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starrbright · 22 days

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Last Degree Of Nature | Nanami K.

Stay longer in me. Take root. Vera Pavlova, A Weight on My Back (tr. Steven Seymour)

January 5, 2024—April 5

Last continuation for Prof. Nanami: X | X | X | X |

3k words. Sickening fluff, honestly. No smut, really sorry for that. 🙇🏽‍♀️🫶🏼🫂

image used: X | a quote i used is from the 2014 film 'about time'

I had a bad case of baby fever after december 14, so......yeah. And I really was going through it and I thought of this.

Still going through it.

A few months has passed. Everything continues to go well with Nanami. Too well. Is it stupid? Honestly, you could swear it is. You sigh under your breath, tutting your head sharply to wipe away the thoughts but it comes back, the voice of your professor speaking up almost unheard, what she discusses just passes by through your ears.

Your fingers gripped around your pen tightly and loose and tighten again and again in the moment of being filled with worrying bits, at least is is for you. It's difficult not to fall on your head on the table and try to bear away what's been stirring you for a bit of awhile now.

How could you even begin to explain what you're going through. Maybe it's normal. Maybe it's too early.

And it is normal. But it is too early.

Yet, God....like again, how could you not be in the state you're in--when the two of you have been nothing but lovesick fools. When he's been someone so, a man you never dared to wish for.

You've lost count how many times you drifted far off from replaying memories in a loop.

The first time you stepped into his home, it was one what would expect for a man like him. A home out of a novel. Grand but mirrored familiarity. You were glad for him to have seem that he knew of the warm little things that makes life big before he met you.

That's what it seemed. If one would only look once and flat, they'll only see how he presents himself; gray. And a big part of him is, his life and what makes him he.

Figurines of what a home is to fill the spaces.

And then along came you to be the muse of his colorful but now he realizes--empty canvases.

There never seemed to be a missing piece even when he seeked out to satisfy his flesh. Even when you arrived in his life only for both of your indulgence. There never was.

Until his heart wanted itself to be given to you. Until he offered and you accepted it. He found there were endless crevices that could be filled more beautifully.

To see you free roaming in his home. To have you in his arms, laying back against his chest as you read a book, with him savoring the rest he can have with you, free from the confines of his work for a while.

The sun beaming through the windows while the wind flows against the curtains. The shine of the sun on your brown skin, the specks of dust he sees from the light, every little marks and dots of hairs on your arm. With him holding you as he beholds all those; he's frozen in time. And what he'd give to capture every moment. To let it flow endlessly.

It doesn't need to be said, it's in all of it already anyways--at least not yet. One would say there's the kind of rush in the beauty of just letting it be.

Though how long? How long until it can be sees as not too early?

How much more walking through it to be enough?

A few times you two have been in the café you're now in to study, to wash yourself away from the distractions. Him, who else.

Though it's been less than ten minutes of being in the place, after being in the queue and now that it was your turn to order. The cashier already familiared of you, has a little smile, almost barely showing but it's a knowing one--and when you felt a presence behind you, she laughs.

Widened eyes as you recognized the scent of a perfume, the way those arms encircled around you, the squeeze of fingers to the side of your stomach. His voice. " Angel. " He greets sweetly with a kiss on your cheek.

You couldn't find your words, too abashed at his sudden presence, let alone in public as you both stand in the line, let alone the fine man holding a boquet in his other hand as he holds his woman. "Let's go." He says before you could even protest, he's already given an ample of money for someone who didn't buy anything, he's already got your things from the table you're supposed to be--he's already had you sitting in his car.

"I'm supposed to be studying." You spoke at last.

"I know." he only chuckles. "But I missed you." He simply adds as he leans close you, a hand delicately firm on your cheek to kiss your lips. The thick presence of his perfume dizzying against the vibrant scent of the flowers--to the way he drowns you with kisses.

How unfair.

And how cliche it is. You hadn't thought Nanami would have ever pulled the kind of act, In the library, among the aisles of bookshelves, you're pinned back against a shelf as he kisses you. But then again he has fucked you more than enough times in the campus.

You couldn't say it wasn't adorable that he asked for this. His office was a building away from where you're both in as he's to lecture in a few minutes and you to attend your own classes, so that is where you ended up; making do in the library for a mere time of kissing.

"This is risky." You uttered in haste the second you both stepped in the quiet facility, to which he only hushed with another one of his, 'I know'

Next thing you know, he's hovering tall in front of you, one of his arm laying against the shelf, the other on the side of your face. "Hi." He breathes. There's no smile on him. How is it possible his eyes says otherwise.

"Hi." Nothing from your voice but just a gentle mouth of the word, a mere smile painting to be wide.

Then it slowly fell as his thumb grazes on your lips. "Let me kiss you." he still utters those kind of words. Never fails to take your breath each time.

Resolve melting away every time.

The last one recently, one which is all too vivid in your head--was the last straw to have enable all the want for more.

It was the morning of Sunday when Nanami called. yourself fresh from breakfast and was just about to wash the dishes. He tells it was Gojo who planted the idea in his mind just last night from their usual night out to drink, and he himself wasn't opposed to said idea--he liked it, really. Despite he wouldn't credit Gojo too much for it, of course. A dinner later in his home, that is. With the two men and their children.

How could you say no?

You were too happy to prepare and cook all those dishes with him in his kitchen before the night arrives. Amidst a few conversation about Gojo and Geto, their children as well, the conversation went to a boy named Yuuji.

The said boy whom Nanami has invited for later. Telling of the little story as you continue all the work in the kitchen,

Evident that the man is very fond of the boy. Spoke of how Yuuji's late grandfather was the owner of the flower shop he sometimes go to before you both happened, the said boy taking over after while still studying along in the same school and class with Megumi. Spoke of how a good kid he is. Spoke of how the boy told him that his grandfather would have liked to meet the woman Nanami has found, the old man would've been over the moon to know the flowers Nanami usually buy for his house now would be for a lover. Spoke of how Yuuji was always thrilled when he walks in the shop, having known it'll be for you. Which all led to him insisting the kid to go for the dinner, telling how he literally brightened up when he heard it.

You couldn't wait for the night to arrive.

But nothing could have prepared you for it.

As some have said, 'no one can prepare you for the love people you love can feel for them.'

All so suddenly your nerves flutter rapidly when footsteps and voices make itself known further. "That would be them." Nanami says with a little laugh following as he wipes his hands with a kitchen towel before heading to them.

Though you only remain standing behind the island, your hands fresh off the powdered sugar from sprinkling them on the now done strawberry cake you made; a dessert for the kids, but of course much more for Nanami and Gojo that your man has told you who has a bigger sweet tooth than anyone else.

Your wandering mind filled with nervousness in those short seconds was abruptly interrupted with adorable loud voices of little girls as they run in the kitchen and around to the dining room. The three professors following after and behind them is who you figured to be Megumi and Yuuji. The pink haired boy must be certainly Yuuji, by his sunshine air and the beautifully arranged flowers he holds, eyes wide with a big smile. Megumi besides him with the jet black hair and cool demeanor he has. The little girls Nanami has told earlier, Nanako and Mimiko who were now running back to the kitchen, towards where you are, little hands reaching up on the edge of the counter and tiptoeing. Loudly delighted with the cake they see.

"They really rubbed off from Satoru." Geto huffs, a mere annoyance in his voice but the fondness in his calm eyes tells so much.

"They're children." Nanami reasons expectedly, the calmest smile on his face, eyes flickering to you. Your heart just keeps on fluttering.

"And I'm your soon to be husband." None other than Gojo speaks as ever proud he is, to which only Geto, Nanami and Megumi rolled their eyes to. You, Yuuji, Nanako and Mimiko however--and despite the little girl's already knows, they have the same look of awe you and Yuuji have. "That's....that's lovely." You speak up softly, wiping your hands clean.

"Congrats." Yuuji barely stopped himself from seemingly shouting.

Then Geto laughs lightly, "Thank you." Walking up to the counter with the bag he holds, delightfully reeking of a savory scent, Gojo as well with two bottles of expensive looking alcohol. "I asked him just last night--" he begins with a wide grin but was cut off by his fiance. "Barely. He was too drunk when he did." Geto scoffs as he takes out a food container from the paper bag. "I had to get hammered, I was too scared!" Gojo protests as he pop opens the one bottle of alcohol and looked for glasses.

"He couldn't have done it normally despite feeling so." Nanami chimes in simply as he starts to set up the dishes on the table, making Gojo just following him across the dining room with the glasses now on his hands, his own already filled as he goes with his mouth.

Leaving you with Geto as the two boys goes there as well, lightly playing along with the little girls as they converse.

"It's nice to see you again." Geto says while now helping you prepare all the little things for dinner to begin and go well. "In this kind of setting, I mean." he adds, a light chuckle he makes. Having seen you a few times in the campus, of course, with Nanami secretely or just around. "And I'm glad, by the way."

You nod, abashment about your relationship with their friend almost not there anymore. "The same to you. And I'm glad as well." Happily, you smile.

At last dinner began. If simply meeting them all has had your heart growing so much, you couldn't be more wrong. You were worriedly too happy to be wrong.

That's where you begin to get.....scared.

And how you now find yourself after days and days of contemplating it--standing in front of the door of Geto's office.

Doubts of confronting it plainly gone, you were just aching to let it all out, but not yet to the man himself, so instead it's Geto. You think it's only fitting for you to go to him.

Sighing almost tiredly, you then knock on the door, when you walk in and he's met by you. He just lightly smiles and nodded for you to go in. You sit on the chair across from him where he's still on his laptop, as your eyes are nowhere on particular, gathering the bare strength to speak it out at last--he just waits for you speak, having already as expectedly guess what the subject will be or rather who about.

You breathe deeply as your head turns away before it goes back to him.

"I think I want to marry Kento."

Geto's focus stops, fingers typing away on a sudden halt, gaze now to you and eyebrows raised, "Ah." His very mere shock fades slowly into a small smile.

"Yeah," you let out barely, lolling your head to the side. Your ears at last hearing those words, it suddenly feels ridiculous. But the arrow has already been shot in you. Too much and maddening it is, still you don't want it to go away.

You find yourself then to be unwavering. The resolve finding its permanent stay.

A shaking breath flows out of your mouth, a trembling hand ghosts on your forehead as you look down. "I want to marry him." Never mind your unsteady voice, you want to say it endlessly.

Nostalgia waves pass by Geto with what reveals. Several months ago, Nanami spoke you're the one. His everything. And there you are now with an admission any longing being would dream to hear for their own. He looks at his engagement ring. A few weeks earlier, his lover was clinging to him as he tear up, drunk, asking to marry him, rambling how he wants eternity with him, promising he'll be the bestest father for their children.

He didn't ever think their lives would be this happy, he only hoped.

Geto is wordless to say the least.

His eyes back on you, it's the mellowest you've ever seen on him, mouth opening slowly, it's what he thinks to say then. "Satoru wouldn't be too happy with a double wedding. You know how extra he is--"

A breathless laugh you make in a light disbelief, "I'm serious." You say in exasperation, tears starting to fill your eyes.

Geto just smiles gently, not saying aything. What more could be said when you're just too happy for a friend, to contentedly know that until an end, they won't be alone.

"What are you waiting for?"

Going on with your day after was still as distracting, it wasn't heavy anymore though. You don't remember when was the last time you were excited to see him again without any hesitations.

When you do at the end of the day, in his house, finding rest in each other's warmth, your heart remains to be thrumming of that same thrilling joy when time has allowed you both to be with each other again, that same rhythm of feeling when you first began to have a crush on him.

And in the quietness, you deem it's time to make it known to him.

As he keeps himself cozy with his face buried on your neck, your soft body laying against his chest and in between his legs--gently, you rose from his hold and awaking him in the process. You sit yourself back on the couch as he looks at you curiously, while ever sweetly gentle, your hands still twined as he makes so. So much for how much more.

After all the time of thinking about it, you didn't see the need nor want to beat around.

" I want to marry you. "

How does one even take that in?

You were sure you've never seen your lover lose the composure on his face like that. It's nothing but pleasant.

"Marry me." The bliss in saying it, truly.

And hearing it from you, seeing your smile you evidently keep from widening, the stars in your eyes. You've taken him from his paradise to a place far greater than he would ever thought of.

You've truly taken him aback this time. He hadn't seen you were visioning the same piece as him. It seemed both of you were going through the same dilemma after all. Drowned too deep to have seen it.

You hadn't seen his eyes looking at your ring finger when his hand is entangled to yours, thikning of all the kinds of rings you'd love. How could you have possibly know he's been wishing for you to never leave his house when the night falls, for him to wake each morning with you in his arms, to get up earlier than you and make you breakfast, have and enjoy meals together without looking at the time.

You didn't see what he was painting with his eyes upon dinner that one night. How you light yourself a flame and the kids a magnet to you.

Suddenly when he holds you from behind, his hand yearned to feel a life within you. Voices of little ones echoing pleasantly in his mind. Angels running around his home.

Despite unspoken, unknown; you've been meeting halfway.

Nanami let his lips break into an opened smile, a little laugh breathing out as he tightens his twined hand on yours. "You read my mind."

Your cheeks could already hurt from smiling so much, but couldn't find any words after, you only laid your hand on both of yours, pressing your lips on his knuckles and feel your eyes ache from the tears collecting. Your lover's smile turned gentle as he sees you. " Marry me. " He murmurs. Simply indulging himself in saying it. "I'll marry you. And you of me." He says, returning your kisses on both of your hands.

You feel what he feels when he said them, and he feels what you felt when you answered yes.

Laughter flows in the halls of his home when he takes you in his whole hold once again.

"Satoru wouldn't want a double wedding--"

"I would not dream of being in the same altar at the same time with that man."

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Finally done with this 😭😭😭🗣️🙏🏽 i am so tired. just went to our dance practice for a subject and finished this after and still have to type it all after just writing it on paper as usual😀🫠 but here we are, and back home and still am miserable, ive been so busy with college, and it's midnight here, i have a group reporting tomorrow and i barely studied about it🫶🏼🫂 anyways, i thought of writing my little thoughts about this story, im sorry if it's silly or shit😭

i had nanami in his thirties, while our reader is twenty-five. i hadn't thought of what she's taking, really. i honestly forgot what nanami's expertise is 🤸🏾‍♀️ geto teaches art and field study 1, while gojo is in physics and physical education. they had nanako and mimiko just after they were born, heard from someone they know that the little girls' mother couldn't raise them, so they referred themselves willingly. megumi in an orphanage after the girls have grown. i really wish i involved shoko and haibara😔😔😔😔💔😔💔😔💔😔💔😔 let's just think of them being there. especially in their weddings😁 also while at campus earlier, i randomly chose songs in my playlists to queue and one of them is 'that part' by lauren spencer smith and i realized how this work is fitting for that song 😭💔😭😭😭💔😔😭💔

#starr's creations 🌟🍭#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami kento #nanami kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami x reader #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jjk anime #jjk manga #chubby!reader #anime x chubby reader #jujutsu kaisen x plus size reader #x chubby reader #jjk nanami kento

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apprenticestanheight · 4 months

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THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY TWO

Work Shirts - Lawrence Gordon x gn! reader

All right!! This is day two of my silly little christmas celebration, and of course I had to do what I've been procrastinating since basically the start of this account--write a Lawrence reader insert piece!

I love him wholeheartedly despite my lack of fics for him so this has definitely been a long time coming, and this one, much like yesterdays fic, stems from a thought I had—though with this thought, @mrkheartffmans and I went a lil feral together through the reblogs of the original post and thus, the fic concept came to light!

This is also a few years post trap because I was like "yeah working somewhere for a decade is cool but what about a decade and a half??" also—my mentality was that having it set a few years post-trap would be easier to write?? I don't know how true that actually is but it was my thought process lol.

This fic is for audiences of 18+, so minors, do not interact!

Fic type- this is mostly--almost entirely--smut. There's also angst if you squint because yeah, angst was bound to be present somewhere lol

Warnings- unprotected sex (reader is on BC), and as per usual, the reader is GN for all intents and purposes (petnames included), but I went with AFAB anatomy as that's the anatomy that I know best.

Lawrence wishes he could act like the surprise on the faces of his coworkers when he mentioned having the last two weeks of December off came as a surprise to him, but he can't and he kind of hates that.

Of course people are bound to be a little surprised by it. In the decade and a half that he's worked at Angels of Mercy, the only incident where he took any sizeable amount of time off was while he was recovering from the bathroom trap and could hardly stand, let alone walk like he used to.

But, in the three years since the bathroom trap and aside from that month long period where he allowed himself to recover before going back to work, he'd not taken a single day away. Being at work, seeing to patients and talking to people—even just going to work and filling out miscellaneous paperwork while he sat in the isolation of his office—kept his mind busy and his hands busier.

He came home from work every night and saw you, which just made his entire day as it were. You'd order food or make something quick and just spend your time lounging on the couch, occasionally get a little flirty, and laugh when Lawrences hands started wandering how they used to in the days of your masters degree and his days of medical school.

But, because of a backlog of PTO and the fact that he'd been overworking himself almost to the bone with the onslaught of people needing medical care during the last three months of the year, Lawrence decided to book the 14th through to the 2nd of January off so that he could get some rest and worry about housework so that you didn't have to worry at all, where you normally split the housework fifty-fifty.

Lawrence knew that your marketing job got really, really stressful during the last month of the year. People always unearthed different versions of themselves come the holidays, and all he wanted was for you to come home from your workday and not have to worry about menial things like a messy bathroom counter, week-old leftovers in need of throwing away or dishes not yet moved from the dishwasher to the cupboards.

He gets called into work for an emergency on the 21st, and after running to grab groceries during the afternoon on the 22nd, he's delighted to find what he does waiting for him in the bed you share.

You're typically home from work at around seven, sometimes eight thirty on particularly busy days, and when Lawrence arrives home, it's half past eight.

He goes into your bedroom, having indeed hoped to see you there or at least get a call about work running late with the promise of more details upon your arrival at home as he enters your shared bedroom, but what he sees is so much better than anything he could've hoped for.

You're sitting on the bed, back pressed against the head board, focused on whatever romance book you'd plucked from a charity bookstore on your way home, but it's not what you're reading that Lawrence really takes note of.

No, it's not the book at all, though he does note that the title makes it seem like something from either the regency or the victorian era. It's what you're wearing.

You're wearing the shirt he wore to work the previous day, buttons undone with the cufflinks you'd gifted him for christmas the year his residency ended still holding the sleeves of the shirt together, the duvet covering your legs and hips, which makes Lawrence assume you've stolen a pair of his sweatpants in addition to the shirt.

He knocks, lightly, on the side of the door, and you startle, looking up to the source of the knock and relaxing the minute you see his face.

"You startled me," you say, grinning and closing your book over your thumb so as not to lose your place. "I remember you told me you'd be getting groceries around when I would get home, so I stole one of your shirts and settled in. Figured we could order Thai food or something to that effect, have a late dinner and relax."

Lawrence runs his tongue over his lips, notices the keen way with which you watch him do it.

"Yeah," he grins, further enters the room. "That sounds lovely. I grabbed the last of the necessary ingredients for dinner Christmas Day so that you wouldn't have to worry—I know that work has been something of a mess for you lately and I want to make sure you have the opportunity to relax when you come home."

He approaches the bed, watches you place the book you'd been reading open on your nightstand beneath the lamp.

"I don't deserve you," you laugh.

You've been dating since you were starting up with your masters a year after getting your bachelors degree when you were twenty-three and Lawrence was two years into medical school at twenty-four.

You've been married since you were twenty-five and twenty-six, and seventeen years down the line, you both knew that marrying each other was the best possible thing either of you could've done with regard to the romantic part of your lives, and while you were married you ended up doing the best possible things for your respective careers so it worked in both of your favors regardless.

You were Lawrences rock, especially so in the aftermath of the bathroom trap, and he was yours and would be such forevermore.

"You're right," he says, moving away from the bed to grab a pair of sweatpants. "You deserve more, but I do strive to be what you deserve day in and day out."

"Don't say that," you chide. "You're perfect, Lawrence. I wouldn't've married you had I thought otherwise, I promise."

He can feel your gaze on him as he slips out of the khaki pants he wears, deciding to go commando and put a pair of light gray sweatpants on for comfort. He changes out of the black button up he'd chosen to wear, pulls a baggy dark blue Henley over his torso and climbs into bed beside you, pressing kiss after kiss down the line of your jaw and across your neck.

"How stressful has work been?" He asks, tone genuine but also slightly seductive.

"Oh, so stressful," you laugh, knowing exactly what he's doing and the fact that seeing you in one of his shirts and just one of his shirts has spurred that on by a mile. "I think if I have to hear one more coworker complaining about last minute shopping during the last few days before Christmas Eve or even on Christmas Eve in and of itself, I will start causing heads to roll. December is the worst time to be in the offices because everyone stops caring about year-end quotas and making sure things are good going into next year and starts caring about whatever gossip is being spread around. It's dreadful, Lawrence."

He pauses, looking at you with genuine sympathy in his gaze. "I'm sorry—I feel gross. I didn't mean to attempt to proposition you for sex like that. I really do want to hear about your day and I'm sorry it's been so terrible, my love. Are you going to book time off?"

You grin. Lawrence is ever-so considerate, always apologizing and stepping back if he's done something in a way that he doesn't appreciate midway through.

"You're going to be stuck with me from tomorrow through to the second," you say. "And—for the record, I didn't hate it. I like it when you proposition me for sex with kisses because your kisses are quite honestly one of the best parts of being married to you. Plus, I have had a stressful month and I won't lie and say that my current outfitting was just for comfort. Sure, bare ass on satin sheets is an amazing feeling, but I was hoping that I'd get the reaction I did, admittedly."

Lawrence tilts his head inquisitively. "You're not—you're—I thought you'd taken a pair of my sweatpants," he grins, moves a hand to your thigh. Sure enough, it's bare. "Oh, Christmas must've come early."

You laugh. "You fuckin' wish," you say, ignoring the goosebumps that Lawrences touch brings on.

You unbutton the few buttons done up on the shirt, press your back against the headboard.

"Stressful month, yeah baby?" Lawrence is almost beaming as his hand moves from your thigh to your stomach, lazily perusing up your chest.

You clench your jaw, squeeze your arms against your sides because you are not going to give in to your handsome husband and his illustrious whims just with a few touches and some whispered sentiments.

"So stressful, Lawrence," you nod. "So, so stressful."

"Do you need a way to destress?" His thumb and first finger locate your nipple, and you exhale a breathy moan, quiet and already wanting to give in to his whims. "If you do, I think I could be of assistance."

"Lawrence," you moan, quiet and needy. "Oh, fuck, Lawrence."

