#but basically never get offered the job. are people unnerved by it? do they think i do it on purpose?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joonapeach · 3 years

Text

skylines (nj)

college!au, where namjoon openly chases you and you love running from those advances. that is, until everyone in your architecture department finds out you’re the daughter of the man behind the biggest architecture firm in the country.

alternatively... namjoon is a simp for you until he’s suddenly not

author’s note: sometimes i just wanna write for the fun of it and not take life so seriously so this is what i churned out. 8.8k words of some minor pining and mini character development for our oc because tbh, being a student sucks and you get so caught up in your insecurity sometimes

also reposted on ao3

[this is fluff and light-hearted, with a bit of a rivalry trope, 8.8k words]

You love skylines.

From when you were six years old with short legs, you remember craning your neck up high to see each building that surrounded you. At that age, the world seemed big and you seemed small but you loved it. You loved seeing the world build and function around you.

From then on outwards began your decades-long relationship with your first love - buildings.

Well, you called it buildings and your father called it architecture. You were the daughter of his dreams, his proclaimed legacy. What luck I have, he would say, that I have a daughter who will grow up to work beside me.

Growing up, those comments were your food for the day. You would eat up his encouragements and cheers throughout high school, serving him back your high grades on a gold platter.

This is the way you’ve worked through your past nineteen years. It’s a little basic, maybe, but you’ve operated on your father’s ambition for you.

But like all good things, even that seemed to come to an end. Since entering university and embarking on your path as an architecture major, the once comforting encouragement has slowly changed to a choking chain around you.

You’ve learnt a lot in two semesters at university. You’ve learnt how to finish assignments the night before, how to memorize historical names and dates minutes before an exam, you’ve learnt how fun it can be to be with your friends.

But most of all, you’ve learnt that… you’re not special.

You’re surrounded by overachievers, all like you, all perhaps better than you in some way. You’re the daughter of the man behind HN Architects, but some of your classmates look like they’re on their way to the top of the chain.

You always thought you deserved your seat, your privilege, because you’d worked for it. These days, it doesn’t seem much like that. And you worry that your father is thinking the very same thing.

Let’s finish this assignment, you sigh, there’s not much left. Let’s do it, you give yourself a pep talk, fighting back a yawn at the practically empty library before dawn.

Books crash down on your table, right beside you. You shake, being pulled so abruptly out of your reverie. Although maybe you should be thankful, for the sleep that was threatening your productivity seems to have run away from the sound.

“Excuse me,” you scoff loudly, making your presence known to the disturbance.

From above the tower of books on the desk, peeks out a familiar dimpled smile. His eyes glint with mischief and despite the early hours of the day, his face reads no exhaustion.

“You’re excused.”

You groan. “There’s an entire empty library, you can only sit here?”

“Studying is more fun with company,” he retorts with a grin.

“It’s studying. It’s not meant to be fun,” you reply, hostile. “Didn’t I tell you to stop showing up in front of me with no purpose?’

He smiles again, confidently with his eyes unmoving from you. It’s almost unnerving, how much you see Namjoon smile in front of you. Architecture students are not meant to be this happy. They aren’t meant to carry a warm smile everywhere they go, looking at people with such attentive intensity.

“I haven’t shown up without a purpose though,” he says. “I came to ask for help with the assignment.”

This time, you smile. But your smile is one of disbelief and amusement.

“Yes, that’s very believable, Namjoon,” you cock a brow. “You’re the one finishing assignments a week early and screwing up the curve for everyone but I’m sure I could help you with whatever you need.”

He grins, taking a seat next to you. “Hey, sometimes even I need help,” he replies but then pauses. “Ah, you’re right. I should’ve gone with coming to offer you help. That’s a lot more believable.”

“I don’t need your help,” you argue. “Stop showing up in front of me. And stop subtly flexing in front of me. It’s nauseating.”

He throws his head back and laughs. He looks so happy that it almost stirs a scary, fluttering feeling in your stomach. “You should be the last person to feel jealous of me, _____.”

You glare at him. “Yeah, because I’m the one who threatens your ranking?”

He shakes his head. “No, because I would help you with everything if you just asked.”

You still, for a moment. His words lull over in your head and they feel a bit weird. Your major is competitive and cut-throat, even if it doesn’t appear it. To you, Namjoon is your biggest rival, your biggest worry because you can never match up to him.

“Well, I’m not asking you for a thing. Is there really nothing you stress over?”

“No, there is. I just don’t cry over my textbook the nights before exams.”

“That was one time,” you mumble, infuriated. “And I had every right to be crying that night. It was the hardest exam that term and I have big shoes to fill. I can’t afford to be bothering people, like you,” you say with an intentional offense.

He takes none. “Big shoes? Who’s putting expectations on you?”

“Just some family. Stop being nosy,” you say swiftly. “And you didn’t even tell me. What do you stress over?”

He pauses, not giving a response for a moment. You wonder if it’s because there’s really nothing he stresses over. You wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. While you and your friends have all cracked under the pressure of your degree, you especially with the added burden of your father… Namjoon has not once shown signs of struggle. He walks through life with that smile every day.

“Finding work,” he says after a while.

“Huh?”

He meets your eyes. “You asked me what I worry about. I worry about finding work when I graduate,” he says sincerely.

You bite back a rude laugh. “Please, Namjoon. Get real,” you roll your eyes. “You really think you can worry about that? You were the top of our class all last year.”

You don’t do a good job of hiding your envy, but it’s beyond you to care at this point. You’ve become this person now. The one who seeks everything out of their number on the paper.

“But I don’t have any connections. I come from a village, practically, as you like to call it,” he says with a chuckle. It stings you a little, he’s referring to the time you and your friends had put him down out of jealousy with those words. But he doesn’t say it like it bothers him. He says it like it’s true.

“So?” you say, looking away from him and back on your sheet. “You don’t always need connections.”

“Not always, but a lot of the time,” he shrugs.

“Any company who takes a look at your record and speaks to you for five minutes would want you, Namjoon,” you exhale, knowing your words are 100% true. You think about your father, about HN Architects. Namjoon’s the kind of guy who your father wouldn’t think twice about hiring. He’s the epitome of someone who could fill any shoes you gave him.

You scoff bitterly. “Wait a second. Why am I comforting you right now? You’re a success story in the making,” you snap and he laughs, even though you didn’t intend it to be a joke. “You should be comforting me, you idiot. I don’t even know if I’ll have Mr. Labadee’s assignment done in time for submission!”

He puts his hands up. “Okay, okay, don’t worry. Why do you think I’m here?” he looks away, still smiling as he takes the pencil from your hand and moves closer to the sheet.

“What?” you say, watching the way his eyebrows furrow and his eyes scan the paper. He’s losing himself in the sheet now, and it feels like watching a prodigy at work. You picture this is what it would feel like to watch Bill Gates code on a computer before he formally started his career or watching The Beatles pen a song before they made it big.

“Hm?”

“Did you come here for me?” you ask and for a split second, you see his eyes shift. “Did Chae tell you I was here?”

He doesn’t respond, instead focusing on the assignment. “Your calculation is wrong here. Look,” he says, pointing at a section. As he explains your mistake, you smile satisfied.

He doesn’t need to admit it. You two have gone through this very situation so many times now, that you both know it’s true. Namjoon always comes for you.

You have kept your background, your family, extremely private since joining university.

In high school, you made the mistake of letting people know that you were the daughter of HN Architects. It resulted in years of people smooching up to you, gossiping behind your back, mean assumptions, and just a general nightmare.

That nightmare would only multiply if your friends here found out about it. They were all architect majors, all in the same cut-throat degree, and you came from privilege.

It scared you, knowing what could happen if they ever found out. You begged your family to make sure that nothing would tie you to them here, keeping your name different on the registrar, not publishing photos of you in the paper. You couldn’t risk all the friends and relationships you made. Even if they said things won’t change, you know they would. They always do.

“I need to sleep for 10 years,” you mumble, falling on your bed.

“Fuck this, I wish I was you right now,” Chae cries from her side of the room. “I’ve got one more submission.”

“I woke up at 4 to finish it so you should be fine,” you laugh, looking at her. “And did you send Namjoon to me?”

Chae fights a smile on her face. You sigh, knowing you’ve opened Pandora's box.

“He came to me asking about you last night. I told him you were sleeping, but you’d be at the library at 5 working on the assignment,” she smirks cheekily. “Why, did he come?” she asks, not hiding the overly inquisitive edge to her question.

You say nothing, deciding to turn on your laptop.

“He did!” she screams and your eyes widen, telling her to be quiet. “Sorry! I just can’t help it. That’s so sweet,” she squeals.

“Stop sending him after me. You’re encouraging him.”

“You’re encouraging him!” she counters. “You let him help you with your assignment, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“And you showed up at his dorm last week for notes, didn’t you?”

“Okay, but-”

“And you told him off for helping Eun like four days ago, remember?”

“Chae,” you stop her, sternly. “Have you lost your mind? Don’t you realize what all those things have in common?”

“They all are evidence of the fact that you reciprocate his year-long courtship?”

You roll your eyes. “No, idiot. All these things are work-related. I can’t afford to be falling behind, and I need his help.”

“Okay, but you were jealous of Eun-”

“I was annoyed that he was helping other people score higher! The last thing I need right now is the lazy kids of the class becoming my competition too,” you complain, grumbling.

Chae stares you down. “_____, not everything is about your degree,” she says light-heartedly, but you know your statement bothers her.

Exhaling, you shut your eyes. You hate it when conversations come to this. Sometimes, you wish you could just tell people which family you came from. Maybe it would do them good, to make them realize that yes, for you, everything is about your degree. Everything in your life revolves around being successful in this path.

You were cynical but at least you were real. You admitted things the way they were, when competition was competition, you said it, and when you needed something, you asked for it. That made it okay, you told yourself.

And when it comes to Namjoon… it’s especially okay. He’s both the only reason you’re hanging on okay in your degree, and the reason you feel insecure. You wonder how it can be that someone like him exists.

“Anyways, are you really gonna leave talking about Joon there?” Chae scoffs. “He’s liked you since we started. You really won’t do anything about it?”

“Namjoon is nothing but another classmate that stresses me out, Chae. I don’t see him that way. I just like his work ethic.”

Chae laughs. “You’re so skewed, honestly. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Why, are you planning on ratting me out to him again?”

“No, silly,” she laughs, although you both know it’s likely she’d do it again. “Let’s go to the Autumn fair tomorrow. After I submit.”

“The fair? You mean those three stalls they set up and call it an event?”

She frowns. “Don’t be mean. Hobi and the others have really been working hard on it this year. It’ll be nicer than the last, I promise.”

“As long as there are at least 10 booths this year.”

“You’re too mean for your own good, _____,” she says, tsk-ing. “One day, you’ll see what it’s like to be on the other end.”

Your overactive imagination always paints a skyline for you, where there’s an empty space. You can always picture different styles of buildings, standing together, making a city.

It’s at times like those you realize that even if you wanted to give up, even if you tried to pursue something else, your heart will always come back to this. There is nothing more that belonged to you than this.

Even if it’d become difficult now, it didn’t matter. It became a source of worry more than an outlet of passion, but it’s still your calling. You can’t give up on something you love this much.

“Your toffee apple is dripping,” you hear his voice before you see him.

You want to turn and snap at him but the sticky toffee syrup that falls onto your fingers stops you.

“Ugh,” you groan, trying to fix it. Namjoon’s hand comes out with a tissue, quickly wiping your fingers without a word. Even after he’s done, the sticky feeling remains. “I should just throw this away.”

He laughs. “Let’s get candy corn.”

“No, thanks, I have to go find Chae and Yuna.”

Even though you step away, you hear his footsteps almost immediately behind you.

“What’s the rush?” he says, catching up beside you. When you two walk together like this, his tall figure towers over in a way that makes you feel small. “Shouldn’t you offer to buy me candy corn? Did you forget how I helped you at 5 in the morning two days ago for Professor Labadee’s class?”

“You chose to wake up at that time, not me,” you say, keeping your eyes trained ahead. You weren’t expecting much from this fair, but the students had done well. Bright fairy lights decorate the lamp posts around you and along the long path, dozens of stalls are set up. It all feels a little bit like a movie.

“As long as you got it done,” he says under his breath. You dare to take a glimpse of him and inhale sharply. He’s wearing his smile, he always is, but the fairy lights reflect on his face, illuminating him like an angel. Everything about him feels good.

You look away almost immediately. “Stop following me Namjoon,” you say, stopping at a trinkets stall and smiling at the girl behind the table.

“But I like seeing you outside of architecture things,” he grins confidently.

You opt to ignore him, asking the price of something that catches your eye.

He cranes his neck to see what it is. “Want me to get it for you?”

You quickly counter. “Absolutely not,” you say, handing over your money notes.

“You’re really buying an ornament of buildings?” he cocks a brow. “Don’t you want something like this instead?” he picks up a small snow globe, shaking it so the snow moves. The globe is miniscule to begin with, but you notice how in his hands, it looks almost tiny.

“What can I say? I like buildings.”

He smiles. “More than people, maybe.”

You sigh, ignoring his statement. Once you get the paper bag with your purchase inside, you keep walking ahead. You count to three before you hear his footsteps mimic yours.

“I’ll buy you candy corn, then you leave me alone,” you turn to say to him. “It’s not good that you’re always showing up where I am.”

He nods like an obedient puppy. Then he frowns and asks, “why is it not good?”

When you don’t respond, focusing on walking to the candy booth, he adds, “is it not good for you? Getting attached to me now?”

You don’t have to see his face to know he’s doing his goofy smile again. “It’s not good for you to keep going through these many rejections in a lifetime.”

He laughs, your words not bothering him the slightest. Standing in front of the candy booth, Jungkook and Jae, two of your architect classmates greet you.

“Hey Joon! Aw, you two hanging out again?” Jae smiles widely as if he’s in some big secret. You roll your eyes, not saying a word but pointing to the candy corn.

“_____ is treating me to candy corn. Isn’t she sweet?”

“I’m not treating you out of kindness, I’m doing it so you feel compensated for your efforts with my assignment.”

Jungkook and Jae share an amused look that you almost miss. Shuffling through your pocket, you start counting the money to give. As you hand over the money to Jae, Jungkook places a brown paper bag in Namjoon’s hands.

“You two enjoy yourselves,” Jungkook beams brightly.

You scoff. “Is there really such a thing as enjoyment when I have him on my tail?”

Without bidding them a proper goodbye, you walk away from the stall, leaving the three standing. Like clockwork, Namjoon is beside you again.

“Here,” he says, and suddenly the bag of candy corn is in your hands.

You raise a brow. “What are you giving this to me for? You were the one who wanted it.”

“You were eating a sad, overpriced toffee apple. This should be for you too.”

“Namjoon.” You give him a look, but he pays no mind.

Without saying anything more, you two walk together in silence. It didn’t intend to be this way, but it feels nice now. You feel good that you were dragged out of a cycle of the bedroom to the classroom to the library for once.

Of course, it’s weird that amidst all this, Namjoon is the one beside you. Usually, when you see him, your mind wanders to the place that curses him for being everything you wish you were. But tonight, you’re laying off those thoughts.

Staring at the crowd around the speakers, you two pause for a bit. You see Chae and Yuna, along with your other coursemates all together.

Still beside you, Namjoon speaks out of the blue. “Why don’t you call me Joon?”

“What do you mean? I didn’t realize I was required to,” you shrug at the random question. “I don’t know you like that.”

“Everyone in our class calls me Joon. Even your group member who I met that one time is calling me Joon,” he argues. “You know me better than all those people. If anything, you should be the only one.”

“What are you on about? I don’t know you at all,” you throw a blank look his way. “And don’t argue that we spend a lot of time together. You follow me around and show up where I am. That’s not spending time together.”

“We’re spending time together right now, aren’t we?”

“It’s a first. Don’t get used to it.”

He laughs as if your cold remarks are something affectionate. “I don’t think I really could get used to seeing you outside the library, _____. You’re there more than me and I’m always studying too.”

You scoff cynically. “Are you flexing your rank again on me?”

“_____, if I cared so much about my rank, I wouldn’t be helping you with work all the time,” he laughs, amused.

“I don’t know. Maybe helping me is all part of your plan to keep beating me,” you say. “Isn’t this just a power move? You always showing up to help me.”

He laughs again before his stare stills on you. His eyes are bright and sparkling… or is it just the effect of the stupid fairy lights? You can hardly tell.

Despite yourself, it all makes your stomach drop. You hate it when Namjoon shows up unannounced in your life, but more than that, you hate it when he gives you this kind of look. Like he can’t look anywhere else but at you.

“More than a power move, it’s just a gesture for you.”

The fluttering feeling worsens and you blink. You choose to say nothing, instead staring ahead at the view. “That is the ugliest building I’ve ever seen.”

For a second, he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Eventually, he humors you. “It’s not all that bad.”

“In my professional opinion as a future architect, that is the exact type of building I would want to bulldoze.”

“Well, in my professional opinion as another future architect, I’d say your standards are far too high.”

“I’m allowed to keep my standards high. It’s me,” you smile with a glint in your eye.

He laughs, staring at you softly. “That I can agree with.”

You taunt him playfully. “You’re so predictable. Does it not get tiring hanging off my every word?”

He shakes his head loyally. “Absolutely not. I think everything you say is valuable and worth hanging off.”

“How lame,” you joke although you two share a smile. It’s true, he is a little predictable. But it’s Namjoon’s predictability that at times, catches you off guard. It’s fun, knowing that he’s two steps behind you wherever you are.

A warm feeling stirs in your body and you wonder if it’s the autumn air. Glancing up at Namjoon, the same air ruffles his hair endearingly and you tear yourself away from staring at it.

“I’m only gonna say it once so if there’s any word of mine you wanna hang off, it’s this,” you say before shoving the bag of candy corn back into his hands. “Power move or not, thanks for helping me. I really need it sometimes and I appreciate it.”

The grin on his face widens. “One more time, I didn’t hang off it enough!”

“I told you, only one time.”

“But the music was so loud, I couldn’t hear you well.”

“Too bad.”

“Come on, _____, take pity on me.”

“Shut up and eat your candy corn.”

You find yourself quickly back in your routine after the Autumn fair, working on new assignments and projects till your worst nightmare comes to life unexpectedly.

“Please be on time, _____!” Chae repeats to you for the fifth time that morning.

“Chae, I’ll be there. I’ll literally run from the design building to the auditorium, okay?”

She clicks her tongue at you. “Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor by showing up. You should be excited.”

“I am. But… I mean, do we really need this kind of random assembly for our architecture department?” you groan, slipping your laptop into its case. “Can’t they just give us the extra time to work on our homework?”

“But there’ll be companies there!” she retorts, wide-eyed and excited. “Just imagine. This is like those movies, where they come and scout students and then bam, life is sorted.”

You nod, forcing a smile. You remember your privilege, knowing your worry has never once been finding work but living up to the work that was set out for you. But you could never explain that here. How could you cry about the burden that kept you so troubled when it was a burden any one of your friends would happily want?

“Okay. I’ll see you there,” you settle for a wave, walking out to leave. You rush with your bag on your back to your classroom, immersed in your lesson till the hour finishes up.

For the moments after class finishes, your mind is blank. You’re going over your homework in your head, packing your things and your eyes widen. The meeting. You almost forgot.

True to your words, you actually do end up running from the design building to the auditorium. Sprinting from your class to the auditorium proves to be a harder workout than you anticipated and your heart can’t stop racing.

Stepping inside the auditorium, you jump into the first empty seat you see at the entrance.

“Where is she?” you mumble under your breath. Your eyes shift around the room, looking for a familiar head of short black hair. Catching sight of Chae, you wave to her but she doesn’t notice you at all. Instead, she’s busy talking to a group of students all from your year.

Everyone’s sat together, cozy and comfortable in a conversation together. You can even see Namjoon in the row above Chae, chatting energetically. Your heart strangely pangs.

Sometimes, seeing everyone like this, everyone from your major and year together, made you feel more like an outsider than anything. At first, you’d chalked it up to be because of your obsession with studying and academics… but students better than you, students like Namjoon and Mina, all seemed to be doing fine.

In the end, you realized it isn’t anything to do with that. You feel like an outsider because you are one. You’ve tried your hardest to blend in, but the fact remains that you feel alone in the problems you have. You’ve kept your identity as the daughter of HN Architects a secret, you’ve kept your family pressures a secret… Now you’re alone in the burden of your struggles.

Sometimes, you’ve thought about opening up. But the thought terrifies you even more.

If you felt so alone while keeping the truth of your ambitions a secret… there’d be no telling what kind of way your friends would treat you after finding out.

“We’re lucky enough to have… here’s a representative from Canvas Corp… looking for fresh talent… Yongchan Architecture…” you’re hardly paying attention to the speakers on stage till you finally hear, “and most fortunately, the chairman of HN Architects!”

Your head shoots up so fast that it almost flies off. No fucking way.

Your father is smiling on the stage, wearing a crisp suit and greeting the architecture department heads. Without realizing it, your body cowers back into your seat as you see his eyes scan the auditorium. He must be looking for you - his daughter.

His daughter that not a single soul in this room knew was you.

Your heart goes into panic mode before you try to calm yourself down. Relax, you mutter repeatedly to yourself although it’s less effective than you thought it’d be.

Your eyes dance between your father on stage and your group of friends with Chae sitting seats away from you. Neither of them have noticed you.

Instead, your classmates are all watching your father with starstruck eyes. They’re staring at your father like he’s their idol.

Well, objectively, maybe he could be. After all, you admire your father for the very same reason every architecture student does - your father is a legend. His company has one of the best reputations in the country, which feeds your pride, and he’s nothing short of a hard-working, inspiring man.

Namjoon, in particular, is staring at your father like he can’t believe his eyes. It’s a look you’ve never seen from him before. Like he’s both nervous and thinks he’s in a dream. It’s almost endearing.

“To celebrate having the chairman of HN Architects with us today, we’ll have him say a few words!” Mr. Lim, the head of the architecture department, announces enthusiastically into the mic. He turns to your father, “do you mind?”

“Not at all!” your father grins, taking the mic before starting. “It’s my pleasure to be here today! In fact, seeing all of you reminds me of my own days as an architecture student…”

He trails off into a long speech, excitedly. You’ve been witness to every single one of your father’s inspirational speeches since the day you were born so you fight back a yawn. On the contrary, your classmates look like they’re hanging onto every single word.

As your father paces across the stage, he inches towards your side. You blink in panic, bending down but before you know it, it’s too late. His eyes sparkle with joy.

You almost worry he’s gonna wave at you mid-speech. But he doesn’t, simply shooting an overly friendly smile your way. You sneak a glance at your classmates and they’re all giving you a strange look - one that most definitely reads what the heck is he smiling at you for?

Meeting Chae’s eyes in particular, you give an awkward smile and shrug. Soon enough, your father turns to the side and you finally think you can breathe.

“That’s why I’d like to encourage you all to live up to your potential! The world is changing around you as you know it and as future architects, you can be a part of that,” your father enthusiastically continues. His eyes are on you again. “And this is what I tell my beautiful daughter everyday! She loves skylines, my dear _____, and she’s going to be a wonderful architect too!”

My life is officially over.

A little dramatic but that exact thought crosses your mind as you duck into your seat. You think you hear the collective gasp around the auditorium or maybe your ears are playing tricks on you.

No, it’s probably as bad you think it is. Your father’s called you out by name and exposed your identity that you worked so hard to conceal. Your life is quite literally over.

Oblivious to your misery, your father grins happily on stage. He returns the mic to Mr. Lim before stepping to the side. The rest of the assembly goes by without you realizing. You’re still numb to the fact of what just happened.

You risk a glance at your classmates, and in cliche movie fashion, they’re all staring at you with mouths gaping wide open. Every single one of them.

Your neck heats up and you quickly turn around. But curiosity gets the best of you a few minutes later, and you risk looking again.

They’re still staring at you in shock. Like they can’t believe their eyes.

Chae especially is looking at you with hurt flashing across her face. It squeezes at your heart and you feel overcome with guilt for lying to your friend for a year. You don’t dare to imagine what she’s thinking now.

Without realizing, your eyes travel over to Namjoon. Much to your surprise, he’s not looking at you. He’s the only one with his eyes looking ahead blankly, deep in thought.

You frown, evading everyone’s stares to focus on him. An unrecognizable emotion is written all over his face… is it realization? Regret? Embarrassment?

You can hardly tell. But for the first time, an uncomfortable feeling plunges in your stomach at the fact that Namjoon’s not looking at you.

“Dad!” you cry. “How could you do that?”

Your father smiles happily at the sight of you, the two of you standing outside the auditorium in a secluded, private spot. The torture, that was the assembly, has finally come to an end.

“What do you mean?” he answers in confusion. “Do you mean showing up here? Because I was invited by that Mr. Lim fellow, he-”

“Not that!” you whine, groaning into your palms. “I’m talking about saying I’m your daughter in front of the whole architecture department!”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, that? What did I do wrong?”

Your jaw drops. “Dad, are you being serious?”

He nods, clear puzzlement on his face.

“Don’t you remember? I specifically asked for you and Mom to make sure that it never gets out!” you say. “Now, you’ve told everyone I go to college with that I’m the daughter of the man behind HN Architects!”

He blinks for a few seconds. “Is that so wrong?” he almost pouts like a child. “I didn’t know it was such a problem.”

“Of course, it is! Why do you think I asked you not to tell anyone?”

“...I thought you were being modest.”

“Modest?!” you exclaim, before sighing. There’s no use berating your father. It’s no one’s fault but your own for not preparing better for this situation.

“Did you really not want anyone to find out?”

You nod weakly.

“Why not?”

“I… I can’t explain it. They’ll freak out,” you look down. You can’t imagine how much worse your stress is gonna get from now on - it isn’t enough that your own title of the daughter of HN Architects is choking you to death… now you’ll have to deal with every single one of your classmates doing the same thing.

Things will never be the same again. For every grade you get, it’ll be discussed as the grade of the HN Architects’ daughter. For every drawing or idea you’ll submit, it’ll be scrutinized as the work of a girl from privilege. The pressure would multiply infinitely.

“Oh dear, don’t be silly,” your father suddenly says, resting his hand on your head. “I’m sorry for that. I didn’t realize it was so serious to you. But even if they know, it’s not an issue. You’re an excellent student and it’s only right they pay you the respect as the future CEO of HN Architects.”

You shoot your father a smile but your stomach drops. “I guess so, thanks,” you mumble, unable to explain to him that it’s exactly what he said that terrifies you.

For the rest of the day, you hide out off-campus in hopes to avoid facing reality.

“_____, I think you need to pay for the emotional shock you gave us,” Hobi laughs at the lunch table as soon as you arrive.

Hesitantly, you sit beside Chae who doesn’t share a word with you. Since yesterday, you haven’t even made eye contact with her, despite being her roommate.

“I think I almost spat out my water when I heard my daughter,” Mina jokes and the table echoes in laughter. You smile awkwardly.

“Yeah… it’s not really a big deal,” you shrug.

“Not a big deal?! Hello! We’re talking to the next HN Architects CEO right now!” another student pipes up.

“_____, forgive me for all I did wrong last semester,” Yuri playfully adds.

“I think we need to be cleaning the floor for her to walk on!”

These statements all fly around the table, exchanged with laughs and smiles. Part of you cowers in the attention, uncomfortable by such blatant recognition of your upbringing.

Another part of you wonders… will things be okay?

You take a careful look around the table of your classmates. Not a single one seems to wear a glare, all sharing in jokes and smiles. For the strangest reason… you feel at ease.

Chae suddenly stands up, with her tray. “I’m done eating. I’ll see you guys later.”

Instantly, you mimic her and chase behind her retreating figure. “Wait Chae-”

“I have class right now-”

Like a child, you jump in front of her to block her path. “Okay, please just hear me out,” you say, pouting. “I’m sorry.”

She sighs. “What are you sorry for? It’s not a big deal.”

“You must feel… annoyed, right?”

Chae blinks at you. “I’ll admit, I was irritated at first. You come from such privilege and I’ve unloaded so much crap on you sometimes about being scared about post-college life while you never had that… but, I’m not really mad about that. You can’t help who you are, right?”

You nod. “You’re still mad at me though, aren’t you? For hiding it?”

She takes a second before replying, “I just… you’re so unreachable sometimes, _____. After I found out, I kind of realized why you’re so stressed all the time and what you meant whenever you alluded to things about your pressures and all… I’m just annoyed you never shared that part of you.”

“I’m sorry.”

For the first time since yesterday, Chae cracks a smile. “Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be more open with me. You don’t need to feel like you need to hide your background… I would’ve tried to understand either way.”

Her words soothe you more than you can explain. Since entering your major, you haven’t once relied on the people around you for support that wasn’t academic. Now, you’re realizing your fatal flaw.

“I’ll try to be better,” you say with a nod. “Thank you for not being mad at me.”

She laughs. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry about me,” she says with a glance elsewhere. “You should check up on him. He’s been spooked since yesterday.”

You turn on your heel to see Namjoon, walking around with the same strange expression on his face from the assembly. For a brief second, your eyes meet but the second flashes, and he quickly looks away.

“Did you see that?!” you scoff. “He just ignored me!”

Chae smiles. “Wow, there really is a first for everything.”

“What’s with him?” you say, watching his awkward walk in your opposite direction. He keeps glancing in your direction, but once he sees you staring at him, he swiftly looks away. It’s a completely new side to him.

“I don’t know,” Chae shrugs. “He’s being weird. I thought he’d be running after you like always, but he’s resorted to this.”

You scoff again, unfamiliar with this Namjoon who runs away from you, rather than to you. You wonder what’s running through his mind, before pushing the thought away. He’s bound to come after you again after a few days.

The confidence with which you assumed Namjoon would be all over you again is faltering.

It’s been a full week since the assembly, and while life has seemingly gone back to normal for you (as normal as things can be)... Namjoon certainly has not.

In classes, he picks the furthest seat away on purpose. You even started to tease him by trying to sit in his front row with him, but instead, you found him in the back row - where he can’t even see.

His lunches seem to be perfectly timed to not clash with yours. All of a sudden, he’s no longer in the library either. All the places you’d easily find Namjoon hovering over you, he’s disappeared from.

“Does he think this is effective?!” you rant to Chae in your dorm room. “That by suddenly ignoring me, I’ll become obsessed with him?!”

Chae smiles at you knowingly. “I don’t know… if that was his plan to begin with, I’d say it’s pretty effective-”

“Shut up, Chae! I’m just saying this is all so stupid!” you scoff. “Once or twice is fine but he’s actively avoiding me! He saw me in the library yesterday and acted like he forgot a book to leave! We were in the library for god’s sake! What book did he forget that he couldn’t find there?!”

Chae giggles like the situation is laugh-worthy. “Maybe he’s just busy.”

“He made time during final exams last year to bother me. How much busier could he be than he was then?”

“Or maybe he doesn’t want to distract you.”

“It’s not that for sure. Whenever I’d tell him that he’s distracting me before, he wouldn’t care,” you mumble under your breath annoyedly. Chae continues to grin at your behavior, as if your reaction were amusing.

You don’t say it to her but you know very well why you’re annoyed beyond relief. It’s because you know it’s to do with finding out about HN Architects.

You groan. You expected your classmates to be weird around you, maybe even your professors… but Namjoon was the last person you thought would suddenly make a 180 after learning about your family.

That’s why it’s aggravating. Because it’s the one thing you didn’t think he’d care about.

A part of you fears he’s realized just how pathetic you are. After all, Namjoon probably knows how much more promising he is compared to you and now… he had to sit with the fact that you were the daughter of HN Architects.

“Why don’t you just approach him yourself?”

You’re momentarily stunned by Chae’s suggestion. You shoot her a dirty glare.

“What?!”

“I’m not gonna chase after Namjoon! He should approach me himself!”

Chae looks at you like you’re crazy. “You’re the one who wants him to talk to you!”

“Exactly! He should come to me like he always does.”

A laugh escapes Chae’s lips. “Oh, _____… you don’t even realize it, do you?”

You cock a brow before shaking your head. “I don’t have time for your indirect dialogue. I’m just saying that if Namjoon doesn’t come to me and talk this out soon, I’m gonna have to do something very crazy.”

Chae’s eyes flicker with amusement. “Oh? And what’s that?”

You grimace, as if even saying it brings you humiliation. “I’m gonna go talk to him first.”

Chae bursts out laughing, despite your solemn expression. You brush her off, spending the rest of the night on your design homework but secretly planning on wringing Namjoon’s throat if he doesn’t go back to normal soon.

By now, you’re sure Namjoon can feel the daggers you’re shooting into his back.

He’s even risked turning back a few times, to see who’s glaring at him. But as soon as your eyes meet, his head spins around as if it were all in your head. He focuses on the professor teaching ahead of him, taking notes diligently.

Beside you, Chae says with a nudge, “so are you gonna do that very crazy thing you were planning?”

You ignore her for the sake of gritting your teeth. Usually, you have no trouble focusing in classes. It’s all because of this wretched situation that you’re so off-game.

As soon as the professor wraps up his powerpoint, you’re faster than anyone else in the class at packing up your things and zooming out the door. You don’t even bid Chae goodbye.

You tap your foot impatiently, staring directly at your target.

Namjoon… try and ignore me now.

Hooking his bag over his shoulder, Namjoon comes to the door of the classroom before stopping his tracks. Aha, you smile pleased.

“Ah, I just forgot… to talk about my assignment with Mr. Choi,” he mutters out loud to no one in particular. The acting is so terrible that you don’t even have to think about it to know he’s intending it for you to hear.

You march up to him. “No, you don’t,” you scoff and when he looks up at the ceiling, you jump like an infant calling for attention. “Namjoon, if you value your life, you’re gonna drop this act right now,” you say in a menacing voice.

Immediately, he gulps and looks down at you. His height towers over yours but you smile, knowing you’ve gained the upper hand here. He’s looking at you just as he did before - completely enamoured.

You say nothing but give a deadly gesture to follow you. He obeys without complaint.

When you two are finally in a spot you deem private enough, you raise your chin and look at him happily. Under your gaze, he looks down uncomfortably.

“So you want me to say it or will you explain what the hell is going on?”

He blinks. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, _____.”

Your blood boils. Now, he wants to feign ignorance. “You’re joking,” you deadpan.

He looks at you innocently and shakes his head. You sigh, blinking in confusion.

This whole situation is a first. True to your words, you’ve never actually… had to do anything more than bat an eye to know Namjoon would come to you. You don’t know the words to even ask what’s wrong.

“_____,” he says in a low voice. You glance up at him, completely losing your train of thought. The sight of him has never registered you disorientated before. But now, you can’t help but trace your eyes over his dimples and sparkling eyes.

You scoff at yourself. You must’ve lost your mind temporarily. “You know what I’m talking about!”

He shakes his head so you continue, “you used to always come to the library at my timings and sit on my lunch table.”

“Oh,” he nods. “That’s because I wanted to sleep in more so I changed my schedule around a bit.”

You blink at his explanation. “You sat at the back of the class when I came to the front row-”

“I just wanted to see what it’s like to sit there. Turns out, it sucks,” he pauses when you don’t reply. “_____?”

You frown, part confused and part innocently. “I just mean… why aren’t you following me anymore?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can help it and your eyes widen in humiliation. That isn’t the way you wanted to ask the question.

Namjoon, instead, is amused. He smirks ever so slightly, before cocking his brow and asking, “Are you asking me why I don’t chase you around anymore?”

His newfound confidence almost makes you lose your footing. This is Namjoon - the nerdy guy who’d come to you. He can’t have this effect on you.

You scoff, faking an assured smile. “Are you denying that you chased me around?”

He blinks. “I mean-”

“Surely, you accept the fact that you did chase me around for a whole year,” you say with a smile playing on your lips. Of course, between the two of you, you both know very well of Namjoon’s infatuation with you. He’s danced around those feelings for both of your comedy’s sake… but this time, you won’t let that slide.

He looks at you, tongue poking in his cheek. “Fine. I do chase you around.”

You almost smile with victory but you stop yourself. Before you can speak, he continues.

“But I won’t anymore. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me,” he says sincerely, seemingly ready on his toes to walk away. Your fingers wrap around his wrist without realizing.

“Wait!” you frown displeased. He’s glancing down at where your touch meets his hand and you instantly let go. “This makes no sense.”

He blinks, confused. “What do you… isn’t this what you’ve wanted?”

“You can’t just change your mind like that!” you argue, a strange desperation cutting into your voice. “You can’t make people get used to you and do that!”

Much to your surprise, he wears a small smile. “I didn’t think it’d bother you so much.”

“I can’t stand you,” you groan. “You chase me around, then you find out one tiny fact about my family and now, you think you’re so much better than me to come after me!” you yell, your heart hammering against your chest. You sound like a child, you know as much but… suddenly around him, all logic’s been thrown out your brain.

“_____,” he says in a breath, a glint in his eye that reads surprise and amusement. His dimples are poking out and you wonder what it’d be like to affectionately poke into one. “Do you… did you like when I would come to you?”

There’s no self-preserving answer to this, one that can save both your dignity and pride. You know what you should say to his question, but nerves are prickling under your skin.

It isn’t the nerves you feel before submitting a drawing or entering an exam, but a whole new uncharted territory of nerves. Everything about this conversation is uncharted territory.

“_____, do you…” he starts a question, before nervously brushing the nape of his neck. He looks shy to even ask but after a moment, he looks at you like a child with candy and says, “do you like me?”

Your heart’s in your stomach. Immediately, you laugh, “no! No! Why would I?! Are you crazy?! Why would I ever like-”

“I don’t know,” he blinks innocently, but the stare he holds on you seems suddenly intimate. “That’s what I’m thinking. Why would you ever care about why I stopped chasing after you, if you don’t like me?”

His cocky grin annoys you. You shoot him a deathly look. “Don’t get too confident with me, Joon,” you say although you’re fumbling with words. “I still remember when you couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

He takes a step closer, holding your stare with no qualms. Your heart speeds up again, like you’ve been running.

“_____,” he says softly with a victorious smile. “You like me, don’t you?”

“I’m not answering your stupid question. First, you explain to me why the hell you think you can treat me the way you have the last week-”

“Because I thought you didn’t like me back,” he answers smoothly. “You’re the daughter of HN Architects and I’ve been wasting your time all year long. I’ve always felt intimidated by you… but now, I realized I really wasn’t worth your time.”

You blink with a frown. “Namjoon-”

“I feel really embarrassed, _____… If I ever wanted to work at HN Architects, I wouldn’t even be able to show my face knowing the way I’ve bothered you-”

“You’ve never bothered me.”

“Huh?”

Your cheeks flush and you suddenly become very aware of the words that escaped your lips. You cast a hesitant glance at Namjoon and you can’t help it. Suddenly, everything feels a lot clearer.

“You know, you’re the kind of architect my father dreams about,” you find yourself saying. “You’re the kind of student someone like me should be. It all comes natural to you. I love buildings but everything I do, it’s just part of who you are… that’s why I acted like you bothered me.”

He’s at a loss for words before muttering, “_____…”

“All I ever think about is trying to fit the ideal I know I have to be and it all comes easy for you. You feel embarrassed in front of me…” you laugh with a scoff. “How do you think I feel, needing your help?”

“I never wanted to compete with you,” he says. “I just wanted to be by your side. I really wasn’t helping you for anything apart from looking for an excuse to be near you.”

There it is… the fluttering feeling.

The truth is, you’ve known all this time too. You’ve known that there was never any ulterior motive, just your cynical mind trying to conjure excuses.

You almost hate yourself at this moment. Your insecurity over your work has warped your thoughts so much that you convinced yourself that… that you feel nothing but annoyance for Namjoon.

“_____,” he starts. His hand hesitantly reaches up, stopping multiple times on its way before finally brushing your hair away from your forehead.

“I think it goes without saying but in my eyes, you’re the smartest person in our major and every time I’m with you, I don’t even care if you reject me or look for an excuse to go away,” he says. “You don’t even realize the way I see you.”

Your eyes sting and you’re not sure if it’s because his words move you or you’ve just forgotten to blink for a long while. “You’re so corny.”

He laughs. “Well, someone needs to tell you you’re doing a good job because I can tell you’re not telling yourself,” he says before sheepishly adding, “and I thought we were exchanging what we like about each other.”

“Who said I like you?”

He grins, ruffling your hair despite the scowl you give him. You say nothing but then give a smile. You didn’t expect today to feel so good… but somehow, that insecurity that plagues your mind at all hours of the day disappears for a while.

All you can think about is wanting this feeling to last with him. Without warning, you reach to grab Namjoon’s wrist to walk out into the open garden of the campus. In front of your sight, there’s a skyline of buildings decorating the city.

“Do you still stand by your statement that that building is the ugliest?”

You grin. “It’s literally hideous, Joon. I can’t believe you’re the top of our class but think those colors look nice together.”

He gives a warm laugh, unable to disguise his happiness at the way you call him endearingly. Your eyes go back and forth between the skyline and Namjoon beside you before deciding that while buildings are your first true love… there’s something even more beautiful about the boy next to you.

hehe so excited to write on this blog if u read till the end jus know u have all my love

293 notes · View notes

strayingdawn · 3 years

Text

request: “...something like little bit angsty but fluff at the end? Something how y/n was getting back late at night and someone follows them and they call boyfriend Changbin?”

warning: feeling unsafe, stalking

wc: 2,2k

(i got a little carried away,, so sorry.)

—————

Only the ticks of the store clock echo throughout the empty cafe as Y/n slides their damp cloth across the counter. One of the girls scheduled to close today called in sick, so Y/n figured the extra money wouldn’t hurt and filled in for her. However, they did not expect to end the day all alone after the remaining, scheduled closer left early due to a family emergency.

So here they were, cleaning the counters of the deserted cafe, five minutes till closing. Y/n honestly didn’t mind closing alone. The aroma of coffee beans and the calm silence surrounding them felt almost comforting in a way. The clock created a soothing rhythm as the nearing end of a long day at work gave them a sense of relief.

But that moment was short-lived as the front door’s bell cut through the tranquil atmosphere. A young man of tall stature wandered through the door, much to Y/n’s displeasure if they were being honest. The man was actually quite a regular to the cafe. With that being said, surely he would know the cafe’s hours by now since he has passed the door on which they’re displayed many times. He was around Y/N’s age and had burgundy brown hair with bangs that always hung forward, creating a shadow over his deep, brown eyes. He usually just ordered a simple pastry and sat in some corner at the back, reading a book, phone, or computer. None of his behavior ever seemed unusual or noteworthy, so Y/n never concerned themselves with being any more cautious than they usually are around strangers. That is until one of their coworkers pointed out that the man’s gaze seemed to linger on Y/n often. It wasn’t too unusual for people’s eyes to wander around their surroundings and occasionally get stuck on something or someone. Y/n was guilty of it themselves sometimes, but that thought didn’t hinder them from raising their guard still.

Back to the present, Y/n simply planned to tell the man that they could no longer run the coffee machines nor were there any more pastries to sell and give him a short and sweet apology. However, the sound of his voice put a slight wrench in those plans.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you already closed?” His eyebrows were raised to create a somewhat innocent look.

Well, the place is empty, chairs are on tables, and the sign on the door you just walked through says we close in four minutes. What do you think?

That’s what Y/n wanted to say, but they held their tongue for the sake of politeness and professionalism. Instead, their lips formed a kind smile as they said, “Well, we’re technically still open for a couple of minutes, but I’m sorry to say that I can no longer sell anything.”

They hoped that was enough to urge the brunette out the door and back onto the street lamp-littered sidewalk. The man in question, however, was not on the same page. He began to shift his weight from one foot to the other as his gaze scanned the whole room, seeming to investigate every corner as if he was searching for something.

“Are they making you close all alone, tonight?”

Now, why would he ask something like that. Y/n was honestly caught off guard by such an unnecessary question; one whose truth they felt should not be openly exclaimed. They had to think quickly, so they just had to bend the truth a little.

“Not exactly. One of my coworkers had to leave unexpectedly..but they’ll be back.”

No one made them work extra; Y/n simply offered their help. Their friend did, also, leave unexpectedly and would be back...tomorrow morning to report for work. The stranger’s brows furrowed as his eyes became unfocused in thought. What he was thinking, Y/n couldn’t decipher.

“...I see..would you like some company while you wait?” He raised his eyebrows with slight optimism, and the corners of his mouth rose slightly.

Now, the man was clearly dragging out this interaction far longer than it needed to be. Four minutes had definitely passed, so he had no reason to be here anymore.

“No, no, that’s fine. Thank you, though. The cafe’s officially closed, now, actually. So I’ll be out of here in no time. And my boyfriend will be here any minute, now.” Y/n wore the most genuine smile they could muster, positive that they left no room for the customer to object to leaving.

His eyebrows twitched, and he appeared slightly taken aback when the word “boyfriend” left Y/n’s lips. However, the look left as soon as it came, leaving his usual resting face, lost in thought.

“Oh, okay then,” he flashed a full smile this time, showing his top row of pearly white teeth. Then, he turned his body with slight hesitation, footsteps pointing to the door, “I’ll see you around.”

And with that, he finally left. There wasn’t anything inherently creepy about his last statement, but with context, his wording and tone was somewhat off putting. The city was pretty big, and their paths would most likely only ever cross in the cafe. So why would he say “around.”

Anyway, it wasn’t the only weird thing he had done, so it was time to move on to more pressing matters. Changbin should have been here by now. Y/n didn’t bend the truth, that time, when they mentioned their boyfriend’s approaching arrival.

Y/n opened their phone and went to Changbin’s contact. They texted each other three hours ago about Y/n’s sudden overtime, and Changbin was fully aware that he would pick them up. So where was he? Y/n called him twice, both with no answer, before simply leaving a text that they were on their way home. The walk home was roughly ten minutes. Y/n loved it after early shifts but usually tried to catch a ride if the sun had already set, like tonight.

