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welllpthisishappening · 2 years

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Clarke Griffin is not a violent person, by nature. The Hippocratic Oath frowns on that sort of thing. Only, well—it’s hockey. So, it feels sort of outside the realms of natural law and ancient oaths and the guy sitting next to her is a grade-A jerk. Which means it’s only reasonable to do what she does. Defends her boyfriend’s on-ice honor.

Words: just under 2k Rating: fluff Part of Connecting on the Wraparound, my The 100 Rangers AU

I have done the thing! Written words! Not a lot of words, but words all the same! This is very exciting news! A few days ago, I reblogged this post and asked for numbers and some very nice people — including @NORTHERNSHIRO who asked for No. 4 — sent numbers and now I’ve written this! If you want to send more numbers so I will write more words, feel free. I think you’re all delightful.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Like, I’m physically standing right here?”

Glancing around with enough force to make several things in her neck crack, Clarke somehow manages to keep her hands plastered to her side—but only just. Her fingers itch to bunch, to shake wildly in the air directly surrounding her for no less than seventeen straight seconds. And, well, maybe, if she possibly elbows the jersey-wearing bastard with an accent that sounds eerily similar to John Travolta’s in Hairspray, then that’s neither here nor there.

“That can’t be his real voice, can it?” Murphy’s lips disappear behind his teeth.

His shoulders shake, though. Somehow that makes it feel as if they're even. Although Clarke’s not entirely sure what the competition is, honestly. So the concept of equality is moot. She flinches when someone hits the boards in front of them. At some point she’s cautiously optimistic she’ll stop doing that.

Not-John Travolta yells again. With vowels that sound almost correct, until the obvious emotion takes over and the accent sharpens and Clarke’s fingernails dig roughly into her palm. Her jaw cracks, too. She’s made of rice crispy treats and anxiety.

“I hate him.” “He has no idea who you are.”

“I could not possibly be more obvious about this.”

Scientifically speaking, her jersey does not get heavier. The letters on her back that form a name she’s not entirely in possession of yet, but is also kind of waiting to be partially hers, do not, in fact, tug on either one of her shoulder blades.

Clarke went to med school.

Multiple diplomas hang on her office wall back home. She’s smart. She knows.

She understands.

And yet.

She wants to yank her arms away from her side and toss propriety to the metaphorical winds and throttle the guy standing next to her. For shouting at the ice like that. For shouting at Bellamy like that.

Some of his insults are really creative, honestly.

Throttle is a very old-sounding word.

“Awfully self-important,” Murphy murmurs, barely audible over the din of the crowd. Clarke’s body is a medical marvel tonight. Truly, it’s incredible. Supersonic hearing and a stomach made of titanium lining because somehow that stomach has not simply disintegrated or melded with her spleen while watching her boyfriend slam into glass that’s really more plastic than congealed particles of sand.

Is that the only way to make glass? Her familiarity with the production of glass stems almost entirely from Sweet Home Alabama. So, it’s entirely possible she’s not an expert.

“Do you want people to know who you are?”

Well, there it is. The million-dollar question. Almost literally—because Bellamy signed that extension and the money isn’t Clarke’s, but some of it’s going into a trust for Maddie and she’s sort of glad Maddie isn’t here because it’s probably not the best version of parenting to be plotting covert murder in the middle of a sold-out arena. They’re too close to the ice, anyway.

All those TV cameras would totally spot her.

Murphy hums the JEOPARDY theme song. He’s not wearing a jersey. Blake, or otherwise. Clarke briefly considered painting the number 10 on her cheeks like she was a sophomore in high school and going to Saturday’s homecoming game instead of Thursday night’s playoff-berth clincher.

“You have all the subtlety of an 18-wheeler.”

“Oddly specific.” Clarke lets out a breath. Through her nose. She’s got to stop holding her breath. And bouncing her knee. She’s never bounced her knee before. Not even when she spent 16 hours in the ER during the first weekend of her residency. So, that’s a fun new quirk to discover. About herself.

Not-John Travolta is making up words now. There’s no other explanation. She’s never heard half of the things he’s saying—although that may be because the words are growing indistinguishable from their separate syllables, and she pretends not to notice how Murphy sits up straighter.

The Rangers are winning.

Have been for almost the whole third period, since Miller’s wrister rang off the in-goal camera. Clarke is perfectly aware of what a wrister is now.

Which is good. Great, even. Proper terminology is important in medicine and sports and those worlds aren’t mixing for her anymore. They have been mixed, past-tense. There’s no separating them now. Not that she wants to or has even thought about. Not when she’s thinking about other things and letters in names and hyphens and dollar signs and possibility and—

Liquid sloshes over not-John Travolta’s hand as he lets his arms do whatever they want, Clarke recoiling with an instinct that immediately makes her snarl.

Energy bunches in her calf muscles. The desire to run a full marathon has never been stronger. In that, it is the first time in her personal history that she’s ever felt like that. So, it automatically skyrockets to the top of the recently-formed list. Only one of her lungs feels as if it’s collapsing. That can’t bode well for her potential mile time.

“How do they track your pace during a marathon?” To his credit, Murphy’s eyes don’t leave the ice when he replies, “Probably by the mile. Slow and steady. Winning the race.” “Tell me more platitudes, please.” “Idioms, really.” “What do you know about idioms?” “I went to college, too.” Clarke’s lips tip. Up. In something akin to happiness and anticipation. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Her lips don’t move. Her lungs don’t collapse. The energy in her calves moves toward her knees and her hips, neither of which entirely appreciate the distinctly non-ergonomic chairs at Capital One Arena.

And they weren’t hiding.

She texts Monroe with a regularity that felt like legitimate friendship. Three months ago, Casino Night photos littered more social media platforms than Clarke was aware even existed. Maddie mocked that realization for sixteen days straight. Bellamy counted. She’d met other girlfriends and… other relationship titles. That was the wrong order. No one called them GAWs, and that was probably for the best because that made Clarke think of seagulls and PIXAR movies and single parents and her mind did not prepare her body to twist with that amount of force.

Snap, crackle, pop goes her sanity.

“What the hell is your problem, man?”

Murphy had tears in his eyes by the time the final buzzer sounded. The Rangers won by two goals. Playoff-bound. Again.

“So, uh,” Bellamy says, hair still damp from his post-game shower, and Clarke has to stop herself from blatantly smelling him. In the middle of the hallway. There are other people around them, for God’s sake. She can almost hear Murphy still laughing at her. Tonight has been an exercise in stopping herself, really. That she has been only marginally successful at.

Pushing up on her toes, her nose grazes the underside of Bellamy’s chin and the side of his neck. Six-dollar ocean-scented body wash from CVS is her favorite smell in the world. “Uh?” “Did he appropriately cower before you, Princess?” Her heels drop.

Loudly. Or maybe that’s just the ringing in her ears.

Bellamy smirks at her. The bastard. Absolute ass. The smirk becomes a full-blown grin, and Clarke has to blink against the force of it.

“How did you—” “If you think I’m not always,” his head moves, “constantly,” his mouth finds the shell of her ear, “perpetually,” she shivers, he chuckles, “frustratingly aware of—” Clarke shoves at his chest. “Frustratingly!” “You’re real pretty when you’re yelling at random dudes in the stands, y’know.” “There is no possible way for you to know that I was yelling.” “The tips of your ears get red. Little signal fires. The beacons of Gondor are lit.”

“God, you’re such a dweeb. How do you function with all that dweeb’ness coursing through you?” “You think I’m cute, too.” “Mostly because of your hair.” He hums, more teeth involved against her neck that time and it’s good and he knows it’s good and that’s one-hundred percent why he did it. Clarke can’t fault him for that. “Thanks for defending my honor.” “He wouldn’t shut up.” “What was the final decision, then? Pistols at dawn?” “I told him to go drown in the Potomac after he said your on-ice vision was average,” Clarke takes a deep breath, “at best!” Bellamy’s eyes lighten. His lips disappear, too. Just like Muprhy’s. In any other situation, that would be sort of funny in a known-each-other-forever type of way, but Clarke’s not interested in attacking Murphy’s lips the way she is with Bellamy’s. Adrenaline is a fascinating thing. Her hair feels like it’s buzzing. She might be levitating. The only thing keeping her on the ground is the hands resting heavily on her aching hips. “And that’s,” she continues, “just patently untrue and insane. Even your greatest enemy—” “Babe, I do not have enemies.” “—Would be forced to acknowledge the incredible dexterity of your wrists. Hey, hey, we should study your wrists. Get a grant and do some sports science on it and—” “You’d have to get ESPN to start that show again, and I don’t know if you have that sort of pull.” “—So I told him to go drown and that maybe then he’d look a little better, even if he resembled a rat,” Bellamy’s eyes bug. While simultaneously glowing. No, that’s not right. Eyes don’t glow. Science. Clarke is a doctor. With degrees. And bouncy knees and so much energy and not-John Travolta had been wholly unprepared for her.

She has to take a deep breath before she finishes, “He asked if we were, and this is a direct quote, fucking married or something, so I told him about the bacteria count of the Potomac, Murphy glared, you scored the empty net and that was that. No pistols.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything. Turns into a statue, it seems. Muscles bunch with tension that Clarke doesn’t expect, only passably noticing through the haze of her adrenaline. Until it disappears just as quickly because he’s breathing far too rapidly for a statue and she doesn’t think they make many statues out of glass or plastic. He’d be marble, anyway.

To honor his very good-looking face in perpetuity.

The one that’s moving. Toward her and to her, and it had taken everything in Clarke’s soul to avoid saying not yet to the marriage question.

Murphy didn’t hum the JEOPARDY theme song as they walked toward the friends and family station. He belted it. Let the sound bounce off walls and the tiled floors, seeping into Clarke until it times up with her heart.

A marathon, not a sprint

Bellamy’s tongue finds its way into her mouth. So, she stops thinking. Does the opposite of thinking. Pushes her fingers into water-soaked strands of hair and lets herself rest against the flat palm at her back, closing her eyes and breathing him in until all she can smell is six-dollar body wash.

Everything settles. For half a moment. Another. A third. Because every time they pull away they fall back, twining limbs and sneakers that allow for upward movement on the tips of her toes. Clarke’s hips are getting much more attention than they should in a hockey arena that isn’t as empty as a moment like this demands. Canting up and rolling, and her hips don’t stumble, but she might, pushed against the nearest flat surface while her own tongue does a thorough inventory of a mouth she’s pretty intent on marrying.

Eventually.

Plus, like—the rest of him, too. She really is super attracted to Bellamy’s hair.

“Stop staring at me when you’re supposed to be worried about faceoffs.” He doesn’t pull away, mumbling against her mouth, “Absolutely not.” “Ok, cool.” “Cool.”

He asks eventually. After a playoff run that’s different than the last, longer and better and Clarke kisses him before she answers. She figures that’s the answer.

He smiles against her mouth. So, that helps.

#bellarke ff #the 100 ff #bellamy x clarke #the quest to make laura write again #i can't even remember if those are the right tags or not

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casitafallz · 1 year

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Decay AU | Calming complexities aren't that simple...

“How’s the pond?”

Isabela jumped as the familiar voice rang out across the clearing, spinning around to see Mateo standing nervously at the clearing’s opening though he wasn’t alone as he appeared to be leaning onto the shoulder of a familiar girl. Francesca Lopez stood taking his weight, arms crossed and a little grumpy but more interested in the scenery than her for now.

“Slow going.” Isabela admitted, “Lots of algae, dead matter, few fish bones, and no natural irrigation of any sort to keep it filtered and I’ve barely made a dent in starting to clean it.”

“Where’s your babysitter?” Mateo asked, his brown eyes flickered around nervously “or have you snuck out?”

“I’ve had my escort dropped for now. They’d rather I leave by choice than risk me alone with Mirabel.”

“Escort?” Fran echoed, wandering closer though there was a keen sense of uncertainty that Isa felt was about being here in general. “What am I missing here?”

“Before today, I wasn’t allowed to leave Casita alone without someone with me.” Isabela waded from the shallow end of the pond, setting the rake down onto the nearest tree.

Fran’s expression of displeasure was far too familiar. “Seriously?”

Isabela shrugged, “It is…. one of Abuela’s punishments for my actions. Doesn’t trust me to be out on my own.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask what else was given.” Fran dropped her arms, “I know your plant voodoo is for your room. Is that potato secure?”

“Its name is Bubo and he's in a plant pot eating dirt.”

Fran nodded. “Good.”

Mateo looked between them, a little wide-eyed as he looked between them with some level of reservation. “You’re worried about a potato?”

Fran gave him a scathing look. “It walked.”

Mateo’s expression remained fixed for a moment before it all broke into a snigger.

Fran poked her tongue out. “Do you want me here or not, Mateito”

“Do…you two know each other?” Isa couldn’t help but noticed there was an odd level of comfort the two had as they conversed… and the nickname gave it away.

“You could say that.” Mateo rubbed the back of his neck. “My Mama tried to set me up with her sister two years ago. It was an awkward six months. I got to know most of the Lopez family quite well.”

“Oh.”

Fran just grinned, “I was dating another man at the time to the disappointment of my mother but… I wanted to date who I wanted. It didn’t work out on either side.”

“Ah.” Isabela relaxed a little. She supposed it made her the odd one out of the three of them but… it meant so much awkwardness would be cut away quickly; they just had to get to know her. “So… you good to…help with the pond?”

Fran licked her lips, eyeing her and then the pond… though Mateo pouted at her. “Please, Fran… I would love for you to join us…”

Fran’s scathing look lingered on Mateo’s face before she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. My mother keeps insisting I need to make friends anyway. It’ll be nice to get her off my back. But… I do have guidelines.”

“Go on.” She already had a feeling about what they were but Isa wasn’t overly concerned given the nature of the girl’s dislike of the magic.

“No moving veg in front of me. No throwing me into the water—I’m looking at you, Mateito—and someone brings snacks because this project clearly is gonna take a while and we can’t do it on an empty stomach.”

“I can agree to that, but I have my own, Fran.” Mateo piped up. “My father and sister can’t know I’m meeting up here and with Isabela of all people. They have…issues. If we’re caught here by them, I’m dating you in secret and Isa’s the third wheeler?”

Isabela gave Mateo a look, which was mirrored by Fran but… it turned thoughtful as Isa found herself appealed by it. It was a good idea… save face for both her and Mateo from assumptions and conflicts if they got caught. Just like she had wanted earlier…

“That works for me.” Isabela agreed with a soft nod.

“You’ll benefit…” Mateo suggested in a near sing-songy tone, creeping forwards and prodding Fran in the arm “I’m very attractive and I know your mother wanted me to marry you…not your sister. Think how happy she’d be and how much joy you’ll get undermining her…”

Fran’s expression turned to intrigue as she weighed the options, “Hm… In all honesty…should have led with that. Alright.” She patted his arm and strode past him and went for the awaiting tools Isa had brought down with her. “So, where to start, Flowers?”

Agustín’s steps were quiet as he walked into the kitchen, the familiar form of his wife by the stove seemed to greet him but he could see the tenseness in her posture and the speed she was kneading the dough to see she was stressed.

“Mi Vida…” he slipped in step behind her, his hand coming to her arms though only to gently rub and squeeze. “I thought you wanted to read with me today…Not cook snacks. We have plenty. Dinner preparations shouldn’t start for at least another two hours.”

He felt the soft movements as her ribs expanded before the heavy sigh reached his ears. “I’ll finish up then join you.”

Agustín shifted, releasing her as she moved to set the dough aside and reached for the sink to clean her hands from the dry residue.

“Are you okay?” He asked, moving and gently pressing a clean rag into her hands, gently drying them off for her, “You seem stressed.”

Julieta’s lip pursed, her eyes flickering to the butterfly window for a moment, “It’s nothing.”

Agustín cocked his head a little before he leaned down, kissing her knuckles softly. “Is it about earlier?” It had been a surprise but a welcome one to hear that Isabela had been allowed to leave of her own volition than relying on a family member to escort her. He had hoped that Isa had earned something by now and now she had it. It felt about time. Isabela was making the most of it so he had hoped she returned before dinner.

To his dismay, Julieta’s expression turned tense.

“It’s not that bad, Mi Corazon.” He smiled at her. “Isabela can leave and it shows Abuela’s showing some trust in her. That’s good.”

Julieta’s eyes flickered away, her expression still as tense. “It’s not about trust, Agustín.” She sighed, pulling her hands free to start clearing up the side. “It’s about Mirabel’s safety.”

Agustín’s expression fell a little. “Why is that a concern? I thought Isabela earned the drop in punishment?” Surely Abuela had to trust Isabela at some point? What was he missing here? Abuela hadn’t been too talkative when she had informed him of the matter.

Julieta shook her head, “Isabela and Mirabel were left alone in casita this morning. They were in the same room without any supervision and Abuela… doesn’t want that to happen again.”

The more she spoke, the more the little bubble of relief shrunk and dissolved away to disappointment, not just on the notion and the truth but… it made a welt of sadness come over him. They weren’t even thinking of Isabela in this. Just Mirabel, which was understandable but… he would have thought….

Julieta swallowed thickly, “Anyway… I’m just anxious. I don’t know where Isabela’s gone.”

“Trust me, Mi Amor, Isabela won’t do anything dangerous and Dolores would come straight to us if she is.” He assured but it was clear it wasn’t going far. Julieta was worrying still. “Look, I know you’re…finding it hard to trust Isabela… but can’t you trust Dolores here? No news is good news.”

Julieta sighed out softly. “I don’t know what to believe, Corazon.” She slipped into his arms, her head resting on his chest though he gently rubbed her back and hoped the sound of his heart would at least offer some comfort here. “Knowing Isabela was here was…good. I didn’t have to worry.”

“Maybe we need to put trust back with Isabela too.”

“I know…” but there was a subtext with how she spoke and he could feel a little disappointed in his wife, as justified as she was to feel about it. He knew his levels of trust in Isabela was…different. He couldn’t trust her much around Mirabel but he could trust her to be outside on her own. He could trust that Isabela knew that she was walking on thin ice to not break any of the rules that were otherwise still upheld.

Was he concerned about what she could be doing? Of course but he trusted Dolores to keep her ear out on her; make sure she was safe and compliant with her gift restriction. That was his concern. But he supposed Julieta’s anxiety was…much more. He had to remember that she had seen the damage done to Mirabel to heal her; he hadn’t.

“I’ll talk to Isabela when she gets back.” Julieta decided, pulling away though he guided her away as she reached for the dough in the bowl and away towards the doors. “My Vida…”

“You have two hours before dinner preparation,” he reasoned, guiding her towards one of the many seats. He gave her a sweet look before tugging her to sit. “Rest… I’ll get your book, okay?”

Julieta huffed out, “okay.”

Agustín was quick to find their books though when he returned to his wife’s side, Felix had joined them at the table with a sketchpad and had thankfully drawn Julieta into a light conversation by the time he sat down, sliding the blue-covered hard-back across the circular table.

“How’s Dolores’s relationship going?” Julieta asked, idly accepting the book before resting her arms on top of it, “I should have asked earlier…”

Felix smiled, “So far, very good. She disappears off to see him a lot and they’re looking happy when I cross them in town. ”

Agustín smiled, “I’m…glad to hear it. He doesn’t have to send her anything as he did with Isabela. Flowers for the girl who makes flowers; ironic.”

Felix snorted, “So far, no. I think Dolores prefers to visit him than those tokens.” He sat back, flipped open his pad, and began to sketch out rough shapes. “I’m glad to hear Isabela has some freedom allowed, the girl could do with a breather.”

Julieta’s expression turned a little fixed. “Do you happen to know where she’s gone?”

“Juli..” Agustín expression turned tired, “Let her be.”

Felix’s eyes flickered between them both though the discreet closing of his pad was enough that he was going to bail; clearly sensing tension in the topic. He knew, which for Agustín it was enough. An adult knew and given Felix wasn’t concerned so why should they? He trusted Felix’s judgment.

“Fine.”

“I’m going to go. Pepa wants me to check on Antonio’s suit.. see how far Mirabel's gotten with it.” Felix left the pad, the chair scraping back against Casita’s tiles as he rose to his feet.

“Felix, you don’t have to go.” Julieta jumped to her feet, hurrying after him, and caught his arm “I’m just…worried about Isabela, that’s all.”

Felix’s expression was unconvinced, withdrawing his hand from her touch. “Julieta, we both know that’s not the case. But if you want to trust Isabela, then you have to let her go or you’ll make things worse”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The undertone of offense lay almost squashed in Julieta’s tone.

“It’s nothing.” Felix made to turn before Julieta pulled from Agustín’s hand, stepping in front of him curtly.

“Talk to me, please.”

“You won’t like it, Juli.”

Julieta’s expression hardened. “My side of the family has been put into a difficult situation because of Isabela, Felix. It’s still not easy trying to manage it all. Am I missing something here? If I am, I need to know. I cannot have anyone else getting hurt here.”

Felix faced her fully, his hands coming to her shoulders though his thumb massaged gently in a soothing manner. “You don’t trust her. You want to know what she does and where she goes at a moment’s notice, which is understandable and in to a degree, justified but you don’t give her the privacy she craves in what she does and not even in her own room. Invading her privacy and constantly seeking her out will undermine her trust in you. She will hide what she does to keep a shred of privacy and enjoyment even if what she’s doing is completely innocent. If you force her to tell, you’ll lose more trust.”

It was blunt, and to the point but Agustín felt the logical sting in what Felix was saying. Felix wasn’t so directly involved with the mess on his side involving his daughters. Agustín though did value his insights.

“Thank you,” Agustín spoke he felt Julieta’s tight grip on his hand, the soft shaking before Felix pulled her into a hug.

“I know it’s hard,” He spoke, “I don’t know what I would do in your shoes either. But if you can’t trust Isabela, trust Dolores. She’s got a good judge on what’s acceptable and what isn’t.”

Agustín reached forwards as Felix released her and his arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into a side hug.

“He’s right, Amor.” Agustín encouraged, “We should enjoy this quiet time before the kids come back. Mirabel’s got Antonio busy and Luisa’s in her room. Let Isabela enjoy her time out. The latest she’ll be back is curfew.”

Julieta out a shaky breath, but degradingly nodded. “Okay.” Her voice was soft and quiet.

Isabela felt light and content as she lay in her bed, her clothes cleaned and drying, with her fresh set ready for her to change into after her chores were done and hung up ready in the morning. The buckets of water from her room were filled ready with submerged plants; ready for them to start oxygenating and filtering the water.

It’d take weeks for the roots to take fully, but they’d still do their job. While the plants dealt with the water, they could work on the scenery around it. Despite Fran’s attitude, she seemed to have toned down with Mateo about and… getting to work clearing the pond’s edges.

Isabela’s notebook had a few new additions, rogue ideas of settling a stream to and from to keep the water fresh, a gazebo to overlook the area. Nothing truly confirmed aside from a passing suggestion from her, Fran had commissioned a new pond bench from Mateo to honor her late Abuela which really motivated the girl into work as well. Like Tia Pepa and Felix’s place of engagement, it was also a similar place for Fran’s Abuela and Abuelo, at least that was what Fran implied.

Isabela hadn’t wanted to press given Mateo had shaken his head behind Fran’s when she had gone to ask. Isabela suspected Fran wanted to bring her Abuelo to it after they were done. For nostalgia and the new bench would certainly tie emotion to it. Despite Fran’s issues and flaws—Isabela felt there was a ton there—the girl had wanted to give a lot than she could.

It was a good start.

Isabela hoped now she’d continue to have such a time to meet with them both often for it.

“Wooo…” the sound echoed a little louder, followed swiftly by a thump before she rolled her eyes and rolled onto her belly to Bubo who had upset his plant pot, and now soil decorated the grass and the only visible part was his feet-nubs that stuck out of the dirt.

“Come on, you intellectually challenged vegetable, back in.” She scoped the soil back in, picking up the living potato before she noticed another lump in the soil. Frowning and a little intrigued, she plucked it up before she gave Bubo a dark look. “I leave you alone for a day and you reproduced?”

In her fingers was a two-centimeter ball of a potato, tuffs of green sticking out the top of its head and the fact it was anything like Bubo was the fact it had two pigment eyes along one side that shifted a little that indicated it was looking at her.

She sucked in a heavy breath before she put both Bubo and the baby thing into the pot. That’ll be later her’s problem to figure out how to neuter them. If all else fails, then they’d be easy to fry in the kitchen.

Mateo sighed quietly as he quietly picked up the empty bottles from the floor, doing his best to not disturb his father who had fallen asleep in the living room but it had to be done. His heart thundered in his chest at every squeak and sound. It was a bad night. He was glad to have avoided it but… Sara was going to be pissed if she had been here as well.

He hadn’t meant to go over time, but he had lost track in walking Fran home and going over her ideas for her bench that he had realised his family’s early dinner and come and gone before he had rushed back to the near asleep house. Which meant his father had been drinking a lot for him to be asleep by the time he had gotten home.

Bottle by bottle, clearing up the cigar buds and shutting the living door, Mateo felt he could let out a breath as he padded away from the sleeping monster.

“You fucker.”

Mateo barely dodged his sister’s nails, grabbing her wrist in the same motion as he automatically pushed her into the wall to keep her from going again to hit him, grunting sharply as her knee buried into his crotch.

Pain rose through his abdomen, rising up from his testicles up to his intestines and practically winded him, sinking him to his knees. His hands coming to protect his special places. Yep, definitely pissed.

“You bailed on dinner.” Sara’s voice was sharp before he felt her grip in his hair, pulling his head back though he glowered. “Do you know Papa had a big announcement and you weren’t there?!”

“Sorry…” He wheezed a little, “I got…busy.”

“I don’t care what your excuse is, Mateo. He was so happy… he had wanted both of us there to celebrate.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Yes you did, Papa’s been telling us tonight was a special occasion. What? You thought it was just another dinner. Did nothing of what he said make it through that stupid, thick skull of yours?!” Sara’s voice echoed in disgust before her hand was gone, releasing his head “You better make it up to him tomorrow otherwise it’ll be much worse for you.”