Lawrence moves his hand away from you for a second, only to take off his shirt and the sweatpants he wears before he's back to kissing your neck and letting his hands roam across your chest.

A few minutes of much the same passes by, Lawrences kisses lining your neck and jawline and face and your ethereal lips while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. His hand dips to your folds for just a few minutes, taking your slick onto his fingers and laughing against your shoulder.

"You're so wet for me already," he says. "Fuck, you're perfect."

"Wanna ride you," you're almost stunned at how evenly the words fall from your lips but not at all stunned when Lawrence agrees.

He pulls you onto his lap, lets you grind against his half-hard cock until it's fully hard and you're begging to feel him inside of you and moans when you bottom out, gaze watching you intently as his hands settle on your hips.

"Lawrence," you whisper. "Fuck."

A smile spreads onto Lawrences face before he can stop it, and when you start riding him, he presses his back against the headboard, one hand on your hip while the other lightly holds your chin so as to keep your gaze on his.

You get lost in how good it feels within the space of a minute, maybe two—Lawrence's cock is long and thick, and even if riding it takes some adjusting occasionally, it still becomes very enjoyable very quickly.

"You're so wonderful for me, Y/N," he says. "Oh, this never gets old."

He's loving how you feel around him, clenching occasionally and moaning after a particularly deep thrust that hits your g-spot, and you're just—it's just perfect.

And then, Lawrence gets an idea. He moves the hand that's cupping your face to your wrist, which is attached to the hand that you use to grope relentlessly at yourself, rolling your nipples between your thumb and first finger, sometimes moving to rub your clit.

"The cufflinks, baby," he says. "Don't touch yourself, mm? Use those for me."

He watches you press the cold silver cufflink against one of your nipples, moans as you clench around him at the sensation of the cold meeting your warm skin. You moan in turn, pressing the metal against your nipples and moaning his name.

He moves a hand back to your chin, placing his first and middle finger against your bottom lip. You take the hint immediately and bring his fingers into your mouth, grinding down onto him as you do.

"You're so good for me, pet," he says, moving the hand that rests on your hip to your clit. He starts rubbing it with practiced expertise, knowing the way you like it best after nearly two decades of marriage. "Oh, this is amazing. You can steal my work shirts whenever you want, okay? Especially the ones with the cufflinks. You're amazing."

You moan at the praise, pressing the cufflinks against yourself further, loving the way that the metal feels against your sensitive nipples.

He takes his fingers out of your mouth and goes back to holding your chin so as to keep your gaze on his, wanting to watch you orgasm.

You come completely undone when Lawrence speeds up his ministrations on your clit just enough to make you want more, and Lawrence watches.

You thrust your way through the aftershocks, at which point Lawrence releases into you and lets your chin free from his light grip, kissing you and offering praise as he does.

He pulls you off of him and gets a bath set up, helping you into it while giving you more praise and pressing kisses along the back of your neck and shoulder blades because the orgasm had left you both completely and totally breathless.

You bathe in light conversation, once again talking about your days but focusing on the more positive parts, and Lawrence lets you steal a Henley from the days of medical school. You pull a pair of boxers on and curl up in bed next to him, falling asleep only seconds before Lawrence does.

#lawrence gordon #lawrence gordon x reader #saw 2004 #saw franchise

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likesdoodling · 4 months

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It has been a while since I started digital art,

Quite a while.

So here is a 'progress over the last two years' since I gained access to a drawing tablet.

This is my first ever digitally illustrated piece- compared to my latest one-

So, a little bit different.

I do think my art took quite a jump around June 2022, when I took a break from my Steve comic strip, (for obvious reasons- it was about Technoblade's polar bear so...) and decided to try practicing gesture drawing to see if it helped my general anatomy knowledge. This is before,

And this next one is after.

The most obvious change here is that I switched to using thinner lines. There is a gap of about two months between these.

This was when I realised that you could improve art by practicing it (mind-blowing I know), and then started to do just that. Some other notable jumps forward would be when I discovered the airbrush-

Well, discovered a new method of shading with it anyway.

Then after that I had a few pictures that I actually still like, despite them being pretty old at this point, the one below is actually from September of 2022-

I mean, the hands are a bit iffy, but the rest looks alright. This was when I was going through a bit of a melanie martinez phase-

This next one was from January of 2023, I'd only just gotten into bungou stray dogs via some random memes on pinterest about this weird brown haired guy who had lots of bandages and who had this running gag with wanting to die- I actually looked him up at one point, but that didn't really explain much. The main one that I remember was 'life is short, so make it shorter, shorter than chuuya~'

Which at the time was just kind of confusing,

Then I watched the show and it made perfect sense.

I'd discovered ascendance of a bookworm in like, 2021, but I hadn't really been doing fanart of it since I was mainly doing dsmp related stuff and I kind of assumed nobody would know what on earth I was referencing. Turns out tumblr has a lot more bookworm fans than I orignally anticipated. Instagram still has no clue. I think maybe one person out of my followers on instagram knows what I'm on about-

Then we've got these two which I am still proud of btw-

The first one is from a dystopian/time travel fanfic called viridian.

The second one was after I learned about rim lighting. It was inspired by a song actually, 'crash' by noevaii. (and yes I found that song from a sad-ist animatic, it was cool) The character isn't anyone in particular. They're both from February 2023.

Then there's probably my most liked picture on instagram, (not tumblr, since tumblr knows about bsd and bookworm, but y'know. This was even sadder than I originally intended since the last half of my comic strip was finished AFTER everything happened)

Then the final conclusion of my Steve comic strip in May of 2023.

I don't think my art really changed much in between those, but eh.

Then I switched to doing a bunch of ascendance of a bookworm stuff to see what would happen and turns out there are way more fellow fans out there than I anticipated-

Then I guess my next breakthrough in tumblr popularity, (even if it might not have been a breakthrough in art skills necessarily) was when things went DOWN in the bsd fandom with chapter 109 and I did probably one of my most liked tumblr posts I have ever done-

If you want to see the rest of that, feel free to scroll down on my tumblr page, the original's like eight pages long-

This was before anyone knew what was going to happen btw.

I still think it's hilarious that I put in chuuya having contacts. My reasoning being, they're on a film set,

It was a pretty interesting exercise in shading in monochrome.

Then I started a 30 day art challenge in October that I didn't get past day six of, but it was still pretty fun. This is the best one of those-

After that I spent most of my time studying for the jlpt n5, so I didn't really do that much art related stuff,

This is one of the two non-commission related pictures that I finished over the two months after I kind of gave up on the art challenge. This one's from November,

Then I finally finished an art commission I'd been working on for the three months prior, as well as studying. Here is an example of the type of pictures I was doing for that,

Then I was occupied with christmas and birthday presents for my siblings, both my little sisters are into ascendance of a bookworm- (completely my fault I am proud to say) so I was able to do stuff related to that, here's a couple of snippets, but you guys don't get the colour version hehe

And one of them has also read the entire fma manga just like I have so-

Anyway, it's been quite a progression since I resolved to master digital art in 2021.

I reckon I've come a fair way since then. I mean. My art skills in general are way better than they used to be. The last two or three years have been pretty interesting.

Also-

Just had to include this one, I'm gonna do a more detailed version but still-

I think it's funny so I'm posting it here. Even if it's not really related to art progression-

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fonulyn · 4 months

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so since I've now posted all of my @yearoftheotpevent fics, I figured I'd make one compilation post of them. here's my year of nivannedy!

January: good to be prepared

Leon gets stuck in a snow storm when his car breaks down, and a handsome stranger saves him from the roadside. Of course they hit it off, but only later they realize they actually do know of each other.

February: 'cause you know the love we have is always gonna be

Finally Piers and Leon get married, surrounded by their loved ones, in their very own home. It's been a long road, they've deserved their happy ending.

March: at the shore of the unknown

The end of the world comes quietly, almost secretly, despite them fighting it all these years. But even if the world is ending, Leon and Piers find each other, and their story is only beginning.

April: I crave therefore I am

Piers has been half in love with Leon for as long as he can remember, but no matter how much he's pining, he's not going to be the kind of a dick who tries to come between Leon's current relationship. Except that relationship is not exactly as real as he's been lead to believe.

May: as long as you'll have me

Leon gets infected on a mission, and although there is a known cure, the cure fucking sucks. At least, after Leon alarms him with a few incoherent texts, Piers is there to help him through the worst of it.

June: you're a dream

Piers has been dreaming of his soulmate ever since he was eleven years old, and not even the continuous stream of monsters can keep him from finding whoever that is. Of course, nothing in life can ever be that simple.

July: that heaven in your eyes

Piers and Leon have some honeymoon fun by the lake. It's exactly what they wanted.

August: light in the darkest place

Leon and Piers grew up together, and when at twenty-one they both got a job at the RPD they thought it was a giant stroke of luck. They had no idea their first day was going to be one hell of a long day.

September: all the tears and the fears and the lies and the cries of the past

Krauser kidnaps Leon on Wesker’s orders to use as bait. Things get messy.

October: before I even knew your name

Leon gets an accidental text sent into the wrong number and it ends up changing his life for the better. They might both suck at flirting, especially through text, but that doesn't matter when inexplicably they're still into each other.

November: right from the start

Leon gets some unexpected backup on his rogue mission in the Eastern Slav Republic. Later, he might just have to thank Chris for sending Piers in. Especially as he learns he and Piers work together well in more ways than one.

December: a merry little christmas (make the yuletide gay)

Piers and Leon and their first holidays as a married couple in their own home. Of course with a visit from the Redfields.

I am both incredibly content that I managed to write something for all of the months (even though two of these fics are still technically unfinished, for the Damnation au I haven't posted the last chapter and for the RE2 au I still need to write the rest of it) and really really happy with how they turned out :3

#nivannedy #me and my fics #my fics #my nivannedy fics #i'm gonna make another compilation #of ALL the fic i wrote this year #but i figured these deserved their own post :3

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look-at-the-soul · 1 year

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The Photoshoot -Part 41

Cillian x reader

Series Master list 2014, 2015

📸 I struggled a lot writing this part, January was a complicated month but I hope you guys like this, there’s angst and the fertility issue, but I hope to keep you guys entertained..

Thank you @heidimoreton for the chat that inspired this part xx

Trying out Cillian’s number again, Yael found the same answer than the three previous calls; none.

It was so unlike him, he left that morning without telling her he would be gone for hours. Earlier she tried a message to ask him if he wanted to buy something for lunch on his way back home, but as time passed and he didn’t answer, Yael decided to prepare something for them.

The day was extremely odd, clouds covering the sky, but rain wasn’t expected.

Sure, rain was a common thing in Ireland, but there was something she couldn’t explain.

The noise of his car parking outside, brought everything back to normal as Scout started to bark intensely.

But as soon as Yael opened the door to welcome her husband, she knew something wasn’t right.

Cillian was holding in his arms something covered in a small blanket, a diaper bag hanging from one of his shoulders.

“Keep Scout out, I don’t want him to wake up my baby.”

Her soul left her body, blood ran straight down to her feet.

What baby? Scout was never out.

But before more questions could bombard her mind, Cillian walked past her and cleared all her doubts.

“The moment you said you didn’t want to look for a treatment to get pregnant, I knew being a father was all I wanted, since you’re dry inside I had no other option but find someone willing to give me a baby, Lianne blessed me with a beautiful baby boy three days ago, she will be living here.”

His arrogance broke her, how could he be this cynical? But the look in his eyes was what destroyed her completely.

The look in Cillian’s eyes while staring into the baby in his arms tore her heart apart.

Yael was hurt and, why lie? She was jealous too.

Bitting the inside of her cheeks, she turned to go outside, she needed to get some air.

Opening her eyes abruptly, Yael realized it was a nightmare, moving her eyes across the dark room, she found the only light coming through the curtains was from the moonlight. Her heartbeat was out of control, worryingly, she looked to her right, Cillian was oblivious of her dreams, nightmares like that had been a constant in the last days. Things didn’t make sense, but it all gravitated towards Cillian having a baby with someone else.

He was breathing deeply, his fringe resting against his forehead, full lips partially open. Yael got lost in the freckles that kissed his skin; face, neck, chest…

Yael didn’t want to disturb his peace, she just wanted to capture his soft features in her memory.

But the images and the pain was too much to deal with, the clock in Cillian’s nightstand said it was 3:12 am and she knew that she couldn’t go back to sleep. Not when her mind and heart were so agitated.

Carefully, to not disturb her husband and Scout, Yael slipped from the bed, the ache in her heart was barely bearable. Tiptoeing, she walked out of the bedroom, confused, overwhelmed.

It wasn’t just a nightmare, of course the meaning behind those bad dreams were her fears, her anxiety, her insecurities.

Would Cillian do in real life any of those things he did in her dreams? Opening the door to the attic, Yael couldn’t suppress the sob that came from the deepest part of her soul. Even though it hurt to have those kind of thoughts, she had to be realistic, if she couldn’t get pregnant how long would he stay by her side?

Wandering around the room she used as her photography office, she found on her desk the flyers that Cillian left the previous morning, when he arrived home from his gym session as he was getting back on track for his Tommy Shelby role in Peaky Blinders, he arrived home over excited about the information he got from a fertility clinic, it offered the whole process in the same place; from the fertilization of the eggs, to the gynecology service. He mentioned that some couples got pregnant after the first round, and he even read that acupuncture could help in some way boost or make easier the process of getting pregnant. His enthusiasm made her feel guilty, terrified actually. Cillian couldn’t stop talking about it until Yael felt dizzy.

Looking at the flyers resting on her desk, she stared at the happy couples holding their babies in their arms.

What if it didn’t work?

What if they spent all that money for nothing?

How many rounds would they need?

Would Cillian eventually get tired of trying?

That and million other questions bombarded her mind, making her feel more terrible than she already felt.

Cillian also mentioned they could even do a procedure where they literally put the fertilized egg directly into the womb, it seemed to be riskier, but he was willing to do anything.

Going through the photos she kept from each one of her projects, Yael found after a while the photo she was looking for.

Rubbing his eyes, Cillian crossed the attic, finding his wife sitting on the bench by the window. He had been calling her, but Yael didn’t seem to listen him.

“Baby what’s wrong? What happened?” His hands came to rest on her shoulders, making Yael jump a little, she moved the photo under her leg.

“What are you doing here?” She asked wiping er tears with her hand.

Cillian kissed her hair in a tender motion. “I turned around and you weren’t by my side, looked for you everywhere, why are you crying?”

“Had a nightmare, couldn’t sleep.” Yael looked down while his hands caressed her arms, up and down in a calming motion. “Go back to sleep, it’s nothing.”

But Cillian knew she wouldn’t be affected over just a simple nightmare. “Tell me about it.”

“Forget it, it’s something silly.”

Pulling against his bare chest, Cillian locked Yael into a tight embrace, she had been trying to hold it together all by herself, it was killing him not knowing what to do.

“I need you to trust me sunshine, I need to understand what’s going on in this beautiful head of yours.”

After taking a few minutes to enjoy the warmth of his skin and listening to his heartbeat, Yael exhaled loudly and finally, she decided to share out loud what was keeping her up.

“I’ve been having these bad dreams where you show up with a baby you had with some other woman, I never see the baby’s face… you just seem to be really happy an-” she sobbed, Cillian was trying to comprehend her words, her pain.

And he heard all about the nightmares Yael had during those last days, he truly listened as she described the scenes and images she dreamed about, his hands constantly trying to soothe and calm her. Judging by how affected she was, this wasn’t just a bad dream, these were real, genuine fears she was going through. Yael was terrified of him going to some other woman to have a baby.

Caressing her disheveled curls, which she failed to braid that night, Cillian shushed her worries away. “I’m here with you, it was just a dream.”

“You don’t understand.” Yael used her hands to push him away a little. “Those treatments don’t work overnight, sometimes they fail, the embryo doesn’t stick properly…” moving her hands, she took the photograph she was previously looking at, “I took photos of a couple every time they got the shots to get pregnant, they wanted me to document their process.”

Yael explained with tears now falling down her cheeks uncontrollably, holding the photo in front of Cillian.

“Until one day, they didn’t call me back, it took them four, almost five years and endless tryout to get pregnant, they were on the edge for that last round, emotionally they were done, they sold their house.”

Cillian was lost for words.

“You talk about IVF as if it is the easiest thing, like in the snap of a fingers we’ll get pregnant.”

Her own words haunting her now.

“But this is all my fault.”

Cillian’s voice almost broke when he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“When you found out Sean wasn’t yours and I didn’t get my period… you said it wasn’t a good time to have babies and I was so mad at you, that I said I hoped every test would come back negative after that.”

Running his hand over his jaw, he remembered her words, his blue eyes watered.

“This isn’t happening because you said that.” He couldn’t cope with her pain, it was breaking his heart to see how shattered Yael was. “These things happen all the time,” he knelt before her, his hands cupping her face to force his wife look at him, “there are options, stop thinking you’re guilty, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Yael took a deep breath, processing his words.

Cillian cupped her face between his hands, thumbs caressing her cheeks gently. “When we got married, and said our vows we said we would be together through sickness and health. So I need you to stop worrying about me looking at someone else, I love you more than anything in this world, with or without a baby… it’s you and me together. We’ll see what’s the best option for us, yeah?”

“I don’t think I can go through a surgery,” Yael stammered, her eyes holding the tears one more time. “Not after all I went through when I was a kid.”

Months in a hospital bed, on and off the operation room, numerous opinions and diagnosis…

Cillian knew her panic to hospitals. It was too much for her.

“We don’t have to decide right away love, let’s take this one day at the time, yeah?” He kissed Yael’s tears away, trying to comfort her, he assured her those nightmares weren’t real and should wake him up the next time she dreamed those kind of things.

Her vulnerability made his heart clench, Yael didn’t deserve this kind of shit, she was the kindest human being, didn’t hurt anyone… he would do anything for her, to take away her pain. But all he could do at that moment was kiss and hold her in his arms.

As they walked down the stairs, Yael held to his waist tightly, the warmth of his body soothing her, each of them lost in their own thoughts, Cillian realized he’d sell his soul to make it easier for her.

“He took over my pillow.” Yael shook her head as they returned to their bedroom and found Scout snoring.

“Well, that means we can share mine.” Cillian offered his wife stealing a kiss and pulling her closer.

And for the first time, Yael felt peaceful, in Cillian’s arms. Because during the day the mind gets busy, but the demonds come at night, and she was relieved that she count on him to hold her when she needed it the most.

After sleeping in, Yael felt like she recovered those hours she skipped, she never woke up at eleven o’clock, but it was probably because her body needed to rest properly. Stepping into the kitchen after taking a shower, Yael was greeted by a cup of coffee, a small bouquet of fresh flowers, a croissant and a card from her husband.

I know you’ve been through some difficult days, just wanted to help you remember you’re the most amazing, smart, sensitive, smocking hot, funny, caring and brilliant wife I could ask for. Taking Scout to the vet for a bath, he stinks.

Love you with everything I got. Cillxo

Yael held the card against her chest, feeling extremely blessed for having Cillian as her partner during this difficult time. It wasn’t just about last night, she was grateful for everything.

“Good evening.” Joked Cillian. “Did you sleep well?”

Yael nodded, hugging him. “Thank you for all of your details.”

“Ah, you’re welcome love.” He took her by the chin to kiss her slowly, his hands moving south, to her bum. Her hands moved up, to the back of his neck… running her fingers through his curls while he groaned until her cellphone interrupted them.

“You need to get that, it’s your Mum.” When he saw her biting her lip, he added; “Nope, Yael I’ve ran out from excuses, every time she calls you’re out with Scout, taking a shower, forgot your phone…”

And he saw the sadness return to her eyes.

“I don’t want to tell her.” Her voice broke down. “I don’t want her to know.”

“She’s worried about you, that’s all… you don’t have to tell her sweetheart.” Cillian kissed her forehead but placed her phone in her hand and walked out of the kitchen.

Cillian took a deep breath, and picking a spot on the couch, he started to read the Peaky Blinders script for the upcoming season, he was already halfway through it and man, his life wasn’t the only one upside down, Tommy’s life was about to get ugly.

Unlike Tommy, Cillian talked about his feelings, he was sensible, he showed his wife he cared, because he did, he genuinely wanted them to get pregnant, but he also understood she had to deal with the worst part. If she didn’t want to try IVF, they could adopt? Try a surrogate?

Running his eyes through the script, he realized Tommy’s father, Arthur Sr. would die, so Steve decided to make a change in the plot and not have them break another fight.

Soft steps announced Yael entering to the reading room, the phone call with Isla went well, they needed to decide a few more things for Noah’s christening, it would be finally happening in two more weeks.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.”

“What if she asks something while we’re there?” Cillian pulled her by the hand to sit on his lap, his arms around her waist in seconds.

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry about it now.”

“Thank you for being so patient.” Yael touched his jaw, noticing the subtle stubble. “This is new…”

“Yeah, about that… my manager called, they want me to do some photos for a magazine.”

“How’s Martin?” She haven’t heard from him lately, but she wasn’t really paying attention to anything. “Makes me remember of that time when we met at a Photoshoot.”

Cillian smiled. “I told him I’d do it… only if you are in charge.”

Yale’s features went through different emotions; shock, surprise, fear… to name a few.

“Cill…” She wasn’t feeling at her best, personally, how would she dare to get a responsibility like that?

“I just know you would do a fabulous job… I just want my wife back?”

Yael practically threw herself into his arms as she kissed him, making he forget about the script. Helping him lay down on the couch, with her on top of him, he could taste her tears on her lips as he deepened the kiss.

Cillian barely gave her time to take off her top, because he was on her in seconds, back in a sitting position, nibbling on her neck gently, loving the way she was moaning his name, enjoying the goosebumps of her skin, as he ran his hands over her body. Eyes locked, getting lost in the passion, their bodies moving in sync.

At least he had his wife back.

***

Next part

Tag list: @lyarr24 @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @gypsy-girl-08 @datewithgianni @cloudofdisney @lespendy @onlydeadcells @fastfan @winchestergirl22 @stevie75 @prettylittlehoneyeyesxoxo @esposadomd @strayrockette @forbidden-forest-witch @elenavampire21 @forgottenpeakywriter @peakyscillian @moral-terpitude @babaohhhriley @queenshelby @heidimoreton @ange-thoughts @shelbydelrey @shaddixlife @sloanexx @cilliansangel @rangerelik @already-broken144 @alessioayla @paprikabadger @dolllol2405 @midnightmagpiemama @yrli8 @itsilvermorny @cutecurly-hair @mrkdvidal1989 @hyperfixationsonshuffle

#that’s what cill said #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x tommy shelby #cillian Murphy x OC #tommy shelby imagine

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aquadestinyswriting · 2 months

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The Origins of Selene's Name

Ok, so here's something completely different. This isn't necessarily a worldbuilding post or a specific story, so much as it is an explanation as to where Selene got her name. Thanks absolutely must go to @druidx for helping me with the folk tale at the end of this little explanation.

