#if only it could all disappear-- the piano-- the cold-- the memories-- the weight on his heart-- the FEAR | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 4 years

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pairing: yoongi x reader // word count: 15.8k // genre: smut

summary: your idea of a good night certainly doesn't involve being stood up by yet another blind date and finding yourself alone in a fancy bar; fortunately for you, there's an attractive man playing the piano to keep you busy, instead.

warnings: sexually explicit content (NSFW), cursing, minor consumption of alcohol, oral (m and f receiving), protected sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, pet names, slight exhibitionism, slight praise kink, light dom/sub undertones if you squint ig (reader is kind of subby)

– –

Throughout the years of your life, you've learned a few things. Some of them are pretty obvious (buying suspiciously cheap sushi from a petrol station is like playing Russian Roulette with food poisoning and diarrhoea), some of them are less so (just because something is 'on sale' doesn't actually mean that it's cheaper if they'd increased the overall price beforehand), but one thing that you're only just starting to learn is that— for all that Jimin says otherwise— blind dates will always stand you up.

jiminnie is he there yet??

you to my entire lack of surprise, no. i'm starting to wonder if this 'hoseok-hyung' of yours even exists tbh i should have been suspicious from the second you called him a 'friend' bc that implies that you HAVE friends

jiminnie ok RUDE. we're friends??

you suddenly i can't read

The two of you had been outrageously drunk after a night out on the town, once, and Jungkook had come to collect his tipsy boyfriend, and you'd seen the fond way he'd watched Jimin despite his messy behaviour— how he'd given Jimin a piggyback even though it must have been hard with the way Jimin had been squirming and laughing and kicking his legs back and forth— and your heart had squeezed tight in your chest. (You'd been so drunk.)

It had honestly been a slip of the tongue when you'd revealed to Jimin that you were kind of maybe feeling somewhat lonely, a little bit, potentially. You'd had one night stands and short flings but it's been a long time since you've been in an actual relationship, a long time since you've really clicked with someone. Maybe part of you had been missing it, that connection with another person. Normally you're fine with being single, but Jungkook and Jimin are so in love that it spills out from them and you guess in the moment you'd wanted to feel that, too.

You blame the alcohol. You also blame your own loose lips. And Jimin, you blame him too, for persuading you to go clubbing in the first place. You don't even remember what you'd said, waking up with a headache the weight and size of a tectonic plate, groaning at the pain of the morning light stabbing into your eyes, but with no recollection of your admittance that maybe you were tired of being single. Your best friend, however— despite having drunk more than you— could recall the previous night with crystalline clarity, much to your horror and embarrassment. And, because Jimin is Jimin, he'd latched onto what you'd said with the tenacity of a dog with a bone.

Fast forward to where you're sitting now, on yet another arranged date that he's planned for you— and once again, you've been stood up.

you i'm starting to wonder if any of the people you've tried to set me up with are even real

jiminnie omg they ARE you had a nice time with lisa??

Okay, so you hadn't been stood up for every date. Lisa had been the only person who'd shown up, and she was cute and friendly and you got on like a house on fire, but you'd very quickly found out that she was actually head over heels for her best friend Jennie. You being you, your first date had rapidly turned into you giving your new friend a pep-talk and hyping her up— and suffice to say you've been having weekly girl's brunches with Lisa and her now-girlfriend Jennie ever since. So, yes, technically you haven't been stood up every time, but still.

you yes, my ideal first date involves telling the other person that their best friend is definitely in love with them too :))

jiminnie I'VE ALREADY SAID THAT I'M SORRY :(

you LMAO it's fine, it's always nice to make friends but seriously minnie, like,, if your friends are going to stand me up, could you at least have had the decency to organise the date somewhere less fancy? i spent ages getting ready and noah fence it kind of feels like i just wasted a bunch of my time,,

Jimin doesn't fuck around. From the outside the bar, Dionysus, exudes a quiet aura of exclusivity. Inside, however, it has a surprisingly understated atmosphere despite its namesake being the Grecian god of Getting Turnt, the sleek interior paired with soft lighting and stylish fixtures, elegant.

Either way, it's the kind of place that warrants you actually pulling out the stops with your outfit and makeup; you rarely have a reason to doll yourself up like this and it makes a nice change of pace, but it seems like you shouldn't have bothered. What's the point in putting on a cute dress and nice heels, or doing your hair and opening your expensive Too Faced eyeshadow palette for the first time, if you're just going to be sitting alone at a bar all night? At least you don't stick out, which is good, you guess.

You are the only person who's alone, though. It's midweek and everyone else is seated around one of the tables, couples and groups that are engaged in quiet discussion or watching the show— there's a small stage where there's a quartet performing live music— but you're perched on one of the barstools, tapping away at your phone, alone. If anyone were to pay any attention it would be obvious that you've been stood up, but they're all too busy having an enjoyable evening to spare a glance at the girl sitting by herself at the bar.

The only person who's paying attention to you is the bartender. He's clearly good at his job, keeping an eye on you and making you feel welcome without seeming like he's hovering; he doesn't act like you're being an inconvenience, but you give him a hefty tip each time you order a new drink anyway. Hoseok might not be turning up tonight but if you've gone to the effort of dressing this nicely and getting a taxi here then goddamn you're going to make the most of it.

It takes forty two minutes and three virgin cocktails before the handsome bartender speaks to you, saying something beyond the customary back and forth you've had so far as he hands you your next mocktail.

"Are your friends usually this late?"

You let out a little huff of laughter. "Something like that." Normally you'd be more hesitant to speak to a stranger like this, but the bartender's eyes are warm and his smile seems genuine and from what you can tell, he's just making that sure you're okay. "Seems like it'll just be me for tonight."

"You're welcome to stay and wait as long as you like," he says, and you can't help but quirk a grin at him.

"I bet you say that to all the paying customers."

He laughs and raises his hands in surrender. "You got me." And then: "If you want another drink, just give me a shout. I'm Seokjin, but everyone calls me Jin."

"As in, Jin and tonic?" You smile. "Sure. I'll be sure to remember that. I'm Y/n."

"Nice to meet you, Y/n." Jin gives you a grin before disappearing down the other side of the bar to make drinks for some other customers. Your own smile slowly fades, and then turns into a frown, eyes landing on the clock on the wall; Hoseok is forty five minutes late at this point. (You know he's not going to show.) It's been so long that the musicians on the stage have finished their set and are leaving, a different performer about to step on, and you sigh. You'll finish this last drink and then you'll go.

You use your straw to stir the mint leaves and ice cubes around, muddling the flavours in your glass. You haven't really been paying attention to the music before now; you couldn't name the songs that have been performed so far, but they're common enough that you'd recognised the sound of them, the sort of music that most people could hum along to but probably wouldn't know the origin of. Easy listening. Pleasant, but nothing new. It's clearly more about setting a nice backdrop to the bar rather than music for music's sake. A background noise, rather than acting as the focal point of the bar.

You assume this is going to be the case for the next musician, and so you barely pay any mind as the he takes to the stage alone; you're looking down at your glass as he sits at the piano and puts his feet on the pedals and places his hands on the keys, but then, he starts to play.

Your eyes snap up. A chord hangs in the air, extended, haunting; a crescendo into a light melody; the chords dip, waters dark and deep while he weaves the higher notes with infinite softness, ebbing notes that fade into each other, his fingers dancing across the keys with grace and ease. You notice with a throb in your chest that he has no sheet music. He's pulling this music from inside him, his mind, entirely from his own memory.

His eyes are cast down as he watches his hands, but you can see how they slip shut whenever he tilts his head back, fringe hanging over them. His hair is bleached blond but he clearly hasn't been maintaining the look, with dark roots starting to show through. His posture is horrible, his spine a little curved as he slouches forward, and he's not dressed as sharply as the other musicians had been— there's no tie around his neck and he has a multitude of earrings in, rings on his fingers, changing his outfit into something a little messy and different and entirely unique.

He's fucking breathtaking.

Without realising, you've swivelled away from the bar to watch him. Your drink is still clutched in your hand but you pay it no mind, condensation gathering on the cold glass and dripping down your fingers the longer you sit there, ice cubes melting as he finishes his first song and moves onto the next. Same as the first, you don't recognise it, the melody echoing deep in your chest, speaking of some feeling that you can't put a name to, each sliding arpeggio and chord reaching inside you and hanging there, little glowing droplets that shine out like moonlight.

Each of his pieces are entirely different and yet they all feel like him, somehow. Strong and soft and lovely and aching. The water from your glass has pitter-pattered onto your lap, darkening the fabric of your dress in some nameless constellation, but you don't notice. Your world has narrowed down to: the sound of his music, the motions of his hands, the way he bends into the notes, him.

Your eyes trace his profile, the cat-like eyes, the round of his nose, the pout of his lips, falling into the way he lifts his chin and tilts his head; thoughtless, gorgeous.

You don't realise that it's over until it's over. The final notes hang in the air, crystallising, and then they fade. He finishes with little fanfare, tilting a polite nod at the audience that claps for him, and then he slips off the stage and is gone just as quickly as he had come. You blink, coming back to yourself; you feel like you're rising out of deep water, motions slow and heavy, and you don't know how long you've been sitting there, entirely entranced. You'd been too distracted to clap. You'd just sat and watched in silence as he'd turned to leave, barely sparing the room a glance.

"Good, isn't he?"

Normally you would have startled at Jin's sudden appearance. Instead you just blink again, still trying to shake off the daze you've found yourself in. "Yeah." Your voice is hoarse. You clear your throat and suck in a breath and put your drink down, dripping wetness that leaves a ring on the smooth wood of the bar, and try to speak normally this time, willing your voice to be level. "Yes. He's very good."

"Yoongi is here at the same time every week," Jin supplies, tone conversational, like he's just having a regular chat. Yoongi. His name is Yoongi. You wonder if Jin can hear how your heart is pounding, the galloping hooves of a wild horse that tumble in your chest. You try to keep your expression stoic as you look at him, scared that he'll be able to read what's written across your face— but he's smiling at you in the same way as before. Just a barkeeper who's trying to get a return customer. (Although, you'd swear there was a glint in his eye for the briefest moment, but then it's gone.) "He changes the set each time, if you're interested in coming back to hear something new."

Your mouth feels dry and you swallow, trying to wet your lips. Dionysus is too fancy of a place to ask customers for tips for the musicians, but— "Can I buy him a drink?"

Jin cocks his head at you. "A drink? For Yoongi?"

"Yes," you say. You feel a little shy when you spot his expression, biting your lip. "I just really enjoyed the music, and I'd like to tip him somehow? Is that a normal thing that people do?"

Jin pauses, and then smiles. This smile is a little wider than the ones he's given you before, different, but he seems pleased. "Who cares about what's normal? I'll get a drink to him. What would you like?"

"Um, whatever he prefers," you say. You figure that Jin would have a better idea about what that is than you, which is proven true by his almost instantaneous reply.

"He likes red wine, or whisky, neat. I think tonight is a whisky kind of night." He's already going through the motions of putting the drink together, and you slide him money as he begins to pour. You know nothing about Yoongi but you can't help but feel like the drink suits him— simple, classic, masculine. "Do you want me to pass on a message for you?"

"Um, you can just say that it's from someone who enjoyed the music, I guess?" You giggle a little, feeling awkward and off balance. Jin is looking at you like he's expecting you to say something else, but you just want to express your enjoyment of Yoongi's music and nothing more. You don't— you don't want to be weird, you just like the sound of his piano playing.

Jin disappears into the back with the glass of whisky, and you finish the watery remnants of your drink before you leave, ice cubes completely melted in the— wow— forty minutes that Yoongi had been playing. It hadn't felt that long at all.

It's not until you're stepping through your front door that you realise you haven't looked at your phone since before the beginning of Yoongi's set. Jimin's messages have been changing from apologetic to concerned to downright frantic.

jiminnie Y/N BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED HELP

you how many times should i blink if i don't need help?

jiminnie omg you're ALIVE where were you?? i was starting to get worried

you sorry i got distracted! but i'm fine, i'm at home hoseok never showed

jiminnie yeah i know :(( he messaged me saying he had an emergency and couldn't make it tonight but he's free this weekend??

you … remember when i said that this was the last blind date i was going to go on?

jiminnie it doesn't count as a date if hyung never turned up!!!

you that isn't true and you know it omg minnie… i appreciate what you're trying to do but pls bb. let it rest

jiminnie i just want you to be happy :((

you i don't have to be in a relationship to be happy

jiminnie you said you were lonely!

you omg i was DRUNK let it GO besides being stood up by multiple blind dates isn't going to help me feel less lonely lmao i get that you're happy in your relationship with kookie and you want to spread that happiness but you don't have to!! i'm fine!! yeah i get lonely sometimes but what single person doesn't?? i'm happy being by myself hhhhh

jiminnie fine :(( but if you change your mind, hobi-hyung would still love to meet you!

As you kick off your heels, humming a bar of Yoongi's music to yourself, you think that Hoseok probably shouldn't bother holding his breath.

(That night, when you sleep, you dream of dark eyes and the press of a sinfully perfect cupid's bow against your own lips, a pair of large hands drawing noises from you like a glissando, rings cool against your heated skin.)

–

Wednesday nights become a ritual of sorts. You get dressed, do your hair, match your makeup to your outfit and shoes, coordinating your look into something that doesn't look out of place in Dionysus before you hop into a taxi and make your way to the bar.

You're a firm regular by now. Your seat has become just that, your seat, the same one you'd been sitting in the first time you'd been there; it's towards the dimmer lights at the back and so you're sitting further away from the stage than you might like, but at least you can see the whole room from here. You turn up twenty minutes before Yoongi's set and Jin always greets you warmly when he sees you: you've quickly come to enjoy your chats. Jin is always unashamedly himself and the two of you joke and laugh as he works, but he always knows to leave you alone as soon as Yoongi steps onto the stage.

For the next forty minutes the rest of the world fades away as you drink Yoongi and his music in, listen to the lilting notes he coaxes out of the piano, watch how his fingers rest on each key before he slides into his next piece, reverent.

You never ever explicitly mention Yoongi in your conversations with Jin, though. The bartender seems to bring the musician up anyway; he does it smoothly, in a way that's utterly casual, and he seems to know a surprising amount about someone who is, by all accounts, a very private person. (You're not complaining about the fact that you now know that Yoongi wears Kumamon slippers because his feet get cold easily— "he's cold blooded, like a lizard," apparently— but you do wonder how Jin knows that.)

The Yoongi that Jin describes is just as beautiful as the man you see on stage, but less mysterious, less distant— and yet he still intimidates you.

Jin might be his friend but to you Yoongi is unapproachable. Untouchable. To him you're just a nameless face in the audience, nothing more. His eyes will slide across the room before he starts his performance, but he never seems to notice you; it's no surprise, sitting where you do, in an area of relative darkness in comparison to the rest of the bar, and once he sits down he only looks at the piano under his hands. He has no eyes for anything else. You're far enough away and his lashes are cast so low that even when his eyes are open it's hard for you to see where he's looking, and the shadow of his fringe hides how his pupils scan his hands as he plays, anyway.

Every week, when the set draws to a close, Jin is already pouring Yoongi's whisky or wine and you slide him the exact amount of change. Every week, Jin asks if you want to pass on a message, and every week, you say the same thing: that it's from someone who enjoyed the music. And that's that. Jin will disappear to give Yoongi his drink and you'll finish your own drink in quiet solitude before you slide off your barstool to go home.

(The only thing that's changed over the weeks is that the music Yoongi plays seems to be a little lighter and— dare you say— happier? He still looks down at the piano with the same intensity, still lays his hands on the keys with the same delicate pressing weight before he begins to play— but with some songs he seems to be teasing the music out, flirting with each note, eyelashes fluttering as he lifts his chin and moves his hands.

You're not a musician by any means, so you don't know how to describe it with any sort of accuracy or terminology, but to you it's like the deep waters of Yoongi's music have been cut through with light, beams of sun rippling through the dark blue. You don't know what's caused this change, the slow uplift in his mood throughout the weeks, but you hope he manages to keep hold of it, whatever it is.)

Between work and studying and volunteering and making time to see friends, you don't often have time entirely to yourself, and so Wednesday nights are a rare moment of peace during your otherwise busy week. That's why when Jimin says that he's had to rearrange your weekly film night to Wednesday— because he and Jungkook are going down to Busan to see each other's families this weekend— you decline.

Jimin is rendered speechless and demands to know why.

"I'm busy," is your answer. Jimin doesn't buy it.

"You're never too busy for movie night," he says. "Wednesday is the only night we're all free."

"Well, I'm not free, Minnie. Sorry," you say. His head is in your lap, your fingers gently stroking his hair, and you can easily see the way his face contorts with disbelief as he stares up at you.

"Do you hear that, babe? Y/n is too busy for our weekly tradition." Jimin sounds scandalised.

Jimin is stretched out between the two of you— while his head is in your lap, his feet are in Jungkook's, the younger man idly massaging his boyfriend's ankles and feet. "Yes, babe, I heard," Jungkook says, indulgent.

"What's more important than movie night?" Jimin lifts one of his legs and Jungkook turns his attention to that one, digging his fingers into the arch of Jimin's foot. Jimin sighs in relief, but then turns the full force of his stare back at you. "We were going to watch Spirited Away. You love Spirited Away."

"I'm just busy," you say, and that had been your mistake. You should have had some sort of credible reason but you hadn't been prepared, and while he hadn't made it obvious at the time, Jimin had latched onto your vague excuse, sniffing out weakness like a shark with blood in the water. If you'd been paying attention you'd have noticed, but you hadn't paid attention and so you hadn't noticed. (Whoops.)

And so, Wednesday night that week is the same as always; Yoongi plays his music, you fall a little bit more in love, and pass your compliments to him with Jin as the mouthpiece. You go home, wash your makeup off, and arch into the touch of your own hand while imagining it's someone else's fingers sliding across your skin. Routine. Normal. Uninterrupted. Peaceful.

The next week, however, it all goes to shit.

Okay. Maybe that's a little dramatic. It's not as bad as all that. The night starts as normal: you're on your stool, and you have your drink, and you have ten minutes until Yoongi is due to play, shifting to get comfortable, crossing your legs.

But then:

"Oh my God, you're wearing your come fuck me heels," comes Jimin's voice from behind you, and your blood turns to ice.

You turn on the barstool so fast you almost fall off it. You come face to face with Jimin who has an expression of what can only be described as sheer delight on his face. He's even dressed appropriately for the bar, a silk shirt tucked into his Very Tight jeans and a subtle smoky eye to top it off; Jungkook looks nice, too, but you have no doubt that he's only here under sufferance, if the infinitely apologetic look on his face is anything to go by.

"Jimin?" Your voice comes out as a hiss. If you were a cat your back would be up and your hackles would be raised and all your fur would be on end, your entire body going into fight mode. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to see for myself what was more important than movie night," Jimin says simply, like it's obvious. "So here we are."

"Sorry, Y/n," Jungkook apologises from over his boyfriend's shoulder. Jimin ignores him.

You can feel how your face is starting to flush, your skin crawling with embarrassment. You change your outfit every week and your friends have managed to turn up on the one week where you've cycled into what could probably be considered your most promiscuous one, the hem of your dress high and the cut of it low, along with shoes that Jimin had rightfully named as your Come Fuck Me heels. It wasn't because you were trying to seduce anyone but you only have so many items in your wardrobe that are appropriate for Dionysus.

"How did you find me?"

"I have my ways," Jimin says mysteriously.

"He stalked your Bitmoji on Snapchat. Ow." Jungkook pouts as Jimin slaps his arm. "Sorry, again. I said we should leave you alone but Jimin said we should check in case you'd been kidnapped because you never willingly go into bars."

You're interrupted by Jin, who'd been busy serving someone when your idiot friends had turned up; he leans across the bar and touches your shoulder and fixes Jimin and Jungkook with the most intimidating look you've ever seen on his face. You know Jin as a light-hearted pun master, harmless and goofy and approachable, a great friend— but right now he looks like some sort of beautiful guardian angel, broad shouldered and narrow eyed and honestly, pretty menacing.

"Are you alright?" He keeps his eyes on the other two men as he speaks. "Are these guys bothering you?"

Jimin, rather than looking cowed, looks like he's reached a stage of absolute euphoria, eyes darting between Jin's hand on your shoulder to your face. Jungkook's face, meanwhile, is doing that thing it does whenever someone issues him some kind of challenge, his sweetness abruptly being swallowed by his competitive side and his stubborn refusal to lose anything. You're the only person who has the power to save this situation before it goes absolutely tits up, and you swallow down a resigned sigh.

"I'm fine, thank you, Jin," you say, looking at him with a smile as you pat the hand on your shoulder. "Unfortunately these guys are my friends, much to my infinite suffering. Well, Jungkook's alright. Jimin is the one who's the pain."

"Hey," Jimin whines. Jungkook looks quietly pleased, but pretends to scowl when Jimin looks at him, offended on his boyfriend's behalf.

Jin still seems unhappy but pulls his hand back. "Alright," he says, but then he pitches his voice low so that only you can hear: "If you need any help, just ask me for a rum and soda, okay?"

You always order mocktails whenever you're here, wanting to stay completely sober so that you can enjoy Yoongi's playing with all the attention it deserves. You've never asked for anything alcoholic, least of all a rum and soda. Although you really are okay, you can't help but be warmed by Jin's concern for you and how he's offering you this careful, considerate lifeline in case you need it. "I will do. Thanks, Jinnie."

He smiles at you and then gives Jungkook and Jimin one final frown before going to deal with a gaggle of customers who've gathered at the other end of the bar. While Jungkook remains standing, taking in the interior of the bar with wide eyes, Jimin slides onto the stool next to yours.

"He's fucking hot," Jimin says with no preamble, eyeing Jin without shame as the bartender starts to pour and mix different drinks. Jungkook makes a disgruntled noise but settles when Jimin pats him fondly on the butt. "I'm not surprised you're wearing those heels. I would too if I were you."

"Oh my God, Jimin." You hide your face in your hands. "Jin is just a friend, please don't make this weird."

"Come on, Y/n, it's okay," Jimin says reassuringly as he pats your shoulder, replacing Jin's touch with his own. "The blind dates might not have worked out, but you've met someone nice so that's good! I mean, you did meet him because I organised the date here in the first place, but I'll let that slide. Also I can't believe you missed movie night because of a boy and you didn't tell me, but I'll let that slide too because I love you."