#decay au #isabela madrigal #luisa madrigal #julieta madrigal #agustin madrigal #agustín madrigal #alma madrigal #felix madrigal #pepa madrigal #antonio madrigal #dolores madrigal #camilo madrigal #encanto #encanto au #drabble #decay isabela #decay julieta #decay agustin

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popplyken · 2 years

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Dawn (MC): The pokemon and clothes here as so cute. Ingo: Yes, but I do not think they are familiar to me. What about for yourself? Dawn: Yeah... they aren't familiar to me either. Some art for a silly self-indulgent AU of PLA I made to kind of combat a lot of the angst. (I have my own Angsty AU but this one is more for fun and silliness.) Also I’m surprised how well this came out since I can’t usually draw fire and haven’t drawn Dawn or Ingo EVER. (Dawn’s outfit is based on a Scorbunny and Ingo’s is based on his TeaTime outfit though I looked up some old clothes refs. AU info under cut.

Some more AU info:

Dawn and Ingo have very few memories. Dawn kind of has memories of Barry and her mom but it's mostly just that her mom read her stories (not her face) and that she knew someone very impatient.

Dialga and Palkia can't send them to where they're from originally since neither know where that was so they are kind of stuck hopping around time and space.

They spend a day or two in the places they land to see if anything feels familiar or if they get any memories and if not they move on. They might also spend extra time there if they get roped into helping people or if they aren't quite sure if it's familiar or not. They take their pokemon with them and occasionally Lady

Dawn and Ingo know that they are from the future, but aren't sure quite how far in the future they are from. Originally they assume it might not be too far they are just in the wrong place, but as time goes on they begin to assume they are a lot farther in the future then they thought.

They both assume that they are probably from the same place at first since from what they can remember the place has the same attitude about pokemon and have a similar things. How many places can be like that?

After a week of hopping around they return to Hisui to recuperate and get supplies before trying again. They decided to have time pass equivalently in Hisui so they spend a week there and a week hopping in different locations.

Their friends in Hisui wait for them to get back with info on if they have found where they are from or not. They also tend to try and cheer them up after every failure. Cyllene has told Dawn that if she does find her home she still has to come back so they can give her a send off before leaving permanently.

They bring back gifts for their pals that they get with the money they get from battling people. They also occasionally get new pokemon just because I think that's cool and I like to draw those kind of things.

Dawn likes to show new pokemon to Laventon and sketches/photographs the pokemon they see since she won't catch any that dont want to permanently want to join their time adventures.

Ingo wont be wearing his usual coat and hat since it has been a year or two since Dawn came to Hisui and his old clothes are falling apart so bad that hes put them away to keep them save. Additionally they have agreed to get clothes more typical of the places they go to so that they dont stand out too much. This is mostly so I can practice new outfits.

They dont always hang out too long in place even if they got one part of it right since it still feels unfamiliar. For example, they are in the present for them, but in Kalos so they just hang around for a bit and then leave.

People have recognized them but they didnt notice.

As they pop around closer to their original time they go back to jumping around only a few months at a time compared to years at a time since things seem familiar.

They have definitely been in Nimbasa, but Ingo hadn't gone missing yet so people didnt really notice anything was wrong.

There are definitely reunions on the horizon, but for a bit they keep barely missing the people who know/care about them.

Anyway that's what I have so like if anyone wants to talk about it I'm so down.

#Pokemon #pokemon legends ingo #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon akari #pokemon dawn #ingo #my art #my au idea #submas #timetravelers au

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honeypiehotchner · 3 years

Text

My Deep Blue Love (Tom Hiddleston x Fem!Reader) -- Soulmate AU one shot

This was 100% born out of boredom and loneliness and those damn Soulmate AU POV Tiktoks that I have seen practically 24/7 for the past WEEK on my fyp

(I’m not sure if I’ll do a part 2, rn I have no plans for it)

quick note on the technicality of this one: you lose all ability to see colors when you turn 12 and you don’t regain the ability until you meet your soulmate. but! you have to meet them in person and it has to be a mutual eye contact. pictures/videos of them don’t work, and if you just saw the back of their head or something in person, that doesn’t work either. it’s all about the shared eye contact babeyyy

small disclaimer: Brie Larson is mentioned in here and she has a wife, but that is very much only in this fic, and as far as i know Brie doesn’t have a wife irl lol (i also don’t know if she’s spoken about her sexuality at all so what i’m saying is take it with a grain of salt ok)

Summary: Everyone around you is meeting their soulmate, but you still see in black and white. You’re ready to give up, and basically have, when you lock eyes with your soulmate.

Warnings: None! Just a bit of angst, lots of fluff toward the end

You knock on your mom’s bedroom door at 4:58am. She’s already awake, sitting up in bed, ushering you over.

With tears in your eyes, you crawl onto her bed, snuggling close to her chest.

“I don’t want to lose my colors,” you whimper.

“I know, baby,” she whispers, kissing the top of your head. “It’s okay.”

You were born 12 years ago on this day at 5:08am, so in a few short minutes, when you officially turn 12 years old, all color will drain from your life.

Or the colors could stay, but that’s only if you’ve somehow already met your soulmate. And that’s rare, nearly impossible.

You squeeze your eyes shut at 5:07 and you don’t open them again until 5:10.

The colors are gone.

+++

twenty years later

You sigh heavily as you receive yet another wedding invite. You are invited to witness the official beginning of Olivia and Jeffrey’s lives together as husband and wife, soulmates for all of time.

The glitter sticks to your fingertips, tiny black dots against your skin. Your friend told you it’s gold. You barely remember what that looks like.

Lately it seems like everyone has been meeting their soulmate. Just yesterday, you were having coffee with a friend when she looked up at the girl sitting behind you, and boom.

“It’s like the world just exploded,” she had said. Colors were everywhere. She immediately left you to go talk to the girl.

You don’t blame her for that. If you had met your soulmate, you probably would’ve done the same thing. But you can’t say for sure because you don’t know.

You wouldn’t be so cynical of it all if your boyfriend of five years didn’t meet his soulmate while the two of you were out at dinner. You wish you could say that he was faking it. But it was clear from his face (and the girl’s) that he wasn’t kidding. It was real. He had met his soulmate, and it wasn’t you.

It’s never you.

You’ve had guys cut off dates before they even start, all because they didn’t see colors when they laid their eyes on you. They refuse to even be friends with you.

All anyone is doing anymore is searching for a soulmate and it’s exhausting when none of them are yours. When all of your friends see color now. When everyone assures you that it’ll happen soon. What does soon even mean?

You grab your ice cream from the freezer and fall onto the couch, flicking to whatever channel has late night shows that aren’t complete garbage.

As usual, you find yourself watching a talk show, and tonight Tom Hiddleston is one of the guests.

You’re sort of familiar with him from a few movies, but other than that, you hardly know anything about him.

“So, Tom, we’ve all been wondering what’s going on with you and Brie Larson?”

“Brie?” Tom asks, clearly shocked to hear this question. “We’re just good friends, that’s all.”

“Oh, she doesn’t make you see any colors?”

“Ah, no, actually, she does not,” Tom chuckles, but doesn’t sound sad at all, surprisingly. “Her wife does that for her, not me, I’m afraid.”

“Oh really?” The host brushes past the mention of Brie’s wife and keeps the focus on Tom, of course. “So is that true, you still don’t see color?”

Your ears perk up at the mention of someone else not seeing in color. It’s rare for anyone to talk about this on television. Most celebrities don’t talk about whether or not they’ve found their soulmate, but more often than not, those that have are quite loud about it.

“Yes, that’s true,” Tom answers. “I still see the world in a lovely black and white.”

You snort, harshly jabbing your spoon into your ice cream. Lovely. Yeah, right.

“Do you really think it’s nice? Do you not miss the colors?” The host asks.

“No, no, I do. I do,” Tom admits. “But I like to think I’ll see them when the time is right.”

You groan, going to Google to look up his age. And when you see he’s 40, you groan even louder. He’s older than you and he still hasn’t met his soulmate. That’s just depressing. How can he sound so optimistic?

“Alright, well, if there’s one thing you wish you could tell your soulmate, what would it be? Maybe they’re watching right now, you never know.”

Tom smiles wide. “Maybe, maybe, um… Oh, so many things,” Tom exhales deeply. “I guess I could be cliché and say I can’t wait to meet them and wait for me, but I think I want to say… I think I want to say I understand. It is frustrating, still seeing in black and white, but our paths will cross soon, I’m sure of it. Until then, my eyes are blue.”

Blue. Blue.

You roll your eyes. You don’t even remember what the color looks like.

+++

seven months later

“I am not going to a movie premiere. You’re insane!”

“Please!” Your friend, Catherine, cries. “You’ll love it, I swear.”

You glare at her over your coffee. “That just makes it sound like you have a trick up your sleeve.”

“I don’t,” she says. “I just want you to take advantage of this and come with us! When will you ever have the chance to go to a movie premiere again?”

She has a point. Dammit. “Touché. How did you get tickets, anyway? Please tell me you didn’t spend thousands for this.” You wouldn’t put it past her, even though you tell her not to every time before she does something like this.

“God, no, Joe surprised me with them earlier. He said he went to school with the lead.”

“Oh. Cool. Who?”

“Tom Hiddleston, I think. Have you heard of him? He’s British, but that’s about all I know. Joe just said they ran into each other the other day and reconnected.”

You stop halfway through a sip of coffee, careful to not choke on it. Slowly, you nod. “Yeah. I...I’ve seen him in a couple things.”

“Apparently, he hasn’t met his soulmate either…” Catherine trails away, raising her eyebrows at you.

You roll your eyes. “I heard,” you set your cup down. “He’s probably met them by now though since he blasted it on television like that.”

“Or he’s still searching and you’re still being too cynical.”

“You’re probably right,” you chuckle.

“Sooo, you’ll come?”

You sigh heavily. “As long as you help me pick something to wear.”

+++

“I’m regretting letting you talk me into this already,” you mutter when you nearly trip in your heels.

“Oh, hush,” Catherine swats your arm. “It’s an excuse to get dressed up and look hot for no reason. Take it.”

“Fine.”

Catherine’s soulmate, Joe, was whisked away almost as soon as the three of you stepped inside the venue by some director (you think), but he promised to return in a few minutes. Catherine told him not to worry. She’s used to him being dragged away for conversation. You can see from her face that she’s more proud of him than anything, and not at all annoyed.

Currently, you and Catherine are standing near the small bar, waiting for them to announce that it’s time to take your seats. You desperately want a drink, but part of you knows it would be a bad idea.

One glass of wine can’t hurt, though. Maybe it’ll take your mind off the pain in your feet.

You peel away from Catherine when you see Joe coming back, and you flag the bartender down quickly.

After ordering a glass of white wine, you wait patiently, wishing you had chosen a dress with sleeves. It’s fucking cold in here.

“Darling, you’re shivering, are you alright?”

Your head turns toward the smooth voice, face set and mind trying to decipher whether or not it was a sincere or creepy comment when the world quite literally explodes.

There, standing beside you, concern written all over his face, is Tom Hiddleston. Only now the concern has washed away into awe when your eyes lock with his.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, stumbling even though he’s standing in place.

“Blue,” you murmur. “Your eyes are blue.” Without even thinking or asking, your hand lifts to cup his cheek, and then you pull back, “Shit, sorry—”

But he grabs your wrist gently, placing your palm on his cheek. “It’s alright.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“I thought you didn’t exist,” you whisper in reply. But here he is. His eyes are blue, his lips are pink, he has tiny brown freckles all over his rosy cheeks. You look back to his eyes, narrowing your own. “You liar. Your eyes have green in them, too.”

“Do they really?” Tom chuckles. “I never would’ve known.”

“That’s why you have me,” you tease, and you don’t know where any of this is coming from, yet it doesn’t feel like you’re pretending. It feels like you’re finally yourself.

His other hand tangles with yours as he nods. “That’s why I have you, indeed.”

At this time, the lights in the theatre begin lightly flashing, signaling that it’s time for everyone to begin making their way to their seats.

But neither you or Tom move one inch.

The only issue is people are beginning to stare.

You notice it first, so you slowly pull your hand from his cheek. This movement shocks him back to reality, too, and he blinks a few times, yet he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“I, um, I have to make a speech,” he says. “But then I can come back to you. Will you save me a seat?”

“Don’t you have to sit up front?”

He nods. “I do, but—”

“Then I’ll come with you.” You aren’t sure if it’s the fact that he hasn’t let go of your hand yet, or if it’s because you’ve been waiting so long that now you don’t want him to be further than an arms length away from you, but you mean what you say.

“Are you sure?” He asks, but you both need to make a decision quickly because you can see someone waving from the wings, most likely trying to get Tom’s attention.

“I’m sure.”

He doesn’t question it, in fact, he grins, and brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Let’s go, then.”

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x fem!reader #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x soulmate!reader #tom hiddleston soulmate au #soulmate au #tom hiddleston one shot #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #completely self indulgent #as always

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wonwoonlight · 3 years

Text

crazy luck | kim mingyu

➝ Mingyu x Reader

➝ feat. non-idol!Youngjae

➝ word count: 1758 words.

➝ fluff // idol!au // coffee shop!au

a/n: I’m just full of Mingyu feels these days and this is a short onefic made in like an hour top. plus this is very self-indulgence bc i barely find mingyu fluff D: enjoy! tell me if you do or myb just tell me anything in my ask haha i dont mind <3

sometimes, the universe isn’t so bad after all.

You’ve lost count on how many times you have to hold yourself back from screaming out loud every time the familiar tall figure comes in to order a few cups of coffees to go.

You don’t know who he’s fooling with his hat and his mask covering half of his face. Between his tall figure and distinctive features, who doesn’t know it’s Kim Mingyu covered behind?

Okay. You are completely biased; of course, there would be people who might not recognize him. But not you. Not when his soft grin and adorable eyes always greet you on your lockscreen every time you see your phone to check the time.

You’re sure there are times when you clicked on your phone just to see his face. Crazy how idols can affect you. But it’s not a lie to say Seventeen, particularly one Kim Mingyu always help you to go through bad days (and just… days).

Working here by some insane luck is also crazy, you think. You remember telling Yerim, your roommate, that you’re looking to do a part-time because you’ve got some free time and an extra money would help. A few days after that, you’ve started working on the humble and cozy café owned by her cousin.

It hasn’t even been three months since then and you’ve seen the Kim Mingyu for at least four times already—one time with a staff that you assume is Seventeen’ manager and another with Dino—of course you recognize him behind those disguises, too—adorably trailing behind.

In return, you have treated a very-confused-but-happy Yerim to a few dinners she definitely deserves for setting you here.

Anyway, this time he is alone and he drums his fingers on the table as he waits for his drink. Eyes scanning the menu plastered on the wall as if trying to see anything different that might be interesting to try next time he comes here.

When you call out his name in the quiet café, Mingyu nods at you and whispers a careful ‘thanks’ after taking his drink, as if afraid anyone would recognize his voice, and then he makes his way to the door right after.

You sigh happily once he’s out of the door, making Hani shakes her head at you.

“He’s a regular, you know? He kind of asks us not to have his signature plastered on the wall so he can keep on going here without fans mobbing,” she says, wiping the station.

“It would be good business,” she continues before you can reply. “But the boss also thinks it would be too overwhelming so he practically agrees, telling Mingyu he has to promise to keep on being a regular here in return.”

You chuckle, imagining how the conversation went. “So, you’ve been seeing him a lot here?”

Hani hums as she nods. “Yeah. He doesn’t always speak a lot, but sometimes he thanks us for working hard until late when he comes at, like, eleven in the evening. Very polite, that guy.”

“I stan the right guy, then,” you say to her, and then nodding at a costumer exiting the store, telling her to come back again.

“You know you can talk to him, right?” Hani asks, helping you clean the table.

You look at her as if she’s saying something scandalous; Hani almost asks if she said something weird when you speak again. “Me? Talk to Kim Mingyu? I wouldn’t dare.”

“Why? I told you he’s nice. Sometimes he complains about not getting enough sleep when there aren’t that many people at the café.”

Shaking your head, you look at her pointedly before speaking. “I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable because I’m a fan. He probably can talk to you guys because he’s seen you a lot and knows you don’t freak out at him.”

“I might not actually know him, but I don’t think he’s that kind of person. He might be happy to know you’re a fan, too.”

“No, it’s okay. Being able to see him like this from time to time is enough.” You smile to yourself, and Hani just shrugs, not wanting to force you to do anything.

You hold back a yawn as you stretch your arms out. It’s almost ten in the evening and you’re still at the café, covering for Hani’s night shift because she has an emergency to attend.

There aren’t a lot of people. In fact, the café is practically empty except for you and Youngjae, the barista, because everyone mostly orders for take away.

Youngjae has told you to just do your assignments on one of the empty tables because it’s slow business hour; he can manage by himself for now and you know when to help him. You pout at him, thanking him for being understanding and he just laughs as he jokingly flicks your forehead.

You sigh, burying your face on your arms to rest your eyes even for a minute or two. You can hear the door opening again, and Youngjae greets the costumer happily. You can faintly hear him repeating the order; one cup of Vanilla Latte and one cup of Ice Americano.

Two orders only. Youngjae can manage, you think to yourself as you bury yourself further to your arms. You can also hear him converse with the costumer though you’re not sure about what.

Not a minute after that, your phone blasted HIT on max, making not only you jump in your seat but also startled Youngjae and the costumer.

You look up to the counter sheepishly, the apology stuck in your throat as Mingyu turns to you in surprise; his song still playing on your phone.

Blinking continuously, you bow to him in apology before picking up the phone; it was Yerim telling you to get a few things to fill the fridge if you pass by a mini market on your way home.

You bit your lip as you put your phone back down, as if being caught doing something bad by the person standing in front of the cashier waiting for his order.

Mingyu’s soft chuckle breaks the awkward silence, making you turn to him out of reflex.

“Aren’t you the one who usually serves me during the day?” he asks, recognizing your face. You can see him smiling even if half of his face is covered by his mask; gosh your heart won’t slow down at this rate.

“Oh… Uh… Yes,” you answer, unsure why you’re stuttering. Youngjae laughs from the station as he continues making drinks, never seeing you so embarrassed.

“Thank you for liking our music,” Mingyu says again as he makes his way to sit in front of you, now amused at your flustered expression. “Why didn’t you say anything every time I come?”

“Umm… I just… don’t want to make you uncomfortable?” you try to be as calm as possible, not believing Mingyu is talking to you. You must be dreaming. You must be.

The tall guy laughs, that adorable laugh you usually only hear from your speaker. You bite your lower lip to hold back the squeal. You’re not going to be embarrassing even if it’s a dream.

“Thank you for your consideration. I’d be happy to know you enjoy our music, though,” Mingyu grins, and you just smile in return, telling him his music comforts you a lot.

“Do you want a sign? Or a picture? I really don’t mind as long as you don’t immediately share it online,” he asks carefully, though grateful that you’re already respecting the boundary a lot by not screaming at his face in this situation.

It is Youngjae who answers. “She’ll be happy to. Please, hyung, she’s just too shy to ask that.”

You glare at your co-worker, though Mingyu doesn’t seem to mind even a bit. “It’s okay, really.”

Funny, how it’s him who convinces you to take a picture and not the other way around. God, Kim Mingyu is an angel.

He moves to stand behind you, his mask is now off his face, leaning down a little so you can take a better picture even before your phone is out.

You make the mistake of only turning on your phone once Mingyu is behind you, your Mingyu on the lockscreen stares back at you with a grin on his face and, almost immediately, the real Mingyu actually laughs in recognition after seeing the picture.

You close your eyes in an attempt to make your embarrassment go away. But Mingyu taps your shoulder, making you look back at him. He is so close.

“Hey, it’s okay. Let’s take that picture,” he says, and you can clearly see that beautiful canine smile on his face.

You just manage a nod, opening the camera app again so you can take the picture together. You are honestly happy with one, but Mingyu insists on taking a few more because the café is empty and he has the time, anyway.

“Thank you so much,” you tell him, daring yourself to look at him in the eye.

Your bias just smiles again, shaking his head as he claims it to be a no problem.

Just in time, Youngjae calls him to say his drinks are ready. Mingyu turns back to the guy and gives him an okay before he takes the pen on your table and asks where should he give you the sign.

You tell him you don’t mind anywhere because you can just rip the paper off the notebook anyway; so he goes to the very last page of the notebook to sign, telling you your name is pretty when he reads your name in front of the notebook.

Your name has never sounded so beautiful.

Once he’s done, you hold the book close to you. Telling him another thank you as he leaves the café. Mingyu just smiles and nods in return, unable to wave his hand because of the drinks in his hands.

“You’re so whipped,” Youngjae snickers at your dazed smile.

You go around to hug him, thanking him for making Mingyu take a picture with you. Youngjae jokingly pushes you away, telling you now he doesn’t have to listen to you daydreaming about the guy again.

You just grin in return, making your way back to your table before squealing as you see the note Mingyu has left under his signature.

So, I’m your favorite, huh?

Smile at me the next time I come in, okay? Your smile is very pretty

I’ll be sad if you act like you don’t know me again >:(

#mingyu scenario #seventeen scenario #mingyu x reader #mingyu fluff #mingyu scenarios #kim mingyu #seventeen fic #mingyu fic #seventeen au #svt scenario #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #seventeen oneshot #mingyu oneshot

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

Text

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Rating: T for language and mild medical drama

Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans

Genre: Hurt + comfort

Summary: Bela is somewhat unprepared to deal with a soulmate who has no clue about her condition, her family, or any of the village's secrets. Thankfully, her sister Cassandra is more than willing to be a bad example. Also there's some fluff.

Notes: For reference, each of my soulmate stories take place in their own contained timeline, since they each involve different types of soulmates. So in this one, Cass doesn't currently have a soulmate.

Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow

2: Tangled Strands

A gentle humming fills the space around you, as fingers slowly run through your hair. As far as you can tell you had fallen back asleep, for several hours, and you were just now waking back up. No longer holding you down, your soulmate is curled up next to you. There’s still a needle in your arm, much to your irritation, but now you can finally see what it’s connected to: An IV for a transfusion. Explains why I’m feeling so much better than before, you think. Then you’re turning your head to the other side, eager to finally get a good look at your soulmate. Instantly you’re blushing, tongue tying itself into a knot, because wow are you lucky.

“Feeling any better?” She asked, as soon as your gaze met hers. You try to stutter out a confirmation, but you’re too distracted by the soft curve of her smile to speak, and barely even manage a nod. That beautiful smile grows wider in response. “Good. I couldn’t stand the thought of you suffering more, after what you’ve already been through.” Now her smile fades, and she looks away for a few moments. Watching it makes your heart ache. So you swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to relax, before trying a little comforting of your own.

“I am safe now, am I not? Moreso, we have too much to talk about for us to dwell on the ill circumstances of our introduction. Let us cherish this time, in respite, with our hearts open wide to one another,” you said, donning your softest smile. Somehow your words fulfill their purpose, and your soulmate is once again grinning. Slowly she leans forward to rest her forehead against yours. Then she’s speaking, voice as smooth as the sheets you lay on.

“You are right, of course. I simply wish I could have saved you sooner,” she replied, tone betraying the sadness that her expression otherwise hid. Before you can protest, she continues talking, and you soon forget all about your qualms. “To think I don’t even know your name yet… nor you mine, I suppose. Let’s remedy that, yes? I am Bela Dimitrescu.” Something about her last name feels familiar to you, but not to the point of clear recognition. Instead of inquiring, you return her favor, giving her your own name. She repeats it back a few times, letting the syllables roll off her tongue, and you feel your heart skip a few beats. “A lovely name for a lovely soul, perfectly paired.”

A pause, followed by Bela reaching out to examine your IV. Following her gaze, you turn to the metal hook adjacent to the bed, where a blood bag hangs. Only a few drops remain inside. Just as when you first awoke, Bela gives a soft hum, then rises into a sitting position. Your first instinct is to copy the motion, and you’re relieved when (this time) she doesn’t push you back down. Both of you quietly inch your hands closer until they’re laid on top of each other.

“I wish I knew more about medicine, but unfortunately my family is more experienced in the creation of wounds than the treatment of them,” Bela said, scowling. Confused, you tilt your head at a slight angle, watching her with interest. Am I supposed to know who she’s referring to? My memories of the past couple days are still hazy, you think. “Do… do you remember how you ended up in the dungeon? I know you wanted to speak of happier things, and we can, soon. It’s just… Knowing how you arrived here may help me deal with the consequences of freeing you. Mother will be dreadfully upset that I’ve interrupted a draining, even if we are soulmates.”

“Wait, are you saying…? The intimidating giantess who strung me up and attempted to bleed me dry… is your mother?” You asked, jaw nearly dropping to the floor. This was an unexpected development, for sure.

“You didn’t know?” Bela replied, eyes going wide for a moment. Clearly she wouldn’t have said anything if she realized you weren’t already aware. Suddenly the tension in the room is palpable, with an uncomfortable silence overtaking the two of you. In the moment, you cannot even bring yourself to look at Bela, too stunned by this new knowledge. Eventually she breaks the silence, voice sounding unsure for once. “I realize that this is a lot to take in, if you need time to process it, I… I can go. But you need to understand that our situation is far more complicated than it might appear. We cannot survive without the blood of others- it is what sustains us when nothing else can.”

Now you’re staring at her like she’s crazy, and she’s standing up, moving to the other side of the room. She draws back a curtain, gazing out into the snow covered hills. Every muscle in your body is urging you to run while she’s distracted. Thread of fate be damned, this went far beyond anything you had ever imagined having to deal with. You come so close to ripping the IV right out of your arm. But a gentle tug on your soul string makes you pause, remembering all the times this bond gave you hope in dark times. Had she felt the same way, all these years? What had she gone through, in this absurd castle, on the very edges of civilization? You pull on the red thread, feeling a wave of composure wash over you.