Tags: @druidx, @sparrow-orion-writes, @ashirisu, @blind-the-winds, @philosophika, @the-down-upside-finch

OK, so, I wrote about Selene's birth family a long while back and realised that Sel's name does not fit the naming conventions of the rest of her family. Of course I came up with Selene years before this part of her backstory, but I wanted to explore a more in-universe explanation.

Selene was born in the equivalent of early January, on the night of a full moon on a crisp and clear night. Her mother, Rosalie, recalled a word her grandmother had used to refer to the kind of moon present in the sky that night, and decided it would make for a suitable name for her newly born daughter should she survive the 4-5 months until her Name Day.

Selene, when she was a little girl, did ask her mother where the name came from, and Rosalie explained that her grandmother had said the name at one point and made mention of an old fairy-tale passed down through the generations that had been mostly forgotten. While the full story was no longer remembered, parts of it were, and Selene was told it was to do with the moon, mid-winter and this name. Skip forward a few more years, and Selene is talking with Yastromo after her arrival at his tower near the Darkwood. Yastromo notes how unusual Selene's name is in comparison to the rest of her family, and Selene tells him what her mother had told her. Yastromo, as much older and very learned man, realised that the fairy-tale passed down through Selene's family, was the same as an old folk tale from a tribe of nomads that had once lived in the area that the little town of Toreguarde now occupied. While the old wizard could not be certain that Selene's family had any connection to this nomadic tribe, he did decide to regale Selene with the full tale, which has been transcribed for your pleasure below:

A long time ago there was a fair young girl with skin as white as freshly fallen snow and hair as silver as the stars. She lived a simple life with her mother and father in a little house on the edge of the forest. One harsh winter night, the girl's mother got sick and the wise man of the nearby camp told her father that the only thing that would cure her was the heart of a pure white rabbit. The girl's father asked the girl if she would go out and look for this rabbit so he could cut out its heart to cure her mother. So, off the girl goes into the woods in search of a pure white rabbit. The girl spends a whole day searching the woods, but does not find a pure white rabbit. When the sun sank below the ground to go to sleep, the girl started to get very tired and hungry and curled up underneath a tree to rest. When she awoke, the night was lit by the soft, silver light of a full moon, and sitting at her feet, cleaning it's little pink nose, was a rabbit with fur of purest white. The girl slowly brought out her knife from her boot, knowing that the only way to save her mother was to kill the creature. But a pang of pity stayed her hand at the last moment. The rabbit looked up, twitched it's nose at her. The girl started to cry, for she loved her mother and did not wish her to die. But neither did she want to kill an animal so innocent and pure. The rabbit sat up and smiled at her, "Little girl, why do you cry so?" it asked. The girl explained her predicament, that she needed the heart of the rabbit to save her ailing mother, but that she did not want the rabbit to die either. The rabbit cocked its head to one side and looked up at the moon. So full and bright was it that it reflected perfectly in the rabbit's eyes. "You are a good and gentle child. If you promise to return home and never again return to this forest, then I shall speak with Selune to see that your mother's life is spared." it said. The girl looked at the rabbit in confusion, "Selune?" she asked. The rabbit nodded, it's ears flopping. "Yes, my mother. She lives upon the moon, you see, and watches all of Titan's children through the night." the rabbit explained. The girl thought for a moment, then nodded, "I promise never to return to your forest and disturb your rest, so long as my mother survives this sickness." she agreed. The rabbit thumped its foot upon the biggest root of the tree, then turned tail and hopped away. When the girl returned home without the rabbit, her father was furious. He took off his belt to beat her, but was stopped when his wife came through the door and asked why he was shouting so. While she was still tired and pale, the mother was in no danger of passing that night. The girl hugged her mother, then ran to the window and smiled up at the moon that gleamed in the night sky. She then told her mother and father of the promises she and the white rabbit had exchanged, and never again did the girl or her family ever return to the forest.

When Selene heard the tale, it resonated with her so much that, once she turned 16 years old, she officially began using the surname Frigidwake rather than the one she had been given by her birth family. The idea of promises kept also resonated, hard, and Selene has a personal oath to never break a promise she's made if she can help it at all. It also means that she can take sincere promises made by others extremely seriously, especially if they're made by friends or those she considers family.

#aquadestinyswriting #titan fighting fantasy #selene frigidwake #tales of the librarian #folk tale #writing meta

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love-kurdt · 2 months

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This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 2

word count: 10,471

warnings for this chapter: maaaajooorrrr depression!!! brief sexual content, homophobia, underage drinking, panic attacks, driving under the influence, near-death experiences, suicidal ideation. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

My eyes danced across the ceiling of Carter’s bedroom where, surprisingly, no one had come in and tried to kick me out. I detested popcorn ceilings. They were so… textured. Texture should not belong on ceilings. Maybe it was a good thing that things didn’t end up going any further with Carter, because then, I would’ve been staring up at a goddamn popcorn ceiling while Will Byers’ doppelgänger had his way with me.

I laid on my back with my skinny legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and folded my hands together over my stomach as I got lost in the travesty that was the popcorn ceiling. I tried to imagine that the endless expanse of polystyrene was actually just extremely puffy clouds, a bowl of cooked white rice, or freshly fallen snow that had recently been compacted together by a winter boot. My eyes trailed to the junction between the ceiling and the wall, which was adorned with a string of multicolored lights. I liked those kinds of lights, even if they kind of reminded me of the ones Joyce used to communicate with Will in the Upside Down. Over the years, slowly but surely, one of Vecna’s various torture mechanisms became simply Christmas lights again.

Fuck, Christmas break was coming up soon. I needed to get Nancy and Holly gifts before making the trek back to Hawkins. I hoped I'd have enough room in my car for everything, since I wouldn’t be returning after break. The realization hit me out of nowhere; since I no longer had a school to attend, I'd never have an academic “break” ever again. The last one I'd participated in was Thanksgiving, and I'd wanted to have one last memory of my parents being proud of me before I became the full-fledged failure of the family. It was evident, from the way Dad had made multiple homophobic remarks aimed directly at me from across the dinner table, that I'd already failed. I chose to keep my mouth shut about potentially dropping out, at the risk of making things even worse. Now that my college career was officially over, though, “Christmas break” would be just “Christmas” from here on out.

I wondered if Will would be back in town for Hanukkah. I hoped so. The holiday season would be different this year. I would get the fuck over myself and leave the house. I would repair my purposefully neglected friendships. And I'd finally get the chance to see Will again, face to face. Though chances were slim, maybe Will would hear me out. Maybe Will’s hatred for me had faded a little bit. I still couldn’t quite comprehend the complexity of what exactly happened within the past year, and how what I'd already assumed to be pretty damn bad became even worse, considering how well the new year started off.

As soon as I had arrived back at my dorm in January, I diligently thumbtacked the post-it detailing Will’s phone number on the wall above my headboard. I wasn’t normally someone who believed in karma, omens, manifestation, or any of that hippie crap (because I was obviously a realist and a pessimist by nature), but I truly believed that seeing Joyce at Melvald’s was fate in its finest form. Forgetting my school supplies (along with my reluctance to just go back home and grab what I needed from my room) resulted in essentially coming out to Will’s mother. And that was one step closer to getting Will back. Now, all I had to do was call that number.

The post-it stayed on my wall for three months. Elvis hadn’t mentioned or questioned it; we weren’t official, anyway, so I was free to see whoever I wanted. Except I didn’t just want to see Will. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. If only I could pick up the goddamn phone.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to call; I wanted nothing more than to hear Will’s voice enveloped in grainy audio. I longed for the day I'd get to say Will’s name out loud instead of just writing it. But I was waiting for the right time to do it. I couldn’t call in the morning, because Will had insisted for years that, in the words of his stepfather, “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” and refused to be disturbed before 9am. I couldn’t call in the afternoon, because Will would most definitely be in class, or at work if he had a job, or hanging out somewhere with his new friends, and I didn’t want to impose upon that. And I couldn’t call in the evening, because what if the conversation went south? I didn’t want Will to go to sleep angry or upset, especially at me.

In reality, no time was a good time. I knew that confrontation was inexorable, and whether it came across as offensive or not was dependent upon how the conversation began. I, ever the strategist, prepared myself for a multitude of scenarios, from worst to best case; it turned out that predicting all possible outcomes during a supernatural war would help me immensely in this process. Ultimately, I chose to pick up the phone and call Will on the least problematic occasion I could think of: the date was March 22nd, 1990– also known as Will’s 19th birthday.

I had parked myself in the middle of my mattress, sitting criss cross on top of my navy blue comforter. I'd pulled my phone, monstrous, pale yellow, and with a spiral cord, off of my bedside table and into my lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in, and my back was slightly killing me (hunching over a notebook for hours on end all day probably didn’t help either), but it was the optimal setup for either an hours-long phone call or for slamming the handset back in place and hanging up as soon as the other end of the line picked up. But I knew I wouldn’t ever hang up. Never on Will.

I drew my eyes up the headboard of my bed and onto the wall until they met the post-it, in all its glory. I inhaled so hard I thought my lungs would spontaneously combust from the pressure in my chest. I feared my heart would stop the second the dial tone emerged from within the earpiece. I knew I had to do this now, or I never would. I'd already procrastinated doing this for too long. I gulped, my finger hovering over the rotary dial, and tried my luck.

The ringback tone went through once, twice, and–

One of the Christmas lights in the otherwise dark room flickered, causing my body to snap up to attention. I rose to defend myself from any monsters in my vicinity, ready to fight the– woah, I stood up way too fast. I was, apparently, still quite intoxicated. I sat back down on the bed, eyes still glued to the string of bright, colorful lights lining the perimeter of Charlie’s… Christopher’s room? Whatever. It started with C. After a few minutes of engaging in a staring contest with a fucking lightbulb, I let my shoulders go lax. Tension that I hadn’t realized had built up released from my neck as I rested my head on my palms. I wasn’t in danger, not anymore. Well, at least, not in the paranormal realm of things. The only monster I'd have to fight was myself.

More specifically, the raging… situation that had yet to go down in my obscenely tight shorts. Cadence had done a number on me, even though it only lasted for approximately zero-point-five seconds. I shut my eyes tightly, not sure of what to do. I could wait longer, and run the risk of being caught with a very obvious boner by someone if they entered the room unannounced… or I could make a run for it and try not to be sidetracked by anyone I knew.

I opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked through, and thankfully, it didn’t look like the escape would be too arduous. I rushed out of the room, pushing through the multitude of bodies in search of the exit. The room was extremely hot, likely due to everyone’s combined body heat and the space heaters stationed in the corner of every room, which made it difficult to breathe. I hadn’t been much of a fan of the cold ever since Will and I got stuck in the Upside Down during the Vecnapocalypse. We’d ended up staying there for longer than initially anticipated; having almost kissed at one point, I freaked out and ran away, stupidly tripping on a vine and causing an entire side-battle in the Upside Down, nearly ruining the Party’s chance to defeat Vecna. So, no, I wasn’t much of a fan of the cold, but right now, I needed to escape the sensation of molten lava that crept up and slowly wrapped around my throat. My eyes caught a glimpse of the front door, and relief flooded through my veins.

But that feeling was short lived, because a vine curled around my wrist before I could take another step. I whipped around to see that the vine was actually a hand, and noticed that I vaguely recognized the hand’s owner, who was a girl from my Quantitative Literacy class. “Hey, Mike!” she smiled. She had black hair, light brown eyes, and a septum piercing. She looked badass. Bitchin’, as El would say. However, her bright teal eyeshadow, even in the dark, served as both a boner killer and the source for my impending migraine. So it was a blessing and a curse, really.

I tried to remember the girl’s name, but didn’t want to disappoint her when I'd admitted to not knowing it, so I uttered a painfully generic, “Hey! How are you doing’? Good to see you!” and gave her a rather light, impersonal hug. She appeared to be satisfied enough with my greeting. She pulled me down by my shoulder so she could talk in my ear without everyone hearing over the music.

“My friend over there saw you earlier and was wondering if you were single,” she said, pointing over to a group of two guys and two girls who were all huddled on the sectional couch. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. This conversation could go one of two ways. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make it awkward, but then again, I knew I probably wouldn’t ever see her again after that night. So that made me feel a little better in that respect.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “Uh… which one?”

“Shoot, I should have led with that!” she laughed. I laughed along, but my voice felt hollow. Luckily, she didn’t pick up on it. “The one with the blue hair! Her name is Chelsea.”

I looked over at the group, and made eye contact with the girl with the blue hair. I watched as she blushed and looked away. She was shy. She looked sweet. Damn it, Mike, now you’re gonna break yet another heart. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal?

“She’s pretty interested, you know,” the Girl With No Name said, unknowingly twisting the knife that rested permanently in my stomach. The lava curling around my throat became even hotter, burning through my skin.

“Yeah, totally, uh… that’s so cool!” I remarked passively. And yeah, it was cool, in theory… but hopelessly incompatible in practice. I glanced at the door, then back at the girl before telling her, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m straight as a circle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m gay, like, really gay.” I blurted, probably loud enough for the entire room to hear. I heard someone whistle, and a few others cheered me on, but I wanted to burst into flames. The girl stared at me, stunned at my sudden outburst, seemingly at a loss for words. I felt myself choking on air. I needed to get out of there, and quickly.

“Okaygottagoseeya!” I forced out in a single breath, not leaving any time for a response from anyone before I bolted through the crowd and out the door, successfully fleeing the scene. Grass met the soles of my Chuck Taylors as I continued to run across the campus quad, my breathing quick, ragged, and uneven. The frigid December weather did nothing to soothe the burning sensation throughout my body, which by now felt like it was burning from the inside out. My feet loudly slapped the pavement below me, and I was proud that I hadn’t slowed down or stopped yet. If one good thing were to come out of my time at the University of Indianapolis, it was my improved stamina from all the sex. Well, that’s fucking sad… and kind of hilarious, I thought.

I sprinted a few blocks, not caring to look for any oncoming cars. If I got hit, cool. Awesome. I'd thank the driver as I bled out in the street. But no one came to take me out of my misery. So I kept running, and running, and running. My long legs screamed as my practically nonexistent muscles struggled to carry me. The prickly, thin air I breathed in through my mouth reminded me of the sensation when I'd chewed a piece of mint gum and drank water right after. It was so fucking cold, but I was so fucking hot. Like, there was sweat dripping down my face. Or were those tears? Was I seriously fucking crying again?

Up until last year, I had never been the type of person to openly cry. I wasn’t raised to share my feelings or emotions. That was part of the reason as to why I had been so uncomfortable with the prospect of going to therapy. I never opened up to anyone, because I hated the feeling of defenselessness, and even more so despised the idea of being seen as weak. I prided myself on being the “fearless leader” of the Party. For fuck’s sake, I'd been the one to stare Vecna down as I thrust a sword straight into his heart. I'd proven my strength as a leader time and time again. But what would happen when Mike Wheeler let his guard down?

It turned out that I didn’t have to let my guard down; Will broke it for me. Will’s departure broke the dam of emotional repression that I had worked so hard for years to maintain. I suddenly became unable to stop myself from crying. I'd always silently envied Will for being able to express his emotions so freely, but now that I could do so as well, albeit uncontrollably, I didn’t envy Will at all. I wasn’t sure how Will had done it for all those years; the migraines, the exhaustion, the dehydration… It was awful. And I felt even worse when I recalled all the times when I was the reason for making Will cry.

I had also gotten accustomed to panic attacks. I had my first one on the day Will left. My mom came into my room to check on me. I’d looked up at her with scared, red-rimmed eyes, and my shoulders violently shook as I hyperventilated. My mom swiftly jumped into action, meeting me where I was at, grounding me, and helping me come back to earth. She’d held me in her arms as I sobbed, comforted me, and didn’t pry. But… she knew. I could never express enough gratitude towards my mom for what she did for me that day. Little did I know, though, that it only got worse from there. The second one happened after The Phone Call™, which led to my initial downward spiral. The third one happened in Warren Blakeley’s car after I'd been drugged and assaulted at that one party. And the fourth one… ‘twas a-brewin’.

I found my car despite my impaired vision, nearly ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges with how roughly I opened it, and slammed it shut behind me. I collapsed my entire body weight against the steering wheel before letting out the loudest, most guttural scream that I hadn’t even been aware I was capable of. I reached my hands up into my scalp, pulling fistfuls of hair with my hands as my surroundings melted away. I genuinely felt like I was going to die. Everything I'd said, done, and experienced within the past year and a half had been slowly building up inside me, and this was me finally cracking under the pressure.

Dear Will, I hate you. Dear Will, you broke me. Dear Will, I crave you. Dear Will, why? Why, why, why– Dear Will, fuck you. Dear Will, go to hell. Dear Will, I’m sorry. Dear Will, I miss you. Dear Will, I love you. Dear Will—

I turned my keys in the ignition, and the engine came roaring to life. I lifted my head up to the rear view mirror, rubbed my eyes a few times, and took a look at my reflection. The person staring back at me looked absolutely horrendous. I looked as if I hadn’t fully slept through the night since 1983. And that wasn’t far from the truth; I could count on a single hand how many a good night’s sleep I'd had since the day Will was first taken by the demogorgon, and all of those times, Will was there, by my side.

I shifted gears and turned my headlights on, pulling out of my spot and drifting out into the street. I knew what I was doing was a bad idea. Driving drunk was, first of all, illegal, and secondly, dangerous to not just myself, but to others. But I couldn’t give less of a shit; I'd figured out what I needed to do. I slowed down to a stop at the red light of the intersection where I'd have to take a left to go home.

“When you’re… different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make [me] feel like [I’m] not a mistake at all. Like [I’m] better for being different. And that gives [me] the courage to fight on. If [I] was mean to you, or [I] seemed like [I] was pushing you away, it’s because [I’m] scared of losing you, like you’re scared of losing [me]. And if [I] was going to lose you, I think [I’d] rather just get it over with quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

The light turned green, but I didn’t turn left. I tapped my fingertips against the center console, drove straight ahead, past the light, and turned on my right hand signal.

I swerved onto I-65.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered. I felt my breath hitch. His voice was deeper than I remembered. It was like he’d gone through a second puberty, if that were even possible.

“Will! Hi!” I exclaimed, sounding far too enthusiastic for my own good. I waited for a reply, but could only hear Will breathing on the other end of the line. I went to speak again, but Will beat me to the punch.

“… Mike?” Will said my name in a tone that I could only label as nostalgic dread. Oh god, I shouldn’t have called him. I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and Will was on the phone, and had just said my name for the first time in a year.

I reclined onto my comforter so I was lying on my back with my knees bent, wrapping the cord around my finger a few times as I spoke. “Yeah, um… I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday, and to tell you that I miss you.” Well, that was vague, Wheeler. You can do better than– “And love you. So much.” …that. Fuck. Too far.

I heard Will gasp, then try to cover it up by clearing his throat a few times before responding. “How’d you get my number?”

Friends don’t lie, so I told him. “Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

Will exhaled. I’d always savored that sound, and would have been content if that was the last sound I'd ever hear. But… that specific exhale didn’t convey contentment; this one was laced with light exasperation. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

I begged to differ. She most definitely should have done that, and I would be eternally grateful that she did. In the eleventh hour, where all hope appeared to have been lost in the most abysmal Christmas break to ever exist, Joyce Byers saved my life. She’d given me a reason to keep on going.

“And you probably shouldn’t call me again.”

The color drained out of my face. My stomach churned with anxiety that seemed to exponentially increase by the second, and I suddenly felt the urge to throw up. This was the worst case scenario, but I didn’t think much of it. It was only a hypothetical, it wasn’t supposed to actually happen! Will was pushing me away. Again. But why?

“What have I ever done to you, Will?” I heard myself ask, my voice small. I felt like a kid again. At the end of the day, I was still a kid. I’d had to grow up too fast, a powerful disquiet having annihilated a majority of my childhood. I’d been so uncertain of where I’d end up after the war was over. And the one time I was sure of myself, sure of my feelings, and sure that Will Byers was my heart, I–

“Enough. You’ve done enough,” Will’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone made my blood run cold. I set the handset back into its cradle, and continued to lay there on my twin-sized mattress, the rest of my body completely frozen. I felt my facial features involuntarily crumpling in upon themselves as the grief consumed me.

This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. I rarely prayed; I only did in life-threatening situations, where the probable end result was dying. But right now, I prayed the hardest I’d ever prayed in my entire life. Please, God, help me wake up. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, whoever the hell you are, if you even exist at all… if this is real life, please kill me. I can’t live like this. After a minute or so, I opened my eyes. Nothing. I huffed a quiet laugh to myself; it was so typical of me to place responsibility on others, let alone God, to deal with my problems. I'd have to face this alone. I was always alone. And I fucking hated it.

I hated that I would never have Will in the way I wanted him, no, the way I needed him. I hated that I could never seem to get the closure that I believed I deserved. I hated that Will wouldn’t just be honest with me! You’ve done enough. What the fuck did “enough” even mean? Had I done something else? Did I do something other than that one time in August? Something during my first semester, or over Christmas break, that I couldn’t remember due to my steadily consistent, months-long intoxication? I couldn’t think of a single thing, which made me even angrier.

I wished I could just… fall out of love with Will, or something. Maybe I could fall out of love with him. What was the worst that could happen if I picked up the handset again, and dialed the number written on that cursed post-it? What if I said to Will, “Actually, I don’t love you. That was just me being crazy”? Crazy together, that’s what would happen. I'd be reminded of the young boy who recognized his more-than-platonic love for Will; a version of myself that I could never get back; a boy who would call me out for lying to both Will and myself, because friends don’t lie. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Will had hurt me badly enough to justify a grudge. At least I thought so. Then again, I hated grudges, and the person I became when I held them. Scratch that, I hated the person I'd become, period. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I'd started at the University of Indianapolis entirely heartbroken, but on the other hand, I'd finally discovered my identity as a young gay man. I met some new people, and fucked a lot more of them. But parties have to end sometime. I would lay in bed, covered in the sweat and cum of a random guy asleep next to me, and would get weirdly emotional when my mind would, as always, drift to Will. I’d sometimes close my eyes and pretend the guy was Will, and I'd fall for my own brain’s tricks, if only for a minute. After that minute was up, and I'd remember that Will hated my guts… I would drink. A lot. I was the life of the party… with a side of alcoholism. My temper got worse, my fuse got shorter, and my overall outlook on life became so cynical that I sometimes even contemplated dying, and not the kind of dying involving bones snapping and eyes exploding. But I'd never followed through with anything in my entire life, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill myself even if I wanted to.

