face frustratingly neutral.

“So.” Suddenly their childish rivalry annoys Billy. When Steve was just a straight boy he was pining after it felt good to punish him for being unattainable. Be up in his space without being too obvious about why. Get him all flushed and bothered in the only way he could. But now… “Why did it take us this long to get here?” Billy asks quietly. He knows his side of the story. Knows his own stubborn asshole nature played its part. But Steve…

His anger from earlier resurfaces. Steve treating him like he wasn’t worth his time, running on a loop in his head.

He draws his knee up, hugging it to his chest, but keeps the bitterness out of his expression. It’s too likely to end up looking like sadness on his face right now.

Steve shrugs. “Haven’t we already been through this?” He turns to stare out the window. Billy glares at the back of his head.

“No, Steve, we haven’t. You called me an asshole and then said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“What else is there to say?”

“How ‘bout an explanation? What exactly did I do to you, pretty boy? And don’t give me that, you were a dick, bullshit, because you hated me from the jump. Way before I did anything to deserve it.”

And he did, eventually, deserve it. He knows that. Doesn’t make the immediate brush-off feel any better.

Steve’s back is stiff, and he’s crossed his arms. And he still won’t look at Billy.

Feels like they’re right back where they started, and Billy wants to crawl out of his own skin. He grits his teeth, and hisses, “Listen, I know you come from a family of fuckin’ bigshot lawyers or what-the-fuck-ever, but it doesn’t give you the right to treat people like dirt if they don’t—”

That, at least, gets Steve’s attention. He whips his head around, stares at Billy with his mouth open. “Is that what you think—Billy I haven’t had a real conversation with my parents in nearly ten years, I don’t give a shit about all that.”

“Then what—”

“You make me feel dumb! Alright? Happy?”

Billy blinks at him. “What?”

Steve groans, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You—you show up here all, all hot and—” he waves a hand, gesturing up and down Billy’s body, “like that, and it was annoying enough that you knew that, strutting around like you own the place, but then you go and open your mouth and—” Steve buries his face in his hands, sighing, rubbing his eyes. “The first time I heard you talk you were explaining some shit about—about—nemo devices or something—”

“Mnemonic.”

“That! That right there, that thing you always do. I get it. Okay? You’re smarter than me. I’m just a dumb art teacher who gets headaches when he tries to read.” Steve throws himself back against the headrest, all furrowed brow and expressive hands.

And Billy stares. Frozen in place. He is, for once, at a loss for words. His mouth works soundlessly as he searches for something to say. But what falls out of him is, “You think I’m hot?” and he mentally slaps himself.

“Really. That’s your takeaway?”

“No—no, well, I mean. Kind of. Yeah.” He wets his bottom lip. Tongues his cheek.

Steve groans, “Seriously?” He tugs at a stray lock of hair. “No one who wears pants that tight doesn't know they’re attractive, alright, why is this surprising. I have eyes.”

“Because it’s you.” Billy’s brain slams to a halt the second he says it, shock freezing him in place. Apparently his filter is just fucking broken today, Jesus Christ.

“...What. Y’know what, fuck you, I’m not that unobservant—”

Billy snorts a disbelieving laugh, “Are you sure about that.”

“Alright, fine, I didn’t realize you were gay, for like, a really long time, but you didn’t notice that I’m queer too, so there!” Steve looks at him, triumphant, like he’s won the argument—if that’s what this even is. And Billy scoffs, stupid, irrational competitiveness tightening like anger in his chest, and—

“It’s not the same, Harrington,” Billy says flatly, heart pounding.

“And why not?”

“Because you haven’t been after my dick this whole time! You didn’t care if I knew that you’re queer,” he’s almost shouting, frustrated and not even sure what he’s trying to prove, arms thrown wide to punctuate his dumb and nonexistent point, until exactly what he just let slip sinks in. He lowers his hands, clenches them into fists resting on his thighs. Steve hasn’t said a word, he’s just staring, jaw slack.

“Wait...so—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Harrington,” Billy growls.

“Jesus Christ, Billy would you let me—”

“No.”

“I have been though!” Steve yells over him, and it stuns Billy enough that he falls silent. “Dumbass, I have been into you this whole goddamn time, are you kidding me?”

“...What.”

Steve runs restless fingers through his hair, making even more of a mess of it. “Listen, do you have any idea how irritating it was that you’re as hot as you are? I wanted to badly to hate you because you were so fucking annoying, but you were all—” he gestures to Billy, waving his hand around wildly, “like, a fucking...walking wet dream, so.”

“Gee, thanks,” Billy responds, utterly bemused.

“And then I find out you’re a great teacher, and really smart, and kind of funny when you aren’t being a douche, and suddenly I’m head-over-heels for a guy I’m pretty sure hates me, because I have no self-respect apparently, and—” He stops, chest heaving, eyebrows drawn, and curls in on himself, folding his arms.

“I never hated you.”

Steve scoffs, dipping his chin ‘til his face is shadowed by his bangs.

“Listen to me,” Billy scoots forward, wedging his knee over the cupholders between their seats. He hesitates, a hand hovering mid-air while he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. And then touches Steve’s elbow. He jolts, looks up at Billy from under the fall of brown hair hanging over his forehead, his eyes are wide and questioning. Billy presses his fingertips firmer to the warmth of Steve’s skin under his starched dress shirt. “You care about your friends a ridiculous amount, it’s mind-boggling. Honestly. I grew up around people who would’ve barely given a shit if I died, and here you are worrying about everyone in your life, like it’s your fuckin’ job. You’re a good goddamn person, and I wanted…” he pauses, and bites his lip. “I was pissed that I wasn’t one of the people you cared about, alright. Fuckin’ Wheeler gets to be, but I...” He trails off, gestures vaguely.

Steve’s fingers are cold, sneaking up from under his folded arm to touch the back of Billy’s hand. “You were. You are.” He ducks his head again, the ghost of a smile just barely visible before he disappears into shadow again. “I came out here to check on you, didn’t I?”

“I mean…I was supposed to be helping out inside—”

“Billy, there’s, like, eight volunteers in there, they can handle a bunch of middle-schoolers.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a quiet breath. “I, uh. I’m sorry. I never thought you gave a damn about my opinion, to be honest. I didn’t—I was just…”

“Insecure?”

Steve grimaces. “Yeah.”

And that’s something Billy’s more familiar with than he’d like to be. He squeezes Steve’s forearm. “You’re not stupid, you know.”

“It’s fine, I know I am. Everybody in my life is some kinda damn genius, so. Someone had to draw the short straw.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.” That gets his attention, surprised eye-contact, and Billy tilts his head to maintain it. “I don’t give a shit that your goddamn friends can speak five languages, or understand organic chem, or any of that crap, they aren’t better than you, alright, they’re just nerds.” Steve snorts, and rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at his lips and it makes Billy smile. “Look, you play guitar, right. And you taught that dweeby little friend of yours the chords to his weird song about physics. Wouldn’t have been able to pull that off without at least a couple brain cells floating around under all that hair.”

“I mean, that was just—”

“That was just something you’re good at. You don’t gotta be able to read Shakespeare to have smarts, you’re just smart about other shit.”

A blush colours Steve’s cheeks. “I—thanks,” he murmurs.

Billy doesn’t get a chance to respond.

In the front seat of his beat-up old Camaro, with snow starting to fall outside, gathering silently on the dimly illuminated windshield, Steve Harrington kisses him for the first time. He’s still holding Billy’s hand. One second he’s glancing down shyly, smiling small and crooked, the next…

His lips are soft. Gentle. He kisses like he’s asking permission, barely touching Billy at all.

Despite the light brush of a kiss, Billy feels it everywhere, lit up with a jolt of electricity right through his chest. He chases Steve when he pulls away, with a hasty press of his mouth, kisses him again.

And again.

His free hand comes up to cup Steve’s cheek, holding that warmth in the palm of his hand, trying to keep him close for as long as possible. Steve makes a quiet noise against his lips, and his heart clenches, his breath catching in his throat.

They part eventually, Billy still basking in the phantom sensation of Steve’s smile pressed to his, leaving him tingling and warm. Their foreheads touch, resting together, the point of contact is grounding, the only thing stopping him from feeling like he could float away at any moment.

“So,” Billy says after a moment, “Fair warning, I’m gonna have to start complimenting you more if that’s how you react to it.”

Steve laughs quietly. His eyes are still closed, so Billy starts counting his eyelashes.

“This some kinda fairy tale, Hargrove? I kiss you and you turn into a polite human being?”

“Hardly. But I’ll see what I can do about the happy ending part.”

“The Disney kind, or the massage parlor kind?”

Billy kisses Steve again, grinning. “Both, if I’m lucky.”

And he was.

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #a raven's writing desk #harringroveweekoflove #hello yes im still doing these #i have one for each day of prompts and they're GETTING written im just slow lmao

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dropsofletters · 4 years

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mellow

title: mellow pairing: lee taeyong/reader genre: candy store!au/crush!au summary: candies in all shapes, wrapped by all types of papers, end up pressed to the confines of her backpack for her to enjoy when she gets back home—but she doesn’t buy them, much less does she steal them, this all comes from the mere opened heart of her secret admirer. with little notes attached, someone is trying to make her life more dulcet…and it’s obviously lee taeyong, her coworker. type: fluff/romance/humor word count: 16,364

This morning of summer can almost be tasted.

It’s humid and dense, with a sense that reminds her of the dripping of popsicles. Most of the time, she likes a passion fruit popsicle—it has some taste and is a thousand times more refreshing than some general strawberry one, but the stickiness that clings to her fingertips in reminders of the sugar overload that will follow soon after brings some sense of guilt to the back of her brain. That, maybe, a juice would be more beneficial for an adult like her, or, in this case, with all the metaphors aside, that working at a candy store is quite clearly what anyone but a Willy Wonka enthusiast wants.

Though the heat outside the store is a thousand times more unbearable than what one would imagine. The streets are filled with people in ripped shorts, oversized t-shirts and enjoying the sweetest treats from them. Though, ice cream parlors may be working on the business with more efficiency than them. She takes interest, with one hand propped underneath her chin, for the one boy that did buy a lollipop from them and he has been dipping the dulcet treat into a cup of water. He takes a lick, dips it in water, and repeats. Her bets go on the fact that this child may end up drinking the water in about ten minutes, but that may be the boredom speaking.

How not to be bored when this place is so big, yet so unpacked? The shelves, locked and only opened by workers, showcase variety of sweets, some prepared by the workers, others simply bought. The yellow walls with white flooring only remind her of the intense cleaning that comes on Wednesdays and Saturdays for her, and it will only be more of a headache with the heat that is welcoming this summer. In a way, her mind tries to wrap around the idea that there is some purpose to this: to being a candy store worker, other than simply hating the smell of sweets now that she has been there for over a year.

To make money.

And maybe, feel functionable.

But this is not a lifetime worth of dreaming.

When she hears her name being spoken, her attention diverts from the kid that broke her internal monologue—as it turns out, it takes him four minutes to drink that reddened water—. Someone’s fingertips hook on the edge of her jersey, one that includes the name of the candy store in the back; yellow is the background, but the letters are highlighted in red, and when she is pulled towards someone’s chest, she feels the strong smell of Miyoung’s vanilla scented perfume. She may have gone overboard with the coats today.

“I need you to do me a big one.” Miyoung whispers, mischief clear in the tone of her voice, wrapping up nicely with the redness of her thin lips. The woman is the light and the beam of the Valentine’s season; the reason as to why there is a business around February to start with. Miyoung goes overboard with the concept of candies—what may be cavities to some is a job for her. Daughter of the owner of this place, nothing else should be expected from her.

But she knows Miyoung’s favors. They are the type of favors that come with the youthful sense of being able to do anything, as long as there is someone to cover you. Miyoung may be cupid in February, but once summer arrives, a party is more important than being behind the white counters of the candy store. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Miyoung whispers, a giggle following after her voice when she lets go of her coworker. “But the solid favor I’m asking from you is simple—” She nods, not quite eager to hear about Miyoung’s rendezvouses, the solid taste of the vanilla in the air already dizzying her. “There is this new guy that works in the sports store across the street. I need him to…look my way.”

That shouldn’t be difficult. Miyoung is the epitome of fireworks, exploding in beautiful colors, leaving people entranced even when the noise is sometimes unbearably loud. Some fear her. Some love her. Life just isn’t the same without someone like her. “…Do you need me to talk to him?”

“No. You’re not much of a talker to start with.”

“Case closed, then.”

“What? No, no, no!” Before she could scavenge away into the depths of the candy store, perhaps wishing to have a bag of chips instead of being surrounded by future cavities in all shapes, Miyoung grabs at her. Something about the way she holds her always triggers something inside of her. It sets the fire alarms up inside her head, makes her feel as though she needs to prick her hands away, as if being held too strongly only reminded her of the position she is in. In a place in her life in which she cannot do anything more than…not care. Not care that she has a job she doesn’t like. Not care that she doesn’t have a dream. Just…pretend ignorance. “A client contacted us via Instagram today. They need a bouquet of chocolates for this afternoon at four,” One look at her watch is enough to tell her that she has two hours to work through this order. “And I should be the one to do it, because I’m normally in charge of that…but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

But it is not.

She doesn’t know when this somberness started inside of her. When looking at her messages only brought her dread, instead of that warmth that should wrap her up when people care about her. When the taste in the back of her tongue turned bitter. When, in some way or another, she’d find herself looking in the mirror, quirking her lips upward, sometimes doing half a smirk, other times just showing all teeth and gums, trying to find the shape of her smile. It has not been there in a while. Someone once told her to love all of her—the light side, the dark side, the in-between, but now she doesn’t even think she has color to her personality. Not a bubbly yellow. Not a subtle pink. Not a relishing blue. Not a green for calmness. Not a purple for complexity.

Blank, because she doesn’t think she knows the difference between the past and the future. It doesn’t represent her as a blank canvas, but as someone who doesn’t know how to paint themselves, instead. Miyoung, on the other hand, has taken every opportunity of what she has wanted and whatever the outcome has been—positive or negative—has shown her that every decision will only make her grow. Meanwhile, she doesn’t think she has changed. At all. No growth. No worsening. Just…invisible.

“Go get that number.” She tells her, because that smile on Miyoung’s face reminds her of hope. The type of woman who’d date a thousand times and believe in true love, still, Miyoung is. She’s the personification of summer, throwing that jersey on the counter with a swoosh before trotting towards the entrance, not before leaving her with a:

“I’d kiss you if I could!”

And the door closes, not as harsh as one would have imagined, simply leaving her with the ringing of the bell on top of the door, and strangely enough, not alone. Her hands work on folding the jersey; firstly, folding it in half, then pulling the sleeves in, making an ‘L’ shape with them, and folding it in half once again, and it’s settled. A bit puffy, but settled. This is what she does until she feels someone’s gaze on her, not burning, not making her feel uncomfortable, but it’s there—like a flickering light. It leaves. It stays. It makes itself known again, and then it fears her.

Once she does turn and decides to get to work, nearing the chocolate area of the store, she realizes that the only person that can be looking at her is, of course, Lee Taeyong. She catches herself wondering, for a second, if he’d look better with dark hair, for all she has seen is that bleached blonde, summer bombshell look on him. Sometimes, he sleeks it back; other times, he just plays with the heartstrings of people to show the two stances of his eyes. When shown at their full expanse, paired with his straight eyebrows and his nicely shaped face structure, they almost feel as though they pull her in…as in one step closer becomes a hundred, and a breath never is enough. When they are hidden behind his bangs, most of the time working on placing the candies on bags and giving them to the clients, he almost appears shy. Most of the time, the latter overtakes him.

Because Lee Taeyong is so different from Miyoung, and so different from herself. So different from Jonoh, who is off to the doctor’s today. Miyoung may be the example of summer, she radiates flirtation just like she radiates innocence, she never settles, never quite meets a man that meets up her expectations and falling out of love comes as second nature to her. She believes someone will sweet her off her feet, though. Jonoh is an enthusiast of pretending like he has his life figured out—and she may be judging, he probably does have it sorted out—but there is something about him that just screams faux. The poems he recites, the way he always knows what to say and when to say it, no one should be like that all the time.

And herself, of course, when unwrapping the plastic paper to put around the bouquet of chocolates, sunflowers glistening on the almost invisible material, she finally gets to compare herself to Taeyong. Not to say that she always felt empty, like there was something lacking in her—but it started surely. One day, life tried to show her that no matter how many workshops she installed herself in, how many shows she watched in order to find a road for her to take, she’d never be anything memorable. Not the kind to be a muse, no, she’s not that—she’s not the kind to lead a group of people, much less is she the one to speak first, but the one to speak last and go ignored. The more she tried to come up with a reminder of what makes her interesting, she’d find blankness.

But Taeyong is not too dulcet, just like he’s not too acid. But he’s definitely softened up, like chewing gum, in a way. He stays and stays, makes people addicted, waiting to have some more of him before someone else stops them. Chewing gum is said to stick to the stomach—and she has never proved if it’s right or wrong—but something about it resonates with her image of Taeyong. As if, once inside his life, no one would even dare to go out.

The process of making a bouquet of chocolates is not generally easy. To pick the chocolate bars and arrange them in place in order to make them stay in position, as well as nicely shaped, is an art-form on its own. Taeyong and Jonoh normally verge into the depths of making candy, while Miyoung is the one in love with the arrangements. Now in her position and opening the shelves that include some chocolate bars of differing tastes, she wonders if it’s up to her to make herself memorable.

It may be.

“What’s your favorite type of chocolate?”

The sound of Taeyong’s voice, a bit deepened, surprises her. So much so that the chocolate bar could have slipped in between her fingertips had she not caught it with more precision. He rarely talks to her, for the same reason that Miyoung states—she doesn’t talk much to start with, and he just simply seems to back away whenever she is around. The only times that she does talk with Taeyong is when clients are around, but that is not their situation currently.

Gently closing the lid of the shelf, she moves onto another one, looking for white chocolates to match. Perhaps, some Hershey’s…and she may grab some kisses on the way there, too. May add a good touch as small flowers for the bouquet. “I don’t like sweets,” She says with her whole chest, like she prides on being an irony. Being exactly what no one would ever expect from her, because she has no expectations whatsoever. “I feel like they are overrated.”

When moving towards the counter, sprawling the chocolates in between her arms onto the surface, she catches a glimpse of Taeyong’s brown eyes glistening and she’d say she has met the beauty of the earth in that simple glisten. It feels as though the desert is being illuminated by stars, and she gets to see it on the front row. “Oh, I’ve never heard that!” He says, excitement in his tone, but then it dulls back into that scared, softer one. “I’m supposing you have allergies to some of them, or they don’t settle well with you.”

To suppose something about someone may come off as rude to some, but to listen to what Taeyong envisions of her feels as somewhat of an experiment. He, who clearly doesn’t know her, has already painted an image out of the invisibility she imagines herself to be. “Not really,” She says, slicing some duct-tape to put the chocolate bars together. “I’ve just been surrounded by sweets while working here, and I got tired of them.”

“I could never.” He says, and she wishes she could dive further into the lack of knowledge that she has of him, but maybe it’s the task at hand…or it’s this fear of filling that void that she has grown inside of her, sulking her and leaving her all alone, trying to grow used to it and now too entranced to ever let go that is keeping her from doing so. “Don’t even get me started on Kit Kats. I can’t go for more than two weeks without having a Kit Kat.”

When she looks at him, she can only smile in return—because that smile of his reaches his eyes, creates the sun on his face alone, leaves her astounded at the mere existence of him. Strangers, they are, and they shall remain that…for she’s far too lonely, far too somber to ever eat up the light that is Lee Taeyong. “I see. That’s good.”

And he looks like he wants to say something else, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, as if wishing to leave a poem for her to think about for the rest of the day, a memory that tells her that he has seen color in her…but it’s up to her to discover which. Instead, Taeyong leaves it as a hum, as if he changed his mind.

Or maybe, she’s just trying to make her life more interesting by daydreaming about him.

“Yes.” He says. “If you need help, I’m somewhere around here.”

“Thanks.”

The air is suddenly too sweet, but not because of the chocolates in between her fingers or because she works at a candy store…but because she finally has found a conceptualization for Taeyong.

The aftertaste of the best sweet someone could have in their life.

###

The complexity of the passage of time has merged into nothingness for her. It could be Wednesday, and the only difference in her routine would be that she has to stay for a while longer—clean up after the envelopes that the clients plucked away from their desired candies and put anywhere but in the trash can. She rarely looks at her watch to check the time, simply lets the broom touch the flooring thanks to her motions, knowing that after going back home, there wouldn’t be much to do.

The reason why she is there without caring about the world around her may be deeper than the boredom she feels towards life. It may have to deal with the man with the matching yellow jersey, with his skinny hands working on playing with his special dough for the cookies that have been selling out in the store. To see him working after hours is enough of a question mark for her—because he likes this job, likes the dulcet smell around the store, and adores creating the little pieces of baked goods that they sell every once in a while.