Park Jimin is your best friend. Park Jimin meddles in your life despite your protestations and isn't beyond being passive aggressive to get his way, but Park Jimin is also one of the nicest people you know and everything he does is because he loves you and will do whatever he thinks is necessary to reach his end goal of making you happy. He's magnanimous and kind and caring, and he also has absolutely the wrong idea right now, clearly under the impression that you're attracted to Seokjin and have been flirting with him for however many weeks it's been since you were meant to meet Hoseok here.

"No, seriously, Jimin, it's not Jin." You look at Jimin through the gaps in your fingers. "He's cute, yeah, but I don't come here because of him."

Your friend looks genuinely baffled, hand stilling on your shoulder. "Then why are you here?"

And, with perfect timing— as if your life is some badly written film or romantic drama— the clock ticks over to 8pm and Yoongi steps onto the stage. His hair is dark, blond replaced with black a few weeks ago, though it's still long enough that it hangs in his eyes; he looks a little ragged around the edges, a little messy, a little tired, and altogether beautiful. You want to touch the coolness of your fingertips to the dark circles under his eyes, want to press kisses across each of his bony knuckles, want to let your tongue settle in the hollow of his neck that shows each time he leans back and tilts his head up just so.

You hadn't even meant to but you'd turned away from Jimin the second you'd heard piano notes begin to play, drawn in by the sound like a moth to a flame. Jimin's hand falls off your shoulder and you hear him breathe out a quiet oh of realisation. You tear your eyes away from the sight of Yoongi at the piano and turn on your stool to face the bar again, gripping your glass with both hands, shoulders hunched.

"I like to watch him play," you say, and your voice is near a whisper, so as not to detract from the music.

"It's beautiful," Jungkook says, speaking before Jimin can say anything. His voice is quiet, too, not wanting to break over the sound of the piano.

And so you hear with absolute clarity as Yoongi shifts mid-song into something different and it startles you. Yoongi always varies his music, always has something new, but you've been here often enough that you had recognised the opening song— it was one of your favourites— and you know that he's cut himself off before finishing, soft melody jumping into the opening bars of something different, sharper, a little angry, maybe sorrowful. Something that pulls at you and demands your attention.

Of course you give it to him. You swing your head away from your drink to watch him once more, watch how his motions have changed, the way he surges forward and presses his weight into his arms and down into his hands, his fingertips, the keys. You turn your entire body at this point, settling in your usual position for when you watch Yoongi; you see how his head tilts and he shifts from a minor into a major key, the same notes and chords transformed from something pensive into something joyful as he leans away from the heavier hands he'd been forcing the keys down with.

"How long does this go on for?" Jimin asks.

"About thirty or forty minutes," you answer. Though you turn your head back over your shoulder so that Jimin can hear you, you keep your eyes fixed on Yoongi. It's probably entirely coincidental, the sudden change in his music coinciding with when you turned away from him and when you looked back. He's not playing for you, he's playing for the whole bar, and besides, he's been looking down at the piano the whole time. He hasn't been looking at you.

And yet. The idea that Yoongi has noticed you and wants you to watch him has something hot settling low in your belly.

Jimin leans forward so that his chin is on your shoulder, talking directly into your ear as his hands wrap around your waist from behind. "This is the guy?"

Yoongi finishes the song and you watch in captivation as he swallows and runs a hand through his hair before he starts the next one. He's never done that before. Fuck. "Yes. Yoongi's the guy."

"Do you wait until he's finished so you can speak with him?" Jimin asks, ever curious.

You pause. "No," you admit. "No, I've never actually spoken to him."

Jimin doesn't ask why you've been coming back to see a guy you don't know and haven't talked to. He just hums gently. Jimin is pushy but he's also understanding and empathetic and knows what to say, when to press forward and when to hold back. It's one of the reasons you love him so much.

Jimin lapses into silence as Yoongi starts the next piece. It's one you haven't heard before and it's a little fiercer than most of Yoongi's recent songs. Rather than each note sliding into the next, he hammers them out separately, each note a statement that builds into something larger, a provocation. A storm gathering above Yoongi's waters, threatening to pull you in, pull you under.

Behind you, you hear Jungkook and Jimin briefly murmuring to each other, then Jimin's hands slide from off your waist and you hear the sound of him shifting so that Jungkook can sit down, Jimin using his boyfriend's lap as a chair instead. You have to wonder if the barstools can actually support that kind of weight, but Jin doesn't come over to tell them off, so you figure it must be okay.

On stage, Yoongi's hands pause, an uncharacteristic caesura that breaks the flow of the notes he'd been stringing together before he resumes playing as if this hiccup had never occurred. To anyone else, it would sound like that break was meant to be there, but you know better. You know Yoongi had faltered.

No way.

No way?

He's paying attention to you.

(Oh, shit.)

No way.

You're suddenly so overwhelmed that you actually feel nauseous. You've been consumed with thoughts of Yoongi for weeks, had images of him playing you just as easily as he does that piano, thoughts of him laying you out bare beneath him, but the idea that Yoongi actually knows who you are? Is aware of you on some level? Wants your eyes on him?

Fuck.

It's too much.

You're already off kilter from Jimin and Jungkook's arrival— as harmless as their appearance was meant to be— and this is the cherry on top. You don't know if you can keep your composure right now and you need to get away from Yoongi before you end up walking onto the stage and pulling him off that stupid piano stool to show him exactly how much you enjoy his music.

"Jimin? Jungkook? How about you say we go to a club and get absolutely shitfaced?"

You haven't looked away from Yoongi in the time that you've said this, but you can just feel the confusion emanating from the men behind you.

"But you—"

"I thought—"

"We're already dressed up, aren't we? Besides, I still owe you for film night, so drinks are on me."

There's little argument from them after that. For the first time since you've been coming here you leave before Yoongi's set is done, slipping out of the bar without noticing Jin's confused gaze on you.

It's not until much later, once you've drunkenly fallen onto Jimin and Jungkook's couch, that the sober part of your brain whispers to you: you didn't buy Yoongi his drink.

(That night you dream of stormy skies and tattered sails and a capsizing ship. Once you wake, the memory of the dream quickly leaves you, and the last thing you remember is the sight of someone reaching towards you, pulling you out of the water, skin pale and head ringed with blond hair, a halo— and then you forget that too, slipping through your fingers like quicksand.)

–

Of course you go back to Dionysus the next week. You make Jimin promise that he won't turn up without warning again, and then you make Jungkook promise that he'll at least send you a heads-up message if Jimin changes his mind. Despite both these promises, after the debacle last week with your outfit, you've actually bought new clothes, so at least today you don't feel as scandalous. (You still look hot, though.)

You're grateful when Jin doesn't press you for details or ask why you left early last week. He just greets you like he normally does and predicts your order with his usual aptitude, and as you stir your drink with your straw, you have to wonder at what happened. You're probably overreacting, overthinking things, grasping at nothing; there is not a chance in hell that Min Yoongi, reclusive piano savant, has noticed you. No way. Nuh-uh.

He's probably only aware of your existence because of the repeated drinks you've had Jin foist on him. If anything he's probably annoyed at you after not tipping him with last week— he's probably come to expect them by now and you'd forced him to miss out. Maybe you'll get Jin to give him two drinks this week? Ooh, then again, maybe not. Is two shots of whisky a lot? People drink doubles, don't they. How strong is the wine he likes, anyway?

Yoongi's appearance on stage pulls you out of your thoughts. He makes his way up the steps, towards the piano, scans the room— and then for the first time since you've been coming here to watch him, he stops.

He stops because he's looking at you.

It's only for the briefest moment, eyes resting on you for maybe five seconds, and then you breathlessly watch as his mouth twists into something that can only be described as a smirk, pleased at the sight of you.

Oh, God.

He looks away and sits at the piano like he normally does, but you would swear that his back is a little straighter— something in his posture that reads as cockiness, even. He launches into a song that starts light but then almost immediately dances into something flirtatious, seductive, and tonight whenever Yoongi glances at you, he makes sure that you know. He turns his head just so, looks at you through the curve of his lashes, each touch of those dark eyes against your own sending little shivers through you, punching the breath out of your lungs.

You've always been entranced by Yoongi and tonight is no different. The minutes slide by as easy as water, liquid, music gliding over you like the rising tide, kissing your skin like the ebb and flow of the waves. It feels like he's barely started when his set is over and he's finished, standing up with as little ostentation as always before he vanishes off the stage.

You already have the money counted out before Jin has made his way over. You slide it towards him as he pours the whisky, but rather than asking if you have a message to pass to Yoongi, a look of consternation passes over his face.

"The price has gone up," Jin says, and you blink.

"Oh, that's no problem. How much is it now?" You're reaching for your purse to get more money out when Jin puts the whisky on the bar in front of you.

"No, don't worry, I'll just go out back and get the right change for you," he says. He says it with such confidence that it takes you a beat too long to realise that what he's just said makes no sense— why is he getting you change if you haven't even given him enough money? Isn’t there change in the till?— but by this point he's already gone, the staff door swinging shut behind him.

You tilt your head, beyond confused.

Someone chuckles from behind you, the sound quiet and low. "Ah, cute."

You twist in your seat to see who's talking and then freeze. Yoongi is standing right there, looking at you with his dark, dark eyes; it's the first time you've been subjected to the full intensity of his gaze, from this close, and your pulse picks up. He looks a little softer without the lights of the small stage throwing him into sharp relief but his aura is just as intense; your eyes dart across each feature of his face as you drink him in— the mess of his fringe hanging into his sharp eyes, the faintest freckle on his nose, his surprisingly cute cheeks, his pink mouth.

The mouth that's curving into a sly little smile, now, your eyes flying back up to meet his own.

"I'm guessing this is for me?" He points at the whisky. He takes it before you can answer, and there's something unfairly erotic about how he drinks it: the way he holds the glass, swirling the whisky over the chilled rocks inside; the way his mouth falls open as the tumbler touches his lips; the way his head tilts back as he lets the liquor flow into his mouth, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

You shamelessly watch him the whole time. He lowers the glass from his lips, still a little parted as he takes a breath in, and then he's looking back at you. You have to bite back a noise that's risen up in your throat, unbidden. Does he know how much he affects you?

You adjust your position on the barstool, thoughtlessly uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you regain your balance. Yoongi's eyes fly down to watch the motion and you're close enough to him that you see how his pupils dilate at the movement. A breath escapes your mouth, a little pant of air that you desperately mask as a cough as you try to calm the racing of your heart, the flood of arousal that's pulsing through you.

"I'm glad you like the whisky," you say, your voice steady despite how your legs feel like they're about to give out. (Thank god you're sitting down.) "I'm sorry to have deprived you of it last week."

Yoongi's shifted so that he's leaning against the bar. He's standing while you're still sitting and you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "You did seem like you were in an awful hurry," he says, a teasing lilt to his tone, and yet his voice is still so low, deeper than you'd imagined.

Despite the levity in his words there's something heavy in his gaze. "Oh?" You can't help but react to it, helpless and unable to resist. "You noticed me leaving?"

Yoongi's eyes sharpen. Hooked. "Of course," he says. "You're the only thing I pay attention to when I'm here. You have been from the first night you walked in."

Your breath catches in your throat. You hadn't expected Yoongi to say something so forthright, to be so direct, more used to coy flirtation from the other people you've met in the past; it's like you've been dipped in cold water, a shock to the system, bracing and invigorating and refreshing.

"Oh," you say, at a loss with how to respond. Yoongi seems pleased to have gotten this reaction out of you, the corners of his lips curving upwards in a self satisfied smile.

"Besides," he adds, "I find it flattering that not only do you come here every week to watch me, you always make sure to make your appreciation known, too." He lifts the glass up and takes another drink, but this time he keeps his eyes locked on yours as he does, gaze unwavering as he finishes his drink. The rocks tumble over themselves as he sets the glass down on the bar, lower lip wet with a drop of whisky that lingers; his tongue sweeps across it and leaves a sheen, catching the light, shining. You can't tear your eyes away from the sight. "It would have been hard to ignore that even if I'd wanted to."

A shiver trickles down your spine. You'd really only ever meant it as a compliment, a quiet way to express your admiration about his craft, and you have to ask— "How long have you been playing the piano?"

This question seems to throw Yoongi off kilter. You see the way his lashes flutter as he blinks with surprise. "For as long as I can remember," he says, and then a small smile appears on his lips. "When I was young I had a toy piano that I constantly used to hammer at, so when I grew up a little, my parents bought the real thing so that I could learn how to play."

He sounds nostalgic and your heart squeezes in your chest. "You're self-taught, right?" You ask, remembering something Jin had told you before.

Yoongi looks briefly startled. "Yes, I am," he says, and then his eyes narrow. "Did Jin tell you that?"

"Um, yeah." You squirm a little on the barstool. "Sorry, should I not have said anything about it?"

"No, no, you're okay. It's just that Jin says a lot of things, and I'm just wondering what else he said to you." Yoongi's tone is weirdly pained.

The concern is obvious on his face, and you wonder if Jin is to Yoongi what Jimin is to you— well-meaning but maybe a little overwhelming in their approach.

"All good things, I promise. I love dogs, too." You smile up at Yoongi, who seems a little taken aback, and the smile starts to drop off your face. "Um. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." For all that Yoongi was smirking earlier, he seems a little unsure now. You feel confused, waiting as Yoongi clearly turns some thoughts over in his head, and then he says: "What exactly has Jin told you?"

You smile. You recognise that tone, the nonchalance that hides a little worry— it's exactly how you sound whenever you find out that Jimin has been speaking to someone about you, even if it's always positively. "Oh, just bits and pieces," you say. Feeling bold, you pat the barstool next to you, tilting your head invitingly. "Why don't you tell me about yourself instead so we can see if Jin was lying to me?"

Yoongi looks genuinely startled, his eyes widening imperceptibly before the expression wipes off his face as if nothing had happened. "Why not," he says, as if in equal parts to himself and to you, before he takes a seat.

Here's what you learn about Yoongi: he's intense, yes, and soft spoken, but as you continue to talk, he begins to loosen up, bit by bit. When he laughs he smiles so wide that his eyes squeeze shut and you can see his gums and you're so fucking endeared at the sight. He's sharp and smart and witty and just so, so intriguing.

You prop your elbow on the bar and rest your cheek in your hand as he talks, wanting to take everything in, and you rapidly realise that Min Yoongi is less of an enigma than you'd thought, but just as complex as you'd expected— and you want to unravel that complexity. If he'll let you.

You've been talking for so long that the bar has started to empty out, patrons trickling away, the two of you so engrossed with each other that you barely notice. You find out that Jin and Yoongi are actually roommates, best friends, and that Jin is as chaotic as you'd expect and is also very good at drawing Yoongi into his shenanigans; you throw your head back to laugh at one of his stories, and when you catch your breath you find Yoongi looking at you, watching you with an expression on his face that makes you pause. He's been watching you intently all night, listening quietly whenever you talk, but this expression, this is new. He swallows.

"Can I ask something?"

You blink. "Sure, go ahead."

"Why did you keep coming back?" Yoongi asks, and that's not a question you'd been expecting at all.

"Uh," you say eloquently. "Well. Honestly? I couldn't stay away, I guess. I'm not really a musician, and I don't know a lot about the piano, but there's something in your music and the way you play— every song makes me feel something different and new, or reminds me of something I haven't felt, places I haven't been to, but I feel like I know somehow. Like I'm nostalgic for something that I haven't experienced, that doesn't exist. It's almost like you're taking my hand and showing me around some hidden part of the world that only you can see— like you've made it into music because that's the only way you can communicate it. How could I not come back after that?" You pause. "Um. Does that make sense? I feel like it didn't. Sorry?"

Yoongi's been watching you as you've been talking, silent, and by the time you've finished his mouth has fallen open a little. He stares at you for a few moments longer, and then he says: "Holy shit." And then he says: "Oh my God." And then he says: "What the fuck."

"… I guess it didn't make sense, then?" Despite the ease of your earlier conversation you suddenly feel awkward, laughing a little as your legs uncross so that you can shuffle to the edge of your barstool. Ready to hop up and make a quick get away if you need to. Run away from the embarrassment. "Um."

"Y/n," Yoongi says, and you realise with a start that you haven't introduced yourself to him throughout your whole conversation— Jin must have told him your name— but then he keeps talking. "I thought you just— I don't know, that you just kept coming back because of me. Not the music. Then Jin kept talking about you and—"

He makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and runs a hand through his hair; you stare at his bared forehead, and it says about how attracted you are to him that the sight of his forehead is enough to set your heart racing. "I thought that maybe if I let this happen just one time that it would be enough, but now I don't think it will."

"Yoongi." You're confused, unsure if you've correctly understood what he's just said. "Let what happen one time? What are you talking about?"

"Touching you," Yoongi says. "Fucking you." His voice is a rasp and the sound of it, the sound of his words, shoots straight through you and into your core. "I thought the drinks were— I don't know, an invitation. But they weren't, were they? You really meant it. You really like my music. And me."

Yoongi's voice is hoarse and you come to the realisation that he feels tense. Like he can accept that you want to have sex with him, but he's bowled over by the idea that you're attracted to the other parts, too, as few of those as you know. That you genuinely enjoy what he plays. That you think it's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.

"Yoongi," you say, tone deceptively gentle. "I really, really like your music, and I think you're an incredibly talented musician, and I've been memorising everything Jin's been telling me about you because I think you're one of the most interesting people I've ever come across and I'd really like to get to know more about you. So I'm really glad to have had the opportunity to talk to you like this." You gesture between the two of you, sitting as you are, facing towards each other on your barstools. And then you brace yourself to take the leap, to throw yourself into uncharted waters. "However, I am also insanely attracted to you and I've spent the past I-don't-know-how-many weeks picturing you bending me over that piano and fucking me so hard that I can't walk straight."

Yoongi freezes in the middle of rubbing the back of his neck, a clearly nervous habit. Though your voice has kept steady while you've been talking, your heart has been thrumming in your chest the whole time, feeling as nervous as Yoongi looks. Something flickers across his face, and his hand drops away from his neck as he straightens, pushing himself off from where he's been leaning against the bar.

"Oh?" He leans towards you. Your legs unthinkingly part as he moves, the material of your dress hitching up as you spread your knees so that he can get closer. "So you do want me to fuck you?"

His nervousness seems to be entirely gone, emboldened by your words. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair as he holds you in place, at his mercy. He's barely touched you but the feeling of contact makes you bite back a whimper. Even though it's darker here and you're away from the tables, away from the few remaining patrons of the bar, the two of you are in plain sight even under the dimmed lights; you're not doing anything illicit or inappropriate but a little thrill trickles down your spine at the idea.

"Yoongi," you breathe.

"What is it, babygirl?" He tips his head down as he moves closer, his nose brushing yours, each of his words a warm curl across your lips. "Tell me."

The pet name sends a shiver through you. Your hands rise from your lap, sliding over his chest to touch lightly at his neck, a little shy, a little bold. "I want you to kiss me."

"Oh?" Yoongi's mouth is so close to yours, and when you tilt forward to kiss him, he stays just out of your reach, leaving you wanting. "You think you deserve a kiss, do you?"

You can't help but make a little noise, a petulant whine at the back of your throat. He has you entirely at his mercy and he knows it. "Please," you say. "Please, Yoongi, wanna kiss you so bad."

The smile he gives you in reply is wicked. "How can I say no when you've asked so politely?"

Yoongi finally, finally dips his head down and then he's kissing you with such intensity it steals the breath out of you. It's open-mouthed and wet and dirty, his tongue sliding into your mouth in between taking your top and bottom lips between his own, alternating, sucking on them and lapping at them with his tongue. You chase after his mouth with your own, roll your tongues together, hands sliding over the smooth skin of his throat as they circle behind his neck, but then Yoongi pulls away; you bite that needy whine back again, kiss cut short far sooner than you would have liked.

Yoongi is taking the sight of you in, eyes lingering on your shining lips, and then he's rising to stand. You're shaken out of your kiss-induced haze when he does, a little confused, but he takes your hand in his and you let him lift up, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to the back of your knuckles.

"Do you want to get out of here?" His voice is pitched low, deep with a promise of pleasure to come, and you shiver.

"God, I thought you'd never ask," you say in a rush, and he just laughs quietly at your obvious desperation.

"Come on, then." He helps you off the barstool, your hand still in his— god, his hands are so big and his touch is so warm. His eyes are dark as he watches the way you reach to rearrange the hem of your dress with your free hand, but he beats you to it, palm flattening the material against your legs; his fingers dance just under the edge as he straightens it, hand sliding over the skin of your inner thigh and lingering before he pulls away.

"You're shameless," you say, a little breathless, and Yoongi just smirks at you. Tease.

Your fingers remain tangled with his as he leads you behind the bar and through the staff door. Jin's out back, scrolling through something on his phone, but as soon as you walk in he abandons whatever he's doing and raises his eyebrows. He looks surprisingly severe. "Customers aren't allowed back here."

Your eyes widen, but then Jin's serious expression cracks and he starts to laugh. Although he's joking and clearly doesn't care, you feel a little guilty at breaking the rules and duck behind Yoongi, shy. Yoongi snorts and holds a middle finger up at the bartender.

Jin gasps theatrically, clutching his chest while looking askance. "I raise you from birth and this is the thanks I get?"

"You're one year older than me, hyung."

"I carry you in my womb for nine months and birth you into this world and you— oh, okay, you technically shouldn't be doing that either," Jin says, stopping mid-sentence as Yoongi decides his hyung has been talking for too long and turns away from him to start kissing you again, shameless as he tugs you close to him and licks into your mouth; you immediately fall back into him, unable to resist. "Jesus Christ, Yoongi."

Once you part, you bury your head into Yoongi's chest as his arms come around you, hiding your embarrassment in Yoongi's dress shirt. "Sorry, Jinnie," you say, muffled.

"You are absolutely not to blame here, Y/n, you are an angel and a sweetheart." Jin's tone is soothing. "Yoongi, however, is a tiny evil gremlin who needs to learn how to control himself. Though I can't blame him, you are very cute."

"Hyung, I need the apartment tonight," Yoongi says without preamble. You wriggle in the circle of his arms. You're not normally this timid but Yoongi is just so direct and blasé with Jin that you can't help but feel a little shy, as hot and bothered as you are.

"I'll crash at Joon's," the bartender says. He’s obviously not surprised. You lift your head from Yoongi's chest to look at Jin and find that he's smiling at you. "If Yoongi starts to bother you, just whap him on the nose. I find a rolled up newspaper works best if you have one to hand."

"I'll kill you, Kim Seokjin," Yoongi says.

Jin just laughs as he waves the two of you off and you take the initiative to start pulling Yoongi towards the back door. He comes easily, but once the door has swung shut behind you he takes the lead again and guides you towards his car. He lets go of your hand so that he can unlock it, swinging the passenger door open for you, and he's unabashed in how he watches you step in and eyes the way your dress hitches up again as you slide into your seat; he leans against the car and just stares at you.