The tears that previously poured out of my eyes like waterfalls had dried up, their presence remaining evident in the stiffness on the surface of my cheeks. I hiccuped, the sharp intake of air causing me to develop a cramp under my ribcage. I grimaced in pain, sitting up and lowering my feet to the linoleum floor. I shuffled to my wardrobe and opened it, sifting through some oversized sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and Will’s godforsaken yellow sweater before I found what I was looking for. It was over. This was it. I'd had my chance, and I lost Will for the third time in my life. I picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to my lips. Fuck Will Byers. Fuck everything.

The sun had traveled up and down across the horizon a few times following The Phone Call™ when I'd startled awake to a shrill ringing in my ears. I checked my alarm clock to see the time, and I rolled my eyes. I extended my arm out to grab the phone without having to move the rest of my body. “Bitch, I swear to God, you better be either pregnant or broken up with by Nathan, because it is two o’clock in the goddamn–”

“Mike. It’s El.”

I sat up then, my eyes wide with conviction. “El? Jeez, I’m so sorry for that incredibly blunt greeting. My friend Alex tends to call me around this time with all her latest life crises, so… I just kind of assumed.”

El hummed in understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s hope your friend Alex doesn’t actually get pregnant or broken up with, though.”

“Yeah, that would not be good,” I agreed with a laugh, leaning back onto my pillows and staring at the ceiling. I'd missed the sound of El Hopper’s voice. It had been way too long. “So, uh, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” El replied, and my reminiscing came to a full stop. Of course Will had called El. They were siblings who told each other everything. Even back when they were kids, especially after Joyce and Hopper finally got married, Will and El were joined at the hip.

“What happened?” she asked me, and I scoffed, lifting my free hand to run it through my hair, regretting it immediately when my fingers got caught in one of the many knots, since I hadn’t washed my hair in nearly a week.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to hear the same story twice?”

“I want to hear it from your perspective,” El told me, and I clenched my jaw.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I start?”

“From the beginning would be great.”

So I told her. I started at the beginning, all the way back to when Will and El had just moved back to Hawkins in April of 1986. I told her about how Will and I hadn’t spoken for the whole six months that he’d been in California. I told her about how I had, in fact, written letters to Will; I'd just never sent them. I told her about the distance that Will carefully maintained between the two of them throughout the entire duration of the Vecnapocalypse, up until when we’d almost kissed in the Upside Down. I told her about how Will–

“And then a few days ago I called him to wish him a happy birthday and… El, I genuinely think he hates me. He hung up on me and… I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I can't undo the past, and I can't get him out of my head.”

El remained silent for a few seconds, and I feared that our call might have been disconnected and I'd been talking to no one. But then, I heard the faint sound of El breathing, so I continued, “If any of this gets back to Will–”

“Why do you think I called you, Mike?” El cut me off, and I sat there in silence, unable to reply. “I called because I care, and because I want the best for both you and Will. Not just Will. I think you did the right thing letting him know you’re still there if he wants you to be.” Well that was… unexpected. And really kind, considering that this was the first time we’d spoken since she moved to Nashville. I truly had no idea why El still gave a shit about me after everything. I'd been a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend, and these reasons alone were appropriate grounds to cut me out of her life. But El stuck around.

“Oh,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

“I just…” she trailed off. Oh no. What now?

“Just what?” I pressed, and I heard El sigh. Greeeaaaaat.

“I just think you shouldn’t have called so soon.”

“So soon?” I repeated, horrified. “El, it’s been seven months since I last spoke to him! When do you think should I have done it?” Should I have waited until we were out of school for the summer? Should I have waited until we were both out of college? Should I have waited until Will had forgotten about me?

“You should have let him call you,” El said to me, her voice strangely calm. “Or not called him on his birthday of all days. I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out there.” Yeah, no shit. I reached over to my bedside table again to pick up the bottle of whiskey, which still had about half left, and took a gigantic gulp, instantly regretting it when it scorched my esophagus.

“I don’t see how the fuck this is helping, Eleven,” I spluttered, wiping my mouth roughly with my sweatshirt sleeve. Sometimes, I wished El’s powers extended beyond telekinesis and telepathy, and, like, contained the key solution to all of my problems. That would be ideal. But no, she had to be all vague and mysterious and just throw ideas out there.

“Okay, well, if you want to be that way, then fine,” El’s tone turned cold. “I highly recommend you consider hashing it out in person.” She had no idea what she was talking about. The Will she had spoken to must have been a figment of her imagination, because Will had made it abundantly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. As far as I was concerned, I'd never see Will again. But then El spoke once more. “I hope you and Will can eventually get your heads out of your asses and admit that you still love each other.”

With that, the line clicked, and I was alone with my thoughts. Or rather, one lone phrase, as the rest of my mind faded to nothingness: You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. Those words played on a loop in my mind as I finished off my bottle of whiskey. From that moment on, “sobriety” and “Mike Wheeler'' would not appear in the same sentence, not until—

Woaaaahhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!!! The key change of the Bon Jovi song woke me back up with a start. This had already happened a few times, but thankfully, the loud rock music on Will’s mixtape would startle me awake each time I nodded off behind the wheel.

I concluded that I couldn’t blink anymore. Though my eyes were incredibly dry, due to lukewarm air blasting through the vents and directly hitting my corneas, blinking would cause my heart rate to lower and the rest of the world to move in slow motion. If only for a few seconds of my life, I'd trade out the mental torment, the anger, and the loneliness for tranquility, quiet, and warmth… then my eyelids would droop closed.

I pressed my foot a little harder on the gas pedal, trying not to get distracted by the corn fields that seemed to sway to the music with me. Hopefully I would get my third wind sooner than later (my second one was fleeting, and died out as soon as it began). The sun was coming up, which was definitely going to help keep me awake. The song ended, followed by a few seconds of suspended quiet between songs before a familiar guitar riff met my ears.

“Oh, fuuuuck me. Goddamnit,” I indignantly announced to the universe, gripping my fingers tighter on the steering wheel. The voice of Joe Strummer began to shout alongside the wailing electric guitar. Now, I was very awake. My mind became a film reel, playing back memories I thought I'd blocked out a long time ago.

Darling you’ve got to let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

Once everyone had been debriefed on what was happening in Hawkins, Will and Jonathan immediately went to work on making customized mixtapes for everyone. I sat on my father’s La-Z-Boy in the living room and watched in awe as the brothers put their minds together and churned out each tape as if it were second nature. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Will’s extensive musical knowledge, for one, as well as the strong sibling bond they shared. Having grown up surrounded by sisters, I often felt like the odd one out. My parents shamelessly and openly favored my sisters over me, which further excluded me, whether it was intentional or not, on their part. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they ever found out I was gay. That would be a disaster.

If you say that you are mine / I’ll be here till the end of time.

While Will and Jonathan were out getting more cassettes, I got a hold of and sifted through everyone’s handwritten lists. I had no idea Dustin enjoyed metal music so much; most of his list consisted of songs by Black Sabbath and Metallica. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me, considering how much of an impact Eddie Munson had made on the two of them. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. Part of me refused to accept it. Eddie could still be alive. He was just in the Upside Down somewhere. We could still save him. There was still time. There had to be time. My subconscious must have known I'd needed a distraction from the subject of Eddie— not dying— yes, dying, because I found Will’s list. To me, this list was a small glimpse into Will’s mind, so I decided to memorize it. I'd do anything to get closer to Will, even if it meant racking my brain in the process.

“You like my mix?” Will’s deep vocal timbre demanded my attention, and I swiveled my upper body around to see Will leaning over my shoulder, his hands planted on either side of me on the back edge of the chair. When did he get back home? That didn’t matter, because Will’s arms looked amazing in my blue and yellow striped shirt, stretching the short sleeves in all the right places. Was that a vein on his bicep? I gulped loudly, becoming flustered at our very close proximity. God, I needed to get ahold of myself. Pining over my best friend like this was not—

“I can make you a copy if you want,” Will said, and my eyes lit up in surprise. Will would really do that for me? I realized then that I hadn’t said any actual words during this entire interaction, and borderline blushed at the thought of Will rendering me speechless, but I needed to talk. Now.

“Really?” I asked, and Will nodded. “That would be amazing! Thank you!”

“Of course. I’ll have that ready for you in about an hour,” Will smiled, pulling out of my space, but not removing his hand from the recliner. I took this moment to shift in my spot to face Will, placing my hand atop my friend’s before he could walk away. Will turned back in my direction, eyes frantic yet welcoming.

“You’ve always had the best music taste of the Party. I’ve missed it,” I had a sentimental streak, what could I say?

“You have?” Will squeaked out, seeming surprised at my confession.

“Uh, of course! Why wouldn’t I have missed it?” I asked, and Will shrugged.

“I dunno, just… you’ve always liked synth pop stuff more than punk rock. Like, your first song on your list is ‘Smalltown Boy’ by Bronski Beat… which I’m not entirely shocked by? But I always thought you liked that kind of stuff over my taste.”

“Well, you thought wrong, Byers, because your music has always been my favorite to listen to,” I quipped, my voice infected by my ever-growing grin. “You taste top tier.”

Wait, did I just… What did I just say? I said, quote, “You taste top tier.” As in Will Byers, as a person… tasted top tier. What if… My mind meandered into treacherous territory as I wondered what Will tasted like– NO! Not now! I was just about ready to pass away right then and there. I could just imagine my headstone; Here Lies Michael James Wheeler. Cause of Death: Inability to Formulate a Fucking Sentence.

“Oh, do I, now?” Will raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting a corner of his gorgeous mouth. I nearly fell off the chair. Could my egregious mistake have given me a little bit of leverage in the flirtation department? Will seemed to think so.

I played it off casually with a simple, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Will remarked, placing his other hand over both of ours, sandwiching my hand between Will’s palms. So Will liked being (accidentally) flirted with. Note to self, I thought, fuck up more often.

I smiled so big that my mouth nearly fell off my face. “Cool.”

So you gotta let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and I was lying on the basement couch with my legs hanging off the edge. My eyes were closed, and I wore my headphones which were attached to my Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as I had from the second it fell into my hands back in 1986. I felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. I cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when I registered that it was Will who was entering my space.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk.”

It's always tease, tease, tease / You're happy when I'm on my knees

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” I sat up, pulling my headphones fully off my head and resting them around my neck. Then I saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

One day it's fine, and next it's black / So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know / Should I stay, or should I go?

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. My eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. How did he–

“SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW!!!” I cried out, cranking the window down with my free hand and letting the wind rush through my long, black hair. My sobs broke into a maniacal, rueful laugh as my hair violently whipped into my eyes. I lifted my left hand and extended it out the driver’s side window, feeling my fingers being forced apart and back together by the rippling sea of oxygen and carbon. Rock bottom felt like the top of the world.

“IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUB-ALLLLLLL,” I yelled through the thick strands, spluttering a bit as some pieces made their way into my mouth. I tugged them away, but to no avail, as the wind obviously had a mind of its own, but I continued on with my tirade of near-incoherent screeching, face full of loose curls. “AMIFF I SHTAY ISHWILLBEE DUBALLLL!”

The road took a slight bend, and I obliged to the demands of the pavement. The sun was bright enough that it burned into my retinas. I pushed my hair out of my face once more to view the scenery, only to be met with a pair of bright yellow headlights belonging to a tractor trailer. Only now did I perceive the loud noise of the truck’s horn; my car radio had been blocking it out. I also noticed that I was in the opposite lane, and about to collide head-on with the trailer if I didn’t move fast enough,

With enough adrenaline to fuel a thousand demodogs, I swerved to the right and dodged the truck with only seconds to spare. I took a moment to process the fact that I could have died. I knew my hands held the steering wheel, and my foot was still on the gas, but the rest of me was thoroughly detached from reality. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared on through the speakers, but I could only feel the vibrations rumbling from the floor of the car. I could have died, but I didn’t. But I felt my heart stop, and it felt simultaneously comforting and cataclysmic..

I knew that I couldn’t continue on, not like this. As if the road could read my mind, a small lookout area appeared within my vicinity, and I took this as a sign to pull over onto the shoulder to regroup. I parked my car, turned the music down, and clasped my hands in my lap, waiting a few more seconds before turning the car off, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door.

The actual sun had begun to rise. The air was crisp, and the wind chill slightly nudged it into even colder temperatures, sending a shiver down my spine. I hastily cowered back into the lingering warmth of the vehicle, searching the passenger side for… there it was. I pulled a crimson colored University of Indianapolis sweatshirt from behind me and shoved it over my shoulders, zipping it up. I did a double take at what the block-style letters spelled out, rolling my eyes and laughing bitterly to myself at the sheer irony. I continued to laugh as I opened the car door once more, heading towards the lookout.

I stood at the top of a steep cliff, guarded by a rusty guard rail that looked like it would fall apart with the next gust of wind that hit it. The trees below me were bare, their branches contorting every which way, slicing the air around them like an army of spears. Beyond the line of trees I could see the miles-wide stretch of farmland, and the miniscule house that sat on the corner of the property, chimney smoking. In an atmosphere as peaceful as this one, I stood idly at the edge of the lookout, thinking about how this would be a beautiful place to die. If I were to lift just one leg over the rail…

Mike, don't do it! I don't need my baby teeth, twelve year old Dustin’s voice echoed from the back burner of my mind. Seriously, don't do it, man! Of course my thoughts traveled back to that time at the quarry. How could I ever forget? Even as a child, I'd been completely wrecked without Will. If this memory proved anything, it proved that history repeats itself.

Dentist's office opens in five, young Troy’s voice began, and I glanced down. This time, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. Four… This time, El wouldn’t be able to save me. Three… This time, no one would be there to grieve for me. Two…

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“But I did mean it!!!” I screamed into the silence, startling a flock of birds below. I lifted my hands up to my face, covering my bloodshot eyes. I heaved out a low growl, raising my voice until it hit the top of my range, cracking with an agonizing shriek. “I meant all of it! I love you! I always have! Fuck, Will, why couldn’t you just see that?!”

I let out a quiet sob, but no tears followed; I'd cried the rest of them out over the course of the past few hours. My throat felt like it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. I took a step back from the ledge and kicked a few of the rocks at my feet, watching them fall. I decided I didn’t want to die that day; not by alcohol poisoning, not by tractor trailer wreck, and not by jumping off a cliff. The only way I could die was if I did all I possibly could to get Will back. I turned my back on the trees, briskly walking back to my car.

I’m gonna make sure you, William Jacob Byers, know that I meant every single word.

About half an hour later, I walked into the convenience mart of a gas station. My hangover headache was beginning to form, and my intermittent yawning had become more and more frequent, so I figured some coffee would solve both of those problems. I stopped at the entrance, looking down at the stack of newspapers to my right. I recalled myself making a mental note back at the frat party to check my horoscope, so I leaned down to pick one up, searching for Aries when I found the page.

December 15th, 1990: Do expect some appreciation for the efforts you've put into recent days, dear Aries. However, do not get your hopes too high, because your actions may not lean towards gratification if you expect too much.

Well, Chicago Sun Times, it’s a little late for that, I thought, tossing the paper back onto the pile and walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, and then to the coffee station. I filled a cup and dumped about seven packets worth of sugar into it before capping it off and heading to the register.

The clerk behind the counter, an older man, looked like he'd been having the best goddamn morning of his life. He beamed from ear to ear, and I could feel the positivity radiating off of this man from a mile away. When I got closer, I noticed a singular studded earring on his right earlobe.

“Hi, how’s it going?” The man smiled at me, crows feet forming in the outer corners of his eyes. I tried to mirror the expression, but failed miserably.

“It’s going,” I sighed, setting the water and coffee down on the counter and watching the clerk type in the prices on the register.

“Looks like it. You look rough, kid,” the man sympathized, pulling the money I slid onto the counter towards him and counting the bills. I shifted from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for the cashier to hand me my change so I could get out of there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quirked an eyebrow, and I stopped my fidgeting. I looked up at the clerk, took a deep breath, and–

“Yeah. God, you don’t know the half of it. So I’m gay, right? And, like, that’s cool. And I’m in love with this friend of mine who I’ve known since kindergarten. He’s… he was my best friend. For years. And we went through this major thing that nearly killed us, but somehow it didn’t, and that was great, because then I was able to tell him how I felt. Right? Wrong. So, like, he moved to fucking Chicago without any kind of warning, or maybe, I don’t know, a Hey Mike, you hurt me because you said or did A, B, and C, and this is why I’m leaving. Something that could represent ‘the end’ to me. Because I’m not that great at picking up on when to quit beating a dead whore– horse. Horse. Jesus. I’m not beating any whores, I promise. But anyway, I went to U of Indy, and that was fan-fucking-tastic, because I was finally okay with who I am. I’m pretty good at the gay thing, and other guys seemed to really dick– uh, dig that. And by that, I mean, well… you can put two and two together, right? Right. Okay. So, even when I was with all these guys, I always thought about Will. All the time. He’s a part of me, you know? I couldn’t imagine life without him. So when I called him up on his birthday in March, which was about seven months into the not-talking-to-each-other thing, which I never signed up for in the first place, he basically told me to fuck off and never speak to him again. And then I realized I had to live without him, so I kind of spiraled, and now I can’t fucking sleep without drinking, and I can’t function without some form of physical touch from another man, but I’m never fucking fulfilled because it’s not Will who’s doing the physical touch, and I fucking love him, and I need him more than he needs me, and now I’m fucking driving to Chicago to find him and… Oh my god, I literally just poured my heart out to a stranger. I’m still kind of loopy. I’m so sorry.”

“That you did. I’m happy to listen, though,” the cashier merely chuckled, waving his hand in friendly dismissal. “You’ve really been put through the wringer, kiddo.”

“Well… thank you,” I softly smiled as I took my change from the counter, and shoved it into my pocket before turning around in preparation to leave.

“Best of luck in your travels! Go get your man!” the clerk called after me, and I laughed as the glass door slowly fell shut behind me.

Pulling onto the campus of the American Academy of Art was not something I had expected to be on my Sunday agenda, but here I was, pulling into a visitor parking spot next to the Admissions office building. I got out of my car, slamming the door, and smoothing my jeans over my thighs, feeling slightly self conscious about how they’d been crumpled up in a ball in my back seat after my most recent midnight excursion with Wyatt Bowman. Although, if I were being honest, anything was better than those denim cutoffs. Especially considering the mission I was currently on. Speaking of.

At first glance, this was not a traditional campus. There was not a single quad to be seen. There were no outdated buildings or directories, let alone any form of indication of a college campus, aside from the little rectangular flags with the school’s logo that hung from every other lamppost lining the sidewalks. All of the academic buildings were dispersed amidst other buildings belonging to different businesses and companies within a specific limit of blocks, which would make it much more difficult for me to figure out where the hell Will could even be within this organized chaos. I figured it would make the most sense to head into the Admissions office building first, so I could at least get a map.

The interior of the building was bright, with students’ art framed along the walls. I walked over to the nearest painting in the room, pausing to admire the work. There was a Monet-inspired landscape closest to the door, and a cubist portrayal of a still life stationed beside it. I could see why Will chose this school. They cultivated the talents of their students and turned them into true artists. Nothing could have prepared me for the next piece that caught my eye.

It was me. Fuck, it was me; large in scale, vibrant, and full of life. I held my breath and stared back at the incredibly detailed, realistic portrait. I knew I didn’t need to look at the label that was tacked to the bottom of the painting to know whose work it was, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes dragged downward and nearly passed away when I read the title: William Byers (b. 1971), “The Heart” (1989). Oil on Canvas. My chest swelled with pride, but quickly deflated at the looming, deafening voice in my head that routinely reminded me of what I'd lost. But that’s where everything stopped making sense.

The label stated that Will had painted “The Heart” in 1989, the same year that Will left me without turning back. He’d begun attending the American Academy of Art in September of that same year, leaving only three and a half or so months of the semester to complete the painting. So why would Will, after he completely erased me out of his life, still refer to me as the heart? And which heart was Will referring to? His own, or the one he’d shattered? I hadn’t realized I'd zoned out, so when a middle aged lady appeared next to me, I nearly leapt out of my skin. Her outfit, a floor length dress paired with a shawl, made her look quite ominous out of the corner of my eye.

“This is one of my favorites,” the woman stated.

“Yeah… mine, too,” I hummed, unmoving.

“Have we met?” she began, but didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Perhaps you’re one of my lecture students, I can never quite put a name to a face. But I must say, you look quite familiar,” she told me, turning back to the painting with her arms crossed over her chest, deep in thought.

“Probably because I’m the guy in the painting, heh.”

“Oh gosh, silly me!” the woman exclaimed, flushing red as she put a palm to her forehead. “I didn’t even make the connection! So I assume you’re close with the artist, then?”

“Yeah, I know…” I began, then cut myself off with a grimace. “Knew him.”

“How nice!” Luckily, she didn’t pick up on my vacant expression. Instead, she continued on, “If you’d like, I can connect you with some students if you’re interested in touring the school.”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am, that’s alright. I was just wondering if I could have a map if there’s one available?” I asked, and she nodded, turning on her heel to open a drawer of the front desk.

“Of course! And no need to call me ma’am, Miriam works just fine.”

“Well, thank you very much, Miriam,” I smiled at her as she handed me two pieces of color-coded, glossy paper; a campus map, and a map of Chicago.

“You’re very welcome, Mike. And when you see him, tell Will that I ordered those brushes he needed.” I didn’t recall ever telling her my name, or mentioning Will in our short conversation, but I became hyper aware of the fact that Miriam likely knew something I didn’t. Will had evidently told her about me. Apparently it wasn’t too slanderous, though, so I felt cautiously optimistic.

“Um… I… okay,” I rushed out, backing out the door as politely as I possibly could. “Thanks! Bye!” As soon as I was out of the Admissions office building, I ran down the street. I was so close to finding Will. Now, all I had to do was find the dorms.

I looked down at the map in my hands, then up, trying to find the building number, then back down again to confirm if I was even on the right street. The map said the boys’ dorms should be there, but all I could see was a brick wall in front of me. I was just about to rip all my hair out before I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned to see two girls looking up at me, concern etched on their faces. One of the girls wore a ski hat over her blonde hair, paired with a pink windbreaker, while the other girl donned a sherpa denim jacket and a beanie that still allowed her to show off her impressively long box braids that cascaded down to her hips.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Sherpa Girl asked. My gaze traveled down to notice our intertwined hands and I blinked, looking back at the two girls and nodding. At least I was amongst friends. I gripped onto the map in my hands for dear life, hoping they’d just leave me be so I could be disorientated in peace.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine,” I shook my head, forcing out a smile. “Thank you though.”