Taeyong, unlike her, either conforms with his life or he thinks there is some pride in what he does. Some beauty in splaying chocolate kisses on the dough before parting his fingertips, the beige tone of the mixture sticking to the olive skin. She still tries to figure it out…or figure him out. As to why Taeyong sticks to her brain whenever she sees him, and why someone like him can barely hold her gaze before he has to depart it.

The broom becomes the companion of her dance, the envelopes of candy and plastic bags being thrown into their respective recycling bins. Leaning her weight on the broom, the woodened material of the stick digging a bit on her chest, she lets herself think of the reason why Taeyong seems to be scared of her.

Is she terrifying?

Is her lack of words the reason of his awkwardness?

Is her taste too sour, her lips too closed, her mind too closed up?

Someone as bright as him probably thinks she is crazy.

Blowing out oxygen into her surroundings, with her lips parted and her back hurting from the bent position done for cleaning, she thinks of leaving…but she doesn’t. Instead, she leaves the broom on the storage room, passing by the opened doors of the kitchen and staring at Taeyong’s profile.

Unleash her from her thoughts of beauty, because she has a concept of him that could never be erased from her brain. The scar underneath his eye shows that perfection was never the rule, that tainted and memorable is more of a notion for remembering. His hair is parted today, thick strands a source of questioning because that hair-dye he has on his hair looks everything but nourishing, eyebrows drown into a frown, thin lips puckered up while he tries to integrate every bit of the chocolate. His jaw protrudes, giving angles that match the ones of his shoulders, of his hellishly elongated legs.

“Did you add Kit Kats?” She asks, not noticing that her voice is too low, and she repeats herself again to capture his attention. Taeyong looks up from the rolled doughs that he is placing on a tray, shining with flour and butter to stop them from sticking to the surface. If she had to describe this situation, she’d say that confusion is more of what he must be feeling.

“Don’t make fun of me.” Taeyong quirks an eyebrow, already working on parting a little bit of the dough and holding it up with gloved fingers. “Have a taste and see if you can guess which brand of chocolates I used.”

“I am not Willy Wonka. I don’t think I will get it.” But she gets closer, because there is a reason as to why Taeyong has people sighing at the mere sight of him—everyone wants a bite of him, and under other circumstances, she may have gone for it. When her converse shoes have dragged her close enough to him, she parts her lips and lets the taste coat her tongue. Taeyong’s cheeks dust themselves in heat, reddened because of the hotness of the oven.

“It’s pretty easy.” He shrugs, once again forming little balls of cookies. Instead, she lets the colorful taste serve as some pointing arrows as to what this candy is about. It tastes like it has some color in it, as weird as it is to explain that, as in there is some substance that has Taeyong’s gloves painted in colors of red, green and yellow. Soon after, the creaking of chocolate mixed with the unbaked dough brings a feeling of recognition. Something she may have had in her youth, when she was a child and plopping sugary treats inside her mouth was less of a headache.

“M&M’s?” She asks softly, only to have Taeyong gasping at her words. The widest of smiles appears on his features, and it is one of the most…prohibited features she has seen on Taeyong, as if it’s a rare occurrence, or it has never been directly thrown her way. Bags form under his eyes, guests of his sweetened lips, and he likes to move a bit—as if the happiness is too much to overtake inside him.

“You do know your sweets!” He says.

“I never said I didn’t. I just said I’m not much of a sweets lady.”

Taeyong turns around, the expanse of her back the art she looks at when her tongue peaks out to capture her lips in a tight line. The bones on his back become prominent, his arms folding to get the tray inside the opened oven before closing it softly. “Why is that?”

“I grew up, I guess.” Nothing more escapes her lips, and she swears she sees some movement of Taeyong patting his cheeks, letting out some soft breaths before turning the lights low just by looking at her while smiling shyly.

“Want me to give you some candy recommendations?” Taeyong asks in the sweetest of tones, and she may get diabetes just from hearing him speak. So, instead, she shakes her head, always returning that grin to him.

“I think I’ll pass. Sweet is not something I’d pair up with me.” She replies, walking away from the counter with kicks of her shoes, as if dragging her steps will make her stay longer and learn that she could see inside a world much brighter, filled with tastes and smells of nothing but happiness.

A little whine leaves his lips, not expected from someone like him. For someone so scarily pretty-looking, Taeyong has softened edges. “Aw, it’s okay!” He says, looking around the room before folding his hands in front of his body, not sparing her a glance when he says: “If you want to try some candy, you can always tell me. I know my way around here.”

Why isn’t he looking at her? She wants to voice this out, but instead, she leaves it all with a hum. “Alright.” Just like the finalization of any conversation in between the two, she leaves it as is. “It’s my turn to close, so I’ll wait outside—”

Taeyong finally looks at her, shaking his head at her words. “I’ll close, don’t worry. I ran out of time to make the cookies and I have to bake them and let them rest for tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure?”

With his lips barely parting and his voice spoken in a breath, he says: “Yes.” Which could have been a caress of the wind for how soft it was, leaving her with a twirl of her heart inside her chest, dancing at his might.

God, she doesn’t know how Miyoung hasn’t gotten her hands on him when Taeyong is just that absolutely astonishing.

“Thank you, Taeyong.” She finishes, only to have Taeyong leaning far too close to the oven, before wincing at the heat.

“Yeah, no worries.”

One good look at his face is enough to scream at her to be more open, to not make someone like him uncomfortable, but unlocking her heart for anyone would only suffice as self-anger and pain. Instead, she decides to be flavorless again, leaving with a curt nod of her head and a wave of her hand.

If he saw inside her, he’d be past terrified—he’d be completely uninterested. He’d think of her as a miniscule, insecure woman.

Isn’t that what everyone thinks?

###

The song that is stuck to her head almost sounds like a choir of angels.

But goddamn it, she has forgotten the name.

It is stuck inside her head, repeating itself in the chorus but even though she has looked up the little words she can remember, nothing comes up. With one look at her face, she wonders if her mind is trying to tell her something—if this love song is supposed to be the personification of her today. Hair tousled, lips reddened with the faint existence of the kiss of Miyoung’s lipstick—the one that Miyoung has insisted on having her try before smearing it on top of her lips, far too bright for her to enjoy—, dust of her mascara falling under her eyelids, the curl that she had put on them leaving its trail for something straighter. For some reason, today she feels like she is a bit different.

Maybe, because the candy store has not been too packed, or because Miyoung is here and doing her best in having her try the new pieces of makeup she had bought just to see how they work. Because, for today, she actually feels like a glimpse of the word beautiful but no one is there to see her. Taeyong, who had started his day in the kitchen, had practically stayed there for the rest of the day and even though she would want to complain about the lack of him, she knows that if he was there, she wouldn’t utter more than a few words.

Some people are songs. Once, she said that Taeyong was chewing gum…and that still stands, but she wonders what kind of song Taeyong is. His playlist, whenever the speakers of the store are at his mercy, includes a lot of rap beats, chiller ones, songs that have the oddest of sounds leaving his lips…overall pretty fashionable, but what we like as humans is not what we are. Taeyong is not a jazzy song, he’s not an upbeat disco tune, he’s also not a rock song that speaks about sex and the complexity of the political system.

Taeyong is that one song that roams her head, but that she, in the depth of her soul, doesn’t know.

That one song that she fantasizes about.

That one song that, in retrospect, she’ll never find.

Someone closes her hand that had been wrapped around the little compact powder mirror, and her skin gets caught in between the lid, wincing at the small yet intricate pain. The culprit of such appears in front of her, with his buzzcut and sharp features, a matching yellow jersey and a quirk of his eyebrow. This is Jonoh, now much better from the flu that had overtook him.

“Yes, Jonoh?”

Just like Miyoung, Jonoh always expects something in return. She once heard Miyoung say that he’d drink the blood out of a corpse if he could with how much of an opportunist he is. A nice guy, not to be mistaken, but simply a copy of Miyoung in what comes from asking favors out of her. “Care to lend me your backpack?”

Even when a question is about to slip from her tongue, she lets her hand blindly look for her backpack under the counter. “Why do you need my backpack?”

Though, it does go well with Jonoh’s slim frame, the black backpack spacious enough to hold pockets in its pockets. He grasps it in between his fingers, splays it on top of his shoulder, once she throws it at him. “I’m going to buy some stuff at the supermarket, and I’d carry a watermelon on my hands all the way here, but I just started in the gym and I want to get my back muscles to pop out.”

She wants to question it, she really does, but all she dares to do is squint. “…Okay. Weird.”

“You should try it some time.”

“Working out?”

“Yep. With me.”

“No, thanks.”

The art of not caring—one of those isms that she wishes she could have never discovered. Letting go of a thread only to be left by the gray colors of life is not what she expected in the first part of her adulthood, but it is what happened. To sit down and think about what could have gone differently is not like her, to pretend like this is normality is more of what she does. To live in this limbo, this flowing nature of a lake that swims her away from her dreams…the ones that she never got to know or to explore.

Jonoh is someone she doesn’t question, not when he speaks some more and she doesn’t listen, not when he leaves. Jonoh is living his life in the most expected of healthy ways—his body says so, his skin screams so, and his nature just sends off the vibes of someone who will, probably, last until he is eighty or some years old. If he wants the backpack for some watermelon, then who is she to question those who have their ways of living?

“What’s the watermelon for?” She asks Miyoung, who looks up from her phone to let her eyes glisten in excitement.

“We’re trying some watermelon limeade cocktails, so I asked him to buy some. If everything goes well, we may sell them to our friends and create a business. I’ve been dying to get into cocktail-making.” The woman responds, and she doesn’t question their actions further.

Coming back home, she feels like rubbing all the worries away with some scrub and some lotion. The smell of baked goods from the kitchen in which Jonoh left her backpack, she wants to wash away, just like how she wants to feel more alive. Hair cleaner, smelling like that one chocolate conditioner she felt like buying—it’s a dense product, but the smell reminds her of something that she can’t quite pinpoint. Taeyong, maybe, in a way, in the shape in which he wraps his lips around a slice of a chocolate every once in a while, to taste it before adding it to his concoctions.

Looking at the moles on her body, the hairs on her arms, the mere reflection of her in the mirror, there is something that bothers her. Those inner thoughts that sometimes have no reasoning, like how she feels the need to search for that one song again, and hence, she has to look for her headphones. In one of the pockets of her backpack, it is, she knows this much, but she kneels down and hears the cracking of her bones, letting the zipper of said backpack slide in between her fingertips, she realizes that there are little thoughts that unconditionally appear to make bigger discoveries.

Her damp hair falls on each side of her face when she lets her knees fully fall on the flooring, taking the number of candies that are in her bag. The first one that she grabs are some coffee-based candy, the bitter reminder that once left her lips when talking to Miyoung a few months back. She said that coffee candy is the worst conceptualization to ever exist, because candy is normally aimed at children, and to have the taste of caffeine—something that, normally, is not aimed for little people—on the hard candy is just too much for her to understand. It’s not sweet. It’s not bitter. It tastes like dirt. Those were her words.

And whoever placed the bag filled with five coffee candies must have heard her conversation, because a small piece of paper glued to the surface read: “These don’t taste like dirt. I know how difficult it is to find good coffee candies, but these are my favorite. I hope you enjoy them.” A smiley face finishes that message, and the other ones in the other seven small plastic bags she finds inside her backpack.

Curiousness is what she feels when a bag of M&M’s is presented, but only the blue ones because: “The blue ones taste like almonds, and I want you to ease into sweets!”

She finds more notes, ones that always leave her with that smiley face. Two dots, and a crooked line, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. The thought of anyone but Jonoh doing this could almost be foreign, because he was the one with the backpack and he was the one that never returned it, but it has her scrunching up her nose when she unleashes some of the candies from their bags and lets them plop inside her mouth.

She has never paid enough attention to anyone’s handwriting—Miyoung’s, Jonoh’s or Taeyong’s. This could have been a clear indicator of who had listened to her conversations and given a piece of their mind in the form of sweet knowledge. Jonoh is the clear sign here, but he’s not a romanticist…much less has he thrown any signs that he might be into her. Much less Taeyong, he just seems to be absolutely terrified of her.

So, this leaves Jonoh…since Miyoung would never.

But this brings a flutter to her chest, has her smiling when she finally enjoys the sweetened taste of the blue M&M’s and they do taste different, like almonds with chocolate. It relishes her skin, makes her feel a little bit more given to life when she plops down on her bed and stares up at those smiley faces. They drag her into a mindset of warmth that she doesn’t think she has felt in a while, the pool of wet hair under her making her skin shiver at the touch of the pillow. A smile finally appears on her face, genuine when she licks her lips and wonders about the certainty of this.

Jonoh…huh?

###

“Ooh, who’s that cutie over there?”

Miyoung’s tone is nicely coated in a compliment, the flirty existence of her palpitating in her words when she pulls the edge of her skirt down. The motion from her coworker has her looking down at the expanse of her legs, the jersey matching the white t-shirt underneath paired with her high waisted skirt. It’s a difficult outfit to pull off—not because it’s anything special, but because it’s the first time that she tries doing something different with it to go to work, and it has her feeling…not that empty.

Because, for the last two weeks, the taste of something sweet has ended on her tongue and it is the felicity of feeling like she can care as much as this secret admirer does. Care for herself, treat herself nicely, let life have colors and shapes. Well, secret admirer as in Jonoh, because he’s the only person that has been, clearly, in contact with her backpack, asking for it every once in a while.

“Am I the cutie?” She asks, playing around with the remote of the television that should be changing channels by now…but as it turns out, the remote is not working. Giving up on the task, she looks over her shoulder to see Miyoung nodding, a gleeful smile given to her when she wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“Yes. That skirt is…whew, it’s a killer for sure.” Miyoung compliments and that is enough to have her chest filled with some hope. Perhaps, she’s not as dulled as she thinks she is. “You have to lend it to me some time soon. I’ve been trying to get the sport store guy’s attention since forever, but it’s like—like, fuck, like he doesn’t notice me.”

“I’m sure he does.” She says. “What did you say he was called the other day?”

“Yoonoh.”

“Want me to help you out with him?”

Miyoung moves her head from side to side, pointing out each word that she had heard at least once. “You don’t talk much. How are you going to get a guy to pay attention to me?”

She shrugs, because she doesn’t know…but she feels like doing something different with her life. Not something risky, or something that could potentially leave her in a frustrated state, but talking more and seeing what could happen along with that. “I could. I have nothing to lose.” And she thinks about grabbing her phone from her backpack and strutting towards the sport store to ask for Yoonoh’s number, and invent the possible ways in which Miyoung may find another prince charming, but when her fingers come in contact with the initially empty backpack, she is surprised to feel packages of candy. Again.

Not to say that happiness does not bubble inside of her when she receives said candy, because it feels like something is popping within her heart when it happens—but just like those kinds of pop rocks that make noise but dissipate after a while. Whoever is doing this—Jonoh, apparently—is spending way too much money on her, as well as invading her privacy in one way or another. She lifts her backpack to rest on top of the counter, hearing Miyoung speak as she plays around with her phone.

“…And like, yeah, I think maybe it could work. Since you’re so quiet, it could help you out—”

But she is not listening to her, because across from her she can see the image that she has inside her head when she reads those notes that Jonoh writes. Taeyong. The blond man that is yawning, head thrown back for the slightest second to show the expanse of his neck, and then he continues preparing a box which purpose must be to become a gift. Whenever she looks at him, she always thinks of sweets—even past that but of the taste itself, as if any fruit that dares fight the sugar in him will never come close.

Taeyong shares a glance with her, the kind that makes his lower eyelashes look longer with the tilt of his head and that leaves his lips plumper, with shadows that she dares herself to not think about. Ever. He’s a daydream, in the color of yellow in his jersey, in the way he simply diverts his gaze and breaks away that dream that she wants to be true. Because…all arrows point at Jonoh, at the lingering laughter and the comfort that he has around her, but Taeyong would be a better option. It would feel sweeter.

“What’s Taeyong’s deal with me?” She speaks softly, finally looking away from him when he widens his eyes to himself thinking that she is not staring. But she is. And whatever Miyoung has said is interrupted by this question, that has the woman with the big, dolled-up curls on her hair checking the culprit of her thoughts out before Miyoung sighs.

“He’s terrified of you,” Miyoung says, and she takes this as a sign to put the backpack over her shoulder and stop fantasizing about a certain candy man called Taeyong, and simply talk about this issue that has been lasting for two weeks with Jonoh. “But I wouldn’t take it as an offense—”

“Is he scared of you?”

“No, but—”

“Then, it’s an offense.” She conquers, only to have Miyoung taking her by the edges of her jersey and fixing it accordingly.

“Don’t think about it too much. You know how guys who like anime are. They’re weird.”

But that is definitely not it. Miyoung is not looking past this picture of Taeyong that screams that he doesn’t want to be near her.

Her struts are as confident as they can get as she nears Jonoh, whose headphones are tightly placed over his ears, body swinging to the sound of his favorite tunes. His jersey is falling off one shoulder, arranging the candies by color simply to please the boss, and it takes various taps of her fingers against his arms for him to pay attention to her. If she had to conceptualize him in words that she has known for the past year, she would say that Jonoh is one hundred percent cotton candy. He is sweet, dissipates on the tongue, then leaves. His trail doesn’t stay with her, doesn’t cling to her skin, much less does she think of him as much as she thinks of Taeyong, her other coworker.

Her backpack slides off her shoulder, leaving it open for her to show the contents to the man in front of her. “Why are you placing these inside my backpack? I have a lifetime worth of candy in my apartment and now, I have even more.” She tries to tell him, going around the subject that if this is in any way anything more than platonic, she’d have to say no. Nothing against Jonoh, but he simply doesn’t move the boat in her sea.

Jonoh finally lets his tranquil face fall and the quirk of his eyebrow is the woe of her afternoon. Confusion, rather. “Have you gone nuts? I only put a watermelon in, work out, take it out. I don’t put candy inside of it.”

“Well, I’m getting candy. And I’m not nuts.” But the look on Jonoh’s face tells her that he doesn’t believe her, and while initially she believes that he is fronting whatever sentiment issues his heart, she believes that if he got caught, Jonoh would be the type to giggle it out and confess it. “Swear on my life that you haven’t placed anything but watermelons inside my backpack.”

“…I swear?” Jonoh indicates, voice void of insecurity. This alone makes her look over her shoulder, the shadow of Taeyong long gone as he talks to Miyoung. The woman is already placing stacks of chocolate bars on his arms for him to help her with a chocolate bouquet, and the way he eyes the M&M’s settles uncomfortably on her stomach.

…The first type of chocolate she got were blue M&M’s.

Someone grabs her by the shoulders, thick hands wrapping around her muscles when Jonoh leans down to look into her eyes. “…I have nothing to do with whatever you’re accusing me off. Candy theft? Not me.”

That leaves Miyoung and Taeyong as the culprits. Both opened to the opportunity of sneaking some treats inside her backpack.

And Taeyong actually smiles to Miyoung, laughing at something the woman says when she nudges his side, but when his eyes trail towards her and she dares give him a tight lipped smile—the most anyone could ask for her when her heart is racing with confusion, imagining Taeyong listening to every conversation she has had in which she has complained about candy, the only response he dares to give her is a shy beam and soon after, he’s looking away.

Could it be—?

No. Before she gets overexcited about the possibility of Taeyong, out of all people, taking the time to battle his fear of her and communicate in a way that is not face-to-face personal, she shakes her head and opts to push the memory to the back of her head. To stack candy up, she may end up doing, for it would be impossible for him to just do such…a thoughtful thing for her when he can’t even hold her gaze.

###

Summer is gone to leave orange in its wake, the red popsicles that once represented it fading into a softer tone. Her covered feet caress the leaves on the flooring, creaking under the step of her boots, all thanks to her position while waiting for the bus, seated on a bench. This is the part of her day in which times stop, her head lulling back to stare at the cars passing by on top of the gray concrete. Normally accompanied, she gets to hear one or two conversations, update herself in lives of people she doesn’t know. Today, however, the only person by the bus station took the first bus to arrive and she still had fifteen minutes more to wait.

The world is not quiet, but it feels like it is. Friday afternoon and everyone is preparing to do something with their lives; to scald their tongues with recently cooked meals from their favorite restaurants, to meet up with friends and down a few drinks, or simply to binge-watch a show that they have been dying to see. In her part of the world, she almost laughs at her option for what to do on a Friday afternoon, a copy of a retelling of Hansel and Gretel displayed on her phone, the horror of it all exaggerated and hence, not capturing her attention as much.

Something, something candy house. Something, something witch.

What exactly is her Friday afternoon after work?

Letting the screen of her phone rest upside down on her thigh, she decides to look around the bus station to find something to do. A group of skaters are not too far away, clouds of smoke blown into the air as they do tricks on their skateboards, though there are those that lay their bodies against the sidewalk, as if they are owners of the place. Instead of concentrating her gaze on them, however, her mind wanders to the sound of footsteps nearing her. Perhaps, another person waiting for the bus.