Dreading the extra cardio after a long, tiring day, Y/n just gathered their belongings, double-checked their closing duties, and lastly locked the cafe’s door, mentally prepared themselves for the journey ahead of them. Only a few steps in, they noticed another set of footsteps echo theirs. Changing the rhythm of their footfalls, the rhythm of the mysterious set of steps changed as well, falling in sync. Subconsciously, Y/n brought their hand towards their bag which held protective measures such as a taser and pepper spray. Yet, all of their movements, including their breathing, abruptly halted as a familiar voice called out to them.

“Y/n!”

Y/n slowly turned around, meeting the same brown eyes they saw just moments ago. At this point, Y/n was completely unsettled, but they refused to let it show.

“Hi..again. What are you..still doing out here..this late?”

“I never saw your boyfriend,” he paused for less than a millisecond, but Y/n could still sense that he was questioning their earlier statement, “get here, so I wanted to make sure you left safely.”

He had to have been waiting for at least ten minutes. And for an employee they’ve barely talked to, who already said they were taken care of.

“Well, that’s..very thoughtful of you, but you don’t have to worry about me anymore,” Y/n let out a little chuckle that also sounded much more stiff than intended and held their hands out to their sides like they were presenting themselves, “I seem to be leaving in one piece, so I think I’ve got it from here.”

He didn’t seem too convinced, or maybe he was simply ignoring their words as he took a step forward, causing Y/n to instinctively take a step back.

He pressed on, however, clearly not sensing your discomfort. “I’m not sure I would have peace of mind not knowing whether or not you got home safely.”

“Trust me, it’s fine-”

“I insist-”

“They said, ‘it’s fine.’” Changbin’s voice boomed past your ears.

He had lost track of time while preparing something special for you at home. On top of that, his music was blasting at extreme volumes, surely becoming a nuisance to the neighbors, which caused him to miss both of Y/n’s phone calls. Although, he’s thankful he remembered his commitment with you when he did. He threw the first coat and pair of shoes he could find before, basically, running through his door, almost unhinging it, to get to his partner as soon as possible. Now, he saw Y/n’s rigid form and some random stranger who, clearly, could not take a hint.

Changbin walked towards Y/n and gingerly slipped his hand around their waist, feeling them slowly relax as they leaned farther into his body and gained a steady breathing pattern. His glare was cold as well as neutral and aimed right at the man in front of him.

“I believe I can take it from here.”

The brunette was slightly unnerved but quickly attempted to put on a strong front. “And who are you?”

“Their boyfriend. Now step away before I become their bodyguard and make you.” If it wasn’t already cold outside, the icy aura radiating off of Changbin would have surely done the job.

The creep was definitely weighing his options. However, facing Changbin did not seem to end in his favor, so he took one step back, placing his eyes on Y/n. “...See you around, Y/n.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it.” Changbin’s eyes never wavered.

With one last glare at Changbin, Y/n’s nuisance for the night finally walked away. As if a weight was lifted off of their chest, Y/n let out a deep breath they didn’t even know they were holding. Regaining their composure, their gaze drifted towards their boyfriend who was still eyeing the fleeing brunette. Y/n promptly hit him on the chest.

“Where were you?” Y/n hit his chest, catching him off guard but not actually hurting him.

Changbin let out a grunt at the sudden assault. “I..got a little caught up with something. Something important.”

“And you couldn’t answer the phone?”

“Wel-“

Y/n was honestly too tired to be reasonable right now, so they just let out a deep sigh and began to walk towards the couple’s shared apartment, expecting their boyfriend to follow.

Around ten minutes later, Changbin was a fumbling mess as he tried to promptly open the apartment’s front door under the pressure of Y/n’s tired stare. When the door finally opened, it presented nothing but a dark, silent home.

Y/n walked in before Changbin and immediately dropped their bag which felt heavier than when they left that morning. However, when they started to step into their second house shoe, they froze after the delicious smell of food drifted from the kitchen to their nose. Changbin noticed Y/n’s sudden stop, and a flash of realization grazed his features.

“What’s that smell-” a pair of hands being gently placed on Y/n’s shoulders halted their sentence.

“Just..walk towards the kitchen,” Changbin instructed them with a soft, low voice.

“How am I supposed to walk there in the dark.”

“It’s not like you’ve never done it before in the middle of the night.”

Changbin’s tone was slightly accusing but still soft like before. Y/n just remained silent and followed his directions. Once they both arrived at the kitchen’s entrance, Y/n felt the weight of Changbin’s hands leave and heard his footsteps approach the lights.

As soon as Y/n’s sight recovered from the sudden intensity of light, they were engulfed in shock and appreciation. The kitchen table was covered with flowers and many of their favorite dishes. Fairy lights hanging all around radiated a soft glow, making the heartwarming gesture warm their heart even more.

“Is this what…?”

“..was so important? ..Yeah. I knew you must have been really tired from working nonstop this past week and the whole day, today. So I thought this was the least I could for you since you’ve been doing so much for everyone else...do you like it?”

“...Like it. I-I love it! Thank you!” Y/n couldn’t say much more before they felt the tears pricking their eyes.

“Wait- why are you crying?!” Changbin rushed to his love’s side and embraced them while panicking because of their unexpected reaction. “Are you sure you actually love it?”

Y/n let out a few broken chuckles and weakly punched his chest. “Yes, I’m sure, idiot! I’m just too tired to handle all this!”

“Oh! Thank goodness. I thought I did something wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Binnie. You always make it right. Thank you. For tonight. And for everything.”

“Anytime, babe.” He gave a sly wink with the little pet name but quickly put on a serious face and looked deep into Y/n’s eyes. “I love you”

Y/n couldn’t help roll their eyes at the term of endearment but didn’t fail to return the meaningful words. “I love you, too.”

“Well, let’s dry these tears,” he tenderly wiped away the few tears that escaped Y/N’s eyes, “and get you out of these uncomfortable clothes.”

#stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids angst #skz #stray kids changbin #skz changbin #seo changbin #skz angst #skz scenarios #stray kids imagines

52 notes · View notes

taelme · 4 years

Text

Enemies-to-lovers!Jisung

request: - anon: Could you maybe write an enemies to lovers like the Chan one but with jisung?? It was so good 😔😔😭🥺💞💞💖💘💘💞💗💞💗💕💞 can it be fluffy and Angsty hehe 😖 maybe where they're both college students - anon: Can you do a Enemies to Lovers AU with chan!!! Where they're going to college and their families happen to be friends so they get an apartment together to save money, but the first time they meet it doesn't go well. Then yk, slowly w time they fall in love ahhaha... I love your writings btw!! 💓💞💓💝💓💞💓💝 (I recently sent the ask about the enemies to lovers au w chan that involved going to college.. since you literally just wrote an enemies to lovers au for chan if you want you can do my request (if u do it ahahha) with jisung!!) - anon: I really love how you write au’s/fanfictions. I just want to know if u can write something about han jisung?? maybe a cafe love story or another tattoo artist just like chan? or maybe a studio date night?

genre: enemies-to-lovers!au, college!au, roommate!au, tattoo apprentice!jisung lol (fluff, a bit of angst)

pairing/s: Han Jisung / Reader ( ft skz Bang Chan and nct/wayv/superm (lmao) Lucas )

word count: 18k

tw: I talk about like kind of sad stuff when jisung has like an artist’s block in this I guess

a/n: thank u anons for being so patient with this request!! I rly hope that I managed to do it well and that you guys are satisfied with the outcome n have fun reading it hehe, it was kind of inspired by the song sunshine!! by stray kids so I hope that it gives u the same good vibes I got from the song while writing this :( ok bye

If it were any other person standing in front of you, maybe you wouldn’t have regretted having an outburst in the café for the morning crowd to see.

The fight, or outburst (if you wanted to relieve him of any role in the exchange), had started rather simply. You were just having one of those days where it was raining outside, you were awake even before roosters were (in your opinion) and you had wanted nothing more than to just curl up in bed and sleep into the evening.

You had gone to grab your morning coffee, combating against the rain with your multi-coloured umbrella, as one does. Shoving the doors of the café open, you were met with shouts of names and storms of people squeezing to collect their orders. The whole ordeal would’ve made you pretty at ease if it weren’t for the coldness of your feet and the way your umbrella would cause someone to slip soon if you didn’t move.

Your shoes squelched against the shiny wood floors of the café, each step making you cringe as you waited anxiously to reach the front of the line, desperate to put an end to this experience. Thankfully enough, your order was pretty straightforward, so you’d collected it quickly, the small smiley face drawn on the cup by the staff serving to put you in a slightly less dreadful mood.

Stationing yourself at one of the empty tables you’d spotted by the exit, you set your still-dripping umbrella on the floor before you tried to get your tissues out to salvage whatever you could of your shoes. Shrugging off your coat, you’d draped it over the back of the seat.

Glancing at the time on your phone before you shoved your notes aside within your bag, you’d pushed your arm forward and opened your bag harshly, taking your box file out of your bag, almost nicking yourself against the broken corner of the file in your rush.

The next sequence of events happened quickly, and too ‘all-at-once’ for you to process. Upon taking out your box file, you’d heard a yelp behind you, followed by harsh footsteps and the splash of coffee on your box file.

Letting out a loud yelp of surprise as the person in question had stopped their fall with a loud thud of their hands against the pillar in front of you, they’d turned to you with wide-eyes, their eyebrows quickly furrowing into an expression that looked utterly ticked-off, their mouth already opening to speak.

You’d seemed to beat them to it, hurriedly grabbing your tissues to wipe down your file, checking for any brown-stains on your precious papers.

“What the hell,” you scoffed, casting a glance up at the boy. He had stood slightly taller than you, with rounded eyes and a defined nose, his lips pressed into a firm line.

He looked fairly young, from the way he dressed in brand-name basics to the way he was practically decked out in accessories. Call you biased, but if this was a senior or a child, you’d probably have let them off with it. But the way he was looking at you now was somehow successfully unnerving you, and you supposed admiring his annoyed features was about the last thing you should be doing at the moment.

“‘What the hell’?” He echoed your words, “who’s the one that chose to stand in the middle of nowhere to go through their damned bag?”

Your eyebrows raised in offence, your annoyance from before making itself known as you frowned, your grip on your bag tightening, “oh, and it’s my fault you have poor coordination?”

The boy had narrowed his eyes, mirroring your expression, his bracelets shifting on his wrist as he gestured at your umbrella on the floor.

“Your stupid umbrella was the reason I tripped in the first place,” he told you pointedly, strangely making you even more annoyed that he chose to attack not only you but your innocent umbrella too.

Your volume raised involuntarily with your frustration, “it’s so bright! It was basically screaming at you that it was there,” you defended, attracting a few customers attention with your outburst. You didn’t understand why you had to go through this so early in the morning when you were already irritable beyond belief.

The boy seemed to have noticed this as well, discomfort washing over him at the feeling of the crowd’s stares. Ultimately deciding he would rather give up the fight with the crazy stranger from the café and leave before he was late for his job at the tattoo studio.

“Whatever,” he huffed, leaving the café, the bells at the doors jingling loudly as it swung back.

Something about the apology just wasn’t enough for you, (maybe you just expected more because he irked you) but you were already late enough for class. Rolling your eyes, you’d slung your bag around your shoulder with a thump, gripping your cup in your hands tightly and picking your umbrella (that now had an evident crease in one of its panels) up before running to class.

Your mom had called you halfway through the day while you were on your way to classes, the gesture enough to make you huff good-naturedly at her insistence.

“Hello?”

“Hey, honey, is this a good time?” her tone was practically dripping with motherly concern, making you let out a breathy laugh, nodding even though she couldn’t see you.

“Yeah, It’s fine,” you told her, “but anyway, I think my umbrella’s broken. Some idiot at the café this morning practically destroyed it with their stupid combat boots.”

Your mom didn’t seem to pay much attention to your rant, cutting straight to the point that she’d called you for.

“Have you met Jisung yet?”

You sighed as you entered the auditorium for your next lecture, lowering your head slightly as you found a seat around the middle of the hall.

“No, not yet. I’m only going over to the house after my classes end, remember? But I heard my stuff already got moved there,” you explained to her, holding your phone between your ear and your shoulder as you took your laptop from your bag, setting it on the table gently.

“Oh, do you want his phone number? To make things easier for the both of you,” she offered, earning a disinterested hum from you.

 Your mom was more than excited about the fact that you would be 1. Not living in a residence within the school and 2. Living with the son of one of her friends from college. You figured your duty as her child now would be to appease her and at least try to live out her desires for you. Which in this case was sharing an apartment alone with some boy you didn’t even know. Maybe your mom was just a little more trusting than most.

You shrugged, “yeah, sure, just send it to me.”

Your mom let out a squeal, “I’m so excited for you to meet him, honey, he’s such a nice boy. You two are sure to get along. I’m so happy you agreed to this.”

Letting out a small sigh, you leant back in your seat as you held your phone with one hand, your other hand going to unlock your computer.

“I still feel like I’m imposing on them,” you hummed.

“Honey, it’s fine, Jisung’s parents insisted that you didn’t have to pay any rent.”

You hummed patronisingly, it wasn’t as if it was the first time she was telling you this, “yeah, uh-huh,” your attention was momentarily diverted by the tall boy that was standing next to you, gesturing to the empty seat with raised eyebrows.

“Sorry, is there anyone sitting here?”

Your lips parted, “okay, mom I gotta go I’ll call you once I’ve settled into the apartment.”

You did a once-over of the boy, who shook his head to get his bangs away from his eyes, giving you a wide smile. Gesturing for him to go ahead and sit down, he’d flopped down onto the seat with a sigh.

Letting go of his bag strap as he turned around, he gave you an appreciative nod as he opened his bag, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“First day, huh,” his voice was deeper than you’d remembered it to be from just seconds ago, his hand coming up to cover his growing smile as a little giggle escaped him, “I’m Lucas.”

“How’d you know?” You hummed, “and my name’s Y/N.” You swore you’d never seen a boy with such sparkly eyes before in your life.

Lucas shrugged, leaning his folded arms on the desk and turning his head slightly to observe you in your confusion, one hand shifting to play with his earring, “haven’t seen you around before.”

“You talk like you know everyone in the school,” you scoffed.

Lucas didn’t seem to sense your sarcasm, simply giving you a shrug, “possibly. And also because it’s my second time taking this stupid class so I should know an unfamiliar face when I see one,” he told you, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Your eyebrows raised, hearing the doors at the bottom of the auditorium open, a short stocky man walking through and making his way to the speaker’s desk.

“Second time? Why?” You hummed, keeping your gaze on the man in anticipation for what he was about to say.

Lucas cast a glare towards the professor, “I thought he was boring so I didn’t really go much for his lectures the last time, you know, because I thought they weren’t graded. But he decided to include them as passing criteria way too late.”

Lucas pointed at the professor, his sleeve riding up slightly to expose a tattoo at his wrist. You were starting to wonder if everyone at this place had tattoos, the sight seeming fairly common from just your few hours in the school.

You winced, nodding, already getting the sensing that this man was someone you needed to be on good terms with.

“Alright, class, enough talking. From now on, I’m the only one that should be talking so I expect nothing but your full attention from here onwards.”

This was going to be a long lecture.

===

Your mom had texted you the Jisung kid’s number, and you’d dropped him a text saying you were on your way to the apartment, getting a reply from him that he was on his way there as well. You figured he seemed pretty polite, from the way he texted you, so you guessed that helped in making you dread the whole arrangement less.

When you’d reached, you’d ended up at an apartment building that looked fairly plain, walking in to the lobby and scanning the sparsely decorated notice board for residents, the last thing put up being a picnic for families that was 3 months ago.

Stepping into the lift, you’d noticed that though it was relatively well-maintained, it seemed rather dull, from the prison-grey lights to how the mirrors were covered for maintenance. Thankfully, your apartment itself was relatively well-maintained (you remembered your mom telling you the apartment was previously being rented out by Jisung’s parents), aside from the space being a little not-so conducive. But well, they were letting you live here for free, so you couldn’t complain.

Setting your things down onto the sofa in the living room, you moved to examine the respective rooms, frowning when you realised that whoever Jisung was, he’d taken the room with the bigger bed, his clothes either already hung up on the clothing rack or stacked up on his bed.

Walking into what you assumed was your room now, you tried to envision how you could make this space more conducive. From moving the bed aside to switching the desk out to the living room for more light, you tried out different permutations in your head, your time as an amateur interior designer cut short when you heard the rustling of keys at the front door.

Smoothing your hair down to make sure it was neat, you’d dodged the boxes of stuff as you leant over the sofa, curious to see what this Jisung kid would look like.

Jisung had done the same outside the door, making sure his hair and clothes were somewhat presentable before pushing the door open. And immediately wanting to close it back.

“You’re Jisung?”

“You’re Y/N?”

The two of you spoke simultaneously, disbelief and shock written over your features as you pointed an accusatory finger at him.

Like you mentioned before, maybe if the boy at the café this morning wasn’t Jisung, you would’ve regretted your actions a lot less.

Jisung gave you a look of disbelief, stepping into the apartment and folding his arms across his chest, his bag still hanging from his shoulder. He couldn’t wrap his head around how unlucky he must have been to have had such a bad encounter with someone he was about to spend probably his entire college life living with.

He sighed deeply, “now I don’t feel like paying the rent on your behalf anymore.”

You rolled your eyes, “your parents are paying the rent, not you. You have no say in it.”

Jisung made a sound of protest, shaking his head vigorously, his eyes widening in his aggravation.

“No, they aren’t. I told them to let me take care of it because I felt bad for them. But I don’t feel bad for you, so you’re gonna have to split the rent with me.”

Your lips parted, fumbling for a response.

Jisung’s expression was expectant, provoking you almost, “what? Would you rather get an apartment on your own? ‘Cause I’d be more than happy to let my parents know.”

You wanted to cry. It was already the start of the school term so staying in the dorms was out of the question for you already, the deadline having closed long ago. And you knew that finding another apartment in the school district that was within your budget was going to be a pain in the ass. So as much as you hated to admit it, splitting the rent with Jisung was your best option. You needed to get a job asap.

You rolled your eyes, “well…well then why do you get the bigger room?” You huffed, mirroring his stance as you folded your arms across your chest.

Jisung gave you a mocking pout, “simple, ‘cause I got here first,” he brought his hand up, inspecting his nails.

“You should be glad I’m not charging you extra for inconveniencing me,” he added.

Not being able to help but let a small gasp leave you, you were quick to respond, “inconveniencing you? You were the one that got coffee all over my file.”

Jisung shrugged, “potato, potato. Doesn’t change the fact that you made me late for work.”

You clenched your jaw, watching with a glare as he strolled past you, gesturing to the space in the living room which you’d been planning on using as a work area, “I have dibs on this space.”

You frowned, mumbling, “I wanted to shift the desk in my room out here, though.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Wanna consider moving out now?”

You inhaled deeply, brushing past him to grab your luggage that contained your clothes.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you huffed in annoyance as you walked into your room, his laughter echoing behind you.

===

“How can you say that? Jisung is a very nice boy,” your mother cried, making you roll your eyes, glaring at your phone from where you were hanging your clothes up.

“He’s the idiot that I fought with at the café, it’s not like I’m saying this without reason.”

You heard your mom sigh deeply, conversing with your dad about something in the background, “try to put your attitude aside for once, please, I’m begging you.”

You groaned, kicking your luggage aside before you made your way over to your bed, flopping down next to your phone with a loud sigh, wincing at the feeling of the springs in your mattress. You were so sure Jisung’s bed was more comfortable.

“It’s not me that has the attitude, it’s him,” you mumbled, sulkiness evident in your tone.

“Enough, Y/N," she said sternly, "If I hear anymore complaints you’re really gonna be in for it.”

You kicked at your blanket, “fine, goodnight. Love you.”

You hung up, staring at your desk as you contemplated on whether to move it into the living room now or tomorrow, distracted from your thoughts when you could hear the water running, not to mention the awfully loud sound of Jisung singing in the shower.

How thin were the walls? Your glare had shifted to your door now.

“Can you keep it down?” You shouted, hearing a silence on his end momentarily. Heaving a sigh of relief, you turned around in your bed only to hear him resume his singing, except this time, you swore it got louder.

Burying your head under your pillow, you kicked at your blanket, hoping this was the worst it could get. It wasn’t that bad, right? You could deal with simple shower concerts. Maybe living with him wasn’t going to be as hard as you thought.

===

Safely to say, you should’ve thought otherwise.

The very first time you realised you'd underestimated Han Jisung, was when you'd gone to the fridge to fix yourself something for dinner, only to find post-its on every single one of the items that read : 'property of han jisung! not for y/n'

You'd moved to look for something else to eat that was unlabelled, only realising then that he'd even gone to the (very petty) extent of labelling the snacks in the cupboard.

Huffing, you'd shrugged your coat on, grabbed your wallet and made a trip to the grocery store.

Cursing him in your head as you shoved your items into your basket, earning yourself looks of scandal from the elders who were for whatever reason still in the grocery store, though you couldn’t be bothered to look more amiable. You’d wanted nothing more than to throw out Jisung’s groceries, but of course, you were a nice person, so you wouldn’t do that. It seemed like you just couldn't get a break when your phone had begun to buzz in your pocket.

"Hey, mom," you hummed, trying not to sound too tired lest she started to drill you about resting. You brought your groceries over to the self-checkout aisle, heaving them onto the small platform with a grunt.

"Have you eaten dinner?"

You huffed, "we didn't have enough food, so I went to buy some groceries." Biting back your tongue, you rolled your eyes, scanning your items and bagging them angrily.

"How's finding a job been?"

You shrugged, Lucas had told you about various job openings nearby your house, (surprising you with how much he knew about the area) one of them you were looking into was a simple job at a café near your apartment. Thankfully, not the one that you'd had your little ‘encounter’ with Jisung at.

"Pretty alright, nothing too difficult,” you hummed, fumbling to pull out your card so you could make your payment, ignoring the stares you were getting from the people queueing up behind you.

"Alright, that's good to hear."

"Everything alright with you and dad at home?" you asked, shoving your card back into your wallet before slinging the bags onto your forearms, beginning to walk out of the supermarket.

"Yes, of course. Don't worry about us, we just miss you."

You sighed, something about the night air putting you in a drowsy mood, "me too. I never realised how much I liked living with you guys till now..."

"Don't tell me you're still having a hard time with Jisung," you heard her tone, your knew that this was her way of implying she didn't want to hear anything other than that you and Jisung's housemate experience was just peachy.

"Don't worry, mom, everything's... fine."

You'd tugged your coat closer to yourself, giving her whatever updates you figured she'd want to know before hanging up, enjoying the peaceful walk before you reached your apartment, figuring this was as much peace you were going to get before you returned to the apartment to be met with his stupid antics again.

And surely enough, the evening breeze accompanied with the sounds of faint conversation from the restaurants nearby had started to put you in a rather drowsy mood, making you start to contemplate if you were even still hungry, the lure of sleep starting to seem more tempting.

Reaching your apartment building, the lift lobby illuminated by a harshly bright lightbulb, you’d bumped into one of the ladies living on the same floor as you exited the lift on your floor, watching as her eyes widened in surprise, giving you a small smile as she enquired.

“Oh, are you the resident from apartment 19B?" you nodded.

If you were drowsy before, you sure weren't drowsy anymore.

You flinched slightly when her expression had changed in an instant, her once amiable expression now replaced with an annoyed glare.

"Can you please refrain from singing so loudly in the middle of the night? Some of us are trying to sleep."

Your eyebrows raised, shaking your head as you slot your keys into the keyhole, opening the door just a crack, "oh, sorry, that's not me that's my housemate—”

The middle-aged lady had narrowed her eyes at you, "you know, It's not ethical for someone as young as you to be living with a man when you're so young—”

"Okay, sorry, won't happen again!" you told her quickly in your attempt to appease her, shoving the door open and slamming it behind you, turning around only to see Jisung standing in the living room, dressed in loungewear with black gloves on his hands as he pointed at you in amusement, his shoulders shaking as he laughed.

"Aw, I'm not the only one that thinks it's not ethical for you to live here," he pouted.

You rolled your eyes, "I can't believe she thought I was the one singing," you huffed, going over to the kitchen to see yet more dishes in the sink.

Pointing at them with a look of disbelief on your face, "are you not gonna clean these either?"

Jisung turned around, looking at the sink with evident contempt, shrugging. He held his hands up to you, showing you that they were currently gloved.

"I'm a little busy, why don't you do me a favour this once? Consider it compensation," he grinned, making his way back to....your room?

"What are you doing in my room?" you asked, shoving the last of your groceries haphazardly into the fridge before you'd followed him into your room, shutting your mouth quickly when you saw that he’d practically set up a work station next to your desk, looking closer to find that he was using what looked like tattoo equipment.

“Practicing,” he shrugged.

You didn’t bother asking what his business using tattoo equipment was, simply huffing in exasperation, “and you had to do it in my room, of all places?”

Jisung nodded, pushing one of his sleeves up on his shoulder, revealing a rather big tattoo on his arm that was partially hidden by his sleeve.

“This is the only room with an accessible plug and a good enough space to work in.”

“Then why didn’t you just take this room as your bedroom?” You were dumbfounded at the way he was so nonchalant about his actions, the buzzing of the tattoo needle resuming as he practised on fake skin.

“I like to sleep in a comfortable bed,” he shrugged, leaning back to look at his tattoo.

“And you think I don’t?” You shot back, your hands going to your hips, his reply coming just as quick.

“Well, for $300 bucks above the rent maybe you can,” he smirked, using a tissue to rub at the fake skin, looking at you as he poked his tongue in his cheek, quirking his eyebrows before turning back to continue tattooing.

That night, you remembered asking Lucas if he knew who Jisung was, since he’d mentioned how he was pretty into tattoos, having a few of his own, his reply only making you wonder if the world was just small or you were just unlucky.

lucas wong

8:53pm - oh yeah I know him! he’s apprentice-ing at the tattoo shop I usually go to, he’s pretty good-

8:53pm - why? do u like him? I cld put in a good word for u-

You sighed deeply

8:53pm - no thanks im good-

Little did you know, the next time Lucas had visited the the tattoo studio, he’d spotted Jisung working on his designs at one corner of the room, going against your request and disturbing Jisung even despite how he looked like that was the last thing he wanted, too focused on the shadings of his chrysanthemum flower sketch on his tablet to have paid attention to Lucas' entrance.

“Hey, do you know anyone named Y/N?”

Jisung’s face scrunched up in distaste, looking up at Lucas and hoping desperately that he was joking, “don’t tell me… freshman Y/N?”

Lucas nodded, his eyes lighting up in excitement, “yeah! So you guys do know each other.”

Jisung made an uncertain sound, “I wouldn’t call it much of a relationship. Y/N’s my housemate.”

Jisung’s words had sparked a realisation in Lucas, the latter only piecing together your disdain towards Jisung with your stories about your ‘asshole housemate’

Lucas’ silence had caught Jisung off guard, making Jisung look up at Lucas expectantly, “sorry, you wanted to go get something to eat, right?”

Lucas nodded, masking his shock with a smile, recovering quickly.

“Wait, lemme go call Chan,” Jisung murmured, beckoning the boy who was currently snacking at the reception area.

“Where do you guys wanna go?” Lucas asked, earning a hum from Chan.

“I kinda wanted to get a smoothie,” Chan admitted sheepishly, though thankfully, Jisung and Lucas didn’t seem to have a problem with that.

 “Why didn’t you wanna go to the other café? They’ve got better smoothies,” Lucas wondered out loud, making Jisung snort.

“We’re only going there because Chan has a fat crush on one of the baristas.”  

Which was what ended them up at the café you worked at.

The moment they had entered, you noticed your colleague tense beside you, bending down to pretend to take something from below the counter.  

“Shit, they’re here. Oh my god, help,”

You furrowed your eyebrows, “who?”

“That cute tattoo artist guy I was telling you about!” She whispered harshly, standing up and greeting the boys with a smile, her heart eyes directed particularly at one of them with curly hair.

Only then did you realise Lucas and Jisung were there, receiving an overwhelming feeling of wanting to bang your head into the cash register. You already saw him enough at home, and now you had to see him at work too?

“Hi, how may I help you?” You smiled at the curly haired boy, casting a glare in Jisung’s direction, the boy looking equally as dismayed to see you here.

“Hello, can I get the berry smoothie?” He asked, and you stepped aside, letting your colleague ring up his order while you prepared his drink, giving it to your colleague to serve since she’d spent so long talking to him.

Lucas had mouthed a ‘sorry’ to you when he’d gone to sit at one of the tables with Chan, Jisung lingering at the cashier as your colleague went to the backroom to squeal.

“What do you want?” you wore a bored expression.

Jisung looked almost too focused, his eyes glaring at the laminated menu between the both of you.

“I changed my mind, I want a drink too.”

You suppressed your urge to roll your eyes, your finger scratching at the corner of the cash register, “you couldn’t have ordered it like five seconds ago?”

Jisung shot you a look, “yeah, well I didn’t want it five seconds ago.”

Inhaling deeply, you’d gestured to the menu, and now not only was your expression bored-to-death, but your tone was too, "what do you want?”

“I want an iced americano,” he told you, pausing before he added, “and ask your friend to make it. I don’t trust you not to spit in my drink.”

You gave him a sarcastic smile, “good call.”

Ringing up his order, you’d called your friend, dismissing any thought of ever having a normal encounter with Jisung.

Upon returning to his table, Chan had given him a look, "Lucas told me you know the cashier."

"Not the one you think is cute, don't worry,” Jisung sighed, glancing in his drink just for good measure.

Chan's eyebrows lifted in amusement, "so the one you think is cute?"

Almost instinctually, Jisung replied, "yeah," paying more attention to his drink than his words. Looking up when he heard Chan and Lucas struggle to stifle their giggles.

"What?"

Lucas clapped his hands together, his smile wide, "you just said Y/N was cute."

"No, I didn't, you did." Jisung shot back quickly. It was obvious that retaliation didn't always have to make sense for him.

Chan had a curious glint in his eyes now, the corner of his lips quirking up into a smirk, "I mean, you guys do live together right, and you've really never thought anything about her?"

“I did, I thought her nagging was annoying as hell,” Jisung shrugged.

 Chan narrowed his eyes at Jisung, an amused smirk on his face, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

Jisung gave Chan a pointed look, "I'd appreciate if you wouldn't stir shit, especially not in front of him." Jisung pointed at Lucas.

"You didn't answer the question," Lucas sing-songed.

Jisung scoffed, casting a furtive glance towards your direction where you were smiling as your colleague showed you something on their phone.

Jisung shrugged, it wasn’t as if you looked bad or anything, with his pride, he’d probably have told Chan that you were pretty if he squinted.

“Guess if they smiled more they'd be...decent."

 Lucas raised his eyebrows, enjoying the scene playing out in front of him very much, “decent, huh.”

Chan leant back in his seat, shaking his head at Jisung, "now I feel like I have to make you my apprentice for relationships too."

Jisung scoffed, regaining his usual confidence.

"If by that you mean you want me to stand at the counter giggling my ass off like how you did with that cashier then no thanks, I'm good on my own."

===

You'd tried your best to tolerate Jisung, especially after Lucas fed you some story about how he takes a while to warm up to people (which you totally bought).

This tolerance came in the form of things like waking up earlier to use the bathroom so the both of you wouldn't have to fight in the morning, or giving him reminders to do the laundry or clean the dishes but only doing them after he forgot the third reminder.

Jisung usually forgot to turn off the lights whenever he went to sleep (though sometimes he did it on purpose, not liking the eerie darkness of the house when the lights were off), so you would always end up waking from the glare of the lights that seeped into your room, stepping over the mess of clothes or socks (sometimes even shoes) in the walkways and turning them off for him instead of nagging him about the lights. See? Tolerance.

Call you a pushover or whatever, but you kind of prided yourself on how your well of patience seemed to run deep. Very deep. Deeper than the average human, you supposed, even.

However, days like the ones you were having now, just didn't seem to let you draw from that well of patience.

You'd started off your shitty morning when you'd slept through your alarm, needing your usual work clothes but realising that Jisung hadn't done the laundry, leaving you with no choice but to grab the nearest hoodie you could find on your bedroom floor and sprint to work.

If that wasn't enough, you'd landed cashier duty as punishment for being late, your social battery starting to empty not even halfway through the day. Your 'hi, how may I help you's slowly turning to 'what would you like's to eventually 'hi's and ending up with a small smile and gesture towards the menu.

It didn't help that Chan, the tattoo artist your colleague had an obvious thing for, had shown up halfway to try and strike a conversation with you about Jisung, much to no avail.

“Aren’t you wondering why Jisung isn’t here?” You remembered him asking, to which you’d shook your head.

“Not really,” you shrugged, earning a thoughtful hum from Chan.

“Really? You’re not even the slightest bit curious?”

You had shook your head at him then, remembering the way he looked so shocked to have made you even more curious about why he was asking you this in the first place.

By the time you were done with your work, you'd wanted nothing more than to just go home, take the longest shower of your life and curl up in your horribly uncomfortable bed. Except you couldn't even do that, because you had unfinished readings for your class the next day.

You figured if you sat yourself at your desk with no distractions you could be done sooner and go to sleep sooner, but your one distraction had just come home from the tattoo studio and was somehow getting on your nerves even more today.

Not only had he been acting as if he was the opera community's 'next big thing', he'd proceeded to seat himself on the sofa behind you, watching whatever show he was into loudly, seeming to find whatever the protagonist was saying to be too hilarious to just enjoy the show silently.

You figured you could handle that much, you know, having to live up to your preachings on tolerance, deciding to breathe deeply and suppress your urge to tell him to shut up, and soon enough, he'd disappeared.

But your joy was short lived, once again, when Jisung came back out, singing as he made a snack for himself and proceeded to eat it right in front of you, the smell growing more and more distracting.

Now, he was now lounging on the sofa in the living room, headphones on and connected to his laptop that rest on his stomach, but still typing away with his phone not on silent, the keyboard sounds distracting you from your reading. You figured, maybe your well of patience was just closed today.

“Hey,” you called. No response. If anything, the silence of the apartment had made his typing sounds even louder.

“Hey, oh my god, can you like put your phone on silent or something?" You tried again. Still no response, now, he was humming in between his pauses before he would type another burst of words on his phone.

Deciding you had to take matters into your own hands, you stormed over to where he was, your book still in your hands as you stood in front of him, making him turn to you with wide-eyes.

Pulling his headphones off of his head, he frowned, "what?"

“This,” you gestured pointedly towards his phone, “put your phone on silent, it's distracting me."

Jisung would've complied, though a part of him couldn't help but be annoyed by your nagging, his instinct prompting him to act defensively, “why don’t you just listen to some music or something? Then my typing sounds wouldn’t be a problem,” he told you dismissively, making you groan in frustration.

“I can’t study with music, it’s already hard enough for me to focus as it is.”

Jisung was annoyed, “It’s just a typing sound, what are you getting so worked up for? You’re always getting on my back about everything when I’m just minding my own business."

You let out a groan, "look, it's been more than a month, and i'm up to here with your shit," you held a hand way above your head for emphasis, any of your tolerance long gone out of the window (which he had also left open, making the apartment chilly and noisy).

Jisung's eyebrows knit in a frown, your outburst coming as a shock to him, "fine, whatever. I'll put my phone on silent, chill."

You shook your head, your gaze firm and unwavering, "no, I wanna make rules."

Rules? Jisung wanted to scoff. What was this, a second-grade classroom?

Jisung stared at you in shock, nodding dumbly. "Rules....oka-alright, yeah. Let's make rules."

You nodded firmly, "first of all, if you're gonna make food at ungodly hours in the morning, eat it in your own room."

"And the dishes, clean up after yourself," you added, gripping your book tightly in your hand.

“Stop leaving your shit in the corridors,” you continued, “and pack up your shoes it’s such a mess at the door way I can barely walk into the house,” you huffed, feeling as though with every rule you made you were finally letting your feelings be heard.

Jisung wracked his brains for a rule of his own, finding ways to regain control over the situation, "well, I have a rule too! You gotta stop nagging me to do shit," he sat up, setting his headphones on the sofa cushion.

You let out a tiny gasp, "excuse me? I only ask you to ‘do shit’ that you should be doing."

Before you could get carried away, you continued, "and as for the laundry—”

Jisung perked up, “okay, how about this. I do the dishes and you do the laundry," he suggested with a forced smile, bringing a hand up to run it through his hair, which fell back against his forehead gently.

"You know for a fact that that’s not the same, so we'll switch," you told him, "you do laundry on one week when I do the dishes, and the next week i'll do the laundry and you do the dishes. Fair, right?"

Jisung huffed, rolling his eyes, "whatever."

At the mention of laundry, Jisung glanced over at what you were wearing, frowning at the familiarity of his hoodie.

"Good, now that we have an agree—”

"That's mine," he pointed at your stomach, making you look at him in disbelief.

"Huh?" Your stomach? Your hands found their way to cover your stomach.

"The hoodie. It's mine."

You looked down at the hoodie you were wearing, a frown evident on your face. You didn't know what he was talking about, you had this hoodie since you were in high-school, it couldn't be his.

"No, it's mine. I had this since I was in high-school," you frowned, unsure if this was some sort of joke he was trying to play.

Jisung couldn't hide his amusement, letting a laugh slip from his lips, "yeah, so did I... which is why I know that that's mine."

You scoffed, "it was on my bedroom floor," you mumbled, seeing him nod patronisingly.

"Because I left it there," he told you, enunciating his words slower, shocking you when he'd reached over and grabbed you by the sleeve, raising your hand up for you to see.

"Look, this stain. It's tattoo ink. I would know because you're wearing the wrong hoodie. New rule, don’t wear my clothes.”

You stood silent, huffing as you removed the hoodie, leaving you in your shirt and sweats, tossing the hoodie at him in annoyance, the smirk on his face making you even more annoyed.

"Fine, take your stupid hoodie, I don’t wanna wear your stupid clothes anyway,” you huffed, “and you’re on laundry duty this week."

You didn't finish your readings that night.

===

You would like to think your rule system was working pretty well, seeing as you didn't find yourself butting heads with Jisung as often as before.

Halfway into the semester, you had grown busier with your assignments, which had managed to take your attention away from Jisung.

Though you were certainly more tired than usual, from attending birthday parties of friends to working, to rushing your readings during any free time you got (not to mention squeezing in any bit of sleep whenever you could), to rushing through your assignments just to meet the packed deadlines. But you couldn’t complain, this was typical for any college student you knew.

But of course, that didn’t mean you weren’t itching for a break, eyeing the semester break on your calendar that was fast approaching, letting yourself get carried away during classes with Lucas as you both planned on your pieces of scrap paper all the things you’d wanted to do during the break.

Similarly, Jisung had grown busier at the tattoo studio, and Chan had recommended him to a music producer that was interested in hearing Jisung's compositions.

Jisung was more than thankful that Chan had given him that opportunity, of course, but what was bothering him was the pain-in-the-ass creative block he was beginning to struggle with.

Not only was he struggling to find inspiration for a song he'd wanted to make, but the process seemed almost painfully slow, with how he'd fumble around with ideas that he would start on but eventually scrap, deciding that he 'wasn't feeling it'.

He'd started receiving commissions for tattoo designs, and you'd noticed he wasn't at home as often as he was before because he'd made it a point to coop himself up in the studio to try to churn out these design requests.

Fortunately, his customers were always satisfied (and he thought that was great, you know, with all the good words from Chan he was getting), but he wasn't.

Chan had seemed to sense this too, making sure to check in on Jisung more than usual during this period.

"Hey, I'm heading home a little earlier today, you'll be fine alone?"

Jisung's head lifted when he heard Chan's voice, pulling one of his earbuds from his ear as he nodded.

Chan glanced at Jisung's papers scattered around him, of half-done or halfway-abandoned sketches, giving him a look of sympathy, "don't work too hard, alright?" he huffed, glancing out of the window.

"I heard it might rain tonight, so make sure you get home before the rain hits, alright?"

Jisung waved Chan off, not paying any care to the impending rain as he bid Chan goodbye, continuing to tap his pencil on the table in his search for good ideas.

Maybe he needed to consult a lifeline.

"Hello, Lucas?"

The said lifeline was more than happy to hear Jisung's voice, having heard from you that he wasn't home as much recently, a part of him concerned as well.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

Jisung hummed, "wanted to ask if you had any ideas on what tattoos you think would be cool."

Lucas snorted, "you're asking me? You could draw a turd and i'd want to get it tattooed. Dude, you're too good, just go with your gut."

Jisung let out a whine, "my gut's not being very useful right now."

Lucas hummed, letting out an urgent grunt of surprise, "I know! Why don't you take a look at your older designs, maybe they'd give you some vibes or something."

Jisung shrugged, figuring this was probably the best advice he was gonna get, thanking Lucas before hanging up.

Picking up his tablet, Jisung had scrolled through his various sketches until he'd reached the very first few designs, sighing at the sight of the sketches, looking at his first sketch of a peony flower, with leaves dangling along the stem wedged between the budding flowers.

Jisung figured he wouldn't let his dissatisfaction subside until he tried doing a better rendition of the sketch, to refine the shading or the flow of the shape from what he'd learnt from Chan overtime.

Putting back his earbuds in, he turned his music up, beginning to work on the sketch, riding on the motivation he was afraid would disappear at any given moment.

Jisung was surprised at how fast he was done, ( only to look at the clock and realise he wasn't that fast and that it was already a little past midnight ). Removing his earbuds and going back to the sound of the whirring air conditioner and the loud sound of rain thumping against the gravel outside, Jisung knew he was done for.

He hadn't brought an umbrella with him, and the rain frankly didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon, Jisung contemplated his very limited options.

Was a binder enough to shield him from the rain? Probably not. But was it better than putting down his pride to text you to come and pick him up? He thought the binder was better, honestly.

Deciding to try his luck anyway, he'd sent you a text.

Little did Jisung know, you'd dozed off on your bed while reading, the vibration of your phone next to your face having woken you from your nap, the sound of the rain outside harshly thumping against the window.

han jisung 12:37am -hello, housemate. it is your housemate, han jisung. its raining rly badly. wld u be so kind as to come to the tattoo studio with an umbrella for me pls :D-

You frowned in annoyance, your eyes barely open as you replied him. There was no way you were going to send yourself out in the thunderstorm like that.

12:37am - no. just wait until it stops raining-

Thinking that had settled your worries, you'd shoved your phone underneath your pillow, deciding you'd let yourself sleep in since tomorrow was a Saturday after all.

You should've known better, that this was Jisung, the 'i'm tougher than a little bit of rain' Jisung, so you should've seen it coming when you'd woken up to the sound of his incessantly ringing phone.

Rolling out of your bed with a grunt, you'd pushed yourself off of the bed, ready to confront Jisung about not answering his phone.

Walking across the corridor and pushing his bedroom door open, you'd been met with an empty room, frowning as you walked over to the bed, picking the phone up and stopping the alarm.

You noticed that he'd received a few texts from Chan, not being able to help yourself from reading them.

chan 1:20am - dude! why didnt u just wait for the rain to stop?- 1:22am - ure gna fall sick…-

Frowning, you made your way into the living room, spotting Jisung curled up on the sofa with his blanket at his feet, an instant feeling in your gut that something was wrong.

“Jisung?” You called, seeing his eyebrows furrow slightly.

In spite of yourself, you’d walked over to where he lay, your hand coming out to nudge at his shoulder with his phone.

“Hey, are you…alright?” You watched and waited as he opened his eyes slowly, blinking at you in a daze. There was perspiration beading at his temples despite the coolness of the apartment, giving you more reason to feel like there was something wrong.

As much as you didn’t like him, you couldn’t help but feel as though you were responsible for him, and it was kind of your fault that he’d walked back in the rain. You glanced at your brightly-coloured umbrella leaning against the wall, figuring there was something about this umbrella that always got you into trouble with Jisung.

You suppressed your hesitation, bringing a hand up to his forehead, Jisung not even daring to budge even an inch as you pushed his bangs back. The back of your hand pressing against his forehead gently, your breath hitching at the sheer heat of his body.

This was probably the most contact you’d ever had with him in your months of living together, and Jisung knew this too, not knowing how to feel about the concern you were showing him, feeling as though it was some kind of ridiculous fever dream.

“You walked home in the rain didn’t you?” You murmured, your feeling of guilt growing as you saw him nod at you.

You cursed inwardly, “do you have a thermometer?”  

Jisung shook his head, attempting to get up, “it’s fine, I can take care of myself, just give me my phone.”

You handed him his phone, ignoring his previous statement as you went into the kitchen in your search for any kind of medicine you could give him, cursing once again when you realised there was none. Trust the both of you to only care to buy groceries.

“We don’t have jack shit in this house,” you groaned, walking over to the bathroom, finding a cloth and a small pail to fill with cold water, bringing it over to the coffee table and setting it down next to the sofa.

“I’ve gotta go to work,” Jisung sighed, though he made no move to get up, a part of him just waiting for you to refute him so he could use you as an excuse to get off work.

You shot him a look, “no, you don’t. Shut up and lie down, I’ll go and buy your stupid medicine. If I come back and you’re not here I’ll kill you,” you warned, missing the way Jisung had complied happily, lying back down with his head on one of the sofa cushions.

Squeezing the water from the cloth, you may have slapped it a little harshly on his forehead, earning an annoyed glare from him.

Walking to grab your wallet, you cast one last look at his bored face, seeing him rush to close his eyes when he saw you glaring.

“I mean it, you better stay here.”

Jisung nodded, waving you off.

On your way to the pharmacy, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a good thing that Jisung was sick.

In terms of your pros, if he was sick, he wouldn’t be able to annoy you, right? And him being sick meant that you’d basically had your desk and your bedroom to yourself, with him unable to practice tattooing in your room and use your desk as his sketching station.

In terms of your cons… well, you were planning on getting some rest today, and having to watch Jisung meant you would technically have to be near him, wouldn’t you? You were starting to wonder if that was even a con that he was basically giving you an excuse to laze around and watch tv.