There's honestly nothing sexier when someone clearly wants you as much as you want them. It makes you feel bold, drunk on the way he looks at you.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "The sooner we get to yours, the sooner you can have me," you say.

Yoongi curses under his breath. "You're going to be the death of me."

Surprisingly enough, though, he keeps his hands to himself when he gets behind the wheel. You can't help but feel a little surprised; you don't know how close Yoongi's home is to the bar, but you very rapidly tire of waiting to feel his hands on you again and so you lean over the centre console and press a fleeting kiss just behind his ear.

Yoongi doesn't outwardly react, continuing to stare at the road, so you take this as a challenge. You slide one of your hands onto his thigh— for balance, of course— and kiss behind his ear again, tug his lobe with your teeth, mindful of his piercings, and then proceed to trail little kisses down his neck and the little slither of his collarbone that you can reach without his shirt getting in the way. You finally get to lick your tongue in the hollow of his neck that you've been thinking about for weeks.

Yoongi's hands tighten on the steering wheel. Jackpot.

"Y/n," he says, voice low, and you're so close to his throat that you can hear the rumble behind his words. You love it. "You should stop now, or we're not going to make it to my apartment."

You go still. Yoongi continues to look at the road but his knuckles are white with how hard he's gripping the wheel, and when you glance down you can see how much you've affected him, cock hardening in his slacks. It would be so easy to slide your hand up his thigh and finally touch him, have him pull over and wreck you, but you want something more than a quick fumble in the seat of a car.

So you just press your lips lightly against the line of his jaw one last time. You let yourself breathe in the dark scent of his cologne— pinewood and pepper and something deeper— before you pull back, folding your hands in your lap demurely, trying to force yourself to be content with waiting.

"Good girl," Yoongi says. You can't help but preen; you don't normally respond to praise like this, but something about Yoongi just makes you want to please him, hear him compliment you again. Yoongi glances at you, a little flicker of realisation as he sees how you've just reacted to his words, and his eyes darken. "You like that, baby? Like being a good girl for me?"

Fuck. "Yes." Your pulse is rising. You've been craving Yoongi for weeks, but god, if he asked you to go home right now, sent you home without touching you, you'd go, just to hear him call you a good girl again. But you don't want him to leave you untouched, you don't want that at all. "I want you to touch me, Yoongi," you say. "I'll be a good girl, please just touch me."

"Fuck." Yoongi's foot presses down on the accelerator. He's never wanted to live closer to the bar before, but the sight of you staring at him from his passenger seat and rubbing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to give yourself some relief is making him rethink his housing location. "I will, baby. We'll be there soon."

Soon turns out to be less than five minutes, scarcely any time at all, though each second is torturous in how long it feels. Yoongi's careless in how he parks the car, wonky within the lines of his spot, but neither of you notice or care. You fumble with the buckle of your belt, climbing out of the car as quickly as you can and slamming the door shut with more power than you probably need to, noise loud in the quiet of the night.

Before you can react, however, Yoongi is rounding the car and grabbing you, pressing you against the metal and glass of the door. One of his hands slips under your thigh, lifting your leg and shoving the hem of your dress out of the way so that he can grind against you; you gasp at the feeling of his growing hardness against the dampness of your underwear, and Yoongi leans forward to swallow the sound into his mouth.

The kiss is rushed and desperate, but you love the messiness of it. Yoongi pulls away to press his lips against the side of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your neck, mouthing at the jumping pulse he finds there. You start to make small ah-ah noises when he laves his tongue over it, one of your hands tangling in his hair as you tilt your head back, each of his touches fizzing like electricity on your skin.

"P-people could see," you stutter, struggling to catch your breath with how good his mouth feels on you.

Yoongi smirks against your skin. "I thought you wanted me to touch you," he says, but immediately relents, pulling away from you so he can lead you into the building. You miss the heat of his body against yours but he keeps hold of your hand as you follow him; it's late and the building seems quiet, so you're mindful of just how loud your high heels sound as they clack on the floor, though Yoongi doesn't seem to care.

When you step into the apartment you reach down for the straps on your shoes so you can kick them off but Yoongi stops you with a hand to your shoulder. It's a light touch but you stop immediately, glancing up from your feet to his face.

"Let me," he says, and a hot trickle of arousal runs down your spine at the tone of his voice.

You straighten up and watch as Yoongi gets down on one knee, hands circling around your ankle and lifting your foot. You rest the toe of your shoe lightly on Yoongi's knee, watching as he undoes the strap around your ankle and slides the shoe off, setting it to one side, before he presses his lips to the inside of your knee. You shiver at the light touch and Yoongi smirks, letting your ankle go so you can move and he can take your other shoe off, too.

He barely takes his eyes off your face the whole time, only glancing down when he has to. His motions are slow and unhurried despite his earlier rush, carefully setting the second shoe next to the first, and you can't help but feel like he's teasing you— drawing out your reactions just because he can. Before you can say anything about it, though, his hands trail up from your calves to your thigh before he hitches your leg over his shoulder, one hand staying on your thigh as the other grips at your hip.

You bite back a gasp. From his angle Yoongi can see everything and he's looking up with hooded eyes, staring at the dark patch on your underwear, wet for him; his gaze trails across the lace of the lingerie you're wearing, the small colourful flowers blooming across the dark material. It was something you'd put on to complete your outfit, the matching panties and bra making you feel expensive and pretty— even if you hadn't expected anyone to see it.

"Look at you," he says, hand lowering from your hip to trace lightly across your slit; it's a barely-there touch, sensation dulled by the material in the way, but you still jolt at the feeling of it. "Did you wear this for me?"

"Of course," you confess. You've wanted his eyes on you for so long. "Always dress up pretty for you."

"Fuck." He sounds reverent. "You've always been such a good girl for me, haven't you?"

A needy noise rises unbidden at the back of your throat when Yoongi spreads your leg wider and leans forward to mouth at you through the lace of your panties. Your knees go weak and you have to lean back against the wall for balance, grateful at how close you are to it when Yoongi draws his tongue upwards, wetting the fabric, your toes curling.

"Yoongi." One of your hands is resting in his hair and you can't stop your grip from tightening. "Yoongi, please."

He gives you what you want, fingers hooking into your underwear and pulling it down; he lets your leg drop so that you can step out of them, but as soon as you've finished he throws the panties to one side, one hand splaying across your stomach as the other lifts your leg again so that you’re spread open for him, immediately pressing his mouth to your clit.

"Oh!" You gasp. Yoongi seems to have tired of his teasing and is eating you out like a man starved, the slick sound of his tongue and lips filling the apartment as he laves attention on your dripping pussy, staring up at you as he drinks your reactions in. He dips his tongue into you and your hips try to buck forwards but the hand on your stomach holds you in place, firm, and you let out an embarrassingly loud keen at how good it feels to be this powerless.

You slap your free hand across your mouth and try to swallow the noise down. Yoongi frowns and stops, leaning his head back as he looks at you; his mouth is shining with evidence of your arousal, opalescent. "I want to hear you."

You bite your lip, forcing your hand away from your mouth; you don't want to be too loud, too noisy, but you want to be a good girl for Yoongi. He wants to hear you so you'll give him what he wants.

"O-okay," you breathe, and Yoongi smirks up at you; it's filthy, how he's looking at you like that while his lips are wet with you. You tilt your hips towards him, desperate to have his mouth on you again, and he immediately complies.

He's lapping at your clit when the hand on your stomach moves and slides down. You watch as he takes his tongue off you so that he can curl it around his fingers instead, before running those fingers across your lower lips to gather the slick there, wetting them even further. You roll your hips into the sensation, loving the press of his slightly rough fingers against your silken folds, wanting more, eyes wide as you watch how Yoongi's hand trails between your legs.

He puts his mouth back on your clit at the same time as he presses one of those spit slick fingers into you. You're so turned on that the initial slide in is easy, but he still takes his time; he's distracting you with the way he's sucking at your small bundle of nerves but you still feel when he presses his second finger in, longer than yours, the sensation of it even better than you'd dreamed.

He crooks his fingers and you throw your head back against the wall, dull thud barely registering over the sensation of Yoongi inside you. He sees how you react and continues to move his fingers in the same way, thrusting his fingers in and curling them as he pulls out, watching as you writhe; the pleasure inside you has been growing, the feeling building, and if Yoongi keeps doing that then you're going to cum. "I'm close," you gasp.

Yoongi responds to this by pushing a third finger inside you, rubbing his fingertips directly over your sweet spot. The stretch burns, just a little, but God, you love it. He purses his lips over your clit and flicks his tongue over it at the same time as he curls his fingers again and it undoes you; your spine arches away from the wall as you cum, ripples of pleasure sparking through your body as you tighten around Yoongi's fingers, sobbing almost deliriously at how good it feels.

Yoongi watches you the whole time, keeps his mouth on you as you ride out your high. He only moves away when you start to jolt from oversensitivity, pulling his fingers out carefully as he does. You feel empty without them inside you and you can't wait for him to fill you up with something better instead.

Yoongi holds you steady, his grip firm as you slip your leg from his shoulder and shakily push yourself off the wall. Once you've gotten your balance he stands up— his knees must hurt but he doesn't complain, too busy watching you lift his fingers to your lips, sucking them into your mouth so you can lick the taste of yourself off him.

"Jesus Christ." Yoongi stares at the way you flick your tongue across his skin, glancing at him coquettishly through your lashes. You reach out for him, hands moving towards his belt, but he shakes his head. "Bedroom," he says.

Of course you follow him. At any other time you'd be taking in the details of the apartment, the glimpses you get into the other rooms, but you're too busy looking at Yoongi to have a mind for anything else. He's been hard for so long by now that it must be driving him crazy and you want to give him what he wants. What he needs.

He swings a door open and flicks a light on. Yoongi's room is what you'd expected: neat and organised, with dark furnishings, the only mess being a few scrunched up balls of paper that have overflowed the trash-bin by his desk, which has a pile of notepads next to his laptop and a set up of musical equipment that looks far too complex for you to make heads or tails of.

You forget about this instantly, however, when Yoongi captures your lips in another kiss, a hand splaying across your jaw so that he can control the pace, crowding you towards the bed until the back of your knees make contact with it and you fall onto the mattress. Yoongi cages you in with his arms and keeps kissing you, though when you palm him through his slacks he hisses through his teeth.

"Want you, Yoongi." You use your hand to stroke over the hardness of him as you nip at his lower lip. "Please."

"Fuck, of course, babygirl." Yoongi leans back and you move with him, sitting up as he stands straight. He unbuttons his shirt and you help him slide it off his shoulders, using it as an excuse to run your hands over the pale skin he reveals to you, sliding your palms down his chest and over his stomach; you dip your head to kiss where your hands have traced, letting your tongue flick across his skin. You lick shamelessly at one of his nipples and feel drunk on the way he lets out a surprised little breath, turning your head to do the same to his other nipple as your hands finally reach their goal: his belt.

You deftly unbuckle it, fast enough that the leather makes a snapping noise when you pull it, and Yoongi bites back a laugh— under normal circumstances you might be embarrassed by how obvious you're being, but you're desperate to finally touch him, especially after he'd made you cum as hard as he had. You look up at him as you reach for his zipper but falter when you notice that he's staring at you with something akin to awe, lifting your lips off his skin.

"What?" You ask, suddenly feeling shy.

Yoongi doesn't respond verbally. Instead, he quirks a little grin at you before he cups your face with both hands and bends down to kiss you again, deeper and slower than he has before. You match his pace, the two of you tilting your heads to get a little closer, but when you continue to pull Yoongi's zip down he laughs against your lips and you smile. He gets the hint, stepping back so he has room to kick his trousers and underwear off; he's not trying to be sensual about it, moving fast so he can get close to you again, but you're enraptured nonetheless.

You swallow at the sight of his cock when it’s finally freed. It's flushed red from neglect, fully hardened, curving up towards his stomach, and you can see how the head glistens with precum, slick and wet. Saliva floods your mouth. Yoongi looks briefly startled when you put your hands against his hips and lightly push him backwards, but then you slide off the bed and onto your knees in front of him and the shock immediately disappears from his face, tangling a hand in your hair as you settle in place.

He's so hard that you don't feel like teasing him. Instead, you take the precum that's gathered at the tip of his cock and rub it down his length, hand wrapping around and twisting as you dip forwards and take the flushed head into your mouth. You can't swallow him all the way down, thanks to your gag reflex, but you give it a damn good go— you relax your throat as much as you can as you lower your head, using your hand to touch the parts of his cock that aren't in your mouth. You tongue at the vein on the underside as you lift back up, using your free hand to cup his balls, and Yoongi curses, his hand tightening in your hair as he pulls you off.

You blink up at him in surprise, mouth still open after he's slid out of your mouth— you feel like you'd barely started— and you can see how his cock twitches as he drinks the sight of you in.

"That mouth of yours is downright sinful," he says, running his thumb over your lower lip. You go lax under his touch, which seems to please him. "As much as I'd like to cum down your throat, I think you want something else instead, don't you, babygirl?"

Your breath shudders out of you and you nod. You want Yoongi's cock inside you, itching for him to finally fuck you stupid, the way you've been yearning for so long. "God, yes, please."

Yoongi's lips twitch at your shameless desperation. "Stand up then, baby," he says, and you comply. "Turn around."

You turn towards the bed to show Yoongi your back, and he slowly unzips your dress; it slides off your shoulders easily, slipping down your body and pooling on the floor as Yoongi drags his hands over the revealed skin. You tremble under his touch, sensitive to each of his motions as he unclasps your bra, and finally you're entirely unclothed, lingerie carelessly tossed to one side before Yoongi pulls you close.

Your back is pressed to his chest, and you can feel the heat and hardness of his cock pressing against you, but you forget about that when his hands move to cup your breasts, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. You tilt your head back against his shoulder and he takes the opportunity to kiss down your neck, using his tongue to lick down the bared length of it, and your breath hitches in your throat as he pinches one of your nipples between his fingers, the perfect mix of careful roughness.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Yoongi breathes into the crook of your neck. You whimper and grind back against him, feeling the wetness of his cock as it slips against your skin, and he bites back a groan.

"Yoongi, I need you," you say, so close to finally getting what you've been craving for so long. "Please," you add, voice high with desperation.

You feel how Yoongi bares his teeth against your skin in a silent snarl before he's turning you around in his arms, and you squeal in surprise as he hitches you upwards onto the bed, your head falling onto the pillows. It wasn't a rough motion, Yoongi still careful even when he's clearly as hungry for you as you are for him, but you find yourself whimpering at how he's manhandled you, loving it. Seems like he's helping you discover things about yourself that you hadn't realised before now.

Yoongi settles between your legs, staring down at you, bare and helpless underneath him. You reach out your hand to touch his chest, sweeping your fingers down the line of his stomach and over the trail of dark hair that leads down to his weeping cock, still shining with your spit. He curses, leaning over you to paw at his nightstand drawer; he fumbles with the lube and condom when you wrap your fingers around his length again, stroking him hard and slow.

"Yoongi, please," you say again, practically begging, wanting him inside you as quickly as possible. He curses under his breath again but then wraps his fingers around yours, pulling your hand off his cock. You pout at him. "I've been a good girl, haven't I?"

"Good girls are patient." Yoongi leans back on his heels and you make a small whining noise, but you quieten when you watch him rip open the condom packet; you reach forward again to help him roll it down his cock, wanting to keep the feeling of his hardness and heat under your touch, but he fixes you with a stern gaze. "Hands."

You pause, wondering exactly what he means. You settle on pulling your hands away and stretch up to let them rest on the pillow above you. You must have done the right thing because Yoongi smiles, and you give a squirm of delight. He shifts closer and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, turning his head to kiss your inner ankle.

"So perfect," he says, and you squirm again, pleased. He reaches for the bottle of lube and uncaps it with a quiet click, drizzling it directly onto his cock and biting back a noise at the coldness of it— but then he squirts more into his hands, warming it between his fingers. You make a small questioning sound, and Yoongi smiles before kissing your ankle again. "This is for you, baby."

Your eyebrows raise in quiet surprise. You're already so wet, dripping with a mix of your own cum and Yoongi's lingering spit, but he's still being this careful and considerate. He dips his slick fingers between your flushed lips and draws them upwards, making you arch your back as he grazes over your pearl of nerves, pleasure shooting directly into your core.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp. "God, please, Yoongi, please."

"I've got you, babygirl," he murmurs, and you marvel at his self control, his restraint even now. He grips your leg with one hand and uses the other to guide himself into you. Finally. You moan as he sinks in, stretching you, slowly pushing in inch by inch; you can feel the way your walls stretch, parting for him, until he's bottomed out, and you feel so full.

"Holy shit, Yoongi." You've moved your hands and you're digging your nails into his back, trying to pull him closer even though it's not possible, Yoongi's cock so long that you can feel it filling you completely. "Oh, God."

Yoongi's fringe is hanging in his eyes but you can see how his pupils have almost swallowed the dark of his irises, the way he's drinking in the sight of you beneath him— your pupils are blown too, hair a messy halo against the pillows, nipples hard from arousal, chest heaving as you hiccup in air. He pulls out, just as slowly as he'd pushed in, the drag of his cock against your inner walls sending electricity shooting through your nerves; he stops before he's completely out, only the head of him still inside you, and you bite your lip in anticipation, waiting for the next slow thrust in.

You're completely blindsided when Yoongi snaps his hips forward suddenly, fucking sharply into you, and you choke on a surprised breath. He sets a brutal pace, the sound of his skin slapping against yours almost drowned out by the way you wail. Your hands fall away from his back and to the sheets, fingers gripping at them, twisting under your hands. His brows are drawn together with focus, but when you raise a hand up to touch his face he goes easily, letting your leg slip off his shoulder so he can kiss you.

His motions slow somewhat as you kiss each other, but he keeps the roll of his hips just as deep, and you end up all but panting against his mouth instead of kissing him; he swipes his tongue across your lips and you let them fall open so he can lick into your mouth, sloppy and wet. You can feel an orgasm building again, surprisingly fast— especially as he's not even touching your clit— and you clench around him, wanting to hit that peak again.

Yoongi stops kissing you to rest his forehead against yours, staring into your eyes as he slows his thrusts, grinding into you each time he pushes all the way in, hips flush with yours. "Such a good girl." His voice is a low rasp, dark and heavy. "So pretty for me."

Yes, yes, yes. "Wanna be your good girl," you breathe. "Make you feel as good as you make me feel."

Yoongi actually growls, wrapping his hands around your waist and pulling you up. You grab his shoulders for support, legs spreading so that your knees hit the mattress, his cock still inside you as you look down at him, both of you kneeling now. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, stomachs flush, and Yoongi grinds up into you. His hands slide from your waist, to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you up; the change of angle has the curve of his cock dragging right across your sweet spot and you gasp. "Oh, yes, there, just like that."

You press down as Yoongi's hips snap up, and you can feel how his motions are starting to get a little jerkier, staccato, the way he speeds up. With the drag of your nipples against his chest, and the way he's hitting your g-spot dead on each time, you're close to hitting your peak, pleasure riding up into a crescendo— and then Yoongi slides one of his hands between the two of you to rub at your clit and you're gone again, gasping and shaking as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, all the air escaping your lungs in a drawn out, shuddering wail.

"Fuck, baby." Yoongi's motions grow a little more hurried and sloppy, thrusting up into you as your walls pulsate around him. You try to match his pace, drinking down the way his face twists as he chases his own release— and then his grip on you grows tight enough to bruise and he cums with a surprisingly quiet moan. He grinds upwards, his cock twitching inside you as he empties himself into the condom; you shiver at the sensation, squeezing your legs around his hips in an instinctive attempt to draw him as deeply into you as possible, as futile as that is.

Your legs are shaking. You remain tangled around each other, sweaty and panting, but then Yoongi is grasping your chin and tilting your head down so that he can kiss you. It's soft, and gentle, and you melt into it, going lax and boneless in his hold as you tighten your hands in his hair.

You feel how he smiles tiredly against your lips, and when you pull back, he looks thoroughly fucked out; his hair is a mess from how you've been running your hands through it and lips are kiss swollen, parted so that he can suck air in and try to catch his breath. You must look similarly wrecked. You feel hazy, though Yoongi feels solid beneath you, grounding you as you slowly come back to yourself.

"I'm going to lean you back, beautiful," he says, and you entwine your fingers together behind his neck so that he can tilt you onto the mattress, careful and reverent. He slips his softening cock out of you and you let out a small sigh at the sudden feeling of emptiness, though as soon as he's done tying the condom off and throwing it in the bin he comes back to you, lightly kissing you as he draws a hand gently between the valley of your breasts. Despite the tenderness behind the motion you're suddenly struck with wondering if he's about to ask you to leave, but then he asks: "Do you want to come wash up?"

You pause. "Oh, God, my makeup," you say with sudden realisation as your fingers come up to touch under your eyes. Your eyeshadow and mascara must be a mess by now. You splay your hand across your face, as if trying to hide it— which you know is stupid, especially considering the fact the rest of your body is naked under Yoongi's gaze. He huffs out a laugh and takes your hands with his own, pulling them away. "Nooo," you whine. "Don't look at me."

One of Yoongi's eyebrows rises. "Why would I ever want to look away from you?"

You wriggle. "Yoongi," you whine again, equal parts pleased and embarrassed, but you let your hands go limp and Yoongi pulls you to your feet. "You're shameless."

"And you're gorgeous," he says, simply. "Come on, you'll get cold."

Yoongi lets you clean up first. It's weird how comfortable you are as you navigate your way around Yoongi and Jin's bathroom— you pilfer one of Jin's makeup wipes to clean your face— and how natural it feels to accept the shirt Yoongi gives you, an oversized, stretched-out old thing that's gone soft from years of wear. You're perched on the bathroom counter as you slide it on, glancing down at the design on the front, and you instantly perk up when you see what it is.

"You do love Kumamon," you say with delight.

Yoongi stops in the middle of brushing his teeth, looking a little ridiculous with the minty froth around his lips but still just as kissable. He rinses his mouth and spits, wiping his lips with a towel before he makes a face at you.

"Jin told you about that, too?"

"I want to see your slippers," you say in reply and Yoongi groans. You can't help but giggle, feeling sleepy and soft and affectionate, and you touch your fingers under Yoongi's chin so that you can press a quick kiss to his lips. "I think it's cute."