The music on this person’s headphones hums lightly in the background, meaning that it is loud enough for her to hear and the song alone should be enough to recognize who it is. Her gaze lifts to connect to Taeyong’s face, looking down at his phone before he lets his brown eyes eat her alive with one mere glance at her. Maybe, part of her imagination is playing a game on her, in the way his eyes softly fall to her lips and then, his lips lift up the slightest. His jersey is long gone, perhaps packed inside his backpack that looks a little bit puffier than usual, leaving the expanse of his arms up for her to watch when he takes a seat beside her.

“Hi.” He greets in a softened tone, and once the word is repeated by her, Taeyong parts his gaze from her. His headphones are resting around his neck when he looks up at the ceiling of the bus stop, legs parted the slightest bit. “Have you been waiting here for long?”

“Kind of,” She asks, her heart palpitating at the image of the letters that she keeps treasured inside her bedside table, organized by date and met with that same smiley face. Taeyong has always been the person she wanted to be the source of said candy gifts, months ago given every day, but now delivered to her through her backpack every few weeks. “You were in cleaning duty, right?”

“Yes.” Taeyong breathes out, running his fingers through his recently dyed black hair and it suits him even more than the blonde. It makes the depth of his eyes almost dangerous, a black hole in the universe for her to get lost in. If he dares look at her, that is. With her attention on him, she watches as Taeyong scowls at something from across the street, his fingers wrapping around the zipper of his backpack. “Those guys are looking at you weirdly.”

Gazes are thrown her way, to the expanse of her legs on her flowy skirt and tights, and she doesn’t miss the way one of them cackles as if one look her way is enough to be considered a comedy. “…I think they’re making fun of me.” She answers, plain and boring, but the warmth of something being placed on top of her thighs confuses her, the image of Taeyong’s jersey splayed on top of her legs engulfing her in the scent of his cologne, his body hovering over the slightest bit.

Taeyong, from up close, shows a glimpse of anger when he huffs at the people from across the street. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not okay to look at anyone like that, it’s creepy.”

“It’s not that big of a deal—”

“It is,” Taeyong softens his voice, finally sparing her a glance that connects her to a part of his train of thought that only showcases his caring nature even more. “Because you were out here alone. What if those guys did anything to you? There are like five guys there and you’re only one person. They could have—”

Her fingers wrap around his hands that are making motions in the air to further explain his point, when she lets a smile graze her features. “You’re here now. Don’t worry.”

The heat of Taeyong’s neck goes up to his cheeks, leaves the littlest bit of perspiration on the surface, caressing his ears in a pink tone that has him, once again, looking away. “I guess, but I’m not the toughest of guys.”

“I know.” Finally, she gets to say something in between a laugh and it comes naturally with Taeyong. As if, for some reason, he’s able to paint colors into her life.

At that, he leans back against the bench. “Are you making fun of me?” She swears there is a pout to his tone, a jut of his bottom lip when she shakes her head.

“I think it’s cute.” Damn her for saying those words, leaving her lips far too quickly, dizzying her when she stares ahead and watches the bus pull up a little bit earlier than expected. Perhaps, five minutes before the time in which she expected it to arrive. With wobbly legs and Taeyong’s jersey being held in between her hands, she speaks up. “That’s my bus. So, that’s—”

“I’ll get in with you!” Taeyong is already up his feet, cheeks tinted in colors that could battle this autumn. “Just in case someone dares bother you.”

With quickened movements, she gets inside the bus, not forgetting to acknowledge the driver to let her pass, along with her coworker. “You’re staying so you can fight the bad guys?” Taking one of the seats by the back, she is surprised when Taeyong hums.

“I’d fight them for you.” And she doesn’t miss the way he fixes his jersey on top of her legs once again, perhaps to keep her warm, or maybe because his senses told him about something she hadn’t seen in those guys.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course.” Taeyong breathes out, limbs interlocked with his backpack that is pressed to his chest, and the scenery outside the windows could never compare to the beauty of him from up close. To the way he finally seems to be more comfortable with talking to her, even when his pupils shake the slightest.

“…I thought you hated me.”

This catches him off guard, his saliva getting caught in the back of his throat, rosy lips letting out short coughs that breathe out his question: “W—What?” Cough. “You really t—thought that?” Two more coughs are added.

In retrospect, Taeyong has been nothing but nice…yet, fearful. The type of fearful that comes with ghosts, with a noise in the middle of the night, with a videogame that has a soundtrack so chilling that it keeps you playing…but you want to do nothing more than run away. That is what Taeyong had exuded for her, and seeing him being the slightest bit more comfortable with her is welcomed, yet foreign. “Well…you always get scared when you’re around me.” A shrug of her shoulders is enough to highlight her point. “I thought it was because you thought I was mean or something.”

“No!” Taeyong speaks too quickly, clasping one hand over his mouth when one of the people in front of them gives them a onceover, and not a pleased one to start with. “That’s not it.”

“So, you’re not scared of me?” She asks, voice hopeful, tiny, albeit a bit breathy.

“Of course not,” And the certainty of his tone is enough to lift the wings of worry off her back, leaving her as a fallen angel. As if, for once, there is a glimmer of hope for something crafted out of the pure beauty of life. “I just—Since you never really talk much to me, but are always talking to Miyoung, I sincerely thought you hated me.”

She raises her eyebrows, eyelids fluttering continuously in blinks. Hating Lee Taeyong? “I don’t hate you.”

“No?”

“No!” She says, watching as Taeyong wraps his fingers around a plastic bag. The reddened sweets inside are elongated and seem sticky, reddened in the shape of licorice. “I think you misunderstand me. I’m just not that talkative, much less with people like…you.”

Taeyong’s confusion is clear on his face, biting down on his lips when he asks: “Like me?”

“Like you,” She repeats. “You’re practically the sun made person. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable with me being…all empty inside and stuff.” The confession has her, for once, looking away from him. As if saying it out loud makes her fear that Taeyong will see her differently, like everyone did. Instead, she feels the licorice being slipped in between her fingertips, just in time for Taeyong to grip her fingertips and help her fist close around the strands of sweetened treats.

“You’re not that,” He says, merely a whisper when he takes a bite of his licorice, and with his lips smacking to fight the sweetness, she mirrors his actions. “You’re just…mysterious?” It seems as though he is trying to look for the perfect word, and she can’t help but laugh.

Her head moves up and down in some form of a nod. “What a way to put it.”

“I mean it!”

“Taeyong—”

The man closes his backpack as he speaks, but a glimpse of it shows particularly wrapped plastic bags with candies of all sorts. Similar to the ones she gets, lacking the notes that she finds herself reading time and time again. Could it be that Taeyong is the candy giver that has earned a piece of her heart with his smiley faces? “I don’t know how to explain people, or you, or anyone. I just know that…ever since you started working at the candy store, I wanted to be your friend.” Taeyong adds. “And I’ve been doing a terrible job, but maybe, I had to be more open about it?”

“Maybe,” The giggle that escapes her takes her off guard. Embarrasses her, really, how could he not realize that a simple glance at him is enough to have her swooning with pieces of her imagination that create a puzzle of him? “Are you going the same way I am or did you just get in the bus to tell me this?”

“…The latter, kind of. I’m making sure you get home safe.”

“Oh, I see.” She replies, letting out a soft sigh when she takes a bite of the licorice again. “These are good, by the way.”

“I did say I have a good taste in candy once, didn’t I?”

That only points more arrows at him, gives him a light that casts down on him and calls him her candy boy.

But Taeyong wouldn’t go through all that hassle just to become her friend, right?

###

One certain image has etched itself in her brain since she started talking to Taeyong regularly.

His back hunched, knees propped near her backpack, slipping those plastic bags filled with candy, fingertips covered in remaining touches of the ink from his black pen, picking out his favorite—yet different—tastes in sweets for her to taste, all connecting with words said in between the walls of her workplace. His eyes, shaky. His lips, drawn into a thin line. His feet moving with precision, wanting to be silent. His scent splayed on that piece of her wardrobe that has brought her happiness for the past few months. Sometimes, she wishes for this imagery to be true, and in the most intricate parts of her brain…she feels as though it is a possibility.

At first, she had thought that it’d be too much for him, for Taeyong said he wanted to be her friend, but someone like him would not have to go to such calibers in order to reach the friendship status with her. But, with the newest addition of candy to her collection, some Hershey kisses in a whitened tone that her candy boy, as she dared to call him, had sent her, she wonders if she’s right. She may be, with the glimpses of her imagination crafting an image of Taeyong that makes her heart races, creates him as more than a mere friend and coworker but paints him as the honeyed name that she wants dripping from her lips, syllables highlighted by the interest in him.

By a crush. The one that she has denied for months, pushed to the depths of hell only to come back to heaven. To him.

When walking inside the candy store, the first thing she hears is commotion. A deep voice, matched with a much sultrier tone, two people arguing that clearly receive the name of Jonoh and Miyoung, respectively. Miyoung is standing on a ladder, putting up the decorations for the anniversary of the store, and Jonoh is doing his best to annoy her by shaking the surface in which she is standing on.

“Jonoh, stop!”

“I’m not doing anything, it’s the wind!”

“I could die. I said stop!”

“Ah, come on. You’re not going to die!”

This is the moment in which she realizes that none of them could be the thoughtful candy boy that has partaken a piece of her heart with sweetened words to match the tasteful candies. Instead, with her hands holding the bag of Hershey kisses, she moves further inside her workplace, looking for that hair of black hair that now contrasts the yellow of his matching jersey. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find him, but the place is a little bit more packed now that the summer season is over.

Some memories in life are meant to heal. They take the heart, bend it to its will until the holes opened in it by the punches of bad decisions are sewn together. He is one of those memories; of late-night talks when he is baking, of staying a little bit longer to help her clean, of getting on a bus that won’t even take him home just to be around her. Comfort earned after a misunderstanding. She thinks that she might have been dumb enough to absentmindedly create an enigma out of Taeyong, when everything had been presented to her. The handwriting, the smiley face, the bags, the candies, the blue M&M’s and coffee candies that started it all—

When she finds him, Taeyong is surrounded by children—half his height, if not lower, all asking him a million questions and while he could have been easily overwhelmed by the amount of orders and attentions, he takes it like an easy task. His hands look for the sweets that they prefer, placing them inside the yellow bags that represents the store, with that same red handwriting on top of it as their icon. His gloved fingers skillfully take the desired candy, weights it, and adds a bit more just because he can.

Because his soul is like that.

“Yong, Yong!” One of the children, who can’t seem to pronounce his name well, lifts his hand to reach out for his forearm. This has Taeyong looking down, getting ready to close the yellow bag and put it inside the basket that he should carry around to have the parents pay for what the children want, or perhaps the representative in charge—like a teacher or a babysitter. Instead, the child continues speaking. “I only like the green gummy bears!”

This alone is enough to have Taeyong looking inside the bag, inspecting the gummy bears that are, certainly, not only green. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t frown, simply puts the contents back inside its space on their display shelves before taking out the green gummy bears one by one. “I see, I must be too old to look at colors properly.”

“Taeyong,” Another one speaks to him, and the man hums as he continues plucking away the necessary green gummy bears. “What is your favorite kind of sweets?”

He thinks for a moment, lips puckered up while he rummages through the gummy bears. “Does ice cream count?”

“No,” The little girl says. “Ice cream is ice cream!”

“But ice cream is sweet.” Her chest swells at the small confused once-over that he gives to the little girl. “I like baked stuff, mostly. I don’t know if that counts.”

This is her cue to get closer to the group of children surrounding Taeyong, and the majority of them don’t pay attention to her. Once in front of Taeyong, his breath gets caught in his throat, released in a little sigh when a smile overtakes his features. “Let me help you find the green ones, and you can start serving what the other children want.” Her hands are already reaching for a pair of gloves, putting them on and searching for the shiny, chewy green treats.

“Thank you.” And his hand ghosts on top of her back, moving over to the spot next to her to take the chocolate order of one of the children, which keep rambling to him.

That touch billows her heart, leaves a tingle on her skin that makes her feel like something blooms inside of her. As if violins start playing, a piano is in the background, an orchestra making a sonata out of the feelings he brings to her. If she ever dared tell Taeyong about her assumptions of him being the one that gives her candy as a present, would he be taken aback? Would that push him away from her, once again living in fear of what her cold personality could cause to his heart? The questions roaming through her head have her looking at him again, watching how his lips wrap on the words cutely, trying to make his voice a bit higher and softer for the little clients that seem to be glued to his legs.

He is now stuck to her heart, in a way that can only grow, smooth on its movements. Mellow, he is, in the way he has hypnotized her and made her feel that there are matters to discover in this world. That someone saw the sweetness in her that even she couldn’t recognize, made her feel listened and cared for, and that person is Lee Taeyong.

She wishes she could have the strength to try and ask him if he’s the one behind the gifts, and even when her mind is telling her that it is obvious, she doesn’t want to ruin that percentage of uncertainty and lose something that has been growing, healing, easing them into a sense of normalcy. This is something beautiful, and she doesn’t think she has ever had that…no point in losing it now, she guesses.

###

“You’re going to get diabetes if you keep eating sweets that often.”

“I am not!”

That whine she recognizes perfectly well. It comes with a pout the majority of the time, and with a shy beam at the end. Seated by the entrance of the candy store, not caring that the coldness of the flooring is seeping through his jeans, is Taeyong playing a videogame. One of those that he always talks about—that apparently relaxes him and helps him concentrate on something during his free time, but the slightest bit of an obsession has grown within him. His eyebrows are almost knitted together, fingers moving with precision on the device in between his hands.

By his side, an opened bag of sweets is snatched away by her. She takes a seat beside him, watching the screen of his Nintendo for a while before his fingers absentmindedly reach for the bag of candy. Gone, it is, bringing a surprised gasp from him when he decides to (finally) look at her.

“Let me have my candy!” But there is not a threat in his tone, not in the way that they are far too close to each other, Taeyong’s hair falling over his forehead and covering those orbs that are pulling her in. Instead, she chuckles, placing a container filled with salad on his lap for him to take.

“I made us both salads.” She doesn’t give much of an explanation, for lunchtime with Taeyong has become an often occurrence. Sometimes, he brings her something—from well prepared dishes to something as simple as sliced vegetables and fruits, but this time around, she decided to be the one on the giving end of the spectrum. Taeyong stares at the plastic container, leaving his videogame aside to snatch the lid away and look at the contents inside, a little plastic fork waiting for him to be used.

His hand expands on top of his heart, for he may have felt exactly what she feels whenever he gives her candy behind those smiley faces that are, now, absolutely his. She still hasn’t said anything, relishes in the way he seems to be comfortable with his secret hidden. “You did not,” He whispers at first, his eyes scanning the meal before smiling brightly. Those bags under his eyes appear again. “Oh my God, you shouldn’t have bothered.”

But she should have, because for months to no end Taeyong has done one of two things—for, she hasn’t figured them out yet. He either steals candy from the store, or he buys some for her each time he can. “I totally had to. I’m fearing the day your teeth rot and fall, just eat the salad.” She tells him, voice softened to speak in between the two, extending her legs to ease the muscles from the strain of sitting down in such a hard floor.

“Ah, I’m not that much of a candy eater. You just always catch me at the worst time.” But he’s lying, and the way he takes a bite of the salad before he puts the container down is taking up more of her attention than his excuses are. “Does it hurt to sit like this?”

“No, I’m okay—” Moving at his will, Taeyong takes off his jersey in a swift motion, instructing her to stand up with the movement of his hands.

“Come on, stand up and sit on this.”

“Taeyong, you give me your jersey more than you wear it. It’s okay—”

Following after his instructions after Taeyong puckers up his lips, a little bit in distaste, also because he is this close to complaining, the fabric of his jersey works as some cushion for the back of her thighs and her butt. He takes his seat beside her again, finding his home with his back pressed against the wall before plopping a little bit more of the salad past his lips. “You have to listen more,” He starts. “I’m only protecting you.”

“Oh yes, because sitting on a floor is going to do anything bad to me.” She retorts, watching as Taeyong eats, nodding soon after.

“You could get back problems!”

“Taeyong, I am certain I would not get back problems from just sitting on the floor.”

“…Google it.”

“I won’t google it!”

Their conversation is cut short when the doors of the store open with a harsh bang, clearly someone who does not care about the strength of their actions. The glassed door ends up knocking Taeyong’s leg, a loud wince coming from the man when he uses his free hand to clutch at his calf. The culprit of his pain appears before them, peeking his head inside to show a set of dimples, the thinnest sheen of sweat, and a set of toned, uncovered arms that she recognizes well.

Months ago, she had been the one to get Yoonoh’s number for Miyoung—who, in less than a week, was already going out on a date with him. While nothing had become serious, more often than not they are together, and she may have seen a little scene once, caused by the closeness between Miyoung and Jonoh. Still, neither Taeyong nor herself ever got too involved.

Yoonoh waves at her, calling her name in a rushed tone when he asks: “Is Miyoung here?”

“She went out for her lunchbreak.”

“Alone?”

She nods, even when she knows that Miyoung always eats with Jonoh, but the least she wants is to cause more issues with the one man that Miyoung had taken long to get. “I think so,” One spared glance at Taeyong shows a bit of a scowl on his face, and he is noticeably annoyed but not letting the matter slip his lips. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

The sport store worker slips inside until half his body is inside the store while he speaks. “Actually, yes.” He starts, running his hands through his damp hair, perhaps from one of those work-out routine days they have in their store. Some kind of special, Miyoung has once called it. “I’m going to be hosting a party next Friday, at my place. One of my friends is coming back after travelling around the world and I decided to invite Miyoung, but since she isn’t here…”

“Oh, I’ll tell her.” She shrugs her shoulders, her hand pushing against Taeyong calf to soothe the skin, and she swears she feels him tensing under her touch. “Party. Your house. Next Friday.”

“Exactly.” Yoonoh nods before quirking an eyebrow at the two of them. “You two wanna go?”

Letting go of Taeyong, she looks at him for some kind of answer. His smile expands, as if the pain is suddenly replaced by something else. “Sure, sounds like fun!”

“Good.” Yoonoh doesn’t wait for an answer from her before opening the door wider. “I’ll get going then. Tell Miyoung to call me.”

“Will do.” The excitement on Taeyong’s face plays at her heartstrings, because she knows she is not the most interesting of party-goers. Her lack of emotion towards life had made her want to hide away rather than meet up with others, but the shining light that is Taeyong, in that bright color of yellow that represents him, seems to have other ideas. “I’m not going, though.”

Taeyong stops chewing on his salad when she says those words, shaking his head at her antics. “No, no. You have to go with me.”

“I don’t think I can,” This brings her to stand up, letting the jersey rest on the floor with the memory of the comfort that once existed…but her insecurity still haunts her. Just like Taeyong at the beginning of their meetings, she was scared. Terrified, even, of feeling too much and then going back to not feeling anything at all. She does care for him, to the point she can’t help but feel that she’ll end up getting her heart broken. Taeyong stares at her with surprise, widened eyes and parted lips. “Sorry, Taeyong. I don’t know if I’m comfortable with going and ruining that party. You know how boring I can get.”

He doesn’t relent, however. “I have said it a thousand times, you’re not boring—”

“That’s what you think, though.” She replies softly, not missing a beat to ruffle his hair before straightening her back again. “I’m going to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

When she turns around, nonetheless, she feels as though she could have cried. She doesn’t, obviously, she could never do such thing in front of people—but this little voice inside her head that tells her to stop enjoying the good things in life is making her sick. it has paralyzed her for years, and it does it again. Never has she concentrated on the sun, but on the shadows instead. Never has she truly breathed without thinking it’s one less particle of oxygen in the air. Never has she seen the hours moving without thinking it’s the death of another day.

Never has she had anyone’s eyes trailing after her when she leaves, wishing she could stay, but she doesn’t even think she can have Taeyong on the long run. Someone like him would only perish under the weight of her heart.

###

This is the day of fear, just like when Taeyong asks her how she is doing and the only thing she can do is jump at the sound of his voice.

Maybe, it comes from the fact that the expanse of Taeyong’s chest can be felt by the skin of her back, or because his arm is sprawled to her side as she prepares yet another chocolate bouquet. Though, her best guess would be that the jumpiness of her state comes from the fact that avoiding Taeyong for the past few days has been her mission. After all, talking about the complexity of her thoughts to him—those that tell her that she is not good enough—is not something that she plans on doing soon. Much less in the middle of her workplace.

Thursday afternoon and Jonoh is somewhere talking to clients, meanwhile Miyoung is doing the same. Taeyong seems to be the only one that is not occupied, instead letting his breaths ghost down her shoulder, shivers rising from her spine to her neck to her arms, his eyes feel as though they are scanning her features when she is wrapping the chocolate bars together, excellence in her movements.

“A chocolate bouquet.” She answers slowly, like the words are coming to her brain in spurts instead of a complete sentence. Taeyong hums at that, pulling away from her the slightest to rest his elbows on the counter, legs extending behind him for leverage while his hands hold his head upright. “Why are you asking?”