That didn’t seem to cut it for Sherpa Girl, because she shared a knowing look with Windbreaker Girl. “Do you think he looks fine, babe?” she looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think he looks fine.”

“No,” Windbreaker replied to her girlfriend, “He most definitely does not. Also, he shook his head ‘no’ while saying he was fine, so… busted.”

“Okay, what of it?” I waved my hands around in the air in frustration, pacing in a small circle before returning to face the two girls. “I’m just walking around this… very complicated campus.”

Windbreaker let out a giggle at that, leaning into Sherpa’s shoulder to muffle her laughter, which melted my heart a little bit.

“You’re obviously lost, dude,” Sherpa pressed. “At least tell us what you’re looking for, maybe we can help you.”

I let out an exhale of defeat, awkwardly shoving my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. “Any chance you know of a guy named Will Byers?”

Sherpa’s worryful expression shifted as she exclaimed, “Oh yeah, Will? He’s the cleric in our D&D club!” My brain short-circuited at the weight that sentence held.

“…He still plays D&D?”

That was when Windbreaker Girl’s eyes widened in recognition. “Wait… are you Mike?” I felt like I was being charged with a crime, but I nodded anyway. “Thee Mike? As in Mike Wheeler?” she asked again, and I couldn’t refrain from feeling a bit embarrassed by the implication that her vocal inflections gave off.

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, but was completely caught off guard when Sherpa did a little jump in place, her face splitting into a wide grin. Wait a minute. They didn’t despise me? I was so confused.

“No. No, this is great!” Sherpa elaborated, letting go of Windbreaker’s hand in order to reach into her purse. Huh? “I’ll give you his address.” Oh.

“He lives off campus with our friend Kate, but she’s usually at work all day on Sundays,” Windbreaker explained while Sherpa found a fancy, expensive-looking art pen and scribbled the address onto a grocery receipt. She handed it to me. I read it, then had to read it one more time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. 7 Maple Street, Chicago, IL.

I gulped loudly, peeling my eyes away from the piece of receipt paper. I nodded in thanks, as no words seemed to come out of my mouth when I attempted to speak.

“My name’s Ivy, by the way, and this is my girl Hannah,” Sherpa– Ivy– said, wrapping an arm around Windbreaker– Hannah’s shoulders, pulling her into her side as they walked past and away from me. “Tell Will we said ‘you’re welcome’!” I heard her call back to me. I wouldn’t even try to decode what the fuck that meant.

I eventually found my car after wandering around aimlessly for a few more minutes than I'd have liked to admit, and landed in the driver’s seat with a thud. I pulled the map of Chicago out of my pocket and dug in my middle console for a pen, locating Maple Street in seconds. It was about a fifteen minute drive away. Okay. I could do this.

As I drove, I thought about what to say. How could I even begin to explain why I was there, on Will’s doorstep? How could I justify my batshit insane motive? I got drunk for a year and moaned out your name while hooking up with a guy named Carter? I was driving under the influence and decided to come to Chicago instead of going home? I almost killed myself on multiple occasions on the way here, but made it out alive just to tell you that I love you? I groaned. I didn’t want to be a stuttering mess, so I figured I'd at least try to plan out my… speech. But I had never really been much of a planner in respect to my social life. Give me a few monsters, and I'd be golden. But my crumbling social life was far from an apocalypse, and Will was no monster. I'd just have to wing it.

Will’s house was pretty. It was a small Cape Cod style, yellow with blue shutters. It had a small plot of grass in front, with a few stairs leading up to the doorway. The doorway that I stood in, lifting my knuckles to the door.

I knocked.

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multiwreckedmess · 1 year

Text

No Reason, One

Synopsis - Vaxxed, waxed, and ready to well...you know how the saying goes. That was supposed to be your motto. Unfortunately, you were never that kind of girl.

Pairing - Mingi x fem!Reader (reader gets called a girl and has a vagina)

CW - Smut. Alcohol. Partying. Anxiety. An additional TW under the cut.

Word Count - 3.4k~ (This part)

This is sort of an angsty multi part smutty thing I started writing this past spring and I am oddly attached to it. I’ll post the other parts later as I clean them up. it’s been across like 2 computers and 2 word processors so sorry for any of the formatting/grammar fallout from that.

TW: Sex does not go all that well, not sure how to tag it but basically reader has some issues around anxiety which translate to the bedroom. There’s a lil shame involved with it but I promise Mingi is real sweet about it.

It was another cold grey January morning when you saw him. Wishes for a white Christmas had gone unanswered and all that was left was a damp chill the seeped through your winter jacket. He was laughing with his friend, similarly tall and handsome, waiting at the corner for cars to pass so they could cross.

There is absolutely no reason to miss you.

A phrase you had repeated often these last couple months whenever you felt a pang in your heart and lump in your throat. Yours was an ill-fated relationship from the start -- always hooking up but never crystalizing into anything real. The two of you had met shortly after clubs had reopened while you were out with your mutual friend, San. You'd been hesitant at first to go out, but the promise of skin-to-skin contact was too much for your touch starved body to ignore.

"This is Mingi!" San had to shout through his mask and over the thrumming bass as he pulled his tall friend to you by the wrist. "I think you two would like each other!" Mingi was tall, dressed in fitted black slacks, a half unbuttoned white dress shirt concealing his chest just enough to be maddening. Even without seeing his entire face you’d bet on him being stunning. Besides, you'd never seen San with an unattractive friend. Peeking over his mask you could see his eyes crinkle into half-moons, body shifting back and forth to the rhythm. By the time you’ve managed to introduce yourselves to each other over the thudding bass San’s already ventured off with Wooyoung in search of shots for the group. Feeling bold, you danced closer, placing your hand on his torso. Mingi takes the hint, slipping an arm around your waist, his hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you even closer, lower torso nearly touching. Well-mannered and handsome, it felt like San had dropped a life raft into your lap and flitted off into the smog of the dimly lit dance floor. Intoxicated by the mood lighting and emboldened by a couple of drinks, your hand migrates to his shoulder, using it to stabilize a couple attempts at bodyrolls before dropping your head against his chest, shyness winning out. Pressed to him like this you can feel his body shake with laughter better than you can hear him. Tapping your shoulder, he stoops slightly to meet your eyeline, eyes crinkled with joy, faux fanning himself before spinning you into him, hands at your hips, torsos now smashed together. This was how people danced together, he’s good, you though.

Fuck he was good. Was good. Operative was. Not is.

Lost in old memories, your back hits the seat as the bus accelerates, crashing back to present reality, stomach dropping. He looked just as happy as ever, just as happy as the night you’d met. Did he have someone finally? How many new numbers had been added to his contacts? Surely he hadn’t sat around the entire time waiting to see if you’d changed your mind. You wouldn’t have if it had happened to you like that. If you started crying then no one would notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t say anything, you’d be far from the first person to cry on public transit. No, you weren’t going to cry. You didn’t mean for this hookup to happen. The two of you were never even a real couple, just a bundle of possibilities and could haves. Breathe.

There is absolutely no reason to miss you.

Mingi led you through a dark hallway, past the bathrooms, through a velvet curtain, and finally emerging out onto the concrete of a small alleyway. Tinged red and yellow by the safety lights you remove your masks in full. In this halo of light, he pushed his sweat-slicked bangs back you could finally see him; strong nose, sculpted chin, and pouty lips quickly breaking into a wide smile, "another check for San" you thought wryly. Seeing each other mask-less felt surprisingly intimate, heart fluttering, both of you standing awkwardly for a second, sizing each other up. Alcohol suddenly heavy in your stomach and lack of momentum hits you in the back of the knees and you stumble on nothing, teetering back and forth in slow motion. To his credit, Mingi attempts to catch you but you both go backwards towards the wall, his hand cushioning the back of your head from the concrete bricks. “Oops-sorry-I-uhm-” you stutter, his face closer than anyone’s had been since the start of the pandemic. “Sorry–” he overlaps your stuttering with his own, whipping from suave man to schoolboy in an instant. You giggle. He’s flushed. “You’re so cute.” A flash of sobriety passes between you, seeing each other, really seeing each other, for the first time that night. Butterflies bloom in your gut as your eyes take a long drink before your brain gently reminds you how impolite it is to stare. “Is that it?” He tilts his head to the side, eyes looking to meet yours. “You’re tall.” You hide beneath your lashes. “Is that it?” “…and handsome…”

He grins, suddenly keenly aware of how close he is your breathing becomes erratic, you can feel the thrum of the bass through the brick overwriting your racing heartbeat. His gaze is intense enough to tie your tongue in place. “…and?”

You hadn't intended to hook up with anyone that first night out at the club, but intentions have a funny way of flying out the window once enough alcohol is introduced. Practically sprinting up two flights of stairs to keep up with Mingi's long legs, you’re breathless, watching him fumble in his pockets for his keys. As he unlocks the door he clumsily wraps an arm around you, maneuvering your back to the door and leaning in for a kiss. You jiggle the doorknob and in a flash the both of you are crashing your way over the threshold, laughing like idiots. "Honey, I'm home!" He yelled into the darkness still chuckling, earning a slap on his bicep, a dim entry light flickering on as the door snapped shut behind you. "For the record--I'm a certified bachelor...if you were worried." "I'm not worried! It just wasn't as funny as you thought it was." You pout. "Maybe I'll be funnier with my dick tickling your cervix." His lips curving into a half smile as your jaw drops with a sharp gasp. "MINGI! Is that a threat?" "Mmmh," he hums, sizing you up briefly before wrapping you up in his embrace, “I'd like to think it's more of a promise.” You don’t have time to think as his forearms drop under your ass, hoisting you up. Perhaps he had intended for eye level but overestimating in some regard your breasts smash into his face instead. Both of you explode into laughter as he buries his face in your chest, nose smashing against your sternum. A blink of nervous energy pulses between you. It’s the first time you think ‘oh we’re going to do this’ and it sends a shiver up your spine. Nerves nearly overtake need as you look down into his eyes. He's so handsome, brows, cheekbones, chin, lips-- with eyes staring up at you like you’re the brightest star in the sky, you almost feel special.

A sudden jerk of the bus sends you hurtling forward. How many stops had it been? You pull the cable to stop and the bus slows at the sleepy corner of your street. Again, your stomach flips, guilt settling in the pit like a stone. You needed to stop your memories there. You did not need to remember this. There was no reason to spend time thinking about the snapshots of another failed situationship. Well, there was at least one reason to replay these moments over and over. The sick ritual of self-hatred that would spring from the smallest moments, punishing yourself for letting your feelings get the better of you. Something about how your heart seemed to swallow itself felt deserved. You shouldn't have been shocked to see him out and about. In fact you should've expected it sooner; social circles overlapped, neighborhoods shared grocery stores. Had Mingi uprooted his life like you had in the wake of your scrawled note? The aftereffects of the ticking bomb you’d left on his counter. You’d done what you could to avoid him, quietly adjusting your life around what you knew of his. It meant no more nights out, not with San for sure, nor Wooyoung, nor Yeosang. Not that any of them knew what had happened between you and Mingi. Not that anything had really happened.

There was absolutely no reason to miss him.

Blinded by excitement the two of you bumped your way to the bed, clothes discarded haphazardly. Mingi latched to your chest, face mashed into one breast, large hand palming the other. Both of you grind against each other feverishly. Mingi is messy, sucking harshly at your nipple, earning a pleased groan. The attention he lavishes on your chest and neck has your hands grappling to his hips to pull him to you, mad at any loss of pressure. So close. You are so close. You miss time a thrust against him and he slips down towards your entrance, losing the much needed contact and denying your release. Understandable and regrettable. “Fuck–shit–condom–” Mingi mutters between gasps, bucking against you involuntarily, bumping clumsily into your cunt. He flings himself to the other side of the bed dramatically, practically tearing himself away from you. A motion made more dramatic by his sheer height and limb length. You hear him rustling in the drawer of his bedside table, finally fishing out a telltale foil packet and ripping it open. The loss of contact, momentum towards your goal, it’s frustrating. He’s a little frustrating. You’re a little drunk and the world is wavy. Eyes rolling with your head to the side you search for him in the low light. Even silhouetted in the dark you can tell he’s big, erection jutting proudly from his torso. “You’re very…proportional,” you manage to slur out, propped up on your elbows, watching him clamber back to kneel between your legs. He exhales a small chuckle, gripping your thighs he pulls you to him, lower half draped over him, covered cock resting against your stomach. He slides sloppily along your slit, until he finds your entrance, leaning over you to kiss your sternum again. Pangs of anxiety shoot through your body and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. It’s been a minute. And he’s big. You can feel the pressure in your lower half and try to calm yourself. Meanwhile he tries to push into your slowly but he meets immediate resistance. Just what you were so afraid of. You reach down to help, massaging some of the fluid and lube around to try to ease the tension. He tries again, your body involuntarily scoots from him with a whimper.

“Fuck-you’re so tight,” he pants into your chest, chuckling nervously. “S–sorry. Been a while,” you try to laugh casually, breathing deeply into your diaphragm, attempting to relax your pelvic muscles. Relax, relax, relax, even though the word doesn’t help you repeat it. You were worried this would happen. Somehow you knew this would happen. You want to throw up from the anxiety of this happening. Mingi reaches down between your thighs, adjusting himself and brushing his finger tips against your clit momentarily. He gives a third go. Pressure, burning. You grimace and groan, tugging away from him again, unable to fight the instinct from the pain of the stretch of his cock breaching your walls. He’s already pulling away from you as your hands scrabble to his hips, sitting back on his haunches, huffing. You half sigh half groan, frustrated, a hot wave of embarrassment floods your cheeks. “Hey it’s fine I don’t want to for–” “I want to I swear it’s just been–” Words scrabble over each other as nerves prickle. “Sorry,” Mingi’s voice is soft and low as his thumbs work small circles into your hips, waiting for you to speak. He’s so sweet and you feel so stupid, so inadequate, you can feel your thoughts spiraling. Watching your brows knit together, Mingi leaves a little peck on your knee. “You still with me?” You take a second to attempt to temporarily sober up, looking up at the ceiling. “I want to–I need you to stretch me a bit–it’s been a year…or more…since anything has been in…in me.” Your eyes fixed upwards, unable to look at him for fear you’ll disintegrate on the spot out of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, defeated. “It’s okay,” he pauses, bashful, “it’s actually kinda hot. You know. That I’m big…like that…for you.” Tension in your chest turns to a giggle, your hands still tugging at your cheeks. “I’m just frustrated. I want to get fucked” you yell into the dark apartment, “and my FUCKING pussy won’t LET ME.” Mingi laughs, a laugh that shakes his entire body. “Let me try again. If you want.” Eyes squeezed shut you nod furiously. The bed dips as he leans back over you. Lips meeting your shoulder, his hand cups your pussy, heel of his palm grinding into your clit, middle finger working between your folds. A second finger joins in caressing you, exploring, waiting for your core to suck him in. Grinding down on him, your hips rock against his hand, mirroring his motions. Thighs shaking under him you gasp and moan as your walls flutter, heavy barrier finally relenting, a single digit pulled in. Your arousal spreading down your buttocks he slides ever more easily against you. “See? You’re doing so well,” Mingi’s pace is steady and slow, finger crooking upwards against your wall, searching for the soft spot within your walls. As he passes over it you let out a small whimper, legs tensing and feet pressing against the mattress. He smiles at you and sighs contentedly, planting a kiss on your forehead, a second finger breaching your cunt. “P-please,” boldly you reach for him, wrapping your hand around his still condomed cock, pumping him in time with his ministrations. His free hand wraps around yours, guiding it off him and onto the bed. “You first.” His fingers intertwined with yours, pinning the hand down despite it being slick with lube. It’s a little cheesy, a little goofy, but sweet. Sweet of him to care. Sweet of him to focus like that. The word sweet floats in your mind like a hallucination as your eyelids flutter. Mingi’s face is so close to yours there is no way he missed it. Propping his thumb near your clit he rubs you in soft circles, stalling his fingers. Core fluttering you squirm, bucking upwards.

You quickly stutter out his name, eyes locking with his, a warning. Heat and blood rushing south you could feel the pulsing need growing and growing inside of you. He groans as your cunt clenches down around his fingers. Slick sounds echo in your brain as Mingi replaces his thumb with is palm for you to rut against. Movements become sloppy and needy as he speeds up, his eagerness overtaking him completely. “You gonna cum?” He sounds assured, prideful, a little out of breath. Lips sealed tightly you let out a small affirmative “mhm” before you feel your eyelids flicker, eyes crossing, unable to tamp down the whimpers and sighs you’d previously muzzled and let die in your throat. Mingi slows as he feels you shudder, squeezing his hand with yours. Walls gripping and releasing against him he stills inside of you, softly circling the heel of his palm against you before withdrawing his fingers. “How’s my girl?” His other hand slips from holding yours, pushing away from your body to admire his work. “Real fucking good.” You crack open an eye, glancing at his still erect cock, subconsciously biting your lower lip. “Eager…” “Do you blame me?” Both of you laugh. “I don’t suppose I do.” Despite having worked up to three fingers you gasp as he pushes the tip of his cock into you, all concentration going into breathing and relaxing. Lips lightly grazing your neck, you can feel him murmuring to you but are unable to pick out any words. He guides the two of you together slowly, thumb working circles around your clit. The pressure from being so full, mixed with remnants of alcohol, made your head spin. Bottoming out the two of you groan in unison. “I’m in.” He’s panting, a grunt escaping his throat. “I fucking know.” You say through gritted teeth. The stretch is mind-blowing, worth the effort and wait. Reaching down you can feel how taut you are around his shaft as you aimlessly graze your fingertips along your clit.

“Give me a sec,” he closes his eyes and exhales. “Fuck you’re tight.” Inhaling, he pulls his hips back slightly, shallowly thrusting against you, sending your mind blasting into a haze. He eyes trained on where you connect, he watches himself disappear inside of you, how your walls hug him so closely. It feels strange to be so appreciated. A small part of you curls up and hides in shame. The larger part thrives on how mesmerized the man is, how shamelessly he explores you. Core thrumming he continues grinding deeply into you, reveling in your gasps and moans. Newfound cockiness flooding his system, the switch flips back from messy needy boy to confident lover, as though the entire failed attempt had never happened. An arm wraps under your knee he presses you further into the bed, the new angle drags his cockhead against your walls deliciously, feeling even more full than before. You beg -it feels appropriate- being at the mercy of the snap of his hips. His rhythm of short forceful strokes pins you to the bed and forces groans from you. Mingi buries his face in your neck, hot breath mixing with sweat, arms pinning you, making you feel so small in comparison. Tense and release, the throb of orgasms ripping down your spine almost painfully. Chest tight, unable to bob above the waves, your hands clamber at his back, gripping onto his sides, knees hooking onto his waist.

“Fuck- you’re clenching- I’m going to cum.” His pace became more franetic, hips snapping into you, blood rushing to your head like a roaring train. If he has much more in him you aren’t sure you can take it, small pricks of blackness darting across your vision. With a groan he spills into the condom, your hips still rutting, walls pulsing around him. The sounds of post-sex panting and breathy swearing fill the air.

“Thank you,” you mutter, sound muffled by his shoulder. “No. Thank you.” He is collapsed slightly around you, holding you to him, your sweaty sticky bodies become fully enmeshed - peaceful and protected - together. All moments must come to an end, this one does as well with Mingi sliding from you gently as the blood redistributed throughout his body. “You did so well.” He pats your lower stomach happily, before wobbling to the bathroom. A nice straight shot to there, you noted, just in case you needed to throw up. “Do you want me to help you or–” he yelled, the sound of running water cutting him off. “No!” You hastily lift yourself from the sheets, wishing you could just roll over and go to bed. Hoisting yourself up your legs threaten to give out below you as you trundle to the bathroom after him.

A large glass of water and some ibuprofen sat waiting for you, Mingi already fully wrapped up in blankets, snoring gently. “Could’ve left a shirt for pjs at least,” you thought wryly, popping open the pill bottle and chugging the water. It was your first mistake, you should’ve left then and there, hitching a cab home and sleeping in your own bed. Instead, you got into the sheets and curled yourself against his back, nose pressed to his spine, closing your eyes, just for a second you told yourself. At worst a couple hours. “I’ll wake up early and leave.”

There was absolutely no reason you should’ve stayed.

#ateez smut #mingi smut #song mingi smut #mingi x fem!reader #mingi x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez x you #mingi x you #ateez angst #angst and smut #daylight savings is sad girl hours i'm sorry ya'll will need to deal with it

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fcble · 7 months

Text

DOUBLE A-SIDE: a single where both sides are designated the A-side, with no designated B-side; that is, both sides are prospective hit songs and neither side will be promoted over the other.

In which Andrew has some difficult conversations. FEATURING: Andrew Han, Yoon Mingeun, Park Intak, Kang Haksu WORD COUNT: 4.1k NOTES: Two shorter pieces with similar themes that are not exactly completely related to/reliant on one another. Can be read together or independently! Also not proofread please lmk if you find typos or something doesn't make sense.

[ A-SIDE — MAY 10, 2023 ]

Andrew steps into Intak's studio, announcing himself not with a knock or a greeting, but merely his presence. He sees a flash of movement as Intak minimizes one of his windows.

Haksu and Mingeun trail behind him reluctantly. Andrew pulls Mingeun the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door behind all three of them.

"No one is leaving this room until we write our anniversary song," he announces.

"What if I have to piss?" Mingeun asks.

"Intak?" Andrew asks. It's almost telepathic to see Intak reach into the bowels of his desk and retrieve a plastic soda bottle. He spins in his chair and tosses it to Mingeun, who catches it, looking stunned. Andrew knows he has an almost addiction to Mountain Dew, and the bottles pile up until they spill over onto the floor.

"What if I have to shit?" Mingeun asks next.

"I don't think Andrew-hyung will keep you from using the bathroom," Haksu says. He steps around Andrew to take a seat in the worn loveseat, the only other chair in the room. He leans forward to look at Intak's screen. "Are you working?"

"Yes," Intak answers shortly.

"I asked Jaeseop to get us food if he doesn't hear from us in a few hours," Andrew says. He sits next to Haksu, dropping the bag containing his laptop on the ground, in front of Intak's electric keyboard. Its identical counterpart sits right next door in his own studio. He can't help the way his hands move automatically, picking out the beginning of Fur Elise.

“What kind of food?” Haksu asks, clearly skeptical of Andrew’s quite literal taste. “Pizza Hut, again?”

“Olive Garden,” Andrew answers cheerfully as he plays. He doesn't rise to Haksu's obvious bait—he's used to it. And he might have a point. They do eat a lot of Pizza Hut.

He turns his attention to Intak. “What are we starting with?”