“It appears there is much I need to learn. But is that not the very nature of our connection? We know, simply, that we are bound to each other, though we know not what shapes our souls take so that we might put them together, nor even what roles we must play. I cannot say that I understand your plight, my dear, but I will try, as is my obligation, and my honor,” you said, wishing you could hold her, and cursing your IV. As soon as the first word leaves your mouth, Bela is turning around, watching you with a bittersweet expression. Once you’re done she’s moving closer, as if reading your mind, extending a hand to cup your cheek. Then she leans forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Oh, how I have longed for this- to be with you, to get to know you.”

“As did I,” she murmured. You can’t help but lean into her touch, closing your eyes and enjoying the moment. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my family? I imagine you’ll be needing breakfast anyway, and bringing human food back to my quarters would raise more suspicion than I’d like.” Well, the moment couldn’t last forever, could it?

“Only if you promise that your mother won’t suspend me by my wrists again. Or by any other part of me. Shall we simply put suspension off the table altogether?” You asked, half teasing. To be entirely honest, you were equally worried about Bela’s sisters. Well, the people you had heard other prisoners whispering about, who were the daughters of the giantess, and by connecting a few dots were also, presumably, Bela’s sisters. Apparently they preferred to play with their food. Unless, of course, Bela was one of the daughters you had heard about, and would have easily torn into you if not for your connection. Let’s not dwell on that concept, you think, glad to be distracted by your soulmate.

“I will not let anyone harm you anymore, my beloved. My mother would not stand so firmly in the way of my happiness,” Bela reassured, though you detected a hint of uncertainty in her tone. Still, there wasn’t much you could do other than trust her. “Now, let me take care of your bandages, then we’ll head downstairs…”

---------------------------------

“Who the fuck is this?” An unfamiliar voice asked, as you meandered down the corridor, arm around Bela for support. As soon as she hears the person speak, your soulmate is freezing in place, casting a worried glance over her shoulder. When you turn as well, you spot someone dressed almost identically to Bela. However, the woman wears a yellow pendant, as opposed to a red one, and her hair is a dark brown. It feels safe to assume that she’s one of the sisters you’ve heard about. Which understandably makes you nervous, to the point where you almost want to hide behind Bela. Instead, you stand tall, attempting to seem unfazed by either her presence or her vulgarity.

“Mind your manners, Cassandra,” Bela hissed, taking more of an aggressive stance than you had anticipated. “This, dear sister, is my soulmate. And if you even think about harming them, or getting in our way, I will tear you apart.” While you’re downright shocked at the intensity of Bela’s statement, her sister doesn’t look at all impressed, and eyes you with minimal interest. Better than looking at you with hatred, right? Apparently not, as Bela moves to stand between the two of you, eyes narrowed. There’s a clear stiffness in her posture that leaves you anxious. Cassandra seems to notice it as well, and laughs, before taking a few steps in your direction. Then your soulmate mimics the movement, forcing you to do so as well.

“They’re human,” Cassandra snapped, pausing to sniff the air and scowl. “Here I thought your soulmate would have to be special, if they’re to compare to your ego. You’re disappointed, aren’t you? Having to settle for this.” With that she shifts, flesh writhing, making your stomach churn as you watch her disintegrate into a cloud of… flies? What the hell is wrong with this family? Can Bela do that too? I hope not, you think. Soon you’re pulled from your thoughts, however, as the swarm circles around you, single insects occasionally surging forward to cut at your skin. But Bela is grabbing you by the sleeve and tugging you to her chest, moving against a wall so that her body shielded your own. Your eyes clamp shut as you shake in her arms. When the buzzing stops, it is quickly replaced with cruel laughter. “That fragile, hmm? I can’t wait to see what mother thinks. See you at breakfast, sister!”

Then the two of you are alone, still pressed against the wall, staying still until the sound of footsteps fade. You’re stunned, unsure of how to react. The fact that a few drops of blood roll down your cheek only makes things worse. Still, Bela managed to prevent you from getting too hurt, and the few wounds on your body are negligible. Ever filled with gratitude, you hold her close as you try to stutter out a few sentences.

“Is she always this hostile, or am I truly not what you had expected? No, pay me no mind, it hardly matters. Thank you for protecting me,” you whispered. In response, Bela gives you a little squeeze, then pulls back enough to wipe the blood from your face. There’s a hint of something odd in her expression, which you interpret to be related to her apparent ‘need for blood’. Thankfully, she is in perfect control, and does not frenzy the same way you had read about fictional vampires doing. But she does hesitate, words dying on her tongue, like there are a thousand things she wants to say, and no words to say them with. “It’s alright, my dear. Let’s just go to breakfast, like we planned, and hope your sister behaves better when supervised.”

Bela nods, quickly, before taking your hand in her own. Whatever awaited you in the dining room, the two of you would be ready. Hopefully.

#babe why aren't you this nice to ME #bela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu x reader #resident evil: village #re8 village #soulmate au #imagine bela's soulmate meeting cassandra's #they'd be very unlikely friends #cassandra would HATE how well behaved her soulmate would be #like #tumblr keeps rearranging the order of my tags???#I'll fix that later

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years

Text

Soulmate AU part 2; Things drastically change for the better:

Arthur and Merlin’s relationship develops, Uther becomes increasingly annoyed at his failed attempts to control them, Leon continues to have heart palpitations over trying to protect them, and Morgana thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

So that conversation... happens.

To say it was awkward would be a MASSIVE understatement.

Arthur and Morgana spend the whole time answering Uther’s questions, so much so that Merlin barely speaks (he wasn’t great at keeping secrets, so he wasn’t too mad at them for answering for him) and Uther spends the whole time trying and failing to assert his dominance over his two dumbass kids (but they aren’t having it).

Eventually Merlin did speak up, quietly saying:

“I, um... I’m really sorry to interrupt Sire, My Lord... uh... Your Majesty Sir-”

Morgana smirks slightly and covers her mouth with her hand, Arthur rolls his eyes and squeezes Merlin’s hand, and Uther looks upon the whole scene with barely concealed bewilderment:

“-uh... my mum is waiting for me, and I’m usually not gone for this long so... could I... I mean would you mind if I... went?”

Uther looked even more taken aback at that. As much as this whole conversation had been based on Merlin, he hadn’t actually processed the fact that he was a whole person who would have family and places to be and a life outside of being The Prince’s soulmate.

He nods his head slightly and purses his lips:

“Right. Of course. Arthur said that you lived outside of Camelot?-”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing:

“-Well I’m afraid that that is unacceptable. You are the soulmate of the Prince of this kingdom, inform your family that you are to move here as soon as possible, preferably before the month is out.-”

At Merlin’s wide eyes and Arthur and Morgana’s scornful faces, he waved his hand:

“-Don’t worry, housing and anything else that you will require will be provided by the Crown.”

Merlin still looks a bit dazed and surprised at his demand, so Arthur replies instead:

“Father, Merlin and his mother have a life in their village, you can not just demand that they pack up and leave everything behind to live here.”

Uther looks annoyed at this, but patiently (or as patiently as Uther is able) retorts with:

“Well he was going have to move eventually. The two of you are only a few years from being of age, and you can not possibly live in separate kingdoms when that happens, especially as you are Crown Prince. I’m allowing this... bond... to continue, but we are still royalty, and rules must be followed.”

Morgana goes to argue this time, but Merlin tugs her sleeve slightly and says quietly:

“It’s alright ‘Gana, he is right, I was going to have to move here eventually anyway. This way you finally get to meet my mum, and we’ll get to see each other more often. Mum won’t like it, but I know she’s missed Gaius, so it won’t be too bad, and I’ve always sort of wanted to explore the city.”

Morgana and Arthur stare at him for a few moments whilst he looks between them. Arthur sighs before replying:

“Fine, but only if you’re sure. And take your time, don’t pressure your mum into leaving right away, OK?”

Merlin nods, and everyone at the table stands, stepping back.

Uther mutters that they are dismissed, but watches as they say goodbye to each other. He furrows his eyebrows in interest as Morgana hugs Merlin, mentally noting that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her smile that widely before.

When Arthur embraces Merlin, much tighter, and for much longer, a hand cradling the back of the peasant’s-... of Merlin’s head, and a soft, but powerful smile on his face, Uther forgets for a moment the distastefulness of the situation, and revels in the feeling of pride and happiness; his son had found his life partner.

The King sweeps any thoughts of his late-wife from his mind, and drops the small smile gracing his face, but not before Morgana spies it and tilts her head at him, giving him a teasing smirk.

The boys whisper something that Uther can’t hear, and Merlin steps back, giving him a quick bow and an awkward wave, before disappearing into thin air. A familiar pop echoes around the hall, and a few gold sparks fall silently to the floor.

Arthur and Morgana bow to him very briefly, before turning and leaving the room without another word, arm in arm.

Uther stands alone in the room for a moment, sighing before muttering to himself:

“This is going to be a bloody nightmare. Public announcement. Before that I have to tell the council. And I have to figure out how I can legally make these people nobles, to justify everything-”

He looks to the ceiling, sighing once again as he says:

“-Gods give me strength.” Before turning and sweeping out the room.

The moment Arthur and Morgana leave the room, they turn to each other and burst into slightly hysterical laughter, sputtering about “the look on his face” and “oh my gods, *sire my lord your majesty sir* ” between breaths.

The whole situation was unexpected, but to be perfectly honest, they didn’t regret it; they knew that the longer they waited before telling Uther, the bigger the problem would be.

Morgana straightens up after a moment, wiping tears from her eyes, before whipping her head around to Arthur in sudden panic:

“Oh my Gods, Arthur. Leon.”

Arthur’s eyes widen, and he curses suddenly before taking Morgana’s hand and running towards his chambers. They almost ran into multiple people, Nobles who tutted, and castle staff who jumped out of the way, not even having time to bow before the two teenagers were out of sight again.

They loudly burst into Arthur’s chambers, out of breath, to see Leon pacing a groove into the floor:

They stand with their hands on their knees, panting, but before they can say anything, Leon rushes to speak:

“Where on earth have you been?? A guard said you were in a meeting with the King all afternoon, what happened? Is Merlin ok?? They wouldn’t let me in, so I came back here to wait but-”

Arthur held up a hand to stop him rambling, and gave him a comforting smile. The Prince straightened up, and took one last deep breath before saying:

“Sorry, for worrying you Leon. But you are not going to believe what just happened...”

Morgana starts laughing again, and with that, the two of them shut the door behind them and explain in great detail what had happened, how Merlin had just appeared and Uther had freaked, and Gaius and Geoffrey had to be called, and how funny the look on his face was when they’d explained.

Arthur had wanted to skip it out, but Morgana gleefully insisted on recounting just how much she and Arthur had ordered Uther around, and how he’d just taken it.

By the end of their explanation, Leon had collapsed in a chair, looking very pale, and a lot like he’d aged twenty years.

He holds his head in his hands, fingers messing up his curls, and stares at the floor as Arthur and Morgana glance to each other, trying not to laugh at the poor man.

After what seems to be hours, Leon straightens up, and looks to the two of them with a stricken expression:

“I can’t believe that... well I suppose he had to find out eventually but... dear Lord I can’t decide if I’m grateful I wasn’t there or not... oh my Gods I’m going to be demoted, disowned, banished.”

Arthur laughs at that and Morgana rolls her eyes at the man’s panic:

“Nothing’s going to happen to you Sir Leon, don’t panic. We didn’t mention you, as far as my father is concerned, the only ones who knew were us.”

Leon finally smiles briefly at that, muttering a quiet thank you, before standing up suddenly, looking panicked once again:

“Wait... you said he’d be moving here?? What about his... gift?? He can’t live in Camelot it’s dangerous. You may have protected him from the King for now but... if he finds out nothing will stop him from... nothing will stop him.”

The two of them sighed at that. They had been mentally considering it, but they were just taking it one victory at a time. Arthur replied moments later:

“We’ll just have to be careful. He has to be careful in Ealdor anyway, he’s already a bastard, he had to hide magic from the other villagers because it probably would’ve been fatal for him to give them a second reason to hate him. We can set ground rules when he actually moves here and... we just have to be careful. It’ll be a new life for him and his mother, we can be careful.”

He says the last bit with a decisive nod, and Morgana and Leon relax slightly. Arthur was right, they’d been fine so far, they could keep it up.

He would never say it out loud, but if his father found out... if he tried to hurt Merlin, Arthur knows without a doubt in his mind that he would give up his inheritance, take Merlin’s hand, and run. Without hesitation.

He would love nothing more than to turn his kingdom into a place where Merlin could be free and happy one day, but until then, he would do anything to keep him safe, even if it meant leaving everything behind.

The next few weeks rush by.

Uther had tried to limit the number of visits between Merlin and Arthur, but neither of them were having it, and if anything, they were seeing each other more with the upcoming move.

Hunith did in fact freak out at Uther’s demand of her and Merlin moving to Camelot. For several reasons.

First off, she had a life here. It was difficult, but simple, honest work. The winters were hard, but the summers made up for it. The villagers may have started of being a little cruel to her and Merlin, but they warmed to them when the dark haired boy was nothing but sweet and kind to everyone.

Second off, her son was magical. Both naturally and unnaturally magical. Essetir was dangerous, yes, but Camelot? Camelot was so much worse.

She supposes it had to happen eventually. She didn’t like to think of it often, didn’t want to tempt fate, but her son was the Crown Prince’s soulmate. That meant that one day... he would be married to the King. He couldn’t exactly do that whilst living in Essetir, least of all because the Essetir Crown would throw a world ending fit.

In the end, she agreed to the move rather quickly, at least she would be close to her brother, and she could finally meet Leon and Morgana.

As much as Merlin and Arthur urged her not to rush, she really had nothing to do but say goodbye before they made the journey to Camelot, and the three of them were leaving the village behind them within the month, just like Uther wanted.

Though he definitely hadn’t wanted Arthur to pop away one morning, a full travel pack and a sword on his person, intending to make the journey with them. But in the end, Arthur ended the argument by rolling his eyes (much to Morgana’s amusement) and disappearing before The King could get another word in.

No public announcements had been made (they decided to wait until Arthur came of age), but the council had been informed. They were NOT happy.

Uther would never admit it, but he did feel a swell of pride when Arthur slammed his hand on the table, and firmly told them that this was happening whether they liked it or not, and if they dared complain instead of help, they would find themselves without a chair at the table, and severely lacking in titles and land.

Uther was relieved when he found out that Hunith was Gaius’ younger sister. Gaius wasn’t a noble, but he was a life-long, close friend of the King, and a trusted advisor. Hopefully that would make it easier.

The Court Physician wasn’t a title that came with land, or nobility, BUT it was the most respected position in the royal household, below actual nobles.

If Gaius could take Merlin on as his apprentice... then he would be an almost fully trained physician by the time he came of age, and that would be respected. Then at least he would have a role outside of being the Prince’s Soulmate.

It was all coming together in Uther’s mind. Of course it wasn’t perfect. The absolute ideal outcome would’ve been if Arthur’s soulmate had been foreign royalty (if only anyone knew about Merlin’s father...), but he could make do with this. He would have to, if he didn’t want to lose his son and his ward.

The day of Hunith, Arthur, and Merlin’s arrival finally comes.

Uther didn’t greet them in the courtyard (it would be unsightly for a King to greet two commoners, even if The Prince was with them) but Gaius, Morgana, and Leon did.

Everyone breaks into wide smiles when the castle gates are opened, Arthur and Merlin rushing forward to meet Morgana and Leon in a big hug, and Hunith rushing forward to meet her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in several years.

There is laughter and hugs all around before Merlin finally steps back and takes his mother’s hand, realising he should probably give actual introductions:

“Mum, this is The Lady Morgana, ward of the King-”

Morgana gives Hunith a wide smile and curtsy, before stepping forward and giving her a brief hug. Morgana was very touch averse with everyone but Merlin, Arthur, and Leon, but in her books, any woman who raised Merlin into the young man he had become, was a woman who deserved her trust. And a hug:

“-and this is Sir Leon, Knight of the King.”

Leon took Hunith’s hand, placing a brief kiss on her knuckles before stepping back respectfully. Hunith quickly followed him, and to his great surprise, wrapped the taller man in a tight hug. He wraps his arms around her after a few moments in shock, when she whispers in his ear:

“Thank you for keeping my boys safe.”

He steps back, a wide smile on his face and his hands on her shoulders. He replies quietly so that only she would hear him:

“It has been my genuine pleasure, and I plan to continue to do so for the remainder of my service.”

Hunith gives him an even wider smile, and pats his hand, before the two of them step back. The others watch on in adoration, before Leon clears his throat and addresses the group:

“I have been instructed to show the two of you to your new residence, before you are to meet with the King.”

Arthur steps back before saying regretfully:

“Unfortunately, Gaius and I should go and meet with my father immediately. Leon, you lead the way, we shall remain with him until you return and we can get this over with.”

He says the last bit with a grimace, and Morgana gives him a sympathetic smile as Merlin squeezes his hand.

The group separates, Arthur and Gaius heading up the castle steps, and Leon leading the rest of them back out the gates.

Hunith and Merlin had been gifted a small house in the upper city, close to the castle, but not within it’s walls. Arthur had argued endlessly against that, saying they deserved chambers inside the castle, but Hunith was the one who refused.

She wasn’t nobility, and she enjoyed her simple life. She had already given up her farming and livestock, she refused to be cooped up in a giant stone castle where she would have nothing to do, and didn’t understand how anything worked.

Arthur finally saw the sense in that, he can understand that it would be difficult for Merlin and Hunith to live in the castle. He hated to admit it, but they would certainly be looked down on, and Arthur was almost of age, he didn’t have the time to spend all day entertaining Merlin, even if he wanted nothing more than to spend all day every day with him.

The house was small, but still three times the size of their place back in Ealdor. They had separate bedrooms, a large kitchen/dining area, a small storage room, and an extra room for relaxing (”City folk call them living rooms apparently.”). There was a small, fenced off grass area out the front, which Hunith was particularly excited about; she wouldn’t have to give up growing things after all.

The home came fully furnished, and Hunith was speechless at the large, comfortable beds, the soft chairs, and the abundance of cooking equipment. The living room also had a large hearth, and two ceiling-high bookshelves, though they were empty.

Once Hunith had had a good look around (the others had already seen it, and Arthur had been checking with Merlin at every step to see if he approved), Morgana excitedly grabs her hand and drags her back to the slightly larger of the two bedrooms.

Merlin follows confusedly, but Leon follows with a small smile on his face, he had seen what Morgana was planning, despite her best attempts to keep it secret.

Morgana finally stands Hunith in front of the wardrobe and gestures for her to open it. The older woman opens the doors with a little hesitation, before stepping back and gasping, her hands over her mouth.

Morgana grins proudly before speaking to a speechless Hunith:

“My gift to you. I organised a few things for Merlin as well. Of course they’ll all have to be adjusted because I could only pass on to the tailor Arthur and Merlin’s descriptions of you. I thought that could be something nice you and me could do at some point in the next few days, after you’ve settled.”

Merlin steps around Leon to try and see what’s got everyone so wound up, and takes in a quiet gasp at what he sees. The wardrobe is filled with new, tailor made dresses, a few thick cloaks, and two pairs of good quality shoes. Two of the dresses were incredibly nice, royal-gala kind of nice, and the others were a mix of practical, casual, smart.

He smiles widely, tears in his eyes at what Morgana had done for his mum. He’s always felt a little guilty at being the soulmate of royalty, but not being able to provide her with more than she had, but that changed, starting now.

Hunith finally rips her gaze from the new clothes, staring at Morgana:

“I can’t possibly...-”

Morgana’s tilted head and raised eyebrow forces Hunith to change tracks. The boys have told her how stubborn Morgana was, she has a feeling she wouldn’t be able to return the gifts:

“-I don’t know how to thank you, My Lady.”

Morgana rolls her eyes fondly, and brings her into a hug before stepping back:

“Oh none of that “My Lady” shit, and you don’t have to thank me, you and Merlin are part of the family now.”

Merlin gives her a grateful smile over his mum’s shoulder, which she returns, before Leon speaks up:

“I’m sure you can find time to get them all properly fitted in the coming days Morgana, for now we should get back up to the castle. I imagine The King and The Prince are waiting for us.”

Morgana nods, and Hunith subtly wipes her eyes, before allowing The King’s ward to intertwine their arms. Merlin smiles at the sight (he knew they would get along) before turning and following Leon out the house, and back up towards the castle.

Merlin was only a little nervous, he’d met the King multiple times now, and whilst the man was always painfully polite, it was clear that it was only because the whole situation bewildered him a little. But he’d never met his mother yet, and this next meeting would make the rest of his life go very smoothly, or very difficultly.

Leon pauses a moment outside the door to the throne room, glancing back at Merlin, who takes a deep breath before standing straight and nodding.

Leon smiles encouragingly at him, before pushing the doors open and walking into the room.

Arthur, Uther, and Gaius were stood in front of the thrones quietly discussing something, but look up when they hear the doors open.

Arthur smiles widely and walks forward, giving Merlin a brief hug (which Morgana lovingly rolls her eyes at, they’ve only been apart for half an hour) and Uther straightens his back, before walking forwards regally, a practiced blank look on his face. Gaius gives his sister a reassuring smile, but stays back.

Leon and Merlin bow (Leon deeply, before stepping aside, and Merlin briefly and shallowly) and Hunith curtsied as best she could with Morgana protectively gripping her arm.

Arthur and Merlin stand next to the girls, hand in hand (Uther’s mind bounces between wanting to smile fondly, and wanting to grimace at the PDA), and Uther stops just in front of Hunith:

“Welcome to Camelot, your swift arrival was pleasing.”

Hunith nods, a polite, but strained smile on her face:

“Thank you, My Lord. Anything to make the boys lives easier.”

Uther clenches his jaw, and Morgana has to hide a smirk at the implication that she’d only moved to help out the boys, and not because Uther had ordered it.

“Of course. I hope your new home was to your liking?”

Hunith nodding in reply, the smile on her face a little brighter this time:

“Yes, My Lord, it’s wonderful, I can not thank you enough for providing it. I look forward to exploring your city.”

Uther nods slightly before saying:

“Yes, yes, it’s rather lovely this time of year. The Crown will provide a small allowance for a time, until you can get yourself on your feet. I’ve already discussed it with Gaius, and arrangements have been made for Merlin to become the physician’s apprentice, at Gaius’ earliest convenience.”

“Thank you, I’m sure it won’t be long before I can find work, in such a bustling city.”

Uther nods tersely, before turning back towards Gaius. He waves his hand dismissively over his shoulder as he says:

“I have other matters to attend to for the rest of the afternoon. Sir Leon, Arthur and Morgana, you have the rest of the day off to show our new... residents, around. You’re all dismissed.-”

Leon is the only one who bothers bowing to Uther’s back, and Morgana raises an eyebrow at him, before rolling her eyes and turning to leave, dragging Hunith with her, closely followed by the boys.

Just before Leon can exit the room, Uther turns around hurriedly:

“-Before I forget, Sir Leon, I would like a word.”

Leon turns around after wiping the panic from his face. He shuts the door after the others, who look at him worriedly, before turning around to face The King:

“My Lord?”

Uther settles an assessing gaze on the knight, and Leon has to stop himself from gulping in response. Uther sighs, and speaks after a moment:

“After paying a little more attention to the relationships between yourself, the boys, and Morgana, I have realised something. You obviously knew of this... relationship, long before I did. Do no deny it.-”

Leon does gulp at that, but before he can defend himself, Uther asks:

“Can I trust that it would have been brought to my attention had anything problematic started?”

Leon widens his eyes in shock, before gathering his thoughts and replying, injecting as much confidence in his voice as possible:

“Of course, My Lord. I kept a close eye on them myself, and made sure that the Prince’s safety was my highest priority at all times. Had anything worrying happened, I would have come to you immediately. I am loyal to the throne, My Lord.”

(A big fat lie considering the whole “Merlin is a sorcerer” thing, but the King certainly doesn’t need to know that.)

Uther nods thoughtfully, before meeting Leon’s gaze again:

“Good. I am glad that Arthur has someone looking out for him. I trust you will continue this?”

Leon nods:

“Of course, My Lord.”

Uther nods once again:

“Excellent. Make sure none of... this, interferes with his studies. You are dismissed.”

Leon bows deeply, before leaving the room. He shuts the door behind him, leaning on it and taking a deep breath, before looking up to meet the worried gazes of the others, who had waited for him. He smiles shakily:

“Nothing bad, I’ll tell you later. Come on, let’s show these two around the upper-town.”

Arthur fixes him with a scrutinizing gaze, but Leon meets it (Arthur has yet to win a staring contest against Leon, in fact, Morgana was the only one who ever came close), and after a moment, Morgana shakes her head, and begins to walk down the corridor, the boys trailing after her and Hunith.

They spend the rest of the afternoon showing Merlin and Hunith around the upper-town. The tour leads them around the market, the town square (where the well is) and other important fixtures of the town, such as the tailor, blacksmith’s, and some of Morgana’s favourite shops (Uther hated it, but Morgana and Arthur regularly sneak out of the castle to spend time in the city).

By the time the sun sets, the group is relaxed and getting on well. Merlin knew Morgana and Leon would love his mum, but it was still nerve-wracking, and he was overjoyed by how well it was going.

The kitchen of Hunith and Merlin’s new home had yet to be stocked, so they stopped off at some street vendors before heading back to the house. Hunith tried to argue when Arthur insisted on paying, but she was shut down pretty quickly when Arthur reminded her that he was The Prince, he could more than afford it, and anyway, “I like contributing to the local businesses, I wouldn’t be a Prince if I didn’t have my people around me, I like to give back where I can.”