By the time you've both finished your ablutions and you slide off the counter, you feel tired, what little energy you had after being fucked by Yoongi completely gone from you; you slide onto Yoongi's bed gratefully, glad to be off your feet. You hold your hands up and beckon for him to join you, but then let out a sharp laugh of surprise when he tugs his rumpled blanket off the bed from underneath you and lets it drop to the floor. "Yoongi!"

"I'll be right back," he says. While you wait, you decide to stretch, eyes slipping shut as you extend your limbs. You know you'll feel the ache between your legs tomorrow, a little thrill skating through you at the knowledge that Yoongi's touch has left a physical reminder, something only you can feel and no one else can see.

When your eyes flutter open again, you see Yoongi standing at the bottom of the bed, a different blanket gathered in his arms. He's staring at you, and you realise that the material of his shirt has moved as you've stretched, hitching up over your hips. Even though you're both tired, Yoongi's eyes still darken when you shift your legs, and you bask under his attention.

"A different blanket?" You ask, curious, and Yoongi's eyes slide away from your still-bare core back up to your face.

"It's Jin's," he says. "I wasn't about to let you sleep on sweaty sex sheets."

"I don't mind," you say, honestly, but Yoongi proceeds to lay Jin's blanket across the bed anyway. "Jin's not going to be happy about this," you add, but you say it with a laugh, instantly curling up into Yoongi when he lays down beside you.

"He'll live." Yoongi's arm comes around you, fingers trailing over your shoulder; you lapse into silence and let your eyes shut, focusing on Yoongi's movements. It feels like he’s pressing piano keys down and playing a silent song against your skin. You can't help but smile, starting to drift off, when Yoongi speaks again. "Let me take you out for breakfast."

"Hm?" Your eyes open and you blink away your sleepiness to look up at Yoongi, who's still watching you. "Breakfast?"

"Yes." Yoongi's fingers still on your shoulder, and then he slides his hand down to tangle your fingers with his. "Or lunch. Or dinner. Whichever you prefer." He pauses. "Unless you don't want to," he says, and though his voice stays steady, you see a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. He's worried that you've gotten what you want and now you'll be done with him.

"You're so silly," you say softly, and you can see how Yoongi's face twists with confusion, unsure about how to react to being called silly— you can't imagine many people have said that to him, as outwardly intimidating as he can be. You squeeze his hand. "Of course I want to. But how about we plan it tomorrow? I don't know how long it's going to take me to be comfortable with walking in a straight line, so breakfast might be off the cards for now."

After a moment, Yoongi's face takes on a satisfied expression. "That's what you said you wanted," he says, and you huff out an amused breath.

"I technically said I wanted you to bend me over a piano, actually," you point out, letting your head settle in the crook of his neck again, and Yoongi brushes his lips against your forehead.

"There's a piano in the living room," he states casually, and you can't help the shiver that runs through you, even as your eyes start to fall shut again.

"I'll keep that in mind."

–

jiminnie y/n!! tae said you called in sick for work? are you okay??

you i'm good! just a lil busy

jiminnie with what?

you [image attached]

jiminnie … why have you sent me a photo of a piano?

you yoongi's gonna fuck me on it omg on that note i've gtg BYE LOVE YOU MINNIE xoxoxo

jiminnie WHAT??? OMG??? GET THAT DICK QUEEN!!!

#yoongi x reader #yoongi smut #bts x reader #bts smut #suga x reader #joy.masterlist

3K notes · View notes

otonymous · 4 years

Text

It’s The End Of The World (MLQC Headcanon)

Dear Nonny...

I say that now, Nonny, but the truth is that the ONLY thing I love more than smut is angst! Mwahahaha! 🤣🤣 That being said, let’s take a one-way trip to Angst Town! Everybody got their seatbelts on?! LET’S GO!!! (Please note warnings below before reading 💕💕💕)

Warnings: angst, explicit language, trigger warnings (mentions of speeding, near-death experiences and flashbacks, nausea & vomiting, insomnia, slight mention of possessive behaviour, workaholism, loss of appetite and weight loss, anger and violent behaviour (not towards other people though!)) and SPOILERS (basically up to chapter 24 in the EN server; includes dates and Rumours & Secrets for the boys)

Gavin:

DEVASTATED. This man is absolutely devastated.

Gavin has known you since high school and loved you since then

You were his dream girl — the one he thought had got away until his duties brought you back into his life. He had vowed to protect you till the very end, had absolutely no qualms about giving his life for yours. He made a solemn promise to himself that he would never lose you a second time

Until that fateful day when you invited him out for lunch at Lynn’s Kitchen on the grounds of your old high school

You order his favourites, spicy noodles and lemon tea; wait until his stomach is full before you open your mouth to gently broach the topic

“Gavin…I…”

A single glance at your face tells Gavin that something is terribly off. He’s immediately setting his chopsticks down, asking, “What’s wrong? You know you can talk to me about anything. Whatever it is, I’ll help you—”

“Shaw. We…we’ve decided to be together. I know you’re not on good terms, and he did insist on coming today, but I thought it would be best if I told you myself…”

He cannot hear

He cannot move

And it isn’t until the burning sensation in his lungs catches up with him that he realizes he hadn’t even been breathing

Amber eyes, listless and dull, float from your lips to the wall decorated with Post-It notes just behind you, moving from one colourful slip of paper to another

“I hate it when people leave without saying goodbye.”

Gavin still remembers the loops and dashes of your handwriting on the Post-It note you had written so long ago, the way you dotted your i’s with hearts

And all of a sudden, he is back in his high school uniform, bloodied and bruised and free falling from the roof of the four-storey building

Except this time, he cannot hear the strains of a piano, no matter how hard he tries. The gingko leaves around him flutter to the ground just before…

“Gavin?” The touch of your hand on his snaps him out of his reverie. He tries to force a smile and fails.

“I…I’m sorry. There’s somewhere…I just remembered…I have to go….” He hurriedly puts a few bills on the table — more than enough to cover the entire meal — and dashes out of the restaurant

Gavin hops on Sparky and just goes…riding for hours on end with no destination in mind. He’s taken with an intense urge to go fast, as if his body were trying to outrun the feelings he doesn’t have the means of dealing with. At one point, an overwhelming wave of nausea hits him and he stops at the side of the road, retching and retching until his stomach is as empty as his hollowed-out heart

He’s still thinking of you the entire time he’s MIA. The last text from his phone is one sent to you, telling you not to worry about him and apologizing for the way he behaved back at the restaurant. He’s asking if you’d still be okay with talking to him when he gets back, and of course, to contact him immediately if you need anything at all

He still feels you in the wind

Believe it or not, for a short period of time, Gavin actually develops a fear of flying: it reminds him too much of you, brings up too many memories of him holding you in his arms as you traverse the skies together. He’s not confident he can do it anymore, partly because he thinks his Evol might suddenly give out when he’s high up in the air

The turning point comes when Gavin visits his mother’s resting place. There, for the first time since you broke the news to him, he actually cries, and it gives him the strength to carry on

Let’s be clear: Gavin will never, ever be over you. The two of you will remain friends though because Gavin intends to watch over you for the rest of his life (that is one promise he would never break)

With time, he gets used to seeing you with Shaw, even starts to relax a bit when he realizes that his younger brother is capable of protecting you

Someday, Gavin will marry — likely someone who was set up with him either by Minor or his colleagues (Birdcop would never take the initiative to actually meet somebody). This person is absolutely smitten with the handsome officer and his gruff ways and cannot wait to start a family with him. They would also have to be thick-skinned and stubborn enough to turn Gavin’s “no” into an eventual “yes”

And while Gavin would prove to be a loyal husband and doting father who would do anything for his family, a part of him would always, always, continue to burn for you.

Lucien:

How do you expect this man to behave when he’s lost the only colour in his life?

Lucien would never, ever recover from this. He doesn’t want to. The man for whom love was never meant to happen has no need for such an emotion. He wants nothing to do with it unless it has to do with you

The professor’s world literally returns to being a drab shadow of blacks and greys — the rainbow disappeared when his little butterfly flew into the palm of another’s hand

“Do you love him?” He’ll ask you, dark eyes almost hypnotic in their intensity when he pierces you with that gaze

You’re ashamed to find that you have to think twice before replying that you do indeed love Victor

Ba-bump, ba-bump, BA-BUMP — Lucien breaks out into a cold sweat as his heart begins to race, face becoming pale as a sheet

His shaking hands are pulled into tight fists within the pockets of his lab coat. He’s running his finger over the cap of his pill bottle inside one of them, not wanting to take them in front of you because in spite of it all, the last thing he wants is for you to worry about him 😭😭😭

Lucien nods, placid smile a mask on his face when he says, “I wish the two of you nothing but the best.”

“Lucien!” You start after him when he turns to walk away. “We…we’re still friends, right?”

For what is possibly the first time in his entire life, Lucien can’t think straight. His mind is a mess, logical thoughts tangled up with sorrow, hurt, anger, and the sense that the world could end at that very moment and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself before he turns to face you again: “Of course. You can always come to me if you ever need anything.” It takes everything in him not to fall apart when he lays a hand on the crown of your head, savouring the heat of your body for the very last time

In the days immediately afterwards, the people around Lucien better watch out as his ability to keep cool, calm and collected is challenged: he’s giving the side-eye to his colleagues at the research institute more often then usual, and Black Swan members literally want to run the other way when they see him coming. If they thought Ares was ruthless before then they’d better watch out now…

As if it were even humanly possible, the professor sleeps even less now: if he’s not in the lab, he’s literally wiling away the hours watching old Hollywood films

Sometimes, he’ll place his hand on the handle to the door of your apartment, closing his eyes and doing his best to pretend that he can still feel your palm in his (he knows you’re not home. You so rarely are these days…)

Unbeknownst to you, Lucien spends his weekends revisiting the places you used to go together: sitting on the same bench at the aquarium where you kissed him without a second thought, wandering to the theme park you ran away to as a child just to watch the carousel spin round and round, trying his best to keep a smile on his face when the kids at the orphanage ask him where his “pretty lady friend” is

Lucien actually has a kite that he bought ages ago, intent on fulfilling his promise to one day fly it with you. It sits in his apartment still. He can’t bring himself to dispose of it.

Gives you his pen, Iridescent, as part of his wedding gift to you. “May it always bring you luck, wherever you are and…whomever you’re with.”

Regardless of where he is, Lucien will always be keeping tabs on you. If Victor ever trips up, you can bet that Lucien will be there to swoop in and take his place

The professor will never love another person for as long as he lives. That’s all there is to it.

Victor:

Throws himself into his work when you break the news to him that you’ve accepted Lucien’s proposal

“If that dummy can’t see that I’m the most suitable choice for her, then let her suffer the consequences of her foolishness.” — Victor will tell himself that, but don’t believe it for even a second

Victor has always been obsessed with working, but this is on an entirely new level, even for him: the man’s been missing meals (or taking them at his desk, at most) and doesn’t leave his office until close to midnight, most days of the week

Like a watch whose gears are irreparably damaged, the LFG CEO is broken on the inside. He has to focus on work because he knows that if he stops long enough to fully consider the consequences of having lost you, he would never climb out of the depths of his despair

Even his dad and aunt become concerned, especially when they notice that he’s lost weight: “Victor, you have employees for a reason. Delegation is not a weakness.”

His mind often drifts to you, especially when he’s driving. There are many times when he finds himself absentmindedly heading in the direction of your office after work before he catches himself (the man is so used to picking you up that it’s become like muscle memory, in a sense)

Weekends will find him holed up in his attic space, fingers tracing over the uneven surface of the cup you had accidentally dropped and shattered, the pieces of which he had spent an entire night glueing back together

He shuts down Souvenir for a while: Victor cannot bring himself to step foot in the kitchen because he can’t help but see your face, smiling in rapturous joy to indulge in the caramel pudding he made especially for you

He spends his nights lying wide awake in a bed that suddenly seems much too big, wondering if you would’ve chosen differently if he took the time to tell you all the things he always thought were obvious: that he respected your fighting spirit, admired the brazen way you never gave up on the things you believed in, loved every single thing about you, even the things he seemed to disapprove of

His biggest regret: that he never had the chance to tell you that you were the love of his life

He often fantasizes about what it would’ve been like to stop time before you informed him you were choosing Lucien, to exist forever with you in a single moment when you made him the happiest man alive just by sharing your time with him

He still checks your Moments account religiously, murmuring “Dummy” with the faintest hint of a smile on his face to see your ridiculous posts, but he can never bring himself to reply. Victor’s pride won’t let him. He would rather die than let you know that each moment spent without you makes him feel like he is suffocating

Eventually, his worried family — especially his aunt — decides that enough is enough. They force Victor to take a vacation while trying to discreetly set him up with daughters of other wealthy and prominent families

Victor is beyond annoyed at having his personal affairs meddled with like this, but is essentially strong-armed by his aunt, who turns on the waterworks and starts sobbing about wanting to see the progeny of her dearest nephew before she passes on or withers away from want of new blood in the Li family

Victor will eventually have to marry and have kids — he needs to have someone to pass LFG on to. It will be a long while before he does settle down though; at one point, it’ll seem like he’s content to be a bachelor for life, married to his work

He will show up for your wedding though, and you can bet the most generous gift will be from the LFG CEO

“Try not to be such a dummy from now on. I won’t be there to set you straight and your husband may not be as patient of a man as I am.” Those jet black eyes are wavering with emotion when he reaches out to lay a hand on your head. But he halts midway, awkwardly pulling back because he’s realized that he doesn’t have the right to touch another man’s wife so casually 😭😭😭

Kiro:

“Ahahaha! All right, all right…you’ve got me. You can stop playing around now, Miss Chips,” Kiro will say, hands held up in defeat when you tell him that you’ve accepted Gavin’s proposal

When he realizes you’re being serious, it’s like all the warmth and light has suddenly been sucked from the room

Those blue eyes go wide, the smile dropping from the superstar’s face. For what seems like an interminable amount of time, Kiro just sits there staring at you, almost catatonic

When he speaks again, you’re so surprised you almost jump out of your skin: “Gavin…he’s that cop, right? The friend you’ve known since high school?”

You nod and all of a sudden, it’s like the floodgates have been opened: Kiro’s grasping your hands in his, expression panic-stricken as his questions come a mile a minute:

“Was it something I did, Miss Chips? I swear I’ll change! I…I won’t eat junk food anymore! Won’t even look at that stuff! If you don’t like your nickname, I’ll call you by your real name, anything you want! Or maybe it’s because my schedule is always so crazy? I’ll cut back on my jobs, I don’t care about the money! If you’re tired of running from the paparazzi, I’ll quit. Just quit, stop everything — I don’t care, ok? The only thing I care about is you! Miss Chips? Please don’t cry…I’m your hero, remember? So please…please…”

A single tear rolls down his cheek — you have to look away or else your resolve would crumble

“I’m so sorry, Kiro. I…I wanted you to be the first to know. I wanted you to hear it from me…”

It’s like all the life has been drained from him; it actually frightens you to see him like that

“Kiro?" You hesitantly lay a hand on his. It’s almost cool to the touch. Kiro gives his head a little shake, seeming to come back to himself

“I’m…I’m so sorry, Miss Chips. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to get hysterical. God, what an awful way to react….” He forces a laugh, but it is wooden and so goddamn heartbreaking to hear. You almost wish he would scream obscenities at you instead

“He, Gavin…he’s a good man. He’ll be good for you. I’m happy that you’re happy, Miss Chips.”

The next day, Kiro drops off the face of the Earth: he’s MIA, no one can reach him

Everyone is panicking: his agent, Savin, and management, his legions of adoring fans all over the world, and most of all, you

That is, until he sends two text messages, one to Savin and the other to you, telling you all that he’s safe and not to worry; he’s just taking some time to work some things out for himself

In actuality, the only thing that’s happening is that Kiro is reverting back to who he originally was before you came into his life

His sun has been eclipsed by crushing sorrow and loss, the brilliance of your light and warmth forever taken from him and he is left in the cold shadow of solitary darkness

Kiro wants to be happy for you, and he hates that he can’t — this dissonance so disconcerts him that he’d rather not feel anything at all

When the superstar does eventually return to the world at large, there’s something about him that’s changed — Savin and the rest will be largely fooled by that ever-cheerful mask he puts on, but you won’t

Those blue eyes seem just a bit darker, the radiance of his being almost imperceptibly dimmed

Poor Kiro, loved the world over, would never love another person for the rest of his life. It would always be you or nothing.

Shaw:

Hurt. Angry. Confused.

Shaw is angry with himself for ever believing that you and him had a future together; he hates that he saw the signs that you would always, always, always choose Gavin in the end and still continued to lie to himself in spite of it

He hates that he let himself become vulnerable by falling in love with you (Shaw sees vulnerability as the biggest weakness one could have, that’s why he’s always kept himself emotionally guarded in his dealings with people)

But for whatever reason, when it came to you, he just couldn’t help but fall (“Guess brothers are hard-wired in the same way after all, no matter how different we think we are,” he’ll say with a bitter laugh)

A lengthy and most unusual storm will hit Loveland City; expect an extended light show with lots of thunder and lightning

The boy is trashing his place, throwing whatever he can get his hands on: cans of Coke and Pepsi, dishes, clothing and books

He breaks the deck of his skateboard when he smashes it against the wall, bringing down a good chunk of plaster along with it

You won’t be there to witness the destruction. Shaw will continue to front like nothing could ever faze him when you tell him that you’ve chosen to be with Gavin. He’ll chuckle, brows raised as he bites on the tip of his straw, saying, “Whatever. It’s your life. Do what you want with it.”

Then suddenly, he’s standing up to leave, hand half-raised in goodbye as he makes for the exit without so much as a glance back at you.

“Take my umbrella. And don’t worry about returning it.”

Those are his last words to you. Not long after, you spy the handle of the black umbrella sitting in the stand near the front of the café (the only one there, since it had been bright and sunny out). And suddenly, the clouds are rolling in to blanket Loveland City in grey, sheets of rain pouring from a sky cracked in half by a fearsome bolt of lightning

Shaw walks, letting cold rain soak him to the bones to take his mind off the ice that’s already started to freeze the blood in his heart

“Don’t cry…don’t let them f*cking see you cry…" he's saying to himself, over and over again like a mantra

Starts hanging out at the Live House more than ever, losing himself in the music and packed crowds there; he can’t stand to be alone right now.

When he’s not playing bass guitar as a last minute backup for the bands, he’s literally working on his thesis at the bar, sipping on his Coke and Pepsi blend (the staff know him so well that they’re pretty much cool with him doing anything at this point LOL)

STILL blows off every person who comes to proposition him for a good time

I’m sorry, but you know it’s pretty much gonna rain on your wedding day, right? (The poor boy can’t help it, okay? He is SAD, SAD, SAD!)

Much like his brother, Shaw will never really get over you. You were, after all, the first person he ever truly loved

Would likely remain an eternal bachelor, only engaging in meaningless sex but never opening his heart to anyone ever again. One lesson was enough for him. 😭😭😭

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Thank you so much for reading! Check out more of my work here! 📚

#mlqc #mr love queen's choice #love and producer #mr love dream date #evol x love #mlqc headcanons #mlqc angst #mlqc lucien #mlqc xu mo #mlqc victor #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc gavin #mlqc bai qi #mlqc kiro #mlqc zhou qiluo #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #source: giphy

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notoriousjae · 2 years

Photo

Feel It All Around || Chenrich Fic (4/?)

Chapter Title: Thank You

Pairing: Alex Chen/Steph Gingrich

Rating: M

Fic Description:

Steph falls in love. To her amazement (despite an embarrassing number of successful roll-checks of the d20 in the studio)…so does Alex.

Chapter Description:

That’s the thing no one tells you about grief—it’s like an iced over-pond. At first, it breaks easily—slivers and cracks the moment you shift feet along its surface. But as time goes on and the weather turns colder and colder—as snow falls and skin numbs—it’s a little firmer to step upon the ice. But if you look down, it’s always right there, clear as day—always there, right beneath you: water. Cold ice waiting to engulf you on a trip—a fall—a slip—and when it cracks open, it takes time to heal, again. Over and over for years and years and years.

In Steph’s experience, it will always be that way.

Chapter 1 | AO3 | Tumblr |

Chapter 2 | AO3 | Tumblr |

Chapter 3 | AO3 | Tumblr |

Chapter 4 (Current) | AO3 | Tumblr (below):

When Mom died, I didn’t feel anything. I’d felt all I had to feel a week before, fingers curled around the delicate etch of a necklace that I…barely remember the weight of, now. I barely remember what it looks like. I barely remember much of anything—

The necklace. Mom.

Dad.

Gabe.

It’s kind of funny how the mind sort of cherry-picks stuff out of a bin of memories—the things you hold onto when it gets really bad mixed with the things you keep when it is really bad—until all you’re left with are these blurry-faced ‘kinds-ofs’. These ‘must have been’ approximations of what could have been, but you’re never really sure was .

One time I confessed to Dr. Lynn that I felt like my emotions weren’t my own. I regretted it. She immediately asked me, tape recorder skipping on the edge of its monotonous hum, her voice that calm, steady note like someone who’s held down an A on a piano too long:

‘If you feel like your emotions aren’t your own, Alex…how do you feel about your memories? Are those your own, too?’

“So…want me to put something else in?”

Alex’s hesitant, balmy voice skirts along the edge of Steph’s cold shoulders like she’s dipping her toes into the icy waters around her friend’s far-away chest. A blink, turning away from the glaze of a shaking window to look over towards those searching eyes, face highlighted by the flickering lights of the credits of a movie Steph barely remembers paying to the start of quietly scrolling down the screen.

Shit. Get out of your head, Gingrich.

“I’m not really—” Tucked knees shift along the soft fabric of the couch, so well-worn beneath her that Steph could sink into it and disappear. It doesn’t sound too bad, right now, but Alex’s eyes are tethered to her like a rope outside of a canyon and the sigh wells up so fully in her chest that it lifts Steph like an air balloon and twists her around to stare at her fully, smile thin and apologetic. “Sorry, Alex. I’m not really into anything right now. Just…don’t mind me, okay?” The wind howls and howls against the glass—a constant—and she wonders if there’s ever been a storm this bad in Haven Springs, where the whole town swayed with wind.

There must have been, but where was she? In the soundproof walls of an isolated booth? Tucked in the darkness of a bathroom with the shower running, palms pushing soap out of eyes? Drunk on this very couch, too dull to hear it, at all? Does it matter? “I’m just…tired.”

It’s a blatant lie and when Steph’s eyelashes flutter open, Alex is nice enough not to call her on it, even though she hasn’t looked away from Steph for a second. Because there is Alex, searching her eyes before she…shifts forward on the couch.

“Okay, so that didn’t help.” It’s a muttered sigh.