“Hi, how may I help you?” The pharmacist asked.

You hummed, “uh…do you have those over-the-counter medicine and stuff for like someone with fever?”

The pharmacist nodded, pulling out the various boxes and pointing at each one, confusing you with the sheer amount of names she was listing, resulting in you just choosing the one you recognised your parents telling you to take whenever you were sick.

Making your payment, you swallowed whatever pride you had that was making you hesitate. You figured Jisung falling sick was karma for that text you sent him the night before, so you decided that you were going to see him recover for yourself.

Upon returning to the house, you’d shrugged your jacket off, making your way over to where he was, sitting on your heels next to where he was so you could gently peel the cloth from his head, replacing it with one that was soaked in colder water.

You’d drawn back slightly when you felt Jisung flinch as you laid the towel on his forehead, opening one eye to look at you, “that was fast.”

You rolled your eyes, shushing him as you took the medicine out, along with a glass of water you’d gotten from the kitchen, bringing it over to him with an expectant look.

Jisung took them from you wordlessly, swallowing them down as he averted his gaze from you, unsure why you were looking at him like some kicked puppy.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, reaching over to grab the television remote in an attempt to calm your nerves, “this is kind of my fault. Since I didn’t go over to the tattoo studio yesterday.”

Jisung took a moment to process what you said, wincing as he let out a (fake) cough, only serving to make you feel even more guilty than you already were.

“Are you actually…apologising to me?” Jisung’s smile was poorly hidden behind his hand, making you roll your eyes, your guilt ever-present when you looked at him.

Jisung sighed, deciding to let you off this once, “seriously, it’s no big deal. I didn’t expect you to come, anyway. I was just trying my luck,” he told you, making you frown, your mouth forming a slight pout.

“I was just being petty, I’m…” you trailed off, shaking your head, “yeah, whatever, I’m just really sorry.”

Jisung looked at you with a hint of a smile on his face, taking his lower lip between his teeth as he nodded. He wasn’t sure if it was his fever, or the way your gestures were exuding warmth, but Jisung swore just for a moment. A second, almost, he kind of thought you looked cute.

Jisung nodded, “I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”

You frowned, turning away from the television to face him, your back resting on the sofa slightly, “let me know about what?”

Jisung kept his gaze fixed on the television, bringing his hand up to scratch at his collarbone, hints of his tattoos peeking out from his neckline.

 Shrugging, Jisung’s gaze shifted to meet yours, “if your apology is accepted.”

You were sure that your mom would’ve just laughed in your face if you told her about your experience today, as you began to realise just how much you didn’t hate Jisung’s company when the both of you weren’t trying to fight each other.

In the few hours that had passed alone, you’d learnt much more about him than you had bothered to in your months living with him. You’d learnt that he was a music major, that wanted to pursue a career in music production, and that he’d gotten interested in tattoos when he’d met this kid named Changbin in his class, who introduced him to Chan for an apprenticeship.

As for Jisung? He was just learning that you weren’t as intolerable as he thought you were.

You’d ordered food for the both of you, Jisung having refused to eat porridge, and you were currently having an actual, comfortable conversation with him, the hallmark movie playing on the television long forgotten.

Jisung’s phone had started to ring, interrupting him mid-sentence as he told you about how the tattoo studio works, making you lean over to check who it was.

“It’s Chan.”

Jisung grimaced, “speak of the devil,” he scoffed. Shaking his head vigorously as you made to grab his phone, Jisung set his chopsticks down hurriedly to reach for his phone, only to grab air when you’d answered the call.

“Hello?” You heard Chan speak, an urgency to his tone.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Jisung is…not feeling so well right now.”

Jisung shot you a look, bringing his hands around his throat with his chopsticks held between his fingers, acting as if he was so sick he was about to pass out, making loud coughing noises in the background.

You couldn’t help but smile, scrunching your nose and waving him off in your attempt to get him to stop before he choked on his food.

Chan sighed, “Is he, now? Tell him I’m shifting today’s appointment to next Wednesday. Anyway, thanks, Y/N, bye,” he hung up promptly after.

You gave Jisung a grim look, setting the phone down slowly onto the coffee table, “Chan said he’s shifting your appointment to Wednesday.”

Jisung’s lips parted, almost forgetting his cheeks were full of food, tilting his head back to groan.

“Chan’s gonna kill me.”

“Why?”

Jisung shoved more food into his mouth, chewing slowly, “I totally forgot, I was supposed to do this girl’s tattoo today, but cause I’m, you know, sick,” he gave you a pointed look, “I can’t do it.”

“You do tattoos already? I thought you were still just…”

Jisung rolled his eyes, “what? Still just tattooing on fake skin?”

You nodded sheepishly, earning a sigh from him, though you didn’t miss the small smile on his face.

“I’ll have you know, I can tattoo people now. You know Lucas’ tattoo of the angel looking mermaid hybrid type thing?”

You hummed in thought, his description oddly specific yet successfully helping you visualise the tattoo, gesturing to your forearm, “the one he got here?”

Jisung nodded, “I did that for him.”

Your eyes widened, impressed at the scale of Jisung’s detail in his design, remembering how enamoured you were with it when Lucas had first showed it to you.

“Lucas’ been asking me to get a tattoo with him once the break starts,” you mentioned casually, earning a surprised hum from Jisung.

“Oh,” his eyes widened, as if he was still trying to process what you said, “really?”

You nodded, “still thinking about it, though. Haven’t really decided on what I wanted.”

Jisung scooped the last of his food into his mouth, giving you as nonchalant a shrug as he could muster.

“Well, uh, you know, if you want or something you could come one of the days during the break, I could show you some stuff I think you’d like.”

You nodded, the simple suggestion somehow exciting you.

That night, you’d gotten ready for bed, having made sure Jisung ate his medicine before he went to sleep.

Before you could move to switch the lights off, he’d stopped you/

“Wait, like…can you um… leave the lamp on?” You raised an eyebrow at him, but complied nonetheless, figuring this was your chance to repent while he was sick.

“Goodnight,” you murmured, stretching your arms above your head with a yawn.

“Yeah, night…” he murmured, inhaling deeply, “oh, and Y/N?”

You frowned, “uh-huh?” Looking at him expectantly, your breath hitched at the sight of the small smile that made its way on his face, the moonlight casting a calm glow in the room that mirrored his expression.

“Apology accepted.”

You smiled, nodding before you left. Hopefully this meant things were looking up for your relationship.

===

After that day, it was as if something in your dynamic had shifted, you found that Jisung was giving you lesser and lesser reasons to be annoyed at him.

Lucas had gotten a kick out of it when you’d told him about it.

“You guys finally realised it wouldn’t kill you to be nice to each other?” You remembered him telling you.

You would beg to differ, though, because with this shift in dynamic came a whole lot of awkwardness, especially when one of you had done something mildly nice for the other person.

Take this instance, for example.

You’d been sitting at your desk, trying to finish up on your essay that was due that week, not wanting to let your motivation subside without making full use of it (also because you knew if you didn’t do it now, you’d procrastinate and stress out when you realised you were behind time).

You’d been able to faintly smell Jisung’s noodles that he was cooking in the kitchen, making you sigh. You didn’t like eating things after you had your dinner, but you couldn’t lie and say that they didn’t smell great.

Expecting to hear his bedroom door shut and feel the smell of the noodles get fainter, he’d surprised you when he made his way over to you, setting a mug containing a hot drink on your desk.

Turning to him abruptly, he’d flinched back, looking at you with wide eyes as his hands flew up over his chest, making you laugh.

“I’m not gonna hit you, calm down.”

Jisung relaxed (albeit hesitantly), one of his hands coming up to grip the back of his neck, gesturing towards the mug with his other hand.

“Go ahead, I uh…didn’t poison it or anything,” a huff of awkward laughter left him.

You glanced from the mug to him, nodding slowly, “thanks.”

“Don’t, you know…sleep too late, and stuff,” he told you, earning a nod from you.

He nodded back at you, giving you a close-lipped smile before practically jogging back to his room, the door shutting a little louder than usual, a yelp of apology echoing after.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t try to to be nice to him either, but frankly, he wasn’t giving you many opportunities to do so.

 Jisung was still keeping his worries to himself, with his creative block seeming to have spiralled him into heavy feelings of anxiousness and a lack of confidence in his abilities.

You figured that things had been weighing heavy on his mind when you realised he’d been intentionally keeping the light on more often when he slept, or how the typing sounds of his keyboard would get more frequent as it got later into the night.

You’d even had Chan pleading for you to check up on Jisung every now and then once you noticed that he’d been sleeping a lot more and eating at irregular intervals. Listening out for his humming every now and then, you noticed the melodies seemed to have taken a more slow-paced, almost melancholic turn.

One night, you’d decided that if Jisung wasn’t going to give you opportunities to be nice to him, you would just create them for yourself. Making a determined trip to the kitchen, you’d boiled his favourite type of instant ramen, having seen how he made it so many times you knew just what to add in.

Padding over to his room, you’d knocked on the door before pushing it open slightly, watching him straighten up where he sat on his bed, setting his iPad down beside him, his thigh blocking it from your view.

“Hey, I uh…here,” you cut to the chase, Jisung was quick to find something to put under the pot on his bed, opening it and looking at you wordlessly.

“Figured the both of us could use a break,” you shrugged, oblivious to the way your words had stirred something within Jisung.

“What were you working on?” You asked, scooping some noodles into a bowl for Jisung and handing it to him.

He’d taken the bowl from you absently, his eyes widening at the mention of the sketch, unconsciously pushing it further behind him.

“Nothing, I was just doodling.”

Jisung had no idea how to explain that he had been trying to design something for you, something that reminded him of you. Because frankly, that was the only thing that seemed to be pushing his creative block aside at the moment.

“Can I see?”

Usually, Jisung would’ve fought you ( to the death ) before he’d let you see his unfinished designs, but there was something about your demeanour that made him feel like it was okay to show you. That it was okay to tell you that it wasn’t perfect because something inside of him just told him that you would understand.

In spite of any rational fibre in his being, he’d picked up the tablet, giving it to you as he continued to eat the ramen, his gaze never leaving your expression, oblivious to your scrolling as he was too busy gauging your reaction.

“These are all really pretty,” you told him, scrolling until you’d reached the bottom, clicking on one of the drawings and flipping the screen around to show Jisung.

“I love this,” you told him, earning a surprised hum from him.

He saw that you’d clicked on the sketch of the peony that he’d tried to refine that day he got rained on, wondering what made you choose that out of all his designs, since he was probably the least satisfied with that one.

“Are you sure? What about this one?” He took the tablet from you, scrolling back to the design he was working on, making you hum thoughtfully, eventually shaking your head no.

“I like the other one better,” you told him, earning a confused hum from him.

“Why?”

You scoffed, frowning at him, “why are you so against it? You’re the one that drew it,” you took the tablet back from him, holding it against your shoulder before shaking your head, setting it back down onto your lap.

“Besides,” you murmured, zooming in to admire the shading on the flower, “I think it’s beautiful.”

Jisung’s expression was unreadable, unsure how you had such strong appreciation for something he thought was his worst work, something about the way you praised it making a strange feeling that he couldn’t place build within his chest.

It was like before, the feeling of comfort, that he didn’t have to worry about any kind of creative block that could be thrown his way because you gave him a different perspective on his abilities.

You know, the cliché, hard-hitting feeling that ‘everything is gonna be okay’.

“Do you have anything happening during the break?” You asked, earning a shrug from him.

“I’ve gotta submit my song to Chan’s music producer friend.”

You perked up at the mention of Jisung’s song, “have you thought of what you wanted to do for it yet?”

Jisung shook his head, letting out a deep sigh, “it’s been kind of stressing me out, to be honest,” he admitted.

“I like…I don’t wanna give him something that doesn’t show what I’m capable of, you know?”

You nodded, “I understand…I wish I could help you but I don’t really, you know, know how,” you fidgeted with your fingers, hearing him grunt in dismissal.

“It’s fine,” he mustered a confident smile, “nothing I can’t handle.”

And for a moment, you really would’ve believed that he’d gotten it handled. Leaving him to continue with his work as you got ready for bed.

You had almost anticipated to hear typing sounds as you did every night these days. But unlike the other nights, Jisung didn’t very well feel like being alone with his thoughts that night, not even wanting to type them down. He craved the feeling of being okay, of feeling like he still had time and didn’t have to be anxious or feel shitty about his mediocre work.

So it had come as a surprise to you when you’d heard the gentle knock at your door that night just as you were about to drift into a half-asleep state, hearing the door open and watching as Jisung made his way hesitantly over to where you were.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You heard him let out a shaky breath, and you didn’t need to ask him further, giving him a small hum of approval as he’d pulled the small heated mat from under your bed and made himself comfortable next to your bed.

Jisung let his head hit the ground gently, a deep sigh leaving him as he closed his eyes.

“Do you want me to leave the lamp on?” You mumbled, hearing him hum.

“No, it’s fine,” he told you, strangely not feeling much of a need for it now that he had you near him.

The both of you knew better than to speak more, the silence seeming to have made you understand how he was feeling. And as he lay there, with your presence in the room, Jisung felt alright, and so did you.

That night, there were no typing sounds.

===

Contrary to yesterday, you'd started today on a good note. Having bumped into Jisung the next morning after he'd gotten ready, meeting in the hallway when you were still dressed in your sleepwear, you couldn't help but smile.

"Morning," he murmured, a small smile on his face as he gave you a little wave, leaving promptly to meet Chan at the tattoo studio.

You didn't have work today, and you'd arranged a meeting with Lucas to hang out, the boy not seeming to want to waste anymore time when he'd finally arrived at the mall, practically bounding over to where you were waiting at the fountain in the atrium.

"So, have you thought about it yet?" he asked you, extending a hand to help you up.

Frowning, your lips parted in confusion, "thought about what?"

Lucas gave you an unamused look, as if you should've known what he was talking about. Pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, he'd raised his hands as he gestured, "you know, about what tattoo you wanted to get."

You made your way to a bubble tea outlet that Lucas wanted to check out, pestering you to go with him as part of the things he’d wanted to do during the semester break.

You couldn't help but laugh at the realisation, feeling awfully giddy at the thought of yesterday.

It was just a simple interaction, yeah, whatever, but no one said there were rules on what could make your heart flutter and what couldn't. All you knew was that whatever happened yesterday, did.

"Yeah, I did," you confessed, huffing with a smile on your face.

Lucas didn't know whether to feel afraid or happy that you were so quick to decide this time, looking at you in concern, "okay...so, what did you decide on?"

You pursed your lips, your smile disappearing, "I don't have a picture with me, it's on Jisung's ipad. But it's really pretty, it's like this drawing of a flower," you explained.

Lucas' eyes widened, his hand coming up to cover his mouth in a poor attempt to conceal his growing excitement.

"Oh, it's one of Jisung's stuff?"

You nodded, not seeming to understand why he was so happy about that, "what?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, "you and Jisung seem to be on pretty good terms recently, huh.”

You scoffed, shrugging because it wasn't as if what he said was a lie.

Lucas leaned closer to you, "have you been smiling at him more these days?"

You frowned at his question, shrugging at him nonetheless, turning your attention back to the menu board, "yeah, I guess."

Lucas' giggles escaped him like bubbles, nodding at you knowingly, “perfect. You should definitely keep doing that.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “questionable advice, but I’ll take it. Anyway, when are you planning on getting it done?"

Lucas straightened up, lifting his phone slightly to check the date.

"I made an appointment for Chan to do mine next Tuesday," he told you, “have you asked your parents yet?”

You nodded, “they weren’t as supportive until they found out Jisung designed it, they just told me not to get anything I’ll regret.”

Lucas couldn’t miss his opportunity to tease you, “well, I’m sure if Jisung’s doing it, the last thing you’d do is regret it.”

Shoving him aside and ignoring the way he’d burst into a fit of giggles, you ordered your drink, and Lucas’ as well once he calmed down enough to point at what he wanted on the menu.

“Maybe you should text him and ask about when you can book him?” Lucas gestured to you with his drink, his leg bouncing absently as he looked around the small outlet, the group of high-school girls in their uniforms sitting next to your table giggling as he’d skimmed over their table.

“Do you think that’d be too much? Should I just ask Chan instead?” You glanced at him for a sign of approval, “but then if I ask Chan would it make Jisung think I don’t want him to do my tattoo?” You wondered out loud, your stream of thought proving to be fairly amusing to Lucas.

“Just text him, it’s not that deep,” Lucas sipped on his drink.

“Nah, you know what? I should just ask him later at home, I shouldn’t bother him when he’s at work,” you shrugged, earning a sound of dismissal from him.

“Texting him would be a lot faster, you know.”

You shot him a look, “why are you so insistent on me texting him?”

Lucas scoffed, “why are you so against it?” He shot back.

Giving him a look of feigned annoyance, you’d set your phone down onto the table, staring blankly as Lucas had turned it to face him, unlocking your phone and going to Jisung’s chat.

“How should I start? ‘hey baby’—”

Your eyes widened, about to snatch the phone back from him when he’d pulled it towards himself in time, shooting you a look of feigned confusion.

“What? Too mild?” He laughed.

Sighing as he calmed down from his laughter, he shook his head slowly as he typed out a message, “man, you’re so bad at this,” he murmured.

“What makes you say that?”

Lucas pressed something on your phone with finality, scrolling up as he showed you your previous texts with Jisung. Texts like:

1:09pm - dont eat my chips get ur own - or texts like

 10:11pm - keep it down! Im trying to study -

Jisung 10:11pm -well so am I!-

“All you guys ever text each other for is to ask each other to do things, how can you expect him to like you if you’re always telling him to separate his lights and darks?”

You took the phone back from Lucas with a huff, “leave me alone. And who said anything about wanting him to like me?”

Lucas looked as though you’d just asked him an obvious question, looking almost scandalised at your denial, “really? You went from ‘oh, I don’t wanna bother Jisung at work’ and ‘oh, heehee me and Jisung ate ramen together yesterday night’ to ‘who said anything about my big fat crush on Jisung’?”

You huffed, “that’s inaccurate.”

Lucas chewed on his tapioca pearls harshly, making sure you heard the smacking sounds of his chewing to unnerve you, shaking his head at you matter-of-factly, “it’s pretty much-what’s the word, ah! Verbatim. That.”

 You rolled your eyes at him, wondering how the high-school girls sitting next to you still managed to find Lucas an absolute dreamboat despite how intentionally ridiculously he was behaving.

The truth is, Jisung wouldn’t have cared if you’d ‘bothered him during work or not’. He probably would’ve jumped at the notification of your text.

After the night before, Jisung couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling of comfort that flooded him at the thought of you. Finally getting enough inspiration to work on his song when he’d gotten home, even despite the pounding in his head and the sheer fatigue from the day that had passed.

Call him whatever you wanted, but Jisung couldn’t shake the feeling of reassurance he got with you, and it was a feeling he never thought he’d be experiencing as deeply as he did now.

From how familiar it was to hear your voice (even if it was asking him to fold the laundry), to how the smell of your perfume would awaken him on certain days, just in time for him to start his routine for the day. In small things, like how whenever he was looking for a break from work, somehow he’d find it with you.

He’d been working on his song for hours now, though he’d kept letting his gaze wander to the door in anticipation, wondering what was taking you so long to get home. He couldn’t help but wonder if you were still with Lucas, his imagination running wild with all sorts of scenarios that could have taken place to warrant you coming home so late.

Jisung brushed the thought away quickly after he found himself going to your contact on his phone, setting it down quickly as if it burned him. It was fine, you were an adult (he figured), you didn’t need him to hound you about a curfew.

Deciding to work on his lyrics for the song, he’d typed away on his laptop his ideas, his mind seeming to always gravitate to thinking of you as he read what he’d typed down.

Satisfied with the amount of work he’d gotten done for that day, Jisung had let his head lean back against the armrest of the sofa, his legs bent as he lay on his side, letting his eyes rest from all that staring at his glaringly bright computer screen.

You’d gone for a late-night movie with Lucas to end off your day, having gone home later than usual, though you didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if you had a curfew anymore.

You managed to reach your apartment as stealthily as you could, since the walls were really that thin and you didn’t want the old lady from next door to get on your back for being noisy when she was trying to sleep or whatever again.

Shoving your keys into the keyhole, you frowned when you saw that the lights in the living room were still switched on, spotting Jisung lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, his head lolling to the side as he dozed off.

Going into your room (in stealth mode, again), you’d set your things down quietly, deciding to take a shower and get ready for bed before anything else. Suddenly everything seemed to be a thousand times louder than you were used to. You were sure Jisung hadn’t been getting much quality sleep recently, so seeing him dozing off on the sofa had only made you want to ensure that his sleep continued uninterrupted.

Once you were changed into your sleepwear, you’d gone into Jisung’s room, taking a soft blanket from his cupboard and bringing it over to where he was, draping it over him till it reached his shoulders. You couldn’t help but find how peaceful he looked to be rather endearing, wishing you could do more but knowing there wasn’t much else you could do.

Jisung considered himself a good actor, because on the inside he was far from peaceful. He’d awoken at the feeling of being covered by the blanket, the back of your fingers grazing against his arm slightly.

His heart had fluttered, extremely, at the gesture, though something in him was yelling at him not to open his eyes, wanting to savour the moment for himself. It felt warm, a comfortable kind of warmth, the kind you would want to bask in for hours after being in the cold for so long. Something like a ray of sunshine.

Jisung was convinced he was going mad.

Switching on the lamp at your desk so that the living room wouldn’t be in complete darkness, you’d switched off the lights in the living room, bidding a silent goodnight to Jisung in your head before you’d gone back to your room, leaving Jisung dumbfounded.

===

“What did you say the song was called, again?” Chan had asked Jisung on Tuesday morning, looking at him with an endeared smile.

Jisung felt shy for some reason, pressing his lips together firmly as he averted his gaze from Chan, preparing his equipment as he waited for you and Lucas to arrive.

“Sunshine,” Jisung told him.

Chan huffed, his smile growing bigger, “I like that,” he hummed.

“What’s it about?” Chan asked, pulling his phone out to check for a text, “also, Lucas says they’re nearby.”

Jisung shrugged, “what’s it about?” He echoed Chan’s question, as if not knowing for himself either, something about him seeming fairly preoccupied, “it’s kind of hard to explain.”

Chan nodded in understanding, glancing at the way Jisung fiddled with the practice sketch he’d done of Y/N’s tattoo, twirling it around in his hands and anxiously glancing towards the door.

“Nervous?”

Jisung’s head shot up to look at Chan with wide eyes, “huh?…” he nodded slowly, “yeah, kind of.”

A small smile played at Chan’s lips as the boy had finished up the stencil for Lucas’ tattoo. “Is it because it’s Y/N?”

Jisung let out a nervous laugh, “yeah, duh,” he mumbled, “I mean, yeah, I’m nervous because she’s the one getting the tattoo but more like…”

Jisung shrugged, “I still don’t understand why she chose this out of all the designs I had.”

Chan raised an eyebrow, the jingling of the bells at the door followed by a loud guffaw of laughter signalling to him that the both of you had arrived.

“You should take more pride in your work,” Chan pat Jisung on the back, almost sending the boy stumbling with the sheer force behind the hit. Though Jisung couldn’t very well pay attention to the pain in his shoulder once he saw you with Lucas.

Lucas was quick to shove you towards Jisung, going over to one of the beds with Chan as they discussed the placement of the tattoo.

Jisung was almost uncharacteristically tense, leading you over to the station across from Lucas and Chan, holding the stencil up for you to see, “you’re absolutely sure you want this?”

You rolled your eyes, nodding, “yes, I’m sure.”

Jisung nodded slowly, albeit hesitantly, at you, “have you figured out where you want it?”

Lucas had perked up at that, butting into the conversation despite being across the room, “we were thinking between two places.”

Jisung hummed as he’d gone over to take the tablet containing a form for you to fill out before he got started.

You shushed Lucas quickly, accepting the tablet from Jisung with a nod of thanks, “yeah, I was thinking between here,” you gestured under your collarbone, “or here,” you gestured to your shoulder, just above your shoulder-blade.

Jisung nodded, “which do you feel more comfortable with? I think both are alright.”

“I was thinking maybe here?” You held a hand over the space under your collarbone, earning a nod from him.

“Alright,” he murmured, taking the tablet from you once you were done and quietly gesturing for you to lie down.

In your haste to get it over with, you’d almost completely forgotten about the placement of your tattoo, Jisung quirking an eyebrow at you and letting a huff of nervousness escape him.

“Sorry uh, I hope you don’t mind,” he murmured, pulling the collar of your shirt down to expose the area you’d wanted tattooed, making Lucas (who was watching intently) snicker from where he sat.

You’d felt heat creeping up to your neck, making you stretch your neck to look elsewhere, deciding to focus on the black pipes lining the ceiling, your shyness reducing your voice to a mere mumble, “yeah, sorry.”

Your nerves had built up even more with how tense Jisung was, even as he had disinfected the area and transferred what looked like a blue-ish outline of his sketch to your skin, making you almost want to writhe in your place with how nervous you were growing.

However, once you’d heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun, it was as if you were transported into your room, the familiarity of the sound making you less nervous, simply anticipating the pain that you’d associated with the tattoo to occur.

It was a wonder you hadn’t even been able to think much about the pain of the tattoo, though, because you were too busy trying to ignore Jisung’s proximity to you.

He was a stark contrast from Chan, who was making conversation with Lucas throughout the process, whereas Jisung had simply loomed over you, a tense knit to his brow and his lips pressed tightly together. Just by your expressions alone, people would have thought he was the one getting the tattoo.

This was only so because Jisung was struggling, with the smell of your perfume making him feel more awake than ever, and not to mention the pressure to make sure the tattoo turned out well that weighed heavy on him. Everything about you was so familiar, yet everything about the experience was not, and it was driving Jisung crazy with the amount of tension it was making him feel.

“Are you okay?” He asked, gauging your face for any sign that you were in too much pain.

You wanted to laugh, “This is like the fifth time you’re asking me that,” you told him.

“Can’t help it,” he told you, and you swore you saw his cheeks start to tint pink, “just wanted to make sure you were okay, you know…since it’s your first tattoo, and all.”

You nodded reassuringly, “it’s fine, just keep going.”

Jisung nodded, “I’ll be done quicker than you know it, I swear.”

You continued to distract yourself with the sight of Lucas across the room, Chan having to bring the needle back whenever Lucas couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“I’m sorry, It tickles,” you heard him tell Chan, making you have to stifle your laughter.

“Can I ask you something?” You decided that maybe talking to Jisung would help time pass faster (and less awkwardly).

“Uh-huh,” he hummed, shifting his chair slightly to get into a more comfortable position.

“How many tattoos do you have?” You asked, earning a long, reflective hum from him.

“I got a few in the time after college started, I would say about 5 or 6 now?” He shrugged, “and if you’re gonna ask me what’s their meanings…I don’t really know how to explain it, I just like the feeling they give me when I look at them.”

“I get it, it’s expression after all.”

Jisung nodded, his focus returning and making him let the conversation still. You didn’t like that, the feeling of awkwardness that returned with his silence, making you wrack your brains to find any sort of other conversation topic you could think of.

“Are you seeing anyone?” You wanted to instantly hide your face once you heard the words leave your mouth, Lucas turning to you with a wide-eyed expression.

Jisung sputtered, pulling the tattoo gun away from your skin, shaking his head at you.

“Uh, no, I’m not.” He narrowed his eyes at you, trying to regain his confidence in the situation, “why’d you wanna know?”

Now it was your turn to flush, averting your gaze, “oh, you know, just…curious, is all.”

Jisung smirked, “well, don’t go getting any ideas. I already like someone,” he told you, feeling as though he was dangling a carrot right in front of you.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, “really? Who?”

Jisung shrugged, “it’s a secret.”

You frowned, wanting to get back at him but not quite knowing how, deciding to go with the first thing you could think of, “well, I like someone too, you’re not special.”

Jisung hadn’t expected you to retort with that, narrowing his eyes at you, “wait, really? Is it Lucas?”

“Oh my god, no way, never.”

“Then who is it?” He met your gaze, making you stick your tongue out at him, mustering your best impersonation of him.

“It’s a secret.”

You had almost thought you were imagining things, but you noticed Jisung’s mood take a turn from there, seeming awfully pensive as he did the rest of your tattoo, the both of you having maintained a silence after your failed attempt at a proper conversation with him. He’d already begun to do the shading for your tattoo, so you figured he was really going to be done quicker than you thought.

You tried to distract yourself by glancing towards Lucas and Chan’s direction. Jisung could see you staring in their direction from the corner of his eye, wondering why your gaze kept travelling there when he was right in front of you.

“Is it Chan?” He blurted out, making your eyes go wide in shock.

Your smile grew, shaking your head, “no, definitely not.”

Jisung frowned, “who could it even be, you don’t even know that many people,” he huffed.

You sighed, trust you to fall for someone as oblivious as him.

“Do you want a clue?” You asked, earning a grunt from him.

“They’re very oblivious.”

Jisung frowned, looking as though he were contemplating, his tissue going over your tattoo slower as he thought. His mouth formed an ‘o’ shape in realisation, a gasp leaving him.

“No way, it’s not that Felix kid from your department, is it?” He looked as though he was hoping you would say no.

You fought to suppress the urge to roll your eyes, yet not realising you were smiling at him, “no, it’s not him.”

Jisung sighed, “oh, good. I know I always say I’m the best looking but he’s a lot better looking than I am, don’t tell him I said that.”

“Good?” You questioned, wondering why he seemed so relieved that all his options had turned out to be false. Jisung had realised he may have made things a little too obvious, shaking his head vigorously.

“Nothing, you’re all done, forget I said anything.”

He pushed himself away from you, his chair swivelling far back as he tried to calm the racing of his heart as you sat up and stretched, your body tired from being in the same position for so long.

“What time is it?” You asked, earning a grunt from Jisung, not knowing either.

Chan had chimed in from the other side, having been done with Lucas’ tattoo way before yours.

“It’s 4:24,” he told you. Jisung had been busy putting an adhesive bandage over your tattoo to pay attention to your reaction.

You spent 4 hours lying there and you only got like what, two conversations with Jisung? This was a new low, even for you.

 You were snapped out of your disappointment when Jisung had spoken.

“Uh… yeah keep this on for like three to four days?” He gestured to the bandage, your breath hitching as he hiked the collar of your shirt up so it wasn’t still dropping off your shoulder.

“You can still shower and everything so yeah…” he told you, reciting from memory after having been told this a thousand times by Chan.

You tried your best to pay attention, though you knew you’d probably forget by the time you were home, making him stand up mid-speech and walk over to the counter, pulling out a little brochure to hand you.

“Honestly, just read this, it has everything you need to know inside,” he told you, walking away briskly to compose himself at his station.

You’d made your payment to Chan at the counter, Jisung having pretended to be busy with cleaning up, making Chan flash you an amused smile.

“What?”

He shook his head, dimples appearing as he gave you your receipt, “You two are just too cute,” he huffed, earning a loud hum of approval from Lucas.

“Aren’t they?” The tall boy chimed in, making you scoff.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, bye,” you waved, seeing Jisung turn around to give you a wide smile before turning back around, practically collapsing onto the bed once you and Lucas were gone.

“Those were the most excruciating 4 hours of my life.”

Chan’s laughter could be heard as he made his way over to Jisung, giving him a pat on the back, “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Jisung let out a loud groan, “we were like this close!” Jisung brought his hand in front of his face for emphasis as he whined to Chan, “and I couldn’t focus at all I was so scared I was gonna screw up her tattoo because I kept zoning out,” he rambled, feeling as though his knees were about to buckle.

Chan shook his head with a feigned look of sympathy, looking at Jisung as though Jisung were his son, “I’m glad you’re feeling stressed.”

Jisung scoffed, shrugging Chan’s hand off of his shoulder and glaring at his mentor with a look of disbelief, “you’re glad? Aren’t you supposed to be feeling some sympathy for me? That’s sick, I can’t believe you.”

Chan wasn’t surprised at Jisung’s dramatic reaction, simply laughing as he shrugged.

“I’m glad because if you’re stressed, you’re gonna be pushed to do something about it soon. And then I can stop hearing you stress about it and just see the both of you together, instead.”

Jisung shot Chan a dirty look, “you’re mean, old man.”

Chan scoffed, “at least I’m not stupid in love.”

===

Jisung had been keeping himself fairly busy since then, the both of you having been busy with your own plans since the semester break had started. However, the both of you had somehow managed to enjoy suppers together, bonding over a (rather unhealthy) meal of snacks or instant food whenever it was late in the night and the both of you didn’t want to go to sleep just yet.

And speaking of sleep, you’d also noticed how Jisung had started to look brighter these days, seeming to have been overcoming that period of lethargy he was previously in.

Now, the brightness was heard in the songs he hummed, in how he smiled and laughed more whenever you were together. Even in how he'd started growing more comfortable with sleeping in the dark. You weren’t sure what exactly sparked this change in him, but whatever it was, you were glad it happened, yourself seeming to be all the more enamoured with this version of Jisung that had grown on you.

You’d planned with Jisung to have a day of celebration (or a pity party) once he’d submitted his song to Chan’s music producer friend.

Since you had work that day, you’d wanted to get up early to prepare breakfast for him, but you didn’t realise how late you were until you woke up and found that he had already left.

Making your way over to the kitchen to find some food for yourself after you’d gotten ready for work, you yanked open the door for the fridge, expecting to be met with all of Jisung’s snacks and cans of drinks that still had their post-its on them.

However, as you were scanning the fridge to see if you had anything you could eat, you spotted a different coloured post-it on a bundle of juice packets, peeling the post-it off of the packaging to inspect it.

‘y/n, I heard these are great to start the morning with, try them for me?’

You couldn’t help but smile, a hand coming up to your face to attempt to slap away the heat you felt in your cheeks, pulling out a packet of juice anyway.

You were starting to think the juice did have some sort of magical properties in them, because when you got to work, you’d been on drink duty, which was your favourite to do. Well, technically, anything other than cashier duty was your favourite but who’s keeping track here?

You knew Jisung's meeting with the producer was around the afternoon, so when Chan had shown up at the café alone, you didn't question it.

Now you were really glad you weren't on cashier duty today, giving your colleague more time to talk to Chan while he ordered.

"One strawberry smoothie for Chan?" you called to get his attention, seeing him stroll over to the pick-up point with a smile on his face.

"Sorry, Jisung's not here," he teased, sighing wistfully.

You scoffed, "yeah, yeah. I know where he is.”

“How’s the tattoo healing?” He asked, making your hand go up to your shoulder unconsciously, “It’s alright, looks really pretty now that it’s all healed.”

Chan gave you a thumbs up, opening the lid of his drink as he took a sip, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“Is he meeting your friend now?"

Chan’s eyebrows raised in confusion, “who?..oh,” he nodded in realisation, “yeah, just went to meet him. Honestly, if you asked me, he didn’t seem as excited about the meeting as he was to meet you for dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “don’t put ideas into my head, old man.”

Chan simply gave you a shrug, “I’m not that old, you know,” he brought his drink up to his lips to take a sip, “and they’re only ideas if you’re in denial.”

You groaned, “go, begone, leave me alone.”

Chan giggled, nodding as his hand went up in surrender, “fine, I’m going. Have a good dinner later, Y/N,” he sing-songed.

Curse Chan for putting the thought into your head, now you couldn’t stop thinking about dinner.

Your shift only ended at 5:30, so that gave you just about enough time to go get groceries while Jisung prepared the things for your hotpot at home.

Deciding you would do what you were called to do, which in this case, meant to send Jisung a text wishing him the best of luck, you did as such.

2:31pm - hey, all the best for your meeting with the producer man!!-

Jisung’s reply had come quickly,

han jisung 2:32pm - thanks :( im waiting to see him now, I didn’t know there was gonna be a whole queue -

Setting your phone aside, you’d tried not to let yourself get too anxious while you waited for him to update you, busying yourself with washing dishes and even serving tables out of your sheer boredom due to the crowd starting to disperse at this time.

You waited, and you waited, you waited until the word ‘waiting’ itself felt weird to say in your head. You should’ve known better to have expected Jisung to update you over text, only receiving a text in the evening that read

han jisung 5:23pm - hey…i just finished meeting him…see u at the apartment?-

You’d texted him back, not knowing what to make of his text.

5:23pm - is that a good hey or a bad hey? -

Jisung hadn’t answered your question, his next text coming as more of a source of confusion for you.

han jisung 5:24pm - ill tell u in person -

“What happened? Is it Jisung?” Your colleague seemed to have sensed your inner turmoil, looking at you with concern etched in her features.

“Yeah, he told me he was done meeting the producer person…but he didn’t wanna tell me how it went,” you frowned, seeing your colleague hum in confusion.

“D’you think it didn’t go well?” She asked, mirroring your expression of uncertainty.

You typed out your reply to Jisung as you shrugged, “I don’t know, I’m hoping he’s just messing with me.”

5:26pm - my shift ends in like 4 minutes… I’ll go and get the groceries before I get back -

han jisung 5:26pm - okay, ill be waiting -

“All the best, then?” Your co-worker offered, giving you a look of sympathy.

“You too, enjoy the rest of your shift,” you returned her expression, sighing as you removed your apron, grabbing your bag from the back room before you left.

You’d tried your best to be quick in getting your groceries, making sure you’d gotten everything Jisung had told you to, your footsteps quick as you briskly walked to your apartment building.

Not knowing if it was because you hadn’t eaten in hours or if it was because you were just excited, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement in you, not so much because you were excited to hear how Jisung’s meeting went but more of because you were excited that you were going to see Jisung soon.

Finally reaching your apartment, you’d pushed the door open to spot Jisung coming out from his room, a towel on his head as he rubbed at his freshly-washed hair.

“Hey,” you breathed, a hint of a smile on your face, scanning his face for an expression as he glanced at you, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose cutely.

Jisung had a whole plan for how he was going to surprise you with the news, he wanted to wait until the food was ready and when the both of you were seated across each other in the living room, wait for you to ask him about how the meeting went so that he could pretend to be upset about it.

And just like he’d seen in the romantic movie Chan was playing in the studio the other day, he would wait till you showed concern to give you a smile and tell you the good news, already being able to imagine the smile you would give him in celebration.

But seeing how you looked, a little bit breathless from rushing, carrying groceries in your hands as you looked at him with a smile that spelled nothing but relief, Jisung couldn’t help himself.

“He offered me a job,” Jisung confessed, his grip tight on his towel as he let his hand fall limp to his side, any perfect, fool-proof plan of copying the romance movie now long gone.

Your eyes widened, setting the groceries on the counter as you cheered, “oh my god, that’s great! I’m really happy for you!” You cheered, practically running towards him before stopping yourself halfway, realising you were almost about to hug him.

Jisung noticed you stop too, tilting his head at you as his hands had already begun to raise to welcome you into a hug, hesitating once he’d seen you stop.

“Sorry,” you huffed, shoving your hands into your pockets, taking a step back to create some distance between the both of you.

Jisung smiled, shaking his head, “don’t be.” Shocking you with his confidence, he’d taken a step closer to you, his arms going around your shoulders as he pulled you towards him, his head leaning against yours gently as one of his hands went up to pet your head gently.

“You really helped me through it, believe it or not.”

Your eyes widened, trying not to get too carried away with the way his hold felt too comforting for you to pull away, thankful that he’d let go first, his hands coming up to grasp your shoulders.

“You hungry? The soup’s almost done.”

You nodded, “can I uh…take a shower first? I’ll be quick I promise.”

You didn’t wait for him to reply before you’d escaped to the bathroom, too focused on showering quickly that you’d almost forgotten about the hug. Keyword, almost.

Once you’d changed into a comfortable shirt and shorts, you’d practically jogged over to the kitchen, seeing that Jisung had already taken out the ingredients to thaw the meat and prepare the veggies.

“Wow, who are you and what have you done with Jisung?”

Jisung turned around at your voice, rolling his eyes at your statement, flicking the water from the veggies at you as you dodged, “figured I’d do something while waiting, you know, make myself useful.”

You huffed, a smile on your face as you gestured for him to continue, “well, don’t let me stop you.”

“So how did the interview go?” You asked, watching intently as he brought the platefuls of ingredients to the coffee table, stopping you when you’d moved to help him get the pot of soup.

“It’s okay, you go sit down, I’ll do it.”

You couldn’t help the impressed pout from your lips, not wanting to let on that the gesture had made your heart flutter.

Once all the food was on the table, Jisung had taken a seat next to you, the both of you starting to throw your ingredients into the soup, Jisung turning to you looking as though he’d wanted to say something.

“What was I saying before? Oh, right,” he nodded, “I didn’t expect him to be so intimidating, I nearly pissed myself when I walked into the room.”

You’d burst into laughter, Jisung laughing along with you, “I’m not even joking. Chan gave me a completely different description of what he would be like.”

You’d tried your best to calm down from your laughter quickly, seeing him take a piece of food from the pot and place it into your bowl wordlessly, choosing to ignore the gesture for the sake of your heart.

“But I’m assuming he’s not that bad? Since he offered you the job?”

Jisung let out a sigh, “yeah, thank god he did, I was a stuttering mess. Even Iwouldn’t have hired myself.”

You let out a chuckle, “you’re lucky he judged you based on the song, then,” you teased, earning a harmless glare from him.

You’d scooped some food into your mouth, looking up at him to see that he’d already had his cheeks full of food, nodding at you expectantly.

“So does this mean you’re gonna work on that producer guy’s team?” You asked, earning a nod from him as he swallowed his mouthful of food with a wince.

“Yeah, he said I could intern at his company in the holidays and if everything goes well he’ll give me a contract once I graduate.”

You let out a low whistle, “wow, imagine all the exposure you’d get there…all the different types of genres and artists you’d be exposed to,” you marvelled, Jisung finding it amusing how you seemed more excited about it than he was.

You perked up in realisation, “speaking of which…I realised you’d never let me listen to the song yet.”

Jisung flushed, shaking his head, “did I? I swear I did,” he lied, making you shove him, a smile showing on his face as you did, nodding in surrender as he grabbed his phone from the coffee table.

“What’s it called?” You asked, seeing him nudge his glasses up with his knuckle, shaking his head to flick his hair from his eyes.

“Sunshine,” he told you quickly, not wasting anymore time and playing the song.

As he started to play the song, you were surprised at the light sounding melody the song had started with, the sounds of the city that he’d put inside, the feeling that you were…at home?

“Don’t look at me when you’re listening to it, I’m shy,” he brought a hand up to cover your face, making you yelp, your hands coming up to grab his wrist, pulling it away slowly as you grew more focused on the song, recognising his voice as he sang.

It wasn’t a love song, thankfully, you realised. You realised that the song revolved around a certain feeling of calm, with themes of getting away from the busy nature of your life and taking time for yourself, something you realised you and him both kind of needed.

You listened until the song had ended, looking at him with a big smile on your face, a smile that made Jisung want to cover your face in fear that it would make his heart burst with how giddy he felt.

“I love this,” you told him, “can you send it to me?”

Jisung scoffed, “no way, how do I know you’re not gonna sell it before I can get it copyrighted?” he huffed, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the table to support his head on his palm.

“I’m really impressed, how’d you get the inspiration to do this?”

Jisung shrugged, “my own life I guess, and the people that helped me get through that weird period of creative block that I was in,” he murmured.

You nodded, “well, whoever they are, you should thank them for me.”

Jisung nodded, facing the television as he contemplated in his heart whether to do what he wanted to do, turning to you with a small smile on his face, he nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Your eyes widened, not knowing what to make of his words. The song had started to repeat.

Jisung had shook his head, “I’m not just saying this because I like you or whatever—” he stopped himself with a small curse, “shit, that was not how I planned on telling you. Whatever, as I was saying…” he trailed off, his gaze landing on your tattoo, the neck of your shirt having started to slip off your shoulder slightly.

“Honestly, I really hated that drawing,” he told you, your gaze following his to look at your tattoo, looking back at him with raised eyebrows.

“This? Why? But it’s so pretty,” you insisted.

Jisung shook his head.

“It was my first design, and I wasn’t…you know, I just didn’t think it was that impressive, and all. Chan had told me to keep it in my portfolio but I was really close to just removing it.”

His gaze shifted to anywhere except your face, distracting himself by looking at the various things in the house, his gaze landing on the rainbow-coloured umbrella at the door.

Jisung sighed, shifting in his seat so he was leaning against the sofa now, his body angled towards you, making you unconsciously shift your body to face him as well, your breath hitching in anticipation for what he was about to say next.

“But then, you said you wanted it tattooed, and I honestly didn’t want you to get it but I had no choice, you know, blah blah customer’s preference first and all that bullshit,” he waved his hand for emphasis, “but then after I saw you with the tattoo more, I guess my perspective started to change? I mean, like, you kept insisting that it was so beautiful and all that..you know, seeing you with it kind of started to grow on me.”

Jisung paused, his gaze on a corner of the coffee table as he tried to find the right words to express how he was feeling, shrugging at you and just deciding to say whatever was at the top of his head and work from there.

“I guess it kind of made me love my work more, and like, trust myself, you know… because I realised how beautiful it could be.”

You looked at him wordlessly, your heart picking up speed at the tension in the room, something in you urging you to stand up, making you get up on your feet with no aim in mind.

So as not to look like a complete fool, your hands flew up to hug your arms, “oh, it’s a little um, chilly. Be right back,” you sprinted to your room, reaching in your cupboard for your hoodie and putting it on without a second thought, too preoccupied to notice how it stopped at your thighs and how the sleeves bunched up more.

Returning to the coffee table, you’d almost regretted your decision to put on the hoodie, feeling utterly warm from how flustered you were, especially with the way Jisung was looking at you with a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

“Sorry,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you tilted your head down, not expecting Jisung to tilt his head down as well so he could search for your gaze, making you scrunch your eyes shut, wrinkling your nose as you let out a huff of laughter.