Leon and Morgana smiled proudly at that, but the smiles on Hunith and Merlin’s face were more fond.

(Morgana quietly thinks about how differently he would’ve been without Merlin to ground him. With a father like Uther, Arthur easily could’ve turned into an absolute prat.)

They stay together long into the evening, talking and laughing, before Leon finally says it’s time to go. Morgana, Hunith, and Merlin may have tomorrow free, but Leon and Arthur had training early, followed by a day full of meetings.

Morgana smirked at Arthur’s grumbling, but dutifully stood up. The three of them give Hunith and Merlin tight hugs, before leaving them alone, heading back to the castle.

Hunith and Merlin sit in comfortable silence, wide smiles on their faces, before Merlin breaks the silence:

“So what do you think? I know Uther is a bit of a prat, but he’ll want to see as little of us as possible, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Do you... like it here?”

Hunith smiles at him fondly, and runs her hands through his hair when he rests his head on her lap:

“You’ve really made a life for yourself here, haven’t you Merlin? I’m proud of you. Lady Morgana and Sir Leon are exactly how I expected them to be. The house is far more than I expected, but I’m grateful, and I’m sure it won’t take me long to find a job. I’ll always miss our rural village, but nothing is stopping us from visiting every once in a while, to get away from the city, and we have a nice little garden here.-”

Merlin closes his eyes, soothed by his mother’s fingers in his hair, and hums thoughtfully before Hunith continues:

“-You know, I had always considered sending you here to apprentice under Gaius when you were older anyway. Funny, how things turn out. Though perhaps I should’ve realised that nothing was going to go to plan when the little blond boy that appeared in my kitchen all those years ago turned out to be foreign royalty.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh from when he laid, and responded sleepily:

“Yeah. You know I don’t even think of him as royalty, most of the time. He’s just... Arthur.”

Hunith smiles gently down at him, and takes a few minutes to respond:

“I know what you mean. I’m glad you found your person... or more accurately, I’m glad your person found you.-”

She chuckles, before adding the next bit on quietly:

“-Your father would be proud of you.”

Merlin opens his eyes, and looks up at her blearily:

“You think?”

Hunith’s smile widens, and the both of them politely ignore the tears gathering in her eyes:

“I know.”

Time passes quickly. The next day, Merlin, Hunith, and Morgana spend the whole day shopping and stocking up on food and other necessities (the small allowance Uther had provided for them actually turned out to be quite a lot, especially compared to the amount of money Hunith was used to having around).

At some point over the next week, like Morgana had suggested, her and Hunith spent a day in the tailor’s, having all of her new clothes adjusted properly.

Hunith was also ecstatic to get a job off the back of that. She may not be at quite the professional level yet, but she was the one most of the locals would go to, to fix and patch and re-sew old clothes back in Ealdor.

Merlin started his apprenticeship with Gaius, which meant the days being near, but not with Arthur, were less boring, and slightly more bearable.

He picked up healing quickly (after seeing all the various injuries Arthur and Leon had sustained over the years during training, he was eager to learn how to help them), and he soon became known around town as Gaius’ Boy.

His cheerful demeanour and wide smile endeared him to all of his patients, and he made a point to try and be polite to everyone he came across. Suddenly living in a bustling city, and having what was basically a full time job, was a little overwhelming, but being here meant being with Arthur, so he was determined to make the most of it.

The boys spent the evenings together whenever they could (and still slept in the same bed most nights, out of habit. Merlin’s nightmares had made a brief reappearance after his first meeting with Uther, but they stopped again fairly soon.), and Arthur would often pop out of the castle to share meals with Merlin and Hunith, Morgana and Leon joining them when they had the time.

This did however, involve a few instances of Merlin or Arthur appearing at inopportune times.

An emergency patient coming in meant Arthur appearing in the physician’s chambers, instead of Merlin’s home, like he had expected.

Luckily the patient was unconscious at the time.

(Uther had informed them that the council members and guards who worked in the castle had been informed of the situation (so that Hunith and Merlin wouldn’t be bothered), but the public wasn’t to know at all, at least until Arthur came of age.)

A council meeting overrunning meant Merlin appearing just behind the Prince’s seat, and turning wide-eyed and red-faced before squeaking out a quick apology and disappearing again.

The meeting was side-tracked for a good five minutes as Arthur tried to cover a smirk, Morgana (who insisted she be involved in important meetings when Arthur was) openly laughed, and Uther held his head in his hands, rubbing his tired eyes and muttering something about “stupid kids” and “stupid soul-bonds”.

They tried to be more careful after that incident, and they got better at exploring the bond. With some focus and practice, the boys got fairly good at sensing where the other was, and sometimes, if they were with other people (though that particular sense wasn’t as reliable).

About a month after they moved to Camelot, Merlin was introduced to a lovely girl called Guinevere. Her mother had served Leon’s family, and once she was old enough to have a job herself, Leon swung her a position in the castle as Morgana’s maidservant.

Arthur was oblivious at first (until an amused Merlin explained it to him later on), but Merlin and Leon definitely noticed the... bond, between the two girls, though all four would deny it to anyone who asked, in order to preserve their privacy.

Guinevere, or Gwen, as her friends call her, quickly joined the group. Morgana was grateful for another female presence, and Leon was most certainly grateful for the addition of someone who cared about safety and being careful.

He loved his kids, (”Oh my Gods... I’m a father... how do I... Gaius I know nothing about teenagers, what do I do?? I’m not ready to be a father!”), and Hunith was a good influence, but they couldn’t be around all of the time, and the boys had a bad habit of making trouble, especially with Morgana egging them on.

He stressed a little less when he knew that Gwen was with them.

Shortly after Gwen’s appearance, the group (unfortunately without Leon, he had a patrol:( ) went exploring in the woods beyond the city. Uther was stuck in meetings all day, but Arthur and Morgana had a free day, and after much begging, Gaius let Merlin off as well.

Morgana having a free day, meant that Gwen had a free day as well (not that Morgana ever made her do many chores anyway, only enough to keep up the pretence that they were Lady and Servant and not... something else).

They put together a picnic, took some horses from the stables, and headed off at first light. It was a warm, summers day, and they planned to spend the day in the sun, Arthur didn’t have to worry about duties, Merlin didn’t have to worry about memorising herb lists and symptoms, Morgana didn’t have to worry about being a Lady, and Gwen didn’t have to mind her place as a servant.

It was planned to be the perfect day, and it almost was.

After a couple hours journey, they found a beautiful lake, and they spent the morning splashing around in the water, playing and laughing and messing around.

They spent the middle of the day drying in the sun and snacking on all the sweet meats and fruit that Arthur had snuck from the kitchens.

They spent the afternoon playing stupid games, and relaxing in the shade, holding hands with no worries, and even sneaking the occasional kiss, revelling in the freedom of being alone.

They were sad to have to leave, but it became an agreement that at least once a month, whilst the weather held out, they would come to their spot by the lake, and relax with each other. No responsibilities, no obligations, no “My Lord”s or “My Lady”s, just four friends, hopelessly happy and in love.

It was on the way home that things went a little wrong.

Usually this stretch of the woods was completely safe and bandit free, but the group was not so lucky as to have an eventless journey home.

When they were about halfway home, Merlin halted his horse suddenly and sat up straight, letting go of Arthur’s hand and tilting his head, eyes closed, listening to the woods around him with a frown on his face.

Arthur looks back and frowns, before calling to the girls, a few metres ahead of them, to wait for a minute.

He looks to Merlin, still with a frown on his face:

“Merls? What is it?”

Merlin waves his hand in Arthur’s direction, gesturing at him to be quiet. He is silent for another few moments, before he opens his eyes wide, and speaks in a low, but rushed voice:

“Gwen, ride ahead with ‘Gana, everyone get your swords out, we’re being watched.”

Arthur tenses at that, and he and Merlin pull their swords out (Leon had insisted that Merlin learn, he wasn’t nearly as good as the others yet, but he could hold his own. Leon was also the one who insisted they be armed when he learnt of their plan for the day.), quickly followed by Gwen and Morgana.

Instead of riding ahead, Morgana speaks up quickly:

“Gwen can fight just as well as me, I’ve been training her, we should stay together.”

Arthur looks worried, but Gwen just rolled her eyes before adding quietly:

“I’m also the daughter of a blacksmith you know, I’ve been handling swords since before I could walk.”

Arthur sighs and nods, before looking back to Merlin, and quietly, so that only Merlin can hear him:

“How many, and where from?”

Merlin tilts his head away from Gwen, so she can’t see the gold of his eyes, before flexing his hand slightly, and responding:

“Six or seven, I think from the South.”

Arthur nods once more, before turning his horse to be facing South, and he peers into the trees. It wasn’t quite dark out, but it was dimming, and the forest was so thick, the underbrush so overgrown, that it was difficult to see much beyond the edge of the path.

The girls urge their horses back the way they came, to be close to the boys, and stay alert, swords raised, feet braced and ready for action.

Merlin clenches his hands and gasps slightly, before murmuring, loud enough for everyone to hear him this time:

“Twenty seconds.”

Gwen goes to question how he knew that, but a quick look from Morgana, and a shaken head meaning “Later” stops her, and she instead focuses her gaze on where the others were looking into the trees.

Like Merlin had said, twenty seconds later, the treeline breaks, and seven men burst through yelling, and brandishing swords, the shock of which sends the horses scarpering, and the four of them have to jump off and let them go.

Battle broke out immediately, the teenagers aiming to incapacitate or injure, but the bandits not being so kind with their attacks.

The battle is intense, Merlin using little bits of subtle magic here and there to trip or confuse various attackers, Arthur and Morgana slowly but surely taking down men, one by one, and Gwen easily enough holding her own.

But, four, mostly inexperienced (Arthur had only had to actually fight for his life once or twice at this point, and before, he was surrounded by fully trained knights whose top priority was keeping him safe, even to their own detriment) teenagers, aged 15, 16, and 17, were no match for seven seasoned attackers.

In the end, it’s the four of them left (each with bruises and cuts, but nothing serious) vs three remaining attackers, but the battle quickly stops when Merlin turns around (a gut feeling) to see one of the men silently raise a sword, readying to bring it down on to Gwen’s turned back.

He instinctively raises his empty hand towards them, and yells:

“NO!”

He sends the man flying back, head hitting the tree behind him with a thwack.

Gwen stares at him (or more accurately, the golden glow of his eyes) in astonishment, and Morgana and Arthur use the momentary distraction to deal with the last two attackers, giving them swift knocks to the head.

Morgana rushes forward to Gwen and tugs at her shoulder, trying to get her attention to see if she’s ok, but she ignores her just staring at Merlin.

Merlin drops his hand, and his face morphs from anger to shock to fear, the gold in his eyes fading back to blue as Arthur reaches his side and takes his hand.

Gwen finally stutters out a:

“What... you’re... but Uther?-” before wiping the shock off her face, and setting it in grim determination, clenching her jaw.

Merlin’s eyes widen at her expression, and he takes a fearful step back, Arthur steps in front of him and Morgana tries to grab Gwen’s arm as she begins to stalk quickly forwards, but it slips from her grip.

Arthur holds his hands out, and begins to speak, seemingly trying to talk her out of hurting Merlin, but she ignores him, and pushes him to the side with surprising strength.

Merlin gasps and tries to take another step back, tears in his eyes, but she grabs his shoulders and, before anyone can say anything more, pulls him into a crushing hug.

Merlin takes a few moments to respond, clearly not expecting such an affectionate reaction to being discovered as an evil sorcerer, but hugs back at Gwen’s watery “Thank you.” whispered in his ear.

Arthur lets out a breath, and he and Morgana smile, not really sure why they were so surprised at Gwen’s acceptance. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in Camelot, expecting hatred and violence and fear in response to magic is ingrained in you.

Gwen finally pulls back, and takes Merlin’s hands, the both of them have tears on their faces, and Gwen sniffs before quietly saying:

“I’m sorry that you have to live in fear, and I’m sorry I wasn’t clear enough in my adoration for you that you felt you had to be scared of my reaction. I promise to keep you safe, to the best of my ability.-”

She fondly punches him in the arm, before continuing with a smile:

“Next time, you can just do that right at the beginning, and save us all the trouble, yeah?”

Merlin nods slowly, before pulling Gwen into another tight hug. He buries his face in her neck, and she runs her hands through his hair and they both quietly weep.

Arthur and Morgana both feel the strong urge to step in, and comfort their own soulmates, but they resist, and instead give them a moment of privacy as they round up the horses, and search the bandits.

After a few minutes, Gwen and Merlin pull back, and walk towards the other two, holding each other’s hand comfortingly.

Whilst searching their unconscious bodies, Arthur hadn’t found anything identifying, but had found a length of rope in one of their discarded bags, hidden in the underbrush.

He cuts the rope into separate pieces and ties the bandits up, to individual trees, before looking back to the group:

“This won’t hold them long at all, but we don’t have the means to transport them back to the city. I can get my father to send a search party to look for them, but by the time we get back to the City, and the Knights get out here, they’ll probably be long gone.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow and replies:

“I thought you Knights were excellent trackers. They won’t wake up for a while, and they’ll be dazed, so it’ll take them a while to get out of the rope, if your knots are any good-”

Arthur goes to retort, but Gwen quickly interrupts him:

“That’s not the point. What if one of them remembers what Merlin did? And accuses him? Uther probably wouldn’t take their word against all of ours, but it would attract unwanted attention, wouldn’t it? And, no offense Merlin, but he’s already not exactly fond of you.”

Arthur nods at that, and Morgana hums thoughtfully, whilst Merlin just stares at her in shock. He speaks up after a moment:

“We could loosen the knots, and wake them up a little before leaving? That way they’ll have plenty of time to escape before the knights get here? But we have to report it. The types of men to attack four teenagers, none in armour, and two of whom are women, need to be warned about.”

Arthur and Gwen look troubled at that, and Arthur speaks up first:

“Morgana is right though, the Knights are brilliant at tracking, what if they find them anyway? I won’t risk one of them remembering what you did.”

Merlin looks annoyed, always the one to sacrifice himself, and Morgana furrows her brows before looking up, and speaking slowly:

“You could... over exaggerate how violent they were? Request a kill on sight order? That way, none of them make it back to testify, but they’re also no longer a problem for travellers.”

Arthur tilts his head in surprise, and Gwen widens her eyes at the suggestion.

Arthur looks like he’s genuinely considering it, when Merlin gasps:

“Oh!! Wait! The other day, I read about a spell. It’s like a memory charm, I can make them forget the last ten minutes or so, if it works, and we time it right, they’ll remember attacking us, but not how the fight ended!”

He has a grin on his face, but Morgana and Gwen look doubtful, whilst Arthur looks thoughtful, before speaking:

“Have you tried it before? Do you know it would work?”

Merlin turns a little pink, before looking to the floor, and saying:

“Well... do you remember agreeing to let me try it on you last week?”

Morgana grins as she realises the implication of the question, and Gwen gasps as Arthur’s eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head slowly:

“...No.”

Merlin finally meets his eyes, with a nervous smile on his face as he says:

“Then yeah, I’ve tried it before and it worked fine.”

Morgana and Gwen start laughing as Merlin bites his lip and Arthur blinks a few times, before speaking again:

“...Ok, you cast the charm or whatever, I’ll make sure the ropes are done tightly, then we’ll wait for one of them to wake up, to check that it worked, then we’ll leave, and send a patrol back to arrest them.”

With the girls still laughing in the background, Merlin goes to the three attackers who had witnessed him perform magic and cast the spell, whilst Arthur double checked all of the bindings.

The group only has to splash cold water on the face of one of the attackers for him to cough himself awake. He looks around, clearly bewildered, and yells:

“What?? How the fuck... what did... how hard do you hit, kid? Jeez, how the fuck did I-”

He’s cut off by Arthur hitting him in the head again with the hilt of his sword, before he steps back and says:

“Ok. It worked. I think it’d be best if we got home as quickly as possible, we’re already going to be late.”

With that, the group takes one last cursory glance (and fill with pride at the idea that they’d managed to fight off a group of thieving murderous bandits all on their own) at the bound bandits, before mounting their horses, and urging them into a gallop towards Camelot.

The report to Uther was definitely intense, The King was furious that a group of violent criminals were attacking citizens, especially women (though Arthur made sure to point out that Morgana fought just as well as him, and Gwen held her own just fine) so close to the city.

He immediately sent out a large patrol to scour the woods, focussed especially around the path they used, and to not come back until the seasons changed, or the criminals were found.

Arthur was right, the ropes hadn’t held them for long, but he was also right in saying that Camelot Knights were excellent trackers, and they were hunted down within a week, and brought back to Camelot for sentencing.

Arthur and Morgana tried to speak against it, at Merlin and Gwen’s request, but Uther ultimately sentenced the offenders to execution, for crimes against the Crown and Citizens of Camelot, and didn’t question why they couldn’t even remember half the fight.

In fact, that actually had Uther praising the group for fighting well, and he begrudgingly admitted that Morgana’s sword lessons (which she had been ruthlessly demanding since she was a child) and Guinevere’s subsequent training, had paid off well.

THE END OF PART 2

Wow so I finished this way quicker than I was expecting, I just really love this concept, thanks anon, for requesting :)

Anyway, hope you enjoy gang

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years

Note

i'd like to hear some headcanons for your "georgie can see dead people" au! :0

oh thank you so much!! this is probably going to be a little messy, since i haven't actually started the fic, but!! here is something!! :) (also i am so sorry for all the sixth sense references. the actual fic will undoubtedly be worse.)

1. So the basic premise of this AU is that the end result of Georgie's encounter with the End is that, instead of losing her ability to feel fear, she gains the ability to see the dead. Everything goes the same otherwise: the protest, Alex, the dead woman, Georgie waking up days later at home, the months of strangeness and unfeeling. The difference is that when Georgie wakes up, she can see the dead woman, too. Never too close—only in corners, behind doors, in the window. And never always, but only in the moments that feel crucial. The moments where she's searching for something of herself. Her mother hugs her and she sees the dead woman over her mother's shoulder.

Georgie sees Alex, too, sometimes. Closer and more head on; she is always looking back. But she never speaks, and neither does the dead woman from the room. It isn't until she begins to see other ghosts that she realizes they can talk, if they want to. If they choose.

(Six months later is when Georgie figures out how to lock the dead woman out. She stops seeing Alex shortly after, except on occasion. Sometimes she'll see a flash of those familiar eyes in the mirror, over her shoulder, and they always seem to be apologetic. But Alex still never says anything. Georgie gets good at pretending that this doesn't hurt nearly as much as losing her.)

2. Jon is the first one that Georgie almost tells. Almost. They're honest with each other in a way that Georgie usually isn't, when they first meet, and she almost thinks he'd believe her. They talk about ghost stories all the time.

She mostly thinks about it when she sees Jon's ghosts. It isn't often but she sees them. He'll talk about what little he remembers of his parents, or pull out some old, faded pictures, and she'll see the faces reflected in the kitchen, the bathroom mirror, Jon's bedroom. He never talks about the apparition of a strange teenager that appears, once, when they both wake up sweaty from frantic nightmares and he refuses to explain, and Georgie doesn't press. He doesn't tell her about Mr. Spider and she doesn't tell him about the ghosts. Much as they love each other, they do still have secrets.

Georgie goes to his grandmother's funeral years later, even though they're barely talking at this point, and almost tells him then. Seeing him stand mostly alone at the grave, looking monumentally alone, and then a flicker of his grandmother behind him—she almost does. But still she doesn't. She's never told anyone before, and she and Jon aren't really in touch, so she just hugs him and tells him she's so sorry, and doesn't meet the eyes of the woman watching behind the fresh grave.

3. Melanie is another person Georgie almost tells. They still meet through their connections—Ghost Hunt UK, What the Ghost, and Georgie's power is (probably unsurprisingly) very useful for the paranormal podcast business. (All her episodes aren't pulled from real life, from her own experiences—that would be irresponsible, and there's more clout in retelling familiar stories. But sometimes when Georgie runs out of episode ideas, she'll visit a spooky place, write down what she sees, do a deep dive on the history, and fill in the gaps by attributing her sightings to "unnamed" witnesses.) She's met a lot of people in the ghost hunting business, but Melanie stands out, because they hit it off so immediately. Start hanging out outside of work drinks, at parties or pubs or research stints. Melanie starts inviting Georgie to consult on the show, or to collaborate, and Georgie uses what she sees to point Melanie and her team towards real sightings. Why not? Might as well have the horrible power be useful for something. Haley Joel Osment solved his problem by helping people, and this isn't the same at all (and that's a movie, anyways), but it is something.

So she and Melanie become fast friends, faster than Georgie is used to, and Georgie genuinely thinks about telling her. She trusts her, and she doesn't think Melanie would laugh, or call her a liar. (Melanie's got stories about not being believed, too; it's common in the paranormal business.) She thinks Melanie might be the right person, maybe. Just maybe.

(She doesn't end up doing it. She's still a coward when it comes to that. But it isn't because she isn't tempted.)

(The idea to tell Melanie comes before she starts seeing Melanie's father. But that fact doesn't help her decision, either. In quiet moments with Melanie, Georgie starts seeing the man in Melanie's framed photos in the shadows, looking at Melanie with sad eyes, calling her little moth. But Melanie can still barely talk about her dad, and the accident, and it feels even more wrong after he starts showing up, to tell her. Georgie worries Melanie might think she's making fun, or making something up to make her feel better, and she doesn't see this going well.

Instead she says, sometimes, I know your dad loved you a lot. Melanie says, Yeah, I know, too. Georgie says, And I bet he misses you, even though it isn't a bet; she knows. But she can't tell Melanie, and that's as far as it can go.)

4. The most significant time Georgie wants to tell Melanie, but doesn't, is the one she'll end up regretting the most in the end. When Melanie gets out of the hospital, first, and then when she comes back from India; when Georgie is basically the only friend Melanie has left from her old life, and therefore is probably the person Melanie goes to the most. The person Melanie confides in.

So Georgie is there to see it all. She'll be sitting across from Melanie in a pub, or beside her on the couch; she'll brush Melanie's hand with hers, or their knees will knock together, and Georgie will see flashes of blood, violence. Hear screaming. She'll see haunted faces out of the corner of her eyes: soldiers, doctors. Muzzles of guns. Once, a stained hand gripping Melanie around the leg.

She'll regret it, later, but Georgie doesn't say anything; she doesn't know what to say. She's never seen anything like this, even with over a decade of seeing ghosts. How is she supposed to explain it? She doesn't really know what it means. Melanie talks about war ghosts, and Georgie listens, and she rationalizes that Melanie will have to be okay. (She was okay, when it was her, and if—if this is something serious, something worse, than… then Georgie will be there. Melanie will have someone who understands.)

5. One night in February of 2018, Jon shows up back in Georgie's life, looking shell-shocked on her doorstep. He stands in the hall looking mildly terrified, when Georgie opens the door, and behind him stands a dead woman, looking desperate and furious all at once.

"Georgie," Jon says weakly. "I-I know it's been a while, but…"

"Jon! Christ, what happened to you? Are you all right?" Georgie says, trying to take in Jon and the dead woman all at once. (She is new—Jon must have had someone else close to him die.) She focuses on Jon, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"I… I'm fine." Jon's hands twist in front of him. "I… didn't know where else to go."

Georgie swallows hard and says, "Are you in trouble?" The dead woman is looking right at her. Georgie keeps looking at Jon.

"I… yes." Jon chews on his lower lip. "If… I know it's a lot to ask, b-but I… could I… possibly stay here for a little while?"

Georgie swallows hard. She has a dozen questions—what's happened, why he needs somewhere to stay, why he looks like this—he looks like he's been through emotional turmoil, through hell—and worse, why a dead woman has followed him here. But she doesn't know how to ask these questions. And she can't just turn him away. Jon helped her heal during one of the worst periods of her life, even if he doesn't know it. And she can do the same.

"Yeah," Georgie says, and leans forward to pull Jon into a hug—tentative at first, and then stronger, when Jon latches on like he needs it. "Y-yeah, Jon, of course."

Jon rambles out a frantic thank you, layered in with apologies and copious promises to pay rent, but it becomes harder to listen. Right over Jon's shoulder, the dead woman is staring right at her, her mouth hanging open. She's got long hair and glasses, and she looks exhausted, and it isn't immediately obvious how she has died, which is unusual. And she's looking right at Georgie. She says, suddenly, "Can you—can you see me?"

It isn't the first time a ghost has spoken to her, but it's a rare enough occasion to be shocking. Her throat is thick with surprise, and she can't say anything in front of Jon, so she just sort of imperceptibly nods. Holds the dead woman's gaze for a moment.

"Fuck," says the dead woman. "Thank—thank god, thank Christ, I…" She pauses and looks at Jon, then back at Georgie, still numbly hugging Jon there in the hall. "My name is Sasha," she says, and Georgie thinks of the scene in The Sixth Sense where the sick little girl under the blanket asks for help. "Can you… can you help me?"

(send me an au and i'll give you 5+ headcanons)

#*pushes my Sasha and Georgie becomes friends agenda* yeah.... (so this is like the concrete plot points from this au lol. i havent decided #on an ending)#wtgfs #tma fic #sorta #tma au #jon & georgie #i wrote this #georgie barker sees dead people

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

what if Jiang Cheng is the one in the arranged marriage with Jin Zixuan (maybe an au where birth order matters more than gender?)

ao3

“Well, no one cares what you think!” Jin Zixun shouted, and Jin Zixuan flinched, already knowing that this was going to end in disaster. His older cousin – his father’s favorite of the lot – was mean at the best of times, and when he was angry, he was especially cruel. A kid like Jiang Cheng, barely nine, wouldn’t be able to deal with him. “You’ll never made anything of yourself, anyway; the best thing you’ll ever be is A-Xuan’s wife!”