“Huh?”

“The movie.” But Alex doesn’t explain further. Brows furrow when Alex stretches out her hand, bracelet brushing along Steph’s up-tucked knee. She felt like they were sitting much further away than they apparently were. Guess there’s only so many places to tuck inside a couch. “But I think I know something that will.”

“Uh…what are you—”

“Come on,” Is all Alex says, just her hand stretched out between them. An offering. A rare offering, like so many Steph’s gotten a glimpse of seeing, today. Like so many Steph’s gotten to see all month. The wind rattles outside and a drummer’s shaky hand hesitates in the air. “These windows are, like…the worst windows I’ve ever seen. And that’s? Coming from an intercity kid who lived in a group home for the majority of her life. Where state funding was non-existent. So…you know it’s a pretty bad review. They probably need to be re-sealed, or something.”

“Do they even seal windows?” Steph tries to joke but it doesn’t hit quite right. Alex doesn’t call her on that, either.

“I don’t know. But the point is that the wind…sounds a lot worse than it is. Let me show you.”

Alex says, like she knows exactly everything in the world Steph’s ever been afraid of, her palm stretched up towards that raining sky and Steph’s darting tongue and her short breath caught between the rock and hard place of her nose and her trembling, clenching jaw.

Hesitating for only a moment in the air, Steph reaches forward to take it.

I remember the hospital—the constraints of the walls—the heat that stuck my clothes to my skin—the pitcher of water that always tasted dusty no matter how fresh it was. I remember the clean, pressed sheets of an empty bed Gabe and I weren’t allowed to sleep on and the chair that Dad claimed as his own placeholder. A bookend to the white-lined etchings of mom’s lips with thousands of words in-between never said. Dad was always in that chair…to the point where it’s difficult for me to remember the chair ever being empty without him in it, save for the only time I’ll never forget.

I remember Mom’s keychain. I remember the way Gabe’s shoes would squeak along the freshly-mopped tiles of the hallway.

But I don’t…remember Gabe outside of those squeaking shoes and the scratch of his shirt against my arm. I don’t remember Dad outside of the darkness of his sagging eyelids. I don’t remember mom outside of the quiet way her chin would tremble even when her voice was always so steady. Like an earthquake beneath the crust of the earth.

I remember snapshots—her eyes and the last promise I made to her—I remember her telling me I was strong—but…everything else? I don’t remember conversations, or…the hours I must have spent there, day after day. I don’t remember school or the unimportant stuff—the stuff I kind of would have liked to hold onto.

I remember my mom used to cook, but I can’t remember what it tasted like. I remember she used to watch those cheesy rom-coms, but I can’t remember us talking about them. And that patchiness has sort of taken over all of my memories.

I remember how Dad and Gabe used to fight—I remember the record player and the clothes by the couch and my never-fail recipe for rice. But I don’t remember the silence that used to threaten to drown us whole—maybe…because I drowned it out before I could breathe it in?

No matter how hard Dr. Lynn tried to get me to remember, there’s a lot of those details that I’d rather forget.

The truth is…I don’t even remember what they looked like. Even writing it now, I feel…

I don’t know.

Guilty.

I don’t have any pictures—I didn’t have any pictures of Mom or Dad or Gabe. I don’t even have anything of Mom, since Dad took it. And now I barely have memories of Gabe because I feel like Dad took him, too.

At least when Mom died, I felt nothing.

With Isabelle, I felt—

I only felt Isabelle. And I only felt her for so long, after.

With Gabe…

I wonder if Dr. Lynn was right. Are these memories even my own?

“So…when was the last time you played the drums? For a show? Or just…” A faint shrug, “Played them?” Alex asks her so unceremoniously, like it’s such a simple question to ask someone and Steph stretches bare feet, foot skirting dangerously along the edge of the rooftop awning.

Somehow, Alex made it sound like a not horrible idea to come up to the rooftop in the rain, its gentle, consistent splash wetting the roof in tinkering patters, rain cascading all around them, wind much quieter than it’d been in the apartment below. It’s…rhythmic and it keeps Steph calm to gently tap her thumbs along with the beats on her stomach—thoughtless thumps lost in the fabric of a bunched up, dry t-shirt.

But like most things, it doesn’t seem like it’s lost on Alex’s freakishly observant perception.

“...a while, I guess.”

It’s…not so bad up here, laying on the cement patio, shoulder warm from where she’s pressed up against Alex. Both of their legs bent upwards, hanging over faded, rickety wooden chairs, and she leans up to watch Alex’s bare foot bounce beneath the rain.

Alex had told her they could go back in the moment she watched Steph’s shoulders ease, a little, at the sound of the soft wind outside, but somehow they wound up staying, anyways.

“I get that.”

“You said it’s been a while since you played guitar? Like, until recently.”

“Yeah. My last one…” Alex shifts a little on her back, chair scooting along cement as she does from her foothold against it, knees bumping against Steph’s bent, very dry pair. “Well, I lost my last guitar and I couldn’t afford a new one. This one…was a gift from Gabe, so I guess I just never got around to buying another one. I don’t know why, I just…” A second shrug, like there’s a world in Alex’s sigh before her shoulders fall back into the depth of the dark cement, the sound of the wind chime hung above gently tingling as the air sifts through both of their hair, rain pushing a little into the dry safety beneath the awning. But Alex settled them directly where the rain wouldn’t touch—like she must come up here often enough to know. More than just with Steph and Ryan and putt-putt and beers. “Didn’t. Why’d you stop?

“I just…” Teeth tuck at lips, “Didn’t feel like playing?” The sigh caught deep in her chest, beneath the putter of her thumbs along her chest, pushes out unnecessarily heavily, eyes closing as the rain consumes her voice. “Or maybe I felt guilty playing? Really…who knows, dude? I don’t. It was so weird. When I was younger, my fingers used to…they’d itch all the time. Like what they talk about with smokers? But with sticks. I used to want to play all the time. I’d play in class at my desk or in the car on my steering wheel or in the shower—just…everywhere. It was like breathing for me. But then I traveled everywhere with Izzie—my…we used to be in the band together.”

Yeah, Steph. That’s way less complicated. Fingers wave at Alex’s always-unwavering, steady look, like she has all the time in the world—

It’s funny, really. Alex does kind of make a great bartender.

“And…were more than just in the band together. Like, long-term, very serious dating. After we came here, I realized that there was something missing—there was a different kind of itch. I started to realize that...every time I played it…just wasn’t what my hands wanted, anymore. At least, not then. Not like how I was playing. Not when I was wrapped all up in that head space, you know? We used to say that we were always playing for ourselves—not the industry or for fans or any of it—but I think as we started to get a little more popular…not much, but a little, it just…changed. Everything changed. We changed.” Steph wonders if she reaches up high enough from the ground, if she can run her fingertips beneath that dangling wind chime, “I looked at Izzie and I didn’t want to play, anymore. I didn’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t what I thought it was. We came here and played this…totally lame show for what felt like just Gabe—seriously, just Gabe—and I had more fun than I’d had in…years. It should’ve been lame, but it wasn’t. It was like I was finally doing something I wanted to do and…this got really deep, didn’t it?” A quiet, nervous laugh, but Alex is still just looking at her with those steady eyes, wet toes retreating as glasses shift and suddenly Alex is sitting up, looking down at Steph splayed haphazardly on the rooftop concrete.

“I think it’s okay to go a little deep. You should cut yourself a little slack." Alex volleys words right back at Steph with that gentle smile.

The real foosball champion.

It’s so calm—so steady—that Steph’s knees bend, as well, sitting upwards and hooking arms around the mountains of them with a sigh.

It's way easier than it should be to talk to Alex.

“I came here and…I don’t know. I wound up staying. I found out that I really liked DJing—that I was really good at it. That there were people here that mattered. I used to—I had this friend that I lost touch with that traveled all the time and I always thought that was what I wanted—and it was. It is. But it’s…I don’t know, there’s so much more to just…traveling and music than what it looks like on the surface.”

“Understatement of the year. Real life is…kind of always more complicated than what we think we want.” Alex agrees, their knees brushing a second time as she scoots on the cement to look fully at Steph, knees tented down and open while Steph happily holds her own to her chest. Muscles ease, just a tad.

“...yeah.” A quiet laugh, “Yeah, I guess life can get pretty complicated.” Arms finally fold outwards, leaning back against the patio as she looks around at the rain quietly falling down around them, breath…calm and easy. Maybe it’s not the rain that’s the problem. “And unpredictable.”

“Totally.”

“That’s kind of what makes it good, too.” Her chin bounces, looking back towards Alex, “I guess…” A dry tongue rolls on a drier lower lip, “I guess I started to realize that what I was doing—even if I loved doing it—it didn’t feel right, when it felt like I wasn’t sharing it with people that mattered. I wasn’t…connecting with people with my music, anymore—or connecting with who I was playing with. I just haven’t really picked up the drums, since. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just…don’t think about it, as much, anymore.”

It’s a heavy statement for Steph—the kind of thing that had been so thick it’d taken up all of the air in her chest—and now that it floats between them, her shoulders feel…lighter, somehow. And instead of feeling nervous or awkward or like she’s totally over-shared, Alex just looks at her…and smiles, and Steph feels nothing but relief.

“So…does that mean I’m not going to get to hear it?”

Somehow, it’s the last thing Steph expects.

“What?” It’s said on the tail-end of a laugh, bent knees stretching back outwards over Alex’s rain-dampened leggings.

“Come on, it’s only fair—you’ve heard me play. You don’t have to, I did actually hear what you just said,” That smile spreads and Alex shifts but doesn’t drop Steph’s knees—she moves so that Steph can settle them comfortably, instead. The rain surrounds them like a curtain, outside, lightning so far away Steph can barely feel it crack beneath her fingertips as she stares at her, “But I’d be totally lying if I claimed I didn’t want to hear the infamous Steph Gingrich wail on the drums.”

“You want me to just do a really sweet drum solo with no accompaniment?”

“Karen Carpenter could do it.”

“Not the reference I expected, but I guess the one I deserved.” A second laugh—this time brighter, “You know…that last show with Gabe?"

“Let me guess, Gabe told you it was going to be packed, didn’t he?” It’s an expert, on-the nose guess. Steph nods with a quiet, bobbing laugh. “That’s Gabe.”

“Bingo. He rocked the whole time, though. And he bought a t-shirt. And a hat. I mean, I didn’t even know we had hats. Beanies, sure, but he bought a trucker hat.”

Alex laughs—quiet and gentle—glasses sliding a little down the bridge of her nose, rain framing that spreading smile in a background haze. “Nothing could be more awkward than that, so what do you have to lose? I don’t know if I’ll be as good of an audience, but I’m definitely here for it.”

“True…” Steph searches her eyes before standing back up, offering Alex her hand, this time. “But I loved it, playing like that. I…” It’s a pause, tilting down to look at Alex as she helps her up, “Did actually play at the Spring Festival last year. I totally forgot—it didn’t feel like a show. It’s not that I feel nervous about playing,” Her chin tips a little, looking up towards that dancing wind chime, fingertips warm.

Warm, she realizes after a moment, because she’s still holding Alex’s hand, and Alex doesn’t ask her to let go.

“I just haven’t really thought about playing. Until…right now, I guess. Tell you what, I will give you one entirely exclusive show in the store tomorrow,” Steph holds up their joined hands, finger ticking off to wave in the air, “If you give me one. Right here on this balcony.”

A long pause.

“Right…now?” Alex blinks.

“Doesn’t have to be. But those are my terms, Chen. Today, tomorrow, sometime? I want an exclusive show of my own.”

Alex laughs, just a little—a dancing noise underneath that serene windchime—nose ducking before she nods…and looks back up at Steph with a kind of freaky level of determination.

And then lets go of her hand just to reach up to offer to shake it, again.

It’s the kind of thing Ryan would do that would make Alex, herself, call him a dork, and somehow that makes it even better.

“Okay, you’re on.”

Steph falls asleep downstairs on the couch a few hours later to the sound of rattling wind and Taxi Driver on in the background—what? So they’re on a DeNiro kick, sue—and blinks an owlish look towards Alex when she prods her shoulder and nods towards the bed.

“Come on,” Alex says again, that same gentle smile, voice an up-turned hand in the dim, flickering light of the credits behind them. “The rain hasn’t let up and…it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve crashed here. And it’s definitely not like it’ll be the last.”

“I’m only here for the pop-tarts.”

“Whatever you tell yourself, Steph. We both know you’re here for the sweet, eclectic jams.”

“Okay, maybe that too.”

And it’s the third time that Steph follows her, anyways, sleepily kicking off one of her damp shoes by the bed before she flops on top of it to Alex’s quiet laughter behind her, sure enough…other girl slipping beneath a flopping, shoe-clung foot to sneak fingers beneath the rim, helping to take it off.

“Alex, seriously?” Steph’s muffled laughter sinks into the pillow that smells like—

Steph smiles, realization donning that she knows exactly what it smells like, now.

“Hey, you’re the one that doesn’t have the excuse of being drunk, this time.”

Steph pulls away and toes off the other shoe before offering a smile down the bed at Alex, the darkness of the apartment lit up by a flash outside. Wind rattling the thin glass as she watches Alex slip off her glasses and slide into the bed next to her, this time under the covers.

It’s familiar.

“Sleeping in bed with your shoes on isn’t comfortable, Steph. Barefoot is the way to go.” It’s murmured. Already sleepy—exhausted—like some weight of the day has taken its toll out of Alex’s bones.

Steph wonders what it is—wonders what's exhausted her.

"You okay?" Steph asks before she can think anything against it, watching her shift and ease and turn towards her. A hint of surprise basked in shadows beneath clear eyes, no glass between them.

"Yeah. Are you?"

Alex is warm—she’s always so warm—and Steph listens to the wind and the sound of Alex’s laughter and knows…

"...right now? Yeah. I actually am."

It’s a little easier facing storms with people you know just as good as the bad.

Enter Haven Springs.

I felt a lot that first day. From him—from everyone —but it was the most I felt like myself, too, in…a really long time.

When I saw Gabe for the first time, I suddenly remembered what he looked like. The way his lips curled up in a smile was like an old, wrinkled piece of sheet music. I just needed to read it to remember how it went, again. It never really went away—the music was always out there in the world, and maybe part of me knew it; hummed it in the morning or the afternoon or at night—but I really needed to see it to make sense and find the tune, again.

I remembered teasing him about trying to grow a beard when he was thirteen (but missed all the nicks and scrapes and burns in-between the actual growing).

I remembered him talking about making it out of Seattle—busking his way with his little sister all the way down to Reno so that we could make something of ourselves. (Thinking back on it, who knows why Reno? Maybe Gabe didn’t know why, either).

I remembered the way he always hugged so tightly, without a hint of hesitation. Hesitation was just never in Gabe’s dictionary.

I remembered him and filled in all those gaps of what he used to be with who he was, the moment I met him again, in an instant.

He smiled and…I didn’t feel as guilty, because I knew he remembered, too. Which means he’d forgotten. He looked at me and didn’t recognize me but did at the same time—and…I don’t know.

Suddenly, I wasn’t really alone, anymore. Suddenly a decade of guilt washed away like sand in the rain.

Suddenly, I wasn’t the only person out there who filled their mind up with snapshots of things they could barely remember and who held onto too much of what they didn’t want to hold onto, at all—

I didn’t do what Mom asked. Gabe was the one that chased Dad halfway across the country. Gabe was the one that held onto her more than I ever did—that reached out and tried to patch me together. But I decided to do something a little selfish, in that moment.

I remembered Gabe for me.

I remember Gabe.

And when Gabe died, all I felt was him.

All I still feel is him.

All I’ll ever feel is him.

What if all I ever feel is him?

What if none of the memories I have of him are even mine to have, in the first place?

Dreams rarely make sense, especially for someone that avoids them. It’s the feeling that remains.

It’s a blur, the way the phone cracks in her palm—the way the wind creaks and splinters and shatters, like tinsel-dried bones. Crumbling to dust beneath torrential rain and winds, the noise of it rattling—quaking—thunderous—

I’ve got to go , Steph—

A familiar hand reaching out—a beam of wood; blood; screaming; eyes widening—

Eyes rolling, her hand reaching out, and then nothing—nothing—nothing, just thunder and—

Thunder cracks like a roaring boom in the sky.

Mom. Fine. Dead. Gabe and Rachel and Mom—

And all Steph feels is the horror. The bone-deep horror that chills like ice from fingertips to creaking bones to—

Her gasping lungs, bolting upright like a stiffened board, sheets bundled around hips, chest gasping for air. Panic creeps up her neck at the sound of the rumbling outside, hand snapping up to her chest to—

To—

Someone's jolted up right with her. Sudden. Sharp. Panicked, and it takes Steph a moment to shake the fear. To shake the dream.

But she doesn’t quite shake the memory of her mother’s eyes.

Eyes flick to the side, seeing Alex sitting up next to her, blinking through the flash of lightning nearby to see sweat dotting that normally-calm brow, blink owlish as Alex’s heavy breath pants in sync with hers beneath the flickering streetlight outside, obscured by pelting rain, thunder rumbling the windows. Shaking the trembling earth of Steph's bones. Loud. So loud.

And Steph tries—fuck, she desperately tries to get her breathing under control—

Tries to push the panic down and—

And--

Lightning lights up the room and a sharp, hissing breath sucks through teeth, trying not to count the thunder that follows.

Steph sounds fine. Calm and measured and a little oddly urgent, but fine. Practiced and totally cool--

“I—” Fingers are clawing—clawing—clawing at her chest like she’s trying to pull her heart out of its cage, but her voice is even. “I should go—” She manages to stumble but quivers as she tries to get out of the bed. The last thing Alex needs is Steph’s own graveyard baggage. And Steph can’t—can’t—

Hot, clammy fingers snap up to catch along Steph’s retreating wrist, gentle and careful, pausing Steph before she can stumble off of the bed, completely. Fingers that immediately snap backwards when flexing muscles tense beneath the knowing touch, raising up like Alex is trying to calm a bull, or something.

“Steph, wait. It’s okay.” Her voice is…quiet. Gentle. Even as Steph can see her ragged breath, and something about it unravels the tight knots of Steph’s spine. Another flash lights up the apartment and she can see so clearly how Alex's brows knit in concern, no glasses in sight. “It’s okay. I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to. But…I’m going to take a wild shot in the dark and guess nightmare, right?”

After a long moment, Steph quietly nods, looking away. Swallowing. But reaches out anyways to falsely assure her friend, fingers curving, because the last thing she wants after all of this progress is for Alex to stop feeling comfortable touching her just because of a stupid fucking nightmare. But when her hand trembles beneath Alex’s at the sound of the sky quivering in deep, close rumbles, she regrets not keeping her stoicism.

"Yeah. It's...fine. I'm just not big on storms. I think I'll just…" Calm. Calm. Calm. "Go home and watch a movie, or something."

“It’s pouring outside.”

“I’ll be alright, my apartment is right down the street.”

Alex searches her features, eyes looking around the room like she’s placing something—placing everything—and Steph wipes a free arm beneath her brow, sweat still slick and tracking beneath skin.

“Hang on.” Alex squeezes before she lets go of her hand a second time, “Sit on the bed for a second, okay?"

“I—” Steph’s heart is still hammering and, stupidly, she doesn’t want to be alone right now, even though every single cell of her body is screaming to get out—

"Trust me, Steph." It’s an almost loving plea, lightning casting Alex's whole body in a soft blue glow as she stands sturdy and calm in front of her, the world rumbling like it's threatening to swallow them whole. But Alex is looking at her like she doesn't need glasses to see right through her--

Alex is looking at her without an ounce of that...that thing that everyone else does--that thing that curls nails into skin and turns veins to quivering rattlesnakes--

Alex is looking at her like she'd let her go, if she asked.

Steph's jaw barely trembles as she nods. Breathes through her nose, sinking back onto the bed like an anchor whose string was cut.

A crack of thunder stiffens her spine right before the familiar sound of a scratching needle cuts beneath it and Alex, in all of her infinite wisdom, puts a record on. It’s loud enough to drown out the booms, but she can still feel the windowpanes rattle and shake nearby. Can still feel—

Can still imagine—

“Mom? Mom—”

Steph blinks open when she feels something warm slide onto her ears, a swimming, hazy vision of Alex’s face coming into view, all of the lights in the apartment suddenly on and blinds drawn, and she can see her clearly, now.

Headphones are now settled on Steph's ear, Dido of all things playing calmly, covering up the music skipping from the record player. The rain and the thunder and the lightning melts away to a calm, lilting voice and Alex's familiar eyes. Sweat plasters hair to Alex’s craning neck—her forehead—a thin shirt clings to her frame, wet through like she'd ran through the rain, herself, and it’s in this moment that more than just panic laces beneath Steph’s thunderous heart, because it looks a hell of a lot like Alex had a nightmare, too—

“I’m okay.” It’s mouthed through a smile the moment she sees Steph notice her and Steph thinks now is the literal worst time to think that Alex is literally the most beautiful woman she's ever met, every inch of her the least put together Steph’s ever seen. Hair disheveled and wet—glasses who the hell knows where—not an ounce of self-preservation or care as Alex drops everything in the world to stoop in front of her with that soft, worried smile that somehow doesn’t drive Steph up the wall.

Just fucking…beautiful and for a second Steph is overwhelmed by it. Clings to it.

Maybe it's just an easier distraction, fingers stiffening at the sound of thunder underlying the two conflicting melodies in the apartment the moment she starts to pull up one of the headphones to hear her.

The song starts over in one ear while the record keeps going in the other.

Alex reaches over to the nightstand to slide glasses up the bridge of her nose, turning back towards Steph with such open eyes. Such earnest sincerity. “I’m going to get behind you. Breathe with me, okay?”

“W-what?” Steph is holding one of the headphones askew on her head, the cacophony of songs only adding a bit to the chaos.

The sentence does not make sense—not right now.

"I...okay? I guess?"

Alex without another word slides behind Steph on the bed and guides her backwards, lifting up one of the headphones for just a breath to murmur in her ear. “Is this okay? You can kick me off. I’m not trying to—”

Steph's whole body tenses, a faint tremble in her chest at the feeling of Alex's breath along her neck.

A dusty swallow.

“I…yeah, yeah it’s—”

Her heart is still hammering. Her chest is still raging. She can feel the storm in her fingertips. If she could just—just calm down enough to stop freaking out, Alex wouldn’t even have to know she’s a total—

“Breathe with me.”

“Are you trying to zen me into compliance?” Steph tries to joke but it comes out strained—thin—and against every single logical thought in her mind, she finds herself leaning back into Alex’s arms, anyways.