“You can reject me, you know. I remember you said you already liked someone,” he told you, and Jisung meant it, not wanting anything but to make sure you were okay, and happy.

You shook your head, “I don’t want to,” you murmured, finally daring yourself to meet his gaze, your heart skipping a beat when you saw the way Jisung had smiled.

“I can’t say I’m not happy to hear that,” he told you.

Jisung had brought his hand up, lazily removing his glasses and looking at you finally, since now the other things in the house weren’t as clear in his vision, all that was important being that you were right in front of him, and he could see you clearer than anything.

“Why’d you take your glasses off?” You murmured, seeing him shrug, giving you a lazy smile.

“What? You scared I didn’t wanna see your face?” He teased, the flush on your cheeks making him give in almost immediately, “I’m kidding. I just didn’t feel like being distracted anymore.”

Maybe it was the atmosphere of the living room, or the lingering feelings the song had left in you, maybe it was even the way you felt like you were finally getting what you were waiting for.

Whatever it was, there was an overwhelming feeling of giddiness in you, especially with the way Jisung’s gaze had flickered between your lips and your gaze, and yet he’d made no move to lean closer to you, as if he was expecting you to move first.

Leaning closer, you’d let yourself glance down, getting distracted by the stain of black ink on the sleeve of your hoodie, only realising then that it wasn’t your hoodie.

“Shit, sorry I’m wearing yours by mistake again, it must’ve gotten mixed up,” you murmured, knowing it wasn’t your week to do laundry duty.

Jisung stopped you before you could stand up, pulling your hand forward so the only thing stopping you from losing your balance was his grip on your arm.

“I never thought I’d be saying this but, you can wear it.”

You’d sworn if your heart were any weaker, you wouldn’t have been able to last this long, Jisung seeming almost teasing with the way he’d inched closer at a painfully slow pace, so his lips were barely touching yours.

Just before he could pull back, you’d groaned in frustration, bringing your free hand up to cup the side of his jaw, meeting your lips with his.

And there it was again, the feeling of relief that washed over, knowing that this was very much happening, and that you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Jisung pulled away first, his pupils blown and his eyes giving away his surprise, huffing at you and folding his arms, increasing the distance between you.

“I’m only realising this now, what do you mean I’m oblivious?”

You rolled your eyes, “I’ll explain it again later, I swear.”

Jisung huffed, more dramatic this time, making sure you sensed his sulkiness (as feigned as it was), looking at you with a pout on his lips, “give me a kiss and I’ll forgive you.”

He puckered his lips, making you roll your eyes, though you didn’t hesitate to cup his face again, pressing your lips against his as your thumb brushed over his cheek gently, pulling away before he would’ve wanted. You couldn’t help yourself from laughing at the way he’d leaned forward, chasing your lips, frowning at you with a soft sigh when you’d straightened up.

“Can we eat now? The meat’s getting overcooked.”

===

lucas 11:30pm - dude I told u it would work if you smiled at him more cant believe u didnt believe me smh -

1K notes · View notes

mobagehelllocal · 4 years

Text

“do you even lift bro?” ver ii - dire, divus, ashton

The previous ask you did for me was so hilarious! If you're up for it then can i request the same for Divus, Ashton and Crowley this time? The reader doesn't necessarily have to be their student she can be their co-worker. Thanks anyway:) -- from @blackstrawberrynightmare

A/N: Ah! Hello again! We should all thank @blackstrawberrynightmare who actually prompted the creation of this “do you even lift bro?” series! I’m genuinely surprised how popular my version of the “bridal carry” is! I just... tried to be funny. I don’t think I am funny though?? xD

For this one, I originally wanted to push for a very neutral reader so you couldn’t tell if it was a student or a teacher... but then I found it really funny how a teacher would react to being thrown into Twisted Wonderland... Also slight nsfw because Divus. (I was thirsty, I have no excuse.) ALSO! This one doesn’t have images because the teachers don’t appear in the manga... smh...

other versions: ver i (dorm leaders), ver ii (this), ver iii (leech twins, jamil, epel, rook, lilia)

When you first came to Twisted Wonderland--you were, at first, some glorified errand girl.

Which, to be fair, as someone who didn’t possess magic, totally made sense.

Then Grim got into an argument with Ace. They burnt a statue, Dire punished them (including you, at which point you felt like you had gone back to high school). Then Deuce happened, the chandelier got ruined, you were about to all get expelled (but you weren’t enrolled anyways? You would’ve refused that?). So you all high tail it to that magical cave, found a magic crystal and--

“Absolutely not.” you put your foot down. “I am an adult woman, and I refuse to go back to high school... or whatever this is. I don’t mind being an errand girl, but I refuse to be a student again.”

“But--” Grim protested, but your sharp glare made him flinch--and so did the ADeuce combo. They had seen you get furious before, and it was a lecture they wouldn’t want to repeat.

At that, Dire Crowley sighed in response.

“Well, what do you propose you do?”

You paused, you hadn’t expected the guy to listen to you. After all, he hadn’t let you get a word in since you got here anyways.

“Maybe... a teacher’s assistant job?”

“Or a secretary.” you offered.

He didn’t look convinced, so you decided to pull out your secret weapon.

"Imagine this Dire,” you had said, purposely using his name to get a point across--that you aren’t a child. “I can handle paperwork as long as magic isn’t involved.”

“Then you’re hired.” he immediately decided, to the gasps of the students in the office with you. You only smirked triumphantly.

So it seemed that hate for paperwork persisted across universes.

“Then what about me?” Dire peered at Grim through his mask.

“Well then, I suppose you can still sit in lectures provided, that you do your work well.”

So here you were, months later, as you followed him around like the dutiful secretary you were.

Dire was... a little air headed at times, but he mostly meant well. ‘Mostly’ because he often got you to take care of everything he couldn’t (didn’t want to) do. He did his best to be interactive and friendly with his students--which you could say was far better than most academic institutions back in your world. He was a person who was willing to listen, as long as you managed to keep him calm and tell him to pay attention.

But other than that--

‘He’s really like a bird’ you thought, as he fluttered about and inspected the mirrors.

“We’re done here.” He finally said, then turned to you.

His yellow eyes always felt as if they were staring deep into your soul, and you barely controlled a shudder at the way they glowed--before you looked down at the schedule in your hands.

“We’re going to double check the maintenance on going at the stadium,” you reported, he sighed a little.

“Oh how generous I am, to look into all these details so carefully...” he mourned, “yet there is no rest for someone as generous as I--”

“Sir, it’s your job.”

He proceeded to ignore you while he whined to himself. You could feel your sweat drop in response.

“You do have a break after this.”

He instantly cheered up on that.

“No, it’s not long enough to suntan in the Southern Islands.” you said, used to his moods. “but if we don’t carry on right now, you will never get a break.”

“Oh very well,” he sniffed, “I shall attend to this matter... because I am ever so generous.”

You rolled your eyes.

Once you had gotten to the stadium, Dire easily handled and fielded all the questions that were directed to him by the maintenance staff. As he finished speaking to the staff, he turned to you with a pointed look, and wide gold eyes.

“Oh, alright--” you had barely gotten the word out when you heard a snap from somewhere above, and a yell. You only got a brief glimpse, before you grabbed Dire (at which he let out a very undignified yelp) and darted out of the way as fast as you could. A long, metal beam fell in the spot you were originally in, and set up dust in the air. This makes both you and Dire cough, but you’re glad that you had managed to dodge it in time.

“Dire, are you okay?”

“I am fine,” he wheezed, a hand over his chest before he turned to you. You pulled your head back just in time to make sure his mask doesn’t poke your eyes out. “I--what--how are you carrying me?” he said, his voice shrill.

“It’s always been something I can do.” you shrugged, he was actually a pretty light guy--mask, coat and top hat included.

“I could’ve used magic.”

“Adrenaline rush?” you offered. “I just knew I had to move us as fast as possible.”

Dire stared at you with those unflinching yellow eyes, and you began to twitch nervously. You hated how it almost always feels like he never blinks... or something.

“Does this mean you could carry me to places this whole time--”

“--! You’re seriously going with that?” you complained, as you fell onto your knees, the adrenaline rush having left you. He squeaked in surprise at the sudden drop, but he does look at you with concern.

“Are you alright?” there was a worried tone in his voice and you nodded.

“Give me a moment.” He nodded slowly, and he reached a hand to rub at your back, which helped steady your breathing. You tried not to look at him, as you knew you’d be faced with that unnerving stare of his.

It always felt like it was trying to figure you out--understand you--as if you’re some great mystery, when you feel like an open book.

“Why don’t you take a time off today?” Dire suddenly said.

“What?” You looked up to shoot him a look. “You’ll use it to slack!”

“Absolutely not.” he sounded offended. “I take my job very seriously.”

“Then I’ll take my job seriously.”

“You do not seem fine.” Dire insisted, yellow eyes fixed upon your own. “Since you graciously saved me, I shall graciously allow you to have some time off, dear secretary--because I am super duper gracious after all.”

You rolled your eyes, but you laced your fingers together to stop your shaking.

Dire was...

kind. Actually pretty empathetic and sensitive--but he just sometimes chose not to intervene. If he pushed you for a break then he must be pretty serious.

“Alright.”At your response, his eyes became two curved lines.

‘Sometimes I really don’t understand you.’ you think, baffled.

“Excellent! I want my amazing secretary all healthy and well by tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure.” you eyed him.

‘One day, I’ll truly understand you.’ you vowed to yourself, quiet but determined.

When Dire had left you in the care of Divus, you couldn’t help but want to both thank and curse the man.

You were thankful you had gotten Divus because he was a pretty respectful person--the use of a teacher’s baton with a collar hanging off it notwithstanding--and he was certainly more aware of what you needed as a woman. It was easier to communicate to him your basic needs, and he barely blinked as he helped you shopped.

In fact, the man had been more than willing to help you chose out clothes that he insisted would suit you better.

However...

However, you also wanted to curse Dire because he had left you in the hands of the most attractive faculty member. It didn’t help that it felt like he was out to seduce you--no, calling you ‘good girl’ or ‘pet’ instantly made the blood rush to your cheeks.

You were pretty certain it was one-sided, after all, he used that type of endearment with everyone. It was probably like how some older people would refer to younger people as ‘sweetie’ or ‘dear.’

“So, I need you to watch over that side, am I clear, pet?”

“No problem Divus.” you nodded your head, and just as you moved to the other side of the room, he took the time to give your hair a gentle pat, that smoothly transitioned to tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“What a good girl.” he said, with that same smirk that would make your panties drop if you were a lesser person. ‘I swear to god he knows that he’s doing to me,’ you thought to yourself, as you tried to distract yourself with thoughts of the alchemic table of elements.

Your job as Divus’s teaching aide was to look over people’s work. Unlike other courses in Night Raven College, Divus’s class was one where your worth as a magician wasn’t actually... relevant. Alchemy was based on the magician’s ability to stay attentive and patient. Divus started you off with learning the important ingredients, how to use them, and during class he would also tell you what you needed to see from someone’s potion to know that they were doing it right.

It wasn’t so difficult.

As you walked around the cauldrons of the students, and peered into the huge pots, you nodded in approval when you saw that they were mostly the right shade for this stage of the potion. You offered some quick suggestions or two to some of the pairs, when you heard a loud sound.

You turned quickly to see that someone’s potion was acting up, and it caused the cauldron to shake.

“Move, puppies!” Divus ordered them to move away from the cauldron as it swung toward him. You see him trip backward in his haste, and as adrenaline pounded in your ears, you immediately rushed over.

As he slipped, Divus hissed, and raised his teacher’s pointer--that is until he felt someone jerk him out of the way. The sudden pull, with his already unsteady stance, made him fall straight into your arms.

After rescuing Divus, you quickly scampered away from the acidic content that spilled onto the ground.

“What now Divus?” you looked down, only to realize that he was frozen, as he stared at you with a stunned expression on his handsome face. (Actually, the whole class was staring at you in surprise, but you’re a little too taken with Divus’s startled expression to really notice.)

“Uh... Is something wrong?”

“I... I didn’t realize you were so strong... pet.” He said, his eyes wide. As much as you wanted to savor the expression--he was nearly unflappable--you had greater concerns.

“I can explain later?” you offered, then your eyes darted back to the concoction on the ground. “but the acid...”

“Ah, right.” he snapped back into attention, and moved to leave your arms. While you do let him go, never let it be said that you weren’t mournful. He was an attractive coworker, and the way you had held him in your arms made you realize that one--his fur coat wasn’t very thick, and that two--you got a good grip on his well toned body.

You looked up to notice him scold the students as he waved his teacher’s baton around. You raised a hand to massage your temples when a thick, sophisticated (dare you say ‘sexy’) scent wafted up to your face from your hands. It was Divus’s perfume. You let out a shaky inhale in surprise, only to be overwhelmed by the scent. You felt blood rush to your cheeks, and you go a little dizzy at that.

‘My god this man isn’t good for my heart.’ You thought, as you reached up a hand to rub at the scent.

“Are you alright, pet?” Your head snapped up in surprise, only to realize that Divus’s face was very close to your own. You let out a squeak, and you slipped backward only for him to catch you by wrapping his arm around your waist. This of course meant--

Your faces are even closer than before.

“It seems like I saved you this time.” He let out a soft chuckle, and his face was so close to your own, that whatever red in your cheeks you’ve lost--probably came back tenfold.

It also doesn’t help that this close, you could smell his perfume.

“Yeah--um, thanks.” You took a proper step back except this time he followed.

“Now now, pet.” He tilted his head. “You were going to tell me about earlier.”

“The strength thing?” You asked. “I’ve always been strong... It was my talent so... I learnt how to use it.” your eyes flickered around, only to notice he’d likely dismissed the students already. That’s when you feel something press against your chin, which made you meet the taller man’s gaze. Unable to look at the item pressed against your jaw, you had to rely on your sense of touch—with the cool metal making you realize that it was his baton pressed against your chin. You feel the heat rise up to your ears in response to the realization.

He looked back at you with heavily lidded eyes. From this close you couldn’t help notice the glitter over his eyelids mixed in with his eyeshadow, and that hint of something in his eyes that made you shiver.

“Aren’t you a fascinating one, pet?” he hummed. “You never cease to capture my attention.” (He thought back on the way you looked when you had easily carried him in your arms--his heart had skipped a beat. He had always thought you were cute--but at that moment? Something about the fierceness and strength in your expression was beautiful and undeniably--)

He cocked his head as he sees that spark in your eyes again.

‘--alluring.’ He decided.

“Is that a good thing?” you asked as you bit your lip and his smirk only widened.

“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked, before he leant in to press his lips roughly against your lips, that made your heart flip--and when he slid his clothed leg in between your thighs--

‘This man is really not good for my heart.’

It took a little bit more convincing, but Crowley finally agreed to let you be a teacher’s assistant--to Ashton.

Ashton was--alright. He was energetic, and generally very cheerful. He was pretty easy to get along with. Though you had some issues with his bias to the more physically capable students--you saw it as your job to help out the less physically capable students when you could. When all else failed, you saw to it that the students would get tips from each other. It was the most you could--especially since physical education was different in this world.

You cupped your face in your hands as you watched the students quietly play Magical Shift. Beside you, Ashton yelled in good cheer--he wasn’t particularly biased to one side--he gave good advice to all players of the field. You could only watch attentively because you thought you barely knew enough about Magical Shift to be a proper commentator.

That is until you notice that the disk was suddenly launched your way.

You acted on pure adrenaline as you pulled Ashton out of the way and hoped away from the spot as the disk embedded itself deeply into the bleacher seats that you were originally on.

You let out a sigh of relief at the successful dodge--that thing was heavy, no surprise there--you had to lug it around without magic. But you just knew getting hit by that thing--at the speed it was going, would definitely bruise someone.

“Ashton are you okay?” You looked down briefly, only to see Ashton’s expression.

Ashton stared at you in awe. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape. He had his hands pulled to his chest and laced together.

He looked...very much like a damsel in distress, and you could already feel the laughter bubbling in your chest.

Ashton really did give some of the greatest expressions to everything--you can feel your heart soften.

He was someone you grew incredibly fond of--because of how genuine he was about everything, especially with the things he liked.

“[Name].”

“Yeah?” you arched your brow.

“You’re carrying me.” You looked down at him--and well, his position in your arms.

“...Yeah?” you tilted your head. “I mean, you’re in my arms right now, right?”

“How are you doing this?” he said, his awe so apparent you can’t help but regard him with amusement.

“I’ve always been strong.” you paused, “and well... it was that one thing I had so... I honed it.”

“That...” he said so quietly you grew concerned--he wasn’t the quiet type. Far from it. “IS! SO! AWESOME!” you flinched when he suddenly bellowed.

“Quick! Tell me what’s your max weight!” he asked, and confused, you tell him. His eyes only sparkled further in response--and you kid not, when Ashton’s eyes glittered--they glittered and shone like bright stars.

“You must join me for training!” he said eagerly, “I’m so excited! I don’t have much people to train with, but it will be fun to do it with you! That I’m sure of.”

“Wait... you’re not... weirded out by it?” Most of the time, when guys twice your size find out you could carry them with no sweat, they often just... bailed. You had long gotten used to it, and refused to care because you wouldn’t let them have what you were proud of. While Ashton didn’t strike you as that type of person, doesn’t mean you didn’t brace for the possibility that he might respond that way.

“What?” his brows furrowed. “No! I think it’s amazing!”

Your heart fluttered at that, and you watched him in surprise as he rose from your arms.

“We should train together, okay?” Then he turned away to begin instructing the players again.

You looked down to your hands and they feel warm. You felt your cheeks warm and a thought pervades--

‘Do I--?’

#aiwrites #aiscenarios #ai lift series #twisted wonderland #female reader #twst #twst scenarios #twst dire #twst divus #twst ashton #how to tag twst teachers?#i sniffed belial's perfume to write crewel's scene and my mind expanded #in conclusion i shouldnt have sniffed belial's perfume

496 notes · View notes

taleasnewastime · 4 years

Text

The village

Summary: When Min Yoongi turns up in your village you battle with whether you should tell him you know who he is. But when you start to hang out with him, and you can start calling him your friend, things get even more complicated.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 11.1k

Authors Note: Buckle in, that is not a typo this indeed 11,100 words! It has taken me a while to write but I really enjoyed it, so I hope you enjoy reading it too. This isn’t going to be the new normal, but I do have some ideas for some other longer stories. Let me know if you like the length or whether you think I should just stick to shorter fics, would love to hear your thoughts. Anyway, this is a fluffly story about Yoongi having a vacation in a small village.

Cup on tea in hand you look out through the window. Winter was fully setting in and rain fell gently against the window causing drops to slowly run downwards. With the café you were currently in being at the top of the hill your window seat provided a good view of the village. With the rain constantly pouring down not many people were walking through the village, so instead of your normal people watching you look at the rain drops fall down the window.

Taking another sip of your drink, you look down and notice that you can nearly see the bottom of the mug. Glancing out the window again you consider ordering another drink just to avoid going outside for another few minutes. These thoughts are long forgotten when you remember that you promised you would meet Molly to help her lock up the shop. She had asked you yesterday when she found out that Matt, her only store assistant, couldn’t help her.

You look across the café to see the time, you still had 10 minutes until you had to be at the shop. Not enough time to order another drink. Instead you nurse your current drink, eyes going back to the beads of water on the glass.

You down the last dregs of your drink, setting the mug back on the table, you start to shrug your coat on. Heading for the door, you pick up your still sodden umbrella, shaking it slightly out of habit.

“See you soon, Fiona,” you call across the café to the woman sat behind the counter, signifying your departure.

“Lovely to see you dear, come back soon,” the lady shouts back at you, giving a gentle wave.

With that you open up the door, taking a small step out before immediately opening your umbrella. Hood up, umbrella as close to your head as possible, you shuffle down the road towards Mollys shop.

The rain was almost horizontally lashing at you, so to avoid the majority of the drops getting on you, you have to place the umbrella almost as a shield. Though this works in stopping you basically having an outdoor shower, it does prohibit your vision. There should, therefore, have been no surprise when you collide with a solid mass. What you don’t expect is for that solid mass to start talking.

“You should watch where you’re walking,” a gruff voice sounds out barely audible over the rain.

Raising your umbrella so that it is above your head and you can finally see, you take in the person in front of you. Having lived in the village for almost all of your life, and with the village being as small as it is, you know everyone there. No one seemed to leave and hardly anyone ever seemed to enter. The person currently standing in front of you however is someone you have never seen in your life. He wears a hat tightly pulled over his head, a few dark strands of hair poking out, a big coat that swallows up his body, and big black boots on his feet. His face is round, and his cheeks puff out slightly from under his hat.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise, your voice so soft you worry that it won’t be heard over the wind and rain. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” the man scoffs.

Rain continuing to lash down on you, and the coldness of the air starting to hit you, you are not up for listening to some stranger's moodiness. Instead you give another quick, blunt apology and start walking off again in the direction you were heading.

When you finally reach the shop, you stomp on arrival. Attempting to get some water off yourself and umbrella was pointless, but the stomping was at least getting rid of some of the annoyance that had risen up within you from the rude man on the street.

“I’ll be with you in a second,” comes a call from the back of the shop.

“It’s just me Mol,” you shout back, hearing a few crashes in return.

The crashes die down when you hear some footsteps which turns into the appearance of Molly. “What has you stomping around? Don’t think I’ve ever heard you that loud in my life.”

You roll your eyes at her, “I’m not being that loud, just trying to get some water off me,” you say. Dumping your umbrella in a pile at the door you peel your hood back before taking your coat off entirely. Feeling more human now you are somewhat dry and not bundled in a mass of clothes you head over to the till where Molly is stood.

“Thanks for volunteering to help me,” Molly says.

“I don’t know if I would use the word volunteer, more like black mailed?” Molly rolls her eyes at you. “And anyway, you know I’m always free to help.”

“You may not want to offer that service, I’d have you here every night if I could,” she says. “Right, down to business, all I need you to do is stack that last box ready for tomorrow. I’ll start counting up the money and then we can both do a final sweep of the floors.”

“Perfect,” you reply, already heading to the box in question.

You plonk yourself down on the floor by the box and slowly unload its contents, occasionally reading the labels of the miscellaneous tins. The job was a tad mind numbing even if it was just the single box you needed to unload, though you did find it somewhat therapeutic, allowing your mind to tune out to the world. A hum starts to leave your mouth without much realisation.

“Is that ABBA?”

You almost drop the tin that was in your hand, not realising anyone but Molly was in the shop. The deep voice that had just sounded out was definitely not Molly. Slowly turning your head and from your seat on the floor, you notice the big black boots first. That alone was enough for you to guess who was stood in front of you, but you continue to move your eyes up his stature. As if you had any doubt your guess was confirmed when you met the eyes of the rude man you had previously met in the street.

“Yeah,” you answer his question, eyes going back to the tin in your hand as you feel annoyance start to rise up within you again. “Mamma Mia,” you say the name of the song as you place yet another tin on the shelf.

“I’m more of a Dancing Queen man myself,” your eyes shoot up to him, his eyes now on the shelf in front of him, a small smile threatening to escape his lips.

You roll your eyes at the man, focus once again returning to the stacking of the shelf. “If you really want to get into superior ABBA tracks then we all know it’s Voulez-Vous,” you say deadpan, not sure if he was mocking you with his earlier comment.

He simply hums in agreement letting out a simple “good choice,” as he over analyses the writing on a packet of rice.

Your face heats up slightly, still unsure if he was mocking you or simply complementing your taste in music. A few more moments pass in silence, just the light tapping of tins going onto the shelf. The man however doesn’t leave his spot, towering over you.

“So, do you work here?” He finally speaks out. He means it to come out casual, but instead it comes out awkward and stilted, and you can’t help the small smile that comes to your face.

“No. Just helping a friend,” you say. “I do it from time to time when she’s desperate.”

“So, you live here?” He asks. “I mean, you live in the village?”

You finally look back up at him to find his eyes already on you. “Yeah, live towards the bottom of the hill. Are you passing through?”

“I guess you could say I’m on a holiday of sorts.”

“You’re staying here?” Your eyes almost bulge out of your head in shock.

“Is there a problem with that?” He gives a slight chuckle at your reaction, though it does unnerve him slightly, was there some sort of problem with this village he’d stumbled upon?

“No, no,” you are quick to reassure him. “It’s just that people never really come to this village.”

“Should I be worried? Maybe take my holiday somewhere else?”

“Depends,” you say. “If your idea of a good time is talking to old people all day, only being able to visit a small café and convivence store, and taking long meaningful walks around some woods, then I would say this is the perfect place for you.”

“Well when you put it like that,” he smiles.

Before your conversation can go any further Mollys head pops out from the end of the isle, “5 minutes until the store closes,” she announces, disappearing back to where she came from just as quickly.

Having jumped slightly at the interruption your focus goes back on your work, realising you still have half the box to unpack and not much time left to do it. Though you were helping Molly out and she was your best friend, she did ever so slightly scare you and you did not want to be on the receiving end if she finds out you’ve been talking rather than doing your ‘job’.

The man next to you has also somewhat livened at the announcement. Hands grabbing a few items off the shelf, bundling them into his arms as he makes his way to the till.

Just before he fully rounds the corner he stops and turns to look at you. “I’m Yoongi by the way, should maybe have said that earlier,” you look to see a light blush covering his cheeks.

He remains stood there as you stare at him, smile on your face, a tin in hand half way to the shelf. “Y/N,” you reply. He gives a curt nod before walking off, disappearing behind the shelf completely.

“Do you know who that was?” The words shoot at you like bullets, an almost franticness to them. As you head towards Molly with your now empty box you can see that the words are not the only thing frantic about her in that moment, her whole body almost shaking. You stop dead in your tracks taking her in.

“Yoongi?” You mind whirling with thoughts about what could have gotten her in that state, was he some ex-lover? Maybe even just an old friend? Someone she’d seen on the street before, maybe he had treated her the same way he had treated you when outside. Maybe she wasn’t even talking about Yoongi, maybe someone else had come into the shop without you seeing. All these thoughts and not one of them was what actually came out of Mollys mouth.

“Yes Yoongi, or SUGA,” your face still blank she continues. “From BTS?” She's almost desperate at this point.

“BTS, that’s a boyband, right?”

“Jesus Y/N. Yes, BTS is a boyband, it’s the biggest boyband in the world,” if there wasn’t a table between the two of you, Molly would have tried to shake some sense into you.

“Oh right, well good for him I guess,” you try to feign being cool, and though you still weren’t entirely sure who Yoongi really was, you couldn’t pretend to not know who BTS were. Heat started to rise to your face as you think about how you spoke to some famous pop star and didn’t even realise. How people would have killed to be in your earlier position and there you were getting slightly annoyed that he may have been mocking you about humming an ABBA tune.

Taking the empty box, you head towards the recycling, Molly hot on your tails.

“Are you not even the slightest bit curious about why Min Yoongi was in my shop?” Molly almost bounces off the walls as she follows you.

“He said he was taking a holiday,” you shrug.

“A holiday? Here?” Molly says it as if it’s the least appealing thing she has ever heard.

“Maybe he likes talking to old people,” you reference one of the selling points you’d told Yoongi earlier.

“Well, he’s probably long gone by now,” Molly finally settles down, bouncing turning more into a small bob. “Maybe I should have asked for a picture when I had the chance.”

“I say let’s just sweep the floors and head home,” you take one of the brooms that was resting against the wall and shove it in her arms.

“Let a girl have some fun,” she pouts at you.

You didn’t give Yoongi much more thought that night, nor the following morning. Like Molly had said, he was probably long gone now. Instead you go about your daily life, wake up, make a tea, and then head to your mini studio. You’d wanted to be an artist for as long as you could remember, and you were lucky that you earned enough money, from commissions and putting some work in galleries, that it supported you enough to live. Though you didn’t live an exuberant life, you were happy enough in your cosy two-bedroom house. Having converted the second bedroom into your studio also meant that you could cut costs on having to rent a separate space.

Flowers were your thing. Though not drawn realistically in all your works, you always drew inspiration from them. Whether that be their colours, their shape or simply their place within a space. Flowers were definitely your thing, and that was no more evident than in your studio. Flower pressings littered the walls, pictures of flowers you had taken on walks joining them, there were even some fake flowers in some pots on shelves and in corners. That was all before you had taken in your actual works. Your studio was basically just one big headache of colour, and you loved every inch of it.

The rain from yesterday was still lashing down outside, and you sit on a stall by the window with your mug for a second, watching the beads run down the window just as you had done in the café. Before you get too carried away you kick yourself into action and start to do some actual work.

You could normally work a full day, especially when you had a few commissions or pieces that were needed for galleries. Today was one of those days, two commission pieces underway you didn’t find it hard to get stuck in and paint the day away.

Trying to stick to a traditional 8 hour working day was hard when you were your own boss. You found you would get to the end of your day and still have stuff to do and as it was your business, you would want to stay and get everything done. This had resulted in late nights and early mornings in the past, essentially eliminating any chance of a social life, which was pretty non-existent anyway. However, it is still what drove you to start being stricter with more formatted days.

So, as it neared stopping time, and although you still had things to do, you diligently put your paints and brushes away, clearing up for the day. You could always fit in an extra hour in the evening if you felt like it. Otherwise everything would still be where you’d left it tomorrow. You had also found that coming back to a painting with fresh eyes always helped. The secret to painting was knowing when to stop.

Looking out the window confirmed that the rain was still falling. With Molly still having a few more hours to work at the shop, and wanting to get out of the house you decided the only option was to go back to the café. A coffee right now sounded ideal anyway.

So, you head up the hill. Coat back on, umbrella over your head, you try to avoid as much rain as you could. When you finally make it, you dump your umbrella in a wet heap by the door. Ordering a coffee, you give a smile and hello to the other customers as you head over to your normal seat by the window.

Taking in the world outside, your mind tunes into some of the other conversations around you. Much like the small village, the coffee shop was never that busy and always full of old people. Your ears flick between the only two conversations going on, one about the troubles their grandchildren were having with potty training, the other about how they had seen another villager walking around with a green hat on, apparently it was scandalous.

You try to disguise the giggle that rises within you by taking a sip of your drink. However, what definitely kills the giggle is the words spoken by a deep voice.

“Thought I recognised the umbrella by the door.”

You almost spill your drink as you turn from the window to the man stood beside you. Heat immediately rises to your face, heart rate increases tenfold, as you look at Yoongi. He simply stands looking at you with a small closed mouth smile on his face, mug of coffee in his hands.

“Oh, hi,” are the only words you managed to splutter out at him. He remains stood looking at you, and you’re not sure what comes over you when you offer him to sit with you. He accepts and you watch as he places his mug down and takes the seat opposite you. Hair now out of the hat he was wearing yesterday, you take in his dark, almost black, locks that fall just long enough that they touch his eyes, but don’t cover them. His skin is clear and light, puffing out slightly into squishable cheeks that are lightly pink from the storm blowing outside. His lips are plump, and the perfect shade of pink, a shade that you wish you could replicate in your studio. Then you meet his eyes. A deep dark coffee colour, the colour almost blending into his pupil.

“You stayed,” you dumbly state.

“Well you did such a good job of selling the place, I didn’t think I could leave,” he smiles.

Your heart rate still high, you do everything to avoid his eye contact. Your eyes look around the room and notice that all other eyes in the cafe are on the two of you, surely curious about the man sat opposite you that they had never seen before. The village rumour mill must already be whirling. Your eyes finally land on your coffee, deciding that’s the safest place to look.

Though you would like to think that the only reason you were being so awkward was because you now knew he was famous, in reality you would be like this around any good-looking guy. What with the small village filled with old people, hot guys were a very infrequent occurrence. However, the fact you now knew he was a member of BTS definitely made the situation worse.

“What have you done today then?” You manage to ask.

“Not much, just settled into the house I’m staying in. Unpacked and went to get some more food,” he says. “What about you?”

Your eyes dare to look up at him and find that maybe he isn’t as scary as you initially thought, though you are still unable to hold eye contact for more than a second. “Just worked,” you answer.

“And what do you work as?”

“I’m an artist. I paint,” you add to clarify your point.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, a reaction that you were used to by now. “What do you paint?”

“Flowers,” you say, a small smile coming to your lips as you start to think about your art and how much you love it. “Of sorts. They’re all abstract so you wouldn’t necessarily think they are flowers. But it’s where I draw inspiration.”

He smiles at you, watching as you seem to almost glow when you talk about your work. You cringe under his stare, looking out the window you gather the courage to ask, “what do you do for work?” curious to see what his answer would be.

“I make music,” he says simply.

You raise your eyebrows, mocking surprise. “Anything I would know?” Again, curious as to whether he would admit who he was.

“If ABBA is your idea of good music then I doubt you would have heard any of my songs,” his lips pull back showing off a gummy smile.

You roll your eyes and pout your lips slightly. “Must not be that good then,” you mock annoyance and you hear a chuckle leave his lips.

“I’m glad I managed to bump into you again actually,” he says and you raise your eyebrows in genuine shock this time.

“In this village I think it would harder to avoid someone then bump into them,” you say.

“Noted,” he smiles. “Anyway, I wanted to ask about those woodland walks you mentioned yesterday.”

“Oh right,” you say, feeling a bit disappointed though you are unsure why. “They are literally at the bottom of this hill. Just walk down the road and you can’t miss it. Theres a map at the start so you shouldn’t get lost.”

“Great. Thank you,” he says.

“You going to go in the rain?” You nod your head to the window to emphasise your point.

His eyes turn to the bleak day outside. “Maybe I’ll wait to see if it’s drier tomorrow,” his face turns back to you. “Fancy joining?”

Your heart almost stops beating at the offer and you manage to stutter out a “urm.”

He gives you a small smirk, “you don’t have to if you’re busy.”

“I mean, I guess it would be nice to go on a walk. I could go around midday?”

“Thank god, because I definitely would have got lost,” you laugh at his comment, his words making you feel more at ease.

He takes a final sip of his coffee, finishing it off, and then slowly pushes his chair back from the table. Standing up he shrugs his coat on and then puts his hand in his pocket, pulling out his phone. A few clicks on it and then he is holding it out to you. Sensing your confusion he simply says, “for your phone number,” and then quickly adds, “if that’s OK?”

You reach out taking the phone from him, smiling at the blush that has taken over his cheeks. “Very smooth Yoongi,” you say, causing the shade of his blush to deepen.

Handing him back the phone he does a few more taps, causing your phone to ping. “Now you can text me your address too,” he doesn’t let you reply to that, but you can see a wide gummy smile take over his face. Grabbing his bag as he heads for the door. “See you at midday tomorrow.”

“YOU ARE GOING ON A DATE WITH MIN YOONGI?” Molly screams in your face after you tell her about your previous café encounter.

You groan, placing your head in your hands. You had weighed whether it was worth telling Molly or not, but ultimately had decided that she would find out eventually and if it didn’t come from you she may just kill you. However, as you sit in your living room, Molly screaming in your face, you almost regret telling her anything.

“It’s not a date,” you reply.

“You are going on a walk alone with Yoongi, he has your phone number, hell he even has your address. Mate, you are going on a date.”

“He just doesn’t want to get lost and knows I’m local,” you try to reason.

“Literally nothing you say is going to change my mind.”

“Ok, but nothing you say is going to change mine,” you say just as stubbornly as Molly had. “Can we just not make a big deal of this, I’m am just going on a walk with someone that happens to be a man, no big issue.”

“Alright, alright,” Molly subsides. She knows your track record with men and, even if it wasn’t a date, going for a walk with a man was a massive step for you. So, if it made you feel better about the situation, she would stop teasing you. “But you still have to tell me every detail about it.”

“I promise,” you sigh, already knowing she would want a full blow by blow.

You almost pour liquid caffeine down your throat the next morning. Having had broken sleep due to the anxiety caused by a certain man, you needed anything you could get to help you stay awake. Opting instead for a strong coffee you head up to your studio to at least attempt to get a few hours of work done.

As expected, work is the last thing your mind can focus on. Worrying instead about what you should wear later, and how long you should give yourself to get ready, you didn’t want to go covered in paint. Then your mind would try to reason, what does it matter what I wear it’s just a walk, you wouldn’t dress up for a walk with Molly. But you are going on a walk with Min Yoongi, this is completely different.

As all these thoughts whirl through your brain, the morning actually flies by. Though not much work was achieved, you manage to look semi presentable by midday. Though the rain had stopped it was still cold so you had opted for a hoody under a jacket, with some well fitted black jeans and boots. Not dressy at all, but compared to what you would normally wear it was positively Met Gala worthy.

Even though you are stood waiting, the doorbell still makes you jump when it rings out. You take small steps to the door in an attempt to not look too eager. Opening the door, you see Yoongi leaning against the front garden wall. All in black, he looked like a model pulled out of a magazine, and you have to try and push the thought away that says he basically is just that.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he stands up straighter, eyes taking you in. “Ready to go?”

“Yep, let me just grab my keys,” you duck into the house quickly grabbing your keys, before going back out and locking up your house.

“After you,” Yoongi points his arms to the front gate as a gesture for you to go first. “You are my guide after all.”

You smile as you walk past him. Taking a right towards the woods, Yoongi quickly falls into step with you.

“Did you manage to get any work done today?” Yoongi asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“A bit,” you lie, then follow it up with some truths. “I have two commissions on at the moment so just trying to get those finished before I start anything else.”

“Do you get many commissions?”

“Enough to get me by. Obviously, I would love more, who doesn’t aspire for me, but I am just happy that I make enough to support it as a career. I can’t really complain.”

“Being an artist is hard,” you hum in agreement at his words. “How do people hear about you? I guess I mean how did you become an artist?”

“Just the standard art college, university. Kind of got lucky I guess, a lot of people I studied with couldn’t support themselves enough to make it their job,” you downplay your achievements, always one to be modest.

“Shows you must be good,” he says, which you shrug at, unsure how to reply.

“This is the turning,” you are thankful for an excuse to try and change the topic. You stop by the map of the woods, a few different coloured lines make loops showing the different trails on offer, each varying in distance. “How far do you want to go?”

“The short one looks good,” you nod in approval starting to head in the right direction. “As you have work to do this afternoon, would hate to be the reason you get nothing done.

If only he knew, you think. “And what about you? Working on any music currently.”

“No,” he says it sharply and you worry that you said the wrong thing. Realising his mistake, he sighs. “I’m on holiday to try and clear my mind,” he explains.

“We all need some time away sometimes,” you say softly.

“And what better place to be,” he widens his arms at the trees around you and you laugh at him.

“Hawaii would be nice,” you joke.

“Not all it's cracked up to be,” he plays along.

“At least there’s sun there.”

“Again, not all it’s cracked up to be,” a big gummy smile takes over his face at these words.

“Are you some sort of vampire or something?”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “This seems like a very Edward and Bella location.”

“A Twilight fan?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Oh, come on. Who hasn’t seen Twilight? You’d have to be living in a cave to avoid it,” he rolls his eyes at you.

For the proceeding few minutes you discuss whether you are team Edward or Jacob. Have an intellectual conversation about whether the books or films are better. And talk about the following careers of several of the actors. It takes you almost by surprise to realise how easy it is conversation to have a conversation with Yoongi. Fully settled into it, you don’t even think about who he is or the fact that he is wildly attractive, you are just engrossed in the light and funny conversation.

In no time you are back outside your gate. Nervously you swing the gate lightly in your hand.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” Yoongi says.

“It was a nice break from work, thanks for letting me tag along,” you smile.

“I hope you have a productive afternoon. Maybe I’ll bump into you around the village,” he says, turning with a slight wave and all too soon he’s gone.

“I need details,” Mollys voice sounds out through the phone that evening.

“It was nice,” you reply. “It was normal.”

“What did you talk about?”

“A bit about work, a lot about Twilight, I don’t know just a range of topics that naturally came up.”

“And are you meeting again?”

“No plans, he just left it saying that he’d maybe bump into me.”

“You should text him,” she says it rushed, as if it’s an amazing idea that she’ll forget if she doesn’t get it out.

“What?” Slight panic in your voice.

“You have his number right? You should ask him to do something with you.”

“Do what? There is nothing to do here,” you are trying to get out of it but your words are also true. You’d both already hit all the main attractions of the village together.

“Invite him round to yours,” you hear the excitement in her voice at her idea. “You can say you’ll cook him dinner.”

“I hardly know the guy, do you not think inviting him to my house is a bit forward?”

“Invite him out for a meal somewhere then. You could drive to el forno,” she suggests your favourite restaurant which is a few minutes drive from the village.

“I don’t know, sounds even more like a date than inviting him for food at mine,” you stress.

“Jesus Y/N. Just don’t overthink it. Ask him to go on another walk with you. Or even just text him to say that you enjoyed today. As long as you text him something.”

You hum, still not sure. “I guess a text to say I enjoyed our walk wouldn’t be so bad,” you reason.

“That’s it then. Do it now. And let me know what he replies,” and with a quick goodbye the phone line is dead, Molly gone.

Before you can overthink it you take Mollys advice and open up your messages with Yoongi. So far the only messages being his ‘hi’ and you giving him your address. A deep breath to settle your nerves and you type out a message.

Just wanted to say thanks again for today. It was nice to go round the woods with company for a change.

You read over the message several times, scrutinising every word. When finally your finger hovers over the send button, tapping down. Delivered. All you could do now is wait.

Trying to ignore your phone was easier said then done. You felt like some silly school girl checking your phone every minute to see if he had replied or even read your message. After a good 10 minutes of this you decide that you needed to leave your phone completely so head up for a bit of late night painting in an attempt to take your mind off it.

This works up until you hear the distant ding of your phone. You almost chuck your paint brush at the wall in an attempt to get to your phone quicker. Picking it up and opening the message you don’t care if you come across keen.

I enjoyed the company too. We should do it again sometime.

So he does want to see you again. The smile that spread across your face at that news was possibly the biggest smile you’d ever had. Typing out a reply you don’t hesitate in pressing send this time.

I’d love that.

As soon as it’s delivered it appears as being read showing he had your chat open. Dots appear showing he way typing.

Tomorrow too soon?

Again your typing is fast.

I can do lunch time again?

His reply just reads,

I’ll meet you outside yours again.

You manage to sleep better that night, and are actually productive in the morning. Compared to your first meeting you have your nerves under control. And when Yoongi arrives you find that you both fall into easy conversation. And when you finish your walk, Yoongi outside your house he suggests it becomes a regular occurrence and you happily agree to continue your lunch time walks.

It’s on one of these walks a few days later that he says, “I would love to see your art one day.” He says it so offhandedly that you aren’t expecting it and struggle to respond. “You always sound so passionate about it whenever it comes up in conversation. I guess I’m intrigued,” he smiles down at you.

“Yeah, sure, I guess you can come and see my art,” you say.

“Whenever you are ready,” he says, not wanting to push you into anything.

“I’ve actually nearly finished my commissioned pieces, so maybe when they’re done,” you suggest. “Then you can see something that’s fully finished.”

“Perfect,” he replies.

“So if you’re seeing my art, does this mean I get to hear some of your songs?”

He chuckles at your question. “I’ve actually been working on some new stuff recently.”

“I thought you said you don’t like to work on holiday?” You say shocked.

“I guess inspiration struck,” he shrugs.

“Well, I would love to hear it.”

“We will have to see,” he mumbles before changing the topic of conversation.

You are sat with your legs crossed on one of the counters in Mollys shop, chocolate bar in hand as you watch her stood by the till. You’d been discussing, amongst other things, your lunch time walks with Yoongi.

“I still think you should invite him round,” Molly says.

“I’m going to,” you say it with such confidence that Molly almost chokes on her own spit.

“You are?” She says in disbelief.

“I finished my commission pieces the other day and I said that he could come and see them. I just need to actually invite him.”

“Please don’t chicken out of it this time.”

As she finishes her sentence the door to the shop opens and in walks the man in question. Molly widens her eyes and shouts out a greeting, Yoongi gives a small wave before disappearing behind a row of shelves in search of something.

“Perfect timing,” Molly mumbles under her breath, jabbing her head to where Yoongi was stood for emphasis.

You shoot her daggers a warning to not embarrass you. And when Yoongi rounds the corner with some tins in his hands you both have to scramble to look normal.

“Hey Min,” you cringe as the words come out of your mouth, never having called him that before. “You’ve met Molly before right?” You try to recover.

He gives her a small smile, placing his tins down on the counter by the till. “I believe I bought some rice off you once,” he says extending his hand for her to shake. “Yoongi,” he introduces himself. “Or Min, it seems,” he glances at you giving a cheeky smile.

Your eyes dart to the floor, heat rising to your face.

“Well it’s nice to properly meet you,” Molly saves you, scanning through his items. “Are you enjoying your stay in the village?”

“It’s great. I’m used to a much faster pace of life so I am appreciating the laid back feeling here.”

“Laid back, slow, boring. It’s thanks to all the old people,” Molly jokes.

“You can’t hate it that much if you live here,” he hands over some cash for his items.

“I guess I’ve gotten used to it, don’t really know much else,” she explains handing him back his change.

“Well I think it’s great here,” he says and Molly hums in acknowledgment. Picking up his items he turns to the door saying, “see you guys around.”

His back to you Molly gives you a hard nudge, widening her eyes at you. Before you can think you shout out his name causing him to stop just before the door, turning to look at you. “I finished my paintings if you still want to come and see them?”

“Of course I do,” a smile breaks out on his face.

“Tomorrow evening work?” You ask, glancing down at Molly for reassurance before you say, “you can stay for some food too?”

The smile on his face remains as he accepts your invitation. He says “see you tomorrow,” before turning and leaving the shop.

“He is smitten,” Molly turns to you once he is gone.

“He just wants to see my art, I talk about it all the time, he’s curious.”

“And he could have just asked to see a picture. He didn’t need to come to your house to see it, he didn’t need to accept a dinner invitation to see it.”

“He’s being nice,” you sigh, unwilling to believe her words. “Can you just help me decide what to wear and cook?”