“No reason. Just wanted to talk to you.” Taeyong says, playing with the edge of the plastic paper that wraps around the chocolate bars, his fingertips catching her attention for a moment, making her wonder how they would feel if they would slide in between hers, if they spread on top of her waist, if they trailed from her thighs to her knees, thumb caressing the soft skin. “You’ve been avoiding me.” He tells her, voice tiny, and she can’t help but close her eyes tightly.

Her ministrations stop for a second, just before she goes back on track. “I’m sorry. I’ve been having a bad week, that’s all.”

“I know where this comes from.” He points in between them, letting out a sigh when he stops looking at her and instead, stares off into another places of the candy store. Taeyong is more intuitive that one would believe. “And I am also here to tell you that I am not going to that party if you’re not. I feel that as your friend I can only support you, and I wanted to go since I thought you would be going so—”

“Taeyong,” She calls out his name, earning a hum from him when the real chocolates—his eyes—look at her face to guarantee his utmost presence, his habit of listening too closely. “You don’t need to stop yourself from going anywhere just because I am not going. I’m not stopping you.”

Unlike what leaves her lips, however, Taeyong shows his stubborn face—that one that is only seen when he is nagging. “But…it’s not fun if you’re not there.”

This is the magic of him, the reason as to why she thinks she has a sugar high or an overdose…and it doesn’t come from the candy that he gives her, but from the sweet tone of his voice. That sticky nature of his. She shudders a breath in, lets her hands splay on top of the counter when she tries to internalize what he just said. Fun, something that she hasn’t had in a while, a word that she would never use to conceptualize herself, but Taeyong compares it to her. He trusts that in the depth of her cold demeanor, there must be something more.

No one has done that. Not in the past. Not in the present. No one has stopped and stared at her, thought that the world was in her tiniest of smiles, and shared a laugh along. No one but Taeyong. She may be afraid, fuck—terrified, but it’s the good kind. The kind that tells her to try it out before she dismisses it, that she’ll regret not taking the chance of going out with Taeyong, even as friends, to a damned party that could surely be fun with him by her side.

Which is why a smile grazes her features, a bit shaky, a bit uncertain, but this is part of the world. Part of becoming brave. “You promise to stay by my side the entire night if I go with you?”

Taeyong perks up at that, blinking rapidly before nodding. “Why would I not? I’ll stay with you.��

So, for the first time in a while, she’s tired of the tranquil state of not caring—she wants to feel. Raw emotions of happiness or pain, wants to live even if it hurts her sometimes, even if she has to let go of some insecurities to earn some new ones. When Taeyong is by her side, all of these things feel as though they are small, intricate parts of her that have disappeared with time but beg to come out again to start a better reality. One in which she can look at the world without feeling like time has become the same, hours turning into days, days into months, months into years.

“Then, I’m going.” She replies, relishing in the way Taeyong’s smile grows exponentially, moving around her until he is placing a quickened, perhaps shy, kiss on top of her cheek. So brief that it is almost as if it didn’t happen, and a soft chuckle growns on her chest, escapes her nose on its way.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! We’re going to have such a great time.”

And for some reason, she believes him.

###

Pink is the drink on his hand—a cocktail, mixing fruits that in their blended state cannot be smelled by her. On his lips, though, sugar takes part of the rosiness of his lips, puckered up while he speaks, reminiscent of something that happened to him in high school, and while the story is involving on its own, the sound effects that he has to dramatize the entirety of the ordeal is what has her smiling. Tipsy, he may be, if the way he plays with the collar of his black t-shirt is anything to go by, and in his own heat, he had given her the denim jacket that he had paired up with his original outfit.

The party is way bigger than she would have expected once she entered with Miyoung and Taeyong by her side. The house is, apparently and these are Miyoung’s words, shared by a variety of men on their twenties and it shows. The smell of smoke is in the air, there is some table that she doesn’t even dare get close to doing body shots, and some people are dancing to their might. When she had gotten there, people were halfway through getting tipsy, now she fears getting out of the kitchen in hopes of not coming across someone vomiting or worse, someone who is passed out on the floor.

At least, Taeyong is having fun…and with her, that is. His messy black hair is hidden under a beanie in the same color, and he fixes it the more he speaks, back leaned against the counter, taking his dulcet time on tasting the concoction in his glass. And she could have tried some, for the beautiful peachy color does seem inviting…but she is sure that Miyoung will, also, get wasted and she has to be the responsible one and take everyone home safely.

Someone enters the kitchen with commotion, screaming at the top of their lungs about something she can’t quite comprehend. It includes shots, and some other people that are in the kitchen rushing out of there as soon as possible. A secure arm wraps around her waist, bringing her closer to Taeyong’s taut abdomen to keep her away from the masses of people and when she decides to look back at the man holding her, she finds Taeyong staring away. What such luck it is that she never gets to look him in the eye and show the awe within her, that one that begs to explore him as a lover. There is nothing she wants more than to be surprised by him.

“Be careful,” Taeyong says, bottom lip jutting out and a smile shows through her features, letting her eyes inspect his face. The man in question finally turns to look at her, his arm still wrapped around her waist, legs parted to the point it almost feels like he is caging her in place. “Don’t want to miss you here.”

His fingers slowly caress over the fabric of her long-sleeved white shirt, they reach her arm and grip there as if to feel her, every bit of her. “I won’t leave your side.”

Taeyong brings his cocktail up to his lips just when he blushes at her words, and she loves that little bit of reaction she can get out of him from her simplistic words. “Keep that promise.” He tells, making her chuckle, only to be shortened when on his tipsy state Taeyong rests his cheek against the side of her face, pushing her closer to him when he speaks, albeit a bit slurred. “I…am so happy to be here with you.”

Her heart is not racing. It’s hammering. It’s about to go into cardiac arrest from the closeness in between the two, and full of romanticism, she lets herself fall into his touch. “Me, too.”

“I must sound so nerdy and silly.” Taeyong breathes out, the coldness of his lips seeping with every word he says, kissing her skin without touching her.

“You don’t.” She admits. “I like it.”

Her coworker, the one candy boy that has taken over her head for the past few months, lets his lips part before he chuckles at himself. Hard, like his mind is eased into a state in which a flutter is permanently inside his chest. “It’s just…when I think of you, I don’t know how to voice things out.” Taeyong does not lie when he is drunk, perhaps, but just when she is about to part her lips and tell some type of retaliation—perhaps a confession in a similar form, she hears her name being called, momentarily pulling away from Taeyong who doesn’t completely let go of her arm.

Miyoung is standing by the door, her hair pushed away from her face by a ponytail, wearing the prettiest cream dress that hugs her body just right and by the way her lipstick has smudged on the cup on her hand, there is definitely alcohol in her body. “Hello, you two! Want you join me on a game?”

“Not really.” She states, looking over at Taeyong who shrugs his shoulders.

“I’ll stay with her, if you don’t mind.”

“Guys, please. They’re going to do this kiss game and I really want to join, but I don’t want to go there alone.” Miyoung gets closer, tugging at her sleeve and pulling her away from Taeyong to gain her trust. The truth is—Miyoung trusts the world, trusts the people around her and the little games that she plays, believes in youth more than she believes in the consequences of certain acts, so leaving her alone would be irresponsible. Someone like Miyoung should be protected at all costs, any friend should, really.

“Right, it would be mean to leave you on your own.” She says, soon after feeling Miyoung interlock their fingers together to get out of the kitchen. Barely grasping Taeyong’s arm, she keeps the man close to her, for no one gets left behind as long as she is there.

The house is lit in different kind of lights, all dim but in various colors—from greens to blues, to simple whites. People were kissing on couches, dancing the night away, sharing whatever it is that they find from one person to the other, but her mind is taken away from that when she feels someone else hold her hand. Taeyong, having understood the situation in his tipsy mind, grabs onto the skin of her hand with precision, afraid of having her away, and his body caging her with the presence of him feels comforting behind her. Almost as if there is no way anything could go wrong as long as he is there.

Strong, he may not be—at least, not physically, but there is this sense of protection that she feels in the depths of her soul. It eases the ache of her heart and gives it a kind of beat that she has never felt. To trust him did not come easily, but he has earned it. This is what she thinks of when Miyoung sits on the floor, on a part of the circle of people who are cheering with cups on their hands, and Taeyong immediately takes the seat beside her, not forgetting to tell her to put his jacket underneath her for her to be more comfortable.

She wishes she could reach for him, that this fear she has deep within her would not be eating her alive—because for the longest while, feeling was forbidden for her. Now older, perhaps a bit wiser, it seems odd to reconnect with that part of herself that she thought was dead.

One of the people around the circle explains the game. Truth or dare, something that she leaves herself out of when she feels Taeyong’s hand still interlocked with hers, far too preoccupied in the way he stares ahead, listens to others, but doesn’t forget to let his fingertips trail in between hers, rubbing soothingly, reassuring her that there is nothing to worry about. Not when he’s there. Not when he plans to stay.

The feeling is right and it shows in his eyes, when they find themselves commenting on the stupid dares and laughing between each other. Taeyong has completed something, and she feels like it should be the same for him, igniting her mind with images that she could have never imagined herself making out.

Instead, this feeling of tranquility is cut short when someone places a cup on Taeyong’s hand, wrapped softly around it when one of the partygoers speak. “I dare you to either drink this or kiss your girl.”

“Ah, I’m not playing—” The idea of kissing Taeyong has her eyes widening, because she is certain of what she feels, but there is no way of knowing what he feels. This is the part of love that is so complicated, or of any kind of union, because everyone’s mind is a universe and there is no way of knowing what can’t ever be heard.

However, the people around them don’t seem to care, someone beside Miyoung speaking louder. “What about passing a honey candy by a kiss?”

He can only be shameful, the tips of his ears covered by his beanie but perhaps reddened like his face. Taeyong turns to look at her, quirking an eyebrow in question, his eyes showing that panic that sometimes overtake him. There is an unopened bag of honey-based candies placed in between them suddenly, and she thinks of the chance she has in her hands. She has never been the type to act in the ‘ride or die’ way, but the touch of curiousness has overtaken her, much more when Taeyong chuckles. “I’m not sure.”

“We could try—” She whispers, only audible for him.

His smile falls, eyes inspecting her features before he looks away. There it is, that nervousness that he masked as fear. “Are you sure?” Soon after, he’s looking at her, chocolate kisses irises staring at her soul when she opens the bag with shaking fingertips, taking one of the unopened envelopes in between her fingers.

“If you want to.” She says, jutting her chin towards the drink. “I don’t want you drinking any more. You’re already kind of tipsy.”

“Quickly, are you taking the dare or not?!” Someone says, but she can only try to read what his eyes are saying. Speechless, they seem to be.

Just when he puts the hard, yet thin, candy in between his lips, people start cheering, a voice that she recognizes as Miyoung’s saying: “Oh fuck, they’re actually going to do it.”

And this sense of confidence she has never had. Not when Taeyong looks down at her lips, his own wrapping around the candy in a delicate touch. His hand splays on the back of her neck, playing with the little hairs at her nape, and nearing her ever so delicately. Her fingers try to find a spot in which to find leverage, instead resting them on each side of his waist.

This is the man that has given her candy for the past few months, the same one that has waited patiently for her…and she has waited for him, too, lied her way through her head to believe that he was not the one gifting her such things. With her eyes closed softly, she lets out a shuddering breath, one that fans over his cheeks when she confesses:

“I know you’ve been giving me candy as gifts for the past few months,” She tells him, only opening her eyes when Taeyong takes a sharp intake of breath. His eyes have lost that hazy glow, instead inspecting her every feature. “I’ve known it for a long time.”

And she wants to say more—desires to say that she loves every card and stores it as reminiscent moments of being cared for, but the feeling is too strong and Taeyong is just the slightest bit tipsy, giving him a push that has his lips tantalizingly touching her own. For a moment, the touch is brief, but to pass the candy along and taste the honeyed layers of its shape he parts his lips. Delicacy is read in his every action; in the way his fingers relax and that breath that he had held is released against her skin. This feels like it is correct, like the sweetness on her tongue when his caresses against her own does not come from the honey on the candy but from him.

His breaths are slow, felt in the way she holds his snug waist with tenderness. The candy starts to dissipate in her mouth, too thin to last too long, but even then Taeyong decides to be greedy—takes more of her in the way they connect, lips to lips, soon after zoning the people around them when he takes her by the cheeks. Her head is tilted to the side slightly when he gives one last caress of his lips, pulling away the slightest before the sound of his giggle is heard through the air.

“You knew.” He says, and she can’t even open her eyes as she romanticizes this moment. Her fingers pull at his beanie, letting it rest lower on his reddened ears, nodding her head at his words.

“I knew.” And someone is speaking, the concentration going away from them and the cup that had been placed in between Taeyong’s fingers is letting its droplets of alcohol fall to the flooring. “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“It’s okay.” Taeyong finishes, locking the gates of heaven by looking away once again. His fingers reach for hers once again, bringing the back of her hand up to her lips before laughing against the skin, his lips vibrating at the action. “But let’s talk about it when I’m not about to die from a heart attack, okay?”

But she doesn’t know how to conceptualize it, how to shed the layers of her that she needs him to discover. It is more difficult than simply knowing his secret, and the reality of it all is barely acknowledge after a kiss that united heart with soul and turned it into one. For one night, she believes in fairytales. For one night, no taste could replace the one that is his.

###

She breathes out words that she had never found a meaning for. Hope is one of the, in the way her fingers hook around a few pebbles, shadowed by the apartment complex that is right in front of her—Taeyong’s address. Nervousness eats at her, surely, keeps her tranced while she moves the rocks in between her fingers, lifts them up, lets them fall to her palm and repeats, not missing the way her heart skips since today is Monday. The first Monday after that kiss shared on Friday, when she practically had to watch Taeyong down two more cocktails before dragging him back home on the bus, hearing his rants that matched the nonsense inside his drunken brain.

Time is such a precious thing, one that she had wasted for many years. She thought that time passing meant nothing, since it’s only a concept that has never been proven by science—no one knows what the end is, or when it will be, neither do they know beginnings. The differences between past, present and future blurred for her, but if she’s certain of something is that her future desires to be conformed of Taeyong, to have him smile at her, kiss her lips at his will, give her more than candy but that heart of his that has never lost its essence.

A part of her wonders if the game, the gazes and the dare had put him in a position in which, truthfully speaking, he could only kiss her. He could have backed away, separated from her to simply forget about her existence, but he didn’t. Left her speechless, he did, to the point she shivers even when her jersey is covering her shoulders and she has been standing outside his apartment for more than twenty minutes by now, thinking of throwing rocks to his window to get his attention.

…But that’s impossible, now that she thinks about it. Taeyong lifts in one of the highest roofs.

Sighing is what she does, kicking the flooring with numb steps when she realizes that this is more difficult than she had anticipated. Taeyong may have given her all those gifts, but what do they even mean? He could have kissed her, said plenty of beautiful words…but there is always this voice inside of her that wonders about the ‘what if’s’ of their situations. Tired of doubting, she hopes that one step forward is enough of an initiation for her to get inside the building, hence look for Taeyong on the way—

“What are you doing?” Someone asks her and the voice has her letting the rocks fall on her feet, hands coming up to her ears to cover them, even when the one was soft. Once she looks at the source of such voice, she watches Taeyong with one hand wrapped around his backpack, the other coming forward to hold her shoulder, eyes widened. “Oh, damn, you okay?”

“Taeyong, don’t creep up on me!” Her voice lifts slightly, letting go of her ears to speak to him properly. For a moment, Taeyong remains expressionless—that is until happiness takes over him and he nudges her side.

“Someone’s jumpy today, I see. Any reason?” He asks, a teasing tone matching the glint of his eyes and dare she say that she actually confesses something that day.

Life may excuse her today for irrationality, because she really likes Taeyong. As in, a lot. “You.”

“Clearly—”

“No, Taeyong, I mean that I’m jumpy because I wanted to talk about the kiss.” His eyes don’t divert away from her, as if he has passed the days of nervousness and exchanged them for seriousness. Waiting, he does, and for the first time in such a while she needs to speak a lot. Hooking her fingers around a strand of hair that had fallen on her forehead, she sighs. “First, I don’t need you giving me more candy. It was cute while it lasted, but I’m not in for candy theft—”

“I wasn’t stealing,” Taeyong says, and that is enough to have her world turning upside down in the best of ways. “I bought all those candies for you.”

With a soft, barely there, smack to his shoulder, she retorts. “Taeyong, you must have spent a lot of money.”

“I didn’t.” He continues, letting go of his backpack to keep it resting on his shoulders. “It’s candy, not a diamond ring.”

With that, something lifts up from her shoulders and her mind gets filled with the idea of having him. Past a letter or a smiley face, only to lay her reality in front of him, hoping for him to take it. “Also…” Her voice trails, fingertips playing with one another. “I like you, okay? That kiss…uh…it meant something to me, and I would like to know if you like me.”

His laugh is so joyful that his nose scrunches up, his hand expanding until his thumb is resting on one of her cheeks and the rest of his palm is on the other. Those bags that she has always adored rest under his eyes, lips only closing when he leans forward to rest a fleeting kiss to her lips. “I wouldn’t have given you all those notes if I didn’t like you, silly.”

Her arms wrap around him, perhaps stealing a breath away from him, but now with him in her arms, she feels a sense of serenity. His heartbeat is soft against her eardrums, eyes closing in the delight of having him so close—of having him in a pre-sense of love. Taeyong has stuck to her heart, and she doesn’t think she will ever get him out of her system.

Not when, in perspective, he’s the sweet she likes the most.

#taeyong scenarios #taeyong #nct scenarios #nct #kpop scenarios #writing #taeyong au #taeyong fluff #nct au #nct fluff #candy store worker!taeyong

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artsyxloner · 3 years

Text

Not Just a Monster

Warning: blood, cussing

6: The vote

I stared at the boy Crouching down next to his limp body feeling his pulse, to check and see if he was still alive or not. He most likely was but I felt a smooth regular beat.

I stared at him strangely knowing that fall should have killed him. Getting ready to pick him up and drag the boy out of here I was stopped by two people coming down the stairs.

It was a man and a young girl, he had a sword with a shield and the girl with pink Streaks in her hair was holding a bat and a guitar case.

" was he with you guys?" I asked not sure. They both nodded, it seemed they were out of breath telling by how they were huffing and puffing.

They gathered around him, " is he dead the girl that had screamed asked. I shook my head. " No he's still alive, I checked." She Gave me a confused stare. " how?"

I was getting ready to answer until the Man with the samurai sword beat me to it. " he's infected, he won't die." He told her short and simple.

He's infected his words Kept repeating in my head he won't die. He was like me I thought as we all picked him up and dragged him in the front room and was met by the guy in round glasses.

He kept looking at someone I noticed it was the girl that screamed. " Eun-yoo, are you okay?" He asked her, they must know one another. But she Ignored him walking away with her bag in hand.

They must be brother and sister, " what's wrong with him?" He asked staring at the unconscious teenage boy. " Fell," I informed leaving the infected part out because if everyone knew they would just throw him out.

I didn't care but at the same time it's not right. " he dead?" I shook my head. " but infected." The girl spoke up with the pink hair.

" take him into one of those rooms and we'll figure out what to do with him. You are the survivors right?"

" Yeah, there's more up at one of the apartments still. You're the man guy from the speaker right?" The boy with round glasses nodded.

" yes, I'm Eun-Hyuk." After our introductions, we placed the boy in one of the rooms that looked like a hang-out space. Laying him on one of the mattresses they had stored in here everyone left except me.

Eun-hyuk put me In charge of watching over him. In the meantime, I had put up his Electrically Charged Speer that looked like it was made from an end of a broomstick and a Kitchen knife and wires wrapped around it with duck tape.

The boy I didn't know the name of was still passed out, he had blood coming put from the back of his head I could tell because it was making his longish dark hair all wet and stuck together plus it was dripping on the mattress.

Taking out my duffle bag I had someone bring me. I think her name was Ji-Soo I grabbed my medical supplies that consist of antibiotics, Ointment cream and bandages, and antiBacterial wipes.

I had stolen from someone's car since his back was facing me laying on his side I took out my wipes cleaning the back of his head adding a little pressure to stop the bleeding it soon did after a minute or two. Then putting a huge thick pad and Securing it with medical tape.

I checked for more wounds and found some right near the edge of his neck and collarbone were too long Gashes. I repeated what I did with the wipes making sure it was all clean and put two huge bandaids on them.

I didn't know why I did know he was going to heal it just I don't like seeing opening wounds. Throwing the plastic paper and blood-stained wipes away.

The boy moved in his sleep like he was having a bad dream. His head kept turning, he was probably going to wake up going over to him he, shot up which I jump back a bit.

He was breathing hard as he looked around to see where he was. " those were some nasty wounds you got there." I pointed, he Ignored my statement.

" where am I?" He asked, his voice hoarse. " beats me I just got here not long ago, I think it a place where people like to hang?" I shrugged.