This is why she avoids people. There’s something in her that makes it so, so difficult to say no, when they’re close—something so difficult to pull away, when someone’s already there. And then what self-restraint does she have? It’s better to just shove the problem out the door and never have to test her will, than to—

Alex’s chin is on her shoulder and her chest is against Steph’s back and she can…she can feel her breathe. Can feel her chest inflate and collapse—can feel the air, so warm, sink into her neck. Thoughtlessly, she breathes with her. In—slowly, slowly, slowly—out—slowly…slowly…slowly. Repeated, over and over and over again until the shaking windows become the quiver of Alex’s breath and the lightning becomes muted with the soft apartment lights above. The thunder melts into music and after moments or lifetimes or maybe the fiftieth repeat of Thank You angelically humming in her ear, Steph slides off the headphones to listen to Alex, instead.

And then laughs, a little--this small little chuff of an exhausted puff--when she finally recognizes the album playing.

Sliding Doors.

Her heart has calmed, the panic gripping her before melted into something strained but…livable.

Alex is quietly humming along to Thank You the moment it plays on the actual record player, headphones unknowingly settled on Steph's knees.

“You…have a really good voice.” It's murmured and exhausted, but fuck it--Alex does.

Alex pauses and the way she shifts—Steph doesn’t know—it feels like…maybe she smiles.

“I was going to plug in my phone and play the actual album at the same time,” She sounds a little nervous—a little embarrassed—and when Steph turns her head, they’re so close she can taste her breath. It’s even warmer on her lips than it was on her neck. “But I...couldn't find my glasses. I always have this up for emergencies, so..."

“What, you can just find long lost relics for NPCS, not for yourself?”

“I don’t know where to go without a glowing quest marker?” Alex jokes, still a little new at the whole genre experience, and Steph is proud of the fact that it totally lands, quietly laughing. Just a little. Feeling a little more of the tension melt from her spine.

It’s still there, in the back of her mind—a thousand different images and a thousand different ways—a thousand different versions of her mother, lost to some angry vehement God—but it’s always there, underneath the surface. It never goes away.

In Steph’s experience, it will always be that way.

"It was...really sweet." Steph finally murmurs and she can see that smile, now. "So...Dido is your comfort music, huh?"

"Guilty."

The thunder rumbles beneath them and Steph closes her eyes, tucking her head on Alex's shoulder.

Waiting for the world to be easy, again.

“I liked you singing—you should totally keep doing that.”

Alex’s knees are tented around her hips on this tangled mess of sheets on the bed and Steph is nestled fully in the warmth of her arms, against her chest, so that every single breath of air from Alex’s lips might be another gust of snow brushing along the open fissures, promising that it will pass—it will pass—if she just keeps herself from falling in. Alex, gently singing in her ear until the storm turns to background noise beneath the music and the lights and their shared breaths. Her skin is cold and clammy, now, sweat sticking to it beneath the fan, and when she shifts, she feels Alex’s shirt do much of the same to herself.

They must get through the entire album before Steph's self preservation instinct turns into absolute embarrassment.

“This is not my proudest moment in history.” Steph laughs, a little, strained, “It doesn't even happen that often, anymore. It's just...so random. Normally my friends never find out about this, if I can help it. I’m more of the…shut myself up in my apartment and ignore everyone for weeks trauma response type.”

“I’ve been there.” Alex offers but it doesn’t sound weak—it doesn’t sound so thin and full of pity like it does on most people’s tongues. “I…” Instead, when Steph turns around, Alex just shrugs. “Okay.” She sits a little taller behind Steph’s curved spine, offering in a swell of confession: “Hyperventilate in hospitals? If that helps. Now we’re even. You know something about me that…well, no one does.”

“It does help a little bit.” Steph’s smile is slim, the anxiety curling in her stomach like a wounded animal, still snarling and whimpering, but resigning itself to its fate as it fights, quieting down. Resting. “I…used to lock myself in the bathroom during storms and turned on the water. Especially… When they were bad. Just in case. I mean, freaking out is rare, but Izzie never knew. How could she have? I never told her. Totally healthy, right?" Alex is still holding her, the record softly skips to repeat Side A, both of their bodies settled on the bed. “I haven't had a nightmare in years, I guess it just...surprised me. I’m sorry I freaked on you. I know you were just trying to help. I just…"

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks." Steph's hands thoughtlessly and boldly have raised up to Alex's knuckles, tracing along the ridges of a bandage. Tellingly, Alex lets her. "You’ve…always been there for me when I needed it, Alex. So…maybe it’s hypocritical of me to ask, but…” Steph shifts in her arms, fingertips itching to cup her cheeks—to push through that wet, sweat-soaked hair curving around Alex’s cheek even though that’s probably the worst idea she’s ever had. Instead, she just hesitantly cups her shoulder—safe territory—and meets her eyes, “Why'd you wake up like this? And don't tell me it's because you were hot.”

Alex visibly hesitates and looks like she might say something else entirely before admitting, “I…had a nightmare, too. But I was more worried about you.”

“You always are.” Steph’s lips tug a little downwards, but she doesn’t pull away, instead just sucking in a deep breath. “Did…doing all this help, at least?”

“Yeah.” Alex is smiling at her and Steph takes a deep breath, feeling a little of the panic she’d felt chip away and away and away with each faithful breath rising Alex’s chest. She can feel it. Can feel her heartbeat if she focuses enough— “It feels like it’s calming down a bit, now.”

“Good.” Steph turns back around, teeth tucking lips, “I…really should probably go. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for a night, and now I feel like I definitely need a shower. I'm not freaking out, anymore. It was just...”

Steph doesn't want to remember the nightmare, so she doesn't. She doesn't say anything else, at all, and Alex doesn't ask.

“...you could stay.” Alex’s voice is barely a murmur in her ear—gentle and…hopeful? No, Steph’s reading too much into it. Still…she turns a little, once more, and feels Alex’s hands tense above her stomach, but only for a second. Those steady, calm eyes right there—always right there, it seems like. “It’s definitely not walk-friendly out there. And…you staying here would help me feel calm.”

“Why do I feel like you’re just saying that to make me feel better?”

“There is maybe a slim chance that I also think staying here will help you, too. You don’t have to, Steph. Seriously. But by tomorrow morning, tonight’s going to be over, and I know you want the poptarts in the cabinet.”

Alex makes it sound so easy. Alex makes it feel so easy.

It’s…a choice. It’s a choice, to let herself be here—to open up and…actually let someone in. She already has, hasn’t she? Whether she meant to, or not, hasn’t the worst already passed? She thinks of Mikey and Gabe and Chloe, somewhere, and her tongue runs over her lower lip, nervously searching Alex’s eyes. The worst has already passed—Alex is already here—what would running do? Keep Alex from seeing it, again?

Keep Steph from having to talk about it?

She remembers the way Alex had quietly tucked into her shoulder during Raging Bull and thinks, for just a moment, like she’s thought so much with Alex—

Would it be so bad?

There’s none of the pitying looks—no questions—nothing but music and gentle hands and someone who Steph thinks…might know what all of it feels like. Might really, genuinely, know what it all feels like.

All Alex asks is for Steph to stay.

Is that something she's even built for?

“You’re really not going to ask to talk about it? No…probing questions? No friend-break-up texts at me if I do leave or—”

“Steph,” Alex shakes her head, serious and gentle. “We don’t ever have to bring up any of what just happened for the rest of time, if you want. It’s totally cool.”

“Wow. Okay.” A breath. A nod. Shifting just a little, starting to untangle herself from Alex’s warm limbs. As much as she wants to be held—as much as she feels safe and secure and warm—she does not want to put Alex in the place of having to—

Beyond bad idea. The line is already starting to get so thin.

No, she’s not going to ask Alex to hold her through the night. Waking up like that is one thing. Actively seeking it out? That would just make her feel like she’s taking advantage of Alex’s—

“I don’t want this to sound weird.” Alex sounds hesitant—looks like she’s trying to work out a word problem in the back of her mind—like she’s trying to figure out how to say— “But do you think we could…”

“What?”

“I’m trying to think of a better way to say ‘cuddle’ without it sounding like I’m...crossing a line. And not using the word ‘cuddle’, which retrospectively is a horrible word.” Alex sighs, eyes flicking down to where Steph is pulling away, “It's kind of not a good look when your best friend is freaking out."

The instant relief is dwarfed, for a moment.

Steph's gaze immediately softens. "Did you just call me your best friend?" There's no hint or tease--it's the first time she's heard Alex return the sentiment, at all.

"Yeah, Steph." Alex smiles, soft and sincere as lightning curves up her chin to her eyes, bathed in the warmth of the apartment and the cold of outside. Steph, for a moment, feels like the storm is hundreds of miles away as she smiles back, slim and...fuck, she's not going to be emotional or conflicted about it. “Of course I did.”

"I guess in that case I can allow your totally weak, thinly-veiled excuse to hold me for the night." Steph tries to joke, but her throat is dry and her stomach is clenching even as Alex smiles and tugs her back onto the bed. Brave and never backing down.

"Thinly-veiled excuses are under-rated, more people should try them.” A little more serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever…really had a chance to do this with someone, before, anyways. Not without them expecting something else." Is all Alex says, arm wrapping around her shoulder so naturally that Steph doesn't even care that she feels like she woke up in a swamp--she probably smells like one, which is a totally not good look--dried sweat still sticking to her neck and her hips and her knees. It's like this doesn't matter, at all, as Alex shifts her closer in a loose, rare hug on the bed.

The fear slowly eases into her breathing and the room feels bright and clearer, the same side of that Dido album softly humming in the background.

Maybe Steph will ask her, sometime--ask her how Alex always know what Steph needs. Ask her how Alex always...is what Steph needs.

Maybe Steph will get the chance to ask her if she’s the same for Alex, sometime—maybe—maybe—

Steph grows a little bolder, shifting in the bed to wrap Alex’s arms around her, settling back against her front.

Little spoon is a new look on her and she…really doesn’t mind it. Like…at all. Not with Alex holding her.

“Well…being the first sounds cool with me. Cuddle away, Chen.”

This time she does feel Alex’s smile, having pulled her close enough that she can feel lips curve in the air above her neck.

It should be awkward. It should be tense or weird or a thousand other cliches that it totally isn't. Instead...Steph just lets herself exist in it for a moment.

They fall asleep with the lights on and Sliding Doors blaring and a pair of headphones sandwiched between them repeating the same song over and over and Alex’s arms wrapped so warmly around Steph that she forgets what ice ever felt like on the tips of her fingertips.

She dreams nothing, at all, and when she wakes it's in the crook of Alex's neck, having turned around in her sleep, their limbs still tangled and sweaty from where they'd touched—it’s to an obnoxiously bright apartment and Dido and Alex's phone at 2%, sandwiched between them, headphones digging into her side.

Steph shifts along the sheets and swallows at the sight of Alex uncomfortably shifted in the bed to accommodate Steph, her neck curved a little backwards at the world’s weirdest angle. Her glasses are still on her face, askew, and Steph carefully--carefully--reaches forward to slide them off. Small, painful crescents pit skin where frames dug in throughout the night and Steph quietly folds them up and reaches over her to nestle them safely back where they'd been tugged from the night before, so careful not to dislodge Alex as she does.

The rain is barely a trickle outside, now, fully covered by Dido's voice.

(Hopefully the rain will stay away from the Larp, next week).

It would be easy to untangle and slip out--to disappear into the morning and claim she wanted to be at the station. It would be easy to steal a pop tart from the cabinet and start one up for Alex, maybe, and never talk about this, again. She knows Alex won't mention it.

But then who will tell Alex where her glasses are when she wakes up? That's what Steph tells herself--repeats like a hopeless idiot as she sags back into the pillow and gently traces the divot her best friend's care had left upon her skin before her hand retreats back to rest around the curve of Alex's hip.

Is staying such a bad thing?

Maybe not. Maybe…

Just maybe not. Maybe staying is the opposite of a bad thing.

Maybe staying is something Steph really, really wants to do, right now.

Alex cracks open an eye and slowly, slowly smiles at her like she's been awake the entire time, and Steph tries not to let her heart (skipping across this thin, wrinkled river of sheets between them like a stone) sink into it. She lets herself lean into it, instead--just for a moment--tugging Alex against her and making a show of going back to sleep.

"Does yesterday count as my private show?" Alex thoughtfully murmurs into her shoulder and Steph laughs into her hair, eyes fluttering closed as they relax into the bed.

She'll worry about how totally ambiguous and definitely not friendly this is later. Right now?

She agrees with Alex. It does feel calm.

The rain gently patters on the windowpane outside and Steph closes her eyes and recognizes that scent on the sheets, now, with ease and comfort and certainty:

It’s Alex. It doesn’t smell like anything else. It just smells like her.

"You wish."

Alex sighs—long-winded and totally suffering—before her nose tucks into Steph’s neck, the tension in her back melting away beneath Steph’s fingers. She feels it. She feels all of that heat in Alex’s body simmer lava and turn to steam beneath the cool ice of her hands.

And she knows they both fall asleep with a smile.

With Isabelle…I couldn’t leave for a month.

With Gabe…

How am I supposed to ever leave when I’m surrounded by him? At the wake, I heard everyone talking about it—about how he died.

‘Maybe it was quick—he wouldn’t have felt a thing—’

People keep saying this to Charlotte like it somehow makes it better. Like it somehow makes any of it better.

What am I going to do, tell them that it wasn’t? That I crawled to the edge of that crumbling mountain and that all Gabe felt the whole way down was fear? Terror? For so long. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t painless, it was injustice. It was fury. It was this hell of reality so strong that even when Ryan pulled me away, I felt it. I felt Ethan and I felt Ryan and I felt that monster in the bottom of an endless black hole…and I felt Gabe.

My big brother, whose face I barely remembered, lost down in the depths of the monster I thought I’d helped quell.

Would it help if I could tell Charlotte that all he thought about, the whole way down, was them? Charlotte and Ethan. That he didn’t want to go? That he still had so much more to give them?

At the wake, yesterday…Steph told me that it’s not my job to keep it together but I

The writing stops abruptly, resumed down the page.

Maybe I’m not the only empath in town.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, now that Ryan knows.

Ryan and Steph actually showed up with beers and a surprisingly sincere invite to go watch a movie on their phones in the park. Ryan says it’s because they can’t afford a projector and Steph is claiming that it’s because it’s just for the aesthetic (with that kind of half-smile she does). They held open the door and they both…felt so sad and hopeful that I went, anyways. It’s kind of hard to turn them both down—not when I knew how much they wanted it to work.

Don’t get me wrong—I hated every single second of it. All I wanted to do was crawl in bed and stop having to smile, or pretend, or do anything at all. But I also kind of loved it, too. It…didn’t really feel like they wanted anything from me. It felt like I didn’t really have to do anything but follow them outside. They let me into their world and I…

I don’t know.

When mom died, I was forced to leave.

With Isabelle, I couldn’t leave, at all.

With Gabe…I could have drowned in it. But I didn’t.

I don’t know what it means. Maybe I’m not supposed to know what it means.

Maybe all I know is that now I’m not feeling it alone.

Steph saluted when she left and Ryan walked me up to my door like a total gentleman and even now that I’m sitting here, surrounded by pictures and memories of Gabe that I wasn’t in…I don’t feel alone, anymore.

I feel like these memories belong to me. Like they mean something. Like they can’t be taken away.

The rain has settled on the pavement outside, turning into soft moisture in the air—so light it can barely sink into the lungs of the sparse tourists traipsing down Main Street.

It’s barely a mist, now, drizzling against the pavement, rising steam up into the warm afternoon air.

The ‘be back whenever’ sign is flipped on the rain-dotted glass of Traders’ closed door, a faint percussion beating beneath the gentle breeze and the rain outside behind chipped wood. Barely there—only found if looking in the right places.

Inside the closed-off store isn’t the world’s most intimate display, but it feels like it to a performer—a black box theatre show for two.

Steph’s hands curve around sticks and Alex’s back against the wall with a guitar she’s been talked into grabbing, both of them jamming out like there’s no tomorrow. Like the music was just there, waiting for hands on strings and feet on snares to show up. Like the music was always there—like a song that Steph got stuck in Alex’s head, waiting to break out into the soft store sun.

They rock out underneath a Girl Power poster, voices settling on top of each other in harmony, no audience.

She can’t help but wonder if Gabe’s the only one watching this performance, too, rocking out somewhere up in that big old sky…

But when Alex smiles at her, initial nerves bled out into ease and confidence and something that’s just…so beautifully, wonderfully Alex…

Steph realizes it doesn’t matter, anyways.

This show’s just for them, and that’s okay, too.

Maybe that’s what was missing, all along.

Maybe it’s not that bad.

Maybe being here with Alex…it’s not that bad, at all.

I hope…I can help Steph and Ryan like they’ve helped me.

I just need to work through my own shit while doing it, right?

And part of that is turning that fear of Gabe’s into something else, isn’t it?

Part of that is turning that fear…into finding who did this to him.

Part of that is…learning how to let go.

Maybe Steph was right. Maybe my job isn’t to keep it all together.

Maybe my job is finally learning how to let it all fall apart regardless of who’s picking up the pieces.

I remember Dr. Lynn telling me that it’s not my fault that things are broken…and maybe that includes me. But maybe everyone’s a little broken—just as broken as me—so maybe Gabe wasn’t omniscient and was wrong, just about this.

And maybe that’s okay, too.

#chenrich #life is strange true colors #life is strange fic #alex chen/steph gingrich #alex/steph #lis #mine #fi2a #q

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ddullahan · 3 years

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hadestown au 1

HI SO My anxiety has been through the fuckin roof for the past few weeks and in a fit of stress I deleted the first look of the bees hadestown au that I posted a few weeks ago. I’m feeling much better now and I wanted to repost it because I really am super excited about it >< Anyway, second verse, maybe same as the first, here we go! ---------------- it’s an old song As all tales begin, there comes a moment of question. The precipice we all stand at, toes hanging over the edge, eager to take the plunge. The question, different for every eye and ear turned to the story, starts as a feeling. It buoys us through the long swathes of paragraphs ahead. It seeps into our minds, and pushes us off the edge. We have that moment of freefall. Of realisation. We have to trust in something to catch us. Like most fairy tales, it begins with once upon a time. There laid a railroad track. If you've ever heard the rails sing on a good, windy day, you'd know the sound sticks to the back of your mind. There to stay until the dark of night, when it creeps up to whisper wanderlust into your bones. The song of the rails is a low and resonant thing, humming into the willows scattered along the railroad sides. They used to say the rails were the Fates groaning in your ears. Urging you along. Waiting in anticipation for the train to come to call. Waiting for the story to start its freefall. The metal likes to wail beneath blackened wheels on hot, summer days. Days much like the one in which our story begins. Once upon a time - Metal chatters under the weight of an ancient, scorch-marked train. Decorated with blacked out windows. Panes of glass soot-stained, like they’d been brushed with fire one too many times. Coal smoke bursts from its chimney with a grudge, flooding the gray skies in the type of black smog that you can taste in the back of your mouth, long after the train’s disappeared. It was painted white once, a long, long time ago. A gift from the boss man down below for his flowering wife; but it’s one of those gifts you shove in the back of your drawer. One of those things that you spend your nights lying awake in bed, thinking in guilty chords. The train still runs, but the old white sides are now black and cold. Like the panting of dogs on the skin of your heels, the wind still blows hot behind it. The only thing it tows are souls to their final destination, but it won't take you if you ain't got the gold to board. It’s a fact almost everyone knows. ‘Cause the old legends say the road to hell could lead you out of poverty, but you gotta pay the toll to get that good money. The wind cracks and snaps after the train; sends the short ribbons of inky black hair whipping. Snapping into the brown-skinned face of a hungry young woman. Blake Belladonna’s eyes glint like knives with a debt to pay, and her steps are sure footed against the rolling rocks under her boots. She wears a weathered bag slung over her shoulder, and a once-warm leather duster now worn to shit and hole-y. She seems small among the billowing willows and smoggy skies. She doesn't know where she's going or how she got to the railroad at all - but she knows how to turn her collar against the wind. And she knows how to run. Metal shrieks, pulling her eyes up like a hand to the chin. She’s left to watch as the ruined, black omen of a train screams past a small, dilapidated station. It’s the only structure for miles. The cicadas are screaming along to the wailing of the tracks in a symphony, until the locomotive vanishes over the curve of a distant hill. The station's dry, mud-caked windows send silt drifting to cracked, rotting floorboards. The coke-bottle thick panes rattle angrily in their fragile frames, and then come to find their peace once more. Damn this is a dump, the young woman thinks, approaching the station. But it'll have to do. The sun's rays sink into her skull and turn her warm brown skin hot to the touch. It's far too hot for April. Stepping into the shade is an immediate relief, until the hot wind kicks up again. It blasts in her face as if to remind her it's there. As if she could ever forget. She's used to the way it whispers starvation in her ears. She throws the door open and escapes from the wind; stumbles her way into the empty station. Small and dusty like it’d been forgotten, filled with only two benches facing each other and a single door hiding behind them in the gloom. There's a sign on the door that reads "End o th line Caf ". Faintly, she can hear music behind it. Blake doesn't hesitate, and heads for the door. The knob breaks off in her hand, but it feels familiar and solid so she pockets it and heads inside. Follows the hallway and the pull of her feet to the music. The walls grow darker and thicker with polished wood. Her steps don't seem to echo and the music has since paused. The quiet starts to make her anxious. She doesn't like dark hallways. She's dreamt of them enough for a lifetime. The further she goes, the more her unease starts to grow and the more she starts to wonder if she's been here before. It's ridiculous, really. This is the farthest south she'd ever gone. Or was she in the east? Her anxious heart speeds up for a reason she can't see, and it's like her feet already know where to go. The hallway turns suddenly and she finds herself standing at the rim of an amphitheater of sorts. The music fades back in. There's a band jamming to soft jazz in the stands, people crowded and conversing at tiny tables scattered about the flat floor at the bottom. There's a man at a piano playing a diddy, there's a flicker of gold in the kitchen beyond. It's alive in a way that she hadn't seen in a long time, and she finds her feet eager to join the dancing 'round the tables below. She takes a step and nearly runs into another woman, decked out in a crisp white and red suit. She’s older, maybe late thirties or mid forties - has this eternally kind, yet melancholy smile. Her features are fair, but tired. Her black hair is pulled back like Blake’s, but tipped with red like the ends had been dipped in paint. Blake apologises immediately - "E-excuse me, sorry," and starts picking her way down to the tables. "No worries dear," She hears faintly behind her, the older woman's face already blurred from her memory. She blinks and suddenly she’s on the bottom floor, with the movers and shakers rattling cups with their stomping jive. She wants to move with them, but she's already reaching for an empty chair, like her hand was following its own storyline. The flash of gold catches her attention again. Her feet slip into a shallow groove in the floor, and she is rooted. Something crashes, and her eyes follow the clattering sharp shards of porcelain. One piece with purple trim bounces off a brown boot. She notices a hole near the big toe. Blake looks up, and her heart decides to freefall. All the way across the floor stands a young woman in an apron. A bucket of newly broken dishes lay at her feet. Her eyes are so pale and pretty they have their own orbit amidst the aging lights above. Her blonde hair ripples into liquid gold, twisted messily into a bun. Broad shoulders are cinched into position with suspenders and there's an off-white shirt rolled up to her elbows, the hem tucked into a pair of trousers. The skin of her strong forearms are tanned and riddled with freckles, spreading constellations all the way up her neck and across the gradual slope of her nose. Oh, there's something familiar about all of this. Blake feels it in her bones. There’s something familiar in the ‘o’ of her startled mouth. Something about the empty hands she hovers, still holding an imaginary bucket of plates. She's got those sharp lilac eyes pinned on something in front of her. It's a jolt to realise she's staring right at Blake. Though suddenly, that older woman in the white and red suit sweeps by that freckled face, and it's with a smile and a wave that their staring contest ends. No one claims the victory as the spell breaks. The older woman asks something that Blake can't hear, but she knows her voice is soft and sweet. Her feet move like she’s skating on air, and Blake decides to focus on that. She focuses on that instead of the heartbeat in her chest. She doesn’t think about how her pulse no longer feels like it belongs to herself. The golden woman nods stiffly and turns. Follows the gliding woman to the back of the house, and Blake is left with a heart migrating into her throat. The hungry young woman quickly tears her gaze away, uproots her feet from the grooves in the floor, and sits at the table she'd claimed. Her skin feels clammy. Her body is buzzing. She shrugs off her bag and coat, then pulls her bag into her lap. As if there was anything in there worth protecting. It could be minutes, it could be hours. She's really not sure, when a shadow falls over her table, and the sight aches like an old friend. A bottle of some fizzy drink is set gently before her, the bottle cap rattling towards her side of the table. Sunflower Pop, it reads. She looks up. The poor young woman, with her liquid gold locks wrapped in a messy topknot, stares right back. They're both struck speechless. If there was ever a moment where destiny fills the lungs, it was then. Anticipation strings itself between their ribs, the cords like telephone wires humming their universal tune. I found you. I found you. I found you. But neither of them say a word to each other. The anticipation feels closer to a noose than a cup-and-string, the longer they spend breathing in the other's presence. The hungry young woman with hair black as night, just couldn't look away. Couldn't make her voice work right. The gold haired woman's jaw seems to work, but there was still no sound to be heard. Eventually the woman just turns around and walks away, toddling and tripping like her knees were unsteady. Blake sits where she left her, feeling much more than sympathy. She feels like her chair would collapse with her if she tried to follow. And again, there are voices whispering in the back of her mind. The wind already found her inside this place, its voices groaning and hollow. It always finds her, and she knows. She knows it always will. But as her slender fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle left on her table, Blake tastes the fizz and hums. Feels the crackle of carbonation all across her skin as she tracks the tall blonde with her eyes. The wind doesn’t feel like a whip in this vibrant, lively place. That has to count for something. Maybe she should stick around, just for one day. Maybe she would stick around and wait for the band to play.