She rolls her eyes at how oblivious you were being, but agrees to help you out. Both of you spending your evening contemplating different outfits as well as brain storming meal Ideas.

Due to the fact he was coming to yours that evening you call off your lunch time walk, and instead text him a time to come to yours. You spend your day wisely, doing work but also preparing food and cleaning up you house a bit. By the time you hear the distinctive tone of your door bell, there is a nice smell of food in your house and the place looks clean.

You have to stifle a gasp that threatened to leave your lips when you opened the door. Stood in black jeans, a well fitted shirt with the top few buttons undone and a jacket, he looked effortlessly perfect. You couldn’t help but check him out as he walks past you into your house and takes his jacket off. Nearly catching you, you manage to peel your eyes away as he turns to look at you.

“I bought some wine,” he says holding up a hand with a bottle in it.

“Thanks,” you say as you take it off him and head to the kitchen.

“Something smells amazing,” he says leaning against the door frame.

“I hope you like lasagne?” You scold yourself for not checking he liked it sooner, but the worries are instantly gone when Yoongi confirms he does indeed love lasagne. You pour out two glasses of wine and head over to Yoongi handing him one.

“Do you want to see my art now, or after food?” You ask, taking a sip of your wine to try and calm your nerves.

Taking a sip of his wine Yoongi looks you in the eye before saying, “now?”

You give a bashful smile before nodding and heading off in the direction of your studio, hoping he got the clue to follow. Your heart rate is impossibly high as you head up the stairs, thoughts of him not liking your work going through your head. Your art was such a personal thing to you, something you pour your heart into, the thought of the man currently walking behind you not liking it would shatter your heart.

You pause at the door, hand on the handle. It’s almost as if you are pausing for a more dramatic effect but it’s purely due to you wondering whether this was such a good idea. Yoongi being ever patient just stands waiting, allowing you the time you need. You finally manage to kick yourself into action, deciding you were being stupid and that if he really wanted to he’d be able to google your art and find it in galleries.

Swinging open the door you step inside and make room for Yoongi to come in next to you. You avoid looking at his face not wanting to see his reaction in fear there will be disgust there. If you had looked though you would have seen his eyes full of wonder, lips popped open.

The silence is deafening to you and it only increases your worry as you still avoid looking at Yoongis reaction. “It’s not everyone's cup of tea,” you panic feeling the need to fill the silence. “The bright colours don’t agree with everyone I guess. And flowers are quite -”

Yoongi cuts you off by placing a hand on your shoulder and getting you to look at him. “It’s amazing,” he says. Looking at you he can see the worry and insecurities written all over your face so he continues. “Seriously, I think they are beautiful. I would actually like to see more of your work, see how all the pieces differ.”

“I have pictures,” you pull your phone out and open up the album with all your art work in. Handing your phone to Yoongi you let him scroll through. You watch as he takes in your work, humming out at times, fingers pinching the screen to zoom in on certain works.

“I’d actually love to buy one,” he says when he’s finished looking through them.

Never in a million years would you have expected him to say those words, and you are anything but professional when you stutter out a, “you don’t have to.” Thinking he was just trying to be kind.

“I’m being serious when I say I really like your work, Y/N,” he says. “I wouldn’t say I want to buy a piece if I didn’t genuinely want one.”

“I mean I guess I could give you some form of discount,” you mumble out.

“I don’t want any favours or discounts. I just want to be a normal customer, pay the normal price, go through the normal steps, and get an amazing painting at the end of it.”

“Ok,” you give him a bashful smile. “I guess I could fit you in,” you open up the calendar on your phone. “I normally sit down with someone who’s commissioned a piece so we can discuss what we both want to achieve, make sure that we are both happy with what’s going on. So when’s best for you?”

“I’m actually heading home for a few days this weekend, but I will be back next week,” he says.

Up until this point you’d not really thought about the fact that this was just a holiday for Yoongi, that he had a life outside this village. Obviously you knew that he did, but you hadn’t thought about the inevitable day when he would leave. So when those words leave his lips it suddenly hits you that he won’t be around forever, that one day your life will go back to how it used to be, Yoongi free.

“Tuesday morning?” You ask.

“I’ll be here,” he replies.

“Great,” you say as you tap the appointment into your phone. “Food?”

“Yes please, I am starving.”

Yoongi settles onto the small table in your kitchen as you expertly slice the lasagne, taking the two plates to the table you sit down opposite him. He pours some more wine into your near empty glass, and you both tuck in.

“What are you doing when you go back home?” You dare to ask.

“Just have some work stuff to go to,” he replies and you hum out in response. “Some of it is actually about those new songs I’ve been working on,” he says casually and your interest is piqued.

“Oh yeah?” You fully focus on him rather than your food.

“Yeah. I think some of them are actually quite good so I need to talk to my management about them.”

“That’s great,” you give a genuine smile. “And then you’re coming back?”

“Just for another week,” he looks you in the eye when he says this and you feel your heart crack slightly at the words but try to not let it show on your face.

“Two weeks in this village? You must really like it,” you try to joke.

“There are some pretty sights,” he shrugs still looking directly into your eyes. “Plus I still have some of the woodland walks left to do.”

“Don’t forget about the café. I’ve heard you are Fionas new favourite customer,” you reference the fact you’d heard people constantly talking about Yoongi around the village. You’d had so many questions yourself, was he your boyfriend? Why was he here? How long was he staying for? All of these you’d tried your best to shrug off.

“That’s just because I compliment her cakes every time I go,” he explains.

“Hum, I’m sure it’s more to do with the fact you’re a young attractive man.”

“You think I’m attractive?”

“Fiona thinks your attractive,” you say though your face still heats up. He hums, clearly not convinced. “Anyway, you should do more than just walk around the woods. I can send you some suggestions, there's a place not too far away with more exciting shops for example.”

“Yeah sure, that would be nice thanks,” he says.

The evening flows nicely, the easy flow of conversation you two had mastered causing it to become late quickly. By the time Yoongi is stood at your door, coat now on, you feel slightly tipsy with all the wine you had drunk.

“I guess I won’t see you until next Tuesday?” You say.

“Yeah, no lunch time wood walks together over the weekend.”

“Good luck with your work stuff, can’t wait to hear how it goes with your manager.”

“Thanks,” he says, not making any attempt to turn and leave.

Maybe it was a need to do something to fill the silence, or maybe it was the wine you had consumed that caused you to step forward and wrap your arms around Yoongi into a hug. There is a moment where he doesn’t return the gesture, remaining stiff, and you worry about what you have just done. But then his arms wrap around you, pulling you slightly closer to him. Nose against his chest you breathe in his scent slightly and wish you could somehow turn it into a candle to make your whole house smell of him. Before it becomes awkward you step away from him.

“I’ll see you next week,” you whisper, slowly closing the door on him. You hear a faint goodbye before he disappears from view.

You would never have guessed that you would miss Yoongi, but over the few days he is gone he occupies all your thoughts. It gets to the point on Saturday night where you decide to google him. Sat on your sofa, you are surprised it has taken you this long to google him.

The first thing that comes up when you press enter are news articles about BTS performing at the MAMAs in Japan. So that’s the work commitment he was talking about you think. A casual weekend in Japan, performing in front of thousands if not millions of people, no big deal. As you go through the news articles you feel the weight of who the man you had been hanging out with weigh down on you.

You flick instead to his Wikipedia page. You read briefly over the section about his early life and how he got signed to Big Hit Entertainment. Scrolling down the page you see the personal life section, seeing that it talks about him buying luxury apartments. Again you start to grow slightly anxious at the words, it all adding to you wondering why he has been bothering to do things with you, or even stay in this village.

Again you move on from the Wikipedia page, this time to Spotify where you type in BTS. Here you feel slightly more comfortable, feeling less prying. You spend your evening listening to some of their songs, after a while flicking into his solo projects.

By the time Tuesday rolls around you had listened to almost all of his discography and it almost made you feel like you were on an even footing with him, he had after all seen your art, it was only fair that you got to listen his.

When Yoongi knocked on your door you greeted him and took him to your studio where you had set up a small table and two chairs. You wanted to act as professional as possible. Though you were dying to ask him about his weekend, at this moment he was a paying customer and therefore questions about his weekend could wait.

The session went well, you showing him more in-depth photos of your work, giving some insight to them. You got him to pick the paintings he liked the most, asked what he liked most about them, asked him about the colours he would like included, the size of the canvas, all questions you would normally ask to gage the style of painting the person wanted.

What surprised you was that he came prepared too, half way through the meeting he whipped out his phone and pulled up some photos of flowers. He flicked through them and asked whether you would be able to somehow use them. Of course, you agreed, it was his painting after all, and you could use the images for inspiration on texture and colour.

Overall the meeting went smoothly and you told him that you would send him updates throughout the process. Again, just as you would any other customer.

Once over, and as you head down the stairs, you ask whether he wants to stay for a coffee, the perfect opportunity to ask how his weekend went. So, as you settled onto the couch with your mugs you did just that.

“How was the meeting with your manager?”

“Yeah, great. He liked the songs, which is always great.”

“So when do I get an exclusive listen?”

“You can listen when everyone else gets to hear them,” he smiles at you.

“Which will be...” you continue to dig.

“You will just have to be patient,” he laughs.

“And here was me thinking that painting for you would mean I get some sort of perk.”

“Is this how you treat all your paying customers?”

“Just the ones I think I can get something out of,” you joke.

“And you think my music is that something?”

“Well you haven’t let me listen to any of it yet, so I can’t be sure,” you act as best you can. “Anyway, how was the rest of your weekend? Your other work stuff go ok?”

“Yeah, nothing too exciting,” he says.

“Really?” You are surprised, not hiding it from your voice, remembering that you had read he had been at the MAMAs performing, surely that was exciting.

“You’re not very subtle, love” a smile graces his face as you look at him dumbfounded. “I know you know who I am.”

“What do you mean?” You play dumb.

“Always asking about my music?”

“I’m interested in what you do,” you cut in.

“You called me Min even though I’d never told you my last name,” he carries on.

“A lucky guess?” You croak out, feeling that you are losing some sort of battle.

“Your friend Molly also definitely knew who I was when I first went to her shop, so I suspected she’d tell you.”

“If it helps, I still don’t really know who you are.”

“You don’t know who SUGA is. I think we’ve hung out enough for you to have a good idea who I am,” he corrects you.

You start to grow awkward at his words, feeling almost trapped by him admitting he’s somewhat caught you out.

“I liked the fact you treated me as a normal person,” he senses your unease and tries to reassure you. “And I thought it was cute when you acted like you didn’t know who I was even though you clearly did.”

Heat rises to your face, nerves causing you to almost shake. Yoongi reaches out to take your hand in his, thumb gently stroking your palm in an attempt to get you calm down.

“I really enjoy spending time with you,” his voice has dropped, both his hands now holding your one hand, playing with your fingers.

Both of you have your eyes on your entangled hands, watching as Yoongis fingers gently stroke yours. The tension in the room is thick, the silence only making it worse.

“I’ve really liked being with you too,” you whisper out.

You dare to look into his eyes, his pupils dilated so big there is almost no coffee coloured iris left. He drops your hand, instead reaching out for your face, thumb now caressing your cheek. Your eyes close at the feeling, heart pounding so hard you’re worried it might escape your chest. Taking a deep breath, you open your eyes again, eyes flicking between Yoongis to his lips.

He leans in impossibly slow, forehead resting against yours, then nose brushing yours, before finally his lips touch yours. Lips move together slowly, acting as if they were made for each other, as if they had never tasted anything so sweet.

All too quickly Yoongi pulls away, light puffs of air leaving his lips as he rests his forehead against yours.

“I really like you,” his gummy smile comes out and you wish you could stay like this forever.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time the kiss is more heated, more desperation behind it. When you feel his tongue poke your lips you moan out and he uses the opportunity access to your mouth. His tongue explores your mouth before dancing together with yours.

When you pull away this time, heavy pants leave both of your lips, as if you had just finished running a marathon.

“Wow,” you breathe. “Can’t believe I just kissed the Min Yoongi,” you joke and a big laugh leaves him, head falling backwards and you get a glimpse of your favourite teeth.

“If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get to do it again,” you hum as he pecks your lips a few times before fully pulling away.

Sitting back he takes you in. Lips now slightly red, hair ruffled, eyes wide. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so beautiful.

“So, when did you figure out I knew who you were?” You ask.

“Let’s see,” he has a broad smile on his face as he pretends to think back. “As soon as I left the shop after first meeting you. I wasn’t sure you knew who I was when I was first talking to you but as soon as I was served by Molly I knew if you didn’t already know, you soon would.”

“Well, if it wasn’t for her I would still have no idea who you are,” you say it almost as a defence. “And like I said, I still don’t really know who you are. Though, I did listen to some of your songs this weekend,” you decide to come clean.

“You did?” He seems a bit surprised, though you’re not sure why, who wouldn’t nose about on the internet after discovering someone they met is a celebrity? “What did you think?”

“You were right, nowhere near as good as ABBA,” he laughs hard at your comment. “I liked them, there was some really beautiful lyrics. I can see why you have such a big following.”

He smiles at your words, growing a tad shy receiving your compliments.

“So now it’s all in the open, and you know, that I know, that you’re a multi-millionaire pop star, does this mean I can charge you double for my painting?” If you thought the laugh he gave earlier was big, it was nothing in comparison to the one he gave now. Leaning forward he tackles you so that your back falls against the sofa, him leaning over you, pinning you in place.

“Careful love,” he says before kissing you again.

The remaining week that Yoongi stayed in the village felt like you were living another life. Your lunch time walks continue, but on top of that he comes round to yours for dinner most nights, and also occasionally sits in your studio while you work. He brings his work along to the ‘studio dates’, as Yoongi dubbed it, and though you ask he still won’t allow you to listen to his new music. And towards the end of the week, he even starts sleeping over at yours.

That’s how you wake on his final day, in his arms. Feeling a light kiss to the top of your head you groan as you realise that this would be the last day that you wake up like this. Though it had only been a few days, and you still didn’t fully know the guy, you aren’t sure how you are going to cope when he finally leaves.

You both try to spend your remaining day in blissful unawareness, ignoring the fact that this will be your last day together for who knows how long. Seoul wasn’t far away, but it wouldn’t be as easy to see him after today.

It’s when he packs his bag into his car and pulls you into a hug that your barriers break. All the emotions you’d been keeping at bay that day come crashing out and you cry in his arms. He holds you slightly tighter, hand stroking your hair in an attempt to soothe you.

“It won’t be long until we see each other again,” he whispers into your ear. “And we can call and text all the time.”

“I know, I’m just being stupid,” you blubber at him. ”I’m just going to miss you so much.”

He pulls your head away from his chest, gently run his thumb under your eyes to rid you of tears. “Firstly, you aren’t being stupid. Secondly, I’m going to miss you too. I’m going to miss our lunch time walks, coming to yours for dinner, watching you work. I’m going to miss waking up to you in the mornings. I’ll miss all of it.” He places a light kiss to your lips after the words and you melt into him.

Foreheads resting against each other, he whispers out, “I should probably get going.”

Taking a deep breath, you slowly nod your head. A light kiss is placed on your lips before he fully pulls away. You watch as he gets into the driver's seat and then drives off into the distance.

You cry yourself to sleep that night.

“Why don’t you just move to Seoul?” Molly says after witnessing a week of you moping around.

“Because I like it here,” you reply.

“Don’t be dumb, no one likes it here.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“I own a shop here.”

“Well I own a house with an art studio in it,” you pout.

“You can move that art studio anywhere,” she rolls her eyes at you.

“Oh yeah? You want to explain how I would be able to afford the prices in Seoul?”

“I’m sure Yoongi would help you.”

“I don’t want him to help me. It’s not his responsibility to help me.”

“Would you at least just look into it? I’ll come with you to look at places. Please. I have never seen you as happy as you were when he was here. I want you to always be that happy, and moving house should be a small price to pay for that happiness.”

“It’s not just moving house though. He doesn’t live in Seoul. He travels around the world, he is busy, he doesn’t have time for me.”

“Doesn’t have time for you? Then how do you explain the texts he sends you almost every second, how do you explain the fact he has already tried to get dates to see you? You are making excuses for this to not work. You need to stop worrying and jump straight in. You won’t know if it will work or not until you actually give it a go.”

You hum at her, unsure how to respond to her words. They rung true in your head, maybe you were pulling away from Yoongi, as much as you liked him you had insecurities and his life style really brought those out in you. But you also did want to try and see where it could go, you didn’t want to let your insecurities get in the way of something you had never felt before.

“Let’s just look. You aren’t committing to anything, you are just looking,” Molly says.

After a small pause you agree.

You’d had a full day of looking at different spaces around Seoul. Ranging from flats that could house you and a studio space, to flats that didn’t, to separate studio spaces altogether. To say you were exhausted was an understatement, but as you hugged Molly goodbye and she got in her car to drive home, you made the trip to Yoongis apartment.

On arrival you were swept into hugs and kisses. It was a welcome you could get used to.

“I missed you,” Yoongi says between kisses, slowly dragging you into the house, eventually finding his sofa.

“I missed you too,” you say in your new position, which was basically being pinned down by Yoongi.

After some catching up physically, Yoongi eventually lets you move enough to sit up. He quizzes you on the places you had visited today, commenting on locations, asking for pictures of the places. You could tell he was excited by the prospect of you moving closer to him, and though you had told him that you’d been thinking of making the move way before meeting him, saying it would help further your art career, you knew that he knew the real reason behind the move, him.

You asked about his day, listened when he told you about his early start, his dance practice and an interview he did. Thinking you’d had a long tiring day now sounded like a whiney excuse.

“And,” he pauses for dramatic effect.

“What?” You start to grow worried at the suspense.

“I got you a present,” he smiles, slowly standing up.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you grow a tad embarrassed.

He leaves the room and then renters just as quickly, hands now behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he states and when you don’t comply he repeats it with a small pout and whine so that you do it. “Now, hold out your hands,” his voice is now much closer.

You feel something solid but light press down on your hands, and your heart rate picks up as you sense what it might be.

“Now, open your eyes,” his voice comes out as a whisper this time.

You slowly peel your eyes open, and they widen in shock at what is in your hands. You shake slightly as you grip the CD tighter in your grasp eyes flicking over every inch. You slowly peel off the note that is attached and read it.

An exclusive for my biggest fan. Sorry it’s not more like ABBA.

“You used my art?” Tears prick at your eyes instantly at the sight of the painting you did for him on the front of the album.

“It’s kind of why I commissioned it,” he says. “I thought a piece of art by the person that inspired all the songs would be very fitting.”

“You what?” Words fail to commute in your head as you take in what he says.

“I came to your village for a break. I was struggling to get inspired to write music and the company decided that they could free up some time and I could go away and try and get back on track I guess. I wasn’t necessarily intending to stay in the village for that long, but the place interested me. You interested me. And the more I spoke to you the more I found myself being able to write songs.”

“You wrote songs about me?” It still was struggling to make sense to you.

“I probably wrote enough songs about you to fill five albums, not one,” he chuckles lightly.

You look back down at the CD in your hand, tears still falling down your face.

“This is the nicest, sweetest thing anyone has ever done,” you drop the album onto sofa next to you and instead pull Yoongi into your arms.

Yoongis arms encompass you into a tight yet soft hug. And in that moment you know that the decision to move to Seoul was right. That you wanted to try as hard as you could to be with Yoongi. That although it would be hard, it was a journey you were willing to take. Because even if it didn’t work out, any minute you got to spend with the man would be worth a lifetime.

264 notes · View notes

alwaysmychoices · 4 years

Text

Jealousy & Pasta

Synopsis: After a long day at work, Charlie and Ethan are ready to go home, make dinner, and finally have a date night, if Charlie’s jealousy of the new intern won’t get in their way.

Chapter 14 of the “with and without” series

Previous Series: “a weekend with dr. ramsey”

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlotte “Charlie” Greene)

Words: 4.7k

Rating: T (suggestive language at the end)

Charlie was staring.

She couldn’t stop, no matter how hard she tried.

She came to the nurse’s station to find a quiet place where she could finish her paperwork for the night, but the paperwork quickly fell to the wayside.

She was watching Ethan – or rather, she was watching Ethan interact with her.

Ethan was working with Ava Silva, the new star intern. About half an hour ago, Ava found Ethan in his office, waiting for Charlie to finish for the night so that they could go back to his apartment and make dinner. When she presented Ethan with her patient, he was intrigued enough to join her on the case, and Ava did something to impress him. He didn’t watch Ava like he watched the other interns, like he was studying every moment for a sign of a mistake. He looked… pleased. Maybe even a little proud.

Ethan Ramsey was unusually agreeable, and that intern was standing unusually close to him.

Until tonight, Charlie flattered herself as being the only intern Ethan Ramsey regarded like that, but now that specialness felt mundane. Had his approval really been so miraculous, or was Charlie just hoping it was?

Charlie felt ridiculous as she watched the two of them. She knew it meant nothing. She knew that, once he finished in that patient’s room, he would take Charlie home. Yet, something eerily resembling doubt left her feeling unnerved and – dare she say – jealous.

So, she kept staring.

“You and Ramsey, huh?” Esme’s voice startled Charlie. With an expression that could only be described as pure horror, Charlie looked to her intern, hoping for a clue that she’d misheard Esme and hadn’t been caught.

Esme’s smirk dashed those hopes immediately.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlie’s voice wavered, making her lie even less believable. She gripped her pen tighter and cast a glance down to her unfinished paperwork as if trying to belatedly establish an alibi.

For all her attempts to hide, she was only making it more obvious.

Esme cocked her eyebrow, looking surprised by Charlie’s audacious lie.

“So, you just stare at everyone then?” Esme challenged, casting a meaningful look in Ethan’s direction. Charlie didn’t bother lying this time, which relieved Esme. For the last ten minutes, Esme passively watched Charlie, waiting for her concentration to break. When it didn’t, Esme cemented her long-held suspicions about the two colleagues.

“I’ve just never seen Dr. Ramsey get along that well with anyone, especially an intern,” Charlie shrugged, forcing herself to look at Esme and not Ethan, “I was just curious.”

“He gets along that well with you,” Esme countered, turning her gaze back to her paperwork as she scribbled a signature. She didn’t intend to let Charlie explain it away, and Charlie grimaced.

“It just seems like that now,” Charlie shrugged, “He hated me when I first started here.”

“I highly doubt Dr. Ramsey has ever hated you,” Esme mumbled, checking a box and signing a corresponding signature.

“He did,” Charlie asserted less confidently. Had he ever hated her? Certainly, he had insulted her, and more than once, his criticism had driven her to drink and complain after work. But had he ever hated her? Or were his expectations just high?

Or… had he always liked her? Had he just been an asshole to keep his distance?

Charlie felt less sure than ever, but she tried to keep her uncertainty off her face.

Esme paused for a moment, looking between Charlie and Ethan and Ava. She mulled it over and finally decided to ease Charlie by saying, “Well, even if he hated you then, you shouldn’t worry now. He doesn’t look at anyone else like he looks at you.”

Charlie blushed, which was all the confirmation Esme needed, but she allowed Charlie to deny it anyway. Truthfully, Charlie didn’t want to deny it anymore. She wanted to ask Esme a thousand questions. How long had she known? Were they obvious? Did he really seem to like her that much?

She longed for Esme to resolve all the timid doubts that came with a new relationship, especially because she couldn’t ask her friends to do so.

Their secret relationship was just two weeks old, and though Charlie felt secure in Ethan’s affection and her own decision to pursue a relationship, she couldn’t deny the series of small insecurities that sprouted under the secrecy. Without any outside opinions, she was left to interpret everything herself, and her own tendency to doubt had no one else to counter it.

“I think you’re just reading into it too much,” Charlie decided innocently, purposefully keeping her eyes off Ethan as she looked down to her paperwork.

“Maybe,” Esme shrugged, “For all I know, you two aren’t together.”

Charlie let out an inaudible sigh of relief.

“But,” Esme continued, knocking Charlie’s victory, “something is there. When I got here, you two couldn’t be in the same room. Now, I rarely see you apart. So, whatever it is, you two are certainly back on now, whatever that means for you.”

Charlie's expression went slack. She had nothing to counter that with, so instead of stumbling through an explanation, she just stared with dismay.

Just then, Ethan and Ava concluded their examination of the patient, and together, they exited the room. The spoke briefly to confirm the diagnosis and next steps. The entire time, Ava stood just an inch too close. Though he may not have looked at her with anything other than professional approval, there was undoubtedly a glimmer in her eye. Oblivious, Ethan affirmed that he would check on the patient in the morning, and when he left, Ava’s eyes followed him.

Charlie saw the whole thing out of the corner of her eye, and her stomach lurched.

Ethan saw Charlie immediately, and in the split second before he noted Esme beside her, his face broke out in a warm, wonderful smile. It disappeared when he realized they weren’t alone. Startled, he tried to twist his face into something normal, and instinctively, he cleared his throat and tightened his jaw.

He looked imposing. Maybe even intimidating.

But still happy.

To Charlie’s chagrin, Esme was always observant, and now, she had no doubt. She knew what they were doing, even if she lacked the details. Fortunately for both of them, she had no interest in stirring up hospital gossip. She liked Charlie, and that was enough for Esme to feel sworn to protect her. Besides, Esme felt like she owed Charlie for defending her encounter with Dr. Thorne.

“Good luck,” Esme whispered meaningfully to Charlie, and before Charlie could stammer out a final denial, Esme collected her paperwork and left the nurses station.

Charlie had only a few seconds before Ethan replaced Esme by her side. It wasn’t enough time to wrap her head around the conversation, nor her jealousy. She hardly knew what to say to him and was relieved when he spoke first.

“Are you almost done for the night?” Ethan nodded towards the paperwork in front of Charlie. He could see several blank spaces, but he hoped it was near completion. He had looked forward to taking her home all day.

“Nearly, maybe fifteen minutes left,” Charlie confessed sheepishly. She should have been done by now, but her envious stares and awkward conversations cost her time. She was cutting into their date night, a rarity given their schedule and secrecy.

She wished they could have just left anyway. She was happy to drop everything just to shed her jealousy and insecurities. She was eager to adore him without fearing unknown eyes and to get back to the basics of this relationship – the parts where they were happy, not anxious.

Ethan, casting a casual glance in both directions, made sure that no one was watching before he leaned closer, squeezing her hand and smiling softly, “Meet you in the garage in 20 minutes then?”

Charlie instinctively melted into the intimate warmth of the moment, and just for now, she forgot about Ava and Esme and secrets. Squeezing his hand back, she whispered, “You’re willing to be seen with me in the garage? How scandalous.”

“I think we’ll survive it,” Ethan shook his head softly, amused by her dramatization, “Besides, I’ve missed you today.”

“It’s your fault for not giving me any cases.”

Other than the brief diagnostics meeting to discuss the senator, they hadn’t interacted, save for fleeting glances and small talk in an elevator.

“I apologize for not overworking you, Charlotte,” Ethan tried to sound stern, but it came it just as love-drunk as everything else.

Giving up, Ethan squeezed Charlie’s hand one more time and commanded, “Now, finish your work so we can go home.”

“Fine,” Charlie teasingly grumbled, watching as Ethan gave her a warning glance and retreated to his office.

With the offer of homemade pasta and a night with Ethan Ramsey, Charlie worked much faster. Charlie powered through the material as fast as she could while staying thorough, and soon enough, the paperwork was completed and submitted. Eager to get to the garage, Charlie took off for the locker room to collect her stuff.

The room was empty except for the back corner, where a handful of interns crowded around a locker. They were talking loud enough that, if Charlie had been interested, she could have heard it all. But because she was far more concerned with quickly changing and meeting Ethan, she ignored them and focused her energy on shimmying into her jeans.

That was until one of them said Ethan’s name.

“I can’t believe you just spent thirty minutes with Ethan Ramsey,” one of them exclaimed, sounding overjoyed for her friend.

“And he said she did a ‘good job.’ I didn’t even know he knew how to compliment people,” another chimed in.

Charlie’s skin prickled with horror. She wanted to stop listening, button her shirt, and have a lovely night with Ethan. But she felt frozen, unable to escape the conversation.

“Stop, you guys! It wasn’t that big of a deal!”

This time, Charlie recognized the voice. It was Ava.

Fuck.

With her back the group, Charlie continued to eavesdrop.

“Please, if Bryce Lahela ever told me I did a good job, I would offer to marry him on the spot,” the first girl asserted confidently.

If they hadn’t been talking about Ethan, Charlie would have laughed and told Bryce the next day, but they were talking about Ethan. So, Charlie hardly registered it.

“Guys, shut up,” Ava hissed at her friends, suddenly swatting at her friends to stop talking. Charlie had a hunch for why Ava shut down the conversation, and to test her theory, she cast a casual glance in their direction.

All three women were staring at her, with Ava in the middle looking particularly mortified.

Equally embarrassed, Charlie looked back to her locker. She was now determined to leave as quickly as possible and put the entire encounter behind her. Maybe she would joke about it with Ethan at dinner. Or maybe she would quietly mull on it for days. Either way, she needed to leave.

Charlie finished buttoning her shirt, and after shoving her belongings in her canvas tote, she was ready to get the hell out of there.

“You’re Charlie Greene, right?” Ava asked just before Charlie could make it to the door, forcing her to stop in her tracks.

Great.

Now, she had to talk to her.

“Yeah, I am,” Charlie affirmed, not offering any more information. She didn’t want to make this conversation longer than necessary.

This was the woman who had just flirted with her boyfriend and bragged about it with her friends. Was she wrong for instinctively hating her?

“So, you work with Dr. Ramsey, then?” Ava inquired. On either side, her friends squirmed and evaded eye contact. Perhaps they expected a lecture about professionalism. Perhaps she should have given them one.

But when you’re secretly dating your boss, can you really yell at someone else about staying professional?

“I’m on the diagnostics team, yes,” Charlie corrected. She didn’t enjoy framing her accomplishments through a man, even if it was her favorite man. She earned her spot on that team, and even if she frequently felt out of her league in their meetings, she deserved recognition for standing on her own.

“Right,” Ava swallowed, “I’m actually a big fan.”

Oh.

Charlie squirmed, and something strange stirred in her belly. The instant hatred felt weak and perhaps even misplaced. Was it Ava’s fault for being attracted to Ethan? Almost everyone was. Even patients tried to sneak their number in his pocket when he wasn’t looking.

Now, Charlie looked directly at her, and she was struck by their similarities. Physically, they were different of course. Ava was shorter, yet leaner and more muscular than Charlie. Her hair was much darker, as were her brown eyes. Her skin was nice and tan, a stark contrast to Charlie’s perpetually pale body that burned if untreated with sunscreen. Yet, there was something similar in their posture and expression. They were both dedicated and hungry. They were both, at some time, the star intern, and they both earned Ethan’s approval.

And that was what flared Charlie’s jealousy.

They were so similar that, no matter how much Charlie reminded herself of Ethan’s affection, she worried that she wasn’t really special.

And if she wasn’t special, would Ethan still be so enthralled?

“I’m sorry about, um, before. We were just joking around,” Ava explained, her voice shaking from fear. She dreaded the idea of her words making their way back to Ethan. “You know how it is.”

Charlie did understand how it was.

And thus, Charlie decided she didn’t hate Ava.

She was just another girl to whisper about her crush in a locker room. Charlie wasn’t angry at her. She was angry that she couldn’t publicly claim Ethan as her own.

“It’s okay. It happens,” Charlie shrugged and watched as Ava let out a sigh of relief.

Tentatively, one of Ava’s friends asked, “So you know Dr. Ramsey pretty well then?”

“I do,” Charlie confirmed.

The girl seemed to deliberately consider her next question, wondering how best to take advantage of this opportunity. Charlie decided to indulge her but only her. She had pasta and Ethan to get to.

“So, is he… dating anyone?”

Charlie was shocked by the question, and she realized that the Ethan these women knew was a very different man than the one Charlie knew. Their Ethan was fiction, an assortment of assumptions and experiences morphed into one gorgeous but grumpy figure. He was easy to fall in love with, but it was even easier to fall out of love when he failed to live up to expectations.

But Charlie’s Ethan was real. He was handsome and guarded, and he struggled to express his feelings, even when they threatened to overflow. For him, Charlie stumbled in and out of entanglements, recklessly tearing apart her life in the name of forgetting him. Together, they had smiled and cried and laughed and screamed. They ran away so many times, to so many places. Yet, just for the chance to say she adored him, she ran through the rain and stood on his doorstep, braced for rejection.

After a beat, Charlie decided to answer honestly, “He doesn’t talk about his personal life, but I’m pretty sure he’s dating someone.”

The three women blinked in surprise.

Charlie had been risky enough with that answer that she didn’t dare stay for follow-up questions. Bidding them all goodnight, she locked her stuff up and made a beeline for the garage.

The entire walk, she tried to put her thoughts together, but so much had happened that they were all jumbled.

She was jealous, insecure, and disappointed, but she also felt remarkably safe and known – and happy.

All the more so when she saw Ethan in his car.

He was waiting for her, his Charlie.

“That was longer than 15 minutes,” Ethan greeted her as she climbed into his passenger seat. Despite his complaint, he was smiling wide enough for her to know that her presence was appreciated.

“Interns stopped me in the locker room,” Charlie explained as she buckled her seat belt. Ethan pulled the car in reverse, and with his arm behind her headrest, she caught her first, unreserved glimpse of Ethan that day. It was enough to remind her why he was worth running through the rain.

“It’s starting. One day, you will dislike them just as much as I do,” Ethan gloated. Once out of the parking space, he easily navigated the near-empty parking garage. Feeling safe in the solitude, he found Charlie’s hand in the passenger seat and tangled his fingers in hers.

He was surprised by how much he enjoyed holding her hand. He had never been particularly fond of it in past relationships, nor was he partial to most physical displays of affection. But there was something different about holding Charlie’s hand. He felt a constant craving to be near her, one he couldn’t always satisfy. Holding her hand felt reassuring that she was still there and still willing to take on the inconveniences and burdens of dating him.

Part of Ethan kept waiting for Charlie to come to her senses and run away. When he was touching her, he could silence those thoughts.

“I don’t think the medical community could handle two of you, Ethan,” Charlie squeezed his hand softly as they exited the garage.

“I’m not sure the medical community can handle one of me, to be frank,” Ethan thought aloud, and he noted Charlie’s grin out of the corner of his eye.

The drive was largely uneventful after that. Occasionally, he had to return his hands to the wheel to manage Boston traffic, but once the streets settled down, he found himself touching her again. They were comfortable in the car’s silence, and they were equally intrigued by the occasional quip or comment on the road.

It was comfortable.

It was… natural. Like their steps were in sync as they walked Ethan’s hallway. Like Ethan knew when to press the elevator button and Charlie knew exactly where to be. Like Charlie knew to lean against his shoulder and he knew to kiss the top of her head.

It was right.

As soon as Ethan opened his front door, Jenner joined the happy pair. He leaped from his comfortable bed in the living room and sprinted towards them. Jenner made a general acknowledgment of Ethan, but he lost all interest in his master when he noticed Charlie. The dog’s whole body wiggled as he jumped into Charlie’s open arms. He showered her face in adoring kisses, and likewise, she rewarded him with head scratches and a stream of compliments.

Ethan watched from the doorway with a mix of adoration, amusement, and frustration.

It was arguably the cutest thing he had ever seen, but after a long day away from Charlie, he now had another competitor for her attention.

“He likes you more than me,” Ethan commented, stepping into his apartment and dropping his keys in on the nearby table. He didn’t interrupt Jenner and Charlie, and when they were ready, they joined him in the apartment, Charlie walking with Jenner following on her heels.

Charlie found Ethan in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he assembled the necessary ingredients on his kitchen island. He had been saving this recipe for a night that Charlie could help him make it, and he beckoned her to his side.

Charlie obliged, stopping only to wash her hands. But when she stood that close to him, she could think of a million things she’d rather do than make pasta.

“What do you need from me?”

“If you can mince the garlic, I’ll start the pasta,” Ethan decided, placing his hand on her side to pull her closer to him, and he kissed her temple, “Then, you can make the sauce, and I’ll make the seafood.”

“Seafood?” Charlie clarified, peaking through the ingredients to find clams, shrimp, and scallops. She stared at the pile of food with unfamiliarity. She never did this much for a casual, weeknight dinner. Truthfully, she was a bit intimidated that Ethan did.

“What?” Ethan asked, noting her stare, “Charlotte, are you allergic and neglected to tell me?”

“No, no,” Charlie clarified quickly, “I’m just…” she motioned vaguely to the kitchen island, “I’m just amazed you put this much effort into a weeknight.”

Ethan eyed her suspiciously and, after a beat, he said, “I have a feeling that, if I press you on that, I will be very disappointed in your habits.”

“Probably,” Charlie conceded, smiling softly as she watched him shake his head in preemptive disappointment. He squeezed her side and then pointed to the garlic.

“Mince,” Ethan commanded, trying to get himself back on track. Charlie made a show of rolling her eyes, but she happily crushed, sliced, and chopped garlic until she had a suitable product to give to Ethan.

Next, he tasked her with blending the tomatoes and let her freely spice the mixture, taking the risk she would lean into her affinity for heat. He sautéed the garlic in olive oil and added the seafood. When she delivered her sauce to add to the pan, she hummed, and Ethan smirked as the tune got stuck in his head. He watched the pasta and the sauce, but he also watched her dice peppers and gently sway to the song she sang.

When she turned around to add the peppers to the mixture, she was startled to find that he was watching her.

“Are you staring at me, Dr. Ramsey?” she asked, standing right beside him as she dropped the peppers into the pan.

“Yes.”

Charlie beamed as he leaned down to kiss her softly, his hand resting comfortably on her hip. With his head ducked, he felt like the perfect height for her to wrap her arms around his neck. Of course, there wasn’t much about him that didn’t feel perfect right now.

Ethan only pulled away when dinner demanded their attention. Nearing the end of the recipe, Charlie wasn’t much needed in the kitchen. So, she got out plates, and under Ethan’s instruction, she poured two glasses of wine. She poured more in her glass, just so she could sit at the island and drink wine as she watched him assemble the final stage of the recipe.

He plated the pasta and, wine in hand, he led her to the balcony so they could enjoy one of the last warm nights of the season.

And they did enjoy it.

Naturally, the pasta was delicious. Ethan had never cooked anything bad, as far as Charlie was concerned, and he was confident that her assistance made it that much better. Of course, he may have just been distracted by the view. While Charlie looked out over the Boston cityscape, he was more than satisfied to admire her alone. They talked about work for a while, but quickly, the conversation diverged to something more intimate and playful. Despite having met a year before, they were still getting to know each other, and effortlessly, they dipped into past relationships and all of the humorous stories associated with them.

Charlie's list of previous partners was short, with only a few meaningful names. She had been too focused on her career to develop a serious relationship, save for one or two, but she had plenty of funny anecdotes. Ethan’s list was longer but with far fewer meaningful names. He didn’t broach the most meaningful ones because their stories were too sad and too much time had passed for the discussion to feel necessary. He did, however, tell a very embarrassing story from his middle school dance that made Charlie lose her breath laughing.

Maybe it was the honesty of the moment, or maybe Charlie was just inspired to hear how jealous little Ethan had been of that popular boy and his 7th grade date. Whatever it was, Charlie said something she didn’t intend to say.

“You know, today, I overheard someone talking about their crush on you,” Charlie announced. She said it so casually that Ethan missed the underlying jealousy and self-doubt, so he chuckled.

“When?”

“At work,” Charlie didn’t betray Ava by saying it was her. Even if Ava wanted her boyfriend, Charlie didn’t feel justified in exposing her to her boss.

Ethan laughed and shrugged it off, taking a sip of wine like the whole thing was just another funny story.

It could have been. She could have left it there.

But squirming in her patio chair, she added, “I… I might have been a little jealous.”

Ethan’s face fell just a bit, like he was unexpectedly sobering up and becoming present in the moment. And, as he studied Charlie, he was suddenly aware of how meaningful this might be.

“You were?” He was shocked. Had she not seemed so serious, he surely would have thought this a joke. He had been jealous, of course, but that was before. Now, could she doubt him?

“I mean, she was very pretty,” Charlie was eager to justify her jealousy with all but the truth.

Ethan’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it was increasingly somber and concerned. The sight made Charlie squirm even more. She’d said something real, and she couldn’t hide from it now.

“Do you doubt me, Charlie?”

Hurt.

Ethan’s hurt.

She didn’t mean for that to happen.

“No,” Charlie answered quickly – maybe too quickly because, when faced with saying anything else, nothing came to mind.

Ethan waited, but he didn’t feel less injured.

He thought, once they risked everything and promised to make this work, that everything could stay perfect. Yet Charlie was jealous. And he didn’t really understand why. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but here, with her.

“I’m a little...” Charlie stumbled to untangle days’ worth of messy, uncomfortable thoughts, so she stammered, “I love this. I really do. I am so, so happy that we’re here, but… I’m still a little insecure in all of it. I know we’re together, I do. But nobody else does. Secrecy is tricky, and it’s just…”

Charlie felt like there was an explanation out there, a perfect combination of words that would make sense of everything, but if they existed, she couldn’t find them.

“I’m so happy, and I think I’m afraid of messing it up somehow,” Charlie settled on this answer. It didn’t encompass everything, and something was surely missing. But it had to be enough for now, “And I wish I could just say you’re mine.”

Ethan sat in the wake of her speech, its weight sitting on him thoughtfully.

He wanted to erase all of it. He wanted to free her from insecurities and doubts. He wanted to give them both the happy ending they deserved after their bitter ups and downs.

But there was a bitter truth to swallow. Happy endings were just the beginning of something that could easily turn messy and painful, and they were responsible for maintaining happiness, even if it meant uncomfortable conversations.

“Charlie, I’m yours, secret or not,” Ethan, though shocked that he had so say it at all, meant it, and Charlie knew it. He stood, crossing the small distance be next to her. In the dim light, he found her hand and squeezed it, reassuring them both.

“Even when I’m not special?” Charlie laughed at the end of the question, framing it like a joke, but the laugh was hollow. And it was never a joke.

“You’re always special, Charlie,” Ethan kissed between Charlie’s eyebrows, where worry creased her skin.

“You’re not just infatuated with the star intern?”

“There have been many star interns,” Ethan consoled her, “I’ve only run away to the Amazon for one.”

Charlie chuckled, the light coming back into her face as she teased (for real, this time), “I thought you were just dramatic.”

Ethan laughed – for real, as well.

And they were okay. They were.

Ethan picked up the bottle of wine, which they’d nearly drained, “What do you say to another bottle?”

“It depends. What’s your policy on wine in bed?”

Ethan had a mischievous smile as he disappeared into the apartment to retrieve more wine, which they would hopefully share from the comforts of his king-size bed soon. Sitting on the balcony, content and waiting for him, Charlie struck with the realization that this was the happiest she’d ever been in a relationship.

As he walked back to her, she found a star, and focusing all her hope, she asked it to let them stay like this forever.

I’m kinda iffy on if I like this chapter, but here it is anyway.

Also, if you’re interested in making the recipe mentioned, here it is: https://rasamalaysia.com/seafood-pasta/

TAG LIST:

@honeyandsunfl0wers @jens-diamondchoices @desmaranj @octobereighth @flyawayboo @fanficnewbie @togetherwearerapture @perriewinklenerdie @noboundariesplease @paulfwesley @x-kyne-x @caroldxnvxrs @paisleylovergirl

@chasingrobbie @soft-for-drake @choicesyouplayandmore @crazy-loca-blog @playchoicesheaux @senseofduties @queencarb @save-the-sky @openheart12 @omg-its-vixen @odetomars @rookieoh @drakewalker04 @mysecretlifeofdaydreams @delaytheinevitable

@hopefulmoonobject @malvolari-take-my-soul @nomadics-stuff @the-pale-goddess @schnitzelbutterfingers @trappedinfandoms @heauxplesslydevoted @lilyvalentine @mvalentine @elwetritsche75 @jessirosebud @lion-ess24 @calibuckley @canknot @wonderwithrobin @jooous @eramsey28 @binny1985 @canigetanawwjunk @padfoot0415 @ermidc @beastlyinstrument @shanzay44 @dulcehernandez @starrystarrytrouble @lucy-268 @kaavyaethanramsey

@nerdydinosaursweets @blossomanarchy @openheartthot @thegreentwin @akshara16

#open heart #open heart 2 #ethan ramsey #choices #choices stories you play #ethan ramsey x mc

138 notes · View notes

valaks · 3 years

Note

Hey Valaks! I love your blog and your writing!

Please could you do 1, 10 and 18 for the writing asks?? 🌺

Thank you for the ask! I have added a cut to hopefully not be that person clogging up the feed XD

1. Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

I have a few collabs outstanding like Gemini and a Kabir/Alex sequel to Reunion (It’s rated T at the most so still kid friendly) with Lupin and Devil Went Down to Georgia with Galimau. My utter love for both of my collab partners for pulling me through at a time when I’ve been really struggling. I have a WIPs List but I’ll confess to not having touched most of them in quite sometime (partly from life, partly because I’m not sure how interesting they’d be to anyone else other than me which influences my writing more than I would like to admit):

Good Intentions: Smithers never thought he’d be anyone’s moral compass, he was no angel to sit in anyone’s shoulder but trying to keep Alex Rider from following in the ruthless footsteps of his father or worse his former handler, Alan Blunt is as close to hell as he can imagine. (Wherein Alex becomes head of MI6 we watch his morality slip away form the eyes of an increasingly frustrated and heartbroken Smithers - it all culminates when Alex uses a child “just as an informant, simple information gathering” but hidden behind the charming smile of John Rider and the brutal coldness of Alan Blunt’s words is Alex Rider dying as he says them (Smithers just hopes there’s still a part of the boy he once knew in there to mourn)

Walk the Line: Alex thought he was done with SCORPIA. But they kept creeping back into his life in the most unexpected of ways. He thought he could at least count on it being on the other side until he gets teamed up with Walker, his former classmate and current CIA spy. Unfortunately he still hasn’t been able to figure out whose side Walker is really on - attempted deep cover op like his dad, repatriated rogue spy back on the “good” side, or SCORPIA double agent? He doesn’t know but at least he’s nice....in that obnoxious American way.