That was worse, somehow, than Jin Zixuan had thought it would be. Maybe because his name was invoked – maybe because Jiang Cheng looked as though he’d been slapped in the face, his eyes filling with unshed tears, and when his fist found its way to Jin Zixun’s face a moment later, Jin Zixuan thought that it was completely deserved.

Afterwards, when they’d all split off their own ways, he went to find Jiang Cheng.

He didn’t need to, he knew, but – he’d liked Jiang Cheng, at least a little.

He was the same age as Jin Zixuan, a little boy like him, even if he was the second child and not the heir the way Jin Zixuan was. He’d been laughing about something when Jin Zixuan first saw him, something whispered to him by his older sister, a plain girl recognizable only by her Jiang sect colors, but he’d straightened up the second he’d seen them walking into the room, putting on a serious expression, and Jin Zixuan had suddenly felt an overwhelming rush of oh you have to deal with this too that he’d never felt before in his life.

All of his so-called friends thought it was great to be the son of the sect leader, but they didn’t have to go to the terrible parties and stand there being shown off to people all night; they actually complained that they didn’t get to go.

He didn’t think Jiang Cheng would complain like that.

Maybe they could be friends, he thought, hopefully. Real friends, not pretend; friends that stayed together because they liked each other and not because their parents needed a political connection –

And then, less than a shichen after they’d been ushered off to go play together by adults who had better things to be doing, Jin Zixun’d managed to ruin everything. Again.

It didn’t take long to find Jiang Cheng.

They’re in Jinlin Tower, which meant that there weren’t many places Jiang Cheng could go that Jin Zixuan couldn’t find him – not like the Lotus Pier, which was an impassable maze even in the guest quarters that they’d taken special care to try to make nice and orderly for the one time they’d tried unsuccessfully to visit – and it turned out he hadn’t gone all that far, just ducked into a nearby guest room that was tidied up even though no one used it.

Jiang Cheng was curled up next to a window, his whole body looking especially small. He wasn’t even looking out of it, but he still gave off the impression of being on the verge of jumping out, or even just that he’d be blown away by the wind.

He wasn’t actually all that small – maybe a bit short for a nine-year-old, maybe a bit more slender, but his father and mother were both tall and that meant he probably would be, too, given time.

“You shouldn’t listen to Zixun,” Jin Zixuan said, and Jiang Cheng looked at him, red-eyed. “He’s dumb. All he ever does is say mean things, and they’re never true.”

“S’true, though, isn’t it?” Jiang Cheng said. “I’m the one that has to marry in, ‘cause I’m second, not first. I’ve got to leave Lotus Pier, go to Jinlin Tower…”

Marry you. Be the official wife. Smile and bear it and host your parties while you’re off fucking someone else – multiple someones – to get kids for the inheritance. Never have children of my own, but instead be stuck raising your bastards for you…

Jiang Cheng didn’t say any of that, of course, but Jin Zixuan knew.

After all, he’d overheard his mother and her friend – former friend – fighting over it. Madame Yu wanted to break the engagement when it turned out that the girl had come first and the boy second, since her husband was refusing to flip the order and marry Jiang Yanli out instead, and his mother had refused, the lure of the Yunmeng Jiang’s power more potent than their old friendship.

Caustic words had been said. Words he probably should have been too young to understand, words that maybe Jiang Cheng didn’t get yet, but…well.

His mother had always been very clear about all the things she hated about her life.

And now she was going to force the same life onto someone else.

“I don’t think my parents would agree to let me be the one to marry in,” he said, almost wishing he could. Sure, then he’d have to be the one living his mother’s horrible life, but at least there was something familiar about that type of suffering – he’d spent his whole life hearing about it, after all, hearing about it over and over and over again until it almost felt like he’d lived it himself.

He thought he could bear up with living that terrible life.

He wasn’t so sure he could bear up with being the one to cause it.

Jiang Cheng snorted. “Why would you want to?” He squinted up at him. “Aren’t you going to tell me that Jinlin Tower is great and I shouldn’t worry because being your wife will be great, too, or something like that?”

“I have no idea if being my wife is great,” Jin Zixuan said blankly, out of lack of anything better to say. He probably should have said something like that. “I’ve never had one before.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then for some reason they both started sniggering uncontrollably.

“Of course you don’t have a wife, you’re nine,” Jiang Cheng said, giggling. “Even I know that nine year olds don’t have wives! And anyway, if you did, it’d be me, wouldn’t it? It’s not like they’re just, I dunno, handing out practice wives.”

“I wish they’d hand out practice wives,” Jin Zixuan confessed, covering his eyes. “That way I could be sure I wouldn’t…you know…”

“Screw up?”

“Yeah.”

Was Jiang Cheng going to judge him? Should Jin Zixuan have kept that to himself, pretended that everything was under control…?

But Jiang Cheng was nodding. “I wish they made practice everything,” he said emphatically, and Jin Zixuan drooped in relief, coming to sit on the floor next to Jiang Cheng. He wasn’t actually allowed to sit on floors, not even clean ones, but he was also supposed to be hosting Jiang Cheng, so if anyone asked that was going to be his excuse. “It’s so hard to get things right on the first try.”

“No one gets things right on the first try,” Jin Zixuan said.

“Wei Wuxian does,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s my shixiong,” Jiang Cheng said. “It’s – kind of complicated. His parents were friends with my dad, before they died.”

- well at least I managed to keep my husband from bringing home a bastard!

Right. That kind of complicated.

His mother always told him he had to be the most careful around bastards – that they would be smart and pretend to be nice, try to get him to like them, while in reality they’d be scheming against him in the dark, maybe even try to kill him, so they could get what he had and they didn’t. Jin Zixuan figured the same had to be true for Jiang Cheng, and he felt sorry for him.

“Well, you seem good enough to me,” he said firmly. “When you’re my wife, I’ll treat you right.”

He would, too. He wouldn’t go around with other women, wouldn’t come home smelling of them, wouldn’t rub what he was doing in Jiang Cheng’s face and laugh until Jiang Cheng lost his cool and started throwing things – of course, there was always the question of the inheritance, but maybe when he had to find himself a woman, he could try to find Jiang Cheng a woman of his own, too, someone he liked, and those children could be surnamed Jiang.

Maybe they could find one they both liked and share.

“I don’t know what’s so bad about being ‘just’ someone’s wife, anyway,” Jin Zixuan added. “I mean, my mom’s the scariest person I know, except maybe for your mom, and they’re both wives.”

Jiang Cheng grinned. “Yeah, that’s right. Next time that big old bully says anything, I’ll tell him to repeat that where my mom can hear it, see what he does then…uh, no offense about the bully thing. I know he’s your cousin.”

“I don’t like him either,” Jin Zixuan admitted.

“Then you’ve got good taste,” Jiang Cheng said, and Jin Zixuan preened. His first ever compliment from his wife!

“I know we’re only hanging out together because our parents said we had to,” Jin Zixuan said, suddenly feeling brave. “But maybe we could…maybe…”

“Be friends?”

He nodded.

Jiang Cheng thought about it, crinkling his nose as he did. Jin Zixuan waited patiently.

“Okay,” Jiang Cheng finally decided. “But only if you help me prank Jin Zixun to get back at him.”

“Deal!” Jin Zixuan exclaimed, then hesitated. “I’ve never pranked anyone before, though…”

“I’ll teach you!” Jiang Cheng scrambled to his feet, then stopped as if struck by a sudden thought. “Do you like dogs?”

“Dogs?” Jin Zixuan repeated blankly. “They’re well enough, I guess…you have three, right?”

He’d seen glimpses of them when he’d visited the Lotus Pier last year, when they were supposed to have first met except Jiang Cheng got sick with a stomach illness right before their visit, throwing up and everything, and Jin Zixuan’s mom had refused to let him anywhere near him.

Jiang Cheng scowled, and suddenly his eyes were welling up with tears again, causing Jin Zixuan to panic again even though he was pretty sure it wasn’t his fault this time.

“I used to,” Jiang Cheng muttered. “But Wei Wuxian’s scared of dogs, so my father had them sent away. I was just thinking…never mind. It was stupid.”

Jin Zixuan bit his lip. It wasn’t a good sign that Jiang Cheng’s father was already favoring his bastard over his son, not at all, not when fathers had all the power in the cultivation world. Not when even his mother, proud and fierce and famous for cowing his father with thrown pottery and fits of temper, was in the end helpless to stop him – she couldn’t make him stop humiliating her, couldn’t make him stop going out and having all those bastards. She stopped him from bringing them home, but she couldn’t stop him where it mattered, because all he had to do was threaten to make one of them the heir instead of Jin Zixuan.

He wouldn’t, because he needed her maternal family’s support, but he could.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair to his mother, it wasn’t fair to Jin Zixuan, and it wasn’t fair to Jiang Cheng, either. And it especially wasn’t fair that he was already being replaced – and just when Jin Zixuan was starting to feel better about the marriage, too!

The whole arranged marriage deal didn’t seem so bad if it was going to be with Jiang Cheng, who seemed pretty nice. Jin Zixuan didn’t want to have to start all over again with another boy, especially not a bastard.

“If you know where they are, you could send your dogs here to live with me,” Jin Zixuan suggested, feeling suddenly spontaneous in a way he almost never did, and Jiang Cheng turned to him with wide eyes. “That way you’d have a reason to come visit a lot, and your father could see that we were getting along.”

It would remind Sect Leader Jiang that their marriage could be broken by either side at any time, if they were unhappy – show him that they were committed, that they wouldn’t accept inferior goods in Lanling. Maybe it could help convince him to keep Jiang Cheng and his mother instead of swapping them out.

“I was just thinking I could introduce you, but that’s even better!” Jiang Cheng exclaimed, looking excited. “You’re serious?”

“Sure,” Jin Zixuan said. He had an entire palace of his own back in Jinlin Tower, full of rooms he never used meant to host as guests all the friends he didn’t have. They could put the dogs in some of those, hire someone to take care of them – feed them, walk them, brush them, whatever needed to be done for dogs. If there was one thing Jinlin Tower didn’t lack, it was servants to do things. “But you have to come visit them. Without bringing Wei Wuxian.”

That way, even if this Wei Wuxian person used his bastard tricks to pull the wool over Jiang Cheng’s eyes to make him think that they were friends even as he stole away Jiang Cheng’s birthright in secret - Jin Zixuan’s mother had warned him - there’d still be a way to show how important it was to keep Jiang Cheng as the legitimate son. They might have just met, but it was pretty clear to Jin Zixuan already that Jiang Cheng was way too friendly and nice to know how to properly guard himself – someone would have to do the work for him.

And who else, if not his husband?

“Don’t worry about Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng said. “He won’t go anywhere if he thinks there’ll be dogs. You’ll really do it?”

“I’ll talk to my parents,” Jin Zixuan promised – he was only nine, there were limits to what he could actually do – but Jiang Cheng seemed to think that was enough. He smiled at him, and Jin Zixuan smiled back.

Maybe this could work out.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #jin zixuan #my fic #my fics #okay it's not JZX and his two brides #but it was in the queue so I moved it up #Anonymous

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honsoolie · 3 years

Text

don’t rush | 04

pairing: Yoongi/reader

genre: slight enemies to lovers, college au, fluff, smut, classical pianist!yoongi, violinist!reader, they’re both actually really into each other but won’t admit it

warnings: excessive amounts of pining, explicit smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, semi-public sex, mutual masturbation

words: 10.3k

rating: +18

summary: You know, when Min Yoongi’s face isn’t screwed into an accusatory scowl, he looks exactly like the kind of guy you’d have no trouble falling in love with. Or, the conservatory au where Yoongi helps you get over your stage fright. In more ways than one.

a/n: thank you for waiting... if you've stuck around this long :") i've tried so hard for the past couple months to condense this story into the original length (3 chapters) but i've gotten attached and i'm afraid that this will turn into a longfic at the rate i'm going. so after this chapter, i'll be sure to post lots of drabbles of the scenes i couldn't fit in!! thank you so much for the wild ride, and without further ado, i present to you don't rush 04.

start from the beginning?

You can’t bring yourself to fault Yoongi for what happened that morning. You also can’t bring yourself to say that it was your fault either–or even that there may be a single person to blame.

24 hours of radio silence. No good morning text, no morning after–or really, afternoon after–text. Nothing.

The thing about silence–absolute silence, with the exception the low hum of the air-con, or the distant sounds of a city, or footsteps from the room above you–is how slowly it passes. Maybe that’s why you’re a music student, spending all your time filling the silence with your own music.

Silence is such an empty space–and can breed such bored thoughts. And where else for your mind to wander but Yoongi?

It’s not that you were waiting for a text from him, it’s just that… you were half-expecting a text from him. Like he owed it to you. Even if none of this had ever happened, he would have texted you good morning by now.

At least in your head, it seems fair that the onus is on Yoongi to text first. After all, he was the one who dragged you tightly by the wrist back to his apartment. He pushed you down on his couch, and in a very roundabout way, made you late for class.

It’s not that you let this whole affair happen to you, but he started it. So it’s his job to text first. That’s the excuse you use, for not being brave enough to do it instead.

It honestly feels a little pathetic that most of your thoughts outside of music and school are occupied by Min Yoongi. Even now, weeks after you’ve started talking to him, even mere thoughts of him elicit physical reactions from you.

Your heart rate picking up, skin flushing where your neck meets your collarbone… maybe you’re allergic to Min Yoongi.

It’s hard for your mind not to run wild with conclusions and assumptions after what happened between the two of you, even if a day hasn’t elapsed yet.

Why hadn’t he texted? Does he do this often? Did he hate it? Did he ghost me, and now I’m never going to hear from him again? Should I text him first? Why is this so hard?

Why do I care so much?

The worst part is, you can’t turn it off. The thoughts follow you throughout the day, a weight sitting on your shoulders as you flit from class to class, building to building, rehearsal to rehearsal. Once the sun dips below the horizon, you’ve almost completed the process of resigning yourself to never knowing the answers to any of your questions.

You make a note to yourself that you might start grieving the loss of any sort of closure–other than what Yoongi had given you the day before. All evenings this semester have been relegated to the confines of the practice room, so that’s where you head next after chamber music rehearsals end. Finally, the Bach partita has a purpose in your life other than plaguing your waking dreams–something to focus on other than Yoongi. But for God’s sake, it sounds pathetic when it’s put like that.

Your. Life. Doesn’t. Revolve. Around. Min. Yoongi. You tell yourself, punctuating each word as you march down the stairwell in the music building. You clutch your violin case to your body, seeking warmth in the cold plastic.

The universe likes to play tricks on people, and its language is irony. Yoongi taught you that lesson, the hard way.

So it almost makes sense that the next time you encounter Yoongi is when you collide head-on with Yoongi’s smooth chest as you speed-walk through the doorway once you’re at the foot of the stairs. Just as you dreaded (and knew was going to happen anyway), your cheeks light up, some light from deep within you turning on. You kick yourself for the fact that your entire body perks up in his existence, erasing the cold and the tiredness from the night before.

“Oh–I didn’t expect to see you here.” At the very least, Yoongi doesn’t look like he hates you. Or is disgusted by you. If anything, he looks a bit coy. If you could let yourself believe it, there might even be the warmth of fondness in his eyes, and even more incredulously, maybe the hard edge of guilt.

“Didn’t expect? Yoongi, I’m here more than my own room.” You laugh despite the thoughts that have been trailing you all day, sounding something like cherry blossoms floating on the new breeze that spring has brought. You feel like you’ve forgiven him for something that he didn’t do, even if he hasn’t said anything yet.

Just seeing him makes you feel better, the devil in the back of your head whispers.

“Right, right.” His answering laughter is familiar. Even now, ever after everything, he still has the audacity to smooth his hands over your shoulders, make sure you’re intact and okay. “Violin okay? You okay?”

You try not to let his scant touches send a shiver down your spine, just so you don’t give him that satisfaction, but you fail all the same. You manage a nod, but can barely bring yourself to look in his eyes. But is it for fear of seeing that warm tenderness again, or something else?

“So…” With no prompting from you, Yoongi slides a fingertip underneath your chin. It feels simultaneously casual and momentous, and you’re not sure which one you prefer.

Is this really happening right now?

He looks deep into your eyes, taking inventory of something that you’re too self-conscious to think about right now.

Of course, you’re self-conscious. You bump into your hookup a day after the fact, now that it’s nighttime in the practice rooms on the second floor of the music building. Both of you should be somewhere else, anywhere else, preferably drunk. How could it not be awkward, and how could you not feel self-conscious?

His eyes flick lower, to your lips, and you avert your gaze. Yoongi’s hand returns to his side, and he coughs.

“Sooo…” You say, digging your foot through the carpet, the warmth of his hands lingering on your skin. You play with the buckles on your violin case, just to give your hands something to do. You hope he says something first, because you’re sure as hell not going to do it.

“Got something to say?” There’s a hint of a laugh in his words. He coughs again.

“I thought you were going to say something,” You say, still not looking at him. It’s all you can do to not shrink away. In the dim lighting of the mouth of the hallway, there’s no way he can see your blush, but you turn away all the same.

He’s smiling like he knows something you don’t, or maybe like he’s purged the last thirty-six hours from his memory. “Let’s not be strangers, come on. Are you busy?”

“Not… particularly.” You commit to the words before you can finish the thought.

“Can you do me a favor?” Right. So he wants something from you. Of course, of course he wants something from you.

“What kind of favor?”

“I was going to print something downstairs, but now that you’re here, can you listen to my piece? I need a second opinion.” He sighs, as if remembering something sweet. “It’s time I made it even, right? I’ve kept you waiting for long enough.” He smiles, just barely, and yet it feels like a gift.

So that’s it. It’s confirmed. This is officially Not a Thing, you consign yourself to the fact. It’d be a lie to say that you aren’t a little bit relieved. At least you have an answer.

There’s no need for a great step forward that’s necessary. No more awkward conversations like these, no admitting of feelings, let alone reciprocation of feelings.

Nothing has to change between the two of you. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” You say, like it shouldn’t have been a question in the first place. You hate that even despite his silence on the matter, you’re running back to his side. You hate that you’re happy that he still wants anything to do with you. You ignore the empty kind of ache in your chest, too hollow and too full at the same time.

You follow him down the narrow hallway, past the couch where it all began, and into the practice room. Of course, Yoongi’s already booked the only one isn’t a dingy cesspool.

He pats the space next to him on the piano bench, beckoning you closer.

“Sit down, don’t stand the whole time.”

“Don’t you need the space?”

“No, no, it’s okay. Come here.” If it’s even possible, your face burns even hotter when you sit down next to him, shoulders brushing just so. It’s harder to forget about the fact that you are hopelessly crushing on Min Yoongi when you’re literally touching him again.

It reminds you of all his touches from before, because it was good. The sex was good. If it had been awkward and fumbling, if Min Yoongi hadn’t been able to push you over the edge with only his mouth and that look in his eye, you would be a lot more inclined to leave those memories in the past.

You don’t need to relive the memory over and over, an endless reel. And yet, glimpses, flashes, disjointed stills of that morning still follow you everywhere. But you look at him now, silently flipping through the marked pages on his score, and now you see more than just a good lay. Looking at him now, in his natural state, you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, you’re whipped, there’s no chance for you.

“I don’t have it memorized yet, please don’t judge me.” You try not to think about the way he had pulled you closer by your hips. You try not to think about what you might have thought was lovesickness in his eyes. You try not to think of the timbre of his voice, when he told you to come for him. You try not to think about that.

“Really, a pianist who can’t memorize his pieces? Sacreligious.” The delivery of your jibe falls flat. You steady the ricketing breath in your lungs. You’re nervous, and tired. Accepting that your Min Yoongi has absolutely no interest in you other than when he needs you for something isn’t easy, you know.

“Oh come oooon y/n, this is something I’m learning this semester.” He pouts, just like he had before the both of you had fallen into this nebulous mess of feelings. Or maybe, it’s all one-sided and you’re the only one feeling like things have gotten messy.

You poke him in the side, which you regret immediately after doing so. “I’m just joking. Show me your piece. Are you warmed up?” Yoongi turns pink, again.

You remember the pink dusting his cheeks when he was–right, you’re supposed to be forgetting that ever happened.

He runs his tongue along his lower lip, everything moving in slow motion. Your head is swimming.

Well, maybe things aren’t moving in slow motion, and it’s the proximity to Min Yoongi that’s making time distort. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m fine. Are you ready to listen?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

Yoongi hovers his hands over the keys. He does that pianist thing you’ve always loved, where he pauses before the keys, preparing to play.

He leans in slowly, sinking his hands down, pulling out a sound so sweet and, so, so solemn. This is a different Yoongi than the one thirty seconds ago.

You realize somewhat belatedly that the fluorescent lights, the same ones that erase any sort of proper time telling in windowless rooms like these, still make Yoongi look good. The light bounces off of him just right, his cheekbones casting a gentle shadow on the sloped panes of his face. Like the rest of him, there’s no harsh angles, just soft gentle slopes that feel like home. Like comfort. Your gut twists in yearning. The hollow of his cheekbone is the perfect place to kiss, you ponder.

Things should be easier now. All of it was a mistake. It’s in the past. It seems that Yoongi doesn’t seem to care at all. It should be forgotten about. Things, in theory, should be easier now. You should be able to carry on as you’ve always been able to. The path of least resistance, right?

He pauses, and begins what must be the main theme, cascading sixteenth-notes that sound about as tumultuous and troubled as you feel.

He looks like he’s about to cry. Sure, you’ve seen sleepy Yoongi, cranky Yoongi, even a little bit of earnest, pleading Yoongi. But whoever is in front of you is entirely different. He’s approaching the main theme again, hands jumping over the keys as if they were hot irons. You can see all the versions of him laid out before you. Younger Yoongi, hands too small to reach the tenths written in his score. Hungover Yoongi that shuffles into class a couple minutes late, remnants of a late night out drinking written all over his face. The Yoongi that holds your hands between his and tells you that everything is going to be okay.

When he reaches the final cadence, he doesn’t look at you immediately, still trained on the keys. His hands are still placed in the final chord, lifting them off slowly so the sound doesn’t quite fade away yet. The both of you stay like that, in the aftermath of what he just played. You hear the click as he takes his foot off the pedal. The tension that he was churning out doesn’t fade away when the sound stops. If anything, it gets worse. Blood rushes to your cheeks, the room warmer than it was before.

“So… that’s what I’ve been working on so far. I, uh, hope you liked it.” It’s shocking how that compelling spirit from just minutes ago dissipates into thin air. He looks vulnerable, naked despite the fact that he’s fully clothed.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Min Yoongi.” You laugh in disbelief, blinking away tears. God, you are so fucked. Sure, you’ve heard him play before, practicing with him. But you’re not practicing with him now, you’re watching. You’ve become the audience, and the dynamic has changed once again.

There’s been many a night where you googled his previous performances and competitions on Youtube, but this doesn’t compare. Not in the slightest. So this is what all your teachers were talking about when they were lecturing you about the importance of stage presence.

“Uh, wow. Wow.” You’re still tearing up, no matter how much you try to will it away.

You’re not even really sure why you’re tearing up or why you can’t stop. It’s usually difficult for music to elicit such a visceral reaction from you. Goosebumps, sure. That very specific thrill down your spine when you hear music that isn’t so much as something that you hear, but feel in your blood, thumping, alive, real.

But tears, no. That doesn’t happen.

It feels like your body is reacting to something that isn’t tangible, that you can’t see with your eyes or hear with your ears. Like there’s something else in the room that you can’t quite register. Like you’re crying despite yourself.

You desperately want to kiss him. You want to pull him close and breathe in his familar scent and feel him pull you closer. It feels like the only appropriate thing to do, rather than just say “wow” over and over, in that stupid longing voice because you don’t what else to say. This is too overwhelming. More overwhelming than what it feels like when he finally puts his hands on you.

It’s the only thing you want to do. You can’t imagine the night ending in any other way. It seems like it was prewritten in the stars, like the universe came together to stitch this scene together. Like it was fate for you to find him here, long after the sun disappeared over the horizon, practicing just like you were.

But you can’t, so you hug him. Like an absolute idiot.

You regret it as soon as your arms circle around his shoulders. Yoongi stiffens, as if startled, as if he wasn’t expecting the hug either. Then his hand come to awkwardly pat the space between your shoulder blades, as if this couldn’t get any worse. This feels like a consolation prize.

He can’t see your face nestled against his shoulder, but you cringe.

You feel the vibration of his laughter against you, his shoulders shaking, “You liked it that much?” You can feel the way his voice resonates in his chest, and like everything else about this ordeal, it’s overwhelming.

“Yeah,” You pull back away from him, relieved that the moment is over, “Yeah, I liked it. Winter Wind, right?”

“Yeah, fitting for this fucking weather.”

You laugh. “Look, thanks. But I gotta go, it’s getting late and I have a paper due tonight. Thank you, again. It’s really good.” You pick up your case, “You have good start, but keep practicing. Can’t stop until you have it memorized, ha.” You try to force a laugh.

You hope you don’t look like you’re fleeing the scene. (Except you are. You leave the building without even practicing. But you don’t tell him that.)

As you stream down the steps leading to the music building, the cool night air blotting away the swelling tears in your eyes, there’s something else that takes up residence in your heart: jealousy, and initiative.

You envy the lucky bitch that ends up with Min Yoongi. And if Yoongi won’t talk about it, then you will. You won’t let him drag you around on a whim without a real answer. You can’t bring yourself to wait any longer.

Min Yoongi doesn’t like you back.

At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself before he goes to sleep, as if lying to himself might make sleep come more easily.

The truth is, you are Min Yoongi’s favorite bedtime story. Like many other nights before, Yoongi falls asleep thinking of you, hashing and rehashing all the little details and inside jokes and past conversations. It’s a small comfort during this semester, thoughts of you keeping him warm.