" and the other two?" He asked worry was in his voice. I smiled down at him. " they're okay, they were worried for you though." I informed him, he signed in relief. " you know you should worry about yourself," I pointed again to his wounds he seemed to notice and felt his neck.

" I bandaged you up but I shouldn't of bothered because you would heal soon. it's whatever." I then searched in my duffel bag for something, finding it I gave it to the boy.

It was a bottle of water, he looked at me then the water as if I did something to it. " don't worry I didn't poison it." I Insisted screwing the cap off taking a sip. " there if I die You'll know." I laughed.

He just nodded taking it, chugging it down. He must have been real thirsty? " you shouldn't be around me I'm infected." He blurted out, setting the empty bottle of water down.

" so? We'll all get infected one way or another." I sat down next to him, " plus, if I did have it there no use in fussing right it's not contagious." He was quiet but gave a Single nod.

" so how long?" I asked wanting to know how long he's been holding out. But got stopped by Eun-Hyuk. "Soo-Nico, we need you in the day-care-center." He notified, I nodded wondering what they need me for?

" where is that?" I asked, just follow the group they will know." Getting up from the Mattress I said my byes to the boy, that I still didn't know the name of.

I followed some girls going into the day-care-center. Everyone was talking Among themselves but then saw me and got quiet. The grumpy old man kept eyeing me sending me death glares.

He got up from his seat as I leaned back on the door frame folding my arms. I wonder what this was all about? " it's her and that boy there both monsters!" The old man said out of the blue, but the Woman with the Pomeranian spoke up.

" How can you be so sure she's one? She didn't give off any signs?!" She fussed, backing me up when she didn't even know me. I was going to give the Wrinkly old bat an earful.

" shut up Hye-in!" he yelled at her then turned the two people that walked into the room it was Eun-Hyuk and the teenage boy. "You're all out of your minds you brought monsters in here!"

"Monsters?" Eun-Hyuk Emphasizes the word as if meaning more than one. " you know him and that bitch!" The old man turned towards me.

He brought out a yellow box cutter knife and pushed the blade up near my neck and to the boys. " don't you guys dare turn!" If he thought I was scared of his short ass he was Gladly mistaken.

" got it you crazy monsters!" I rolled my eyes, this seemed to anger him. " I'll cut your throat myself you fat cow!" He stood there pointing it more at me in Particular.

Hence the name-calling was that Necessary, wonder what I did to piss off the shorty? " leave her alone." A voice broke out it was Eun-Hyuk

This made the man turn to him, " pardon?" Eun-Hyuk stood his ground, " there was no indication of her being a monster, Suk-Hyun." So that's what his name was.

" but she came in from the back, and was covered all in blood and ash, she must have come from the outside?!"Suk-Hyun protested. " that could have been anything she could have fought the monsters and got blood all over her?" Eun-Hyuk Suggested, he was partly right.

" I'm not going to throw her out bast on Opinion." That was the last thing he said before he left. Taking Suk-Hyun with him. I was glad to take a seat in a chair.

Playing with my torn-up sweater, " you okay?" The teenage Boy asked I nodded. " are you from outside?" I stopped at what I was doing. And looked up at him.

" if I was is that okay?" I said with a question, his eyes peered down at the floor. " tell me will it make a difference? As I said anyone could get infected inside or out you just have to wait your turn." I Snickered, at this bullshit.

" name?"

" huh?"

" what's your name? so I don't have to keep referring you to a teenage boy," I stated. He must have been shy because it took a few for him to answer. He seemed Awkward.

" Hyun-Su,"

I made sure to remember his name, but it was like nothing special to me at the given moment. " what do you think they're doing in there?"

Hyun-Su shrugged, " we'll I'm going to go check, they said they needed me, you coming?" Hyun-Su shook his head, " Okay, suit yourself." I walked into the other room.

To see what the Commotion was about probably about me and Hyun-Su because Suk-Hyun was standing in the middle running his mouth as usual.

Everyone was all gathered up, while Eun-Hyuk was standing in front of a Chalkboard, writing on it. Turning around he declared " eight of us voted yes, seven of us voted no...if one of the two last votes are in favor he'll be kicked out."

I frowned so they were voting if he got to stay or not? if they found out about me I would be judged if I wasn't already. " seven people Opposed? Are you all crazy?" Suk-Hyun scowled.

" opposed, eight to eight." Eun-Hyuk Announced, " damn it!" The old man cursed under his breath then noticed me. " you aren't supposed to be in here?!"

I Scoffed, eyeing him up and down.

" why still think I'm a monster?" I raised an eyebrow and passed him bumping his shoulder for the second time. " Fuck Bastards like you." I smiled This Earned a snicker from Eun-Yoo.

" anyways does my vote count? Because I should get a say so? I mean he should at least get a chance right? he's still human." I went up to the table to cast my ballot.

Seeing the others X meant to stay and O meant go casting my vote I put it in the Slot. You can pretty sure guess what I picked. " I bet you picked opposed didn't you little bitch!"

Suk-Hyun Cursed me, for the second time today. " don't get to worked yet, up the last vote will determine the results?"

Eun-Hyuk stuck his hand in the slot and picked out a yellow Piece of Sticky note. I would be lying if I didn't say I was worried for the last vote because if it's would be like taking in murder if he got expelled.

Pulling it out he stared at it then flip-it over, " Opposed," I let out a breath and smirked seeing the look on Suk-Hyun face. He Snatched the piece of sticky note from Eun-Hyuk not believing it.

" No way!" He grumbled Turing to a guy in the back. " hey? Hey! Bring that bastard here!" The guy in white pointed to himself. " you mean me?"

" yeah! We have to get rid of him!" Suk-Hyun demanded as the guy seemed hesitant at first in going. " voting my ass!" Suk-Hyun sneered and threw the papers my way.

" I bet it was your vote? Huh did you forget someone just died!?" He got I'm my face. " are you against the result?" I questioned this seemed to make him blow up like I hit a fuse.

"What did you say? Your just a kid you don't know squat! Murder is killing a human being not killing a giant fucking monster!" Suk-Hyun snapped.

And pushed me down to the floor, everyone gasped backing away, I clenched my teeth together ready to attack the son of a bitch for putting his hands on me when I hearing a dripping sound.

I saw it was Suk-Hyun his nose was now pouring blood. I was glad this happened he Deserves it from being so selfish and greedy from what I've noticed. The tables have turned and they better stay that way.

His wife began to cry I don't know why she is though he's mean to her. He began to make his way over to the group of people but they backed away saying stuff like don't come near.

But his excuse was he was just tired, you don't get a nosebleed from being tired. He held his nose as his shirt was getting covered in his blood.

He tried to walk out of the room but was stopped by Hyun-Su, he took a glance at me then back at Suk-Hyun. " you better Brace yourself."

" what?" Suk-Hyun eyes went wide with fear. " The monsters are coming for you." Hyun-Su warned. " you son of a bitch!"

But he just passed him and bent down picking up the sticky note that had an o on it. " can I cast my vote?" He was about to throw it in but stopped. " if I put this in, he'll be thrown out too, right?"

I saw Hyun-Su's eyes go black, " Am I right?" Suk-Hyun didn't say anything but whimper staring at the boy before him as blood continued to run down his nose. But he eventually passed out.

#sweet home #cha hyun su #kdramaedit #sweethomeedit #song kang #sweet home netflix #webtoon #webcomic #fanfic #kdrama spoilers #kdramaspace #netflix kdrama #kdrama #sweet home series #sweet home webtoon #sweet home spoilers #monsters #korean show

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47-shades-of-hitman · 3 years

Text

In Your Likeness | Chapter 4 - So it begins

Your nimble fingers fiddled with the small folding knife, twirling it around in between your fingers, barely grazing the sharp blade. Your index finger hooked into the small metal loop on the hilt, giving it a firm twist around your digits, building speed. Then, with a firm movement of your lower arm and wrist, you hurled it into the dummy – right into the artery, buried deep within the neck.

Agent 47 sat a little away, observing you. The training outfit he wore was a bit too tight to be comfortable and the band-aid they insisted for him to put over his tattoo itched terribly. His blue eyes scanned your face – calm and collected, something he could find himself in. However, something else shimmered in your eyes, and he was unsure of what it represented.

“You’ve attracted yourself quite the audience.” he stated, referring to the group of teenagers, who had gathered to gape at you from the glass wall, a few meters away. You shrugged, waving it off.

“I’m the best Assassin the Brotherhood has, of course they’ll watch. They need to train to be like me one day.”

You looked over at them and smiled a little. When you winked, they shyly scurried away, like bashful toddlers hiding behind their mother’s leg upon eye-contact.

“You frighten them.”

“No.” you countered. “They imagine themselves in my stead.”

47 kept silent, eyeing you with slight interest. “So, you can throw these knives pretty well.”

“Thank you.” you said. “Mind showing me some of your skillset? We need to get familiar after all.”

He stood and walked over, leather of his garment snug against his skin. It unpleasantly creaked upon movement.

He drew his ICA Silverballer and aimed it at the dummy.

Before he could take the shot, however, you deeply sighed next to him.

“Long range? How dull.”

He raised an eyebrow before gunning three – four – five dummies clean in the head.

“You were saying?”

You walked closer to one of the dummies, inspecting the bullet hole freshly ripped into the plastic doll.

“Long range combat can be dangerous. There is no way to silence the target in case you miss, impact by missed bullets can be heard, if the bullet passes through, who knows where it will end up. And, you cannot quickly pull them behind a corner, immediately out of unwanted sight…”

“It’s critical, though. You carry a firearm on yourself, too. Unsilenced, not to mention.”

Unholstering your revolver, you handed it to him. “Small, convenient, hardly used. Almost obsolete with those bad boys on me.” You flicked your wrists in the air, revealing your hidden blades.

“One quick stab, silent and effective.” you concluded.

Agent 47 nodded at the dummies.

“Care to show me?” He walked over to them and readjusted their positions. “Let me sketch you a situation.”

You agreed, standing on the place where he wanted you to be. Within a minute, he had shifted all mannequins around.

“Imagine this. You’ve just eliminated a target and want to slip away, but the only way to do so is through the door, where a lot of guards are watching closely. They have noticed some ruckus, so they are on high alert. Think fast.”

“Six enemies… Fifteen seconds, how’s that sound?”

“Try it.” Agent 47 stated, stepping back. You deeply inhaled through your nose, crouching as if you had indeed been sneaking around to kill a target, and began your dance.

Thwack! One of your throwing knives buried itself into the head of one of the dummies whilst you grabbed the other around the throat, slashing your hidden blade across its neck before pushing it to the ground.

Then, you jumped on forward, kicking one straight in the back, making it topple over. You used its body to propel yourself into a flying kick, moving your wrist forward in the gesture. The heel of your boot hit one doll on the right spot to knock them out.

Upon landing, you burst your blade through the throat of the dummy you had used to launch yourself. Another throwing knife into the one you had theoretically only knocked out.

At last, you ran towards the final practise doll, sliding down to the floor to sweep it off its feet by using the force of your arm, blade slamming into the chest as you turned your body.

Slightly out of breath, you stood up, dusting down your attire. 47’s eyes were focused on you, slightly narrowed. “That took you twelve point twenty-eight seconds. Hardly leaving a chance to react and there’s barely room for error on your part given that you’re a skilled killer. Overall, I must say that it’s impressive.”

You smirked, putting your hands on your hips. This compliment coming from the strange hitman in front of you caused an inexplicable tightening in your gut, but you didn’t pay it any mind. It was probably the fact that he seemed to stare right into your soul, and he could either read your mind or your deepest secrets.

“So, what about you, now?” you suggested, breaking the silence. He blinked, flexing his fingers at his side.

“Of course. Give me something – Anything.”

You hummed and went to work. After a few minutes, you had made up a scenario.

“So, this dummy right here is our target.” you placed your hand on the shoulder of one of the dolls.

“In order to get to it, you need to get past guards. However,” you continued, “The door is locked. What will you do?”

Agent 47 scoffed. “Within fifteen seconds? That’s impossible.”

“I don’t care about your speed, Tobias. I want to see your approach.”

He was reminded of the other Assassins training in the same room upon your usage of his alias.

“What do I carry on me?”

“No lockpicks, crowbar, or keys. How about this…”

You tapped your chin as you looked around the room, walking over as you spotted what you had been looking for. You pulled a chest towards the set-up and found a long plank soon, too. You positioned in such a way that it was resting against the long side of the chest.

“This is an open window… And you have to scale the plank to get to it. You start right there.” you pointed at the area which you had designated to be the starting point, “I’m curious to see what you will do.”

Agent 47 took place where you had wanted him to and stretched his muscles.

“Ready?” you asked, adjusting a stopwatch to a counter of zero.

“Always.”

“Right, go.”

And off he went – knocking out a few dummies, subduing another, hiding effectively behind an imaginary wall consisting of a wooden bar to stay out of the enemy’s line of sight. He used coins to distract a few guards, if there had been any, and you moved them around to pretend that they were actually going where 47 wanted them to go.

When he eliminated the dummy by using a fibre wire, your stopwatch told a minute and a half.

“Nicely done, I must say.” you praised.

A sudden presence next to you made you momentarily tense – you had heard her approach, but her voice was so sharp that you shuddered.

“Well, well… I didn’t know we had a new recruit!”

“Hey, Sigrid.” you greeted with a wry smile.

“You seem like you know what you’re doing…” Sigrid spoke to 47, voice sickly sweet.

Agent 47 remained neutral. “Yeah. I transferred from Romania per experiment.”

“Romania… Interesting.” Sigrid twirled a lock of her black, dyed hair around her finger. “What’s your name, handsome?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you turned to the training ground in order to put everything back in place.

“Tobias Rieper.”

“How wonderful to meet you, Toby! My name is Sigrid Andres. I originate from Finland. They had me transfer here ten years ago when (Y/n) and her brother proved not strong enough. And now I need to fill in for even more empty space, since he died and all.”

Your body immediately tensed up even more than it had before – anger swelled in your chest and you had to resist the urge to punch her in her face. “Otherwise, (Y/n) wouldn’t have been able to keep up with the work Mr Howard throws her way. She’s a bit slow, if I’m honest. I believe it’s… A family trait.”

Agent 47 replied: “I’m sure that she can manage just fine on her own. She is a very capable Assassin.”

Your humourless smile was rueful and you fought the tears blurring your vision, turning to Sigrid.

“You, of all people, have the least right to speak ill to my family after everything you’ve done.”

Your voice was sharp like a blade and contained unspoken fury.

“Go take a chill pill, (Y/n). You seem a bit agitated. You should get yourself checked out because you’ve been acting strange lately.”

A scoff built in your throat and came out louder than intended. You poked a gloved finger at her forehead, pushing her back. “A chill pill , is that what the teenagers are saying these days?”

“Not keeping up with modern-day media, old nag?”

“Want me to break your nose again?” you proposed with a scowl.

Sigrid turned away from you and towards Agent 47.

“You’re wasting your time, handsome… Come train with me instead. (Y/n) is an amateur. Perhaps I can show you a few… Massage techniques while cooling down. The showers are very spacious.”

She smiled, disgustingly sure of herself and her caked-on beauty.

“I’m not interested.” 47 deadpanned.

“I’m sure you will be eventually, handsome. All the men around here long for a taste of Sigrid and you’ll soon find out why…” She bit her bottom lip, winking at him. “Hope to see you around.”

She swayed her hips with every step of her departure, attempting to be sexy and hoping to hold his attention. You facepalmed, sighing deeply.

“Sorry about that. She’s always like that.”

Agent 47 hummed, looking at you, blinking a few times. “I figured that you didn’t really like each other.”

You laughed humourlessly, scowling. “That won’t even start to describe it. I loathe her.”

Pacing over to one of the dummies, you continued tidying up the training floor.

“We need to brainstorm a technique. We have a few more days to prepare, so I suggest we meet later, after washing up.”

The idea of taking off the tight training outfit was liberating to 47. “Sure.” he agreed, following you to the locker room. Gathering your belongings, you looked at him. “I always shower in my own quarters, and I suggest head for your own. The young recruits always shower here after training or school, and trust me, you don’t want to know how much hair is clogging those drains.”

You halted at the flight of stairs – one went up, where he had to go, and one went down, where your quarters were. “Meet me here at eleven-thirty.” you said.

“Noted.” Agent 47 said, ascending up the stairs to the room he had been assigned.

You went down to your quarters, rushing over to your bedroom to take a clean set of clothes.

Since you were one of the top-tier Assassins of the Brotherhood, you had been given private living quarters. It resembled more of a dorm, with just a few basic pieces of furniture and a small bathroom on the side. The kitchen area was adjacent to it, shared with a few other staff-members. The lower ranked members, like Sebastian, Miranda and Sigrid, had to deal with shared bedrooms.

Taking a lukewarm shower, you cooled down your body, scolding yourself for not taking enough time to do a real cooling down while in the training area. The whole run-in with Sigrid had you on edge and you wanted nothing more than to relax. Sighing, you washed up quickly until all sweat had made place for the soft rosy scent of your soap.

Your casual attire was fairly simple, and you threw your hair into a bun. Knowing that it was warm outside, you put sandals on your feet.

“Hey (Y/n).” Sebastian greeted. “Care to have lunch with us?”

Miranda and he sat at the kitchen table, a whole tray of sandwiches in front of them.

“It’s not like we can finish all of these on our own.” Miranda tried to convince you.

You smiled and shook your head. “No, thank you. I need to go upstairs, I have some unfinished business.”

After taking two sandwiches and stuffing them into a brown paper bag, Sebastian threw himself into the doorframe you were about to walk through.

“(Y/n)!” he said with feign hurt. “Won’t you tell us about that new Assassin, the transfer from Romania?”

“What about him?”

“Well,” Seb continued, “You and him seemed to have fun during training.”

You shrugged. “You probably read in the report that it’s an experiment. We need to observe each other the next few weeks. Also, why were you watching me during my training? Actually, don’t answer that. I need to file a report about this first training, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Brushing past a protesting Sebastian, you made your way to the hall where you had agreed to meet Agent 47. He wore a black suit combined with a red tie, the one you had seen him in during your first encounter.

“You may dress more casually outside of mission and training, Agent 47.”

He blinked. “I prefer this outfit.”

“Alright, your loss. It’s searingly hot during this time of day. Follow me.”

You lead him through a few halls, going through several doors and finally, ascending a ladder.

“Where are we going?” he quizzed.

“The roof.” you said, “Come on.”

Pushing open the trapdoor, you climbed through with 47 following closely.

The sun stung immediately and you worried that Agent 47 might get terribly sunburnt, opting for a place in the shade, against a broken air-conditioning unit.

47 stared at you for a second as you sat down, opening the small box you were holding.

“Sit down.” you urged, patting on the spot next to you. “Trust me, you’d rather eat lunch here than downstairs. Sebastian won’t stop talking.”

“Sebastian?”

“My friend. Come on, sit. If we’re not allowed to kill each other, let me at least try to become your acquaintance.”

A bit hesitant, Agent 47 took the place next to you and you held out a sandwich. He looked at it for a few seconds. “I don’t really eat all that much.”

“It’s just one sandwich. It’s good, take it.” you said, “You need to eat. Muscle building and all.”

He took it, and for a minute, you sat eating in silence, looking over the scenery of Jerusalem.

“Beautiful city, isn’t it?” you commented, immediately unsure if 47 would find beauty in such things.

Gesturing towards a spot in the distance, you explained. “See the golden dome? That’s the Dome of the Rock, built on the Temple Mount. Well, a mount… It’s more of a hill, really, compared to the rest of the city. Gorgeous building, especially if the sun shines on it. Behind it, not in our sights, is the Al-Aqsa Mosque.”

“I believe the Wailing Wall is near there, too.” 47 added.

“Correct.” you said, “The epicenter of Judaism. There’s very strict security around all of those places.”

You shifted, finishing your sandwich, wiping the crumbs off your hands.

“Jerusalem is the epicentre of religion and politics. I can’t think of another city deemed this holy by so many cultures. I sometimes wonder how it is, though. To be able to hold onto something divine.”

47 hummed to acknowledge that he had heard you, though not certain of what to make of the comment.

“But it makes for a great cover-up, too. I don’t believe any other city is as strictly guarded as Jerusalem. Guards on every corner and in between. Tension.”

You rubbed your chin thoughtfully.

“Inside the walls the religions tolerate each other provided that they all stay in their own quarter for as far as they can, and then, only to a certain degree. Outside of here, however, they’d kill each other in a heartbeat. You’d be good to stick to my side. I know this place like the back of my hand. It’s my turf.”

Agent 47 huffed. “Still, you hadn’t noticed me roaming about those days?”

You rolled your eyes. “I have superiors who handle things like that. I just do the field work. A bit like you, actually. You take the ICA’s orders. Or your Handler’s.”

He was silent, staring at the distance. The sound of civilization was drowned out by the distance you had from it, the noise of cars honking only faint. The mosque’s call for prayer was audible from far away.