Temperamental: (Sequel to Sentimental which isn’t all that popular and you would need to read it for the sequel but basically amnesiac Yassen whose memories stop pre John’s betrayal set during the Stormbreaker mission and features him trying to come to grips with the use of chemical weapons against children and how to handle Alex once he snaps back to reality which is where this starts) Yassen had promised Alex Rider that he would be safe from the world of spying but fate had other ideas. In the days after Sarov’s failed plan, Yassen scrambles to find where MI6 have hidden his wayward charge without drawing Rothman’s attention. A request from one of their existing clients to look into suspicious activity at his son’s former school prompts Yassen to investigate under the guise of offering security. He should have known where there was trouble there would be Alex.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Lordy do I ever not have a good answer for this. Typically it involves an idea hitting me and then the determination: would this idea work better as a short to post on tumblr (because the set up would take away the tension or would require a multi chapter which is not really my strength), as a prompt to lob out into the ether for someone better and brighter to touch on, or a fic. Once fic is decided I determine whose perspective the fic would be the most interesting from either because it would create the most tension or their internal monologue/background knowledge would add the most to it. Then the summary is written and a title is chosen. If it’s something I’m really passionate about and I already have it in my head I tend to write it all in one go, if there’s more I need to chew on then it’s a series of dates with the Evil Writing App. The final determination is whether it’s good enough for Valaks or if it gets sent to an alt account.

18. Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

Allegedly. I’ll try to go in order of posting -

Ruthless has a sequel where Alex just goes *quiet* once the initial dust as settled it’s unnerving to everyone because they’re not used to having to wonder just what Alex is thinking, at least not behind closed doors but what happened isn’t exactly something that can be recovered from easily, not when Alex isn’t sure who all’s in on it no matter what they’ve told him. Failure is the AU where I considered what would happen to Alex to make him want to torture.

Alibi was originally going to have Yassen show up in the end but I found it far more fascinating if MI6 was just testing Alex so out went Yassen and in went Ben. The sequel to it was torn apart and turned into Warm Reception because I wanted to trope flip SCORPIA comes to Brooklands and decided that it was more logical to have a small fight in Mrs. Bedfordshire’s lobby than anywhere else and I wanted to explore some side characters instead of Ben.

Providence’s sequel thoughts ended up inspiring Gentleman’s Agreement but I did write a small short for it “Yassen and Alex encounter each other on mission. Surprisingly they are working to mostly the same goal - Yassen needs to kill the millionaire who Alex needs to get information from. “I suppose I could answer some questions for you, Sasha. /In Russian/“ “Is now really the time for a language lesson?” he ground out in frustration but the man pointedly ignored him “/Fine but I don’t know some of the words/“ “/Then there is no better way to learn/“

I mentioned the Sentimental sequel but changing Sarov to come first and probable for almost a month before Yassen figures out he’s missing made the most sense. It was also a bit of fun at the Yassen would absolutely take Alex away from MI6....just to throw him in a school and throw away the key. Almost had him send him to Point Blanc but decided that wouldn’t quite fit all that well and wouldn’t be as interesting as if Alex had already gotten his feet back under him with MI6 and now sees that Yassen was right that MI6 would just use him until he’s dead but that doesn’t mean Alex wants to be anywhere near Yassen. Julia Rothman might have other ideas when she finds out what her newest second in command is hiding.

Gentleman’s Agreement.....there’s a lot of thoughts on Sequels and AUs, a lot of them have been written by better people, but that fic was written in 45 minutes so there wasn’t much time to recharacterize or change scenes. It did get Turncoat aka the Alex saves Yassen fic I wanted so badly.

Blood Brothers is a fic I really worked hard on considering how John would feel about his son being thrown into SCORPIA assuming Alex was of age. A rocky marriage was characterization that didn’t quite fit what I imagined would have happened but did fit the story so it stayed in. It was a fic that was supposed to get expanded on - the competition between Hunter and Yassen and Nile and Alex who is desperate to beat his Dad and his “apprentice”. I think two teenagers thrown against each other with a bit of a bone to pick, especially Yassen and Alex who can both hold a grudge even if one runs hot and the other runs cold, would have been compelling and a little fun but the premise and specifically John’s characterization doesn’t quite work out to me.

Found and Legends both have their plotting done but it’ll never see the light of day

Little Moments and Sweetest Thing were my guilty pleasure writing pieces for a while and I have about 1000 DMs of scenes for both of them that are lost to the sands of time and an embarrassing amount of self indulgence

Mates has a follow up ending for those who needed resolution in the comments of it. I’m not sure I did a good job of showing that Tom was in a semi abusive relationship since a lot of people seemed to blame him for him and Alex’s breakup. Most of my headcanons for how their relationship goes have them splitting much sooner just because of Tom’s own home life and either being unable to relate/talk to Alex and drifting away because his Mom throwing a plate at his head isn’t being hung over crocodiles but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt or because Alex is just too dangerous/jumpy to be thrown back into a school environment and lashes out even unintentionally especially not under the pressure of being seen as a failure. School is also a barometer of just how much he’s lost of himself and his childhood, bonus points for Alex being completely upfront with Tom about everything he’s done

In My Sights has an AU where this is all post Christmas at Gunpoint and Yassen is there because he knows Ian is already at Sayle’s factory and will have to be...handled. So two weeks of just getting Alex trained for the protection he might need, connecting him to resources, etc. Ian finding out that Yassen had been there was part of a draft at one point which was included Alex wondering about an all too sincere goodbye from Ian “who never hugged him” but I can’t find the snippet anymore ;__;

A Warm Reception was an alternate version. Originally I wanted it to be Alex watching his last chance at normality slip from his fingers and then the crushing realization that it was something that was his own doing, not even MI6 but Skoda who he had picked a fight with and the accompanying breakdown but then decided that Mrs. Bedfordshire was the right way to go upon writing the summary. Because everyone loves some Outsider POV

Adopted was supposed to be a one chapter throw away trope flip of K Unit adopts Alex. I kept it pretty consistent with Amitai and Lil Lupin’s K Units, tried to add in some more characterization just in how they treated some of the details. It has an alt ending/chapter where they find out Alex is Cub when they pull him from Three’s tender mercies almost by accident. I was persuaded into light humored fluff via guilt trip.

The Truth and Other Deadly Weapons has Ben acting exactly like he think he would in front of everyone but my AU was that this interaction happened in the field and absolutely shattered Ben’s trust in him partly because he had worked for the other side and partly because even if it ‘wasn’t as bad as it looks’ it showed a severe lack of judgment. It also featured several chapters of Alex running into the glass ceiling that is having “Member Malogosto Class of 2004” on your resume. Was going to feature Alex running into Walker as well and into problems within MI6 and the CIA but that was eventually cut and it was kept to one chapter.

Guardian....Guardian holds a very special place in my heart. I was given the prompt of a Monster Fic and I wrote what I knew but the interesting parts were all the ones that come after the story but might come across to a general audience as Hogwarts School of Prayers and Miracles. The plotting done post this was going to feature baby Angel Alex reuniting with his parents but...they were strangers to him and so he stayed with Yassen more and more, followed him, learned from him....it encompassed everything from the dynamics of broken families to reflections on theology and references from the Good Book....which is why it’ll never see the fandom but has a very special place in my heart.

In another, more perfect world Glocking Around the Christmas Tree is the Die hard fic this fandom deserves but as Lupin and I untangled the plot of the movie more and more we just couldn’t make it into anything that would be coherent on paper so it was changed and changed and is now a half finished sad abomination that sits on my works list only because Lupin would kill me if I took it down.

Hot Shot was supposed to feature my current favorite character that is not Nile Abara, John Crawley but I wimped out and changed it at the end because I swore I would write the Crawley fic that we all need. Hear me out: John Crawley knew and worked with John and Ian Rider, was respected by both of them, was recruited by SCORPIA within one year in the field, is the Chief of Staff of MI6, the man who “no one gets a knife in the back without him signing off” and is also the man who walks his dog to check on Alex. There’s a mentorship waiting to happen there, preferably in a nice work study program during college where Alex finally gets to see the repercussions of his missions and Crawley helps try and pull him back from the black mark that SCORPIA would have put on him.

My personal fluffy favorite is the spinoff of Devil Went Down to Georgia where Joe Byrne did pull Alex out post Skeleton Key and brought him home. There’s a pretty extended one about where Tom ends up after Mates. There’s also an actual sequel but ask me no questions and all.

Skipping a few collabs and Febuwhump fics but Burning Questions was just supposed to be Branded - a fic where upon being captured by Razim he is brought in and forcibly branded to differentiate the appearances of Alex and Julius (since Razim has decided to have him killed after shooting the Secretary of State). As a result of the pain levels spiking when Alex actually sees that the SCORPIA logo is branded onto his cheek Razim considers that emotional pain might be something to investigate. There’s a couple thousand words on it, one day I might polish it up.

First Impressions is supposed to be a mirror verse of Alex working for MI6 which includes Three as Blunt, Rothman as Jones and of course Sagitta as K Unit while he’s up against his father as Yassen and Yassen as Crawley. But it was cut down significantly even if the ideas are pretty fun to consider.

Sorry this was probably more than you bargained for but it was fun to get everything out there so thank you for asking

#alex rider #alex rider fanfiction #Im so sorry #I just have a lot

17 notes · View notes

iatethepomegranate · 3 years

Text

We are not alone in the dark with our demons, Chapter 12

In which Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, becomes a professor, learns how to be a person, and grapples with how to help the other Volstrucker survivors, and his students, in a way he had never been helped.

Content warnings: References to Caleb's backstory, depression, poverty

Chapter summary: Caleb and the Nein meet up in Nicodranas, and he can no longer delay telling them of his failure to protect someone who desperately needed him. But, as it turns out, he was not the only person keeping secrets about that day.

Chapter notes: This is a somewhat chaotic chapter. Enjoy and let chaos reign, I guess! Chapter title is from Three by Sleeping At Last

****

Chapter 12: A mess of a story I'm ashamed to tell but I'm slowly learning how to break this spell

Essek teleported the four of them to the Blooming Grove the following morning to pick up Caduceus, who offered to message Wensforth to save the wizards the spell. They had breakfast in the Grove with the Clays, and got their hands dirty in the garden for a while, until Caleb rolled the aches from his shoulders and began to draw the teleportation circle to Tidepeak Tower.

“I might have to go back earlier than the rest of you,” said Beauregard. “Dairon’s guiding the monks on the Nico hunt for now, but they’re super busy.”

“We can send you back whenever you need,” said Essek.

Caleb’s next few chalk strokes were a bit more aggressive than they needed to be. It was hard not to feel guilty for leaving Rexxentrum while Nico was out on his own and people were searching for him. Essek sat on the floor by his side, knocking their knees together. He felt better, and no one made any mention of his silent outburst.

He completed the final stroke and the five of them rushed through, landing in a familiar tower, where Wensforth waited in the doorway.

“Welcome, welcome.” Wensforth guided them down the stairs. “The master is eager to speak with you.”

Yussa was already arranged on a couch in the sitting area on the ground floor, delicate fingers holding a teacup. Once borderline inscrutable, the man smiled at them as he often did these days. Especially to Caleb, on whom Jester thought Yussa had a crush. Caleb was more of the mind that Yussa saw him as little more than a precocious child, given their respective ages, but his particular fondness was evident all the same.

“Oremid tells me you are teaching at the Soltryce Academy now,” Yussa said. “Sit. We should talk.”

“Hi, Yussa,” Beauregard said, a little pointedly. “How’ve you been?”

“I am well, Beauregard. It is good to see you. All of you.”

They arranged themselves on the soft couches in the space, Caleb sitting across Yussa for ease of conversation, given the man clearly had things to say today. Essek was at Caleb’s side, slightly further than he would be just around the Nein, but close enough to be a comfort whenever Caleb’s anxiety spiked nonetheless.

Essek had been to Yussa’s tower a few times in Caleb’s company before. Given everything the Nein had put Yussa through already, the man had taken the presence of a fugitive of the Kryn Dynasty in his stride.

With a gesture from Yussa, his teapot lifted and poured itself into the other five cups on the little table in the centre of the room. Then, in turn, each cup floated into the hands of his visitors. Caleb accepted his with a soft thanks, slipping into Zemnian out of habit. He had spoken more Zemnian in the last few weeks than he had in years. It was always the little words, the pleases and thank yous, the hellos and goodbyes, that stuck the hardest.

“So…” Yussa honed in on him again. “Teaching. A step down from the original job they offered you, I hear.”

“Teaching is a better use of my time than spying.” There were more things Caleb could say about the Archmage of Civil Influence as a position, and most of them were far less polite. “Astrid always wanted that position more than I did anyway.”

“Good. You might survive to old age after all, for a human.”

Essek flinched a little at the reminder of Caleb’s shorter lifespan. Yussa’s eyes tracked the movement, but he let it pass without comment.

“Are we third-wheeling for you guys again?” Beau asked, but it wasn’t really a question. “Because we can, like, go.”

Caduceus placed a package on Yussa’s table. “Here, I brought that tea you liked last time.”

“Yes, thank you. You are all welcome to stay if you like.”

Beauregard was already standing up. “Nah, I think we’re good. Cool to see you again with your face where it belongs.” She awkwardly finger-gunned in Yussa’s direction, backing towards the door.

She, Yasha and Caduceus left the tower.

Yussa watched them go with amusement. “It seems my social graces are rather rusty.”

“They don’t mind,” said Caleb. “They have met too many wizards to be offended.” Essek snickered into his hand, finally relaxing a bit. “So, you were saying?”

“Teaching is good work, if you can tolerate the children,” said Yussa. “I did it myself for a time. For one to turn down an archmage position… you must have a goal.”

“Leave the Empire better than I found it,” Caleb said. That encompassed all his knotted up feelings about it.

Yussa raised a single well-kept eyebrow. “Interesting. What is your definition of ‘better’, if I may ask?”

Caleb did have a vision for this, and the situation with Felix and Nico had thrown into sharp, painful relief how far there was to go, and how much pain he would never be able to prevent. “No more children thrown on the pyre. No more stolen childhoods. No more abuse. A government and its mages who choose to consider simple human cost, before they consider their own selfish ambitions.” Caleb was typically more reserved with Yussa, but the more he spoke of this, the harder it became to restrain his emotions. “No more wizards with a god complex who think themselves above basic compassion and ethics. No more butchering the innocent to grease the wheels of war. Just… no more.”

“A lofty goal,” Yussa said, quiet. “One that would take the remainder of my lifetime, or even young Essek’s lifetime, let alone yours.”

“I know. Hence the importance of teaching these things to those who will come after me.”

Yussa hummed thoughtfully. “I wish you luck. More powerful men than yourself have tried, and been consumed.”

“Been there, done that. Have the trauma.” Caleb wasn’t sure where he found the capacity to joke, even flatly, about all of this. Sometimes it was easier to get the point across if he allowed for a bit of sarcasm. “In my experience, the children put at the mercy of these people may need the most help. And that is something I can do.”

“I will watch your progress.” Yussa finished his tea, setting the cup aside. “Now, enough of mundane matters. I have been tinkering with Willi some more. Would you like to see the results?”

“Always.” Caleb missed that golem terribly.

They lost a few hours discussing the golems of the Happy Fun Ball, and comparing notes about the pre-Calamity Aeormatons the Nein had encountered. Caleb and Essek had run across Devexian a few times in their travels since. It was a good use of time, and it settled Caleb’s nerves. He felt better.

***

Once they left Tidepeak Tower, Essek disguised as a blonde half-elf, they headed over to Veth’s place. Caleb was somewhat nervous about this, because he knew she would see through any of his bullshit and know he was going through something. And then he would have to explain everything to the rest of the Nein. And, of course, Jester already had an inkling thanks to Astrid.

There was no getting out of this. And it wasn’t that Caleb didn’t want them to know, exactly. He had just grown tired of explaining it. And he knew what little equilibrium he had managed to find would fall away as soon as Veth said or did anything in response, and he would break all over again.

Nevertheless, he messaged Veth as soon as they stepped out of the tower. “Hallo, Veth. Essek and I are on our way to your place. Be there soon.” Then, for old time’s sake: “You can reply to this message.”

The first sound that came through was Veth’s trademark screech. “Caleb! We made lunch. Get over here!” A split-second’s pause. “Good shot! Oh, sorry Lebby. Luc shot Beau in the ass. Like mother, like son.”

Luc was going to be a menace as a teenager. Caleb intended to be around to see it. And probably try to save a little bit of Yeza’s sanity if possible.

Caleb and Essek took their time wandering through Nicodranas. The streets were filled with people out for lunch, enticing scents curling through the air. Caleb and Essek stopped by a bakery to grab some pastries for the group (mostly Jester)--there had evidently been some Zemnian influence on Nicodranas, or the other way around, as treats such as bee stings could be found in both areas. Nicodranas made them a touch sweeter and stickier.

Caleb also grabbed a fresh loaf of bread, though he did not shove his hands into it this time. He hadn’t known that was a poverty thing until Beau and Jester had reacted so strongly to him doing it that one time. He still thought it was a useful trick, but it apparently unnerved people. Bread mittens had kept him warm many times in the freezing cold when he had no one to look out for him, and had to choose between food and something as simple as mittens.

Anyway, bread was wonderful.

They wound through the streets until they reached Veth’s place. There was an unpleasant feeling in the pit of Caleb’s stomach that he couldn’t quite describe. Unease or dread felt too uncharitable, but the feeling was somewhere in that neighbourhood. Essek slipped his hand into Caleb’s, gently leading him to the door. Essek knocked, and it was thrown open in seconds and Veth had already thrown herself at Caleb’s abdomen, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.

Caleb almost broke then and there. He carefully rested a hand on the top of her head, sliding his fingers through her hair, looking ahead but not really seeing anything. Veth gave him a final squeeze and stepped back, grabbing his hand on the way. It took Caleb a second too long to lock eyes with her, by which time whatever joy had been on her face had been replaced with worry.

“Hi, Lebby,” she said, in a careful soft tone she used whenever he was teetering on the brink of crashing down. “What’s the matter?”

Caleb took a careful breath, and spoke in a measured tone. “I will tell you, but we should eat first. I may not be able to later.”

Veth tugged him inside, Essek taking care of the door and following them through the house. The rest of the Nein were already crammed into the kitchen, stuffing their faces with a simple stew that smelled delightful. It must have been one of the recipes Veth remembered from Felderwin.

Jester leapt upon him with a hug, dragging Essek in with her. “You’re here! It’s so good to see you! We got chased by a dragon turtle again and I turned it into a sea slug like last time, and we got away!”

“This happened at sea, I assume?” asked Caleb, who knew enough about Jester to take nothing at face value.

“Of course, Caleb. Don’t be silly!” Jester let him go, and booped his nose. He managed not to flinch.

Caleb wordlessly held out the pastries and bread. Jester squealed and grabbed them off him, shoving them into the centre of the table. Veth grabbed an enormous knife and began to cut the bread while the rest of the Nein shuffled around to make room for two more chairs. It was a tight fit, and Caleb was firmly sandwiched between Essek and Beauregard, but it felt somewhat akin to Essek’s nighttime pressure on his back and sometimes chest that crushed his soul back into his body. Their thighs were jammed together now, and it was easy to hook his ankle around Essek’s and keep himself grounded. For now.

A bowl was shoved in his direction and he ate mechanically, dimly aware of the chatter around him. Luc’s voice was among the loudest, and it was good to hear his voice. After everything the boy had been through, on Caleb’s account no less. No matter what anyone else said.

Caleb was going to spiral if he didn’t get a hold of himself. And he wanted to have a good time in Nicodranas; he didn’t know when he would be back here. Not to mention he would prefer not to retraumatise the already traumatised toddler by having a breakdown in the middle of lunch.

So he ate. Slowly. Methodically. He silently counted each mouthful, because he needed to count something. And when he had finished the stew, he felt more present in his surroundings. Veth distributed slices of bread with little pots of spiced olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and the Nein continued to chatter away as they tore off pieces of bread, dunked them into the oil, and finished off the loaf. Caleb was glad they liked it. And that Veth had been here long enough to have picked up a local bread tradition to share with them all.

“This is good bread, Caleb,” said Jester.

“I went to the bakery you recommended,” Caleb replied.

“That was months ago! You remembered!”

Caleb tapped his temple.

“Caleb has a very good memory,” Veth said warmly, as if everyone at the table wasn’t already keenly aware.

“I’m a bit curious about that,” said Kingsley, his tail smacking Beauregard in the arm, ignoring her as she slapped it off her. “Have you always been like that?”

“My memory was always good, ja,” said Caleb. It was rare for Kingsley to ask about someone’s past; very Molly-esque, not that Caleb would ever tell him that. “I could count things very well, especially time, and naturally had good recall. I did develop it further at school, but it was always there.”

Most people who found out about Caleb’s memory either saw it as an interesting party trick, or a useful tool if they were more like Trent. He did not speak of the downsides of having a near-infallible memory very often.

But Kingsley was looking at him with sharpness in his eyes behind the easy smile. “Maybe I’m biased since I barely remember anything that this body did before a few months ago, but that sounds feckin’ awful.” He said it lightly, but Caleb could hear the edge in his voice. Kingsley had been around when Caleb had told his story to Beauregard in the Grove; he had the context, and his own experiences, to put things together.

“A blessing and a curse, ja.”

The mood at the table threatened to darken, but Luc was thankfully oblivious to it, and instead started babbling about a huge bug the Brenattos had found in the garden yesterday. And that his father had screamed very loudly. Caleb sat back from the conversation, but was pleased when the tension broke.

“It really was adorable,” Veth was saying.

Yeza rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, and you were my valiant saviour once again.”

But lunch was just about wrapping up at this point, and Veth would soon turn her focus back onto Caleb and his problems. Caleb’s lunch sat like a stone in his stomach, and maybe he shouldn’t have eaten quite that much. But it was hard to say no to a home-cooked meal surrounded by the people he loved most in this world. Those who were still alive, anyway.

Veth, charitably, let Caleb have a few extra minutes while she and Yeza cleared the table before she sat back down with a sigh, and turned her eyes to him. “All right. What’s the matter?”

Yeza picked Luc up. “I think we’ll go for a walk.” He didn’t know every little thing about Caleb’s shit, but he knew enough to understand whatever they were about to discuss was not something Luc needed to hear. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

As soon as they were gone, Jester spoke up. “Astrid said some stuff happened, but she wouldn’t tell me what.”

Caleb sighed deeply. “All right. I will tell you. Some of you already know what happened. I would appreciate your assistance.”

Beauregard knocked her knee against his. “We’ll help. But you should start.”

So he did. Caleb told the Nein that Astrid had been reaching out to the Volstrucker, and that two boys had been unaccounted for. He led most of the explanation of how they had come to understand what this probably meant, and to make plans for it. Beauregard began to speak up a bit when he spoke of finding Felix and convincing him to speak to them, of bringing in Caduceus to lift the modified memory. Caduceus began to add pieces where relevant, of the things he saw. Of scrying on Nico, and learning where he was.

Beauregard led the discussion of rushing after him and finding the house ablaze, and Caleb very briefly spoke of his experience on the upper floor, and finding the bodies of Nico’s parents. The memories were too vivid, and choked him up a bit, so Beauregard took over once again, and then Caduceus after they had traded places to help Caleb try to save the Baumanns.

“I do have a confession to make,” said Caduceus.

“Oh?” said Caleb, who couldn’t say much else at the moment.

“I was still scrying when Nico lit the fire,” Caduceus admitted. “I saw how he reacted to it. I chose not to inform you, because I feared leaving the scry before your arrival, in case something else happened. I… in the moment, I did not think telling you would have helped, but I wanted to apologise. I wanted to explain all this earlier, but...” Caduceus didn’t finish--maybe he had realised that would be jumping a bit ahead in the story. But Caleb understood.

There had been a small shred of curiosity in the back of Caleb’s mind, but he had been too preoccupied to give it much thought. But Caduceus’s explanation made sense; he had weighed up the benefits of both options and chosen the one he thought best in the moment. Leaving the scry to tell Caleb the house was already ablaze probably wouldn’t have made much difference. The Baumanns had already been long dead by the time he reached them. So Caleb harboured no ill will towards Caduceus for the difficult choice he had made, nor did he resent Caduceus for not telling him sooner, when Caleb had been far too unwell.

“There is no need to apologise,” Caleb told him. “You made a hard decision. Thank you for telling me now, when I am better able to handle it. Are you all right?”

Caduceus smiled sadly at him. “I understand you better now. Not in the way either of us wanted, but I’m all right now that I’ve told you.” He straightened, clearing his throat. “Anyway, where were we?”

They briefly talked about the night they had Nico, and that it had been a bad one for Caleb, and then Essek chipped in to describe the Greater Restoration spell the following morning. And the chaos that had ensued. Caleb spoke briefly about the chase on his side of things, with Beau and Yasha contributing theirs.

“We didn’t find him,” said Beauregard. “Monks and Volstrucker are still on the lookout. Caleb thinks the kid probably ran for the woods to get some cover. He taught Felix the Sending spell and took him back home to his parents.”

“Felix and I message Nico regularly,” said Caleb. “No responses yet.” And, because he was with the Nein, and because they loved him, he said, “I… feel a bit useless, at the moment.”

Jester reached across the table, tears in her eyes, and squeezed his hand. “You’re not useless, Caleb. You’re really smart, and really cool.”

“You’ve done a lot for those kids,” said Fjord. “I’m sure they both appreciate it, even if Nico isn’t talking to you. He’ll find you when he’s ready.”

“Maybe,” Caleb murmured. He was tired.

Veth was watching him, mouth downturned at the corners. “Caleb. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come over.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say to her. An apology wasn’t enough. And he didn’t know if he could explain it right now. He looked away from her, down at the table, and tried not to crack apart with guilt. He was not doing a very good job.

A flash of movement, and Veth had launched herself across the table and into his lap. “Oh, Cay Cay, honey. No. Shh.” She squished his cheeks, which he only now realised were wet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Caleb buried his face in her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m not angry, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it. It’s okay.”

That only made him feel worse. Breathing was hard. Two hands, belonging to two different people, found their way to his back, rubbing slow circles. The more delicate hand--Essek’s--applied a little more pressure than the other. Probably Beauregard. She was next to him.

“You’re all right, Caleb,” said Caduceus. “We’ve got you.”

Caleb laughed wetly, remembering those exact words from Fjord as they had guided him home after a panic attack behind the coffee shop. Maybe this was a thing now. Or at least a thing from the Wildmother devotees of the Nein.

The rest of the day was quiet. Caleb composed himself after a while, and set up his lesson plans and speech notes on the floor of the Brenattos’ living room. A cup of dead people tea at his side. Surrounded by the chatter of his friends, and Essek’s head on his shoulder as he worked through a book written in Undercommon.

Yeza and Luc returned after a while, and Luc napped on the couch at Caleb’s back. Breathing loudly into his ear. It should have been annoying, but really wasn’t. The boy woke up some time later and wriggled his way onto the floor, peppering Caleb with questions about what he was doing. Caleb was more than happy to answer, hoping he had simplified it enough for the boy. Luc was very clever, but he was also very young.

Most of the Nein drifted away once Caleb seemed more stable. Jester, Fjord and Kingsley went off to check on their crew (including Vandran), and hang out with Marion. Caleb expected he would see her at the Chateau in the evening for dinner. Beau and Yasha had wandered off to the fish market.

Caduceus was still around, and Caleb suspected he actually felt much worse than he was letting on. But he seemed content to chat with Yeza and Veth over tea in the kitchen. Caleb caught snatches of the conversation; it seemed they were trying to explain some alchemical concepts to him. There was a good chance that Caduceus did have some knowledge in the area, but not in the same scientific way. Which made such a conversation all the more entertaining, as fragments of it drifted into the living room as the Brenattos and Caduceus tried to reconcile their wildly different experiences of very similar things.

Luc had just finished asking Caleb what a cantrip was, drawn from his lesson notes for Beginner’s Transmutation. The boy climbed into his lap, resting his head against Caleb’s collarbone. At first, Caleb thought he was still groggy from his nap. Then:

“Uncle Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Are you having a bad day?”

That was a far cry from most of Caleb’s interactions with Luc, where he was mostly playing the part of the fun uncle with cool magic tricks. Essek hadn’t spent as much time with Luc, and was still phenomenally awkward around both him and Yeza, and even he seemed to notice the shift. Essek froze, his eyes glued to the one spot on the page.

“What do you mean?” Caleb asked Luc.

Luc shrugged. “Your eyes are puffy.”

Caleb chuckled at that; trust a small child to have no filter. “Ja, okay. I cried a bit earlier. Your mother and our friends took good care of me, though.” He thought back to Luc’s question. “We all have bad days, ja?”

Luc nodded, face pressed against Caleb’s shirt. “I had a bad day yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“I was remembering something that hurt a lot. And sometimes when I remember it, I get really sad and can’t think about anything else.”

Caleb, unfortunately, knew exactly what Luc was remembering. Veth didn’t bring it up often, but she had occasionally mentioned that Luc would have entire days after waking from nightmares of fire where he was just… out of sorts. Not wanting to play. Or even shoot his crossbow. Caleb could relate to the feeling.

So he set his pen aside and wrapped his arms around Luc. “Ja, that happens to me, too. Shall we stick together for today? We can cheer each other up.”

Luc just nodded, and Caleb rocked him side-to-side. The boy was probably still recovering, both from his disturbed sleep and the depressive episode.

“You’re good with him,” Essek said later, when Luc had fallen asleep against his chest.

Yeza ducked his head out of the kitchen, probably concerned that Luc was up to mischief in his silence, but his expression cleared when he saw the boy was sleeping. “Thank you, Caleb.”

Luc was not only a child, but also a halfling child, so it was a simple matter for even Caleb to hold him throughout the day. He felt better having someone else to care for, and Luc seemed to find comfort in Caleb’s attention.

***

That evening, they all visited the Lavish Chateau for dinner. Essek was in his blonde half-elf disguise again while the group ate on the ground floor. Luc was still clingy with Caleb, but he genuinely didn’t mind. He balanced the boy in his lap while they ate dinner. The chef had prepared a mildly spiced rice dish for the table that was easy for both of them to eat in this situation.

Marion joined them, graceful and lovely as ever. Like Yeza, she had not held ill will for what had befallen her during Trent’s pursuit. In fact, on more than one occasion, she had joked that she should thank “that horrible man” for forcing her to spend time with Babenon while in hiding. The situation was still complicated between the pair, and Caleb understood those kinds of complications better than most of the Nein. But she seemed happier than she had been in a long time.

Jester had apparently updated Marion with every shred of information she had gleaned from the Nein, so Marion was already aware of Caleb’s new job, and that he and the lesbians had a house together in Rexxentrum.

“It’s quite the change, I imagine,” she said.

“Oh, ja. I still wake up sometimes and have to pinch myself.”

“If you ever find yourself in Rexxentrum,” said Beauregard, “we’d love to have you.” She even managed not to look constipated or aggressive while saying it, which was a far cry from the prickly woman Caleb had met in Trostenwald all that time ago.

Marion smiled warmly. “Unlikely, but I will be sure to take you up on the offer if the need arises. How is your work, Beauregard?”

She glanced at Caleb, and sighed. “Complicated. But Caleb’s ex is the new archmage in the Assembly, and she’s actually not a shitty person most of the time. So that helps.”

Marion looked to Caleb, amused. “How does she feel about your new partner?”

Gods, Caleb had never gotten to have this kind of conversation with his own mother. So, even though the reminder hurt a bit, he indulged her. “Oh. Uh. Well, you see…”

“Caleb’s had a threesome,” Jester supplied helpfully.

“I see.” Now Marion looked very entertained. “We all have hidden depths. The two people who came to warn us about your teacher?”

“Ja.” Caleb’s face was hot, and probably as red as his hair. “They are… respectful of us. But they also told me they would, ah…” He remembered there was a small child on his lap who absolutely did not need to go around telling people he would cut off their balls. “They would cut off an important part of his anatomy if he ever hurt me. So, I think they approve.”

Essek made a choked sound. “You did not tell me this.”

“I was preoccupied.” Caleb didn’t need to elaborate; Essek would figure out what he meant.

Essek relaxed marginally, and knocked their knees together. “Right.” He wasn’t the type for public displays of affection, even if he didn’t have to worry about drawing attention to himself.

Marion looked to Essek. “Good luck.”

He laughed nervously. “Thank you. I will need it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Caleb said. Astrid and Wulf cared too much for Caleb to hurt him, now that they were no longer in a situation where it was required of them.

“Moral of the story,” Beauregard said, already three cups in. “Caleb’s got game.”

“I really do not,” Caleb said flatly.

“Real recognises real, Caleb, and you’re lookin’ real familiar.”

Caleb sighed, relieved that Luc was preoccupied with a puzzle cube he had brought the Brenattos last time he was in town. “We have talked about this before.”

“Yeah, but it’s different in front of Marion. She knows what I’m talking about.”

Marion chuckled softly behind her hand. “Indeed I do.”

“Caleb’s a loving guy, if you know what I mean,” said Jester, and her eyebrow waggle was too much for him to bear. Caleb did not stop loving people, and while it was easier to deal with his feelings for Jester now they were both in stable, happy relationships, there would always be an edge for Caleb. A point where he had to step back.

Kingsley, also quite drunk at this point, was biting his lip while he watched Caleb. “Oh, really?” The flirting from Kingsley was far easier to handle, even if the ghost of Molly made any joy bittersweet.

“That’s quite enough, I think,” said Essek. Gods, Caleb was both relieved and terrified by how well the man could read him these days.

Kingsley and Jester both pouted, and Caleb pounded back his glass of wine so he didn’t have to look at them.

Later, as Caleb carried Luc through the nighttime streets alongside Essek, Veth and Yeza, Essek tugged gently on his sleeve.

“Maybe this is a bad time,” Essek said quietly, tilting his head to check that Luc was asleep. He was. “And I do not expect answers you do not wish to give. But, may I ask you something?”

Caleb glanced ahead, where Veth had grabbed Yeza’s ass; they weren’t listening to this conversation. “All right.”

“I know the nature of our circumstances means we cannot be together all the time,” Essek said quietly. “I had a… proposal, I suppose. I don’t know how to word it, or if you will be insulted. But I notice you are very…” He cleared his throat. “What the fuck am I saying? You are a sexual person, and I enjoy that very much about you. And while we are together, I am happy for us both to fulfill our needs with each other.”

“But?” Caleb had not fully recovered from Jester and Kingsley at the Chateau.

“Well, I was wondering. You know I do not experience attraction as often as you do. That I need to be close to someone, and I am close to very few people. You are the first in many years to have caught my interest in this way. But I know it’s not the same for you.”

“Essek, I love you, but please get to the point.”

“Right.” Essek chuckled, and it was out of sheer discomfort. “I just wanted to say, that if you choose to scratch that, ah, itch while I am not around, I would be okay with that.”

Caleb didn’t know what he had expected from Essek, but certainly not that. “Oh. Um. Good to know.”

Essek glanced around in the dark, evidently found nothing of concern, and kissed Caleb’s cheek. “You are still my priority in that department. And I want to remain yours as well.”

“You are.”

“Good. There will be times when we are apart for a long time. You are still mine, through all of it, but I don’t mind if you, ah, take your pleasures as you need them.”

“That is… generous.” Caleb’s mind was not coping with this conversation at all. “I will… think about it.”

The Brenatto home came into view at that point, and Caleb was relieved that it effectively ended this discussion. Caleb had never really talked about it, but he had also never hidden from Essek the fact he had a lot of feelings for many people going at any one time. Essek came first. Always. And he wasn’t sure if he would ever take Essek up on the offer to invite someone else into his bed in Essek’s absence. But it was good of him to say.

He felt seen, in a strange way. Even though Essek was firmly monogamous, and extremely demisexual, he understood Caleb better than most.

So, as long as Essek wasn’t being self-sacrificing by offering this, Caleb was grateful for it. Even if he never acted on it. He couldn’t think about it right now. Probably wouldn’t for a long time. And if he did think about it, he certainly would not be doing that while Essek was very much within his reach, rendering the offer irrelevant.

They stepped inside the house after Veth and Yeza, and offered to watch Luc for a while. Though no one said anything explicitly for fear of Luc waking and hearing the conversation, it had evidently been some time since Veth and Yeza had been intimate together.

So Caleb and Essek sat in the sitting room for a while, quietly working on their respective studies, with Luc napping in Caleb’s arms.

#caleb widogast #essek thelyss #shadowgast #critical role #cr2 #fanfiction #my fics #the pomegranate's professor widogast fic

8 notes · View notes

passionate-reply · 3 years

Video

youtube

I swear, you get caught eating barbequed iguana once, and you absolutely never live it down. That’s what happened to Wall of Voodoo, who are known almost exclusively for their quirky novelty hit “Mexican Radio.” But the rest of the album it appeared on is surprisingly serious, and actually rather dark. Find out all about it by watching my video review, or reading the transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! On today’s episode, I am once again diving into the realm of alleged “one hit wonders” who had a lot more going on than just one song. This time, it’s Wall of Voodoo, and their 1982 LP, Call of the West. It’s a shame, if you ask me, but most people who have heard anything at all by Wall of Voodoo know them for what is probably the least interesting song anywhere on this album: “Mexican Radio.”

Music: “Mexican Radio”

Get caught eating barbecued iguana once, and you never live it down, I suppose. “Mexican Radio” isn’t a terrible song, but I do think it’s the least effective expression of this album’s core themes on offer. As its title implies, Call of the West is a semi-concept album, focused around the mythic image of America and the Far West. It was actually Wall of Voodoo’s second LP--a followup to their 1981 debut, Dark Continent. Despite that title, it isn’t an album about Africa, but rather one that has a lot of thematic common ground with Call of the West: blue-collar angst, disaffected and brutal masculinities, and a whiff of things strange and surreal.

Music: “Two Minutes Till Lunch”

Aside from the themes, the basic musical structure of tracks like “Two Minutes Till Lunch” is reminiscent of the style of Call of the West as well: dense, clattering mechanical rhythms, ghoulish flourishes of harmonica, and frontman Stanard Ridgway’s unmistakable, dipthonged speak-singing, seemingly delivered exclusively through the side of his mouth at an odd angle. But Dark Continent is a bit harsher overall, with more of a foothold in the punk side of post-punk. Call of the West is an album in the full flush of New Wave: quirky, tongue-in-cheek, and not afraid to lay down a bit more synthesiser. While “Mexican Radio” reads as almost disposably gimmicky, like a musically competent novelty song, I think the other tracks on the album strike more of a balance between wicked irony and being unironically enjoyable.

Music: “Tomorrow”

“Tomorrow” is, by far, the track on this album that I think most deserves to have been its big hit single. Despite its privileged position as opening track, an affable, lightly electronic soundscape, and rather singable pop hookiness, it was actually never released as a single at all! I think “Tomorrow” does a great job at being something very fun, but also something a bit daring and artistic. It’s easy to love a sort of relatable, goofy song about procrastination, but its “apocalyptic” finish turns it into something a bit more profound. I think Call of the West shines even more once we get away from three-minute pop songs and into the album’s more atmospheric tracks.

Music: “Hands of Love”

While the heavy use of rhythm machines is a hallmark of the album overall, and stands out given its rarity on such an early and rock-oriented album, “Hands of Love” is probably the composition centered most tightly around the instrument. Aside from that, what I think always brings me back to this track is the vague, shadowy quality of its lyrics--some details are familiar, but the overall picture is hauntingly unnerving. Several tracks on Call of the West present the theme of loneliness and social isolation, toying with the American myths of rugged individualism and the empty expanse of the West. “They Don’t Want Me” tackles outright rejection by others in a direct manner, whereas the narrator of “Tomorrow” ruins their own relationships through fecklessness. “Mexican Radio,” of course, introduces a character so desperate for companionship that they seek it in a language they don’t even understand. But I think “Hands of Love” reigns supreme here, with its motif of hands losing their grip...perhaps losing their grip on reality.

Besides the loneliness resulting from the spread-apart American landscape, other tracks on the album address the lifestyles of the down and out--people who have put their faith in an “American Dream” of independence and self-reliance, but failed to achieve prosperity. We meet compulsive gamblers in “Lost Weekend,” a doomed secret agent in “Spy World,” and, on “Factory,” perhaps the album’s most riveting character of all: a factory labourer whose work has disabled him both physically and mentally.

Music: “Factory”

Like so many exploited workers in America, the narrator of “Factory” has no class consciousness, and seems unable to imagine a better or different life for himself, or strive for anything more than the banal comforts of consumerism. But he tells of a phantom itch in his missing thumb, which we might interpret as a metaphor for the vague, gnawing idea of other possibilities...particularly as he remarks that as a child, he was told he could be anything he wanted. The arrangement of this track buries Ridgway’s lead vocal to an extent, though never so much that we can’t make out its harrowing lyrics. I imagine it’s a representation of how suppressed the narrator’s internality and sense of self has become.

On the cover of Call of the West, we find a mysterious, crooked door, which is just slightly ajar, inviting us into this album’s strange world. It’s the only feature in a desolate red desert-scape, besides the outline of some bluffs against its horizon. It could be the landscape of Mars just as easily as it could the wide-open emptiness of the Far West. Just as the album’s title implies being welcomed or beckoned into the mythic West, the cover art is darkly inviting to the viewer.

While I don’t normally discuss the visual identity of albums outside of their front cover, I do want to make an exception for Call of the West, whose liner notes show the interior of the implied dwelling, decorated with a slew of peculiar trinkets: a taxidermied crocodile, a spilling bottle of liquor, a statue of a buffalo, and what appear to be antique slave shackles. There’s a lot of rich symbolism here, and I think it’s a beautiful addition to the album’s themes, but I never saw it until I owned this album on vinyl! In the age of digital music, we often lose some of these more complex touches when “album art” is reduced to a single square image, and that’s quite unfortunate.

Despite having a relative breakout hit, Call of the West would prove to be the final album Wall of Voodoo released with their original lineup. Frontman Stanard Ridgway would pursue a solo career, scoring a surprise hit in Germany with his 1986 single “Camouflage,” a ghost story set during the Vietnam War. He’s remained active as an independent artist through the 2010s. The rest of the band kept the name Wall of Voodoo alive for the remainder of the 1980s, replacing Ridgway with Andy Prieboy.

Music: “Camouflage”

My favourite track on Call of the West is its title track, which is the final track on the album. Like a lot of title tracks, it’s lengthy enough that you can really sink your teeth into it, and serves as a sort of summation of everything that’s happening throughout the album. It’s got cowboyish guitars, yipping coyotes, and a striking transition to a spoken-word bridge, which flows naturally from Ridgway’s unmannered vocal style. That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening!

Outro: “Call of the West”

#music #album review #album reviews #wall of voodoo #stan ridgway #daily reminder stan ridgway's full name is stanard #new wave

14 notes · View notes

the-golden-ghost · 3 years

Note

54 for Jigen and Fujiko?

Okay just to preface - I don’t know if you intended this as a shipping thing but I didn’t write it as one, mostly cause I don’t know how these two would work as anything other than platonic frenemies at this point. So that’s how I wrote them. I hope that’s okay and that you still like it!

54. “They’re gone.”

Fujiko awoke at 1:36 am with a sharp gasp. Mercifully, whatever nightmare she’d been having that pulled her from sleep vanished instantly, leaving her shaking and unnerved, but free from haunting thoughts. She looked around the room. She wasn’t in danger, she knew. This was their safe house, and her pistol was loaded on her nightstand, and the quiet static of the radio in the next room told her that Jigen was awake, on guard.

Which wasn’t surprising, since Lupin and Goemon had apparently vanished two days ago without any word on where they were headed. And Jigen, for all his skills in battle and robbery, wasn’t all that good at tracking. Especially not a master thief and a highly trained samurai. So he’d been staying put, waiting for them to call him in for backup.

“They’re gone,” he’d said when Fujiko showed up on the doorstep. “So don’t bother.”

She’d come in anyway, and stayed. She didn’t want to be alone right now. She would have preferred if Lupin were there, and Goemon. But even Jigen’s company would do in a pinch, even if he spent his time mostly ignoring her. She could tell he was concerned about Lupin and Goemon, even if he acted nonchalant. His constant hovering by the radio as he went about his day was evident enough.

And now it was late at night, and he was still hovering. She went into his room, which she ordinarily wouldn’t have done, but tonight... she just wanted company, and her boys weren’t here. Jigen was wholly Lupin’s man, not hers. But he was familiar, and steady if nothing else.

“Why are you still up?” he asked when she came in. He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, smoking and listening to the radio play nothing but static. No transmission. It was raining outside, and the drops were hitting the pane, mixing with the white noise from the speaker.

“Bad dreams. How about you?” She came to sit down next to him on the bed, which, surprisingly, he allowed.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You really have no idea where they are?”

“None,” he replied. “Doesn’t matter, though. They’re assholes for ditching me here but they’ll turn up. They always do.”

“I’m worried about them,” Fujiko admitted.

“Yeah, well, don’t be. Like I said, they’ll turn up. Probably in a heap of trouble, and I’ll have to go bail them out, but it’ll happen.” He was quiet for a while. “You’re not having nightmares about them, though, huh.”

Fujiko didn’t answer. She hadn’t decided yet who to tell, if anyone. If she’d had a choice in the matter she probably would have picked Goemon. He wasn’t exactly the compassionate sort, but he was a good listener. Lupin had a hard time listening and taking things seriously, and Jigen... Jigen could be harsh. But Jigen was also here, and the other two weren’t.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked at last, deciding to test the waters.