Tonight, Yoongi is replaying the conversation from earlier, the way he saw you nervously rubbed at the tough calluses on your left hand while he was playing for you, out of the corner of his eye. It made Yoongi want to make you smile, laugh at his bad jokes, and maybe, if you’d let him, gasp against his lips. It’s been less than a day since he saw you and yet he misses your laugh.

That morning after class, you had sat up, blinking away the sun filtering through his shades, or maybe trying to clear the post-orgasm fog. Post- orgasms fog. Then you mumbled something about being late for class, a thin layer of sweat shining down to your chest.

You had thanked him, then laughed at the misstep. God, you were so dorky that you thanked him. How was he ever supposed to resist you?

How had the two of you come so far?

And the guiltiest indulgences Yoongi would allow himself in the middle of the night were the things he hadn’t experienced with you. Like a kiss. He hasn’t gotten a chance to do that, not yet. Maybe not ever. Would it be chaste? Slow and romantic? Or would it be impassioned and angry?

Yoongi is particularly fond of the image of taking you to the jazz cafe a little ways away from campus. Would you wear a dress, once the weather warms up a little bit? What kind of coffee would you order? Do you even like jazz? What would it feel like to feel your hand slotted against his?

He definitely wasn’t been thinking about pushing you up against the mirror in the practice room and seeing if the soundproof padding was actually properly installed. Or about that morning after classes, and those little mewling noises you made to urge him on. You were so desperate. It was cute, to say the least.

But Yoongi wasn’t trying to think about that right now. He was thinking more about your unwavering diligence. Or the merriment in your eyes despite the tired shadows that hung beneath them. Or the way you didn’t back down from the way that he was obviously flirting with him, fighting fire with fire.

How much longer can the both of you live in denial, waiting for the other to make a tentative step forward?

The more he thinks about it–about you–the less he can comfortably stay in his little bubble of denial. Denial can only get him so far. He tells himself that whatever relationship between the two of you is inevitable, and someone is going to do something eventually, and that’s why he’s not making a move just yet.

Much of your relationship (or lack thereof) has been stepwise progression, slow steps. Graduating slowly from classmate to study partners to friends and closer, still. And now Yoongi had made this great leap and it felt like the both of you were lost amid the signals and the truths neither of you knew how to broach.

And no matter how brave he is on stage, it’s nothing compared to being up close and personal with you. Cheesily enough, it’s easy enough to show a crowd what he’s been working on for months, but with you, he has to improvise.

Truth be told, Yoongi knew he was being idealistic. The space that you two existed in had become precious to him, and he didn’t want to do anything to upset the balance, until now. There’s no easy way to make this all go away. Both of you were in too deep now.

He saw the way you sighed into his touch, the way your eyes would go unfocused when he said something that was even remotely flirtatious, then then snap back to reality, as if you were reminding yourself of something. He knew you wouldn’t do anything any time soon. The past evening had shown him that.

And how was he supposed to admit his feelings for you… when he could hardly admit them to himself, in the privacy of his own room?

And now, how could Yoongi make sense of anything? Every quiet moment carried the ghost of your voice. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way you had squeezed your eyes shut when he brought you to rapture. Even when you’re not with him, you’re filling up his senses. His thoughts.

Am I in love with my friend? Are we friends because we’re in love? Am I feeling like this because of the way she says my name? Am I feeling like this because of the way she touches me?

So those are all the reasons. To not talk to you. To talk to you. God, how the fuck was Yoongi supposed to know?

You (5:03pm): hey, I think we should talk soon

The minutes tick by. Does the time always pass this slowly, you think to yourself. Your hand hovers over your phone keyboard.

Fuck… what have I done.

You (5:15pm): that sounds sooo scary lol no pressure okay?

You grow desperate in the wake of his silence. Have you ruined it all?

Yoongi (5:30pm) yeah

Yoongi (5:31pm): sorry I was practicing

Yoongi (5:31pm): wasn’t looking at my phone

Yoongi (5:31pm): let’s talk then

Yoongi (5:32pm): where are you?

You find yourself at his apartment once again, the closed door spelling out all the possibilities in front of you. At least give him the benefit of the doubt, something reasons inside of you, but something darker says, think of what he’s put you through.

Think of what you’ve put yourself through, you finally think. You’ve stood outside long enough. You’ve overwrought this, alone, long enough.

Each knock that you rap against the door sounds like another nail in the coffin, but you still cling onto the last dregs of hope left in you.

The door opens immediately, a rush of warm air enveloping you from outside. “Hey,” Yoongi says, shyly, almost demure in his lounge clothes and undone hair.

You want to take him apart.

“Hey,” You mirror, and try to pretend like Min Yoongi hasn’t stolen the breath out of you for what seems like the thousandth time. You hate that he has this effect on you. With nothing but a simple greeting, it seems like you’ve forgiven him for all your grief already. You try to push that feeling further down, trying to stay objective.

Yoongi leads you to his couch. “Here… sit down. It’s cold outside, I made tea,” He says, padding into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything else, but it looks like he knows exactly what you want to talk about. There’s something in the little tick in his jaw that tells you he’s just as sure as you are, but you’re tired of guessing. Your eyes are blurring from looking in between the lines for so long.

There’s a big difference between overt facts and implied certainties. Fact: You and Yoongi are friends who study together, and now, ex-hookups. Implied: There’s something more there, something between friend and one-time hookup.

“Um, what did you want to talk about?” Yoongi says, setting down a steaming mug in front of you. You don’t reach for it.

“I–” You steel yourself for the words to tumble out of your mouth, but you lose your nerve. You had prepared a whole monologue on the walk to his apartment, but it doesn’t seem right now. You sigh, loosening the tension in your shoulders. “I wanted to talk about… about the last time I was at your apartment.” You hope it’s enough for him to get your point, and you hope that he’ll be honest and direct. He owes at least that much to you.

“What about last time? Like specifically, what about last time?” Yoongi says, not flippantly. Please, you silently plead, please… just say something good.

“Yoongi,” You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what’s to come, “What happens now? What does it mean? Please, just be honest.” When you hear your voice leave your body, you can hear how pained you sound. It wasn’t something you intended. You match his gaze and his eyes are like mirrors. “Yoongi… whatever you say, I won’t be angry. I just–I just want to know how you feel.” Your voice trembles. You hope you don’t sound as pathetic and humiliated as you feel, the scorned hookup.

Worse yet, the scorned hookup who didn’t get the hint the first time.

“No, no. You deserve the truth.” He sets his mug on the table, and you bristle at the fact that he doesn’t use a coaster. “I’ll, um, tell you my side of the story. Just to be clear I’m not like, mad at you, or anything like that. I’m also not the type to fuck and go… even though it looks like that. And I’m not like, going to ghost you or anything. Unless you want me to do that. In that case,” Yoongi runs a hand through his hair, lingering on the nape of his neck, “I’ll do that.”

“Can you do something for me, y/n? Can you just–” Yoongi holds his hands out in front of him, and he clasps his hands between yours. He always knows exactly how to comfort you, even now.

He sighs. “I wasn’t… expecting everything to happen like this. y/n, I… Just let me think about what to say for a second. But I promise, you’ll get the explanation you’re owed.” Another deep breath in. Another deep breath out.

You sit like that for what seems like a long, stretched out moment, your hands clasped in Yoongi’s, his brow furrowed.

“Why didn’t you say something yesterday?” You burst out.

Yoongi clears his throat. “Okay, look. I have… a lot of… okay, I just, I wasn’t sure how to go about this whole thing. And that morning in class, I rushed everything and after that I wasn’t sure how to approach you. Then when I saw you in the music building afterward, I just wanted to talk to you… to make sure you were okay. I saw you and I blanked. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what to do without making it weird. That’s a shitty reason, but I blanked and didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

“So,” You blink, frustrated, confused, flushed hot with embarrassment and maybe a little bit of arousal, “Okay,” You say. At least you’re getting somewhere. “So… why did it happen? Why… why did we…”

Your eyes sting, and you breathe deeply, as if you might run out of words. “Was it all in my head?”

Yoongi’s clammy hands tighten around yours, as if he’s afraid you’ll leave.

“No,” Yoongi exhales, “No, it wasn’t.”

Your body is running hot and cold. It feels like something in the air has been punctured, all the tension, all the doubts, rushing away. Something new rushes in.

“I spent all this time guessing and wondering and hoping. I ran myself ragged with all my thinking. It’s not your fault, mostly, but I’m so tired. Of guessing.”

He smiles. Well, smirks, in that Yoongi fashion that makes it feel like the top of your head is spinning. “Stop thinking so much then.”

“It was–” Yoongi’s voice breaks, rips in half. “It was a mistake,” Yoongi lies. You know he’s lying. You can tell from the way his eyes are looking everywhere on your face but your eyes. You can tell from the way that he wrings his hands, like he’s reading a pre-written apology from behind the camera. “I’m so, so confused about everything. This isn’t going the way I thought it would–not that–it’s just my words aren’t coming out like I thought they would. I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like a bad thing.”

Yoongi sighs, “I thought this would be easier.” And when you look at him again, you can see the pink on his cheeks. And how dilated his pupils are, and the decreasing proximity between his lips and your lips, because again Yoongi is still death-gripping your hands in his. If you could let yourself entertain the idea, he might be pulling you closer.

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” You say. You lean away from him, hoping that the energy in the room will simmer down if you’re not centimeters away from falling into his arms. You need to hear him talk more, say everything, explain himself. You can’t leave this room without knowing more, you won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth and the full truth. You really don’t have the energy to wait more.

“Well, even before everything–” And this is where Yoongi waves his hands in the air, gesticulating wildly. He doesn’t elaborate, although you suppose “before the almost-handjob in class and the whole mouth-fucking each other on your couch” is a bit of a mouthful.

“Even before everything– I knew you liked me. Like, you can’t even be surprised that I knew. Because you were really obvious. Like so obvious. But yeah. I knew, and I thought it was cute, and it was super flattering.”

You open your mouth for a response, but you concede that he’s right. You flush ever hotter.

Yoongi’s voice drops a little lower, like he’s telling you a secret, “And it was so fun to mess with you. Like, I could make this cute fucking girl blush and giggle and squirm and it was all because of me, how can I not be flattered? How can I not want to spend more time with you, push all your buttons? I figured you’d eventually do something about it. But you never did, no matter how much I pushed it with you. I wanted you to make the first move. But we started getting closer, and I thought maybe you were never going to do anything about it. Like we agreed to be friends, but on the inside we both liked each other? I didn’t want that to happen, but I was too scared to just go and ask you out. So I was getting frustrated. So that morning, I was just messing around with you again. I wanted to annoy you during class, I wasn’t expecting anything to come out of it. But you–I guess you were frustrated too, because you called me on my bluff. And then, you know, one thing leads to another and we’re somehow at my apartment, which I barely remember how we got there in one piece before–” Yoongi stops, breathless and something tender sparkling in his eyes. His hands aren’t gripping you like you might run away, just resting on the tops of your knees. Reminding you that he’s there.

“And now, in the present, I’m just confused? Did I like you before or after we…” He trails off, bashful still, even now. “Or do I feel like this now because we were together? And does that even matter now, because I like you regardless?”

All the blood has rushed away from your chest. It feels like someone has knocked all the air from you but also as if a winch has tightened ever-so around your heart.

“Let’s take it slow, if that’s something you want. Nobody…” You grapple for something to say, after that hell of a fucking lovesick speech, “Nobody said that you needed all the answers now. Don’t rush.” You take his hands back into yours.

The weight of it all hits you slowly, in successive waves. You don’t have to filter anything out, never have to make yourself feel appropriate for him. When you practice with him, study with him, eat with him… all the quiet spaces and body-wracking laughter just feel like a perfect fit. Nothing out of place. There’s never a conversation topic or something to stray away from, other than circumventing the feelings you have for him. Even then, it’s not like Yoongi pretends like the attraction isn’t there. He doesn’t skirt around it, avoid it like taboo conversation. It really only serves to amplify your conversations, a red thread pulled taut underneath everything else.

And now, you can give into that? You can show him how you really feel, and there’s just one less thing to hide?

“You know, you’re not blameless. I was super stressed out at the time, and with the Bach Festival and midterms and everything I guess… you gave me the opportunity to lessen that a little, so. I know, I know. It’s a shitty excuse. But I wanted things with you and with the way that things converged, it seemed like–”

“Serendipity?”

“A bit like that, yes.” You tighten your hands around his, and he pulls you a little closer. You’re leaning over his lap now.

You can’t choose whether to look into his eyes or at his lips. It looks like Yoongi has the same problem. He pulls you imperceptibly closer.

“Can I kiss you? If that’s not rushing, of course.”

“Yeah. Yes, please.” You soften yourself into his lap, Yoongi pulling you closer by the shoulders, sliding down to rest on your arms. You relish in the sensation, knowing it’s something that you can enjoy with a reassured heart now.

He plants a closed kiss against your lips, and somehow that makes your heart flutter more than anything else he’s ever done before. The pads of his fingertips are soft and gentle against your arms, pulling you closer by the bicep.

“I like you… I like you a lot…” Yoongi whispers against your lips, laughing at the confession. So sweet, so soft.

“I like you too…” You whisper, kissing back. Slow, chaste, if a bit restrained. The realization hits you again, slowly, like an ocean wave washing over wet sand.

Yoongi likes you back. Yoongi wants you back. You laugh at how absurd it sounds, even in your own head, nipping at his lip. “Say it again, Yoongi.”

“I like you…” Yoongi sounds coy.

You smile against him, “Say it again,” You gasp, pushing him back on the couch, gentle but firm, “I like you too, in case you didn’t know.” You can’t help but laugh. Not at the absurdity at the situation, but just out of happy shock.

“y/n, I like you…” Yoongi chuckles, deep in his chest, looking up at you. His hair falls out of his eyes.

“Do you know how happy it makes me, to hear you say that?”

You’re honestly surprised that you don’t have whiplash. Whiplash from the weeks of tension and denial, feeling like you would never get this relief, but now you have a whole new set of problems. Dating Min Yoongi.

This whole “taking it slow” thing is fucking bullshit. The past couple weeks have been one long sustained effort, some kind of marathon in testing the waters, drawing back and then pushing forward.

Maybe you spoke too soon. You have to admit that the slow build, chaste romantic courtship is nice .

The study dates are more than nice. The coffee shop dates feel almost luxurious, expensive in time in the same way that the actual coffee is cheap.

Actually, all of this is a lot nicer than having to guess his every intention, the message between the lines. But you already know what it’s like to have Min Yoongi.

In fact, things have been largely the same for the past couple weeks, except now you can feel the weight of his flirtatious jokes. You can now confidently say that Yoongi says what he means. The more time you spend with Yoongi, the more liberated you feel in letting yourself delight in the feeling of being allowed to show your feelings for him, and having them be duly reciprocated.

After the confessional evening the both of you had, Yoongi had agreed to take it slow. In your lovesick state, you probably would have said yes to anything that Min Yoongi put on the table. Which is probably why you agreed to the whole courtship thing.

“y/n… think about it like this! If we take our time then when the time finally comes… to… uh, you know, then it’ll be so much more gratifying. And I want to be with you more, like this,” Yoongi says, as you lean against his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his words.

“Delayed gratification, have you ever heard of that?” Yoongi had said, smiling wider than you’d ever seen.

“Although from my experience with you, I think you like instant gratification more,” He said, a touch darker. Your memory blurs now, because that was about the time he started tickling you relentlessly. And then kissing you relentlessly.

And at the time, you had agreed. The delayed gratification would make everything better, make the world a little more rose-colored than before.

You don’t want to push his boundaries, he doesn’t want to push yours, but now it’s begun nearly feels both of you are so afraid of each other that you haven’t touched each other in what seems like fucking forever–and it’s reached a boiling point, from what you can gather this evening.

The newfound tension between the two of you is new, maybe a day or two at most, but annoying nonetheless.

“Y/n, how many times have I told you? Stop rushing. Do you need me to count your part out? One, two, three, four.” He punctuates every count with a clap in your face, and a sneer to boot.

Yoongi has been especially volatile this evening. His normal jokes and jabs at you fall just short of endearing. Your initial approach at remedying the situation by focusing on the music at hand has only seemed to make things worse, and you’ve given in to your slowly-growing temper.

“I am fucking counting, and I’m not the one playing fucking half notes, okay? How about you just focus on making the harmony, I don’t know, harmonious ?” You lower your violin, face screwing up in anger, only you don’t know how much of it is joking anymore.

You don’t know how much longer you can take this kind of tension in the air. It feels angry and red and biting, but you can’t help it. The stale air-conditioned air in the practice room only seems to make your face warmer and warmer as time passes.

All this tension, and no release. That’s what music is all about. The build-up of musical intensity, the expectation and anticipation for resolution. It’s like you’ve been stuck on the same chord of a cadence, waiting for a release that feels like it isn’t coming anytime soon.

You take a deep breath, the frustration tightening in your chest. “From measure eighty-four, and take the fucking repeat this time. Let’s just move onto the next section after this, we’ll just come back to it later.”

You fight the urge to huff and sigh, knowing it would only earn you a comment from Yoongi about being, as he had put it, ‘wound up.’ Yeah, no shit, you’re wound up. Wound up is putting it lightly. Just last week Yoongi had made a mess of you at his apartment, teasing you apart and then stopping just short of an orgasm. And he said the same thing last week too: delayed gratification.

You try again, cueing him in with a sharp breath and the uptake of your bow.

And again, and again, and again.

“This isn’t working.” You set your violin on the soft lining of your case and rub your temples, resting your upper body on the body of the piano. You swipe the back of your hand across your face, breathing in the clean smell of the hand soap from Yoongi’s apartment bathroom, from when you were there a couple hours ago. Warm. Brown sugar. It feels like his embrace–if only you’d ever feel it again.

God, why did you let him push all your buttons? All evening–ever since the two of you left his apartment to come to the practice rooms–he’s been acting like this. You know it has something to do with you, another game. But you don’t have the energy to divine his ulterior motive, whatever it is. You shut your eyes to provide some reprieve from the strain of staring at the same phrase that you have been stuck on for what has felt like an eternity.

“Yeah, this isn’t fucking working,” He says. It reminds you of the way he talked to you when you found him practicing in the early morning that one Tuesday. You only open your eyes when you hear him get up from his bench.

Min Yoongi is standing too close to you. His eyes are on your lips and not your eyes. Even in the dim light of the practice room, you can see how dilated his pupils are.

You meet his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, more breathless than he’d like to admit, “You’re provoking me. Why?”

“Who said I was trying to do that? I think you,” You point a finger at his chest, looking into his eyes, “Are provoking me.” You try to sound as petulant as possible, and it works.

Yoongi’s lips meet yours before you can even take your hands off of him.

In the best sense of the word, you are cornered. Backed up against the piano, enclosed by his arms. He slips his hands up underneath the cotton of your sweatshirt, pulling you flush against him. His cool fingertips grazing the small of your back have you gasping against his soft lips.

“Tell me, why are you provoking me?”

“I, well-” You don’t continue with an excuse, because you’re finally getting what you want. What you both want.

He presses on. “Gonna answer my question, or are you just gonna keep being a little brat?” He wedges his thigh between your legs, closer to where you need him most. You stifle a moan, it’s too soon to be making those kinds of sounds, but you grind down on him anyway. “What?” He laughs, the sound sitting deep in his chest. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

You try to focus on the possessiveness in the way that he holds you by the waist, so you’re not thinking about how weak your knees are.

He sighs, as if in disappointment. Only you’re not sure who it’s directed towards.

“If I touch you right now, will you be wet?” He laughs. “I don’t even have to guess.” The ghost of his breath fans against your upper lip. “Is this what you want? Do you, do you, want to keep going?” Yoongi stops his ministrations. When you meet his eyes, both of you breathless, you can see the inquiring concern in his eyes again.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop,” you say, trying, and failing, not to sound frantic, “Only if you’ll see it through to the end this time,” You bite.

He laughs, devoid of mirth. “You say that like it’s not hard for me, either.” His hands trail down your torso to rest at the waist of your jeans. You don’t want to pseudo-argue with him anymore, so you just whine a little from the back of your throat, hoping he’ll get the point.

You don’t want him to think that this isn’t what you want, because truth be told, it is exactly what you want. Your hands come to meet his when you reach to undo the button.

“You know exactly what to do.” He laughs, lighter this time. He’s laughing like he’s not mad at you. He helps undo your jeans, pushing them and your panties just past your thighs. You gasp when he starts rubbing gentle circles on your clit. His fingers slip against your wet, slippery pussy.

Yoongi is everywhere. He’s crowding your space against the wall, hand down your pants, the other holding your neck in place. It’s getting overwhelming with his beautiful hand rubbing little circles on your clit. So simple, and yet it feels like you’re breaking apart underneath him. It’s getting harder and harder to bite back the moans, stay in control.

“You know, these rooms are soundproof. Let me hear you,” He murmurs, pulling you closer. “Stop hiding from me.”

Yoongi shifts his attention from your wet cunt to the collar of your shirt. “What’s this? Getting busy without me?” Yoongi brushes his free hand over the circular dark mark coloring the crook of your jaw. You’re starting to get impatient with all this teasing, how much more can you take?

“Haven’t you ever heard of a violin hickey?” You spit, grinding down on his hand, but it’s not enough. God, it really has been too long since he last touched you. He never stops the gentle advance he makes on your clit, never faster, never slower. Just barely enough. “We were just practicing, it gets darker when I play.” You try to explain yourself, as if that might make him show mercy later on.

“You’re not in any position to talk back right now, don’t forget that.” He leaves open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking gently. “I’ll just help you add to your little collection.” Your eyes roll back, unable to help yourself. It’s been so long since anyone has touched you. It’s been so long since anyone has held you so closely.

Your desperation is beginning to show. With every movement of his hands, Yoongi starts to lessen his touch, your hips dogging his hand. You come to the realization that you’re not above begging to get what you want. He doesn’t even have to ask.

He continues his gentle assault on your clit. “Do you know what these mirrors are for? They’re for checking your posture as you practice, but I guess this is just a different kind of practice.” He turns you around, your hips digging into the wood panelling of the piano. You’re confronted by your own fucked-out reflection, flushed and panting. You’re still mostly clothed, and yet you look debaucherous, like some ancient painting of a study into the nuances of female pleasure. “Look at you. All messy. And for what? I’ve barely touched you.”

The frustration is too much, reaching a boiling point. “Please, I swear to God.” You bury your hands in your head, wiping away frustrated tears. Your legs are trembling now, now that Yoongi is only using one of his arms to brace you against him.

“Please, what?” He digs his nails into the soft skin of your hip, and you can’t help but like it. He lowers his head so it’s level with your ear, sultry, low. “Use your words.”

“Can’t you just, just-” Again, you buck your hips against his hand, as if that might make him get the point, only for him to nip at your inner thigh with his hand.

“Don’t rush me, babe.” Babe. Min Yoongi is calling you babe. Is the universe playing some trick on you?

He takes advantage of your position and leverages his knee on the inside of yours, spreading your legs further. “That’s it, just take it. Take it.” Finally, he takes pity on you and slips a finger inside. He earns an answering gasp. You can tell he means business, because he doesn’t take it slow, he doesn’t let you adjust, going directly at that spot inside of you that makes you keen for him.

You struggle to stay upright, eyes rolling back. Your fingers scrabble along the dark wood of the piano, struggling to find purchase.

“Fuck, Yoongi…”

“So needy, look at you, so fucking needy...” He drives his point home further by adding a second finger.

“I’m sooooo sorry… how can I ever make it up to you…?” Even despite the mind-bending pleasure and the prospect of Min Yoongi blowing your back out this evening, you roll your eyes.

“What if someone hears?” Your point is lost when Yoongi changes the angle of his hand, and you break off into a ragged whimper. It’s loud enough to make you embarrassed to have made that sound in the presence of another person.

“Oh, so you care about that now?” “What about that one time in class,” Yoongi all but pants in your ear, digging his nails into your thigh, “That you were being a desperate little cocktease?”

You don’t answer, shame stoking the embers in your belly, driving lower and lower. You hate, and love, that he can make you feel like this with only some stern wording and a firm hand. Because it feels that good. Because you like him that much.

“What then, hmm?” Yoongi doesn’t wait for a response however, before he’s yanking your jeans and panties further down your thighs. “Do me a favor. Touch yourself for me. Show me.”

“Why?”

“Wanna see you all messy for me,” Yoongi says, voice silky soft, liquid sex. He guides your hand down to your pussy, and god, you realize just how embarrassingly wet you are for such little foreplay. “Please?” He presses his chest flush to your back, leaning his forehead into the crook of your neck.

You oblige him. You’re wet to the point where it’s difficult to find purchase against your clit. “Okay… but you have to forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what?”

“For being needy…” You say, sweetly.

“Sure. I’ll forgive anything you do if you do this every time.” He says it like it’s a matter of fact.

You giggle, like a lovesick idiot. At the very least, you’re glad that Yoongi can make you laugh even when you’re half-play-fighting, half-on-the-verge-of-having-sex-in-your-favorite-practice room.

The vibrations of your laughter traveling through your body have you moving in new, novel ways against your own hand, and you break off into a moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” Yoongi murmurs, voice barely above a scratchy whisper. He sounds genuine, and the tenderness of the moment isn’t lost to you, even despite your pleasure. At least now that you’re touching yourself, you don’t have to suffer the patient wrath of Yoongi and can touch yourself the way that you see fit.

You feel his free hand nudge against the back of your thigh and when you look, he’s dragging the heel of his hand across his pants.

Fuck. Fuck, you are so wrecked for Min Yoongi.

“No, you too,” you say, “Show me too.”

Yoongi moves away from you, pushing his waistband past his hips. He’s gripping his cock in one hand. He’s reaching for your waist again, his hand traveling up to grasp your throat. He jerks your head back. “Look, look at yourself.”

The combined sensation of his hand on your neck and own hand on your pussy is too much. Your eyes water. “Yoongi,” You gasp, “I’m going to come.”