“Nothing.” Intak says.

Andrew stops playing. “I was really hoping you were going to say something other than that.” He thought he could rely on Intak to have something, anything. Taein asked them months ago, in January, to start working on what would be their fifth anniversary song later in the year. Andrew had agreed, and then gone back to putting the finishing touches on his album. It was always Intak’s responsibility to produce concept-fitting songs that Taein actually liked. Andrew has no idea how to work in the gayageum and the taepyeongso and the piri and whatever else Intak uses.

Intak shrugs. “You could do it.”

“I couldn’t.” It’s a deep-seated conviction. Andrew can’t do whatever Intak does, because he doesn’t have that same knowledge of history and culture and Korea itself that seems to be inherently built into his group members. He’s reminded, embarrassingly enough, of when he heard their debut song for the first time, and asked after the vaguely string sounds in the instrumental. In Andrew’s head, string instruments were cellos and violas and violins and double basses, and maybe, and a more radical day, harps and lyres. Not Asian zithers.

“Don’t you think it’s time you tried?” Mingeun, this time. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, the room having run out of seats.

The room feels stuffy all of a sudden. Andrew has tried. Every sample Intak’s given him sounds shitty and stereotypical in his hands, like a soundtrack straight from a film scene where the characters step into a Chinatown somewhere and the lighting dims and the screen clouds with smoke. When Intak writes music with the same sample, it becomes uplifting, a celebration of a heritage and a culture yearning to burst forth in an increasingly anglicized world. Andrew envies him.

Haksu nudges Andrew with his foot. “You should.”

Andrew is frozen, unable to respond. Haksu is right. He should. But now, he feels like there’s too much at stake. His album did well—it’s their best-selling one yet—and that means he has a reputation to uphold. They have expectations for him now. They think he’s smart and talented and worthy. Andrew knows the limits of his own abilities. They don’t include writing a usual Fable title track. There’s a reason his album sounds the way it does—that’s what he knows, what he’s confident in. It’s a breath of fresh air next to the sameness of the rest of their discography. That’s his job. Not the traditional sound that defines almost all of their songs.

He pretends everything is fine. "Are you sure you don't have anything?" he asks Intak. "We don't have a lot of time."

Intak begins to scan through the files on his computer. "Because we spent so much time on your album," he grumbles. "I have demos Taein-nim rejected."

"Let's fix one of those," Andrew says decisively. Mingeun looks like he wants to argue. Or maybe that's how he always looks, because he always wants to argue.

They start with the longest ones first. Intak turns on his speakers and presses play on a three and a half minute audio file—Andrew can see the exact time if he squints.

“I remember this,” Haksu says, ten seconds into the song. As far as Andrew can tell, it’s Intak’s usual conglomeration of sounds. An unknown, echoing instrument skips in and out of the main melody. The bass is minimal, but consistent. It sounds almost interchangeable with the majority of their discography. “It’s from a long time ago. Our second mini album?”

Intak nods. “I tried again for our third. Taein-nim said no again.”

Andrew takes extensive mental notes on each subsequent song. The glacial pace of the second one, probably meant to be a ballad. The bass-driven third one, traditional instrumental lost in the 808s. The one with the beat drop that sounds like it switches to a completely different song. One with Haksu singing nonsensical demo lyrics that he doesn’t remember. Another slower-paced one, driven by a string instrumental. A rock song.

“Taein-nim said I should give that one to Neon Nights,” Intak says.

Andrew shoots Mingeun a quizzical glance. Mingeun shakes his head. “She likes doing everything by herself,” he says in English, referring to Hwajung, the band’s main producer. The change in language surprises Andrew. They’ve all worked together before, on Andrew’s album, and then on a Neon Nights one.

Andrew sighs. “Who doesn’t know?” he asks, also in English, because Hwajung is also Mingeun's girlfriend.

“Who do you think?” Mingeun says. “He’d get mad at me.”

It’s Haksu. Andrew knows that even if Haksu won’t say anything out loud, he’s thinking certain thoughts. Celibacy and pre-marital sex and they’re idols and all of that.

He can't be mad at that. Mingeun and Hwajung are pretty good at keeping it on the down low, pretending they barely know one another at work. If Andrew hadn't seen them sit so close to one another they were basically sitting in the same seat while they worked on his album, he'd be no wiser than Haksu.

Haksu folds his arms over his chest. “You’re doing it again. Stop talking about me.”

"Learn English," Mingeun says, speaking Korean again. Haksu learning English would be of no detriment to them, Andrew knows. They'd fall back on broken, rusty, grammatically incorrect French, in which they can barely understand each other, because Mingeun speaks Canada's archaic French with an unintelligible accent.

Haksu grimaces. "That's Westernized," he says, as if he doesn't partake in a predominantly Western religion while dressed in Western clothes, about to eat Olive Garden in a few hours.

“The music,” Intak interrupts, and they go back to listening to shorter and shorter segments. Some of them are pieces. A chorus. A verse. Half of each. One is Intak humming a few bars. He clicks out of that one quickly.

“I wanna hear it,” Haksu says. His request is ignored.

A few minutes later, Intak finally runs out of demos.

“Taein-nim rejected all of those?” Mingeun asks.

“I doubt he listened to all of them completely,” Intak says, “but yes.”

In Andrew’s ears, most of them have blended together. He’s grateful to hear Haksu say, “I like the orchestral one that goes like”—he hums a bit of the song—because it gives Andrew a chance to step in and say, “I thought that one was the best too.”

He does think it was one of the better ones, but mostly because it was nearly complete. His best guess for its rejection is because it's not nearly as upbeat as some of Intak's other compositions. Andrew figures it should be fine for an anniversary piece. It's better that way—something slower and steadier that demonstrates their growth as people and artists.

He starts thinking of lyrics. Something provocative and dramatic. Intak’s demo lyrics are all about a nostalgic, wintry longing that brings to mind comparisons to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Andrew is thinking about something in the opposite direction, something bigger, something brighter. Love is like a volcano?

“I want to keep the idea of the lyrics,” Haksu says, breaking Andrew’s reverie.

“It’s our anniversary,” Andrew says, nearly rendered speechless from Haksu’s words. “If the melody is melancholy, the lyrics should be happier.”

“No one says shit like ‘melancholy,’” Mingeun says. “Let’s keep going with Intak-hyung’s idea.” At some point during their listening party when Andrew wasn’t paying attention, he migrated from the wall to the floor next to Intak’s desk.

Sometimes Andrew despises democracy. They weren’t always democratic. Not in the days when it was just him and Intak, because then it was Intak making most of the decisions. Andrew never wanted to intrude or overstep. He has the confidence to do so now, but he knows this is an argument he won’t win.

So he relents easily, says “Fine,” and pulls out his laptop. Mingeun looks surprised at his lack of disagreement. He really enjoys arguments, Andrew thinks.

He plays audio engineer, because he still disagrees with the idea and theme of the song. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the three of them gather around Haksu’s notebook to develop Intak’s fledgling ideas. He sits back in his seat, losing himself the layers of the song. He listens to the song forward and back. He turns on and off each one individually, and then two or three at a time. He pictures the way the vocals will layer on top and underneath. He thinks about asking Haksu to sing one of his new lines, just so he can experiment with it. He tries not to imbue it with his own style—an extra synth here and there, a secondary melody in a minor key, one too many layers of vocals.

His flow state is interrupted by the chime of a new text message. It’s Jaeseop, texting exactly three hours after Andrew told him he was heading to work.

bringing ur food (๑>◡<;๑), he reads. Below is a selfie of Jaeseop holding a plastic bag, the sky bright blue behind him.

“Andrew,” Intak says loudly, and Andrew looks up, surprised that his name came from Intak and not Mingeun.

Andrew tugs his headphones off and watches Intak rip a page out of Haksu’s notebook. “Do the demo with this.”

“Me? Why can’t Haksu do it?”

Mingeun snatches the page from Intak’s hand. “I’ll do it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Andrew’s doing it because he’s going to arrange it,” Intak says. Mingeun reluctantly hands the paper over to Andrew. “He’s the one who wants to stay in this room until the song is done.”

“I said that for all of us,” Andrew says.

They’re interrupted by Jaeseop’s arrival. He seems cheerful as he sets down the bags on the little space remaining on Intak’s desk. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he asks, “Is it going well?”

For some reason, the onus is on Andrew to answer. He feels the weight of their gazes: Jaeseop is expectant, Haksu is skeptical, Intak is steady and bored, and Mingeun’s is his usual scowl.

“It’s going very well,” he says.

Haksu gives him a reproachful glance and says, “He’s underselling us. We could finish the song today, as long as Taein-nim approves of it.”

Jaeseop brightens. “Sounds good! I can’t wait to hear it.” He sounds like he genuinely can’t wait to hear their song.

He leaves just as quickly as he arrived. The door is barely shut behind him when Haksu stands up and announces, “I’m going to church. Mingeun is coming with me.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Mingeun complains.

“It’s Wednesday,” Andrew says at the same time.

Haksu looks at both of them like they’re stupid. “So? I worked on the song. I did my part. There’s nothing else for me to do.”

“He’s right,” Intak says. He crosses his arms and gives Andrew a look that very obviously says he shouldn’t argue. So Andrew folds without saying anything.

To his surprise, Mingeun picks himself off the floor. “Thanks for the food, hyung,” he says, grabbing one of the bags on Intak’s desk.

The speed at which people work when they want to leave will never cease to surprise Andrew. He doesn’t think this is hard work as much as Haksu does. He could stay here for days or weeks, immersed in the music, so long as Jaeseop keeps providing him with food.

As Mingeun and Haksu leave, he hears Haksu grumble under his breath about Americans and fast food and forks.

“Chopsticks are from China,” Andrew overhears Mingeun say before the door swings shut.

In the quiet, Intak says, "I'll start working on the b-sides."

This comes as a surprise. "I thought we were releasing an anniversary song, not an anniversary album."

Intak looks like he was caught off guard as well. "I could have sworn Taein-nim said that to both of us."

Andrew is slighted. Why wouldn't he be, when he wasn't given these same guidelines? He's the one who's shaped and guided their sound outside of all the traditional title tracks. Fable can pull off other concepts, because Andrew pushed them in those directions, even if it was only one song per album.

“Do you think Taein thinks of your music differently than mine?" he asks.

Intak takes a minute to think about it. Andrew can practically see the gears turning in his head.

"No," he says, and Andrew wonders why it took him so long to come to that conclusion.

“He must,” Andrew insists. He refuses to let the topic drop. “I didn’t get to write our debut song.”

“I didn’t ‘get to’ write it either. I wrote it because I could write a good song."

“I can write good songs.”

“Yeah. I don’t disagree.”

Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall. Intak is smart, but there's always a disconnect between what he thinks and what he says. Andrew has to pry every response out of him, like he's pulling teeth.

Intak methodically unpacks the remaining takeout bag and takes a bite of his carbonara. “This sounds like it's really important to you,” he says with his mouth full. “Can we talk about it later?”

“No. I thought I passed the audition and debuted in Fable to be a songwriter."

"I thought you passed your audition because you speak four languages."

Andrew shrugs, because he did say that, even though it's not quite true. Everyone lies on their resumes. He said that because he thought it would impress Taein, and it did. “Something should have changed by now.”

"You. You’re the one that should change," Intak says as he stabs his pasta with vitriol.

He has changed. He’s older now, and wiser, as generic and contrived as that sounds, with a better understanding of his place in the world. He isn’t that same person who auditioned so many years ago with an unplaced confidence that he could survive and thrive in the cutthroat music industry. He’s accepted Fable’s middle class, second tier status, and he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

"I have."

Intak takes a long look at him and says, "Not enough."

Then, as if to signal that conversation is over, he puts his head down on his desk. "Record the fucking song, Andrew," he says, voice muffled.

They never write any b-sides.

[ B-SIDE — JUNE 3, 2023 ]

Andrew isn’t one to lose his temper. So he surprises even himself when he stands up and walks out of the room. Jaeseop is still talking. He pauses in the middle of his sentence.

“Where are you going?” His voice is muffled by the door and walls.

“Out,” Andrew answers from the other side of the door. “I’ve heard enough.”

He has heard enough. All Jaeseop had to say was that their album was delayed again. It could have been a text message.

He hikes up all three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. At the top, he leans his body weight into opening the door to the rooftop. It creaks open reluctantly, hinges squealing in discordant protest. Then he has to do the same thing to close it.

He takes a seat on one of the two stone benches, overlooking the city around him. There isn’t much to see. The sun is setting, and the glow of the copywriting sign becomes more visible with each passing minute. The other, taller, buildings cast long dark shadows and block out any possibility of Andrew seeing farther than across the street.

He sits there for a minute, thinking and trying to cool down. He’s unfamiliar with anger when it comes from within. Frustration and futility, sure, but anger is a different beast. That’s Mingeun’s forte.

The door protests again, inching open. Andrew stares. Another thirty seconds pass before Mingeun steps outside. Speak of the devil—or think of him—and he shall appear.

Mingeun leaves the door ajar. He takes a silent seat next to Andrew.

“Do you need something?” Andrew asks. He can feel his anger creep into his words.

Mingeun crosses his arms. “I need a reason to talk to you?” he asks. “You seemed upset when you left. Is that enough?”

“I was,” Andrew concedes. Mingeun could still have an ulterior motive. Jaeseop always sends the youngest members to do his bidding, like some villain with his henchmen.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he continues.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “I can fucking see.”

He sounds upset. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s always upset about one thing or another. And why wouldn’t he be upset about this?

“I thought we were more important to Taein,” Andrew says, dropping the honorifics on purpose. “More important than a survival show trainee.”

Mingeun shrugs. “He could have something on Taein, like Haksu did.”

He matches Andrew’s use of honorifics. They both know the easiest way to get through to their CEO is to wear him down with astronomical persistence. A bit of bribery and blackmail never hurts either. Andrew can’t imagine what other secrets Taein might be protecting, especially after Haksu’s extravaganza. He thinks they’ve all learned their lessons since then: Taein should break fewer laws, Haksu shouldn’t stake his career on a few secrets, and the rest of them should sleep with one eye open around him regardless.

“Didn’t you watch the show?” Andrew asks. Mingeun watches every kpop survival show he can get his hands on. Where he finds all the time to do that remains a mystery.

“I did,” Mingeun says. “I didn’t care for him. What kid thinks he can cover Taemin in his audition? He only got as far as he did because his parents are famous. There’s nothing he could have done on his own for Taein to take notice of him.”

Andrew lets him go on his tirade. He’s feeling better. Even though he’s now left to face the reality of his delayed album. It should be their album, but he has a hard time thinking of it that way. He puts a part of himself into each and every one of his songs and albums. Granted, he has one album to his name, but he thinks his point stands. And even if his music is never as good as he wants it to be, as he thinks it should be, that shouldn’t stop them from releasing and promoting it. Intak releases, for lack of a better word, shit, on every EP since their debut. Andrew has never been offered that same opportunity.

“You’re not listening to me,” Mingeun says.

Andrew snaps out of it. “I am.” He’s not. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Fine.” Mingeun drums the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “What do you want to talk about?”

This Mingeun makes Andrew uncomfortable. If it weren’t for his restless motions, he’d think it was a different person sitting next to him. He’s never this receptive or attentive or willing to talk.

“I don’t know.” Now Andrew is the one who doesn’t want to talk. The role reversal freaks him out a little. At the same time, he can’t pass up this chance to have a decent conversation with Mingeun.

Then it comes to him. “My stage name. I’m sick of it. I don’t think I ever liked it.”

“Okay,” Mingeun says simply.

Andrew expects more from him. He thought they were going to talk.

“Does it bother you that much? Am I supposed to feel bad for you?”

He should have known not to bring this up with Mingeun. It’s a touchy subject. Mingeun sounds more like himself now.

“It does.” Andrew wants to say more, but Mingeun isn’t done yet.

“I never liked your name either. It’s so presumptuous. Out of all the characters, you picked those two?” He looks disgusted. “That’s the reasoning parents use when they choose names for their children. You did it for yourself.”

Andrew fires back. “My parents never gave me a Korean name and they were never going to give me one. I didn’t have another choice. You should know that.”

They’ve known each other for years. That’s supposed to be common knowledge. How can Mingeun not know?

The smallest remaining rational part of Andrew’s brain knows it’s because Mingeun fills his head with so many other things. He’s got his near-encyclopedic archive of kpop groups and songs and dances. It should be easy to see why personal information would hemorrhage from his brain. Does Mingeun know their birthdays? He doubts it.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it didn’t have to be that one.”

What else could it have been? Andrew was never given any examples or suggestions. Just the thinly veiled threat that if he wanted to make it in Korea, he needed a Korean name. Mingeun should understand that.

“You always make everything about yourself. You never ask about me. Mingeun, how was your day? Mingeun, are you having fun on Shooting Stars? Mingeun, why does Taein hate you more than everyone else?”

“Taein doesn’t—” Andrew starts.

“Yes, he does.”

They lapse into silence, because Andrew knows, somewhere deep down, that as much as he thinks Taein dislikes him, Mingeun’s situation is worse. It isn’t a competition, but Mingeun’s always had it worse. He just chose not to see it.

When Andrew thinks Mingeun has cooled down, he says, “Tell me about your name.”

“Oh.” The surprise in his voice is evident from a single syllable. He gets over it quickly. “'Min' is the generational character. You know, the dollimja."

Andrew does not know, but he nods along and pretends like he does. Mingeun looks him in the eye and says, "You don't know."

He doesn't have it in him to argue.

"It means quick and clever," Mingeun continues, tracing the Hanja character on his thigh. Andrew recognizes it in pieces: the character for mother, radical 66. “The ‘geun’ character is the one for diligence.”

He writes this one with his finger too: 勤, speeding through the horizontal lines and finishing with a sloppy rendition of the strength radical.

“It’s nice,” Andrew says, because it really is a nice name.

“Better than yours,” Mingeun says in a way that’s clearly meant to provoke. Andrew doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Doesn’t seem like a high bar,” he says, and when Mingeun laughs at that, he feels like he’s crossed some impassable reach and brought the two of them a small step closer.

In the days that follow, Andrew drops his stage name informally. Most of the group calls him Andrew anyway. There's no special announcement. Daewoong calls him Yejun three times and Andrew doesn't respond three times, and after that, he gets the point too. Taein asks him about it, and Andrew spins a tale of authenticity and identity his boss clearly doesn’t give a shit about. But Taein doesn’t push further, and he’s left feeling more like himself than he has in years.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#ficnetfairy #fictional idol oc #fictional idol community #idolverse #idol oc #kpop oc

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lonepower · 4 months

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OC + Random Associations

(tagged by @cannibalisticskittles, tyvm!!!!! you didn't specify which oc but I'm assuming you mean for bg3 so you're getting the murder angel (◡ ‿ ◡ ✿))

🗡 animal - definitely an ermine. (animal predation/death cw in linked image) just because they're small and adorable doesn't mean they're not close cousins of the wolverine.

🗡 colors - grey, silver, gold, white. some red, though I try to avoid too much of it in order to maintain a contrast with orin.

🗡 month - january or february. cold, quiet, the dead of winter.

🗡 songs - well of course it's obviously the dismemberment song. (runners up are i like the way you die and kill of the night.)

🗡 number - oh fuck i have no idea lmao. 7? that's the first thing that popped into my head, but there's a nonzero possibility that that's just because it sort of vaguely rhymes

🗡 plants - angel's trumpet. one of the many, many, many effects of this plant family (which also includes sacred datura) is photophobia/photosensitivity, which I didn't know until I went to get a picture of it, but that's too perfect.

🗡 scents - jasmine and lye - too clean. the dry, antiseptic smell of a doctor's hands. a faint undercurrent of rust.

🗡 gemstone - white opal.

🗡 time of day - the first glimmer of dawn.

🗡 season - winter.

🗡 places - culverts, caverns, buried ruins, the secret compounds of cults and nobles. anywhere underground.

🗡 food - i mean. [soos voice] i ate a man alive tonight- (she does also favor white eel sashimi. it's only a little bit poisonous. don't worry about it)

🗡 drink - some kind of white wine? (i don't know anything about wine. i want to say a sweet wine, but that's just because i won't drink anything less sweet than manischewitz, which is basically grenadine left out in the sun a little too long.)

🗡 element - earth, but the kind of earth that's jagged stone and falling stalactites and bottomless caverns, not the warm alive kind of earth.

🗡 seasoning - cardamom, black pepper, ginger, ghost pepper.

🗡 sky - the weird unlight of a really snowy night.

🗡 weather - that specific kind of featureless gray day where time doesn't seem to change at all because the light never shifts.

🗡 magical power - technically she's a warlock, but I've homebrewed her into a glass cannon melee fighter and the only spell I ever actually use is misty step lol.

🗡 weapons - a cleaver in her main hand and a bonesaw in her offhand. failing that, sharpened teeth and nails.

🗡 sweets - 100% cocoa dark chocolate.

🗡 method of travel - she strikes me as a berline kind of gal. she's small, delicate, and sun-sensitive - not really meant for the sort of traipsing-around-outdoors-in-daytime adventure that gets foisted onto her! (also, sidenote: where are all the horses? shadowheart lampshades us not having any, but seriously, why are the only domestic animals we see cows/rothe, dogs, cats, and one (1) chicken (before baby boy eats it lol)? where are the rest of the livestock? where are the beasts of burden? hello?? *hammering on adam smith's window with a stick* ANSWER ME LARIAN-)

🗡 art style - francisco goya, but specifically the early 19th century/Black Paintings era. my man was going Through it

🗡 fear - pointlessness/purposelessness. she has to be what she was made for, because if she's not, what is she?

🗡 mythological creature - the bann sidhe/banshee.

🗡 stationery item - this pen set.

🗡 3 emojis - well i had already picked 🗡 as my bullet point before getting here, so: 🪚🩸🫀 (<- i was today years old when i learned there's an anatomical heart emoji now?! we live in the future)

🗡 celestial body - neutron star

aaaand I will tag @diantha with Amara, @megparsec with Ellara, @curlyparmesan with Flit, and @ballofbitter with Eos (but of course no pressure!!!!) :D

#tag meme #cannibalisticskittles #replies #lilin duskryn #baldur's gate #oc stuff #thank you!!!!!! you know i love the excuse to talk about my ocs >:3c

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hldailyupdate · 2 years

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https://www.euphoriazine.com/blog/2022/09/covers-louis-tomlinson/

Louis Tomlinson

Fabio Magnocavallo·

·September 1, 2022

It’s all happening in the world of Louis Tomlinson. The British singer is in the final stages of his first ever global tour. Seven legs, five continents, and over 80 concerts later, he will wrap things up in Milan, Italy, in just a matter of days. Fear not. As one chapter is about to close, another one has just opened.