“I have a feeling you’re going to no matter what,” Jigen replied. “Fire away.”

“Have you ever killed a child?”

There was another pause, longer this time. Fujiko could tell she’d caught him off guard, and was beginning to wonder if he’d answer at all when he finally spoke. “That’s... one hell of a question, huh. We’re really getting into it tonight.” When he continued, his voice sounded weary. “I don’t hurt kids. Back in my old job, even then, if someone offered me payment for something like that... no.” He shook his head. “You have to be one hell of a sick bastard to go there. Call me soft, or stupid, but I couldn’t. But the thing is... even if I’ve never done anything like that knowingly, it’s not like I can check ID on everybody I’ve ever traded shots with. I know sometimes kids get into this kind of life. I wish they wouldn’t, but it’s the way it is, and if a sixteen year old steps into my line of fire I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between him and a young man.”

“So... maybe.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I dunno. I try not to think about it.”

Fujiko didn’t answer. She just drew her legs up closer to her chest and stared hard out the window, like it would reveal something more than raindrops.

“What happened, Fujiko?”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right. But I don’t think you’d have stuck around all day and come in here at this time of night unless you had something to say. Look... if you hurt someone... if it’s a kid or some shit like that, then...” he sighed. “I’m not going to throw you out, okay? I won’t even tell you what you should have done because I don’t know the answer. Hell, I wasn’t there.”

“No, it’s not that,” Fujiko said. “I met a girl... just a little thing.” Now that she was started, she had to continue. “She said she was twenty but I think she was only sixteen or seventeen. She was trying to rob me,” she smiled, remembering. “It was... cute. I mean she really had no idea who I was, but her technique was so bad, she wouldn’t have gotten a cent from a blind old lady.”

Jigen snorted, amused.

“So... I took her home with me. Gave her a hot meal and a place to sleep, and taught her a few things about basic pickpocketing. She didn’t have any home which is what I expected.”

“A runaway?”

“Yeah, the usual story. Her home life was bad, so she thought she could make it better on the streets. She was sleeping out until I found her. She was tough, and smart, just... confused and inexperienced. I gave her some money and some help to get her started and told her she could come to me if she ever needed anything else.” Fujiko went silent, and Jigen glanced over at her.

“So... what happened, then? You didn’t keep your promise?”

“Sometimes I keep my promises, Jigen,” Fujiko replied quietly. “But I never got a chance with her. She was shot dead two days later. The police found her in an alley, and whoever did it...” her voice cut off. “They wanted to kill her. It wasn’t just a robbery. I could have understood a robbery. They broke her arm first so she couldn’t fight back before they -” she broke off, unable to say more over the painful tightness of her throat. The rain and lights on the window blurred into a haze of yellow as tears began to slide down her face. “Why would they do that? I don’t understand how people can...”

Jigen took a deep breath and turned towards her. “It happens all the time, every day. You can’t... you can’t let yourself break over every random street kid you come across, you know? It’ll kill you.” His words were blunt, but his expression was one of genuine sorrow. Sympathy, even.

“Not all of them. Just one.”

“One’s all it takes,” Jigen said.

Fujiko ignored him, not caring in that moment if it shattered her - if there was no one else in the world to grieve for that dead child she’d known for less than six hours... dammit, she’d do it. Someone had to. The world could be cruel enough to kill children, it couldn’t be cruel enough to let them die unmourned. She sobbed for that girl until she had no more tears left to give, and then she was quiet, breathing shakily.

Jigen gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re okay?” he asked.

She nodded. She wasn’t, really, but she was better than she was before.

“All right. I’m sorry about her...” he broke off, uncomfortable. “I’ve known people who do things like that. But I’ll never understand it either.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to understand.”

Jigen nodded, reached over and switched the radio off. “Hell, let the two of ‘em figure it out on their own. I’m going to sleep. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I am.” Fujiko got up off the bed. She thought maybe she’d take a walk. The rain might feel good.

“Okay. You know where to find me if you need me.”

“Goodnight, Jigen.” Outside, the rain still fell.

#Lupin III #my writing #death tw #violence tw #I feel like these two have kind of an interesting relationship because they have so little to do with each other #at ordinary times they're just... at odds #stepping on each other's toes #thrown together purely because they share partners and also a house sometimes #but here the thing: that gives them an edge when it comes to moments like this because they CAN open up in ways they couldn't necessarily #with the other two #there's no need to perform. Fujiko doesn't have to do the Femme Fatale thing with Jigen #he will not fall for it. he doesn't care he wants nothing from her #and Jigen doesn't have to hide anything from Fujiko cause let's face it - she knows he's a piece of shit #they can't hate each other worse than they already do #so why not #idk it's all headcanons but it works for the piece so I'm going with it

13 notes · View notes

schmokschmok · 3 years

Text

witches are real, and you think this is just a funny fic title

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin K. Blackwood x Tim Stoker

Characters: Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Danny Stoker

Wordcount: 12,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

No Fear Entities

Supernatural Elements

Witch & HOH Tim Stoker

Danny Stoker Lives

Halloween

Tim Stoker Deserves Nice Things And I’m Giving Them To Him

Summary:

Martin fakes his way into the Magnus Institute, a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard likes to call it paranormal) encounters. He expects the people working for the institute to be kind of weird but Tim Stoker takes his commitment for a spooky aesthetic to a whole new level.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070366

The thing is: Martin knows what to do with crooked smiles and superficial, flattering words. He knows how to smile politely and stumble through a thank you when someone compliments the jumper he’s wearing, not knowing that he made it himself. He knows how to accept an absentminded nod as gratitude for the tea he’s making every day for the whole archival staff. He knows how to get through a wide array of flirty remarks that concern his appearance, dignity mostly intact. He knows how to smile through a detachedly welcoming nod of a co-worker for years that answers his greeting by name.

The thing he can’t handle, under any circumstances, however, is kindness. Never been good at it, not even as a kid.

He knows his mother had been kind when he had been a child, had brushed and braided his hair every single night and told him fairy tales and stories, she had stayed up with him after nightmares and during thunder storms, had told him she loved him even when he was angry with her. And she hadn’t expected him to love her back, is the thing, hadn’t wanted him to brush her hair or hold her hand or meet every of her stories with one of his own. Maybe that’s why he gives back now, loves her even if she doesn’t love him back, brushes and braids her hair even if she doesn’t want to look at him, tells her stories of his work and the friends he doesn’t have but fabricates just to maybe ease her mind. (And if she doesn’t want him coming back, then he will stop. Kindness, sometimes, is about the things you’re willing to give up for the ones that you love. – On some days she calls him cruel for coming back and coming back and coming back, but she doesn’t tell him to leave, doesn’t tell him to stay away. So, he returns like a record broken, jumping on the same syllable until she stops the needle digging into him.)

His father had been kind, too, he thinks. Had to be to be loved by a woman like his mother once had been. Martin doesn’t remember anymore.

Mostly, the kindness directed his way is about bargaining favours and weighing the things he does against sweet spoken words. Which is alright, he thinks, because giving his last shirt for a sincere thank you has been his modus operandi since his father left. He wants to give and give and if that leaves him curled up on his bed on a Wednesday evening at eight o’clock then it’s just because he’s not strong enough to carry the weight of his own thoughts.

It starts like this: Martin takes up work in the institute with no real credentials to support his curriculum vitae or his claim of knowledge about anything, really, but he’s tired of working minimal wage, of cooking mediocre food late at night for his mother who wants to move out desperately to stop being all on her own in their empty flat, of working three shifts in a row in two different jobs and still struggling to meet ends. Martin’s tired of burning on a borrowed flame, shovelling hollow coals on a dying candle.

So, he’s faking CVs, so many that he loses count of them. He sends them to every job listing he finds, twisting and tweaking the details, staying up late at night on his battered laptop that takes almost five minutes to boot. He shows up to as many interviews as he can manage but he never gets called back in. Until Elias Bouchard phones him on a cloudy day and tells him that he can start working in the library, if he’s able to move to London in the next month that is. He accepts, of course he does. His mother would never forgive him declining the only job offer that would get them to pay their bills on time and pave the way to a nice nursing home where his mother doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Martin moves to London. His mother doesn’t.

He starts working in the Magnus Library which is a capital L kind of library as he gets told on his very first day. It’s a joke, he thinks, a library science master’s joke that he doesn’t get but laughs about anyway. (It’s a Magnus Institute’s joke, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. His hands are full juggling the Dewey Decimal and his customer service smile while looking at the impatient faces of half of the faculty members trying to loan basic material books he hasn’t ever heard the titles of.)

It’s not a secret that he’s incompetent, Martin thinks, they all know it, and no one says anything to his face which is probably meant as kindness but feels like cruelty. Because Martin isn’t daft, Martin isn’t incapable of learning, Martin isn’t unwilling to put every last ounce of himself into being better. But nobody seems to think that he’s important enough to be corrected. They see his misfiled loaning records and his misplaced books, and they say it’s not a problem, don’t worry and they take care of it without offering to teach him any better. And Martin, well, Martin is too embarrassed to ask them how to handle it in the future. He will figure it out, he thinks, in time.

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that yet. It takes almost a year for him to memorise the layout of the library with its seemingly everchanging bookshelves and corridors. It takes almost one and a half for him to get to know every Library staff member and their preferred way to drink tea. It takes almost two years for him to remember the faces of the faculty members that don’t visit the library regularly. It takes almost three years for him to know that it’s Research and Archives and Library and Artefacts but human resources and accounting and information technology. It’s around the same time that he feels like maybe he’s part of the team now; the same time that his co-workers stop looking at him like he’s a bumbling fool without any skills; the same time that he stops calling his mother every three days or so even though she hasn’t picked up in a long time.)

The very first week that he works in the library is filled with many apologies, too many to keep record, a much and much of awkward apologeticness. A few conversations are held, he gets to know Rosie „the heart of the institute” Martinez and Lydia „from HR” Yılmaz. They are good people and talking to them makes the muscles in his back relax just the tiniest bit, although the panic never stops flaring up in his stomach that, somehow, they will know that he’s a fraud.

It’s the first day of his second week and he feels slightly more prepared because he used every minute of the weekend to pull up every article ever written about the institute and its library. He tried reading published papers, too, but without the institute’s access they’re securely locked behind a paywall he can’t get through without a credit card and loads and loads of money to spare. He snacked on canned peaches while reading about filing systems, but in the end he’s none the wiser.

So, he comes in an hour early and unlocks the front entrance of the institute with his key card. It’s eerily quiet in the dark lobby and hallways leading into the back of the building. The noisiness of the street and the embankment gets swallowed by the thick walls and the closing door behind him and the only thing he can hear is the tapping of his own shoes on the marble floor. It’s a mixture of unsettling and peaceful, but he’s not sure which takes precedence in his sleep addled mind. The unfamiliarity of the cream-coloured walls and the polished, almost black floor makes every shadow move in a way Martin can’t comprehend and he turns to look at them a few times only to realise they’re potted plants or laminated notes hung up next to different door frames. He passes a few glowing exit signs and the door to the stairwell that leads up to the second floor.

When he approaches the entrance to the library, a weight gets lifted from his stomach at the prospect of a light switch he can use to chase out the darkness that slowly gets more unnerving than comforting. Spinning the key card in his hand to keep busy and hold his anxiety at bay, he rounds the last corner and stops dead in his tracks. Because sitting right in front of the door is a person only illuminated by the harsh, cold light of their phone. Right the second Martin loses hold of his key card and it meets the floor with an echoing plasticky sound, their eyes snap up and fixate on Martin.

“Oh, lovely, you’re here,” they say, standing up from their hunched-up position without even touching the floor with their hands. (Martin takes a moment to envy that movement because every time he thinks about sitting down on the floor he has to either make sure something’s in close proximity to help him lift himself up or the ground’s not too dirty, so he doesn’t have to wash his hands right the second he stands upright again.) “I was starting to get worried I’d have to wait another hour for someone to open up.”

“Uh–,” is everything Martin gets out before the stranger picks up his key card and hands it over to him. They smile at him, slightly deranged but without a doubt handsome in a way that makes Martin’s breath catch in his chest. While Martin reaches out carefully to grab the offered card, they say: “Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly and unannounced but Veronica will have my arse if I don’t hand in this follow up today.”

Silence falls over them when Martin doesn’t react in any way and just continues staring at the stranger who keeps staring at him as if Martin should know who Veronica is and how important it is for them to do their follow up. (As if Martin should know what a follow up even is.)

“Tim,” the stranger provides when Martin doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything other than, well, stare at them. “I’m working upstairs in Research in Veronica’s team.” They wait for an agonising moment for Martin to return the introduction – which he fails to do, still trying to process that he’s really in an actual conversation with another human being before seven a.m.

“As lovely as it is standing here with you, …” Tim continues, allowing Martin once again to submit his name. Which he fails to do, again, because his mouth feels so dry he’s afraid if he opens it now there won’t come out anything else than a pathetic cough. Tim doesn’t seem too stressed about it. „I really need to go in there,” Tim gestures over their shoulder to the library, “and cross-reference a few things and brush up a few of my foot-notes before it’s time to clock in again. Veronica is really adamant about this follow up laying on her desk at eight thirty sharp.” The manila folder in Tim’s hand gets lifted for emphasis and apparently that’s all Martin needed to get it together and finally move. Without him intending to do so, his lips form a customer service smile that’s been ingrained into his very being from years upon years of working in ice cream shops and pizza restaurants and a movie theatre that’s long gone now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah no problem!”

He steps around Tim and presses his key card against the sensor underneath the door handle. After the soft opening click of the lock, he steps aside to let Tim enter the room behind him and he searches for the light switch with his outstretched arm because he’s pretty sure that one has to be on the wall to his left.

“Thank you, really, you’re doing me a favour, mate,” Tim says and legitimately bows with the biggest grin before he’s off into the depth of the library, swallowed by a shelf Martin could swear hadn’t stood there on Friday when he left.

Finally, he lets go of the door and gets closer to the wall to search with both hands for the switch, until the little finger of his right hand bumps against the hard plastic shell of a set of light switches.

“Gonna be bright for a second,” he warns loudly, unsure if Tim’s even able to hear him or not. Then, after a few seconds, he presses the switch and the lights above his head sputter and blink to life with the solid snugness of old halogen lamps.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, then he treads over to the counter, rounds it and closes his eyes for just a heartbeat or two. He’s got this. Tim wandering somewhere, hidden behind shelfs, is not going to change the fact that Martin’s got this. His brain, heart and stomach just need to be convinced, that’s okay, he can handle a wee bit anxiety and nervousness.

Without further ado, he pins his name tag to his monochrome button-down (because that’s what adults wear at work) and starts to open the various drawers underneath the counter to catalogue the innards.

There's probably a system, stapler and pen and pencils in one drawer, neatly arranged in a compartment next to sticky notes and paper squares in bright colours and an uncountable amount of paper clips. In the drawer underneath, he finds envelopes, more paper in various shapes and forms and sizes. Another drawer reveals the minute book in which Martin should document Tim’s presence. (Probably? He’s not entirely sure if the minute book is for every research assistant or students only.) Right next to the minute book, Martin can see the keys for every terminal in the library, and a few personal items of his co-workers which should not be in there as far as Martin’s been informed. The last two drawers contain RFID tags, barcodes and printed ID cards. The space reserved for lost and found is surprisingly empty. (Martin thinks he remembers Janette taking everything back into the small storage room in the back on Friday afternoon.)

It takes almost fifteen minutes for him to open and close every drawer (multiple times) and he's still not sure if he memorised the most important things. It's quarter past seven, however, and he couldn’t find a single position plan, which is why Martin steps around the counter and starts to make his way through the maze that is this library. Clipboard and pencil in hand, he outlines the approximate layout of the outer walls and tries to draw in the shelfs he passes, marking them with things like Local History A—V and Ghosts (general) J—Z, scribbling down letters and numbers of the signatures that seem important to him. (He's got a run down last week but the library uses the most arbitrary synthesis of Dewey Decimal and an intern system that the first library staff must have implemented before trying to shove the Dewey Decimal into the small space left.)

Martin's good at making maps, if he's allowed to say so. He can read a map, he can draw a map. (It wouldn't hold up against a professional map but his always worked fine enough.) So, he feels righteous indignation when someone steps into his space, throws a glance on his makeshift map and says: “This isn't accurate, sorry.”

Martin furrows his brow, but the customer service smile is on his lips again before he’s able to will it away.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Martin asks even though he doesn't want to know what Tim has to say. “I mean, yeah, you couldn't do an accurate projection, but it's not meant to be. It's about the order of the shelfs, the signatures.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you,” Tim says and lets his finger hover half a centimetre above Martin's map, “but the ghost section is three shelfs down to the right next to Russian literature. I walked past it a few seconds ago.”

“Well, the only reason this map says ghost is because I walked past the ghost section,” Martin retorts (and feels very brave about it). The desire to snatch the map away from Tim's finger and hold it close to his chest so that Tim can't spare another look is strong but Martin also knows it's childish and he shouldn't indulge in such impulses.

“Well, Martin,” Tim must have seen Martin's name tag, which is nice because Tim says his name with an exasperated fondness that Martin shouldn't have earned yet and it spares Martin from the mortifying ordeal of introducing himself after his fauxpas this morning, “I don't know if nobody told you but this Library is like the rest of the institute: A big pile of magical bullshit.”

Tim grins and the skin next to their eyes crinkle with mischief as if they're sharing an inside joke with Martin, as if Martin should understand. (And like every other time someone implies or references something Martin doesn't understand or jokes about something Martin doesn't know, he gets this violent urge to scream into the knowingly smiling face in front of him. But he chokes it down, more or less successfully.) And he smiles.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Tim continues, unaware of the wee bit of hatred Martin feels in this very second, “a map won't help but soon enough you'll get the hang of it.” Tim winks. “When I first started using the Library, I swear to you, every single shelf I walked up to was sporting the cryptid selection. Every single one. I stood between two shelfs and it didn't matter in which direction I turned, there it was: The cryptid section.” Tim's eyes don't leave Martin's face for a second, which is kind of unnerving but at the same time strangely reassuring. As if Tim's more than just aware who they're talking to. “This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space.”

Tim laughs again and Martin tries to join in, but it gets caught in his throat. Tim's flittering fingers and Tim's sing-songed “spooky!” only elevate the closed up feeling in Martin's chest and the knuckles on his hand that still holds onto his clipboard turn white in their effort to not drop it.

A quick glance to the watch on Martin's wrist puts a stop to Tim's easy posture and they say: “Fuck, I should really get going. Veronica's still waiting.” Then Tim hesitates and smiles at Martin again. “It was nice to make acquaintance with you, Martin. This won't be the last you'll see of me, but if you every think about going for a drink after work, hit me up. Sam or Rosie should have given you access to the institute's instant messaging system. I think you would get along well with Sasha — she's also in Research — and me.”

Tim shoots Martin a finger gun (which is incidentally the most obnoxious thing Martin has ever had to witness) and strides past Martin towards the library's exit.

And then he's gone like the first soft layer of frost in November after the first rays of sun.

It's quarter to eight and there's not much time until one of his colleagues will try to open up the library, but Martin uses the remaining time to lean against a shelf and stare at the ticking clock on the wall above the counter, trying to will his heart into a slower rhythm not dictated by anxiety or the sudden realisation that Tim had been close and Tim had been beautiful.

And like everything else in Martin's life: He fails.

This could have been the end and Martin's been sure that it would be. When the clock above the counter strikes twelve however and Martin gets ready to leave the library to go down to the in-house cafeteria, the door to the library gets shoved open and Tim stumbles in, closely followed by a no less beautiful stranger who Martin assumes could be Sasha.

“Martin!” Tim exclaims right before they're fist crashes into their chest right above their heart. “Thank the Lord, you're still here!”

The-stranger-who-could-be-Sasha-but-might-not-be rolls their eyes but smiles, before shoving Tim out of their way.

“Ignore him,” they say and turn a smile on Martin, he can't help but answer with one of his own. “He can be a bit …” They make a circle shaped gesture with their rolling wrist in clear search of the right word. So, Martin tries to jump in: “Dramatic?”

“Yes,” maybe!Sasha says at the same time Tim declares: „Oh, please, I have flair that's something entirely else.“

“You're a theatre kid,” maybe!Sasha says, ignoring the dismissive hand Tim waves into their face.

“Martin, you should ignore her,” Tim presses on before maybe!Sasha gets a chance to say anything else. “When I got back to my desk, I realised we never exchanged surnames which are crucial for the instant messenger.” Martin nods, slightly dazed and not at all sure if he understands the importance of Tim’s surname. “So, Tim Stoker.” He bows outlandishly.

“And Sasha James,” maybe-or-rather-definitely-Sasha jumps in, curtsying with the same kind of derisiveness. “Glad to be of service.” She rests her elbow on Tim’s shoulder and leans forward, just the tiniest bit, but it makes Martin feel strangely included. “You want to get lunch with us?”

The smile spreading across Martin’s face feels real, digging into his cheeks and showing dimples he kind of forgot he had. He casts a look at the clock above his head and says: “Yeah, sounds lovely.”

The thing is: Martin is a dreamer, day and night and dusk ‘til dusk ‘til dawn. He likes to think about all the possibilities he will never ever take, the wonderous things he wishes to happen but knows will always remain a fantasy.

When he was a child, he used to dream about his father coming back and apologising to his mother and explaining that it was all just a big misunderstanding, innit, he never would have left willingly, especially not without further notice. Martin would dream up every reasoning in existence, if his father would have come back Martin would have already heard his excuse. He’d just have to wait and find out which one was true.

When he was a teenager, he used to dream about mending the relationship with his mother, of sharing a smile with her instead of directing it at her disapproving or distant face. And he dreamt of a boy without a face but with calloused hands and experienced lips that would come and sweep him off his feet – literally at first, and figuratively when he hit that growth spurt in tenth class.

When he became an adult, he started dreaming about working nine to five and a two-day weekend. He dreamt about working in a café or restaurant and earning enough to sustain his mother and himself. He dreamt that one day he would open up his own place, a small restaurant or a flower shop or a shop selling something with turquoise. And he dreamt that he would meet a man, a nice and good man who would make everything just the tiniest bit more bearable; who Martin would like to be around and who would like to be around Martin. A man not merely tolerating him but seeking his presence.

Martin is a dreamer, but he’s not delusional. Or at least not anymore. The older Martin grew the simpler his dreams became. Now that his income is secure, he dreams about the domesticity of a social network and a warm body next to him when he tries to fall asleep. (And it’s the first time his dreams seem to be within his grasp. As if he can reach for them and cup them in the hollow of his hands. He just has to believe.)

It goes like this: Martin slowly grows desperate because the Magnus library doesn’t make any sense at all. One day Local Myths is on the shelf next to the counter, the next the shelf is empty, and the one after that Martin sees Vampires and Werewolves neatly arrayed on it. It doesn’t make sense, and frankly it makes Martin angry. This is a library for crying out loud, and Martin’s a librarian who can’t even fetch a monograph without getting lost. (Or is he a library assistant? Is Yvonne the only librarian? Everyone in this institute always seems to be an assistant, maybe Elias Bouchard is the only person with an actual degree in here.)

“Is something bugging you?”

A voice comes out of nowhere, causing Martin’s head to snap towards the frowning face of Tim Stoker. It’s been three weeks since their first getting acquainted, and Tim and Sasha drop by at irregular intervals to chit-chat for a bit. At this point, it’s something Martin has come to accept and look forward to but not necessarily expect to happen. Usually, they tell him about their research (it’s creepy and Martin never ever wants to enter artefacts, thank you very much) or their co-workers (including one Jon who Martin is yet to meet but who’s apparently really close with both Sasha and Tim) or the things they did on the weekend (they’re both incredibly busy all the time). But it’s not like they’re self-centered by any means, they ask about him, too. On a normal day, he hates this part of the conversation because he can’t really tell them nice stories about meeting friends and going out of town to kayak or whatever because he spends his time with his mother or home alone with knitting needles either documentaries or heteronormative romcoms queued up. And, let’s be honest, that’s not a compelling story to tell.

Today however Martin’s almost glad someone’s asking him about his mood because he does have an answer: “You were right! My map isn’t accurate. And I don’t get why!”

The startled look on Tim’s face makes Martin realise that he’s a bit loud and his tone is maybe a little aggressive. He ducks his head, heat spreading over his face, and continues in a more dignified manner: “It’s really not that bad. I’m just trying to shelve the returned books. But I can’t find the shelfmarks. It’s a little frustrating, is all.”

He tries to smile through his outburst, but he feels bad almost immediately. It’s not Tim’s responsibility or amicable duty to listen to Martin’s displeased rant, and they don’t know each other well enough for Martin to burden him with unimportant stuff like this. (The thought that Tim seems to be genuinely interested in what Martin has to say and that Tim complains all the time about uncooperative clerks and impossible to keep deadlines which likely means that he would be alright with Martin complaining a teeny-tiny bit crosses Martin’s mind but he tries not to dwell on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he would be mistaken.)

“You’ve been here for, what,” Tim says, his index finger tapping against his chin, a questioning look on his face, “like, a month?” Martin nods. “It’s absolutely normal to get confused. Like I told you: This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space. You can’t go about it with logic.” At this, he shrugs dismissively. “After that Cryptid incident, I literally brought my pendulum to work just to locate the sections I was looking for. And guess what, the Library didn’t care. It sent me running around the shelves nonetheless.”

Martin can’t help himself, his face scrunches up in a grimace. He should have anticipated weird antics when he first started working here, the Magnus Institute is a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard calls it paranormal) encounters. But Tim had seemed like a normal guy.

Quickly, he schools his expression into a more neutral one, before he says: “No offence, really, I hope I’m not intruding but using a pendulum seems kind of, well, esoteric?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels awful. Who raised Martin to be this impolite? Certainly not his mother. So he tries to backtrack: “I– I mean, I don’t want to impose or, uh, ascribe something to you or, or invalidate you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim interrupts him with a smile. He doesn’t seem mad. “I’m a witch, so everything I do is kinda esoteric. Can’t hold that against you.”

The wolfishness of Tim’s grin makes Martin think that this is an inside joke, too. Or, oh no, maybe it’s Tim’s religion and Martin’s a real jackass about it. Is witch a religious term? He has heard about wicca and druidism, but he has no idea if they call themselves witches. He doesn’t want to disrespect Tim or his belief system, but he also wants to know. Is it disrespectful to ask Tim about his religion? Martin wouldn’t do it if they didn’t know each other, but their friends (somewhat, kind of) and asking as a friend is more considerate than intrusive, right? (Or is he just rationalising and justifying his own curiosity, while masking it as attentiveness? Is Martin overthinking this?)

“So,” Martin starts and it’s an out of body experience where he sees himself driving against a wall without the chance to stop himself, “does that mean you’re wiccan?” He bites his tongue, waiting for Tim to tell him he’s an insensitive twat.

“Oh, no. I’m agnostic,” Tim replies, still wearing the same expression of content and reassurance.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tim leans against the counter, his elbows on the surface and his face almost in Martin’s space. It could be unpleasant, but he rather likes Tim’s complete disregard of personal space. (In part because he has seen Tim interact with Rosie who dislikes physical touch to a stark extreme in a respectful way, always keeping his distance. He knows if he ever were uncomfortable Tim would back off. And that’s reassuring in its own way.)

“Give yourself some time,” Tim says eventually. “Let the Library get to know you.”

“You talk about the library as if it were conscious.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles. “Yeah, I do.” He sighs and straightens his back. “It’s not, though, so don’t worry.” The way Tim says it, though, makes Martin think that this is not the whole truth. That there is something Tim’s not telling him. But it’s not Martin’s place to inquire further, he thinks. There’s definitely a plausible explanation for all this, Tim just likes to pull his pigtails.

“Shouldn’t you be out today?” Martin asks to change the topic and feels incredibly rude at the same time. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s still quarter an hour to lunch.”

“Came back earlier than expected and thought I could mob you ‘til twelve and kidnap you for a lunch date,” Tim replies so nonchalantly, warmth spreads across Martin’s face and he attempts to swallow down the laugh that wants to escape – but he fails. (He has never been mobbed, and even though Tim doesn’t think of this as a date date, Martin wants to indulge in that thought. At least for a moment.)

“I think,” he says slowly, and a little bit mischievously, “I could take my break early today.”

The thing is: Even though Martin thought Sasha and Tim would grow bored of him sooner or later, they don’t. They stop at his desk when they use the library for their research, they pick him up sometimes for lunch or ask him to meet them outside if they’re doing field work. Martin gets roped into pub nights and trivia quizzes, Sasha takes him to her pottery class and Tim invites him to a poetry slam where his brother performs. (This is remarkable because of two things: First and foremost, because Martin has never been invited to meet family members of anyone except for the parents of a few classmates when he stayed for lunch. And secondly, because Tim and Danny are as close as brothers can be, and it feels like a seal of approval – or as if Tim needed Danny to approve of Martin before he could spend more time with him. Martin’s not sure which way round it is.)

It goes like this: Despite the cool September night air, Martin is way too warm in his thick knitted jumper. He runs hot, always has been, but today is not the day he wants to be soaked in sweat just by existing. (Truth be told, he never really wants to be this warm, but there are at least times where he doesn’t mind as much. Meeting Danny Stoker for the first time is not one of those times. But he’s also pretty sure that he can’t take off his jumper because he’s been too hot for too long at this point. Tonight’s going to be fun and he just needs to power through.)

Martin tries not to shift his weight from one foot to the other too often, instead he’s focusing on the way the soles of his shoes line up with the asphalt of the pavement and ground him. He counts his breaths, his hands burrowed deep inside the pockets of his trousers. He can absolutely do this, he has known Tim for a few weeks now and he doesn’t think Tim would introduce Danny and him if he’d think they wouldn’t get along. (This may be more of wishful thinking though.)

A small part of him wishes, Sasha would come too, to ease the tension in his shoulders and uncoil the knots in his stomach. But she's with her family, celebrating the birthday of one of her cousins, and the text she sent him a few hours ago sits in their chat, mourning her absence and telling him to enjoy Danny's performance, it will likely be one of a kind.

Right when he seriously starts contemplating to go home again and fake a stomach bug, Tim rounds the corner with a man just a few years younger than him who looks like a referenceless, free-hand drawing of Tim. Which isn't a bad thing, by any means, just noticeable in how alike they look, just different enough to not be mistaken for each other.

When Tim's gaze falls upon Martin, his face splits into a wide grin and he waves enthusiastically, almost smacking Danny in his face in the process. This causes Danny to look directly at him, too, and his eyebrows shoot up while grinning almost half as wide as Tim. (If there had been any kind of doubt about them being brothers, now there weren’t.) Danny turns his head slightly and nudges Tim with his elbow. When Tim turns to look at him, Danny says something to him, moving his hands in unison, that makes Tim stop grinning for a second and start furrowing his brow. It doesn't last long, only three or four steps, then he looks at Martin again and his face softens. (Martin desperately wants to know what Danny said because people looking at Martin and whispering usually means something bad. And if Danny already wants to make fun of him, then Martin needs to go. Immediately.)

“You came!”

While Martin was still weighing his options, measuring staying, but anxiously against going, but anxiously, Tim and Danny have come into earshot. And Tim sounds pleasantly surprised as if he had been unsure if Martin would come.

They come to a halt in front of Martin and Tim pulls Martin in for a quick hug, which isn't a surprise per se but still unexpected. Subsequently, he turns towards Danny and introduces them. (He says this is my friend Martin, I told you about him. He says friend, not co-worker. Which, yes. They're friends but it's still new and nice and positively overwhelming to hear him say it out loud.)

“Hey,” Danny says, his smile unwavering. He's either a good actor or doesn't hate Martin on sight; at this point, Martin gladly takes both over open hostility. "Tim told me so much about you. I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance." He pauses to make room for Martin returning the sentiment. (Which he does, thank you very much, just because he's a useless gay around beautiful men and can't handle surprise small talk at arse o'clock, doesn't mean he can't hold a conversation.) “I gotta be honest with you, mate, I need your help tonight. This is my first slam and Tim’s a shit critic. I need some real feedback.”

A reassuring smile takes over Martin's features because, of course, Danny is nervous. Martin would be, too, he supposes. The thing Danny had said had probably nothing to do with Martin per se and everything with meeting someone for the first time at his first performance. (And maybe his only if Sasha is right.) However, before he can retort in any way, Tim jumps in: “Danny, bro, Martin is probably the last person you should ask to tell you how awful your skid is. You didn't practice it once and he’s a nice guy.”

“Well,” Danny replies, mischief in his eyes and a mocking tilt in his voice, “I'm just gonna wing it.”

“You're lucky, you're a Stoker.”

“You're just jealous because you didn't inherit that gen,” Danny shoots back before turning to Martin and stage-whispering: “Everyone always thinks that Tim is naturally gifted and everything comes to him easily. But in reality, he has to learn things and work for them. Embarrassing, right?”

Getting roped into friendly, brotherly banter. That's good! That's involvement in a good and workmanlike manner! And, actually, way out of Martin's comfort zone right now. (Is this a test? Is Danny teasing Tim in front of Martin to see if Martin jumps in and practically stabs Tim right in the back? Or does he want Martin to disagree with him and stand in solidarity with Tim? Or is Martin’s brain just overreacting like, well, always?)

“You’re embarrassing him,” Tim accuses Danny, before shoving at him and laughing. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind Danny teasing him or Martin, because it’s good natured. (Or at least Martin wants it to be. He desperately wants it to be.)

“No, I’m honest with him,” Danny retorts, before shoving Tim back which causes him to almost crash into Martin. “Someone needs to take you down a peg or two. Once in a while at least.” He grins and it’s more on the boyish side.

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job keeping Tim in check,” Martin interjects bravely. With every second in their presence, the fists in his pockets lose a speck of tension and Martin can feel his nails easing out of the heel of his hand. He feels weird being the only one neither knowing nor using sign language while talking but he’s thankful that they’re including him, talking loud enough for him to hear. (It’s a whole new side of Tim Martin has never seen before, it’s nice. Very nice, actually.)

“I love Sasha,” Danny sighs wistfully, batting his eyes. Before Tim slings his arm around Danny’s neck and pulls him in, he says: “We’ve been through this, Sasha’s way out of your league.” (And probably aro, Martin thinks, if the small pride flag pin Martin spotted on Sasha’s satchel bag is any indication.)

“Yeah,” Danny says. “True.” Then his eyes fall on the clock inside the display window of a chemist on the other side of the street. “We should head in.”

They make their way into the pub, through a small crowd consisting mostly of people in their twenties and thirties, milling and chatting in wait for the poetry slam to begin. Danny makes a beeline for a bar table, even though multiple tables with chairs and benches are empty. Martin wants to point out that he doesn’t think standing for multiple hours is something he wants to do, but right when he decides that he can at least try, Tim grabs Danny’s arm and steers him toward a round table with four chairs at the back of the room.

“You won’t make me stand through your performance,” Tim proclaims loudly, then he sits down and pats the seat of the chair next to his. Demonstratively, Danny sits down on Tim’s other side – closest to the stage – and Martin rounds the table to sit next to Tim. While Tim and Danny shrug off their coats, Martin once again regrets his choice of clothing. (Maybe a beer or two into the evening will ease his nerves enough to pull off his jumper. Now he takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft chattering of the crowd.)

Underneath their coats, matching shirts come to light. An Aegean blue with white lettering, a loopy script proclaiming bestoked with the tiny caricature of a witch with a pointy hat on a broomstick. Below that, Martin recognises small print that reads: Witches are real, and you think this is just a funny t-shirt slogan. He chuckles.

Tim makes a questioning hmm-sound and Martin points at their shirts, saying: “It’s funny.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, exchanging looks with Tim. “Sasha made them for us.”

“Why witches?” Martin asks. Opposed to standing outside having to face both of them, sitting next to Tim puts Martin at ease. (It feels more organic sitting alongside Tim. Most of the time when they head out together, they sit on one bench with Sasha on the other side of the table. This is almost the same, Martin tries to reason, Danny is just another Sasha. A person Tim loves and wants him to like, too. No big deal.) “Isn’t Bram Stoker known for Dracula?”

“Yeah, he is,” Danny says with a shrug and Tim adds: “Our name’s Stoker and we’re witches. It’s pretty niche but most people think it’s funny.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, he opens his mouth through an irritated smile. Before he can actually speak though, someone on the makeshift stage steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to the pub’s bi-monthly poetry slam.

“First up: Gerry with their poem osedax!”

The crowd claps and their conversation is completely forgotten. They listen to Gerry describing a life under water and a life dependent on death. It’s a bit early for spooky Halloween vibes but Martin thinks it’s probably a metaphor for Gerry’s life that’s beyond Martin to understand. (He loves poetry, writes his own in his spare time, but he’s not big on interpreting poems outside of his own limited world view. He likes reading poetry, imagining the lives inspiring the words, and applying them to his own situation. Seeing someone putting their innards on display for dozens of strangers to see, is something entirely different. It feels like trespassing, somehow, trespassing into the soul of another human being. Martin decides that he hates it here.)

Gerry concludes their poem with ragged breathing and closed eyes. For a moment, the pub is silent. Then applause rings out and Tim leans toward Martin and whispers loudly: “Gerry is the one who put the bee into Danny’s bonnet that performing here would be a good idea.”

Danny shushes Tim, swatting at him without looking. Absentmindedly, he says: “It is a good idea, though.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, while watching Gerry retreat from the stage and head back to a group at the long side of the room. They congratulate Gerry, and Martin thinks (for just one measly second) how it would feel to perform one of his own poems. One about his mother or the alienation he felt his whole life. But he’s not a word magician like Gerry, he doesn’t have plausible deniability for the things he talks about. His poetry is descriptive and more of an endeavour to capture a feeling than an analogy in form of a convoluted metaphor.

Next up is someone talking about a hamster. Martin senses a theme.

Tim and Danny stare intensely at the stage, absorbing each and every word being said. And Martin’s torn between getting up and buying drinks, and waiting quietly until the poem is over. He’s unsure about the custom. If it would be impolite to talk during the performance.

In the end, however, it doesn’t matter. They end their poem and thank the audience before they leave the stage. Martin leans into Tim’s space (a bit like Tim would do with him in this situation), his shoulder lining up with Tim’s and when Tim turns around he whispers: “I’m gonna get drinks. Can I get you something?”

“We can just get a pitcher,” Tim whispers back, before checking in with Danny: “You’re not up next, right?” Danny shakes his head and Martin gets up to get them a pitcher and three glasses. (He takes the opportunity to breathe in and out a few times. He thought they would talk more. That Danny and he would have to interact more. But, apparently, Tim and Danny are really into poetry slam and don’t want to disrespect the artists. Which is, well, nice. Considerate. And, yes, he shouldn’t be surprised about that.)

Martin orders a pitcher and pays right up, then he tries to balance the three glasses and the pitcher through the crowd back to their table. He puts everything down and almost misses the staff member announcing Danny’s performance. Lost Johns’ Cave.

With a spring in his step, Danny stands up, makes his way to the stage and takes his place behind the microphone. A small smile on his lips, he clears his throat and starts speaking: “So, John was lost and so was I.”

He pauses.

“It’s a fact and everybody knows that John got lost in this cave. It’s a deep cave, a dark cave, a cave that swallowed us up like a ravenous, soft-teethed beast. It starts with a slope, grainy and wet, and there’s only one way, so it’s impossible to get lost, even though John did.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“John was lost and so was I. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t come to look, but one moment Kadir and Aylin where there and the next they were not. I didn’t reach the chockstone, I didn’t reach the climb. Three hundred and seventy-five feet and I was lost as John in his cave.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. While he spoke, Martin’s sure he could recognise the spelling of John, but Danny doesn’t spell Kadir or Aylin or at least Martin’s not able to spot it.

“John was lost and so was I. Seconds after minutes after hours after years, no climb in sight, just the steady flow of the stream and my hitching breath. It should stop sometime, I thought, it should give way down to his cave and I will not be a John. Because John was lost and I won’t be.”

He pauses again, a heartbeat or two longer than before.

“John was lost and so was I. No measuring of my position with a pendulum, no signal for my phone, no chance to be heard through the thick walls of the cave. The rush of the stream died down albeit the map depicting the stream and the slope correspondent.”

The air of the pub is filled with suspense and eerily quiet for a crowd as large as this one.

“John was lost and so was I. Limestone encased me and silence took over.”

Danny stops speaking, one and a half minutes gone. If Martin’s right, Danny has three minutes and fifteen seconds left. Every other contestant spoke for about five minutes, so Danny has plenty of time left. But he doesn’t say a thing. Seconds tick by and Martin gets squeamish in his seat. He glances towards Tim, but Tim seems unwound and relaxed. As if it were to be expected of Danny to pull something like this.

Danny remains silent, and Martin uses the tense atmosphere and the quiet audience to take an unnoticed look at Tim and Danny. They really do look alike. They share the same thick, expressive eyebrows, same dark brown hair and eyes, the same sharp jawlines. But Tim is soft around the edges, he doesn’t look as muscular as he is, his tummy rolling underneath his Aegean blue shirt. Up close like this, Martin can see the hearing aid Tim is wearing, and the moles that scatter across the slope of his neck. Especially the two moles that rest approximately half a centimetre wide of his tragus.

So preoccupied with Tim’s, well, beauty, Martin almost misses Danny moving on stage. He extends his right fist, before he opens it, while dropping it a few centimetres. At the same time, he mouths something that could be the word drop but Martin’s not sure because he can’t read lips. Then Danny spreads the fingers of his left hand, holding it flat and vertically aligned in a hundred-twenty-degree angle to his upper body. His right hand is spread in the same way and he moves it towards his left hand. When the pads of his fingers connect to the palm of his left hand, he lets his hand bounce back. The movements of his right hand two sides of an equilateral triangle. Again, he mouths something and if Martin would have to guess he’d say it was echo.

By minute three, Danny has been silent for one and a half minutes and has been through two repeats of the two words. (In all honesty, Martin is surprised that the crowd still watches Danny. That they hang onto his lips like a drop of water at the rim of a cup.)

Then he starts speaking again: “John was lost and so was I. I entered his cave and I got off the right path, I fell into darkness and somehow I came back. I’m not one of the Johns, I’m a Joey deep down. Because John was lost but I am found.”

A smile tugs at Danny’s lips, then, after a moment, he bows outlandishly (in an unbelievably tim-ish way) and says: “Thank you.” Then he leaves the stage in a beeline towards their table, while the audience starts to clap hesitantly.

When Danny sits down at their table again, Tim and he exchange a few quiet sentences. (In most circumstances this would make Martin’s anxiety spike up again, but to his own surprise it doesn’t. It’s just nice to see Tim interacting with his brother. Martin doesn’t have to be included to feel like he’s part of this.)

Martin takes a sip from his drink and throws a glance at the stage. After Danny there are still four people left. The performances are about existential fatigue, about childhood fears and dreams, and (in one memorable instant) about an imaginary soap opera the poetry slammer claims to watch in their head.

When the poetry slam is finally over, Danny grins at Martin and asks: “So, comments or questions?”

“Impromptu interpretation is not my strong suit,” Martin tries to escape the discussion of Danny’s depression? Outing? He’s not lying, he can’t interpret something like this in a few minutes. Especially not while looking right into Danny’s face. “I’m not sure what the cave is a metaphor for.” His tone is apologetic, but Danny laughs startled and says: “It’s not a metaphor. I literally got lost in a cave.”

“Oh,” Martin blurts out. “Well, then … I’m not an expert by any means. But I think it was pretty good, very compelling.” His ears are burning and the coldness of his drink seeps into the palms of his hands, contrasting the warmness in every fibre of his body.

Danny grins and says: “I like him.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Tim affirms. His smile, however, is more delicate than Danny’s. (And Martin doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Tim likes him, too. Likes likes him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t only acquire a job three months ago but friends, too. It shouldn’t matter that Tim is nice to him, because Tim is nice to everyone. Martin isn’t special.)

The thing is: Tim is so very nice. Nice in a way no one has ever been nice to Martin. He’s nice unconditionally, doesn’t wink suggestively at Martin when he hands him a cup of tea exactly the way Martin likes, doesn’t expect Martin to do anything in turn when he lays his hand on Martin’s shoulder in a silent display of support or affection, doesn’t want him to say thank you and how much do I owe you whenever he brings lunch in that he cooked himself, enough to share it with Martin and Sasha and even Jon, if he would ever want to. Tim’s nice and considerate and most people don’t seem to see it. They take Tim’s jokes and pop-culture references as a demonstration of his whole personality, take in the beauty of his face and simmer it down to the essence of his existence.

Tim is beautiful and he is funny, Martin’s the last to argue with that. But Tim is more, Tim is beyond, Tim is the soft are you alright when Martin must step out for a second after a reprimand from an assistant, Tim is the curious no, I want to know what you think about it, Tim is the reassuring you’ve got this and the understanding and if you don’t, I’m still here. Tim is every post-it note on Martin’s desk that says delighted to see you here and you look nice today and take time for yourself.

Tim is so very nice without even trying that Martin can’t help himself but fall in love with him. Embarrassing, right?

It ends like this: Martin doesn’t argue with Tim about his insistence that he’s a witch, because: Who’s Martin to deny Tim anything at all. Yes, he would like to know more about Tim as a person and about the things he does on weekends and, yes, getting cryptic answers like hanging out with the coven is a bit frustrating, but Martin also must confess that he admires Tim dedication.

It’s almost Halloween and since the start of October, Tim has been wearing a pointy hat to work. Which is kind of ridiculous but endearing at the same time because Sasha assures Martin that Danny does it too and that they do it every year in October. (It’s not one of his finer moments, it’s true, but he couldn’t help himself asking Sasha is this is some kind of meme. A Stoker inside gag that everyone is in on, but Sasha just smiles at him and says: “Oh, Martin, love, no. It’s not a meme.”)

When Martin asks him about the hat, Tim tilts his head in mild confusion and replies: “I’m a witch, Martin. Witches wear pointy hats.”