“No, not yet. Not yet.” He wrenches your hand away, and the sudden lack of touch is almost cruel.

You buck against him, his back to you. “Please, please let me come, I can’t–you can’t do this again, fuck,” Your desperation comes out in whines, all shame lost.

“Be patient, come here.” He turns you around again, your back against the wood of the piano. And you’re looking into his eyes, dark and filled with something like lust. Min Yoongi wants you. You reach up to brush his hair out of his eyes.

Yoongi’s on your clit again, drawing light circles, testing the wetness before slipping a finger inside again. “I wanna hear you,” He says, adding another finger, more tenacity behind his strokes. He rocks his thumb against your clit. “I wasn’t asking.”

Up until now you’ve been biting your lip, muffling your cries as best as you can. You look up at him again, drawing up your courage. You feel exposed–how can you not, half-naked in the practice room, when you’re not completely confident that the soundproof padding on the walls can contain the sounds of your rapture.

“You-you fuck me so good Yoongi–” And you keen, just because he asked you to.

He stops in his fucking tracks. Again.

“Well. You fuck me so well. You can’t describe a verb with an adjective. God, I really shouldn’t let you come…”

“Oh my God, are you really going to do this right now.” You bear down on his hand with your hips again, seeking more friction. “Please… please, I can’t wait anymore.” You can hardly finish your sentence, as Yoongi fucks into you with a particularly hard thrust. You’re finding it difficult to keep your eyes open, instead opting to rest your head on his shoulder.

God, he smells so good. Like fresh laundry and the melting snow outside, warm and human and reassuring.

You can feel his smile ghosting over your neck as he leans down to suck another mark into your collarbone. “Yes, yes, I am.”

“I’m–I’m getting close again,” You say, fisting your hands in his shirt, “Just, ah–” It takes you by surprise, crashing over you. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to stay upright, pulling Yoongi against you. You can feel his satisfied smile, as he pants against the curve of your neck, hot and heady and everything you need.

“Good?” He asks, after your breathing has calmed, even though you know that he knows that he’s done more than a good job.

“Okay, okay, enough bragging,” You half-laugh, half-scoff, pulling your pants up past your hips again.

“I wasn’t bragging,” He whines. It’s endearing, and you pepper his face with kisses before you get to business again.

You sink to your knees before him, and his expression immediately softens. You try to bridge the gap between the two of you, placing the palm of your hand on his thigh. Asking for permission.

“Are you sure?” He says, but the expression in his eyes saying something to the effect of “I really hope you’re sure.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” You say, smiling as you tease the head of his cock with your parted lips. You replace his hand with yours. It’s barely any contact, really, but Yoongi closes his eyes in pleasure nonetheless, head tilted back. Normally, in any other situation like this, you’d be at least a little bit nervous. Or shy, hoping that Yoongi keeps his eyes closed so he’s not looking at you. But the absolute deprivation you’ve felt for the past couple weeks is enough for you to not care.

You sink lower, in the wake of remembering how pent up and frustrated you’ve felt for the past couple weeks. You even, at least try to, bat your eyelashes at him. But like you guessed (or had hoped), his eyes are squeezed shut. You try not to delight in the sudden change of power too much, but it’s impossible not to.

He tightens his grip on the back of your neck, groaning. “You’re so good to me.” You take him further in your mouth, eager to please. Eager to hear him make more of those sounds. Eager to take this further.

You try your best to make it slick, flattening your tongue against him. You’re a little out of practice, after months of being alone, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice. And if he does, he’s still enjoying himself. Thoroughly.

“Fuck, fuck,” He gasps, in hushed whispers.

“What a mouth on you…” Yoongi moves stray hairs out of your face, surprisingly tender given the lewdness of the situation. The sounds of your mouth fill the practice room, although hopefully not loud enough to expose your vulnerable position. You truly hope that the soundproof padding lining the walls works as advertised.

“Ah–ah wait, I’m getting close, wait–ah, y/n, fuck,” He rasps. You don’t let up quite yet, letting him sit in that in-between space between ‘on the edge’ and ‘letting go’. His free hand makes a weak fist against his leg.

Someone knocks on the door. Your first thought is that it may be security wrapping up rounds for the night.

Your eyes widen in shock as you stand upright and zip up your jeans. The surge from adrenaline at the prospect of getting caught in the act makes your head pulse and spin. Your heart seems to have fallen from the left side of your chest all the way into the pit of your stomach.

It’s hard to remember how aroused you were, not thirty seconds ago.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” For someone who was quite literally about to be balls-deep inside you, Yoongi tucks his dick back inside his pants with a surprising amount of tact and speed.

Yoongi is fixing his hair in the practice mirror as you cross the room at the piano bench, pulling out your phone to make it look like the two of you were just dawdling or taking a practice break.

Maybe twenty seconds have elapsed since the first knock at the door, which you reason might be a reasonable time for someone to stop practicing, and walk to the door to answer it. You hope it might seem reasonable.

You can feel the pulse in your neck moving as Yoongi opens the door. You train your eyes on your phone screen, as if that might make you more nonchalant.

“Hey, Yoongi-hyung.” The voice at the door is youthful, and energetic. You can even hear the smile in his voice. “I didn’t know you were here this late. I was looking for you!” You finally muster up the courage to stop staring at your phone, your eyes venturing to the other side of the room.

It’s… Jungkook?

Jungkook, as in, the only bassoonist in the department, Jungkook?

Jungkook must have had the same idea as you, because he looks over at you at the same time you do.

His smile falters, albeit briefly. Whatever replaces it is something akin to a smirk. A knowing smirk. An accusatory smirk. A proud smirk.

“Hyung, who’s that?”

#armywriterssupport #btsgoldnet #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #bts smut #yoongi fanfic #yoongi scenarios #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader

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morkleemelon · 3 years

Text

off the ice || chapter 6: grab my hand

previous || m.list || playlist || next

pairing: college hockey player! mark x fem. college figure skater! reader

genre: fluff, humor, angst, sports au, college au

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, suggestive material, depictions of bullying

author’s note: huge thanks again to my beta readers @writing-frog and @skiimmiilk I’ve made the executive decision to split up the last chapter since it was so long! Chapter 7, the finale, is done and will be posted in a few days <3

Distance. Distance isn’t a word you would use to describe your relationship as he pulls you close at night. There’s no distance between the two of you as he lifts you up in the air during your nightly practice, strong hands firmly gripping your waist as you dance across the empty rink.

No.

But if one were to look past your smile, to wipe away the condensation and see clearly what’s really going through your head when you were together with Mark, they might just name the dreadful feeling caving in your chest “distance”.

Weeks have passed by since the hate message incident in Mark’s room. You tried to pull out the arrow, to convince yourself it wasn’t true and that you could ignore it just like all the rest. Alas, its words struck so deep, you still bleed.

It poisons your thoughts. Your anxieties had already worsened and you found yourself pulling away from his affections, afraid of the way the people walking past might somehow be talking about you.

Mark is starting to have his suspicions too, flashing you concerned looks when you uncomfortably shrug his arm off your shoulders in public. To you, it’s because you’re scared of the ‘hateful’ stares from others. To him, it’s a riddle he can’t solve.

Because when it’s just the two of you, you let yourself relax. Like yin and yang, you fight an internal battle between how much you adore your boyfriend and how terrified you are that you aren’t good enough for him. When it’s just the two of you alone, you stop running and let him close the distance.

Right now is one of those rare times - the familiar cold and scraping of ice below your skates bringing you peace.

Mark glides easily beside you on the empty rink. He’s improved a lot, much to your astonishment. A golden boy through and through, he proves that there’s nothing he can’t do as he conquers each move you show him.

Coach Tanya was surprised when you spoke with her after practice one day to notify her that you’d decided to pair with Mark Lee, captain of the hockey team, for the winter competition. Her thin eyebrows were perked in playful judgement when you started to defend yourself, ready to bring up Yuna’s accident and your financial situation before she stopped you: “You’re my best skater, y/n, and I look forward to your performance. Work hard, captivate your audience, and you just might win”.

Watching Mark skate on ahead of you in the borrowed skates he makes do with, you can’t wait to prove her right.

“What are we going to practice tonight, y/n?,” Mark asks as he arcs a wide circle around you.

“I think you’ve gotten most of the basics down, so let’s go over the first part of the choreography,” you decide, grabbing onto his hand and giggling as he swings you around with him.

“We have choreography?,” Mark lifts your arm up to twirl you around. He stops you as you face him, a laugh leaving your lips before he smothers them with kisses. His fingers tickle at the hem of your shirt, cold to your bare skin. You squeal, the sound carrying eerily over the spacious rink.

“I thought about it a lot in my head,” you explain as you shove him away gaily, “and I planned a bit during my own practices. It’s not done yet, but I think we can make it work”.

“My talented, beautiful girl,” Mark murmurs, catching up to you and wrapping you in a back hug. You sigh blissfully, catching his warm lips in the crook of your neck.

“Mark, we seriously do have to practice. The festival’s only a month away,” you mumble. Some nights, let's just say, you spend more time in the locker room showers than you do on the ice. Using your best intuition, Mark’s lips travelling down towards your collarbones equals not a lot of practice time. And as much as you want for him to distract you all night long, you have to put your skate down and bring your boyfriend back to focus on the task at hand.

He huffs slightly against your skin, but releases you obediently.

“It’s gonna start like this,” you swiftly continue on, positioning your arm gracefully behind Mark’s head, “put your hand here,” you move his hand behind your back like you had planned, “and tilt your head to look at me,”. You tip his jaw slightly so he now peers down at you, face not inches from yours.

Dropping your gaze, you maintain what little self control you have and refrain from thinking about the locker room. It’s right by the rink exit. It’d be so easy to just...

“And then?,” Mark whispers, voice low, waiting patiently in the starting position. His hand is warm against your back, but it tugs at your heartstrings too.

“And then you’re gonna spin me out like we practiced before”. You help him perform the motion, unfurling yourself from his grip and gliding down to spin a slow circle around.

You bring him slowly through the rest of the introduction, Mark copying the moves diligently.

“Then when I skate back to you, lift me up in the air like we did last time. You think you can do it?,” you question. The move you’re about to attempt is quite difficult - a little dangerous, even, since Mark is still a beginner - but you trust him to never hurt you.

“I can do it,” he confirms confidently, holding his arms out to receive you.

“Okay, slow at first,” you nod, skating up to him at half-speed, grabbing onto his shoulders to help lift yourself above his head. Mark’s strong hands connect with your body, hoisting you up by your waist and balancing your body carefully above his. Muscles burning, you steady yourself as he twirls you slowly down.

“Alright, again,” you command.

The two of you repeat the move, steadily increasing the speed until the lift is smooth to your satisfaction.

“I think that was pretty good,” you compliment, slightly out of breath.

“Only because of you,” Mark endears, panting as he rests his chin atop your hair.

You sigh into his chest, the comforting feeling of his palpitating heartbeat washing over you.

If only it could always be like this.

“y/n?,” Mark mumbles. His tone was almost unsure, as if he was about to say something you don’t want to hear.

You hum an affirmation.

“Is everything okay these days?,” he asks the question you dread answering, “I know,” he continues before you can blurt out your default lie, “I know you keep saying that it is, but I feel like...you know you can tell me anything, right?”.

Mark changes his phrasing midway, always taking your feelings into consideration. The all too familiar wave of guilt fills you up to your ears and you step slightly away. The stadium is dim, only lit by the natural light of the night sky, but you can see the concern that creases his face out in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes focus instead on his jacket button. The second from the top has a few loose threads.

And that’s just how you feel too; the button was made for this coat - it wants to hang on and be there forever. But how could it persist when the world wants to rip it off?

“It’s nothing,” you insist bitterly, your peaceful mood tainted gray. You were so close to successfully ending another day without confronting your demons. Why must Mark sense it so well?

Please stop, Mark. Please stop.

“I don’t think it’s nothing”. There’s nothing but kindness and concern in his voice, but when he reaches his hand out to you, fear overcomes your rationality and you jerk yourself away.

“It is nothing!,” you exclaim, overly defensive. Half of your mind screams at you to halt, to filter your words before you say something you would regret, but the fuse was already lit and they come tumbling out anyway. “Can you please stop asking? It’s annoying,”.

A beat passes. Two. Five.

The sharp words tear through your mouth like knives, but even then you can’t stop to think. The energy in the rink changed so quickly, your head spins with shock. Turning away from the pained expression you don’t want to see, you skate quickly towards the exit.

The ice is solid as ever, but why does it feel like you’re sinking?

Slamming the dormitory door shut behind you, your skating bag hits the floor before you do. Back pressed against the concrete wall, shaking sobs rack through your body as you sink down to your feet.

“y/n, what happened?,” Yuna peers over her computer screen. Your roommate had finally returned home a few days ago after her leg had finally healed enough to be discharged.

You don’t answer, only burying your teary face into your arms as you cry harder.

The metallic creaking of crutches ensues as Yuna approaches your slumped form. A comforting embrace wraps around your shaking shoulders and the smell of her daisy perfume engulfs you. Her scarred hands stroke through your hair as she says nothing, waiting for your hiccups to calm down.

Guilt eats away at you like nitric acid. It mixes with your frustration, concocting a perfect poison that destroys your last thread of self-respect.

“Can you please stop asking? It’s annoying”

The hurtful words don’t stop echoing in your head. What’s worse is, even though you didn’t stay to look, you can imagine the pain that crossed his face as you left without another word. You feel absolutely disgusting.

This is it. He’s finally going to be done with me.

Moments pass, Yuna sitting patiently by your side as you manage to find your voice. The dam you built around all your secret cracks, disintegrating to pieces as you let everything out to your best friend.

You tell her about all of the hate messages you’ve been getting for months now - how you tried to ignore them, but some of them hit too way deep to forget. You tell her about the dilemma with Mark. He’s never done any wrong to you, ever, but you feel like you can’t keep forcing your problems on him. When you confided in your financial situation with him, he dropped everything to help you with the competition. You at least want to be able to handle one thing by yourself, to not be a burden, but it’s tearing you apart at the seams.

“I don’t deserve him and he’s going to realize it sooner or later,” you lament, gripping onto Yuna’s arms for dear life. Gasping sobs ensue, even as you hold your breath desperately to stop them. “He’s probably already realized it after what I said. Yuna, what do I do? I’m horrible”. Bitter tears choke at your throat.

“Oh honey,” Yuna coos into your hair, “you don’t even know, do you?”.

Hiccupping uncontrollably, you take gasping breaths, trying to calm down. Your roommate understands, patting you gently on the back.

“When you’re in a relationship with someone, the line between having enough communication and enough privacy is tough to figure out. Should you tell him about the lint between your toes? Maybe not. But talking to him about what’s bothering you is not only okay, it’s the right thing to do”.

Yuna lifts your chin up to face her. She looks empathetically down at your watery eyes as she takes her sleeve to dry the fallen tears. You press your eyelids shut, taking deep breaths punctuated by hiccups.

“And Mark,” she continues, “this guy, he looks at you like you’re all the stars in the sky and he’s the first astronomer. There’s not a thing you could tell him that would bother him, that’s what I think. And I think he’s dying to know how he can help you”.

“Yuna I- you don’t understand. I just left him there after saying that. And I can’t even go on a date with him without feeling like people are talking about us,” you gasp out, “So the person sending the messages is right; I’m not good enough for him and he deserves someone way better than me. Maybe this is for the better”.

“y/n, don’t you see?,” Yuna snaps sternly. You open your eyes. They’re pink-red, matching the tip of your nose. “You’re letting other people ruin a once-in-a-lifetime relationship for you. Do you know what happens when you leave to go to the bathroom when we’re all hanging out? Mark’s looking towards the women’s room every two seconds, waiting for you to come back. This guy will manage to find a way to bring up your name at least twice in the five minutes you’re away. He likes you so much, anyone with a brain knows, so it’s not fair to him for you to tell him what, or who he deserves. At least let him make his own decision”.

The advice resonates in the air. Your hiccups calm to a sniffle as it sinks in. Yuna’s right, you’re being so selfish right now. Actually, you’ve been selfish this whole time. By forcing everything to yourself, you were creating an even bigger problem than any of the ones you were trying to hide.

“Yuna, what do I do now?,” you whisper, dread setting in.

“Girl, go talk to him. Now.”

You must look a mess, but you don’t bother fixing yourself up before you’re out the door.

Yuna sends you off with a ‘good luck!’ as you run down the corridor. Rushing down the metal stairs, your frenzied steps echo through the empty stairwell. They sound as desperate as you feel.

Oh god, please let it not be too late.

Once you reach the first floor entrance, you notice through the glass door that it is now, in fact, pouring rain. You were too distracted before to notice the heavy sounds of precipitation pelting down over you.

Hands shaking to send Mark a message, you tell him you need to talk and you’re coming to him. You have no umbrella, but you push open the door anyways. The freezing rain soaks into your skin but you run on, unfazed.

You’re drenched and shivering by the time you stand panting in front of his building. Dying street lights illuminate against the dark, night sky. Waiting, the rain stings your eyes.

Through the blur, Mark’s figure finally appears at the door window. You can’t quite make out his face, but you know it’s him. The metal frame creaks as he pushes it open.

“y/n, what are you doing?”. His voice is raspy and as he comes closer into view. You notice that his eyes are pink-red, matching the tip of his nose.

“I have to talk to you,” you state, voice wavering as fresh tears mix with the ice-cold precipitation. Mustering up all the courage you have, you ready yourself to tell him everything you’ve been holding back.

“Let’s go inside”. His voice is soft as he tugs at your drenched jacket sleeve.

“No I-,” you choke, “I want to say it right now”.

The rain bears down hard as he lets go of your sleeve, allowing the frigid water to soak through his own self, waiting.

“You asked me if something was wrong,” your resolve comes crashing down, “and a lot has been wrong”. You squeeze your eyes shut to force out the unwanted raindrops. “The truth is, I’ve been getting hate messages every day since we started dating. Probably even before that. They say I’m a slut, or I’m fat and ugly. The details don’t matter”.

Mark takes a step towards you, the concerned expression creasing his brow in full view.

“But then they say I’m not good enough for you,” your voice breaks as you admit the most painful part of all, blinking up at him, “and I can’t help but believe them”.

Futily, you swipe your drenched sleeve across your eyes to dry them.

“But even if I don’t deserve anything that you are, I need to tell you right now that I didn’t mean what I said today and I need to know if you still want me-”

Before the next raindrop could hit your skin, you feel yourself lifted up into a crushing hug.

There’s no sound except the heavy pitter patter of rain around you, but you can swear that there’s a symphony playing as he spins you around. His breath huffs against your neck. He’s crying too, you realize.

“y/n,” he croaks, body quivering with tears and from the cold, “I always want you. I-, you-”. Mark pulls you in extra tight as he struggles to find the right words.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” the words strain against Mark’s throat, “when I first saw you, I dropped my shit and ran away”.

You pull slightly away, looking up at him quizzically.

He shakes his head and continues, “You were so beautiful and even when I thought you hated me, I couldn’t stop thinking about you all the time. I don’t want anyone else-”.

Grabbing your face with both of his hands, he presses desperate kisses to your forehead. The rain bears down hard, lightning cracking in the sky, but you’re numb to everything else except the feeling of his lips pressing their love onto your skin.

“You’re it for me,” his voice wavers. The vulnerable confession sends you into a fresh wave of emotions and you grip onto the back of his neck, crying into his shoulder. “You’re my heart. I knew it from the first moment I saw you”.

Pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes, he brushes back the wet strands of hair stuck to your face. You’re tempted to do the same, the once golden locks now almost black against his brow.

“I love you”.

The words leave his lips so suddenly, but they’ve been at the tip of his tongue for so long they roll off with ease. Your heart drums against your chest as time seems to stop.

“You love me?” you choke, not believing your ears. His forehead is pressed against yours.

“I love you,” he repeats, “I love you. More than anything. So much that I can’t breathe. I was so scared when you left today because I thought I did something wrong and I was thinking of what I said and I was sitting at my desk waiting for you to call because I wasn’t sure if I should call you first after what happened but then I almost did and then-,”

You shut him up with your lips.

He sinks into your touch, responding naturally as you kiss him with everything you have.

Your mind spins with a mixture of relief and excitement as you let all of your worries go. It was never about other people, you realize, it was about your own insecurities and you were tearing yourself down. Without realizing it, you forgot to take into account the other half of the relationship: Mark’s opinion.

But now you know for sure, the opinion that actually matters, not the anonymous person who doesn’t know better. He loves you. It’s you he’s chosen. Out of all of the people he could pick from, Mark holds you in his arms, whispering soft ‘I love you’s’ between each kiss. Kisses to your lips.

How could you ever want him to be with someone else when you’re the one he wants?

“I love you too,” you reply breathlessly into his open kiss.

We deserve to be happy.

He doesn’t say anything, instead responding by tugging your waist closer to him, moving his jaw feverishly to indulge you deeper. Water drips down from his hair, splashing onto the bridge of your nose.

“Let’s go inside,” you gasp. The heat of the moment made you temporarily forget, but the icy November weather slowly started to soak past your jacket. You shiver as a strong gust of wind blows past your drenched body.

Mark leads you inside and you hustle up to his suite. His hand is warm against your wrist and you can’t wait for it to be tangled in your hair again.

Slamming open the door, Mark’s arms are around your waist before it could drift shut. You jump up, wrapping your legs around his hips as he carries you to his room, lips never leaving yours.

Jeno, unsuspecting, is lying on his bed with a book in his hands. If your eyes were open, you would flush at the incredulous look the poor boy shoots towards you.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend works at your jacket zipper quickly, removing the wet outer layers as he sits you on his bed.

Pausing a second, he turns his head to speak to his roommate.

“Out”.

You don’t have time to feel embarrassed before Mark’s jacket is on the floor and he’s lying you back, hovering over your body. The bedroom door rams shut as Jeno scurries out, not keen on seeing the scene progress any further.

I’m sorry, man.

Your mental apology doesn’t last long as your wet hair soaks into the pillowcase beneath you. Mark kisses a line from your jaw down the side of your neck, raindrops wet on his tongue. The heat of his body contrasts the cold of yours and you want all of it against you.

Rain-stained articles of clothing gather on the floor in no time.

“God, I love you so much,” Mark hushes against your ear. His gruff tone sends shivers down your back and you scratch your nails through the base of his hair. Your legs find their way around his hips again, pulling him down impossibly closer.

“I love you too,” you gasp back.

He kisses between your collarbones, then looks back into your eyes, “do you want this?”.

You nod frantically, your voice nothing short of breathless. “I want this”.

Peace you haven’t been able to feel for a long time blankets you as you lie on your lover’s chest, the two of you fresh out of breath. Such a revelation- him telling you he loved you was. And you want to savor the feeling forever.

It feels as if there was a thorn lodged in your heart, festering for months from your terrible, insecure thoughts and you’ve finally yanked it out. It feels like you can finally breathe.

Well, metaphorically. Physically, you may need a few minutes.

Mark’s hair sticks up in every direction, frizzy from being half-dried and from your constant tugging. Nonetheless, he looks beautiful to you in the dim, lamp-lit room. His chest rises and falls in your embrace and your fingers work to delicately trace the toned muscles of his torso. Mimicking your movements, he grazes his thumbs over the blue-purple masterpiece he’s painted across your neck and chest.

“Good?,” he asks nonchalantly.

You let out a soft snort at the sudden question.

Men will always be men.

“Great,” you admit. Heat creeps into your face as you recall the last hour or so.

You guess there’s more benefits of hockey than just the uniform: the stamina and athleticism.

His inflated ego fills the room palpably as he shifts in the messy bed, tugging the covers more over your tangled bodies. Noises arise from the kitchen, probably from his other suitemates. Embarrassment fills you to the brim when you realize that everyone probably heard the two of you. You were far too busy caught up in your passionate feelings to consider this, and now it’s come back to bite.

Huffing shyly, you hide your growing blush into the nape of your boyfriend’s neck. Clanging of kitchenware resonates clearly through the room’s thin walls. You can’t help but distress over how clearly the others could hear you. And for such a long time too.

Oh my gosh. How will I ever face them?

Mark seems to sense your thoughts and lets out a light chuckle.

“Babe, we’re fine. They all hookup all the time. And Yuna-,”

“I don’t need to know, thank you,” you interrupt sharply. Squeezing your eyes shut, you fight off the disturbing imagery.

Ten’s voice drifts through the suite and the sound of the front door shutting rings through them with unnerving vigor. You jolt at the bang, stiffly turning your neck towards the locked bedroom door, as if it would reveal any answers. Mark looks at you, the confused expression on his face making it apparent that he doesn’t know what is happening either. Slowly, he shifts up into a sitting position.

“You’re fucking kidding me - it was that bitch?”. The senior boy’s voice cuts through the nighttime quiet abruptly. Struggling to stitch together the context of the overheard conversation, you force your sore body to sit up as well. From how it sounds, it seems like Ten is on a phone call.

You look at your boyfriend for confirmation. With a nod, the two of you mutually agree to silently withdraw from the comfort of the covers and get dressed.

“I don’t - listen to me, do they know for sure?,” Ten asks anxiously from the other side of the door.

With increasing concern, you hastily pick up your wet, discarded clothing. The cold, uncomfortable sensation makes you wince. Mark grabs your wrist, preventing you from putting on the still-soaked yoga pants. Shaking his head, he takes the garment and tosses it over his desk chair. From his dresser, he hands you a dry set of his own clothing.

The gesture makes you smile and you gratefully pull on the warm sweats and hoodie. They’re obscenely large for your frame, but it’s a sure upgrade from your sad, rain-ruined outfit. Mark ruffles your hair, cheeks like strawberries as he kneels down without a word to roll up your pants.

A small giggle escapes your lips. He’s just seen you naked, but of course it’s this that gets him blushing.

The happy expression is quickly wiped off your face as Ten continues abruptly, anger apparent in his voice.