Tomlinson’s new song in over two years, “Bigger Than Me,” arrives today as the lead single from his upcoming sophomore album, Faith In The Future, which is slated for a November 11 release. The album aims to not only push the boundaries of Tomlinson’s sound but also to provide a collection of material that has been crafted for more live shows to come.

To discuss the whirlwind of the last two years, I meet Tomlinson on a sunny yet gray day in London on a balcony at his management office. Welcomed by a warm handshake, he is all geared up for a full day of promotion. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks. “Go for it!” I reply. Tomlinson picks up his red lighter, which matches the design of his Stone Island t-shirt, and is all business.

Let’s go back to 2020—a memorable time for everyone in many ways. For Tomlinson, he put out Walls, his long-awaited debut album that had been two years in the making. Released on January 31, 2020, he began touring six weeks later in Europe before the inconvenience of the pandemic put everything on pause for longer than expected. While Tomlinson was only initially able to perform the first two shows, it was a short-lived experience he remains grateful to have had. “I’m thankful for having those two shows; otherwise, lockdown would have been a lot of wondering, a lot of light thinking of what might be,” he tells EUPHORIA. “And those two shows, although there were smaller venues, they were incredible. So, at least I was going into lockdown really excited about what was to come as opposed to wondering and crossing my fingers for what I hoped they would be.”

Lockdown allowed Tomlinson to take time out of his busy schedule and enjoy life. Having been used to being on the go constantly, he admits it was a time when he didn’t have to persistently worry about the next thing. “It was the first time in my career, One Direction included, where I didn’t really feel the pressure to be working as quickly as I possibly could,” Tomlinson explains. “I wasn’t creative, especially in the first half of lockdown, but it meant that when I was ready to be creative, there wasn’t as much of a clusterfuck going on in my head. I felt like I just had the time to breathe and actually think about things properly as opposed to finishing this and starting the next thing and just rolling off.”

It didn’t take long until Tomlinson did start to get creative, though. Six months before continuing his tour, the writing process began for the second album. “I didn’t do any Zoom sessions. I know some people had some success through that,” he says. “I think some songwriters, they’re very clinical. I think it does suit a certain kind of writer.” Like many artists, Tomlinson missed being in the room with other creatives and bouncing off others’ energy. For this reason, he resisted for as long as possible so everyone could experience the magic together under one roof.

Tomlinson made most of Faith In The Future in London while completing the rest in LA. Even though the album’s name gives off major pandemic vibes, it has been stuck with him for some time, way before the Coronavirus and another record was even in the picture. “I’ve always had it in the back of my mind that it’s a title that, for some reason, spoke to me. COVID and the lockdown happened, and I thought it was kind of weird and that it felt appropriate to have this hopeful sentiment to go out there,” he says. Having the title before writing any songs helped Tomlinson create an optimistic narrative which he believes his debut album lacked. “The thing that frustrates me a little bit with Walls, even though I’m incredibly proud of it, there is a weight to it emotionally, especially with songs like ‘Two Of Us,’ etc. And that’s not really what I’m about; you know what I mean? So this was a moment with the second record to kind of break away from that and try and create these hopeful, happy, positive stories,” he continues.

The album’s lead single, “Bigger Than Me,” not only kicks off an exciting new era but also plays a big part in shaping this album. He shared that the track became his first moment of excitement in the studio. Described as a coming-of-age song, it helped boost Tomlinson’s confidence and gave him the freedom to explore further. “It’s definitely the biggest sounding song I’ve got on the record, definitely the song that stands out as being one that should be a single,” he says. “I wasn’t certain I was going to have one of these songs on this record that has a big chorus. It shows off my vocals, so I’m really proud of what we got out of it.”

After having several conversations with different songwriters, Tomlinson mentions he wants to be “more careful” and doesn’t want to be “too specific” about what the songs are about this time around. “I think part of music is people making their own opinions,” he insists. What he does share, however, is that the concept for “Bigger Than Me” came about after overanalyzing during the lockdown. “There have been a lot of times in my career where I’ve gone on stage, and 50% of the show, I’m in my own head. I’m thinking about ABC and questioning, ‘Is this right?’ And from doing even those two shows, and I do this festival called Away From Home, you get a sense of what the shows mean for people who come watch it. It’s so much more about what’s going on in my head and if I think I’ve done great or shit or whatever it is,” Tomlinson explains.

He continues, “Everything I do musically, the shows, etc., is a joint effort. I suppose it’s just trying to capture that idea, which is also why I don’t want to shed too much light on the concepts because it’s bigger than what I thought. It’s whatever everyone else wants it to be.”

Faith In The Future showcases Tomlinson’s range like never before. Opening with the pounding drums of “The Greatest,” the song was penned with the intention of being the opener for his next tour. “That was specifically written as a tour opener, not necessarily an album opener at the time,” he says. “Musically, it’s interesting. There’s probably not another song like that on the record. It starts the album with a statement of intent, which I think is important. There’s a certain ambitious level to that.”

The album immediately switches it up and dives straight into “Written All Over Your Face,” an infectious indie floor-filler that we both agree is reminiscent of the first two Arctic Monkeys albums. “I’m a big fan of that sound, big fan of that energy,” Tomlinson says. “I went into the room with these people I’ve done a few sessions with, and I said, let’s try and take this as punk as I can get away with. I suppose that’s where the Arctic Monkeys reference comes from; there are obviously punk elements within what they do.” At just two and a half minutes long, Tomlinson confesses it wasn’t a song he was trying too hard with. The aim was to create a “punchy energy,” declaring this was another song he could imagine performing live.

Still keeping future tours and live performances in mind, Tomlinson continues to compare his previous album to Faith In The Future. If there’s anything Tomlinson believes Walls fell short of sonically, it’s the number of bangers that featured on it, which is why this new record will be jam-packed with even more of them. “There’s ‘Kill My Mind,’ which I close the set with currently. That’s probably the closest I had, but I didn’t have another one like that,” Tomlinson explains. “My band did a great job on this first tour by beefing everything out and making things feel more lively. While on the record, a lot of them sound like mid-tempo. I’d say this new album maybe makes up a third or even half of that energy. That, for me, makes me proud.”

With that, one particular track that Tomlinson is most pleased with is “Silver Tongues,” a joyful and wholesome moment that honors the little intricacies of his relationship. Once completed, he boldly stated it was the first time Tomlinson had written a song that he could imagine being sung by an artist that he is really fond of. “That song was a great part of the writing process,” he says. “On this record, I tried to write with less professional songwriters and more artists, and ‘Silver Tongues’ is a good example of that. What you get with that is a different level of care and love for what you’re doing, instead of making it about money and trying to get the single.” Another reason Tomlinson credits “Silver Tongues” for being so special is its authenticity. “It’s not trying to be anything that it’s not. We were not trying to write a single, and there’s just a certain level of energy to it,” Tomlinson adds.

Faith In The Future is bursting with exciting moments. However, what might surprise fans the most is the fact that Tomlinson is delving back into the dance genre sooner than expected on “All This Time” and “She Is Beauty We Are World Class.” His first-ever single in 2016 without One Direction, “Just Hold On,” saw him team up with hit producer Steve Aoki. A global smash in its own right, Tomlinson had chosen not to revisit that sound until now. “On my first record, I was very particular about the sounds I wanted to use, and I wasn’t necessarily worried about perception, but I wanted everything to be as authentic, bandy, and guitar-driven as possible,” Tomlinson says. “I’ve still done that on this record, but I tried not to shy away from some of the more interesting modern sounds. And it was actually the DMA’s record, their last album they did with Stuart Price, which has quite a lot of dance elements to it, but they did it in a really authentic way, and it doesn’t feel like a play for radio or anything like that. It just gave me real food for thought for the album. There were lots of sounds that I would have alienated on the first record. I took a bit of that inspiration into those two songs.”

After taking on a journey through various sonics, Tomlinson closes Faith In The Future with the melodic and most tender song, “That’s The Way Love Goes.” After playing around with the tracklisting, Tomlinson claims that he “couldn’t get away from that idea,” adding that “you’ve got two options to end the album: you either end with a slap round the face or a little ballad moment.” Detailing a non-sexual love between two best friends, Tomlinson is confident that this is a song fans are going to adore. “I think it’s an interesting story, an interesting visual going through the song. With the way the album is structured, it kind of fits nicely to finish on that message. I wouldn’t have been able to do that on the first album because there weren’t enough peak moments of energy,” he says.

At age 30, Tomlinson has lived the dream and continues to do so. As a member of one of the biggest boy bands of all time, he has won countless awards, performed on the world’s most prestigious stages, sold millions of records, and achieved No. 1 hits left, right, and center. With that being said, how does Tomlinson measure his success today as a solo artist? “It’s a difficult question,” he replies. “It’s very easy to be over-analytical in my job about a million different things. If I leave the stage after a show and I feel like 90% of the people in there have had a good night, then I’ve done a fucking good job,” he continues.

When Tomlinson first came onto the scene, musicians didn’t have to think about trying to secure their songs on Spotify playlists or coming up with TikTok challenges. With those two factors now at the forefront of the music industry, Tomlinson has maintained an ongoing triumph without depending on them, which is extremely commendable and rare. Instead, he credits his loyal fanbase for all his recent victories over the past few years. “That’s where I feel incredibly blessed for the fanbase that I’ve got because in terms of that side of my job and how much support I’ve had, there’s not been a ton of it, to be fair. The reason I’ve sold my tour, it’s not thanks to Spotify, Apple Music, radio stations, or a record label. It’s just down to my fans. It’s as simple as that,” Tomlinson says.

While others may immediately think of Coldplay, Dua Lipa, and Harry Styles as this year’s top touring artists, it must be said that Tomlinson has been considered an underdog and deserves all the mentions. His “Louis Tomlinson World Tour” allowed the Doncaster-born star to perform to over 500,000 fans in eight months. When he could not do in-person performances due to the pandemic, he arranged Live From London, a live-streamed concert, and broke a Guinness World Record for the biggest selling live stream from a male solo artist, shifting over 160,000 tickets. As far as Walls is concerned, it also racked up accolades, reaching the spot in four countries from two different continents, gathering over 500 million streams, and becoming the first artist in nine years on his label to reach the Top 10 in the US.

“This tour has done so much for me, man. So much for my confidence, so much for my understanding of what it is I need to do with my job,” he says. “I’ve waited for this moment for a long time, and I didn’t know what to expect. You know, when I’m comparing my touring experience, I’m comparing it to the pinnacle in pop, the One Direction days. After 90,000 capacity stadium shows, it was a really hard thing to work out what the shows were going to look like.”

Tomlinson continues, “I know every artist says this, but there’s such a powerful connection between me and my fans. That’s what I felt collectively throughout these shows. There is this kind of co-dependency, and I really thrive off them. When I’m having a good show, I can feel their energy, and their levels go up as well. It’s taught me a lot this tour, and it’s probably been the best year of my life, professionally.”

Now Tomlinson’s career is back in full swing, and he’s ready to keep things moving. Fans will be more than happy to know that another tour is fairly imminent. After a crazy year back on the road, he is eager to get back out there and perform all the new material that he has been imagining will go down a treat with audiences. “I want to keep the momentum going. My solo career since the band has been a bit stop-start, some for personal reasons, some for professional reasons. Now, I’m finally feeling comfortable where I am. I just want to keep it rolling,” he says. That’s not all, however. Tomlinson also wants to start working on album No. 3 sooner than expected. “Ideally, I’d like to try and write the next record before I go on tour next year. I want to do something similar to what I’ve done this past year,” he adds.

With Faith In The Future, Tomlinson has already made it clear that he wants listeners to take the album into their own hands and come up with their own thoughts. But, if there was to be one thing he wants them to take away from the songs, it’s that they get a sense of hope. “As long as they get a feeling for that, and maybe if there are times when they need to hear those messages, I hope it makes them feel good,” he says. “I think one thing that makes me proud and that I hope will also make them proud is that I’ve just followed my heart loads more on this record. Through my experience with my fans, when I’m doing what I love, that’s when I really grab their attention, and that shit’s infectious, man. We feed off each other like that.”

Tomlinson concludes, “I hope that they listen to the record and think, ‘This is what Louis should be doing.’”

#louis tomlinson #louis update #euphoria magazine #article #september 2022

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tellthemeerkatsitsfine · 2 months

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When I first watched Mock the Week nearly 4 years ago now, I remember thinking that even for a show where we accept that everyone's going to do some stock lines on the same few broadly accessible topics because it's mainstream light entertainment TV, the references to rail replacement bus services are a little out of hand. There was a stretch about ten years ago when the references were constant, and I thought surely they cannot be that big a part of life.

But I just got caught on a commute home with an announcement that this train is being stopped for repairs so please get off and take a replacement bus, and I take back everything I've ever thought about it. During my commute that's normally about 75 minutes but stretched to 2 hours through uncomfortable traffic today, I thought, everyone who was on Mock the Week in 2012 was absolutely right. Maybe about everything.

It was a shitty way to end a vaguely depressing day, I woke up late and grabbed a shirt without properly looking at it, so accidentally wore a shirt I don't wear often, because it was a gift from my ex-girlfriend and it makes me sad (even though I wore it all the time before we broke up, because it's really nice, because she has excellent taste). So I was vaguely sad when I got to work where it was all decorated for Valentine's Day and that didn't help. I listened on my break to the usual radio show, where I'm currently at the very very beginning of 2017, so it's largely taken up by John Robins discussing how he's just had a breakup and drank way too much during the painful bits leading up to and immediately after said breakup, so he's decided to do dry January to try to get better, and Elis made a joke about how February will be a big drinking month then, and he said no actually he kind of likes the idea that maybe the dry January will lead into just being less of an alcoholic in general and he'll keep it up, but then spends the next couple of episodes telling us that he keeps having harrowing dreams about drinking and then remembering his dry January promise and feeling horribly guilty about it, so it's nice to know I'm not the only person that's happened to. Less nice to know that I've read ahead to the February podcast descriptions and apparently he does start drinking heavily immediately after and continues this for about six more years, which is putting a bit of a damper on my using John Robins as inspiration to try to have my dry January turn into "be less of alcoholic overall", it's not going great (I mean, it wasn't going great anyway, I am not genuinely basing all my decisions off John Robins, I'm just saying I recognize his hope for extending dry January and how quickly that can seem like too big a goal).

Anyway, I decided that listening to John Robins talk about his then-very recent breakup on this day was too depressing (even though he's fairly justified in still being upset about that as he's at the beginning of the new year and it happened at the very end of the old year, while I'm at the beginning of a year thinking of a breakup that happened just over a year ago), so I decided to instead just put the Grace Petrie song on repeat for the rest of my break. You know, the one where every other breakup song that I listened to in the immediate aftermath was about the other person doing something wrong, and I said "Well this doesn't reflect my experience of a breakup", and then I thought of the one called Your Good Heart Is Wasted on Me and said "Ah yes, that is the thing I will listen to at this point in life."

Anyway, it's all right. I mean, it actually sort of kind of is. I'm not sad about it all the time anymore or anything, just a weird congruence of things today that made me temporarily sad about something that it's fairly normal to be sad about. It's almost nice to just had a normal day of being vaguely sad about a 14-month-old breakup and then angry about a rail replacement bus service, rather than, you know, mental health crisis. I'm having a rare day where I think broad light entertainment stand-up topics really do speak to my life.

Actually, I do have something tonight that sounds like it could be right out of a light entertainment stand-up story. It's the fact that I was planning to spend tonight at a comedy night I've not been to before, partly because I figured I'd only been to three of the many nights they run across the city and I should try some others, but if I'm honestly, mainly because it's produced by a woman who asked my brother if I was single like five months ago, and tonight she's also performing on the bill. That has to be a good place to go while being vaguely sad, right? But, like a Mock the Week panelist from 2012, I've had my plans derailed as the replacement bus service put me in a terrible mood and got me home later than planned so I'm not sure I'll bother now. I'll eat a sandwich and see how I feel.

...This has been an entirely unsolicited update on the very mundane aspects of my life. I really am doing sort of broadly fine at the moment, at least compared to a couple of weeks ago. But I would really like to drink some whiskey.

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theofficersacademy · 4 months

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Leo Farina Sara Rafal Poe Tharja Alcryst Lucina Edward Knoll Ares Seliph Ewan Erk

WEEK ONE: The First Place You Ever Knew TASK DURATION: Until noon EST on Friday, January 5. From Jan. 5 - Jan. 7 : ████████ ███ TEAM TAG: #AOtau2024

Guided by a pastor of the church to a remote niche of the countryside blessedly untouched by the rampage of recent months, you prepare yourselves with one last breath, exchanging a final look with those around you — faces that will keep you afloat for the trial ahead. Those who have delved into dreams before know that their dangers are volatile and cannot be predicted. There is no telling what lies ahead, or whether you will come out of it the same person you go in. After all, in a continent where you cannot seem to die, death becomes the least frightening of possibilities.

Nevertheless, you're all here for a reason, aren't you? Each and every one of you. Dauntless warriors. Sceptered kings. Future leaders. Keystones of fate. Not one of you is the type to see a treacherous unknown and turn away. You are the brave few. The brave, happy few.

　　　　　◜　　　　　Rock a bye baby, in a tree top,　　　　　◝ 　　　　　　　　When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, 　　　　　　　　When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, 　　　　　　　　　　　　And down comes baby,

　　　　　　　　　　　　And down comes baby . . . 　　　　　◟　　　　　　　 Cradle and all.　　　　　　　　　◞

THE PARADISE PLAYROOM.　ares, poe, rafal, ewan

what you know

you've woken up in an enclosed space with three others of the team you stepped through the tear with. none of the rest of the team seems to be anywhere nearby, with no indication of where they might be or whether they made it in | ref ref ref

the space is a suite of 3 connected rooms — one is a bedroom, with 3 beds equidistant along the far wall. one is empty except for a veritable mountain of decorated crates stacked halfway up to the several-dozen-meter-high ceiling in one corner. and the biggest is some kind of lounge or toy storage room; a messy half-stocked shelf spans the far wall in front of two large sofas

speaking of large, all the objects are larger than life. the boxes in the box room are almost as big as a person. the bed mattresses are at eye level and seem to be made for giants. and the sofas too require climbing to get up onto. the toy rocking horse is bigger than an actual horse

an individual sits on the chair in the toy storage room. you've gathered that her name is kleio, but any other questions or remarks are met with good-natured non-answers like one would give to a babbling child, reinforced with an imperative to clean your room. she doesn't seem to have interest in saying anything else until that's done, and emphasizes that you don't want this place to still be messy "when mother comes by later"

poe finds herself feeling incredibly unwell, and her condition will deteriorate rapidly. something may happen if poe uses magic . . .

what to do

move boxes! mother wants them arranged evenly and neatly against the walls, not piled high and haphazardly in one corner

— 1 box moved per post. each full rank in heavy armor grants an additional +1 box moved per post, half-ranks rounded down — for each box moved, roll a D4 　　　･　if 3, the box flips over atop carrier, trapping them inside. if wielding axe, carrier may free self. if wielding fire, carrier may free self, but self-inflicts 2 damage. otherwise, a teammate may choose to spend their next post to free them 　　　･　if 4, ping rai — rolls 3 and 4 boxes only count toward total after any obstacles are overcome

put away your toys!

— roll D6 per post. mounted units may roll an additional D6 per post, and do not require an additional person / post to move a medium toy 　　　･　1-3 : small toy, worth 1 point each 　　　･　4-5 : medium toy, worth 3 points each. requires 2 people / posts to move. roll D2 ( if 2, medium toy escapes. DC11 to catch. use of rescue, light rune, bind, stun, subdue, etc. will autocatch. ping rai to make a case for other creative inventory ideas ) 　　　･　6 : large toy, worth 9 points each. requires whole team to move. if other teammates are in another thread, they can be considered " in the scene " for the post and any interaction may be hashed out in-channel. each muse must roll a D4. ( 1-3 : success. 4 : some part of large toy is damaged ). if all muses succeed, large toy awards 12 points instead

THE SIBYLLINE STUDIES.　sara, leo, farina, tharja, edward

what you know

you've woken up in an enclosed space with four others of the team you stepped through the tear with. none of the rest of the team seems to be anywhere nearby, with no indication of where they might be or whether they made it in | ref ref ref ref

the space is truly sprawling — in fact, its dizzying to look at it all too long. shelves run straight into corners, doors open to walls, corridors end into a shelf. there are paths and open spaces to navigate more clearly, but good luck. the stacks also go monstrously high, and it looks like there might be at least 3 levels? anyone who can fly definitely has an easier time here

those with dark magic find themselves able to levitate

looking around, you've noticed several conspicuous gaps on certain shelves — conspicuous because they're leaking some sort of strange odorless miasma, each one a different color: pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, brown, black, and white

edward finds himself feeling incredibly unwell, and his condition will deteroriate rapidly. something may happen if edward uses magic

what to do

find the missing books! around the enormous study, there are books lying around or misplaced in other sections that bear matching colors to the miasma. return them to their proper places

— roll D15 per post. use the list below to determine what you find. units wielding dark magic gain 2 reroll chances — once 5 books have been found, the remaining books will take up 2 numbers each: its own and the closest available number — but wait! it looks like the books aren't quite so ordinary themselves. retrieving each one inflicts a status on the one who picks it up, lasting...? — books : 　　　･　1 : red book ( -1 str & mag ) 　　　･　2 : yellow book ( -1 def & res ) 　　　･　3 : blue book ( -2 dex ) 　　　･　4 : black book ( -2 speed ) 　　　･　5 : white book ( -2 avo ) 　　　･　6 - 10 : nothing 　　　･　11 : pink book ( +1 str & mag ) 　　　･　12 : orange book ( +1 def & res ) 　　　･　13 : green book ( +2 dex ) 　　　･　14 : violet book ( +2 speed ) 　　　･　15 : brown book ( +2 avo )

map the study!