#rwby hadestown au #rwby fanfiction #bumbleby #bumbleby hadestown au #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #i'm still waiting to finish the whole thing before posting it on ao3 #but the more i reread it #the more excited i am #i fucking love this au #thank y'all for your patience T.T #and thank you yangsbandana #for encouraging me to post it again i appreciate you v much T.T #rwby

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lettersnorth · 3 years

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Prompt #3: Scale

Music theme

“Don’t wander too far. We’ll need an early start in the morn.” Beneath the rumble of her da’s gruff tone Aislinn heard the note of concern.

She nodded by way of reply and moved further away from him, along the foreign, tree-shaded paths of Gridania. A short stop on the way to Ul’dah, her da had said. The first sign of civilization they had come across since leaving Ala Mhigo under the cover of darkness.

He watched her as she walked away in silence. On the best of days his daughter was an enigma to him but she hadn’t spoken a word since their heated exchange on the outskirts of Ala Mhigo. He had put off her questions as they had made their way out of the city but as the towers receded further into the distance and she realized this wasn’t a simple excursion, there came a point where she would not be put off any longer. In her stubbornness, a trait she had inherited from him in all likelihood, she had drawn to a mulish halt. Unwilling to take another step.

“What’s going on? Where are we going?”

He, in turn, mulishly refused to stop and continued to scale the rocky mountain path. “We’re leavin’. City ain’t safe anymore. There’s no livin’ ‘longside the Empire.”

“That’s why we’re fighting!” He heard her scrambling up the rocks once more.

“You call tha’ a fight?” he tossed over his shoulder. “Hidin’ out in catacombs an’ safe houses. Plannin’ a skirmish here or there? It’s sport on their end. Only a matter o’ time before they tire o’ th’ game and roll over us. An’ I don’t plan on being there when they do. So we’re leavin’. Ul’dah’ll be our new start.”

“We’re fleein’.” she snapped, charging ahead and cutting right in front of his path like a hissing coeurl kit. All fluff and glower. An anger much larger than her small frame could contain. He might have laughed at the display if she hadn’t continued speaking.

“Like cowards.” she spat the word like she had bitten into something sour. “You’re a coward. And what’s worse, you’ve made me into one too.”

The black rage that threatened to overtake him caught him quite by surprise. He was a fighting man, to be sure. A solid ballast of hard strength, weathered over the years, but unbroken. Never had he ever been accused of being a coward. Never had his ire turned on her. Until that moment. Didn’t she understand why he was doing this? Why he was leaving countrymen, friends, good men, to die in his stead? Why he had done everything he had done over the past sixteen years? Only to have her toss it all back in his face with a single word.

Coward.

She flinched away from him, then. The dark rawness in his face unlike anything she had seen before. It was enough to bring him to his senses. To take a broken step back. He swallowed hard and willed his jaw to unclench.

“I never asked for this.” He ground out as he moved her aside and continued relentlessly up the mountain path.

That had been the last time she had spoken. Now, he watched the flame of her hair disappear down the tree-lined way before he turned towards the inn. Their money was short but he had heard too many stories about the strange magic of the Shroud to risk a night out under the Elemental’s boughs.

Aislinn walked without purpose. She had journeyed thousands of steps so far, each one taking her just a little further from home. What were a few hundred more? She didn’t understand her father. Ala Mhigo might not have been the easiest place to live but wasn’t it his home? What sort of person wouldn’t fight for their home?

Her steps slowed. By now, they all knew she and her father were gone. Everyone she had ever known now knew she had slunked away without so much as a goodbye. The thought weighed heavy, pressing against her skin, too hot, too tight. ‘I never asked for this.’ She knew well enough what he meant. He had never asked for her. In that moment a sense of loneliness crept up and took her by the throat. She struggled for breath.

It was a faint shower of applause that broke through the stifling weight. She lifted her head, pulling her attention away from the inward maze of her thoughts. The red glow of the setting sun shining through the trees was setting the world on fire and a steady stream of people all seemed to be moving down the same city path towards the sound of hundreds of hands clapping. Already aimless, Aislinn let herself join the flow.

Soft, lilting piano music blossomed in the evening air and as she came around a bend, she spied the source; a crowded amphitheater, its boundaries decorated with strings of twinkling lights. The open air theater was packed, which made no difference to Aislinn. It wasn’t as though she had any gil to buy her way in. But the music would not be so politely contained. The notes danced in the evening air, over the heads of the paying guests and waltzed their way out into the wide world and by doing so drew Aislinn ever closer.

Skirting behind a merchant’s stall and along the theater fence, she found a quiet spot under a sprawling tree. From this vantage point she could just barely see the player if she stood on the tips of her toes. The graceful form of a dark haired woman bent over the piano keys as though entranced by the music she coaxed from the instrument. The poor vantage point didn’t matter. The music came to her just the same. She had heard the folk songs of Gyr Abania, the strum of the lute, the pulse-ticking thump of the drum. She had heard the anthems of Ala Mhigo, with their militaristic, bombastic pomp.

But this.

The song swayed softly in time with the branches overhead before the notes built to a crescendo and rained down over the audience’s heads like a spring shower.

Even without knowing the instrument, Aislinn could tell this piece was a work of art. The woman’s hands glided up and down the keys, scaling the board with an ease that only comes from thousands of hours of practice, of living inside the music until she breathed it. It was mesmerizing and overwhelming all at once. Her skill pushed everything else aside for a few blessed moments and let Aislinn live inside the music too. The world and all its troubles were waiting just beyond its boundaries but at that pinprick in time only the song filled her senses.

It tapped against her ribs like a tuning fork and, with its aching wistfulness, it gave voice to the tangled mess within her. Aislinn lowered herself to the grass, drawing her knees to her chest, and sat beneath the tree inside the shelter of the music until the very last encore. Until the sun had given way to the starry night.

She had found her way back to the inn afterwards, her cheeks wet but feeling as though she had been wrung out, washed in a clear, cool stream and laid out to dry in the warmth of sun. Ready to lift up her head and begin again.

Her life, such as it was, hadn’t allowed Aislinn much opportunity to hear piano music through the years but none of it captured her quite like the gift of that unexpected concert in Gridania. She hadn’t heard that first song again. At the time, she hadn’t thought to ask who the pianist was. She didn’t know the name of that song. She thought it lost. A memory and nothing more.

Until that cold, snowy Ishgardian night when it drifted under the door of her room and pulled her back from another nightmare, quieting her struggles and gently drawing her awake. For a moment she lay there, looking up at the ceiling in confusion, certain she was still dreaming. And when she was sure she wasn’t, she sat up and followed the tune out of bed and to the side of the dark-haired man whose fingers moved just as deftly over the piano keys as his own mother’s once had.

( @fairwindsandblueskies for the mentions and the music)

#ffxiv writing #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv rp #prompt 3 #Scale #Aislinn North #Locke Fairwind

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gisellelx · 3 years

Text

Daffodils

Pairing: Carlisle/Esme Word count: 1600 TW: Esme’s backstory

March 1, 1921

Carlisle was angry.

Well, not angry. Esme had to amend her understanding of that word. Charles had been angry. She remembered what anger looked like, sounded like, felt like against and within her body. If Carlisle was able to get angry, she certainly hadn’t seen it yet, and where he was now wasn’t that.

Carlisle was upset. That word better matched the draw in his brow, the tightness of his jaw. He paced his study, slowly, because the room was too small to afford him the room to move at his full speed.

Edward had come to her a week ago, in the garden, at night, the moonlight shading across both their bodies such that it made their skin seem to become a silvery shimmer. He’d sat across from her, his knees pulled to his chest, watching as she carefully put bulbs into the ground. It was still too early; the ground still likely to freeze. They were so much further north than London, the tiny rural enclave where she’d so freely swung from the branches of the huge crabapple tree in her front yard. At this time of year, the daffodils would already be starting to peek their way out from the thawing dirt, their orange and yellow-white heads cheerily greeting the tired Ohioan farmhands who were starting to prepare the fields. Her mother had always kept the beds neatly; ensuring that year after year a crop of the bright little flowers would appear just in time for St. David’s Day.

And so she was planting them, in the moonlight, knowing that it would be several weeks before they made their appearance. Like everything, it was the time which had shifted. The way her body moved so much more quickly. The way she could perch in perfect stillness on a tree branch, no longer worried about taking a fall and fracturing her leg. The way death had stolen away from her in three days of agony, and she’d awoken to the kind, concerned face of this man she had never forgotten.

Carlisle.

She’d asked his name, ten years ago. She remembered the way his brow furrowed in confusion when he’d told her. The tiny hitch in his voice when he admitted that he didn’t remember his mother. She hung onto every word, stored every flickering glance he’d given her. Even through the haze of the laudanum she’d remembered, and it had been so easy, sliding into this household with the kind doctor and the affable, but aloof, boy.

Edward had sat in the garden for a half hour, watching her dig, plant a bulb, and pat the earth back down, over and over, before he made clear his reason for coming outside.

“You have to tell him, Esme,” he said, his tone hard and frustrated and she sighed.

She didn’t want to burden Edward. He was a boy. His body had never filled out as it would have had he matured even a few years more. And even as an immortal, he was only twenty. The images that she tried valiantly to keep from her mind, lest he see them—she knew they hurt him. Charles’ hands, the way they moved when she had displeased him, so fast she didn’t even see them before she felt their impact. The constant fear. The way nothing was ever good enough—the groceries she bought, too expensive, the curtains she sewed with inexpert seams. Edward had heard the bellowing voice, felt her entire body tense at the sound of the good shoes crossing the threshold, the wool coat and hat finding their way to the hook by the door.

And what had happened over and over on the second floor, in the privacy of their bedroom—Edward had seen that, too.

“I can’t,” she told him.

“He has to know.”

She shook her head.

“Esme…he cares for you. He has to know.” The boy’s voice was hard, frustrated.

The words caught her up short. He cared for her, she knew that much. He’d taught her to hunt, and he gave her things to read. He showered her with anything she wanted; dresses, furniture, even flowers when she asked. But he was so reserved, disappearing into his study when they weren’t together.

“How will he take it,” she whispered, and Edward only shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he’d said. “But he has to know.”

So it had been three days ago, now, that she’d told Carlisle. And the gentle doctor had listened, and nodded, and gently touched her shoulder. She’d cried, the heaving tearless sobs that were now the mark of her new existence. And he’d comforted her, squeezing her shoulder, even stroking her cheek. When she felt calm, and he was certain of her security, he announced he was going to take a walk and disappeared for several hours.

And that had been that, she thought. He listened, and he absorbed her story, and it was one more thing about her that he simply took as part of her. She was grateful for the acceptance, pleased with the quiet way he’d accepted it. But it unraveled in the days after. The blond doctor withdrew. He stopped talking to her. Stopped touching her shoulder in the affectionate way he’d begun to before she’d given him the information. When she entered a room he flinched, looking away.

She felt…afraid of him, which seemed so uncharacteristic for Carlisle, the gentle man she’d met ten years ago and who had given her no reason to doubt him now. So she followed him here, to his study, where he had warmly invited her to join him anytime. He stood at once, began pacing, making her wonder if her presence was unwelcome.

He was so obviously upset.

“You’re angry with me,” she said quietly, and he became perfectly still at once. It was an eerie stillness, a stillness she was still getting used to. Carlisle was so good at human habits, and Edward only slightly less so, that when they stopped moving in the way their kind were able to, a perfect cessation of motion, not breathing, not so much as twitching—it still took her by surprise.

He shook his head. “I’m not angry with you.”

“You’ve stopped touching me.” Because she was undesirable? She supposed she deserved that.

He looked at her, his brow furrowed. “Have I?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t realize.” He came to her side, seated himself on the arm of the chair. He took her hand, placing it between both of his and caressing her knuckles.

“You’re angry.”

And in a flash, he was on the other side of the room, his back against the wall.

She swallowed. This much was right. “You’re angry,” she repeated.

He shook his head. “Not with you, Esme. Never with you.”

“But you’re angry.”

He nodded, slowly, standing back up, dropping her hand and thrusting his hands into his hair. They clutched at the golden locks, squeezing frantically, intermittently as he began to pace again.

“I just… What beasts are we, men? To do this? I stopped touching you because I can’t bear the thought that my hands might feel like—”

“You could never be him,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

She shrank back into the chair, one of two luxurious ones he had installed in his study. For what reason, she suddenly wondered. Edward didn’t need to sit, and neither did she. Carlisle was so perfect in his charade, in the nearly three centuries of masking himself as a human, that he rarely missed these finer details which so easily could go unnoticed.

What did he mean? At once, her former husband’s face materialized in her mind. Already, as Edward and Carlisle told her it would, his visage was growing dimmer, less distinct, as though he were in a dream. He was becoming a faceless demon; her only memory his hands and his voice. But the memory of his fist was crystal clear…

Downstairs, the piano abruptly stopped.

“You could never be him,” she repeated.

And he whirled. His eyes, the glorious amber eyes she loved, flashed dark. When he spoke, his voice was high pitched and rapid. “Do you know that, Esme? Do you know that I could somehow not be him? That I don’t have it within me to hurt someone? Are you certain? Because I want to hurt him.”

The shock of his words made her flinch, and he didn’t miss it. His body lost a little of its tension. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, the fist she didn’t realize he’d balled—did he know he’d done it?—released itself back flat.

“I want to hurt him so badly,” he choked. “That’s why I couldn’t be near you. I can’t let you see me this way.” His hand opened and closed again, as though it couldn’t decide what to do.

She shrank back. “Please,” she felt herself saying, and the words were old. She didn’t mean to be begging Carlisle, of all people, but the begging felt familiar. “Please don’t. Don’t be upset.”

“Esme, of course I’m upset!” he bellowed. “I love you!”

He stopped suddenly, swallowed, and staggered several steps backward

“You…” she tried to repeat the words but found they didn’t make sense.

Carlisle seemed just as surprised as he repeated the words. “I…love you.”

Esme didn’t think about what she did next. Charles had said those words to her, what? Once? Maybe twice? Enough that they were already fading? She still wasn’t used to the way her new body moved, to the fact that as Carlisle protested, she was stronger than he was, and would be for a good while. When she shoved him against the desk, it creaked and groaned under their combined weight; when she straddled him and pressed her hands against his jaw.

“I love you,” he groaned again into her lips. The desk protested further.

“I love you,” she repeated.

He placed his hands on her face, pulling her back from him so that she could look into his eyes. They were the orange gold, partway between when he’d hunted recently and when he would need to hunt immediately. She knew, now, after watching for weeks, how his eyes went from the flaxen gold, to the light yellow, to the darkness of old honeycomb before he set out to hunt again. Now they were just the right yellow; the pale color of the corona of the flower she had planted in the cold garden, weeks late.

And as she pressed her lips to his again, she realized that perhaps her daffodils had bloomed on St. David’s Day, after all.

#carlisle cullen #esme cullen #tw: domestic violence #fanfiction #twilight

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highonchocolate · 3 years

Text

Take Two: The Guardian in Gotham Chapter 12

First Previous Next Ao3

He’s a little boy again, laughing and racing through the halls of the Mansion, surrounded by the auburn warmth and love of his mother. Her green eyes, so similar to his own, sparkle down at him as she smiles. He reaches out for her, beaming hopefully, but as soon as he touches her, she crumbles, form blurring and fading. The warmth around him vanishes with her, and then he is alone. Stuck in the cold, silent, Mansion, a gilded cage for him to perform like an exhibit on display. He almost never catches a glimpse of his father, seeing more of Nathalie than him. Piano, fencing, Mandarin, photoshoots, the never ending cycle of activities goes on and on. He is a puppet, a doll. Dancing to their tune. He meets Ladybug, bounding across the rooftops, and the warmth sparks anew. It’s a different kind of heat, red, not the oranges and yellows of before, but still bright. He jokes and laughs, and keeps quiet to preserve the peace. Then, their identities are revealed and his world comes crashing down again. Chloé tells him about sexual harassment, screaming at him for being such an asshole to Mari, and he feels the familiar, numbing, cold creeping up his spine. What had he done?! He...had done… He goes to Ladybug-Marinette-and gets on his knees and apologizes. He apologizes for being too loud as Chat and too quiet as Adrien. He apologizes for not being there, for leaving her struggling in both aspects of her life, just so he could keep the warmth a little longer. But she smiles at him, and says they’ll work on it, and the fire blazes anew. He still loves her, but not in the same way. She is his sister, his sibling, someone to care for, and protect. She is not his lover, but his friend, and somehow, that's all he ever wanted.

--- He opens his eyes with a nostalgic smile on his lips. His eyes are wet, and he tastes salt on his tongue. He reaches out to his other half, his family, and she reaches back, grabbing him in a tight embrace. He hears the green hero telling him he’s not an enemy, but he ignores him, clutching Marinette like a lifeline. As Chloe steps forward, he loosens his hug, keeping his arm around her shoulders instead and turns to watch. She saw how they cried, relieving whatever horrific memories they had been subjected to. As she squeezed her eyes shut, blackness enveloping her, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar tingle of fear wrapping around her like a cloak. --- She is five again, watching as Mommy and Daddy scream at each other. Mommy’s mouth is open in a snarl, and Chloé can’t help but think she looks like a scary monster from her bedtime stories. The one that eats people. Seven years old, and every day they’re yelling at each other, screaming and shouting mean words in the other room. She hears Mommy say ‘This was all a mistake!’ And she huddles under her blankets, pulling Mr. Cuddly closer to her chest. She hears a door slam, and her Mommy is marching away to the helicopter, and there are suitcases being loaded inside. She sees her yellow suitcase is not in the pile, and Daddy is still standing on the roof, not in the helicopter. Her heart skips a beat and she clutches Mr. Cuddly even tighter as she stands beside Daddy and watches Mommy fly away. Does Mommy not love me anymore? She is eight and her Daddy is running for Mayor. He’s too busy to spend time with her, so he buys her a phone to say sorry. She takes it, but there is a weird feeling in her chest, like something is missing, and it doesn’t disappear as she sits alone in her room, playing some mindless game. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Daddy spends less and less time with her, buying more and more gifts to try and make up for his absence. The gifts fill her room, but they don’t fill the empty space in her heart. Sabrina tries, but Chloé knows she doesn’t really like her. She’s only doing it because Chloé gives her gifts too. Then Marinette comes along, and Chloé feels her hatred grow. How come her parents spend time with her?! What makes her so special? ... Why don’t my parents spend time with me? So she huffs and bullies and wraps herself in a cloak of thorns, keeping everyone at arms distance so that she won’t be let down and left alone again. She has Adrien, of course, but she knows she is using him. And he lets her use him, moving through the motions like a doll.

Then Ladybug soars through the sky, catching her as she plummets from Stoneheart’s grasp, high above. Bright blue eyes and signature red, and Chloé watches from below as she flies, wishes and dreams kept secreted away in her heart.

She finds Pollen’s comb, and suddenly her wildest dreams have sprang to life. She is a superhero! She can stand beside Ladybug and Chat Noir, and everyone will love her and her parents will be proud, and maybe now they’ll stay…But Ladybug is mad, and everyone hates her, and she knows Mommy Mother is already disappointed. So she carves a wall of ice and frost around her heart, and wraps her thorned cloak tighter around herself.