And Martin who’s got enough practice now dealing with Tim’s antics, retorts: “No, I mean, yes, I know, I mean: You didn’t wear it in the summer, why?”

“Usually, I wear my hat to rituals and stuff because channelling energy is way easier with a hat. But in October my coven wears it to let the spirits and the fair folk know they shouldn’t fuck around with us,” Tim explains. And Martin looks him dead into his eyes and says: “Makes sense.”

Three days before Halloween (or Mischief Night as Tim likes to call it), Tim drops off a bottle of essential oil at Martin’s desk. Before Martin can ask about it, Tim says: “I brought you essential oils for your headache.”

“Because,” Martin starts and stops hesitantly, wondering when he mentioned his headaches in front of Tim, without coming up with an answer, “you’re a witch.”

Tim nods, adding however: “But, you know, essential oils don’t need magic to work.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what else to say. This is getting ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to be the buzzkill. He wants to be Tim’s friend (or date, despite the whole witch-thing) and friends are supportive of each other! Friends don’t judge you for your oddities.

Tim changes the topic: “Do you have anything planned for Mischief Night?” Martin shakes his head. “Then I would like to formally invite you to celebrate Mischief Night with me.”

“Wouldn’t a formal invite require an invitation card?” Martin asks back, propping his chin up on his hand, a curious tilt in his voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Tim replies, while he suppresses a smile that threatens to take over his face. “So, it’s a date?”

Martin closes his eyes, short enough to be mistaken with a blink, and says: “Yeah, it’s a date.” The aching in his chest makes him wish Tim would be a little less nice and a little more without ambiguity. Even though he wants it to be a romantic date, this is just a friendly outing with a guy claiming to be a witch.

Fortunately, Mischief Night (or Halloween as everyone else seems to call it) is a Saturday, which means that Tim can pick Martin up at his flat in Stockwell. Neither Tim nor Martin own a car, but Tim borrowed Danny’s well-loved VW Beetle and it’s only about thirty-seven kilometres until they reach Bocketts Farm.

Martin’s glad the midday fog has eased up, and the sun warms the skin on his forearms, since he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Tim is right beside him, his pointy hat decorated with probably fake cobwebs.

“I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t pick me up on your broomstick,” Martin says when they walk through the entrance of the farm. Despite the slight fear that Tim will take offence and abandon him on this farm, he feels comfortable enough to make a joke like this. He thinks he knows Tim well enough to know that Tim would tell him if he were overstepping any boundaries.

Tim’s answer is a little more defensive than Martin anticipated: “Flying is hard, okay. Usually, I ride shotgun.”

Martin gapes, for lack of a better word, and almost walks into a fencepost if it weren’t for Tim pulling him aside. Instead of letting go of Martin’s arm, Tim threads his own through and links them in the most casual way Martin has ever seen. This is nice. (Tim is nice.)

“What do you want to do first?” Tim inquires when Martin doesn’t say anything else. “I personally am inclined to start with apple-bobbing.” He points to a small group of people around a water filled barrel. Martin makes a noncommittal sound, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, and Tim steers him softly towards the event.

“Supposedly, the barrel symbolises the cauldron of rebirth,” Tim says while they walk the remaining distance. Martin casts a look in his direction. He’s a bit preoccupied with the thought that Tim wants him to stick his head into ice cold water to fish for an apple with his teeth, so he only says: “Makes sense.” Even though he’s not sure in what way rebirth is connected to divining the first letter of your future spouse’s name.

When they come to a halt in front of the barrel, it doesn’t take long until they have their turn. Tim yields to Martin and he sighs before he steps up the barrel, takes a deep breath and dives in. The water is freezing, tiny pinpricks on Martin’s skin, and it’s really, really hard to actually get his teeth on an apple because every time he touches on, it submerges and sideslips. (It’s frustrating. Like shelving books in the Magnus library is frustrating. He knows he got it right but in reality he doesn’t.)

It takes forever or at least it feels like forever, his face in cold water and his fingers in Tim’s hand. (Wait, when did Tim grab his hand? Did he grab Tim’s hand? Oh, he must have sometime between their arrival at the barrel and his endeavour to bob for an apple.) But then he catches a small one between his teeth and gets out of the water as fast as possible. Tim lets out a loud whistle and his free hand pats Martin’s shoulder in congratulation. Whereas Martin’s free hand gets rid of the water in his face and pulls the apple out of his mouth.

“This is terrible,” he says through a chuckle because he can’t be mad with the sun shining into his face like it’s late summer and not autumn. “It’s your turn.”

Martin has to let go of Tim’s hand because a member of staff hands a knife to him and he starts peeling the apple in one unbroken strip.

Apparently, Tim’s either more practiced in apple-bobbing or he’s really a witch and helped himself along with magic, because it takes him not nearly as long as Martin to catch an apple. He waits for Martin to finish peeling his apple and relieves Martin of the knife.

“You have to throw it over your left shoulder,” Tim explains earnestly. “It’s the side of the heart. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, and it kind of does. Still he waits for Tim to finish peeling his own apple. Then they hand back the knife and stand side by side, throwing the peel on the count of three over their left shoulders.

“It looks like a T,” Tim says, when he catches sight of Martin’s apple peel, tapping the tip of his index finger against his chin.

Martin laughs, he's not entirely sure why but he can't stop himself. He replies: “It looks like a C, all of them look like Cs. And if they don’t, then they look like Os.” He points at Tim’s apple peel. “Look, yours looks like a C, too.”

“It’s just a tad short,” Tim retorts. “See, it started to form a small M but only came around to curve into a small N.” He laughs, too. “The apples have spoken, Martin. We’re destined for each other.”

“Well,” Martin says and he can’t shake the soft warmth that curls underneath his solar plexus, “if the apples say that, it must be right.”

They spend a good few hours on the farm, carving pumpkins and turnips, wandering through the maze and passing by goats and sheep and pigs, before they get to a bon fire Tim wants to sit down at to warm up a bit. The afternoon had been warm, but now that the sun has set cold creeps into their clothes and Tim complains about his between-season jacket. Martin who’s still warm despite the cold breeze gently extends his hand for Tim to hold.

For a few moments they fall quiet, only listening to the cracking of the fire.

But it doesn’t take long for Tim to reach into his pockets to fish for something and bring four conkers to light. He presents them to Martin and says: “Do you want to?” And Martin nods, only in part because Tim could ask anything of him and Martin would gladly do it.

They place their conkers in the flames respectively and when Martin’s first one cracks, Tim questions: “Did you name them?”

Martin shakes his head. Only a moment passes by, then:

“Did you name them?” Martin asks, and he doesn't look at Tim. His eyes are transfixed on the two conkers resting side by side. The left is already cracked. Tim doesn't look at Martin either, but he answers nevertheless: “I named both of them Martin. Didn't want to take the risk.”

And this, precisely, is the instant, Martin realises this could indeed be a date. A date date. A rendezvous Tim has asked him on, waiting for Martin to make a clear step towards him or not.

“Is this a date?” Martin blurts out, finally looking at Tim who ducks his head and blushes. He doesn’t want to sound incredulously, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation sends his head spinning. A laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “Tim, is this a date?”

“Well,” Tim starts and has the audacity to sound something akin to shy, “I thought it was a date. It was implied, I thought I explicitly said it was a date.” His gaze falls onto their joined hands. “I thought you knew we were dating.” Then he pales. “Oh, this is really awkward. I’m sorry.”

Tim attempts to let go of Martin’s hand, but Martin holds onto him.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Martin says, the laugh still on his tongue. His chest feels lighter than ever and he can’t keep the bright smile off his face. “I wanted this to be a date, honestly. I just didn’t think it could actually be one.”

“Oh, that’s,” Tim clears his throat, finally looking back at Martin’s face, “that’s good. Nice. Toit.”

“Does this have deeper cultural meaning, too?” Martin asks after sitting between stacks of hay on top of a wagon. He’s not sure if he’s a tiny bit sarcastic or if he finally accepted Tim’s commitment for his aesthetic.

“No,” Tim replies, while he sits down cross-legged next to Martin. “I just think hayrides are neat.”

“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” Martin says, before he moves closer to Tim, so that his thigh slots underneath Tim’s knee. “It’s kind of romantic.”

“Is it?” Tim teases, leaning into Martin’s space with ease. “I didn’t notice.” Then he pauses for a second, his eyes flicking down to Martin’s lips. “As soon as the tractor starts it won’t be anymore, so if you want to use the magic of hayride romanticism to kiss me, you should do it now.”

Martin moves in closer, too, now he can feel Tim’s breath on his skin. He says: “So, hayrides are magical.” But Tim doesn’t answer him. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Martin. (And maybe, only maybe, hayrides are magic.)

Their kiss only lasts for a few seconds before the engine of the tractor starts and the hayride begins. (They’re extremely lucky or magic is involved because they’re alone. The only other option is that hayrides are typically for children and their parents and it’s too late for them to participate. At this point, Martin doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by hay and Tim kissed him.)

Martin laughs breathlessly when they break apart because he catches sight of Tim almost losing his pointy hat due to the jolt of the wagon and says: “You’re right. Romance is dead.”

“My greatest virtue and my greatest curse is always being right,” Tim replies, readjusting the hat on his head. “I’m kind of glad tomorrow is the last day and I can take this thing off afterwards.”

For a second, Martin contemplates saying that Tim doesn’t have to wear it now. That if his aesthetic gets in the way of his everyday life, it’s alright to break out. But he doesn’t. Because this is nice, and he won’t tell Tim what to do. If Tim wants to wear a pointy hat, Tim gets to wear a pointy hat.

In search of changing the topic, Martin looks around the wagon and his gaze falls onto a small lantern at the back of the wagon. It’s supposed to be lit so that crossing folks can see the wagon; like the backlights of a bicycle or car. The lid isn’t fully shut, though, and the steady breeze of the moving wagon has extinguished the flame.

Martin pats his pockets from the outside, before he turns to Tim: “Do you have a lighter?”

Unfortunately, Tim shakes his head. More unfortunately, he says: “Doesn’t matter.” Then he leans forward, opening the lid fully and reaching into the lantern. The tip of his finger connects with the wick of the candle and by the time he pulls it back, the wick ignites and a small flame flickers to life.

Martin, once again, gapes. This is magic, Tim is a witch, Tim is a witch, o my fucking god.

“What?” Tim asks as he sits back down next to Martin.

“You’re a witch,” Martin says, and to his own surprise without the exact amount of disbelief he feels. “This is magic and you’re a witch.”

Tim smiles through his irritation and ripostes: “Martin, dear, I told you I’m a witch.”

“Yeah,” Martin responds and maybe he sounds as hysterical as he is, but this is ridiculous, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What did you think I meant every time I told you I was out with my coven?” Tim inquires bewildered, and everything about his demeanour suggests that he’s going to burst into laughter at any given moment.

“Honest?” Martin doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “With all the essential oils I kinda thought it was a MLM.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows, the laughter dying on his tongue. They stare at each other and Tim says slowly: “My coven is not a group of Marxists who Love Marketing.” He stops dead in his tracks. “Men Loving Marketing?” Tim screws up his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re insinuating that I love men, that I’m a comrade or part of a pyramid scheme.” Before Martin can interject something, Tim says: “I’m working for the Magnus Institute, so where’s the lie?”

He pauses, then he says: “Witches are real, and you thought this is just a funny multilevel marketing meme.”

This breaks something lose in Martin and he honest to God starts giggling: “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”

“I’m doing my best,” Tim retorts, laughing as well.

After their laughter dies away, Martin says: “Is this why you said the institute is one pile of magical bullshit?” He thinks better of it. “Is this why you said the library isn’t conscious? Is it a witch who’s rearranging the shelves?”

It takes a moment for Tim to answer: “No, it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost is rearranging the shelves,” Martin repeats. “Okay, alright, sure. A ghost. Is there something else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Jürgen, he died in the tunnels underneath the Institute and thinks it’s really funny to fuck with us.” Tim grabs Martin’s hand again. “You can talk to him and tell him to fuck off, though. Sometimes it works.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder even though their shoulders line up and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. This is weird and this is nice and they will have to talk about this, but their ride is almost over and Martin wants to bask for a few precious minutes in Tim’s silent company before they have to get off and head back.

Tim draws nonsensical shapes on the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb, and Martin feels content and warm and perhaps a little bewitched.

Before the ride ends, Martin asks: “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says hesitantly, “we’re going to celebrate All Hallow’s Day. My coven’s going to light a fire to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. The ashes of All Hallow’s fire keep calamity at bay and we use it for augury.” He sounds apologetic. “But I could come by afterwards.”

And it’s the first time, Martin doesn’t hesitate or feels that his words are tinged with an exasperated confusion when he says: “Makes sense.” So he adds after a moment: “That would be lovely.”

#the magnus archives #martim #martin k. blackwood #tim stoker #tim stoker x martin blackwood #alternate universe #witch tim stoker #schmok writes #fanfiction #hhhh martim rights

11 notes · View notes

alexandrinav0605 · 3 years

Text

Talking to Strangers

Multi-Chapter 1/? LINK TO AO3

Penny Parker knew many things, one of them being that the foster system was shit. She also knew her social worker was stupid and useless doing her job, but nobody care, right?

After losing all her family and ending in foster care, Penny founds herself on mandatory group therapy, with some unusual companions. ----- TW: Mentions of rape (not graphic), Violence (not graphic, but mentions of the way of murder), Child Abuse.

English is not my first language, therefore, I'm not from US and I do not know how the foster system works, as well as group therapy.

-----

Penny didn’t know why she was there. Actually, she knew, but she didn’t understand it. When her social worker told her that group therapy would be needed, Penny thought she was joking. In which way talking about how shitty her life was to a group of strangers would help her? To be honest talking didn’t do anything, but this wasn’t really for her. Apparently, the government was forced to take care of all the children on the system that have been harmed because of their incompetence, not only physically but mentally. As it turns out there are many children that were harmed. The people in charge were surprised, I wasn’t. Most people fostering kids only do it for the money, and it was rare if they treated their foster kid correctly. Out of the 5 houses she had been, Penny was treated decently in only one and it was the bare minimum. Of course, there wasn’t money, they never had, so group therapy was cheaper, unhelpful, but cheaper, and that was all they care about.

She didn’t care, neither private therapy nor group therapy helped, talking in general didn’t help. No one understand what she was feeling. Her twin, Peter, did, but he was on her backpack, just ashes inside a cheap container. That was another thing of the many that existed in which Penny and her social worker disagree, her twin brother´s ashes being with her all the time. In reality Penny knew it wasn’t healthy, that she should let go and that her brother wasn’t really there, but it was hard. She was there when their foster father throw Peter to the wall, hitting Peter’s head. The noise alerted their neighbors, and they called the police, but it was late, Peter was already dead. She was placed in another home, with a man called Skip. That was something she could be glad about, Peter never had to live with that monster. Healthy or not, a year later she was still grieving, after all she was only 15 and she wasn’t in the mood to be order around by the person that had placed them in that house to begin with. It wasn’t like her life had to many healthy things anyway.

Entering the building, she wished she could run and pretend like she had attended, but she remembered the look of her social worker and her little warning that they will write who had attended. She wasn’t in the mood to endure a lecture, so she decided to go and ignore everything and everyone, how hard can it be?

As it turns out, very difficult. When she found the room where her group was supposed to be, the last people she hoped to find was the freaking Avengers. Everyone started at her while she made her way to the center of the room, and she felt uncomfortable. A part of her was jumping because she was in the same room as Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, that have always been her and Peter’s favorite scientist, but that was just in the inside, because that was the little part of her innocent that had managed to survive everything life had thrown at her.

What was worse was the man that turn out to be their mediator. The man in particular was someone she already knew and not a friendly one. He annoy her mainly because he liked to tell her who she should see the bright side. Well guess what asshole there is no good side.

“Hi, I’m Tyler and I will be your mediator while you are in this therapy program.” If glares could kill the man would be dead, but that didn’t stop him of talking. “So, as you may see we have a group that know each other and a person that doesn’t know anyone, personally of course.” He smiled at his bad joke and Penny just made an annoyed sound that got everyone’s attention. “Basic information we will see each other every Wednesday at the same hour in this same classroom. If you are wondering why of all things you are in the company of the Avengers,” He directed this to Penny. “We are required a minimum of 10 people per group and as you can see the Avengers are only 9, so using the resent stipulation of the government regarding the foster system, we thought it would be great to allow a child to meet the Avengers He looked around probably hoping for a reaction; the Avengers were indifferent, and Penny was straight up annoyed.

He made a long pause waiting for someone to say something, he was about to continue when Penny talked.

“Don’t you think that is dumb to make a child met the Avengers when they are talking about their problems and when said child is talking about his own problems not to mention how disrespectful it is for them to do so” Her tone was indifferent and bore, but her eyes reflected every emotion, anger being the main one, this man really annoyed her.

The Avengers and Tyler look at her surprised, and a little irritated in Tyler’s case. By now Tyler was used to her replications, so he just ignored it.

“I thought it may be nice to present yourselves and say why we are here before we do any other dynamic, Penny, why don’t you begin?” He looked around and began explaining why he knew her name. “Penny and I know each other from my days at the foster system.”

“I have many reasons why I don’t want to present myself the main want is that I think is kind of incoherent to begin with me, also unfair because it will lead to an unbalance position of information with me having less information about them as they already know each other, now I’m not saying I should go last because then it would be unfair for them” She smile at the end trying to appear innocent.

Tony Stork look amused as well as Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Captain Rogers has an annoyed expression on his face that probably had to do with the fact that he was a soldier who always followed orders, and her clear disdain for authority unnerve him. She didn’t care, she stopped caring a time ago.

Deciding against confrontation, Tyler asks for voluntaries. Being the leader he thinks he is, Captain Rogers offer to go first. The presentation was brief, he said his name and something about wanting to get over his dead ex-girlfriend and form a bond with his team. He was followed by Bucky Barens with something about HYDRA, and a certain Sam Wilson being a guilt survivor. Wanda Maximoff was something like a guilt and anger survivor, although Penny didn’t know if that even existed, if it did Wanda Maximoff was definitely one of them.

Natasha Romanoff was probably as reserved if not more than Penny was, the only thing Penny could gather was that that woman had a past even more dark that hers. Bruce Banner definitely had problems with his other self. Then it was Penny´s turn.

“I’m Penny Parker, I’m 15 years old” How much she hated this. “And I’m here because the people in charge rather put money in their pockets instead of helping me solve the problem their shitty system cause in the first place” When she finish, she look at Tyler, daring him to say something to her.

“Penelope,” Damn complete name. “Not here, please.” Tyler was definitely trying to do anything to keep appearances.

“Then where? At least here I have a public that can see how much bullshit the foster system is.” Penny was getting really tired of his hypocrisy now.

Tyler send her a look and Penny couldn’t feel worse. She knew how delicate her situation was right now, one misstep and she will be sent to a special group house for mentally unstable people, and she didn’t want that. People always called her smart, so using that so called intelligence she shut her mouth.

The session continued with Tony Stark and his enormous guilt complex hide by a god complex, followed by Thor and all his death family. Finally, there was Clint Barton, who said that he wanted to fix the relationship with his team members, but he couldn’t hide anything for Penny, he wanted to be here as much as Penny wanted, most of them look miserably, not that Penny blame them.

“Alright, now that we know each other,” Penny didn’t know how Tyler could be so infuriating. “I want to make a dynamic that consist of saying what would you do if you could do anything you want.” He stroll his gaze around the room. “Now, we do have one rule that is: It needs to be something realistic, many of you are trying to deal with grief, so I don’t want things like bringing back your love ones.”

As Penny didn’t know who to keep her mouth close, she speak: “How about killing Tyler?” Seeing his alarming expression, along with the Avengers was amusing, but she added “Don’t worry Tyler I’m not talking about you.”

“We cannot wish for someone’s death” His warning look didn’t stop her.

“Boohoo, I wanted to give Mr. Preachy a taste of his own medicine” As always, her voice revealed nothing besides amusement and sarcasm, but her eyes gave everything someone needed to know she was serious.

Tyler was definitely tired of her antics. Penny couldn’t care less. He let it go and began with someone else; Penny didn’t pay attention, too concentrated in returning the looks that Natasha Romanoff was sending her. When it was Romanoff’s turn, she broke the staring contest to answer. Finally, it was Penny’s turn, although she wanted nothing more than to say murder Skip or Mr. and Mrs. Preachy, she went for something more normal.

“I want to go back to London” Everyone stared at her, surprise written all over their faces. “Not the famous London, but the outskirt, where there are all the neighborhoods.” She wasn’t kidding; she misses London, since she put a foot in this place. “Also, their foster system is much better.” She couldn’t stop being the little shit she is, right?

“Well, I was hoping something less materialistic, so tell me, why London?” Because she wanted to, ass. She was about to say that, but decided against it, be smart.

“It isn’t materialistic, Tyler.” Sarcasm was definitely a copping mechanism. “If you had bother to look at my file, you would know that I’m from London, if it wasn’t obvious enough by my accent” And it was true, although she hadn’t been in London for 10 years, she still had a British accent. Peter die with his accent as well, she wondered if she will ever loss it.

Tyler mumbled a quiet thanks, and after some words Penny didn’t listen, he gave them permission to leave. Gathering her things, Penny waited for everyone to leave before she leave herself. Outside the building she heard some words.

“I just don’t understand why she has to be so rude, the guy did nothing wrong. And what was that thing of wishing to kill someone about, what was his name?” Penny recognized the voice from the videos of detention.

“Mr. Preachy.” That was Natasha Romanoff.

“Leave the kid alone, capsicle, you don’t know what happened between them.” Penny thought that at least an Avenger had a little bit of brain.

She cleared her throat, making jump everyone, except Black Widow, who blinked. Penny began her show to teach something to Captain I Know Everything.

“Oh, how lucky I catch the Avengers, my brother is a fan of yours” She tried to sound amiable and she succeed.

Rogers talk first, clearly knowing she had heard him. “Well, we can sigh something for your brother if you want” Captain certainly was trying, bad for him.

“Actually, he is right here” Penny tuck out the container that guarded her brother’s ages, please to see the alarming looks in the Avengers. “Poor thing didn’t know what hit him. Well, he knew, a wall and Mr. Preachy’s fist” She pause looking directly in the eyes at Steve Rogers, waiting for him to say something, but all she got was a small Oh.

Turning to Dr. Banner she began talking. “Dr. Banner is a pleasure to meet you. My brother and I were always fans of your paper about Gamma radiation, we read ai when we were 10. “Dr. Banner seemed surprised. “Really? I’m happy you like it.”

Penny giggle a little, putting her brother back in her backpack. “Pleasure to meet you” She look at Captain Rogers. “Most of you.” With that she turned around hearing a sound like hitting someone and a low Auch.

#spider man #peter parker #penny parker #female peter parker #Iron Man #tony stark #marvel #MCU #foster care #foster system #group therapy #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #foster kids #child abuse #thor #sam wilson

4 notes · View notes

overheardatthecontinental · 3 years

Text

Talk Chapter 6

AO3

I was so overwhelmed from the comments from the last few chapters, I managed to spit out another chapter :)

Love you all

...

Waking up from sedation is becoming a bad habit although she isn’t unhappy about the haziness. In the moments before opening her eyes, she could almost believe that she was wrapped in blankets, floating on a cloud rather than the concrete floor.

She tries to open her eyes, but they’re drawn shut, her lids just a bit too heavy to be opening right now. That’s alright, she decides.

She could stay like this a little longer, in the fugue-state that offered more comfort than reality. Embrace the warmth of her dream-like state.

She’s hopes Nick and Frankie are back today. Playing cards with them would break up the monotony of waiting for John…

John.

John was coming.

The last thing she remembers is the phone call. The warning that John Wick was coming. She had tried to hold on, to keep them from moving her. But they were going to sedate her. She thinks she had tried to escape but she couldn’t remember anything else.

They’d sedated her again.

Fuck.

She forces her eyes open to take in her new surroundings, wondering if she’d get the chance to send John another message…

He’s there. John is sitting in a leather armchair, eyes closed, under a wash of orange light.

Is the sun rising or setting? She really isn’t sure. And she can’t bring herself to care, looking at John.

He looks exhausted, slumped back. His hair is a little wild and there’s blood on his face. She sees no injuries and is momentarily relieved that the blood does not appear to be his.

He was always so put together in her presence. It's unnerving to see his suit rumpled and a giggle escapes her unwittingly.

John’s eyes open and he inhales, blinking awake.

“Are you laughing?” He asks, voice rough from sleep. John pushes himself up in the chair so that he’s fully upright. He rubs a hand over his eyes and it occurs to her that she’s also never seen John actually tired before.

“Sorry.” She whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “You look like shit.”

John stares at her incredulously and then a small smile forms on his face. “Yeah, well. Hell of a weekend.”

“Yeah? Can’t say I did too much.” Helen draws the blankets in a bit tighter.

“Cold?” John asks and reaches out to touch her forehead. The warm of his hand feels like a godsend and she finds herself leaning into his touch as she nods. “Do you need more blankets?”

She shakes her head, “Nah, don’t want to overheat.”

He nods. “How are you feeling?”

She hums thoughtfully before deciding on “Hungover.”

“Hungover?” He repeats.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Mouth is dry, a bit nauseous, head is pounding, and I woke up in somebody else’s bed with no memory of how I got there. All signs point to hungover.”

Only Helen, he thinks.

“I’ll get you some water. Dry mouth and nausea are common with sedation.” He removes his hand, reluctantly, from her face and stands up.

Helen nods, “Yeah, they sedated me a lot.”

John stops at the way she says it, turning before he can get her water. “What do you mean?”

“They sedated me whenever I was annoying. And I was very annoying.”

He feels his nails biting into his palm as he inhales sharply, “You know, provoking your kidnappers isn’t a great idea, right?”

“I didn’t provoke them. Just went all psycho-dynamic on their asses.”

John blinks. “Freud?”

“Mhmm. Most of his shit’s been disproven, but nobody likes being told their main problems in life come from their mommy issues. And DeLuca has a shit ton of mommy issues.”

John opens his mouth and closes it. There’s nothing to say to that right now so he turns on foot and heads back to the bathroom. He fills a cup with water while looking into the mirror.

She was right. He did look like shit. His hair hadn’t been combed, he had bags under his eyes. There’s blood on his face, in his hair, and on his clothes. His suit was rumpled.

He probably should have showered and changed while Helen slept off the sedation but he couldn’t bear to leave her side. No, instead he had collapsed into the chair and barely moved for nine hours, drifting in and out of sleep now that she was safe.

He tried not to give too much thought to the fact that Helen was in his bed.

Helen. Was in. His bed.

Sleeping in his bed.

Now awake in his bed.

John swallows. He can’t think about it. He has to focus on the matter at hand.

DeLuca is still out there and, until he is taken care of, Helen is still in danger.

Exhaling, he heads back to the bedroom and tries to ignore the way his heart races at seeing Helen propped amongst his pillows.

She smiles at him. She shouldn’t be, he thinks. He’s the one who got her into this mess but there she is, quiet and non-judgmental. Smiling at him the way she always does, accepting the water from he hands her.

She drinks it down with a soft moan that his body isn’t prepared for. Helen sets what is left of the water on the side table. She reaches up and pushes back her hair, her fingers getting stuck in the mess. So goes three days without a shower or a hairbrush.

“Thanks.” She says, looking up at him.

John nods, “I had the Doctor stop by last night when I got you home. He left meds in case your head hurts.”

Helen nods, “I didn’t feel that during the first few sedations but it’s throbbing now.”

“You don’t remember getting it?” John asks, grabbing the meds off his bureau. He pours one out into his hand and caps it as he walks over to her.

“Getting what?” She reaches to her face, her fingers trailing until they reach her bandage. She winces at the touch, “Oh. Yeah, forgot about that.”

“What happened?” John asked as he handed her the pills and the water from her table.

Helen tries to push up so she can fully sit. She winces at her own weakened state and John moves closer, moving an arm around her to help her sit up against the headboard. He tries not to focus too much on the way she feels with his arm around her.

When she’s upright, he hands her the meds.

She swallows the pill, chasing it with what was left of her water. “The guys who were watching me got a call that you were coming and they needed to move me. They were going to sedate me for the move, so I tried to run when they opened the cell. I made it to the stairs but one of them grabbed my foot and I fell.”

He regrets asking almost instantly, if only because the rage swelling inside him is incapacitating. The fact that he killed the men who tried to move her is suddenly not enough. He wants them to suffer, to hurt. He should have made them die screaming.

But, at the time, his only concern had been getting Helen to safety.

And now they were dead, and as much as he wished it, he couldn’t bring them back just to kill them all again.

But the others would pay.

Anyone else who took part in stalking them, kidnapping her, guarding her. DeLuca would suffer.

John feels a hand on his and she asks, “Do we need to do some meditations here, or are you good?”

Nothing like Helen’s no bullshit policy to pull him back into the presence.

“I’m here.” She says softly when he’s back with her, her hand squeezing his, “I’m here and I’m safe.”

He swallows at the feeling of her soft hand, wrapped around his in comfort.

She was just kidnapped, sedated multiple times, and subject to DeLuca firsthand. If anybody had the right to be losing grip of reality right now, it was her. Instead, she was doing what she always did and taking care of him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all have our ways of coping. I insert humor into bizarre situations, you picture killing people with your bare hands. Whatever gets us through the day, right?”

He’s pretty sure that’s not a therapeutically appropriate response but he breathes a little easier for hearing it. She’s ridiculous and he loves her.

He loves her so much and he came so close to losing her.

“Thank you for coming after me.” She says and it breaks him all the more.

She shouldn’t be thanking him. It was his fault she had been taken. His obsession which had grown out of control, his lack of focus that stopped him from seeing that others were following her.

He should be on his knees begging for forgiveness and, for anyone else, he might have to. But there was no blame in her eyes. No judgement.

She wasn’t even looking at him any different than when they met each week.

And because he’s not sure how he can begin to apologize for something so unforgiveable, he asks, “Did you doubt I would?”

“Not for an second.” Comes her gentle reply.

Her faith in him is far more than he deserves.

“We kept coming up with dead ends.” He says softly, beseechingly. Like he hopes that she’ll understand that he’s so fucking sorry. “He didn’t give a name. Only a job. And I kept searching, but he was like a ghost. I didn’t know what to do and then I got this text from an unknown number--”

“From Nick.”

John blinks, “I’m sorry?”

“Nick. One of the guys guarding me. Won a bet with two of the guards and told them I’d ask you not to kill them if I could use their phone. So no killing Nick Russo or Frankie Morelli.”

"That was you?"

She inclines her head.

He’s not quite sure what to do with that new wealth of information. The fact that she was able to convince her guards to let her have a phone, that she made a bet with them, and she had bargained with said guards for their lives…

John knew Helen well enough to know she wasn’t going to fall apart easily but there was a difference between keeping it together when in a high-stress situation and gaining the upper hand when you have no control.

“You told the guards I wouldn’t kill them?”

“I told them I’d ask you not to kill them. I made no guarantees. But, while we’re on the subject, I’d rather you didn’t kill them. Frankie’s basically a baby trying to support his mom and little brothers, and Nick… Nick’s had it rough, but I think we made some real progress addressing his repressed homosexuality.”

John’s head hurts. It really does.

All this time, he had been worried about Helen handling being kidnapped. John knew a lot about psychological torture and, sometimes, being trapped in a cage is enough to make you feel like you’d be better off dead.

But no, Helen had been the one caged, but she had been playing the game as if she were a part of the world.

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

She looks up, over those long lashes and it’s almost too much for him to look at her. Baring her battle scars while still looking like an angel as she sits in his bed.

“I really didn’t do much.”

“I was losing my mind. Didn’t have a name or any indication of who had you, and you just figured your own way out.”

“I figured out how to get you a message. I didn’t manage to escape.”

“You did exactly what you needed to do.” His hand turns in hers, tentatively. Giving her the space to pull away.

She doesn’t, only pausing to readjust her grip.

John sits back down, on the edge of the bed. Her hand is in his.

He doesn’t think he’s ever held hands with someone before.

“What did he want?” Helen asks after a moment, “In exchange for me, what was DeLuca trying to get?”

John exhales, “Political advantage. There are very… complex laws associated with the Underworld.”

“That’s where the High Table comes in, right?”

He’s pleased that she remembers, “Yes. The High Table is our council, of sorts. There are twelve seats for the twelve largest factions of organized crime. The Russian Mafia, the Chinese Triad, Los Zetas, the Sicilian Mafia, the Camorra. A few other bigwigs, too. But under all these big factions, there are hundreds and thousands of smaller ones, each trying to become a contender. But it’s virtually impossible to uproot one of big ones. Especially the ones run by families. Now, DeLuca belongs to a smaller crime network.”

“The Syndicate.”

John nods once, “Yes. Based in Rome but with branches all across the world. Italy already has two very predominant mafias. No one is really looking for a third large contender. DeLuca has it in his head if he can destroy the Camorra, he can gain control of Rome.”

“Except he lacks the intelligence and commitment to actually run something of that caliber.”

His lips twitch, “Yes. But, to his credit, he was right. If the D’Antonio family collapsed, it might be impossible for the Camorra to stay afloat. They’d lose their credibility; secrets of the family would go to the grave. A new challenger could rise. Probably not to the level of the High Table, like DeLuca thinks, but enough.”

Helen nods, piecing it together for herself. “So, DeLuca tried to send you after the Camorra, protecting himself from any backlash.”

John nods, not quite ready to reveal just how close he had come to openly declaring war against the High Table in order to save her.

She huffs a small laugh, which leaves John taken aback.

“DeLuca didn’t come up with that plan.”

“Oh?” He asks, cocking his head to the side.

“For something so carefully thought out, that had to have come from his mother.”

Again, John feels his lips curl into a small smile, “Is this going back to the ‘mommy issues’ you mentioned?”

Helen nods, “Oh, definitely. That umbilical cord is stretching from Rome to New York. His mom killed his father in order to get him in charge of Syndicate.”

John blinks, rubbing at his head, willing the dull ache to go away. “Exactly how long did you spend with DeLuca?”

“He lasted about eight minutes in my charming presence before having me sedated.”

The I love you on the tip of his tongue goes unsaid.

“I should start having you run all my mission preps.”

“You really should.” Helen agrees, closing her eyes as she leans back against the headboard. “But then, who would counsel my rebellious teens, depressed businesspeople, and wayward assassins?”

“Who indeed.”

He’s worried about what he has to tell her next.

John had been so concentrated on finding her that he hadn’t had time to plan out his next steps. There were a few dozen people who had to die to ensure her safety, DeLuca being number one on his list.

She wasn’t safe so long as DeLuca was alive. And the mobster had gone underground shortly after he had recovered Helen. A smart move on his part, John acknowledges.

Without DeLuca having Helen, there was nothing to stop John from targeting him.

But that meant that John had to track him. Hunt him down. Kill him and any other associates who might know about Helen and who she is to John.

He knew she promised those two guards who helped her that she’d ask him not to kill them and he was… considering it. He didn’t like the possibility of loose ends but saying no to Helen was an impossible task. One he was certain he might never master.

All in all, there were a few hundred reasons why she couldn’t go back to work.

There was the injury card he intended to play hard and fast.

The trauma that she hadn’t processed yet.

The fact that DeLuca’s whereabouts were unknown.

And while John was more than willing to stand guard outside her office, it was impractical for both of them.

He needed time.

John exhales, bracing himself for the argument that will surely erupt from this. Preparing himself to be strong enough to actually say no to Helen. “You can’t go back to work yet.”

Without opening her eyes, she says, “Try that again, in the form of a question. I might be more receptive.”

John swallows, “I can’t—I can’t do what I need to do unless I know that you’re safe. Will you please stay home from work until I can resolve the situation?”

Her eyes crack open, “How long are we talking?”

“A few days.”

He’s certain he can find DeLuca in that amount of time. He already had the Technician running searches remotely, already had Winston with an ear to the ground.

She was awake now and the last of his worries had been abated. Which meant that John could do what he did best. He could go out to the city. He could take out DeLuca and his soldiers and send her back to her world, knowing she was safe.

And he’d keep an eye on her. As often as he could manage without putting her at risk again. And he’d let her go.

His heart already ached at the prospect but what else could he do?

Helen lets out a small sigh, “Alright. All things considered, I should probably take a few days off anyway.” She inclines her head, “Don’t suppose you happen to have my work phone?”

John feels his face involuntarily wince, “Um, yeah, about that…”

“What?”

“DeLuca had it. Pretty sure he dropped it somewhere so that it couldn’t be tracked back to him.”

She rubs at her head but takes it better than he would have. “At least tell me he left my laptop alone?”

John nods, “I took that just in case. It’s in my car.”

Her eyes flutter shut again and he can tell she’s fighting the exhaustion.

“I’ll have to call my clients for this week.”

“Later.” John says, giving her hand a soft squeeze. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping for god knows how long.”

“You’ve been sedated.” He corrects gently, “You’ve slept but you haven’t given yourself space to rest. You’re body’s still reeling from what you’ve been through.”

Her eyes don’t open but the corner of her lips twitch into a smile, “Look at that. You’ve been doing your homework.”

“I have a bookshelf dedicated to you.”

She hums at that, “I’ll want to see that later. And the rest of your library.” She cracks open her eyes, “You’re going to regret letting me into your home, John Wick.”

He already does, he thinks to himself. It occurs to him that seeing her here, like this, might be something he’s unable to recover from. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep in his bed when the image of her lying there, amongst his pillows and sheets, has been unwittingly branded into his head. He might never get over the feeling of holding her in his arms and carrying her up the stairs and down the hall.

And it might take him time to track down DeLuca.

Days in which she’ll eat in his kitchen and lose herself amongst his bookshelves. He can see it now and it tears him apart.

While he has ceased to believe that life is fair, it’s inordinately cruel to have her like this, in ways he’s only dreamed, only to be forced to cut off contact.

But what can he do?

She needs to be here for her own protection but once the threat is eliminated, she needs to be as far away from him as she can be.

“Get some rest.” He tells her, wondering if the dull ache in his heart would worsen or improve if he left her presence.

He starts to stand but she holds fast.

She peers up at him with those big, brown eyes and he’s ready to fall to his knees.

“Will you hold me? Just for a minute?”

He really wishes he had it in him to deny her. But he doesn’t.

He nods and John releases her hand, moving around to the other side of the bed. He crawls over and under the covers which she has lifted for him.

This isn’t romantic, he tells himself. It’s not sexual or any other perverted pleasure.

This is comfort, like she’s shown him a hundred thousand times before.

John tries, hard, to push any other thought from his head and not to concentrate on how small her body feels as he wraps an arm, gently, around her.

She reaches up and takes hold of his forearm, hugging it to her as she nestles under the covers.

He hates himself for reveling in delight when she has suffered so much because of him. It’s his fault she was hurt at all, his fault she’s drained from trauma. And he’s the one benefitting, touching her in ways he’s only dreamed about.

But then, he thinks, he’s been Hell-bound his entire life.

And, if he’s right about finding DeLuca and tying up loose ends, he’ll only have days left where he can even bask in her presence.

Maybe, he can have this.

A minute, an hour of pretending the world wasn’t waiting outside his door. Pretending that this was more than just comfort.

It might hurt more, in the long run, to know how holding her feels like. But John can’t bring himself to care.

……………………………

He’s not sure when he fell asleep but it’s the dull vibrating of his phone on wood that wakes him up.

For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. He forgot her soft request for him to hold her while she fell asleep, keeping her safe and comforted after the ordeal.

All he can smell is her. She’s warmer now and, while usually heat makes him uncomfortable while he sleeps, it was different with her.

Helen had turned, at some point, her face now buried in his chest, her body curled into his while both his arms hold her tight.

A part of him wishes to stay like that forever.

But the phone buzzes again.

Helen stirs in his arms and he’s simultaneously in awe that she’s real and pissed that somebody is calling, waking her.

He disentangles his limbs from hers and she whines softly as John rises from the bed, tiptoeing quickly. He snatches the phone and hurries from the room, closing the door behind him.

Marcus.

“Yeah?” John answers, walking down the hall to the nook that overlooks the rest of the house, just above the stairs. He rests a hand on the balcony edge and leans down.

“You know I prefer to mind my own business whenever I can.”

John finds himself blinking at the unusual greeting. “Yes. It’s one of the few reasons I put up with you.”

Marcus hums at that, “I hate to ask, John, but what the fuck is going on?”

He stands up a little straighter, eyes narrowing, “What are you talking about?”

“My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the contract came out.”

John’s stomach drops.

Surely, he thinks, DeLuca isn’t that stupid…

“What contract?” He forces himself to ask.

“Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Helen Kingston.” John thinks he might throw up but Marcus continues, “As far as anybody can tell, she’s a civilian but under known allies, you're listed.”

John swears, pushing his hair back from his face. Any remnants of sleepiness are now gone as he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the basement.

“When did it go live?”

“Half an hour ago. I’ve already fielded half a dozen calls from people trying to get information on who she is.”

“What’d you tell them?” John asks, propping the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he grabs a case for his handguns and a duffle for ammo. He opens each and begins selecting from vast array that hung on his wall.

“I didn’t tell them anything. I just asked them all if they really wanted to take the chance of going after a target who could be related, in any way, to John Wick.”

“How much is the bounty?”

“Four million.”

A string of swears escape.

Four million was considered a high price for a life. A payout of that amount, in a single kill, was usually reserved for difficult cases. Government officials with bodyguards or military targets trained to kill.

A four-million-dollar bounty on a civilian would be impossible for most assassins in the greater New York area to pass up. Even with him listed as an ally.

“Who is she, John?”

“Honestly?” John checks, emptying a shelf of various size rounds into the duffle bag, “She’s my therapist.”

He’s met with silence and John can’t help but smirk at rendering Marcus speechless. Funny, considering it was only two days ago when telling Winston a fucking nightmare.

“You know, I was joking all those times I told you to seek professional help.”

John shorts, “Yeah, well. Too late.”

“So now half of New York City is out looking for your therapist?”

“Seems so.”

He can almost feel Marcus rolling his eyes despite the distance between them, “Why would anybody target your therapist? In fact, I’m inclined to call her up and offer her a raise if she can make you less fucked in the head.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Marcus huffs a sigh, “Any idea where she is? The contract went live half an hour ago. I’m sure somebody’s already after her.”

“Upstairs.”

“She’s at your house?”

John zips the bag with the ammo shut. “Also complicated.”

John closes the lid on the gun case. He has a handful of Kevlar vests packed away in a trunk. He hoists out a few and drapes them over his shoulder as he grabs the case and the bag.

“Clearly. You know, I’m pretty sure fucking your therapist is an ethics violation of some kind.”

John ignores the comment. “Fancy earning a marker?” He asks, heading back up the stairs and crossing the large expansive living room to get to the front door.

“Depends. How much work am I going to have to do?”

“Minimal.” John lifts the trunk of his car and starts rearranging things. “Babysitting while I take care of the idiot who thought targeting her was a good idea.”

Marcus hums, thinking it over. “Is she going to be a pain in the ass?”

“Most definitely. She’ll have you mindfucked so fast you won’t know up from down.”

“Not doing a great job of selling it.”

John closes the trunk and walks quickly back into the house. He still has to pack clothes; food.

“I can almost guarantee no bodily harm and you won’t be bored. That’s a rare combination.”

Marcus grumbles for a moment but John didn’t doubt him. “Text me where I need to be.”

“Make sure you’re not followed.”

Marcus snorts in a way to signify no fucking shit and the call drops.

John lets out a breath as he hits the kitchen. While he’s bugged out in the army, bugged out from squatting, and run away more times than he could count, he’s never had to pack like this in his house. It’s almost unnerving to be choosing food from a fully stocked kitchen rather than grabbing the jar of peanut butter as he runs.

Fucking DeLuca.

What the hell was that bastard thinking?

John had already wanted him dead for daring to touch Helen and now this?

What could this possibly do for him? Four-million-dollars was a lot to spend on revenge and, while the smaller mobs did well for themselves, most didn’t just have that kind of money sitting around.

DeLuca’s reasoning, however, was the least of John’s concerns as he packed up his kitchen.

He had safehouses all over the globe, most listed under different names. A handful over the tristate area but he was reluctant to have Helen that close to the hub of assassins now gunning for her.

Fuck. He stops bagging up boxes of energy bars and pauses.

How the hell was he going to tell Helen there was a four-million-dollar bounty on her head?

Hey, remember that conversation we had earlier where I told you I would take care of DeLuca with a couple days? Well, now a couple hundred assassins are looking for you, so that plan is off the table. Sorry!

He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to explain this new round of bullshit and goes back to grabbing boxes of crackers and bags of rice.

“Are you… packing up your kitchen?” He doesn’t startle easy, but he hadn’t even heard her on the stairs.

John turns, in surprise, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.

Helen, hair wet from the shower, had traded in the nightgown for one of his white, cotton shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, drawstrings pulled tight, then folded several times over.

Her skin, still damp, forces the shirt to cling to her.

He looks away, “Yeah.”

“Is this some sort of weird coping ritual or did the shit hit the fan?”

John almost hates the way she can read him so easily.

“Shit hit the fan.” He says, glancing over his shoulder, gauging for reaction.

There isn’t one. Not really. She just nods, and honestly, he wishes that she would try to protest or argue or roll her eyes. Anything. Blame him, yell at him. Complain about the situation, whine and ask why they had to move but she doesn’t.

“When are we leaving?” She asks.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Again, she just nods, “Want to point me in the direction of your library? I’d like to raid it before we bug out.”

The casualness in her voice makes his head and heart hurt. She shouldn’t be this accepting.

He swallows back the urge to start an argument because that is the last thing they need when people are searching for her.

“Top of the stairs, just off of the little alcove.”

She spins on her heels, like nothing is wrong.

John forces himself back to packing. Time, it seems, is always against them.

#john wick talk #john wick #john x helen wick #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wiction

16 notes · View notes