“We’re not alike.” 47 said. “I’m genetically modified.”

“You go by the name of Agent 47. Where does that come from? What’s your real name?”

“I was born at the hands of a man named Ort-Meyer, and he gave me that name. Five men funded his project with both money and their DNA in order to create a superior army of killers. The Five Fathers, they’re called. I’m one of many clones, several types before me. Needless to say, it didn’t succeed, since I’m here, and I’m the only one left.”

Your heart climbed into your throat. “You… You really have no name, then?”

He shook his head.

“Oh.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it.”

You folded your hands on your lap.

“When I was a teenager, I was briefly informed of rival organizations. The ICA, the Magpies, the Guild of Apache… We never learned about Ort-Meyer, though. We were always told that we were the ones in the right, at all times. Our motto is after all, ‘we work in the dark to serve the light’. But I still believe in what I serve is the truth.”

Looking over your shoulder, you eyed 47. “You, however, are void of emotion, are you not? Just what I heard from the rumours about you.”

“More or less.” 47 said.

“Do you stand for whom you serve? I know you’d die for the cause, but do you know why you would?”

Agent 47 looked at you, narrowing his eyes. “They give me purpose. I owe them that much.”

You shook your head. “No, 47, I don’t think so. What I think is… That you know nothing else. You were created to be a killing machine and that’s all you’ll ever know how to do. Also a bit like me.”

His jaw tensed and you stared at him for a moment before continuing, “I was created to be a killing machine, too. Born from the seed of one of the Masters, born out of my father’s love for my mother, but still, in the end, it was planned out for me. I knew how to kill before I knew how to speak. It is all I’ve ever known, and I will never know anything else. Outside of this, I’d be lost, like an orphan abandoned at the side of the road in the slums.”

You stood up, dusting down your pants before grabbing the paper bag you had brought with you, shaping it into a ball. You pressed it against you, feeling the sun in your face as you eyed 47. He still sat on the ground, gaze fixated upon you.

“It might seem miles off, but you and I are alike.”

When he didn’t reply, you started to walk away towards the door again.

Upon hearing footsteps behind you, you halted, smiling a little before casting a look over your shoulder.

“I need to know more about the Brotherhood of Assassins.”

You hummed. “I can tell you more. But under one condition.”

“And that is?” he quizzed.

“I want to learn more about you.” you said.

“There’s not much to tell.” was his answer.

“Then tell me everything there is to tell.”

He gave you a small nod. With that, you headed back inside.

#agent 47 x reader #agent 47 x female reader #Assassin's Creed X Hitman crossover #Agent 47 #Hitman #In Your Likeness #reader insert

8 notes · View notes

caidenisct797 · 3 years

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best bows for the money: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

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If an archer is Doubtful on how much can a compound bow shoot a particular arrow, they ought to evaluate from the bottom with the grip to the top on the bow. This would be the load in the arrow. They might also evaluate how significantly the arrow will travel whilst continue to during the bow's arbor. This length is generally known as the "no cost-throw" of your bow. Most arrows have a regular length that may be known by most archers.

Figuring out how significantly can a compound bow to shoot an arrow is crucial to taking pictures a far better archer. Each particular person arrow has another kinetic Strength. The heavier an arrow is, the more kinetic Electrical power it has. The shorter the arrow, the a lot less Power is retained throughout the vacation phase. For that reason, understanding the distance of an arrow will journey is important.

Quite a few knowledgeable archers will tell new compound bow hunters that prolonged shots are more practical than quick ones. It is because for a longer period photographs allow the hunter to engage and disengage their bow from a lot quicker prey. To evaluate how significantly can a compound bow shoot a certain arrow, a person will have to establish how considerably the arrow will vacation when entirely drawn. Most professional bowhunters shoot many pictures with an individual bow, so this length will likely be difficult to determine. A superb rule of thumb is always to shoot for around one particular tenth of the lawn through the string right before releasing the bow.

A longer arrow demands a lot less distance for the arrow to vacation, so a shorter arrow allows for greater successful range. One more factor to notice would be that the arrow is now touring at an increased velocity, which raises its kinetic Electricity. Which means the arrow will expend far more Power when achieving its greatest speed or distance. The equation to Learn the way much can a compound bow to shoot an arrow is: Effective Array in feet - kinetic Power of length/time. Certainly, the extended the arrow, the higher the Power used over the shot. Alternatively, the shorter the arrow, the more kinetic Vitality with the arrow has, plus the shorter it takes to reach its maximum variety or flight velocity.

Another element to notice is the attract body weight of the bow. Attract weights, which can even be referred to as archery tools, let with the angle from the arrow to become set though capturing. In case you draw using your fingers, the arrow can have a all-natural arrow bend within the knuckles when released, but a draw weight boosts the angle from the arrow that can set much more power about the arrow. As an example, a heavier arrow will fly straight and at a greater velocity than a lighter arrow. Lightest arrows are referred to as flies and therefore are applied principally for archery education or follow.

How considerably can a compound bow to shoot an arrow is determined by lots of aspects including the draw excess weight of the bow, the arrow's archery content, the archer's ability, and perhaps how good the weather conditions are. If 1 has no clue about how much their bow can shoot an arrow, they ought to question a specialist archer for help. Even if they know how far they are able to shoot an arrow, it is still imperative that you preserve fantastic type should they intend to make any money taking pictures arrows.

The best way to Retailer A Compound Bow In Your House - Basic Guidelines for Fantastic Archery Storage

For The majority of us archers, we previously understand how to keep a compound bow within our residence. It can be safe, simple to access and is on the market at any time from the calendar year. Even so, Were you aware that it's important that you should know how to store a compound bow in your property as well? A compound bow is a very large piece of kit and like every other large and high-priced instruments, it should be saved in a secure position the place It's going to be protected against The weather. You may not be aware about it but you will discover things that might cause harm to your products particularly if they're not effectively stored.

There are two major areas that you ought to retailer a compound bow in the house. A single is definitely the shooting location, which need to be dry and Secure. Another ought to be the storing location for just after use only. Here are a few tips on how to keep a compound bow in your home:

When looking at how you can retail outlet a compound bow in the house, the first thing that you've got to have a look at is its place. In an effort to hold it safe, It's important to set it far away from drinking water and heat sources. The exact same rule applies to the humidity amount also. This is because humidity has a tendency to deteriorate the issue of one's bow. Make sure that you keep it considerably from these sources of dampness or else it'd crack.

Another tip on how to retailer a compound bow in your property is how to shop it adequately. Which means It's important to get it in the ideal storage container so as to preserve it in best ailment. For this, you are going to 1st really have to evaluate the internal component of the archery bow after which you can buy a proper storage container for it. Remember that there are 3 varieties of storage containers which you could Select from. For instance, you may Opt for a bag or a rack, a box or simply a container. When you determine tips on how to retailer a compound bow in your property, it is possible to go ahead and buy the appropriate storage for it.

When investigating how to retail outlet a compound bow, the same rules use to its sight also. In actual fact, It's important to just take additional care together with your sights if you wish to preserve its integrity all of the time. Contrary to other bows, compound bows include fiberglass or carbon fiber sights. And to protect the previous, you could area them within a case even though storing the latter in the scissor-folded bag.

Apart from storing your bow inside a proposed fashion, An additional suggestion regarding how to store a compound bow in your home is making certain that You usually have its situation with you. This could ensure that you do not take the bow outside of the situation for just about any motive. Even if you are traveling, it is best to always carry its case along. Try to remember, the last thing that you'd want is to lose your bow since you forgot to pack it in its circumstance.

The following tips regarding how to retail outlet a compound bow in your own home are by no means an exhaustive list. Nevertheless, they are a lot of the Principles that you may want to consider. When you comply with them diligently, you can find that you'll be a lot more ready to keep up your compound bow in pristine situation for an exceptionally very long time. Just in case you forget about any of the following pointers regarding how to shop a compound bow in your own home, you can also check with the assistance of your pals which have a penchant for archery.

A lot of the folks you understand would suggest which you retail outlet your bow with your garage. If you have the Place and In case you have the spending plan, then by all implies go for it. You'll be able to keep it in the sturdy crate that will guard it very well. If you're on a tight spending plan, you could select a simple plastic box that will function your storage box. It can be your choice how you can keep a compound bow in your house.

How to Hang a Compound Bow Effectively

Are you currently trying to find how to hold a compound bow over the wall? It's not as tricky as you might think. In fact, It is really really uncomplicated and can preserve you numerous of time in the long run.

Initially off, you have to decide on a significant place for your new bow. An excellent spot to hold a compound bow is over your head. You don't need to acquire it hanging out of your nose. This may result in an damage, especially if your bow comes off accidentally. Apart from, it's probably not a safe solution to retail outlet your bow.

The second move in how to hang a bow over the wall is to locate a very good wall hanger. Now I really know what you're contemplating... a wall hanger is simply a basic previous hanger that you just use to hang up shots or apparel. Completely wrong. There are actually wall hangers specifically made for individuals such as you who're capturing bow and arrows and wish to safe the limbs for the wall. They also are available in many additional possibilities than an everyday hanger would.

One example is, you can find motorbike hook and bike hook mounted hanging kits which make mounting your bow uncomplicated and rapid. Hooks on the back again with the legs within your taking pictures bench or simply a wall hanger, or maybe mounted on your door or windowsills. In addition they look excellent. And they assist your compound bow stays continuous for the duration of tense times. They are often altered up and down also, retaining your bow from shifting during a nervous instant.

So the place do you get a established of such? Very well, hanging a bow is just not tough to do but obtaining the excellent setup, specifically for your compound bow, is usually challenging. This is why I wrote this informative article. In this post I'll Supply you with a few easy methods that will let you mount your bow and setup your taking pictures bench so that you could dangle your bow thoroughly. Try to remember, all you may need are pliers, some thread, a drill, and screwdriver. Let's start.

Step one in how to hold a compound bow is to secure a couple of low-priced pliers and screws. Put a person screw in Each individual gap that retains your limbs in place and screw them up limited. This will Be certain that your limbs cling straight when they cling in the wall.

The second stage in how to hold a compound bow hanger is always to use your bike hook and bicycle hooks mounted package. Use this package to hang your bow hanger in precisely the same way that you choose to connect a scope on your rifle. This will reduce the vibration in the string causing misalignment of your respective limbs and can help you save a lot of funds around the life span within your bow. Also, do not forget your rubber mallet!

Final, and most important, the third stage in how to hold a compound bow hanger would be to screw the legs onto your wall, getting the screws several inches past the corner and into your drywall. It is possible to verify which the legs are screwed in by thinking about them by way of a little hole while in the corner. With all the legs on the wall, use your bicycle hooks and cling the bow up as higher as you happen to be snug with. This can stop the burden within your bow from warping the wall, and it will also make sure your bow stays place When you're hanging it!

The final action in how to hold a compound bow hanger will be to established your cable ties in between The 2 bicycle hooks. To do that, it's essential to very first put in some cable ties in between the cable rings on the wall. Once you have carried out this, take the hanger and little by little tighten the cable ties up into placement. Future, reduced your hanger into put, and after that connect it to your wall. Ensure that the cable ties are securely tied to stay away from harm to your walls.

Ideally soon after looking at this text you'll know how to cling a compound bow hanger accurately. Ideally you'll give your bow that little bit of extra assistance and ensure it won't change or go When you're shooting it. If you should swap a bow hanger, you should definitely Examine the maker's instructions. On top of that, several makers give no cost hangers along with your get. Which is A further fantastic motive to buy online - you can get to cut down your delivery expenditures.

Ideally now you know how to hold a compound bow hanger effectively. Ideally you can give your bow that little bit of extra assistance and ensure it will not shift or change while you're shooting it. If you need to replace a bow hanger, make sure you Look at the producer's Guidance. Moreover, several manufacturers provide cost-free bows with your buy.

Just how long Does a Compound Bow Very last?

A compound bow is a pricey piece of kit that you need to not get for granted particularly when you may have just gotten 1. Having said that, there remain loads of people who find themselves not using them but only watching what they spend on their own products. The amount of cash that you shell out will identify how much time does a compound bow final you.

In accordance with the science Supported by true user suggestions and scientific details, a compound bow basically lasts for approximately fifteen to eighteen several years. This is certainly raise by about a few to 4 periods if you change various elements of the identical compound bow. One other variables incorporated the attract excess weight, the sights, the limbs, the axle nut as well as the wrap about knobs. The length of time that it takes relies on the way you keep your bows And the way you shoot them in addition.

The 2nd factor viewed as in how much time does a compound bow previous is just how long does it basically keep a complete load. This issue is predicated on the idea that you get enormous draw power from it every time you utilize it. It's important for you personally to make sure that the attract power that you simply apply to it really is a minimum of equivalent to that of a completely loaded bow with an analogous draw pounds. You can reach this by practicing on an vacant compound bow along with on an entire-attract bow loaded with arrows. The test of chronograph as opposed to arrow is The ultimate way to gauge this.

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The third element is the quality of the string that you use for it. The components that happen to be accustomed to make your bowstring will determine how long does a compound bow string very last. You'll want to Get the strings from dependable companies to prevent acquiring faulty merchandise that won't give you the high quality that you just count on.

In answering the concern how long does a compound bow previous, the durability of its axle can be an important component. This aspect connects The pinnacle of your arrow to the rest of the shaft. Because of this, if this axle is damaged, the arrow will have issue in shooting straight. The top types of axle are produced from carbon or aluminum which provide the shaft plenty of toughness to resist impact as well as offer stability for a longer time.

The other point that you ought to look at when Finding out how much time does a compound bow previous is exactly how much drive it gets while in use. Most modern compound bows have stiffer shafts which decrease the level of wrist action that it activities even though in use. Moreover, some of them function more robust and heavier products earning them additional immune to impression at the same time. When picking an arrow, generally check for its stiffness to know how it responds to a sharp blow.

How much time does a compound bow lasts also is dependent upon how much time its string stays undamaged. Because the string is connected into the limbs, the string is checked for its durability employing a strain gauge. The gauge's numbers usually show how long it requires right before a string breaks immediately after pulling a string.

The final facet of a compound bow is its mechanical launch. A good a person really should have the ability to lock right after Just about every attract despite how hefty the string is pulling. Its lock really should be independent of just how long the string is getting pulled. The mechanical launch also determines just how long a compound bow will last because it determines how properly it may be used.

Taking suitable care of the compound bow is usually vital that you how much time it'll very last. Though the string is locked, it is actually very important that it's stored from tangling While using the limbs. This will likely be accomplished by thoroughly keeping the string employing a wrench on when you are taking it out and by hardly ever wrapping the string within the limbs in almost any way. Additionally, the string really should hardly ever be compelled far too much since this can cause breakage. And lastly, it is actually very important the string isn't subjected to really large temperatures considering the fact that This tends to influence its lifespan.

The final aspect to take into account when thinking about how long a bow will final is how very well it really is preserved. Most compound bows have an instruction manual or maybe a highlighted guarantee that information all routine maintenance processes. Preserving the string clean up and utilizing Exclusive cleansing components like compressed air to eliminate corrosion and mildew is essential on the longevity with the string and the bow by itself.

Compound bows are truly great resources for archery since they allow their end users to shoot stronger and speedier than ever before ahead of. They also enable consumers to exercise with their expertise without worrying regarding how prolonged it is going to consider them to improve their muscles back or simply how much dollars they will have to expend For brand new bows. Taking right treatment of these and making certain they remain in very good form is the best way to get essentially the most Additional resources out of them also to get pleasure from them For many years to come back. These tips will make certain that your arrows usually do not quickly crack aside or do not halt Operating also rapidly, that is what most really serious archers attempt for.

How to Carry a compound bow

Learning how to hold a compound bow will not be generally a sure bet. On the other hand, Studying how to hold a compound bow does not have to generally be a disheartening knowledge. Should you understand how to carry a compound bow as part of your back again pocket, It'll be reasonably simple to get for the wilderness with no fatigue carrying your archery products. This article will deal with some practical recommendations and knowledge for carrying your compound bow and the proper approach for carrying your bow.

Prior to deciding to even try and find out how to carry a compound bow, you are going to want to make sure that you may have your products jointly. Very first you will have to acquire off your arrows or other shooting equipment, then you'll want to wrap up your coat or another substance that you are feeling at ease carrying with your arms uncovered. You should wrap the material up in the cloth so that it is not obvious by your coat, and It's also advisable to Guantee

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thorne93 · 4 years

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Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 25)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 3716

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy, @carryonmyswansong, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Spencer sighed as he threw his ready bag on the floor next to the bed in the hotel.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you apologized.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, looking at you with such anger it baffled you. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that look.

You frowned. It seemed to come out of nowhere. Spencer was understanding. Ever since you’d made your peace he hadn’t had one negative thing to say towards you. Now he was suddenly accusatory again?

“I told you what I was thinking,” you reiterated. “We’ve gotten inside the minds of these people for years… I just… I wanted to stop them for once.”

"We’re supposed to think like the unsub, not become them!"

“Don't tell me that after fifteen years of getting inside their heads the thought hasn't run through your head to just stop these people, dead in their tracks. No way to keep wreaking havoc on society."

He raised his voice, responding, "An errant thought is one thing but you buddied up with a serial killer!"

You stared at him for a second. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say I'm sorry? Well I'm not," you all but growled. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I betrayed our trust. But I am not fucking sorry for the lives I saved by getting those scumbags off the street. You of all fucking people should understand that."

“I thought you picked him because he’s supposedly so good.”

“Well he’s killed over thirty people without raising suspicion,” you reminded evenly.

“Yeah, except for the nearly twenty bodies tying both of you to the murders,” he countered.

“How could you keep me in the dark? Could you really not trust me?” he asked, anger and disbelief in his face and voice.

You frowned. “You didn't trust me enough to tell me our colleague, our friend, is in love with you. How in the hell could I tell you the truth?" you asked, exasperated. A look of frustration crossed your face as you threw your arms out beside you.

“Those are two completely different things, Y/N,” he firmly stated.

"It's not two different things. I hid my secret from you, and you hid yours from me."

He pressed his lips together in a hard line, clenching his fist. This meant he was past the point of pissed. "I didn't tell you because I was worried about how you'd take it. But why didn't you tell me about all of this? Did you really not trust me?"

With a hopeless look in your eye, you responded, "Did you honestly expect me to?"

“Of course! I thought we were the type of couple who told each other everything.”

“How could I? You kept JJ from me, not to mention telling you I’m a serial killer? What exactly do you think I was supposed to say?”

“Keeping JJ from you was entirely different.”

“You keeping the JJ thing from me is far worse than me killing some people."

“How can you even say that? How does it even compare?" he demanded, his hands waving wildly.

You held your hand up, ticking things off your fingers. "Check the history. We've both killed in cold blood. But only one of us hid a romantic secret with our coworker."

“I can’t believe you’re actually comparing the two. Has the gravity of the situation even hit home for you yet? Do you realize what kind of danger you’re in? That I’m in?”

“It’s fine. Dexter will handle this, and anything he can’t handle we’ll divert the team's attention.”

“What, so we’re just supposed to lie to people we’ve worked with for a decade?”

“Yeah, I mean… we both have,” you quietly said. “It shouldn’t be that hard.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t like what he’s made you,” he retorted, pointing at you.

“He didn’t make me this way. Don’t blame Dexter.”

“Oh? Then who should I blame?” he snapped.

“Why do you need someone to blame?” you cried out.

“Because I can’t believe the sweet, compassionate woman I married is capable of this. What I saw out there… those bodies, mutilated. I can’t imagine you approached someone like Dexter and actually asked him to show you how to do that. I just… I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Yeah, well when you dosed those drugs in the jail with poison without a second thought, I was taken aback too. Guess we’re both capable of things the other one never imagined.”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and clenching his fists. “Look, I just… I’m just upset because if you had told me before… If you had told me you wanted to this… I don’t know, maybe I could’ve stopped you or made sure you were at least doing it as safely and effectively as possible.”

“I know. I know you want to protect me. I’m sorry for putting you in this position.”

He gave a slight half smile, almost as if thinking of something humorous to himself.

“You know, I never have understood it.”

“Understood what?” you wondered idly.

“You and Dexter were meticulous, right?”

“Yes.”

“You told me about all the plastic, the dumping, the erasing of paper trails--”

“Right,” you prompted, hoping he’d get on with it.

“So why, when I suspect you of something, did you fold immediately? I mean, why put in all that effort, time, attention to detail if you were just going to tell me the moment I could tell something was off?”

You looked at him, an amusement in your eyes. “You honestly don’t know?”

“No,” he stated firmly, shaking his head.

“Because the thought of losing you to anything but the truth was unbearable. The idea that you could think I was cheating was heartbreaking. At least if you left me, it would be for the right reasons, for things I actually did. If it was anyone else, Emily, Rossi, Matt… I could’ve lied right to their faces.” Before you knew it, tears were in your eyes and you buried your face in your fists. “I’m so sorry, Spence. I didn’t mean to get you involved.” You raised your head, swallowing some of the tears and the lump in your throat. “If we get caught, promise me you’ll feign ignorance.”