“Fucking hell! Hillary Choi? The bitch even admitted to it?”. The senior captain’s voice is nothing less than a yell now. Mark’s mouth hangs open in shock as he stares towards the door. The concern and shock shining in his eyes allude to how uncharacteristic his friend’s behavior is.

“Hillary Choi…,” you mutter under your breath, the name ever so familiar to your ears.

“Wait she’s…,” Mark turns his gaze to you carefully, silently confirming his correct assumption.

“She’s the one who hates me…,” you confirm bitterly with a nod.

Mark stands up, grabbing both your hands as you sit back on his bed. His expression is sad, perhaps also peppered with anger - something you’ve never seen in your boyfriend. Gently, he tugs you to your feet.

As you push the bedroom door open slightly, the common room comes into view. Ten’s figure is hunched over the kitchen sink, listening intently to the person on the other side of the phone speak. His breathing is rushed - you’ve only ever seen him this mad the day Yuna entered the hospital.

Then it all makes sense.

Opening the door fully, you reveal Jeno and Haechan sitting on the common room couch. You make eye contact with them as you and Mark stand at the doorway, listening. Their expressions tell that they’re equally as concerned as you.

Mark’s hand in yours, you tiptoe your way to join the two friends on the sofa.

“The fucking psycho bitch,” Ten spits. His hands run furiously through his raven hair as he begins pacing around. The senior sees all of you gathered together, but makes no move to acknowledge any of you other than a hard stare.

The tension is suffocating. Everyone wants to say something, but the waters seem too rough to test. Anxious glances are exchanged, but not a word leaves any of your mouths as Ten continues pacing around, the other speaker on the phone relaying more information. You conclude to wait until the call is over before you try to ask.

“Okay so she’s at the police station right now? ”.

Mark’s hand squeezes yours in silent shock.

“Okay… fuck,” Ten rubs tiredly at the bridge of his nose, “alright okay, thank you, officer. I- yeah I’m okay, thank you. Tell Yuna I’m on my way now”.

A moment of silence suspends heavily over the air as he hangs up the call. The breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes in relief as Haechan clears his throat awkwardly and takes one for the team.

“Uh…,” the sophomore calculates for a bit, eyeing the enraged senior carefully, “Ten, what’s going on?”.

For the first time ever, it seems, the mischievous boy’s voice rid itself of its usual snide tone, replaced by refreshing sincerity.

Ten sets down his hand, revealing tears building up in his previously covered eyes. Jeno doesn’t waste a second, getting off the couch without a word and wrapping his arms around his crying friend.

You hesitate before asking, “It’s Yuna’s case?”. Keeping your voice as steady as possible, you hope you’ve succeeded in masking your growing fear.

Ten sniffs, patting Jeno’s back, prompting the younger to let go. Wiping away the stray tears, he nods. Everyone waits patiently as the distraught senior calms himself down with deep breaths.

“They caught the person who tried to kill her- or is it people? I don’t even know. And yes - they tried to kill her,” Ten rubs a stressed finger between his brow, “It was Hillary Choi, some junior girl who’s obsessed with Mark - she’s in our fanclub or whatever. They said she confessed it was all part of a plan? I don’t- I don’t know,” his voice breaks off as he tugs at his hair before heading over to grab his keys.

“Wait, I don’t understand. If she’s obsessed with me why would she go try to hurt Yuna?,” Mark’s voice rings with alarm. A sinking feeling of dread sits in your stomach like a block of cement.

“It’s-,” Ten huffs into his hands, “let’s go to the station first and the bitch can tell you herself, she’s there apparently. Yuna is too. I don’t want to keep Yuna waiting there alone any longer so let’s go”.

The drive is silent, save the rumbling of the pavement below the car’s tires. Mark’s hand grips yours like a vice, but you don’t say anything. In fact, it kind of keeps you grounded as your anxiety goes through the roof. You’re no Sherlock, but hearing news that a girl who’s obsessed with your boyfriend (as has been sending you hate messages for months, no less) tried to kill your best friend, almost succeeding, bodes terribly for you.

It had stopped raining a while ago and the five of you hurry your way through the fresh puddles dotting the police station lot.

“Yuna?,” Ten calls out as the glass doors slide open.

“Here,” a weak reply voices from behind a partition.

Rushing over, you see that Yuna’s usual perfect composition is instead worn-down: her platinum blonde hair falls limply down her shoulders and her face is gaunt with distress.

You had just seen her a few hours ago and she was even the one comforting you then. But now it’s your turn as you carefully kneel down beside her chair and pull her instinctively into a hug.

“Officer, can you please tell us what’s going on?,” Mark stops a nearby woman in uniform.

“You’re all friends of Ms. Kim?,” she inquires, continuing as a chorus of confirmations fills the room, “Okay, just a second”.

The woman appears visibly tired, probably pulled out of bed at an ungodly hour to cover this shift. Taking a long sip of her coffee, the white curls of steam prance around the air as you itch for answers. Setting the hot beverage down on the desk beside her, she straightens her badge. ‘Detective Jeong’, it reads.

“We have a confession,” Jeong relays finally, “earlier today- or yesterday, I should say- we received a call from our traffic security team detailing that they spotted the same model of car as the one thought to be involved with the accident on September 15th the uh-,” she stops to check her clipboard, “black 2018 Audi A4. We issued a warrant to interrogate the driver as quickly as possible, although not much was needed since the perpetrator, Miss Hillary Choi, confessed to the hit and run almost immediately”.

You hug Yuna tighter, Ten embracing from her other side.

“You have the confession, did she say why?,” Jeno asks sternly.

“This is where it gets slightly more complicated and I want to ask, is a Miss y/n here?”.

The mention of your name makes you perk up, surprised.

“That’s me,” you stand up slowly, “why?”.

Mark places a hand at the small of your back in concern.

“y/n…,” Yuna sobs softly, gripping your arm. A thousand thoughts run through your head as your struggle to understand what is happening.

“Yes?,” you brush the fallen strands of hair behind her ear.

“I want her to say it,” Yuna directs, speaking to the detective now.

“Now we do have Miss Choi in our custody right now, but you’ll have to move back into the interrogation room if you wish to speak with her, for safety reasons”.

You nod, helping Yuna onto her crutches as everyone moves towards the back of the station. It feels as if you’re dreaming, that reality has separated itself into a different plane than the one you’re in and your existence has become but a construct. Your legs move on autopilot while your eyes are fixed ahead, but not really looking at anything in particular.

The room you enter is dark and stuffy. Even with Haechan and Jeno opting to wait outside, it is far too crowded for the four of you. The room is divided into two; the other side is fully visible but unreachable due to a large plexiglass window in between. It’s eerily isolating. Yuna is ushered onto the only fold-up chair on your side of the room.

As the late-night officers go to bring Hillary in, the apprehension in the air is thick enough to be spread on your breakfast toast. The only comfort that comes to you is Mark’s arms wrapped around your waist. It’s the only thing that you can make sense of right now.

The door on the opposite side slams open suddenly, drawing a sharp gasp from you. Mark’s fingers curl protectively into your hoodie as Hillary enters.

It’s surreal. This woman - handcuffs and all - carries a plain, calm expression as she sits down casually in her own fold-up chair. You hadn’t seen her in a while, but her beady-eyed gaze is as intense as ever. The red streaks in her hair are outgrown, falling awkwardly around the bright orange of her jumpsuit.

“What’s up?,” Hillary asks, tone cool as if she were not being held for attempted murder at the moment. Her dark eyes settle on you, the arms around your waist, then back to you. Hillary’s stoic face is unreadable, yet it sends chills down your spine like a thousand spiders.

“What’s up? You absolute psycho bitch-,” Ten rails, banging on the glass barrier with a clenched fist. He pulls back as the officer gives him a warning. Yuna pulls him back to calm him down.

Your eyes don’t leave hers. They’re a dark brown, almost black, and you find yourself sinking into them - pulled into them like they’re black holes of concentrated hatred.

Closing your eyes, you pull your mind back to yourself.

For months on end, you’ve been the recipient of her constant torment. It not only affected your mental health, but almost cost you the relationship of a lifetime. This whole time, you’ve been afraid of her words, letting them eat away at your dignity from inside out until you were nearly gone.

But if you had the weapon of confidence - if you had simply chosen to stand up and reply, to say ‘no, you’re wrong’, her arrows would have fallen limp to the ground and she couldn’t have hurt you. Hurt your friend.

You open your eyes, this time staring back hard. Hillary’s expression is unfazed, but you imagine she’s surprised at your change in mentality.

“Tell me everything,” you demand firmly.

Hillary scoffs, as if the situation is amusing.

“Fuck you, tell us everything,” Ten hisses.

Hillary rolls her eyes. “Fine. Only because she wouldn’t want me to be mean to you, Ten”.

“Who?,” you ask rigidly.

“I’ll get to that, bitch,” she sneers.

“Hey, don’t call her that,” Mark warns.

The psychopath in orange laughs maniacally, though you can’t place your finger on what she finds funny.

“Funny,” she gasps for breath, slapping her knees vigorously, “funny how now you talk to me!”.

“She’s nuts,” Yuna states.

“The whole damn Planters factory,” you agree.

“You people wouldn’t know a thing!,” Hillary fires, pointing an accusing finger around the room. Her face is red from her laughing fit, almost as red as her disgruntled bangs. Eyes now glistening with rage, you press back into Mark’s embrace when her personality flips 180 degrees in under a second. “You don’t know anything!,” she screams, “You don’t know! You don’t know!”.

The four of you watch in shock as Hillary melts down, the guard coming up and restraining her to the chair. She’s thrashing around, chanting the phrase over and over again.

“You’ll never know how much I love you, Mark,” Hillary shrieks, smiling hauntingly as she’s forced back into the chair and cuffed to it, “and you’ll never know how much she loves you, Ten”.

“What the fuck?,” Ten rightfully shouts.

“Tell us who!,” you raise your voice.

“I’m getting there, b-,” she stops in the middle of the slur, glancing at your boyfriend. In the blink of an eye, her expression jumps from pure disdain to sickly sweet, “baby”.

Anger flushes through your body. Wanting to provoke her a little, you turn your gaze to your boyfriend. Predictably, he immediately turns his full attention to you. A scrunch of his brow asks you if you’re okay.

“Did you enjoy them?,” Hillary’s voice is ‘normal’ again as she asks the out-of-context question.

“What?,” Ten pries, unamused.

“Did you,” she points her finger directly at you, “enjoy my messages?”.

Oh boy, oh boy. I was waiting for you to ask that.

The words rush to your mouth, every comeback you’ve ever made manifesting into the pinnacle of all comebacks, “As a matter of fact, I did,” you smile brightly, “I especially enjoyed the one’s where you said Mark doesn’t love me and doesn’t want me. I like to think of the irony of it all when we’re sleeping together and he gives me these”.

You tug down the collar of your hoodie (that’s actually his which makes it even better) to reveal the hickies blooming down your neck. “If only you could know how good it feels, but you’re undoubtedly alone”.

Yuna snickers beside you, but Mark’s signature laugh shamelessly fills the limited space around you. The mood of the room changes completely at your words, the seriousness dissipating like sugar in hot water. It’s so refreshing, the feeling of being in control of yourself. Hillary, the person you used to be so afraid of looks so small in her isolation. There’s nothing to her at all, now that you know to stand up for yourself. You’ve never felt so… powerful.

In any other situation, you would have died in embarrassment from sharing personal information like that, but you’re on a roll. And it’s bitch ass Hillary we’re talking about here. Even Ten looks mildly impressed by your new attitude, a tiny smile quirked on his lips.

“You-,” Hillary pouts, “how could you, Mark, how could you do this to me? You and I both know we loved each other first. We still love each other”.

“I have literally no idea what you mean,” Mark emphasizes, moving his hands to grip your shoulders, “you need some serious help, man”.

“I’ll fucking kill you!,” she screams at you again.

“No you won’t,” you chuckle, “you’re locked up! At this point it’s a little amusing.

“You wanna know what the plan was? Me and Seojung were gonna kill you both. I take the bitch that’s dating Ten and she takes the slut who took Mark from me. I got so close, following you, blondie, to the party, but you just had to live-”

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Sick psycho oh my god”

“Yeah good luck doing that from prison, asshole”

The room erupts in replies that cut her off.

“Alright, time’s up,” the guard announces. The door on your side of the room opens, a gust of cool air welcoming you as Detective Jeong appears to usher you out. Turning around to give Hillary one last word as the officer drags her back to her cell, you’re not surprised to meet her menacing eyes.

“He loves me,” you state confidently, “and he always will. Enjoy hell”.

With that, the door shuts behind her and the worst chapter of your life dots its last concluding period. It’s the last one that you’ll let someone else write for you. You’re more than ready to pick up the pen and turn the next page. Excitedly, you head out to your friends waiting on you outside.

“Don’t worry, we’ve monitored that whole conversation and everything will be used against her in court,” Jeong assures, “Miss y/n, you might remember Choi mentioned a ‘Seojung’ and we want to make sure you know that she has been detained and held at the Gangnam Police Station. We’re waiting on her statement, but if what Choi testified is true, we’re looking at life in prison for both parties”.

“Not death?,” Ten scoffs.

“Not death, no,” the detective shakes her head.

“So basically, they’re both insane. And they did all this because they thought Ten and Mark belonged to them,” Haechan follows slowly, having just been filled in.

“We gotta put an end to this fanclub shit. Why are our lives controlled by these freaks,” Jeno groans.

He’s right. He’s so right. The whole thing is disgusting, especially when none of the Lee’s ever asked for it to be formed. If it’s already gotten to the point where members are caught in homicidal attempts, there’s no way the Lovelees club can continue to exist.

The station is nearly empty now, almost all of the officers handling the case calling it a night and heading home. Not wanting to keep Detective Jeong any longer, the six of you head out to the car. It’s nearly four in the morning and the adrenaline is wearing off, exhaustion replacing it.

“Hey but y/n, you were so good in there,” Yuna smiles, bumping you with her shoulder as you walk through the parking lot. The night air is cold against your skin, filled with the scent of petrichor.

“Yeah, you,” Mark looks at you with doe eyes, arm slung around your shoulders.

Letting out a short laugh, you press your lips quickly to his cheek.

“And I’m assuming based on how this looks, the conversation went well?,” Yuna adds.

“Only thanks to you,” you appreciate, turning from your best friend to Mark, “I think we’re all good now”.

Mark beams at you as Ten unlocks his car, bringing you in for an elated kiss.

Groans erupt from all around.

“You’ve seriously been going at it all night, none of us have gotten any sleep,” Haechan whines loudly.

“Bruh,” says Jeno.

“Then get yourself a girlfriend, fatass, I don’t know what to say,” Mark retaliates.

You reluctantly pull away as everyone piles into the vehicle. Haechan, you don’t feel bad for. He could cry and pout all day and you wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Jeno, is a different story.

Memories of earlier cause your fingers to curl up in cringe; the way he was minding his own business in his own room only to be caught in the middle of your… make-up methods.

“Hey…,” you apologize as you cram into the seat next to him, “I’m uh- I’m sorry about earlier”.

“I don’t want to talk about it”. The blue-haired boy massages the crease between his brows, stressed.

“Right okay,” you nod.

“Not to ruin the mood, but are you okay y/n? I feel like we’re moving too fast past what you’ve been dealing with for the past few months. I mean… I just want to make sure I’m not in the dark about your feelings again,” Mark asks softly.

Silence falls upon the car as the group awaits your answer. You look to the passenger seat, to Yuna, as Ten cruises down the city street.

“I’ll never forgive her,” you finally admit, “either one of them. They can literally rot in hell for all I care. But for me, I’m okay. If anything, this whole thing has taught me a lot and I’ve grown a lot from it. Both of them are locked up, so I’m not scared anymore. Oddly, I feel really free”.

Packed into a tiny car, cruising down the streets of Seoul, you admire the friends around you. You’re surrounded by love. Your best friend and the love of her life. Your soulmate and his two best friends (who have become like family to you). Back on campus, Hope and Lisa sleep away, unaware of the chaos of today. You can imagine the looks on their faces as Yuna and you fill them in. Irreplaceable, every one of them.

Life is full of way too many amazing things for any number of crazy bitches to ruin. Just as your friends have become irreplaceable to you, you are irreplaceable to them too. It’s due time that you give some credit to yourself.

I am truly confident. I am worthy. I am loved.

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astxrissm · 3 years

Text

tea, anyone?

Pairing: Levi Ackerman (tea shop/modern day AU) x Reader

Summary: The best part of your day is when Levi Ackerman visits you in your tea shop. However, schedules don’t always work out as planned.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: My first fic in... oh geez, has it already been four months? YEAH things got crazy with school and stuff, but now I’m back(for good, hopefully, fingers crossed LOL)! Expect to be getting a lot more Levi fanfics soon, aot is my officially my new obsession 😳

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

My mind wanders as my eyes flit past the draped shop window, searching for the familiar figure. It’s almost time- and he’s never late. Maybe this time he’ll be wearing his black trenchcoat or the patterned scarf that he knows I love so much. It’s been so windy today, maybe his hair will be a wild mess. Then I’ll tell him how funny he looks, and he’ll give me that scowl. The one that-

“...and that’ll be all for me.” the woman finishes with a satisfied nod.

“Right,” I say, snapping out of my daze. I lean down to finish the order form, hoping that the woman didn’t notice me spacing out. It’s been difficult focusing today, for whatever reason. Things only get worse as the day goes on, as the thought of Levi visiting my shop clouds my mind, distracting me. Sometimes it’s worse than others-usually when I’m busy, time flies by so quickly that I have to do a double-take when I see him walking through the front door. Other days, when there aren’t as many customers, I find myself counting down the minutes until his arrival. Usually, I’m able to focus, but today is definitely one of my worst by far.

CLANG.

I jolt, the hand that holds my pen scribbling across the order. It proceeds to fling out of my hand and onto the floor with a clatter. Quickly, I swoop down to pick it up, standing up so fast that I can feel the blood rush to my head. When I glance back down at the paper, a dark, deep line has covered the bottom of the order, making a couple of the written items almost unreadable.

But that’s the least of my problems right now.

“Sorry Ma’am, did you say that you wanted anything else?” I ask, trying my hardest to ignore the sounds coming from the back kitchen. Something obviously has happened, but I need to finish this woman’s order first. I’ll just pray that the delivery people don’t break anything else in the process.

The old woman’s eyes flick to the back door, an amused smile spreading across her thin lips. “It sounds like someone’s dropped something.”

An awkward laugh escapes my mouth and I cast a hurried glance back at the door. “Yes, it’s probably the delivery crew. Let’s just hope they didn’t drop my new order of china.”

“Oh my, that would be terrible! You don’t think that…”

I smile and nod as the conversation continues on, seeming to drag on forever. The sounds in the storage room seem to have muffled after the original crash, but that’s hardly a good sign. If I were to put money on it, I would say that whoever’s back there is trying to clean up whatever they can before I find them. After all, this is the second time this month there’s been an… incident.

When the woman finally says her goodbyes and shuffles over to a back table, I whip around and make my way to the door as fast as I can. My mind is racing through so many scenarios that I can barely even focus on one. Did one of the flour bags explode? Maybe one of them slipped? Or maybe it really was the china, and I’ll have to figure out some way to make enough money to buy more.

I don’t have to wait long to figure it out, because, within a matter of seconds, the door is swinging open.

It takes me a moment to process the sight in front of me. First, my eyes land on the two regular delivery workers. Both are highschoolers-Amy, with her eyes just about as round as her glasses, and Jin, with his jet-black hair and disapproving stare. They’re locked in a furious whispering argument- at least, Jin is arguing. Amy seems to be doing a lot of sniffling and shaking her head.

They both stop as soon as they hear the door opening, their gazes snapping to mine. It’s when they turn that I can see the mess on the floor.

“I-I don’t know how it happened!” Amy exclaims, seeing where I’m looking. Tears stream down her face as she talks but she doesn’t seem to notice them in her fit. She clutches the half-empty bag of matcha to her chest, the rest spilled on the floor and down the front of her apron. It coats the tiles, sprinkling the previously white floor with blotches of green.

Jin only rolls his eyes and raises his arms exasperatedly. “What do you mean you don’t know how it happened? You tripped and fell-”

“Guys.” I cut in, and they both stop, glancing over at me. “It’s fine. I’ll just clean it up.”

Amy’s eyes widen even more. “But that was your only order this-”

“I said it’s fine.” I repeat, the words coming out sharper than I intended. Amy flinches, and regret shoots through me instantly. “Just get me a broom from the supply room, would you?” I ask, softer this time. She nods quickly, not wasting a second to hand off the bag to me and escape through the door.

I sigh as I glance into the bag. Amy was right- this is the only order of matcha I have this month. Considering how much of a staple it is in so many drinks, I doubt that I’ll be able to get by with it, even with the other container I have.

“Do you need help cleaning up?” Jin asks, tearing me from my thoughts. His brow is furrowed as he gazes at me, seeming to try to read just how much this is going to cost me. Even though he and Amy are a good decade younger than me, they’ve always had a special concern for my tea shop. The whole of their high school does, as a matter of fact. The shop is at its best when on a Friday afternoon, students coming filling in to catch up and get their special drinks. The babble of conversation washes over the shop, filling the room to the brim with warmth.

And of course, Levi sitting at the table closest to the register, ‘reading’ or ‘catching up on his work’. I know that he sure as hell isn’t paying attention to the words when I talk to a student by the register or flit past him on my way to bringing out an order. Our time together is always so short, there seems to never be enough. The glances we sneak at each other, the shared conversation when no one is ordering- those are our best moments in my shop. The times when it seems that there isn’t anything else in the world- only him, me, and the cup of black tea between us.

I glance back at Jin’s concerned expression, turning my mind back to the present. The number of times I’ve consoled Amy, given advice to Jin. If any of the students care about my shop the most, it’s those two.

But I only shake my head. “It shouldn’t take too long. You can just unload the rest of the things.” Jin casts me a doubtful glance but begins to turn around. But just as he’s about to exit the building, I call out to him. “Oh, but also… try to be easier on Amy, alright?” he opens his mouth as if to say something, but seals it shut a moment later, giving a curt nod.

I hate to mom him, but he knows what he’s doing isn’t right. I can always tell when he’s at his worse- Amy cries when she’s upset, he gets angry. Neither of them needs any more stress in their lives, especially not from each other.

Just as I hear him open the back door to retrieve more boxes from the truck, Amy rushes through the entryway to the kitchen. She clutches the broom in one hand, a dustpan in the other. Her tears have dried in streaks down her face, and her eyes are still red. But she seems to have been able to compose herself enough to slow her breathing.

“Thanks, Amy! You can just get through the things already in here.” I amend. She nods and moves towards the rest of the unpacked boxes, seeming to still not trust herself to talk.

I turn around swiftly, bending down to clean up the spilled matcha. She’ll come to, I know it. Jin is frequently short with her, I have a feeling there’s a deeper meaning behind his frustration. It’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to the two of them about for the past couple of weeks, but I just haven’t been able to find the time.

Add that to the list, I think as I sweep the matcha into the dustpan. As my thoughts turn to my to-do list, they increase the pace. With a start and a glance at my watch, I realize that Levi should be here. Him and probably a million other customers that I’ll need their orders taken.

As fast as I can, I polish the powder off the floor and scoop it into the trash. I need to get that first woman’s order together, refill the coffee beans, check the-

Pushing open the door, I catch a glimpse of someone waiting at the counter of the corner of my eye. “Hi there, how may I-”

But I break off mid-sentence when I see who it is, a slow grin breaking over my face.

“Levi, what a nice surprise,” I say steadily, moving over to the front of the counter. He gazes back at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Even though to most his expression would look impassive, I can tell just how happy he is to see me by the way his eyes twinkle, how his hand twitches at his side. Everything is subtle with Levi- you just have to figure out where to look.

“Hello, (y/n),” he says, resting ever-so-slightly against the register.

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, my eyes reflected in his steely gray ones, amusement flickering behind the depths. I tease him for a few more moments before I break the silence, leaning away and picking up a pen. “Your regular, I presume?”

He opens his mouth to speak but is promptly cut off by the slamming of the back door.

I turn around to find Amy standing in the doorway. “H-hi (y/n).” she starts, her eyes flicking briefly to Levi before looking hurriedly away. “I finished unpacking the boxes. Do you want me to run the shop so that you can go out?”

My eyes widen, and it takes a moment for her words to process. “Really? Are you sure you can manage the shop by yourself?”

“She won’t have to.” another voice speaks up, and Amy whips around. Jin steps beside her, emerging from the storage room. He awkwardly glances down at her. “That is, if you’ll accept my help,” he adds.

“Of course!” Amy responds quickly. “At least, don’t yell at me anymore.” she amends, glancing up at him uncertainly.

Jin looks away, resting a hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Aw, okay, while you two make up I’m going to head out,” I say, shucking off my apron and tossing it into the back room. I ignore their mutters of dispute and push open the half-door, joining Levi’s side.

“You can never resist, huh?” he asks as he glances back at Amy and Jin, who are now setting up shop and talking in hushed tones.

I smile at him contently, taking his hand and bumping our shoulders together. “No, I can’t.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, really smiling now. It nearly takes my breath away. “Where are we going?”

I shoulder open the door, a cool breeze drifting over us as we step outside. “Somewhere in the city. Somewhere beautiful.”

“But your tea shop is the best place here,” he says, pulling a face and looking over at me reproachfully.

But I only wink at him, squeezing his hand. “Trust me, I’ll make it up to you.”

(Uhm, part 2 anyone?? I had a lot of fun writing this, I might write a second part if I get enough requests! Hope you all enjoyed 💖)

#levi ackerman #aot x y/n #aot #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #levi ackerman x reader #levi attack on titan #levi x reader #levi x oc #levi x y/n #tea shop au #fanficiton #fanfic #levi ackerman x you

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