— 1 section mapped per post. flying units and units wielding dark magic gain +1 section mapped per post — every 4 sections mapped, roll a D3 　　　･　1 : ping rai 　　　･　2 : you find one of the missing books! roll D#Remainder to determine which one using the list above. best hand it over to whoever's looking for them 　　　･　3 : the library shifts. subtract 2 mapped sections

THE CAVERNOUS CELLARS.　seliph, lucina, alcryst, erk, knoll

what you know

the space seems to defy logic, with walls and floors and structures sticking out at odd angles without pattern. if that and the giant, unpredictable gaps, bridges, and chasms didn't already make it difficult to navigate, it's very dark in most areas too. torch might work well here if you have it, or something similar perhaps?

next to where you first found yourselves, there's some sort of large, pale stacked casement with four compartments. it looks like it once held things. in fact, pinned to one of the edges are a few sheets of paper clipped together detailing an itinerary of four objects. there's a note written in big, bold lettering at the bottom of the top sheet: IF ANY ARE MISSING, RETRIEVE IMMEDIATELY. INTEGRITY OF HOUSE IS AT STAKE. MIND EACH περιέργεια'S INDIVIDUAL TEMPERAMENT. well.

on top of that, all your equipment seems to be missing. who knows where it could have landed in any part of this bizarre labyrinth

alcryst finds himself feeling incredibly unwell, and his condition will deteroriate rapidly. something may happen if alcryst uses magic

what to do

retrieve the missing περιέργεια! ( and maybe figure out a way to say that word amongst yourselves )

— roll D3 per post. if 3, encounter one uncaptured περιέργεια by chance. roll D#Remainder to determine which one. employing the appropriate " appearance condition " knowledge will cause the corresponding περιέργεια to appear without requiring a roll — roll D2 for each post without terrain resistance or a light source. if 2, lose 0.5HP — every 2 posts not spent attempting a capture, gain 1 knowledge. roll D9 to determine which of the information detailed below is gained — if attempting capture, roll D20. DC16 to capture. add +4 to roll for each relevant knowledge used or minded in-character during the attempt — each failed attempt subtracts -1 from the next capture roll attempted on that περιέργεια — please be mindful of metagaming and be aware of what you know vs. what your muse knows

περιέργεια information :

･　the teller's pig : a beautifully crafted, seemingly handpainted porcelain coin-holder often used by children to begin learning finances, shaped like a pig. a small paper is fastened to one of its legs like a price tag, reading - 7432 　　　･　will appear when called by name, though still needs to be caught 　　　･　flees from sources of light 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to put exactly 7432's worth of coin inside it

･　kaleidescopia : a spool of neverending thread in impossible shades 　　　･　will appear when there is an "eye of the needle" for it to thread itself through. anything in the shape of a closed circle. alternatively, tends to linger in doorways for the same reason 　　　･　flees from sword/lance/axe wielders 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to present it with a color it can never possess

･　infinity-way mirror: a gothic-style wall mirror that doesn't reflect, but rather depicts what is on the other side of the wall it's hung on 　　　･　appears in rooms with exactly six corners, no more or less, and one entryway 　　　･　flees when anything moves directly in front of its glass 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to position another living being on the other side of the wall its hung on so that it depicts them, then shatter the glass. the depicted individual may suffer, however...

recover your team's missing equipment!

— roll D14 per post. use the list below to determine what you recover — if tyrfing or exalted falchion are found, ping rai before proceeding — roll D2 for each post without terrain resistance or a light source. if 2, lose 0.5HP — any recovered equipment may be used as long as the holder possesses the required skill rank, except personal weapons — equipment : 　　　･　1 : tyrfing ( hexblade ) 　　　･　2 : speed ring 　　　･　3 : exalted falchion ( aether ) 　　　･　4 : speed ring 　　　･　5 : prayer ring 　　　･　6 : killer bow ( heavy draw ) 　　　･　7 : nevermeltice 　　　･　8 : fire 　　　･　9 : bolganone 　　　･　10 : heal 　　　･　11 : unreason 　　　･　12 : banshee 　　　･　13 : bohr 　　　･　14 : miasma

IMPORTANT PLAYER NOTES. Please read!

As listed at the top, you will have until noon EST on Friday to thread your assigned tasks, at which point something will occur . . . 　

If a thread is dedicated to a task, please note this in the title post of the thread. 　

Aside from the weekend here, Apollyon Ouranos will mostly be driven by the players unless otherwise stated. You will have tasks to complete throughout the week, with the final degree of success determined by the post-based mechanics detailed above. However, you are not limited in the content of your post. Ex. " 1 box moved per post " is simply a metric for the mechanic, and does not mean you have to literally write your muse moving a box over and over, unless you want to. Creativity in the interpretation of roll results is likewise welcome. 　

Reaching 0 HP this week does not result in death, and should instead be treated as a knock-out or getting too injured to keep fighting. If there are any enemies encountered, they are ( probably ) not trying to kill you. It can still definitely be treated as serious, but should not be assumed to mean death. 　

Team Tau's Google Doc is linked here, and pinned in your team channel. Due to the nature of this event, logging and recording your thread's events and results is mandatory, much like combat docs during Arena. Each thread should have at least one person willing to do this, and this will be checked at the end of each week. It is similarly highly encouraged to keep abreast of what is going on with others in the team as well in order to get the fullest picture of the event story. 　

Though there is currently no time limit rule, keep in mind that this is an event where mechanical progression directly correlates with activity. Shorter posts are encouraged to maintain momentum. Members are encouraged to shift post order, skip, etc. amongst themselves to their good judgment. If needed, Mod Rai reserves the right to make sure threads are moving at a reasonable pace. 　

Perhaps most importantly, aim for activity and building meaningful interactions over winning your objective. Even if your team does poorly ic at their objective, as long as you played according to your character and were engaged in what was happening, that's all that matters. Certain story events may change depending on ic results, and your characters' choices and actions will influence things even if it may not be immediately obvious. But ic failure will still progress the story, and possibly in a more compelling way than a success. Try to avoid focusing on " playing the game right ". 　

If you have any questions or are uncertain how to proceed at any point, ping Mod Rai.

#TOAApollyonOuranos2024 #AOtau2024

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acknowledgetheabsurd · 2 years

Text

This morning, crisis of autonomy. It becomes pathological. To console myself, I tell myself that this is a period of transition and that afterwards I will be able to live until my return in a kind of half-death. In short, I set to work and finished my preface. I had regained a kind of calm, and then your letter came in and jeopardized everything. Ah! You're too precise! But what a good, dear letter! First I devoured it, and then I took it to my room to read it again at my leisure and gnaw at my bone too.

Yes, my dear love, I trust and love you. And I'm going to use this time to free myself completely from my work and to heal my body and my heart. From now on, I rest in you, I live with certainty and I take care of other things, sleep or work. But I would like to thank you, I would like to embrace you all for what you say is definitive. I am happy to know that you like the play. But it also displeases, which is not good. Unanimity has always frightened me. This morning, working on my preface, I was pretty happy. These are moments of grace, which I had lost a long time ago. If only grace could return during the time of my essay, my joy of spring would be heavenly. I also wish us the light of today, admirable in this landscape. A blue, airy sky, fountains of bouncing light, the slightest cypress staining with a poignant sharpness.

I was alone this morning, with everyone in Cannes, and I wanted to call you to tell you that the weather was fine and that I loved the way we love hope and certainty. And then with Augusta and the maid coming and going, I gave up. To hear you after so long and not be able to speak to you freely is beyond my strength. The telephone is there, planted in the middle, and I often look at it with nostalgia. But a missed call would hurt me too much. Michel had bought Match. And I had seen that brilliant report. It lacked a little paragraph on how to collaborate with the actresses in the troupe, but you have to be indulgent for what doesn't matter. Touching, by the way, by a certain naivety.

Ah, my sweet, when you want it! How you know how to calm me, how to give the heart its power... I love you and I am happy, I think. The sun sets, the cold creeps in. We must light the fires. A little sadness in the heart, the hour is hard. But one more day of courage, and it will be one more step towards you. Soon the harbor, the deep anchor and the swell... My heart's on the edge of my lips. See you soon, darling, see you soon, desired (oh how much!). I love you. I kiss you, deeply.

PS - I found in Stendhal the story of the Duke of Policastro who every six months traveled four hundred kilometres to go and see for a quarter of an hour the woman he loved and who was guarded by a jealous man. The story went on for years. Is Celate consoling? I don't think so. But I asked myself if I would do the same. Answer: Yes. Because waiting six months is bad living, but it is living. The rest are the big cemeteries. I kiss your mouth, my dear love. Again.

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, January 19, 1950 [#136]

#albert camus #camus #absurd #absurdism #maria casares #correspondance #love letters #love #death #happy #grace #joy #spring #light #strength #heart #calm #sadness #courage

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pedropascallovebot · 2 years

Text

The Sidewalk Rule ~ Chapter 4

cw: harassment, panic attacks

also posted on ao3

New Years Eve was rough. Like, sobbing into your blankets and punching your pillow type heartbroken. 2018 was not going to be your year. You'd grown accustomed to a routine in Gotham, and while your life wasn't perfect, you were okay with it for the most part, until the slippery slope of bad news grabbed you and threw you down the rabbit hole.

It started with your friends promotion, two days before New Years.

"Denver! Isn't that great? I leave in March, I'm so excited!"

Denver is a thousand miles away.

"Denver is fucking fantastic, I'm so happy for you!"

Then, your landlord.

"You can't raise it up that high with such short notice, sir," your voice attempting to sound unwavering on the phone, "I- Yes, yes, I understand- I understand that, but-"

He could raise it up that high with such short notice.

The brief intermission of happiness you experienced last year was slowly fading, the lights were flashing and going back to the regularly scheduled shit show. You considered calling Ed during your little breakdown, ask him if he wanted to come over and watch the festivities on television with you, but you didn't want him to think you were trying to take up all of his time, and while the idea of him in your bedroom on New Year's eve was tempting, you couldn't overstep like that.

Which is why your heart fluttered when you heard your phone ding in the midst of your pity party.

ed :-) :

What happened to the woman who stole a calendar on New Year's eve?

You sat up, wiping the tears from your vision. You looked at the time, and realized it was 12:00 on the dot. New Years.

You responded quicker than you care to admit.

she received twelve months. maybe this year you'll finally be able to outsmart me. happy 2018, Edward >:-)

He watched you smile through the little peak of window at the bottom that your blinds didn't cover. Feeling accomplished, on top of his game. There was that laugh.

It's been an oddly silent and still week.

Your boss doesn't leave his office- sure, he never did much of that anyway except to preach productivity and to grab coffee from the break room, but you're surprised if you see him at all during the workday. You don't know what he's doing in there, and every time you ask Ed, he's uncharacteristically quiet.

"Maybe he's dead and us seeing him is just a weird grief-driven figment of our imagination," you had joked to him, chin resting in your hands staring at the closed door. You just didn't get it.

"Don't know if I would feel any grief towards him if he was dead."

You two sat in silence for a bit after that; Ed leaned back against the cold metal of the foldable chair he dragged to reception, scribbling in a worn out composition book, and you lost in your own thoughts.

You're not worried about Mark. Really. At his best, he's the guy you see Monday to Friday who signs your (upsettingly low) paycheck, and at his worst, he's a creep show who finds reasons to brush his hand across your lower back when you're digging around in the break room fridge. You don't care about his well-being. Edward tells you kindness is a virtue, but you shouldn't waste it on an asshole like that. Maybe he's right- after all, the entire office is quiet and seemingly unbothered about Mark's behavior. Quiet, uncaring, and it makes it easier for you and Ed to take your regularly scheduled diner breaks without disapproving looks from your boss.

It's just.. too quiet.

Edward isn't there on Wednesday. He texts you and tells you it's a dentist appointment, and you don't really believe him. You jot down the phone numbers that call for him, you brew a new pot of coffee around eleven. You file some paperwork, color coordinate a new planner for February (it's good to be super prepared, but it's not even halfway through January) and you realize as you're googling ways to cure boredom at work on your phone under the desk that you're wanting to go home. Huh. It's barely past two and you're already staring at the clock, watching it tick and tick and tick-

You glance at Mark's office, and then back to your coworkers in their cubicles, typing away and not sparing a single thought for your bosses well being.

When you stand, the wheel of your chair hits the metal of the folded up chair that Ed usually sits in, but no one looks up.

Walking towards the door, you don't really process that what you're doing might be a bad idea. A really bad idea. You're just the receptionist- Marks moods and emotions mean absolutely nothing in regards to answering the phone and filing away papers and receiving your paycheck at the end of the week. You're bored because Edward isn't here and you should just fucking set the phone to go to voicemail and leave. But you don't. Because Edward isn't here and there's no one to stop you from knocking.

You wait for the okay to come in, and you slowly crack the door open. Close it. Acknowledge Mark before sitting down. You aren't used to being in this office- it's freezing and there's no wall art or pictures of family that you can immediately see. It's just certificates and binders and random pieces of paper strewn across bookshelves.

"I, uh- I'm sorry to take up your time like this," you begin, immediately regretting everything. You regret standing up. You regret knocking. Why'd you even come in here? Because you were upset that you didn't get to spend one Wednesday with someone you see almost every other day of the week?

"Don't ever apologize for stopping in here," he interrupts. "I'd much rather see your face than any of these other hard-chargers out there."

You turn to look at your coworkers, but you remember all the shades are shut.

Before you open your mouth to speak again, he gets up out of his chair suddenly, and comes out from behind the desk to sit in the seat next to yours.

You miss Edward. You hate this. You were just trying to be nice.

"So what brings you in?"

The way he says your name grosses you out. The way he's now sitting down next to you and resting his hand on the arm of your chair is making your body recoil, and you wish Edward were here.

"You've just been.. in here a lot, I guess?" you manage to stutter out, and immediately don't know what you actually wanted to say. "I mean, no- it's your office, of course you're in here a lot, just.. more than usual?"

There's a beat of silence before he stands to start and fiddle with the drawers of his desk, moving papers around nervously. You wait to see if he responds, but he doesn't and you take it as invitation to continue.

"I don't mean to pry or anything, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay, I'm sorry-"

Mark is quiet still, so you take it as an opportunity to stand up and go to head out the door, but he's quicker than you are and suddenly he's standing in front of you and fuck, he's much bigger than you are and he's standing over you and you're screwed.

"You're always so sweet, aren't you?"

His voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He's backing you into the door, and you want to run but your brain seems to be locking you in place as he towers over you. Soon your back is against the wall, and your hand is desperately reaching for the doorknob but you're only meant with the glass pane of the window.

"So quick to help out, so nice," he hisses, hand finding the doorknob before you can and holding it in place. Fuck, you're screwed, you're screwed- "I hope Edward is treating you right, because if he's not, there's a line of men that are waiting for a chance with you, sweetie."

You want to cry. You want to scream and cry and punch and kick but your brain won't let you, you're frozen and there's nothing you can do except wait for him to let go of the door. Please let go of the fucking door.

"Mark," you pleaded quietly when he leans in, and you smell the alcohol on his breath.

He murmurs something, leaning in closer and closer, and then the phone rings from outside.

You don't waste any time when he lets go of the handle. You manage to worm your way through the door and slam it shut before he can try anything else. The noise makes a few faces look up at you with looks varying from concern to disinterest, but they all look back down to their computers. You don't even remember the walk back to your desk. You don't pick up the ringing phone. You pick at the sleeve of your sweater and stare at the door to Mark's office, making sure it won't open and he won't come storming out.

When the phone rings again, you don't answer, you're too focused on keeping an eye on the office and keeping your breathing under control. You try and make yourself look busy with rewriting dates from the planner to a sticky note, over and over again. You're so fixated on your eyes darting from your sticky notes to the office door that you jump when you hear a slight tap on your desk, and you look up to see Bill leaning over with his elbows propped up, messing with a leaf of the small fake potted plant you keep up at reception.

"Everything okay?"

He says your name just like Mark does, but you can't tell if that's just because your brain is still hyper focused on the events that happened ten minutes ago.

You don't.. not like Bill. You don't like him, you don't really know if he's a good guy or not, but he seems to work really hard and he's never been downright creepy in his advances towards you (at least you don't think so, but Ed's made it clear that he thinks of him as a scumbag who spends half of his days staring at you and the other half doing lines in the bathroom) but you still don't want to be fucking bothered.

"I'm okay, Bill," you snap, but immediately regret it when you see the recoil and hurt look on his face. "I- I'm just, super tired. You know how it is."

You try to lace your voice with sweetness in order to get that sad expression off his face.

Always so sweet, aren't you?

You think you're gonna be sick.

"I've been standing here for a while, you were just in your own little world," he laughs. That makes the bile rise in your throat. How long was he there? How long did he watch you? How long was he staring down your shirt for? How long was it gonna be before he trapped you in an office with his hand pressed against the doorknob?

"You were just standing there? That's kind of creepy," you bluntly state, piling up all your stickys and putting them in a neat pile next to the planner with the same dates scrawled in. He must mistake your tone for a joke, because he laughs.

"You know me, always watching!"

You manage to fake a close lipped smile, not saying anything and hoping he'd just go. It seems luck isn't on your side today though, because he gets closer and starts breathing a little heavier, which does nothing for your nerves and your nails are digging so hard into your palms you're gonna have imprints of them there all day.

"Hey, uh-" he starts, clearly not picking up the hints that you're trying to gently put down. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink after work? I know I've asked before, but I figured it'd be fun to, y'know, get together with people outside of work, right?"

You can't breathe. You don't know what's happening, but your legs are shaking and you feel dizzy and nauseous and you feel like you're dying. You can't breathe.

You can't even be bothered to make eye contact with Bill. You want to softly tell him you're not interested, to stop asking, to find someone who likes him, you want to be nice and kind and soft but you can't and your chair squeaks when you jump up from it. You can feel the eyes of a couple coworkers on you, and Bill is still looking at you expectantly, like your silence was supposed to be a yes.

"I'm with Edward," you blurt out before you even realize what you're doing. Fuck. Fuck, why'd you say that?"

Bill raises an eyebrow, like he's not convinced.

He goes to say something, but you're up out of your chair and shrugging your coat on.

"I mean, he's my boyfriend," you say, and it feels so natural and you wish you were of sound mind to fully appreciate it. "We've been going out for a while."

You mutter out a quiet goodbye, and you swing the door open and step out to the hallway, but Bill follows you. He follows you and the tears are fighting to come out when he grabs your wrist to get you to stop. You tug it away so harshly that he has no choice but to drop it.

He's quickly spilling out apologies, and the way his words are rolling off his tongue so quick make your nausea even worse.

"Bill, just tell Mark I had to leave early if he asks," and you're off, hand clutching the strap of your bag. You keep walking, letting a tear fall and hoping you can make it all the way home before you start sobbing.

Edward wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, hands cramping as he tightens what seems to be the billionth screw on this damn thing. He's been doing this all day, and he could in theory be tired but he's not really thinking of how he currently feels, he just wants it to be perfect and he needs it to work.

He's interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing, and he swears when his hands jerk and the screw falls out.

He knows it's you, though. He felt really fucking silly making your ringer different from everyone else, especially when you're the only one who calls, but when he's so invested in his work like he is right now, he needs to know if the phone call is worth getting up and dusting the grime off his hands before answering.

He picks up on the third ring.

"Is this the receptionist at KTMJ? We have horrible news for you- Edward's teeth have taken control of his body and are now eating him alive from the inside."

"Oh, geez... Well, if that's the case, can you tell Edward that his workplace doesn't offer insurance or time off for teeth possessed by demons and he's still expected to come into work tomorrow?"

She's crying.

It's harder to tell on the phone, but he can hear your voice cracking, the stuffed nose. Why were you crying?

He's immediately making his way to his computer.

"I'll let him know, but unfortunately we've had to put him in the containment unit because his teeth have become so violent that they severely injured another dentist here."

He's opening up the software he installed on your phone, scrolling to find any texts that were sent out or received in the past few hours. He can only find one that you sent your best friend five minutes ago.

hey girl, i know we had plans but i gotta cancel. work was shit and i'm just gonna take the night to chill. i'm so so sorry :^( see you soon though!

Edward clenches his fist, head tilting back and controlling his breath and reminding himself he has to chill out. He can't let you know he knows anything. He takes a minute. Listens to the sound of your voice joking around about demon teeth. Throws a screw against the wall, watches it bounce off.

"Anything fun happen at work today?"

The way it goes quiet for a second confirms his suspicions.

He knows it's probably got something to do with Mark. He figured with him being in his drop-induced bender that it'd be the perfect time to take a day off, take some shit off the back burner without worrying if his boss was going to harass you without his presence being there. Fuck, he's never taking a day off again, and if he does, you're coming with him.

He's already putting his shoes on, grabbing his keys and trying to close the door silently as possible as to not alert you he's heading to see you.

"Just the usual, I guess. Mark's still cooped up in his kingdom though. I'm starting to think he's never coming out of there."

Edward lets out a quiet sigh, relieved whatever the tears were for had nothing to do with anything Mark was up to. He's racking the files in his brain, trying to think of anything else that might be making you cry. They go to some pretty.. dark places. The more he thinks on those, the more violent he feels, so he puts the mental files away.

"Hey, I know it might be sorta weird for you to hear this, but I told Bill you were my boyfriend today."

He stops walking. He stops breathing.

You speak again before can continue. "I'm sorry, I panicked, he just asked me out and he was insistent and I didn't want to be mean-"

Insistent?

What the fuck do you mean by insistent?

Edward changes courses when he sees it's almost five, almost time for the end of the work day. God, he didn't even realize you called him so early, from home. Why were you home?

"Ed?"

He snaps out of his rage, and remembers what you just said to him. Boyfriend. His girlfriend- you were his girlfriend- wait, fuck, no, that's what she told Bill-

"Why would I be upset over that?"

You're quiet again, and he thinks you've hung up before you speak.

"I don't know, I mean, I didn't want you to think I was trying to use you as a get out of jail free card, I guess," you stammer out. "I'm sorry."

Ed feels the pit of his stomach fill up half with white hot rage and then pure bliss fills the other. He feels weightless and weighed down and he's going to kill the motherfucker but he also wants to see him cry when he walks in through the door with your hand in his, because everyone is going to know you're his, you're Edward's.

At least, in Bill's head you are. And in Edward's head, you're his too, you just don't know it quite yet.

"I'm not mad at all, I promise," he soothes, footsteps leading him in the direction he wants to go. He's not even looking where he's going, but he knows how to get there and he knows fully what he's gonna do when he's inside. "You can absolutely use me as a way to get out of creepy assholes, always."

You don't seem to be crying anymore. He had plans to go sneak a peek through the slats in your blinds, see if he could get a better read on the situation, and maybe ask if he could take you out for some dinner to make up for leaving you alone today. Maybe coax you into admitting today was a shit day.

Too bad Bill had to go on being insistent.

However, a small part of Edward thinks he should maybe be thanking Bill. After all, if he didn't ask you out for the tenth time, you would of never had to make up the excuse you did.

He walks and talks to you, footsteps not faltering. He's determined to get where he's going, even if it means he's gonna have to hang up the phone when he gets there. He wishes he was on his way to see you, but he tells himself this will be quick. Just a pitstop. Just something he has to do before anything else.

When he reaches the doorstep, he's leaning down and picking the lock.

#the riddler x reader #the riddler #edward nashton x reader #batman (2022)#the riddler x you

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