“What?’ he asked, baffled. “No, I won’t--”

“Spencer, there’s no reason for both of us to go down over something that was my choice. If they find out I was involved, I want you to pretend like you never knew. If you got punished for this, it would break my heart. Please…”

He nodded for a moment, pressing his lips together in contemplation.

Spencer looked at you with a look of… love. That’s all you could describe it as. The same look you saw on your wedding day, the first time you made love, when you were found safe after an unsub had taken you hostage. He put both hands on the side of your head.

“I love you, so much. I’m going to keep you safe and protected, alright? I won’t let them get to you.”

------------------------

“Any updates?” you asked as you met the team in the morning, tossing your bag down.

“No, but that’s why we’re gonna look at the victims,” Rossi announced.

“Oh,” you said, trying to calm a shaking voice. “Yeah that makes sense. Let’s get an idea of how this guy operates with the victims in the last hours,” you agreed. You were holding on to remembering that this needed to be a case like any other. You had to be a profiler, not a serial killer on defense. Well, to be fair, you really needed to be both. But in order to fool your colleagues, you had to be the best profiler on the team still.

With that, the BAU team, Batista, Masuka, and Debra walked outside to the large tent where the bodies lay. A forensics technician stopped all of you before handing you paper aprons and gloves, a signal to suit up before entering.

Why did your heart feel like it was about to explode? Your gloves were soaked on the inside. You kept flexing your hands, opening them then closing them, hoping it would soothe you or calm your nerves. Nothing was helping though. You were about to be face to face with these bodies, some of them your victims.

All of you walked forward, past the plastic curtains and suddenly eighteen bodies were in front of you.

Someone just sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.

Nausea hit your gut like a wrecking ball. And it wasn’t because you were disturbed by the bodies, sadly. It was being face to face with how close you were to marching down death row yourself.

Everyone slowly dispersed into the room. You wanted to chance a glance at Spence, but decided against it. He was probably focusing on the bodies anyway. Either to study them for his own curiosity, or to keep anything from throwing up a red flag.

You followed suit and walked in casually, eyeing the victims. Most of them stood out to you.

Berry Cooper - you studied his case before meeting Dexter. His body was unidentifiable, at least just by looking at it. But the name cards helped after they were identified with dental records.

Kevin Mott - you helped Dexter lure this guy to his death. You could still tell who he was. He was instantly recognizable to you and the evening you helped get him away wasn’t one you were incredibly proud of. You pretended to be a drunk girl “looking for a good time” when you enticed him out of a bar and into a dark alley where Dexter was waiting. Guilt and pride swelled unusually within you as you stared at him. You wanted to look away, but you knew if you grimaced, the team would notice.

Shannon Reynolds - She was one of your victims. Her...well you couldn’t feel sorry for her. She did awful things to innocent creatures. You cut her up yourself, Dexter’s insistence. He said you would need to know how to do this when you got back to Washington. Although clearly that plan fizzled out.

You heard your team and the Miami team talking but you were tuning them out. So many bodies… So many… pieces of evidence.

“Why did the killer cut them up like this?” Batista asked.

“Ease of disposal,” Masuka suggested.

“Or for fun,” Debra added. “You don’t kill this many people because it’s a chore. You do it because you like it.”

“What kind of sick puppy likes this?” you muttered, hoping it would add to the narrative that you weren’t any part of this. “Alright, well that helps the profile,” you added before huffing out air.

The lot of you finished your rounds looking at each body before you went inside. You pretended to work on the cases and not know intimate details of the case for hours before you went and found Dexter. He was in the break room.

“Hey, got a sec?” you asked as calmly as you could, so no passersbys would get suspicious.

“Sure.”

He walked towards you and you leaned into him. “So I’m seriously freaking the fuck out,” you whispered. He glanced down at you before looking around.

“Do you think you could get away from here for a bit?”

You glanced down the hall into the conference room. “Yeah, they’re hitting brick walls. I think I could excuse myself for dinner.”

“I’ll grab my keys. We’ll go to my place.”

“Okay.”

You followed him to his lab, he grabbed his things, and you two left in his van.

“Did I tell you how much I love your new car?” you joked.

“No, not yet,” he said before laughing. “It actually has a lot of cargo room that comes in handy.”

“I bet,” you said, your tone loaded.

You rolled the window down and let the heat and ocean breeze waft into your face. You tried to let the drive calm your nerves a little bit, but your shaking leg said different. Once you were inside, dex offered you a beer, but you declined, shaking your head.

“They took us in the tent,” you began.

Dexter nodded, leaning against his counter, eyeing you as he drank.

“They were all there, Dex,” you continued, your throat getting tight as your chest began to constrict. “Your victims, my victims. I… I didn’t realize until now… We’re fucked. You know? This isn’t some lazy investigation. This is the BAU, we haven’t found a case we couldn’t solve. I found you all by myself. I tied you to these disappearances long ago.”

“You’re better than your team, you know this, I know this.”

“But they’re going to find out. If I can do it, they can. They’ll follow the trail back to you, and it’ll lead back to me. I just…. I didn’t think about it until they were all right there, right in front of me. They’re all evidence of what we’ve done. Physical, cold, hard, proof in your face, evidence.”

Dexter put his beer down before looking at you. “What can they prove other than some people were killed with various tools and instruments?”

“I don’t know but--”

“But nothing. We’re fine. We’re gonna be fine,” he assured. He took a step towards you and smiled at you. It wasn’t the fake smile you usually saw that he put on for so many people. This was genuine.

“Really?” you asked, your body still wracked with nerves.

“Absolutely.”

---------------------

The next morning, you and Spence met with the team to go over any new leads. You, Spence, and Dex needed to discuss what happened if some form of evidence did turn up, how you would divert it, but at this point in the game, all you could do was wait. So far, they had confirmed that thirteen of the eighteen bodies had felony records.

Great. This meant they would be down the same rabbit hole you were soon. It was very difficult to walk the thin line of “smart enough to be a profiler” but “stupid enough to not be the killer.”

Rossi announced this and Matthews responded, “Organized crime.”

“No, no organized crime or affiliation with gangs,” Rossi countered. “However, we do have one thing. They were all either tried for muder or suspected of murder.”

“Well, we already knew that,” you reminded, frowning. “How does that help? I already questioned everyone here in Miami PD. I thought it might be a vigilante but…”

“Then we need to dig further into the profile,” Luke offered. “What else would want to make someone be a vigilante, if not for their involvement with the law enforcement?”

“It might be a county policeman, or maybe even a state policeman,” Spencer stated.

“Or, it could be someone who had a loved one murdered,” Rossi said. “Maybe they’re trying to exact revenge for them.”

You asked, “Want me to have Garcia get the last unsolved murders going back fifteen years in Miami?”

“Make it twenty,” Rossi stated. “We’ll start there.”

“On it.”

You called Garcia, trying to keep the smile off your face. If you could keep leaving breadcrumbs like this, maybe you could lead them away from you and Dex.

“Speak and be heard, oh wise one,” Garcia greeted, and you had her on speaker.

“Hey, sugar,” you said with a warm grin. “I need you to get me the last twenty years of unsolved murders in Miami.”

A pause hit the phone line.

“Garcia?”

“You do realize that will be an extensive list, right? Like… this is Miami we’re talking about here. Crime is--”

“72% higher than the national average, and In Miami you have a 1 in 22 chance of becoming a victim of any crime,” your handsome husband interjected. You peered up at him with a look of impressiveness and adoration.

He smiled back at you, thankfully, the notion warming your heart.

“Right, thank you boy wonder for pointing out the terrible and the obvious. What I’m saying is, it’ll take a long time to get you that list.”

“That’s fine. Just get it to us,” you assured.

“I’m already on it. Garcia out.”

The line cut off and you grinned at Spence. “What are you going to do?”

“Geographical profile,” he answered simply.

“Ah, I’ll be right back then,” you said.

You headed back to Dexter’s office.

“What’s up, doc?” you teased, walking in and handing him coffee you picked up on the way in.

“Nothing much. Analyzing some blood from a crime scene this morning. Oh, and get this,” he said.

“Hmm?” you hummed after taking a sip of coffee.

“Rita thinks I’m a drug addict and is forcing me to go to AA.”

You frowned. “Uh, come again? How does--”

“The late nights, the shifty way I act when I come over. She caught me in a lie. She actually thinks I might’ve killed Paul or had something to do with his death.”

“What the fuck?” you whisper screamed. “And how the hell is AA going to help this situation?”

“It’s fine. She thinks we got into it over some junk. I lied and said I’m an addict. The group is actually helping. I just plug in the word ‘heroin’ for ‘killing’ and speak about that.”

“You realize this is absolutely mad,” you said, shaking your head. “There is no way this isn’t going to blow up in your face. You don’t even have any needle marks for God’s sake. How does she miss that?”

“Rita is… obtusely perceptive.”

“So I noticed…” you muttered.

“How’s the chase going?”

“Slowly. I’m putting Garcia on some leads,” you explained. He stopped and stared at up at you, forgetting his microscope altogether.

“Are they--”

You shook your head, signaling this would put both of you in the clear.

Just when you were about to speak again, Masuka came running in. “Dex, FBI chick, you’re not gonna believe this. I got a huge break in the Bay Harbor case.” He smiled before running toward the conference room.

You and Dex traded a look of sheer terror before you all but threw your coffee on his table and followed Masuka.

“So I found algae,” he began and you stood next to Spencer, incredibly close. Your knees felt weak. Your world slowly crumbling again. Every step Miami and the FBI got closer to the truth of this case, was another crack in your foundation. You were so close to your husband your arm was pressing against his. You knew he could feel the need to be comforted resonating out of you, but if he held your hand in a professional setting like this, it would set off alarms to your team members.

“Algae?” you questioned. “How does that help?”

“It’s microscopic, and there are over hundreds of thousands of kinds, right?”

“Alright,” Luke said, shrugging. “So you think this type can help tie us to the murderer?”

“It’ll tell us where he at least keeps his boat. It should narrow down the marinas,” Masuka explained.

“That’s great work,” Rossi complimented.

“Thanks. I just need a marine biologist to come in, confirm some things on this, then we can start the hunt.”

“Great news,” Luke said.

With that Masuka left. You wanted to run to Dexter, to tell him to get his boat the hell out of the dock. Hell, burn the sucker down, because the noose was tightening. But you couldn’t. You had to wait. If you ran to Dexter right now, or any time soon, it’d look fishy. You two being friends was one thing, but hanging around him, whispering in corners already raised unwanted attention, you didn’t want to do that again.

“Alright, well while we wait on that, I think we need to figure out what the link these last five victims have,” Rossi stated. “They weren’t officially tried for murder, but maybe their families or friends may know something we don’t. I’d like us each to reach out, see what we can find.”

All of you nodded and mumbled some form of agreement before heading out.

Of course you knew what you’d find when you went to talk to your victim’s family. Dexter had explained each of his past kills to you. It was part of your training. You tried to pretend to pull information from them rather than fill in the information you shouldn’t know. It was rather easy. They cracked pretty simply.

Spencer met you back at the station.

“Let me guess,” he started, “that was a waste of your time?”

“Not a complete waste,” you commented jovially. “But I didn’t learn anything new. And you found out your vic is suspected of murder.”

“Yep.”

“So we need to tell the team.”

“You know they’re close to a profile, right?”

“I know,” you said. “But we’ll deal with it… right?” you asked, peering up at him, worry starting to trickle into your veins again.

“Absolutely.” He took your hand and kissed the back of it.

-------------------------

The shift ended and you and Spencer were walking to your car when Dexter jogged up next to you two.

“What’d they say?” he demanded.

“Hello to you too,” you said with a sly smile.

“Is this funny to you?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve never seen you flustered,” you noted with a grin.

“Algae,” Spencer deadpanned. “They found aglae on the bodies. They think they can identify specific regions it comes from.” He stared straight ahead, a look of subdued anger on his face. You’d seen it before, a few times. Right now, you hated that it was aimed at Dexter.

“So...if I can ruin the evidence…” Dexter began and you peered at him, waiting for him to continue. “Then… that’ll kill one lead.”

“Essentially,” you stated. “Got any ideas?”

“A few… I’ll see you later, okay? Thanks for the tip.”

“Any time.”

Dex went his separate way towards his car, and you and Spence walked towards yours.

“What do you think he’s gonna do?” he asked, watching as he walked away.

You joined him in peering after him. “I don’t know, but it’s probably brilliant.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#inside the criminal mind #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #dexter #dexter fic #dexter morgan

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its-ya-boi-autumn · 4 years

Text

Butterflies/Chapter 7

Hello again! I am SO SO SO sorry for the wait. I guess I had more to write than I thought I did, school started up again, and then a bunch of stuff happened with a close friend, so I nearly didn’t have time to finish it. But here it is, chapter 7, this took way too long to finish, and I’m sorry 😂 it is literally 4 am, I hope you enjoy this ~

Celestia’s eyelids fluttered closed, her head leaning into her hands on her desk. Her temples throbbed with the thoughts running through her head from that morning. What was he thinking right now? She was sure he was upset about having to stay an entire night with her, but he didn’t seem too off about it. He still gave her that gentle smile and told her to try and have a good day, right? A sigh resounded in her chest. Celestia couldn’t help but feel guilty for asking him to come over in the first place. She should have known better.

Despite her terrible feeling, his voice still bounced around the walls of her brain. The gentle melody replaying over and over again. Such a sweet sound. His words hummed in her ears, creating a warm feeling of comfort in her stomach. It made her smile subconsciously. Try to have a good day. Even after the shit show that was the previous night, he still managed to be sweet to her.

A slam shook her desk and her head. She jolted up, opening her eyes to meet Mrs. Sheila’s dark brown ones. The mere displeasure swirled in the pools of her iris’s.

“Dozing off again are we Miss Fae?” Mrs. Sheila’s voice screeched. The noise hurt Celestia’s ears so bad she thought they would actually start bleeding. It was so shrill compared to Chrollo’s pleasant lilting. Celestia tried to keep her eyes wide open to look as if she hadn’t been dozing off. She was still tired from waking up so early, however, she knew better than to pass out in a class. Especially this one.

Celestia shook her head, desperately reaching out for the words to try and explain herself. Mrs. Sheila didn’t seem the least bit accepting of the answer she wasn’t given. She stood at her full height, a tall woman with a long neck and dark skin. Her graying hair pinned up neatly into a too-tight bun to give her a sophisticated appearance. Pair that with her strangely tight-fitted dresses and her awful triangular glasses and you had what everyone would call “The Witch”. Though very cliche, the name suited the woman almost to the letter.

“Care to explain just what you were doing then?” it sounded as if she had shrieked her vocal chords to the point of maximum volume, though Celestia knew all too well the woman could be louder.

“I-I haven’t been feeling well,” she started, averting her eyes from the woman in front of her to pick at her cuticles again, throwing the thin layers of skin onto the carpeted floor, “I’ve had quite the headache this morning. I apologize for the disturbance Mrs. Sheila.” Celestia noticed she had begun to shake with how distressing the situation was becoming. Other students had begun to stare, curious as to why their lecture was being stopped. To most, it might not seem like much of a big deal, however, in Celestia’s case, detention was very much a big deal. She had no idea what her father would do to her if he had to leave work early to come and get her from school. If he would come and get her at all, that was.

An irritated groan came from Mrs. Sheila, almost childish. She rolled her eyes, setting the book she used to ‘wake’ Celestia up with back on her desk. The woman briskly stepped over the carpet to the wall phone near the door of the room. She smacked her finger against the keys, typing a number in. Celestia felt the tears already welling in her eyes.

“Hello Mr. Otis, I have a sick student down here, are you free?” she had called the nurse. It was better than the school dean for now.

“Yes... Okay, I’ll send her down immediately.” and she hung up without a thank you or a goodbye, tramping back to her desk for a slip. Celestia didn’t stand until Mrs. Sheila finished scrawling over the baby blue slip and slammed it down on Celestia’s desk.

“You can go nap in the nurses office until the end of class.” she spit down at the girl. Celestia made to grab her bag to leave.

“No no! You can leave your things here and come retrieve them when class if over. I’ll have a few words with you when you return.” she clamored on. Celestia released her bag strap and nudged her chair back, pushing it in quietly before quickly leaving with her head down. The paper crumpled in her small hands. She couldn’t even bring her phone to text Chrollo while she was away in the nurses office.

Mr. Otis’ office wasn’t too far from the history wing. Just a few hallways down and she could find all of the school offices in one spot. She kept her head down as she rapped her knuckle on the open wooden door. Mr. Otis glanced up from his paperwork, grumbling to himself in an irritated manner.

“What is it now, Fae?” Celestia could already hear the many complaints he’d have about her. Celestia often came down to the nurses office complaining of stomach aches and fatigue from not eating enough at home. Though, she never told anyone of this out of fear from her fathers reaction of the ‘news’.

“I haven’t been feeling well this morning... my head has been throbbing all day.” she picked her head up to look Mr. Otis in his miserable eyes. The man seemed so tired. Deep wrinkles created the illusion of age though Mr. Otis was only in his early forties. His short stature didn’t help either, what with his scoliosis that he never stopped complaining about to go with it.

Mr. Otis sighed loudly, turning to grab some equipment off of his desk. Celestia stayed where she was, waiting for him to perform the minor procedure he did on everyone else. Mr. Otis set up the thermometer, sheathing the long tip with a plastic covering to avoid the spread of germs from other students. He wasn’t merciful in anyway as he stabbed the frenulum under her tongue with the tip. Celestia refrained from gagging. Mr. Otis closed her mouth by clamping his hand under her jaw and forcing it up.

“Don’t bite down! You’re gonna ruin my equipment child!” he grouched. Celestia couldn’t open her mouth to protest that she hadn’t been trying to. After a quiet beep, Mr. Otis ripped it out from under her tongue and squinted down at the numbers on the screen. He rolled his eyes.

“Your temperature is perfectly fine kid, but I know Diana isn’t letting you back in that damned classroom.” he pushed a button to shoot the plastic covering off of the thermometer into the mini trash can under his desk. He hobbled over to a doorway leading into a dark room. He flipped a light switch on to reveal some blue beds with no pillows, paper placed over the leather to keep everything clean.

“I’ll let you lay down until class is over I guess.” he mumbled to her, holding the door to the room open. Celestia bowed to him in thanks even though it wasn’t custom at the school, or in her country in general. She just felt it was a kind gesture. She stepped into the room, Mr. Otis shutting the door behind her with a loud slam. Celestia jumped, looking back to see him through the window, sitting back down at his desk and continuing his paperwork.

She turned her attention to the room, then down to the slip in her hand.

He didn’t even take the slip...

Celestia bit her lip softly, grinding the skin between her teeth. She checked the clock above her head on the far wall. She only had about twenty minutes. Gulping, she sat down on the bed, the paper crinkling noisily underneath her. She tried to stay quiet in the room as not to disturb Mr. Otis during his work.

Celestia laid her head on the bed, trying to relax against the stiff leather. She curled her legs up against her chest, her hands folding under head head to form a makeshift pillow. She tucked the slip into her hands so she wouldn’t forget about it before she left to go back to class.

The bed was awfully uncomfortable. Celestia tried several times to adjust without making too much noise, though she figured now that Mr. Otis most likely couldn’t hear her anyway. The walls and the door were pretty thick, so noise wouldn’t travel very easily. Time was moving slowly and by this point she was starting to become anxious about her phone. What if Mrs. Sheila had gone through her bag? Though she wasn’t supposed to, Celestia wouldn’t put it past the woman to get into any students’ business just to get some sort of leverage to get someone in trouble.

What if she found Chrollo’s number? It would have been the first contact in her text messages. They hadn’t exchanged anything vulgar, though if Mrs. Sheila found out and ended up telling Celestia’s father, Celestia would be screwed even more than she already was. A detention on top of a strange man messaging her was like asking for death on her part.

She tossed and turned, the paper practically torn off the bed by now. Celestia knew Mr. Otis would throw a fit about it, but she was beginning to feel drowsy. The throbbing in her temples had calmed down from the less intense lighting and the relaxation of laying down. Finally able to close her eyes, she made an attempt to sleep soundly.

~§~

The door to the dimly lit room clicked, allowing the floral lighting of the nurses office to flood in invasively. Celestia turned back over, sitting up and adjusting her skirt.

“Your time is up kiddo, the bell’s about to ring. Better get a move on before that woman raises hell on me.” Mr. Otis griped lowly. He kicked the doorstop under the door so he didn’t have to sit there and hold it open for her. Celestia felt a pang of regret pierce her chest. She had passed out, yet it felt like she hadn’t relaxed enough. She could never relax though. This new individual in her life had begun to create a type of stress in her that she didn’t expect. She felt as if Chrollo couldn’t be found out about. He was special. She wanted him all to herself.

Celestia let herself stand, dusting off her skirt and tugging on her shirt to rid of anything else. She quietly stepped out of the room, standing in front of Mr. Otis. He gave her an annoyed glance.

“Um... you have to sign this still...” she set the slip in his desk, her hands shaking violently. Mr. Otis let out an exasperated sigh, snatching the paper up and scribbling his name and the time on it. He threw it back at Celestia who caught it in the midst of its flutter towards the floor. She didn’t hesitate in leaving the office immediately, wishing Mrs. Sheila hadn’t forced her to leave the classroom in the first place.

Her steps were quick through the halls, eager to get back to the room before the bell rang. She’d rather not be stampeded as she tried to enter. Just in the nick of time, Celestia had made it in front of the door, avoiding the force of it as it swung open heavily. Student poured out in the hallway, not even noticing Celestia pressed tightly against the wall. A few bags had managed to hit her in the chest and the face. She raised her arms to block them, but to no avail. Eventually the hallway cleared enough for her to slip back into the classroom.

Mrs. Sheila was sitting at her desk, her back completely straight and her eyes narrowed down at a stack of papers on the desk. She glared up at Celestia.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back.” she tsk-ed, setting the papers aside and folding her hands on the desk. Her mouth quirked in an annoyed manner. Celestia picked up her bag first, placing the straps over her shoulders before standing in front of Mrs. Sheila’s desk.

“I apologize, Mr. Otis-”

“No more excuses out of you young lady, I’ve had it this afternoon.” Mrs. Sheila cut Celestia off with the smash of her hands on her desk. Celestia jumped back, covering her mouth to hide the gasp that barely managed to still in her throat. Celestia felt Mrs. Sheila was being a bit over dramatic, though she kept the bought to herself. The Witch stood to her full height to appear dominant over Celestia. The method worked with flawless excellence, forcing Celestia to feel the utter superiority before her. With her hands planted firmly on top of her desk, she leaned over into her face.

“Care to explain why you were falling asleep in my class Miss Fae?” she tilted her head, blinking rapidly. Celestia remained in her position with her hands pulled up defensively to guard herself as if the woman would strike her. She had no words. She hadn’t been trying to, the light had just been bothering her. Of course, this wouldn’t be taken as a real answer. She’d be accused of lying again.

Mrs. Sheila stood waiting for her answer. She never got one. She scoffed, sitting down again and opening a drawer behind her desk.

��Fine then, you can explain in detention after school this afternoon!” she slapped the slip onto her desktop. In bold black letters at the top of the half sheet, DETENTION was written with a date and time, Celestia’s full name scripted in bright red ink in the bottom right corner.

Tears burned her eyes again, her hands suddenly deathly cold and trembling even more than she thought possible. She couldn’t do this. This could absolutely not be happening. She couldn’t afford a detention. She’d had a perfect record and made sure she strictly stuck to it. All of that was ruined. She’d get a call home. They’d tell her father. She was fucking dead.

“I will see you in my room after seventh period, understood?” Mrs. Sheila brought Celestia back down to reality for a moment, though her head still spun. She grasped the sheet shakily.

“Y-yes ma’am...” she whimpered. Her lips formed a tight line and she turned in her heel, ready to leave. She then remembered she didn’t have a late slip, meaning a tardy would now be piled onto her already growing misfortune. She would have asked, however standing in that room for even a moment longer may have given her panic attack more time build up and cause a scene. Celestia struggled to get her breathing back to normal before walking halfway across the school to get to her Robotics class. The teacher there was relatively forgiving, so maybe, just maybe Celestia didn’t have to take the tardy home as well.

The bell had just barely rang as she entered the room. Miss Woodley didn’t even notice Celestia walking in late. The woman wasn’t necessarily the nicest, but she was better than Mrs. Sheila. Woodley minded her business and really just gave the class time to work on their projects that they were given. She didn’t have a stroke when a student pulled their phone out of their bag to text someone, so long as they were doing their work.

Celestia did exactly that, despite the lesson for the day not having started. She knew she could have waited for a little while longer, but she needed to tell Chrollo what was going on.

You: My history teacher gave me detention and I have no idea what to do...

Chrollo: Well, did you do something to deserve it?

You: My head has been hurting all morning, so I closed my eyes to block out the bright lights and then she yelled at me, sent me to the nurse, and then when I came back to get my stuff she gave me a detention slip!

Her thumbs were shaking over the screen. Everything was going perfectly fine today and then she had to mess it up. All because she couldn’t keep her eyes open for a few minutes more.

Chrollo: Did they call your dad?

So he did know the urgency of this as well.

You: I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t doubt it all... knowing my history teacher, she likes to get kids in trouble.

Chrollo: I see...

There was no response after that. She had nothing to say either. Stumped. She dropped her phone back into her bag and turned to pay attention to the lesson being given.

~§~

Celestia couldn’t help but tremble walking back down the hall. Instead of going to the bus, she would go straight to Mrs. Sheila’s classroom. The woman sat neatly at her desk, eyeing Celestia as she came to sit down.

“Your father called just before I had the chance to call him myself. He says he was made aware of your detention not too long ago.” Mrs. Sheila warned her. Her eyes widened. He called? How did he find out? She didn’t tell him during last period, the only person who knew was...

Chrollo.

She kept in her sigh of relief, and her excitement. She couldn’t be too sure it was him, though she had a feeling anyway. Her dad couldn’t have found out. He was at work, busy as a bee, unaware that Celestia wasn’t on her bus home.

Celestia nodded in response, showing she understood. She made to read the book for the time being, but The Witch had other plans.

“So, Miss Fae, are you ready to explain yourself?” she closed her laptop and turned all of her attention on Celestia.

“I told you the truth... earlier today. I just haven’t been feeling well lately. I’m almost positive I’m coming down with a cold, this morning I was experiencing the same thing.” she wasn’t lying at all. In fact, she was saying more than she wanted to. Mrs. Sheila had the same look as Celestia’s father, searching for something to turn against Celestia. Something to punish her with. Her eyes went to scanning over her desk. Celestia waited patiently for her to finish thinking, not bothering to say anything else and possibly ruin this chance.

“Fine then, if that’s the only explanation you’ll provide then I guess that’s all I’ll get out of you. You’re here until 4:30, use your time wisely.” the woman warned before writing down some notes for tomorrow’s lesson. Another sigh of relief washed over Celestia. She would thank Chrollo for his help.

She realized then that she didn’t have much homework to do and instead would finish what she had left of Endurance so she could start working on her presentation. There was only about two or three chapters left and being given the extra two hours would give her all time she needed. She may actually have been able to finish the whole thing in one go.

Now flowing with excitement, she hurriedly read through the last couple chapters of her book, reaching down for a pencil and paper in the process so she could jot down notes. A buzz zipped through her fingertips. She’d received a message. Celestia took a glance up. Mrs. Sheila was busy on her computer with her lesson notes. Celestia grabbed up her binder and pencil case, taking her phone with it. Chrollo’s name was on her lock screen.

Chrollo: Sorry to make it so sudden, but I’ll come to pick you up. I didn’t want your dad to find out, so I called in for you. I should have asked first, but it was urgent, I apologize.

Celestia smiled. She knew she probably should have been slightly upset about the fact that he didn’t ask. Though he said it was urgent. He felt she was important. Checking to see if she was still in the clear, she replied.

You: It’s alright! Thank you so much, I really wasn’t expecting that...

She let her phone sit in her bag, getting to work on her project. She wanted to talk with Chrollo, but her schoolwork still came first. She had to prioritize that in order to at least keep some sort of record going. Another hum from inside her bag signaled Chrollo’s response to her previous message. She let it sit, not wanting to break her focus on her notes just yet.

Celestia studied her rubric to make sure she was hitting every point she needed to for her presentation. Another buzz vibrated in her bag. She wouldn’t leave him this time, picking it out to check the message.

Chrollo: Alright, just making sure. I’ll be there around 4, okay?

Chrollo: Did you want to do anything afterwards? I figured you might want to hang out for a little since going home right away may not be the best.

She hadn’t even thought about that. She figured he’d just drop her off back home and then go on his way. This time, he had chosen to initiate plans with her.

You: Sure, sounds good. Do you have anything in mind?

Chrollo: It seems to be nice enough for a walk down the beach, don’t you think?

She did think so. She could see the sunshine flowing in through the window near the back of the room. The warmth felt nice on the back of her neck.

You: Sure, that sounds nice~

Chrollo: :)

After some time, Celestia could see that time had started to move a little faster than anticipated. Next thing she knew, her notes were completely finished and her slides ready to be started. All with twenty minutes left on the clock. A smile tugged at her plump lips. Her legs swung under the desk, eager to walk her out of the classroom to see Chrollo. He must have been here by now. Just at that thought, a buzz sounded beneath her binder.

Chrollo: Here now, sorry I’m a little late.

You: it’s fine, I don’t get out for another 20 minutes, don’t worry about it.

Chrollo: Really? That woman said 4!

You: Guess I would have been in more trouble then, she told me 4:30, my dad would have had me because of that...

Chrollo: :(

The knowledge of him being in the parking lot not too far from her made her even more energetic. She checked the clock again. Eighteen minutes left. She groaned in her head. Of course time would move slower now than ever. She tried to find something else to finish up, but she really didn’t feel like doing her slides just yet. Instead, she sat there, bored out of her mind and waiting for the time to tick by. She watched the red dial circle around the clock several times over, wishing for the big hand to hurry and hit the four on the clock. Ten more minutes. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five more to go. Celestia began packing up, neatly placing everything back into her bag. She stood, staying near her desk as not to alarm Mrs. Sheila. The woman glanced up anyway, checking the clock to see if Celestia was just standing for no reason.

“Alright, I’ll let you out a little early. You actually did work the whole time. Now leave before I change my mind.” she ordered, going back to scribbling on her paperwork. Celestia bowed lightly even though Mrs. Sheila didn’t see it, leaving the classroom quickly. The exit doors were just a few lefts and rights down the halls. It didn’t take long to see the glass doors in the distance.

She pushed them open, seeing Chrollo’s car immediately out front. She beamed at him through the window, bounding for him. She opened the door, sliding in and throwing her bag in the back seat before buckling up.

“Hey, how was detention?” Chrollo started, setting his phone down and starting the car. He urged it forward, ready to go.

“Awful! I finished all my work and then there wasn’t anything to do, I just have the slides for my presentation left to do and then I should be ready for next month.” she explained, gazing out the window. Watching the sycamore trees fly by was pleasing to the eye. She heard a soft chuckle from behind her.

“That’s good at least, less work for later. Are you hungry at all? After all that hard work, surely you must want something to eat first before a long walk.” he suggested, not taking his eyes off the road. As if on cue, Celestia’s stomach grumbled lowly.

“I’ll take that as a yes then. The café alright again?” he laughed lightheartedly. Celestia blushed to herself, giggling with him.

“Yeah, that works.” she replied. She held her stomach as if her arms could muffle the obscene noises erupting from it. Chrollo didn’t say anything about it and didn’t seem bothered much by it. Maybe he couldn’t even hear it. Still, she remained self-conscious of the noises emitting from her body. Normally she was used to going without food and her stomach wouldn’t make a peep. Though of course her body would embarrass her in front of Chrollo.

Celestia crossed her legs in the seat, letting her back relax against the leather and her eyes wander over the middle compartment. It was so clean. Coins weren’t stuck in the cup holders with unknown sticky substances, cords were placed neatly in the cubby, and there was no paper scattered about the compartment either. Chrollo’s phone lay inside the cubby, turned over so he had no distractions. This made her even more comfortable, knowing he prioritized his own safety over everything else.

The sound of Mozart hummed through the speakers, soothing her even more. Chrollo must have started a playlist up before she got in the car, knowing what her tastes were already. She still preferred Beethoven, though Mozart was proving to be exceptional as well. The sound soothed her, warming her arms and her legs and giving her a fuzzy swelling feeling in her chest.

The café was now coming into view. Celestia’s stomach got excited and started making noises again. She sighed, pain rumbling in her abdomen.

“We’re almost there. You can have whatever you want as well.” Chrollo reminded her affectionately. Celestia smiled, not looking over at him. She waited for Chrollo to pull into a parking spot before taking off her seat belt at all. She opened the door before he could get out and do it for her, laughing at his shocked face.

“And to think you enjoyed my courtesy~” he teased, turning his nose up in the air. Celestia giggled in return.

“I do! You were just being slow.” she continued his little game. Chrollo gaped at her, leading the two of them into the café. She laughed aloud at him, rolling her eyes at his fake shock. The café was bustling today, a small line even formed before them. This brought a wave of anxiety through Celestia, causing her to gravitate towards Chrollo. She didn’t notice her fingers fisting into the sleeve of his shirt around his forearm. He glanced down, noting her sudden alarm. Chrollo made sure to stay close to help her feel a little safer.

Once it was their turn, Chrollo ordered for the both of them. The same two black coffees and a couple sandwiches to go with it. He led her over to the pick up line so they could wait. She didn’t let go of his sleeve for a second, gripping tighter and even tugging him even closer to her.

“You’re alright, I’m right here.” Chrollo tried to settle her nerves, moving to rub the top of her back gently. He didn’t linger too long, just enough as a reminder of his presence. She grabbed onto his sleeve again, though less urgently. He was pleased with the response.

Their sandwiches and coffee came up once they reached the front of the line. Celestia let go of Chrollo so she could handle the sandwiches while Chrollo grabbed up the coffee. However, Chrollo didn’t sit down anywhere. Instead, he walked right out the door, checking behind him to see if Celestia would follow.

“Come on, Tia. I have a better spot for us to eat, one less crowded.” he explained while holding open the door for her to exit through. She didn’t hesitate, toddling to him and swerving past other people.

“Are we going to the beach now?” she asked, bouncing eagerly. Chrollo smiled.

“I figured I’d be easier for you to eat there. There won’t be as many people where I plan to take us.” Chrollo set the coffee cups down in the cup holders, starting the car back up again. Celestia held the sandwiches in her hands, folded nicely in plastic wrap and then placed in a pink and white striped bag. Chrollo drove out of the parking lot to start heading for the beach. The sun was beginning to set now that it was almost 6, the air starting to chill. The beach wasn’t too far from the little café.

“Are we gonna sit at the tables near the pier?” Celestia asked. She’d never even been to the pier before. She’d been to the beach twice and both were on completely separate occasions. One for the time her parents got married and the other for when her mother took her because a friend of theirs was going and asked if Celestia wanted to go with. Her mother had been hesitant at first to let her go, but she ended up going along anyway.

“Better.” he answered shortly, a smile playing at his lips. Celestia didn’t know what might be better than eating by the pier. The view was absolutely breathtaking and she’d love to share her first experience with him. She didn’t say anything further, waiting for his surprise. Chrollo did in fact pull into the small parking area near the pier, though he drove past the tables and the stores and people nearby. Instead, he parked next to the wooden structure.

“Follow me.” he ordered softly, unbuckling himself and getting out of the car. Celestia followed suit closely. She realized immediately that Chrollo was taking her directly over the pier. Her eyes widened and she smiled, gasping in excitement. Chrollo turned to her, smiling.

“You get it now?” he tittered. Celestia nodded excitedly, skipping next to him now. Chrollo continued to examine her reaction. The childlike nature she possessed, he was envious of it. Such a light individual despite her home life. She radiated pure energy in the moment, looking as if she could explode in glitter any minute. Fascinating.

Chrollo led her to the very end. There weren’t any tables or chairs, just the edge of the pier and the beautiful view of the setting sun. He thought about how she may not actually be able to get out much and decided this would be a nice view for her to enjoy. Chrollo sat at the edge, taking a glance behind him to motion for Celestia to sit down. She was a bit hesitant. The water was shining up at her, beckoning her closer as if it was a jewel. She knew the dangers of the deep however, and felt a sudden wish of anxiety wash over her. She sat close to Chrollo, not letting her feet dangle over the edge as he did.

He set their coffees in between them, taking a ham and cheddar sandwich from one of her hands.

“I’ve never seen the sunset like this...” she admitted, unwrapping her sandwich and beginning to eat. She took a bigger bite than she planned to, not paying much attention. She was engrossed in the view before her. It hurt to stare at the sun, but she wanted this moment burned into her memory. She wouldn’t get her hopes up, but she planned to have many more moments like this with Chrollo. It was then she realized it hadn’t even been a full week that she’d known him, and she already felt closer to him than she had with anyone else. She felt secure and safe with him. She felt like she could talk to him about anything. Maybe she could tell him about her dad, but she didn’t want to ruin this.

“So,” Chrollo started, finishing chewing before continuing, “I apologize for possibly ruining this moment for you, but now that we know we’re alone and no one will hear... Tell me, why does your father treat you that way?” he practically read her mind. She wanted to tell him, but the subject still made her nervous to speak of. Like her father was listening in from somewhere. Celestia set her sandwich down, taking a sip of her cooled down coffee.

“I don’t know.” she started, unsure of how to continue for a few seconds. He asked so bluntly, there was no room for avoidance.

“Before my dad got his job, things were a little better. More so I just wasn’t paid attention to like I am now.” her hands started to shake and her voice cracked gently.

“We don’t have to talk if you’re not comfortable...” Chrollo leaned forward to look her in the eyes. She wasn’t crying yet, but she could feel the subtle burn as the tears built up in her eyes.

“No... I feel like it isn’t fair if I don’t explain it. I can’t really expect someone to be my friend if I refuse to tell them about things that are this important.” she conceded, setting her food in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to look back up at him, but she could feel his eyes on her.

“Ever since he got that job with Angel May, he’s just been different. Like I said, he never really paid attention to me as a little kid, but now it’s like he expects me to be perfect. Like I’ll ruin his life if I step out of line. Even though most people don’t even know he has a kid in the first place.” she explained to start. She didn’t know how much to tell him or how much not to. She was just going with the flow at this point.

“What does your father do for Angel May?” Chrollo requested. He already knew the answer, but he had to be as oblivious as possible. He may even be able to acquire new information as well. Celestia shrugged though.

“I don’t really know what he does at work. I just know he’s kind of like a security guard almost, but specifically for Angel May. He’s a big guy, so usually most people don’t even mess with him.” she answered quietly. The image of her father crossed her mind. A monster of a man, big and burly, unlike anyone she’d ever seen before. The long messy brown hair and aggressive brown eyes, the man was a boar by physic and by nature.

Chrollo was slightly disappointed, though not surprised. He hadn’t actually expected her to know. If she did, he may have let his facade slip. He knew Nicholas was the top man of Angel May’s men. He worked with her to organize plans and duties for the city mostly and then took care of anything that Angel May couldn’t do herself. He also had been assigned to tabulate the rather large party being held at her home across town.

“It’s possible that the stress from being in such a high position could cause him to act that way. However, it in no way justifies his actions in hurting you. You don’t deserve that.” Chrollo ranted a little. He couldn’t catch himself in time to stop. He casually took another bite of the sandwich, trying to seem nonchalant.

“What if I do though?” she started. Chrollo turned back to her, his brows furrowed under the wrap around bandage on his forehead.

“What if I did something in a previous life or something like that? Reincarnation makes sense to me I guess, I don’t exactly know how to explain it. But what if there was something I did that warranted this punishment?” she uttered the words quietly, more to herself than to him. She had no other explanation for it. Bad people received bad things, right? That was how it was supposed to work right?

Chrollo didn’t really know how to respond. Was that really what she thought about all of this?

“I guess that would make sense. What could you have done though?” Chrollo was now intrigued by the conversation more than he thought he would be. Another shrug. She pulled her knees up to her chest, letting her chin rest on top of them sadly.

“I’m honestly not sure. I haven’t thought too much into it, it’s just a reason because I can’t really think of another.” she finished, taking a few more bites of her sandwich. Chrollo could probably give her a million other possible reasons, but he let her have her belief. As much as he wanted to change that. The thought of her thinking she deserved this, whether from a past life or her current one, irked him in a strange way. Celestia was not a bad person. He didn’t know her very well personally, but Chrollo was incredibly perceptive. He just knew there was nothing she could have done to deserve the life she was living. There was no good reason for abuse, even he knew that.

Celestia finally finished her sandwich, their coffees cold and the sky now orange and pink above them. Chrollo studied her features again as she watched the sun rest beyond the water. She turned, hazel eyes greeting his grey gaze innocently.

“Thank you for tonight, I had an amazing time. I’d guess it’s time you take me home though, we don’t want another incident like last night.” she stood, dusting off her school uniform. Amazing. She acted as if nothing had happened. As of the minor conversation and their shared words were irrelevant. Chrollo pried his eyes from her, picking up the trash before it had a chance to wind up into the water.

“Of course, Tia. I had a pleasant time as well with you.” Chrollo began strolling back to the car, Celestia never too far behind. These odd new feelings, the realization of her mannerisms, and subtle imperfections in her features he began to notice. He was beginning to notice something profound. Not only did Celestia bloom when she was with Chrollo, but Chrollo was beginning to think his aura would bloom when he was with her.

#chrollo lucilfer #chrollo #cute i guess?#fluffy #my work #fanfiction #fanfic #hxh #Hunter X Hunter #anime #it took too long #to write this

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