And then a Miracle happens, and Ladybug forgives her, and adds her to the team permanently. And they reveal their identities, and she apologizes to Marinette and Adrien because she knows she was wrong, and they give her a second chance.

And her heart is racing and she can’t hear properly because the only thing she can understand now is the simple thought running through her brain over and over.

Permanently? They’re staying? I’m staying? They won’t leave me..?

And they are a family now, and she is loved, and there is Kagami, looking at her with that knowing glint in those deep brown eyes, reaching over to pull her into the warmth of her arms, and finally, finally, that empty space is full again.

---

She saw the familiar darkness of her closed eyelids again, signaling the mind search was over, but she kept them shut for a moment longer, savoring the memories, the love. Only, she didn’t need to savor them, she remembered, because they were right here.

And so she opened her eyes, and saw her friends standing right there, arms already outstretched to pull her into their comforting embrace. Grinning, she let two sparkling tears roll down her cheeks. Only two, for the childhood she never fully had, and the family she finally found.

Kagami was a creature of discipline, and as she closed her eyes, she willed her breath to stay even, her heart to continue its pulse, and her hands to remain steady.

---

“Again!” Her mother’s harsh demand cracked through the air like a whip, sending ice skittering down her spine. Her face stung from where it had scraped on the concrete, it’s cold temperature soothing her scratched skin. Her arms trembled, refusing to bear her weight as she struggled to push herself up in time to block the next blow from her mother’s boken. With a grunt, she parried and thrust, only to fall flat on her back with a grunt.

“Again!”

A whirl of movement, then her knee screamed with pain-

“Again!”

She stood on shaky feet, raising her foil, only to get knocked down seconds later.

“Again!”

So she rose, and she fell, and she rose again.

Nothing she gave was ever enough. She bled, and she cried, and she worked herself to collapse, only to be rewarded with another training session, harsher criticism, and higher standards for her to meet. Nothing she did was ever enough. She was weighed down by the expectations of her mother.

And then she met Adrien, and she knew they were only forced together for their parent’s benefit, but how she longed for his love. For any love.

So she told herself she loved him, and he loved her, ignoring how she felt nothing as she looked into his eyes. She knew she was stubborn, and had a tendency to do things on her own, but even after she messed up as Ryuko Ladybug gave her a second chance.

It was...surprising to say the least. She had expected a scolding, and harsh, cutting, words, but instead she had revived another try, and words of encouragement. She felt a smile tug her lips upward, as she stood and charged into battle. And then, to her surprise, she was given a permanent place on her team. They never expected her to work herself to exhaustion, they accepted what she gave, only pushing her gently. And it was after their identity reveal, when they were talking about romance, and crushes, and that sort of thing did she realize she wasn’t messed up.

“Well, I’m totally bi,” Marinette giggled from where she lounged on a nearby chaise.

“Really? Nice. I’m lesbian as fuck.” Chloé spoke as she braided her hair.

“Ay, it’s a fellow gay!” Luka called from his seat on the floor.

“Aro and Demiace over here my people!” Adrien exclaimed, throwing up peace signs.

“Lesbian? Bi? What do those mean?” Kagami asked from her perch on the bed.

“Oh! Well bisexual is basically me liking men and women, lesbian means you’re a woman that only likes women, gay is a man that only likes men, and aromantic means you feel no romantic attraction towards someone, and demisexual means you need to form a strong emotional connection with someone before experiencing sexual attraction.” Marinette explained.

“Oh,” Kagami frowned in thought. “So it’s not..bad to like other women?”

“Of course not!” Chloé exclaimed, looking scandalized at the thought.

Her friends had taken it well.

Her mother, however, did not. Although most Japanese were okay with homosexuality, Tomoe Tsurugi wanted a biological heir to continue their bloodline.

“You’re just confused, Kagami. This is why I don’t like you spending time with those friends of yours. They talk about all these things, and suddenly you start thinking that you are like...that. Stop this foolishness at once.”

She hadn’t raised her voice, but the disdain was clear in her tone. And with those words, the fragile shell of joy she had built around herself shattered in the face of rejection.

She opened her eyes, feeling as though someone had reopened her scars and left the wounds bare and bleeding on display.

Her eyes were dry, and the salt of tears was not present on her lips, but she felt bad though she had cried for hours. With a small shudder, she grabbed Chloé’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled into a warm embrace.

And then it was Luka’s turn, and there was no hint of nervousness on his face as he closed his eyes.

---

Scenes burst to life behind his eyelids in a flash of color and sound. He was five again, creeping down the hallway on their boat in the direction of the muffled sobbing emanating from his mother’s cabin. “Maman?” He questions uncertainly, pushing open the door and allowing a thin ray of light to shine on his mother’s tear-streaked face. “Maman are you okay?”

Anarka’s head jerked up at his voice, hands coming up to wipe at her cheeks.“I’m fine, baby. Mama’s just feeling a little sad today. Why don’t you go play with Jules, huh?”

“Okay Maman. I love you!” He walks back to his room on small feet, knowing even then, that his mother’s sadness stemmed from larger problems. Six years old and he still struggles with speaking to other kids. Miss Adeline says he’s just shy, but he isn’t. It’s just hard to find the right words to use.

So he uses music to speak, and in every strum of his guitar there is a word; in every measure, a sentence; every song is an expression, an exclamation, a lament, that conveys more than words ever could.

He still struggles with the words sometimes, and he focuses on all his friends too much, so sometimes he forgets to focus on himself. But that’s okay, because everyone tells him to be empathetic, and put other people’s needs before his own, so that’s what he does.

And then Ladybug asks him to be Viperion, and he can’t say no. So he accepts, and watches time and time again as his friends and family die before his very eyes, bodies slack, eyes unseeing, blood everywhere. But he knows she can’t bear this burden alone, so he keeps marching on.

And on.

He opens his eyes to the still-haunted faces of his friends, looking at him with concern.

He gives them a smile to assure them he is fine, he is not and then turns to Martian Manhunter with a polite expression on his face. “Now that we’re all cleared, what’s next?”

---

@laurcad123, @liquid-luck-00, @toodaloo-kangaroo, @stainedglassm

#maribat #marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne #adrien agreste #chloe bourgeois #luka couffaine #kagami tsurugi #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #lila rossi #alya cesaire #lila salt #class salt

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yandere-sins · 4 years

Note

heya, for the supernatural prompts, could I request Ghost Nagito with 23? tysm!

I went a bit alternate universe there, hope you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting :D

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

The old door to the mansion was as loud as you would expect from hinges as rusty as your grandparents. But after taking on such a long trip to reach the abandoned mansion, this was quite comforting, as the path from the bus stop to here had been eerily quiet already. “Wow,” you muttered, looking around the grand entrance. You could imagine what kind of people must have come by back in the days when this mansion was still in use.

Even though everything was covered in dust and plants that had broken through the windows, you still admired the great chandelier above you, and the grand piano standing in one corner of the room. Ruins, yet, memories of the greatness of the Komaeda family, who once reigned all the lands around this mansion, before the Great Despair took over the world.

By now, life was much easier again, world leaders settling their disputes, cities being rebuild. Only ruins like this one remained as a reminder of the time, and you were here to discover them. Traveling was a luxury, but you couldn’t help yourself from wanting to learn more about the history around you, curiosity always having been one of your vices. Thus, you came. A fateful decision.

You were careful as you entered through the first door, into what seemed to be the dining room. Wooden planks squeaked under your weight, but you still felt safe to continue. Excitedly, you took in the still decorated table, the huge, rotting paintings on the walls. Of course, you were not going to touch anything that looked moldy from all the years exposed to air and wetness, but looking wouldn’t hurt. It only spurred you on to see more, and so you went back into the main hall, and up the stairs, holding on to the handrail just in case a step was going to give away underneath you.

As you reached the top of the staircase, you immediately went stiff. Looking from side to side you tried to make out the sudden sound lingering in the air, something you hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t a creak, or even the singing of a bird, no. It sounded more tender, like a composed piece of music. Curiosity got the better of you, as you followed its sound, trying not to be audible yourself. The last thing you wanted was to meet some kind of vagabond and have him attack you.

Cautiously, you peeked through the gap in a door, seeing nothing and no one moving in the room as you decided to enter. The door was tough to open, old carpet stuck beneath it, so you only managed a gap big enough to squeeze through. Immediately, your eyes caught on the source of music, an old music box standing in the middle of the room, on top of what must have been a coffee table back in the days.

You approached it with great curiosity, opening the lid gently, a little afraid it might break if you handled it too roughly. It wasn’t very special, no ballerina pop-up came out, just the old gears turning to create the music, but you were still fascinated by it nonetheless.

Worse was the scare as a sudden loud bang behind you made you drop the box, and you twirled around to stare at the door, holding your breath. Despite you never open the door very wide, it shouldn’t have been able to fall close so harshly, considering it was still stuck from the carpet beneath it. You scrambled to put the fallen box back on the table, wanting nothing more than to leave. But when you tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge under your tries to make it move.

“Do you like it?” you heard, making you flinch so hard, you threw yourself with your back against the wood of the door. “W-Who...?” you asked, unable to make anyone out from turning your head from side to side. “Me,” the voice chuckled, and you squinted your eyes as you made out some fog building up behind the coffee table. It slowly formed itself into a shape, a ghostly hand brushing over the music box. As if prompted by the touch, it started playing again, and the fog kept wandering, settling down into a chair in the corner.

From the hand, an arm appeared, then a body. From its neck, a head rose and down to the knees, you made out a mostly human shape. Just... it stopped after the kneecaps, disappearing into nothingness. A thousand thoughts ran through your mind, as you tried to understand, but really, you had no idea what you were really seeing. It must have been a ghost, but did you even believe in those?

“It was my favorite. I’d always listen to it before going to bed when I was still a young boy.”

His eyes moved from the music box, still playing leisurely in its place, to you, and you felt the air grew colder around you. “How about you? Do you like it?”

Maybe you were going insane. Perhaps you hit your head or something, but nonetheless, you nodded, and he smiled happily. “A-Are you...?” you tried to ask, but there were too many questions to decide which one to go for first. “Hm? Oh, yeah.”

Standing up, you were able to witness the form in its full glory, though he probably wasn’t that much taller than you, especially not with his missing underlegs. When he patted his chest, a cloud of fog, or maybe simply dust, came from him, his hand briefly disappearing before reshaping and coming back into view. “I’m sorry to scare you, it just has been a while that someone came over to talk. I am Nagito,” he introduced himself, and you really believed it had been a while he met someone, considering his... condition.

“I’m [Name],” you replied sheepishly, taking some time to look around the room. Perhaps, jumping out of a window would be an option if you couldn’t find a way out. After all, you still weren’t sure what to make out of the ghost in front of you. “What brought you here?” he asked, his movements nothing less than gliding as he walked around the table.

“Oh, just... exploring. The- The family who lived here was quite influential in the times of the--”

“--Great Despair, ah, yes. What a time to be alive,” he finished your sentence, letting out a fond sigh as he remembered. You used the time to move along the windows, creating some distance between you two, while you also trying to figure out if one of them would open.

“So you... were there when it happened?”

“There? Oh, I was part of it!” he announced, and you halted, furrowing your brows. Lowering your hand from the last window handle, you looked him straight into his slightly milky eyes. “You were? So you are a Komaeda too?”

“Oh, definitely,” he laughed. “It was so much fun! I helped my family to understand the joy of it when Junko started her rise.”

This time, it was him taking a few glides back, settling down on the old bed, with sheets corroded by moths. He patted the space next to him, and you were hesitant to follow his invite, but at the same time, intrigued by the knowledge he must have. “I’ll gladly tell you about it if you want.”

Maybe you were just dreaming this all, but you wanted to know what he had to say, so you approached, sitting down furthest from him.

With a pleased hum, he started his tale. Hadn’t you researched so much about the Great Despair before, you would have been shocked by all the gruesome details he didn’t spare you. Nagito spoke fondly of the time that was nothing more than history to you now, but at the same time, the most awful tragedy in all of mankind's story. He shared new insights, stories that were lost in between the flames and war, things you would have never been able to research on your own. You soaked in the knowledge he had, time passing as you two were caught in conversation.

Only when you started to rub your eyes, did you avert your attention for a second, looking back to the windows, noticing how the sun was going down behind the tree crowns of the forest surrounding you. “[Name]?” he asked, confused by your sudden lack of attention. “Ah, sorry!” you were quick to apologize to him, and he forgave you with a smile. “It’s just...”

With another glance over your shoulders, you hesitantly got up, walking backwards to the door again. “It’s so late, I really should go.”

As you tried to open the door again, you found it as shut as it was before, even when you pushed with both hands it still didn’t budge. As if something was forcing it shut despite your best efforts. Panic rose as you realized your chances to leave slimmed down significantly, bad throughs sprouting in your mind. “Go where?” he asked innocently enough, for the first time standing right beside you, the fog feeling incredibly cold as it touched your hand.

“I was just getting to the good parts of the story...”

“I know!” you were quick to calm him as he seemed distraught by your sudden need to leave. “And I’ll be back, but I can’t miss the last bus!”

Again, you put all your strength into opening the door, jiggling the doorknob roughly in hopes it would loosen up. “What if I don’t want to let you go?” he mumbled next to you, and you peaked up at that, worried. Nagito surely was an enigma, less human than you wanted him to be. And his concerning state of life that you had worried about before now felt more prominent than ever.

“Talking to you... sharing a good laugh, oh, I missed that.”

“And you will have it again, I promise to be back, just trust me!” you were quick to retaliate, remembering there was one last window you hadn’t tried to open yet. Scooting over to it, you tried to ban the bad thoughts of having to jump out of the second floor, but it was better than to starve to death here, where no one would find you.

“Where are you going?” he called after you, following your every step. Needily, he tried to touch you, but every touch went right through your body, leaving only an icy sensation behind that made you more uncomfortable. “Listen... I just want to go home tonight. I loved your stories, but I am still human, I need to go and sleep... eat. You remember that, right?”

Leaning against the window, you were surprised he didn’t just slide through that too, but his gaze was none of understanding, frustrating you. Letting out a deep sigh, you calmed yourself, knowing anger wouldn’t get you anywhere. He was just lonely, a little desperate maybe. You came here of your own free will, it was only natural that he might expect you to help him with his... ghostly problem.

“Please,” you whispered, looking directly at him. “I swear on my life, I’ll be back and help you move on. I will listen to all the stories you have and we’ll find a way, okay?”

“Move on?” he mumbled, lost in thought for a second. “I don’t want to move on.”

By now, your knuckles were turning white as you held on tight to the window handle. If you had to jump out, it better had to be timed well, but you knew it was time to take action and not just stand around and argue with him. “Okay... you leave me no choice.” He raised an eyebrow when you suddenly moved to open the window, ready to throw yourself out and be gone in a matter of seconds.

But the window never opened.

Instead, you heard Nagito laugh. He increasingly got louder and more sickening as he kept on laughing to his heart’s content. “Despairingly, isn’t it?” he asked in between his chuckles, and the glare you shot him only amused him more. “I love this.” His hand brushed briefly over your cheek, immediately turning your skin cold with his touch before he waltzed back to the bed, patting the space next to him as an invitation to join him.

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

You knew he meant it. If you wanted any chances of ever leaving again, you would have to oblige, even though, deep down, you agreed. It really was a situation to despair over.

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

Feel free to request from the Supernatural Prompts too!

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f0xwrite · 3 years

Text

A snippet from Andaman...written circa 2018. (Rated T for alightly mature themes)

The sound of cool, clear waves lapping against the entrance of the cave in the moonlight mixed soothingly with the subdued gusts of the ocean’s tropic breeze, lulling Walter into a sleepy daze. Somewhere in the distance,dolphins still splashed in the frothy brine, their noise mixing strangely with the steady hum of insects, and the haunting call of the occasional bird. A small and dying fire crackled along the edge of his hidden cove, charring the remains of his barely-touched dinner.

He’d given up on trying to summon Morgana. Varied macabre attempts at trying to get her attention had proven futile. It didn’t matter which variety of star-lit ritual she performed, or how many times he said her name, there was never any answer save for the island breeze. He would have done better to stay in Myeik at the Hotel Grand Jade, drinking his weight in the jugs of palm wine he’d bummed off of one of the locals. The hotel was dated, but comfortable. He’d paid for his stay in cold cash--as untraceable as it was uncanny--and from the top floor he’d felt safe enough staking out until he could chart a course to North Sentinel Island. Not many would be willing to take the chance of drawing close enough to the island for him to easily swim ashore, especially at night.

The indigenous peoples of North Sentinel Island were known to be hostile, rejecting all contact with the outside world and killing anyone who stepped foot on their sands. Many had died in the pursuit of aiding or interfering with their lifestyle, or had been arrested by the Indian navy for coming too close. It would take a hefty sum to convince anyone to charter him across. Arriving in his own vessel was not an option—he’d have to sink the boat, and the risk of being spotted in unfamiliar waters was too high. Money wasn’t an object, of course, as long as he’d been around, but people often wanted something less traceable, in case the government came a-looking.

He’d purchased a motorcycle, one with a small enough engine to maneuver easily through the streets, but powerful enough to make a quick getaway if needed--Janus would be on his heels in moments if they caught wind, and he’d been in the hierarchy long enough to know that they were never very far behind. Thus outfitted, he’d traveled, often ferrying to Andaman island to search for the idea hire. To the people there, he looked relatively normal--a traveler, but one well versed in their ways and culture. Instead of his typical brown suit and jumper he wore a light tunic, sandals, and khakis. His hair had grown longer—partially induced by a spell—and the light traces of a beard cast shadows around his face. After years in clean-cut Arcadia, he’d barely recognized himself in the mirror. Barbara, even if she hadn’t been stripped of her memory, would struggle to find familiarity in this new visage.

Barbara.

For every memory Vendel’s incantation had taken from her, his seemed to have increased tenfold. Every impossibly blue wave reminded him of her eyes, every hungry fire of her flame-brushed hair, every tremulous star of her vibrant soul. Much like the water in her namesake, there was no shape he could find that she couldn’t fill, save for the gaping holes she’d left in him.

Every step of his journey, he’d been haunted.

He’d managed to track down a willing candidate to take him to the island. An younger fisherman man with a new family who was in desperate need of a new form of transportation. For the cost of a the motorcycle, he’d found himself sneaking off on a small fishing vessel in the middle of the night. There had only been one small scare with a navy boat, but they’d gotten lucky, and the journey was otherwise flawless. When he’d finally waded onto the perilous sands of North Sentinel’s shore, dry-sacks in hand, and waved his hired hand off, he was met with an eerie silence.

The bustle of the city and the boats had been some distraction, but this..he would never stop thinking about her.

And he hadn’t, not even two months later, no matter how many times he tried to summon Morgana back. Now, by his crackling fire, he thought of her again, and of her son, and of how he’d wronged them. He’d caught wind of Angor’s defeat and Jim’s disappearance into the Darklands in an internet cafe before he’d stranded himself. Oh course the boy had gone alone. Altruism at his finest. He wondered if Barbara even knew, and if she did, god help him.

To these thoughts, he drifted into a sleep-like trance, where the memories always flooded in:

He’s standing in the California breeze, two ice cream cones in hand, searching for her blue eyes in the sea of moving faces on the street.

“Walter!” he turns to see her making her way through a cluster of teenagers. School is out for the afternoon, and the world is buzzing with the excitement of Friday night. Her face is warm and bright as she strides up to him, and he spreads his arms wide to avoid dripping on her lab-coat as she slides her arms around him in a hug.

“Fresh from the parlor,” he pecks the top of her red head before pulling away to lower the cone in front of her. “Strawberry, as the lady requested.”

“I see you got the same thing.” She smiles as her hand wraps around the pointed cone.

“How could I resist?” His tongue flicks out to catch a drop of cream along his own cone, smiling when her pupils dilate.

The next few minutes are spent happily licking away as they walk through the warm spring air, making their way toward the local park.

It’s when they’re walking by the pond, that it catches his eye.

“Dr. Barbara V. Lake,” He reads aloud, pausing to stand in front of her. “I haven’t seen this coat before. What does the V stand for?”

“V for very, very, very happy to see you right now.” She jokes and then bites into the cone.

“Oh, come now.” They both wince as she gets brain-freeze. “Surely you’ll tell me.”

“Hmm, what do I get out of it?” Her smile grows coy.

“Dinner,” he clears his throat, brandishing his own sultry look as he finishes his cone. “Chinese. I’ll buy extra eggrolls.”

“You really know how to woo a woman.”

“I do,” he bites his lip.

“Viviane.”

Something jolted within him—a bit of memory, a quick blur—causing the foundations of his soul to settle, as though they’d been out-of-sorts his entire life.

“It’s beautiful.” He bent low to kiss the space above her ear. “And it suits you.”

He watches as his voice makes her spine shiver shiver, and she almost drops her cone. “Well, I hope so. It was my grandmothers name. I take after her in almost every regard. She was a nurse in the army, you know. Traveled the whole world. I used to listen to all of her incredible stories.”

“I should thank her for raising such an incredible spirit.”

“I wish you could. She’s gone now.” Barbara’s eyes grow heavy, “died right around the time that James left, actually. She would have <i>loved</i> you,” she smiled into his neckline.

“Oh really?” Humor bubbled from his throat.

“Well, you have an intoxicating sense of charm, and she had this massive thing for piano-hands.”

Stepping back, Walter moves to wrap his arms around her from behind as they gaze over the pond. “Couldn’t blame her. I’ve got some rousing sonatas up my sleeve.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it was just about the musical skill.” She chuckles. "Grammy was a fireball."

“In that case, I also have some ‘a’rousing sonatas,” he said in a beat.

They both laugh, melting into the syrupy sweetness of the moment, bodies swaying, pendulum-slow in a half-dance that leads them nowhere.

He woke.

“Viviane” He muttered to the silver-tipped waves, eyes blinking past the moonlight. “I’ve heard that name before. But where?” A scuttling crab distracted his gaze, and then his head fell back against the palm-fronds.

The next dreams weren’t rooted in his memory. They were silly, really, nothing of consequence--full of deep and ancient forests, bloodied horns against bovine fur, and the soft, bright bloom of a fragile flower.

#stricklake #walter strickler #barbara lake #andaman

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fandom-collective-writers · 4 years

Text

Tipsy Prince (Mozart x MC)

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Pairing: Mozart x Reader

Prompt: Mulled apple cider, party in the woods

Warning: None!

Intended Audience: Female Audience

Word Count: 1,080

Requested by: anonymous

Written by: @lordsister/@lordsisterxotome (Click here to support me on ko-fi!<3)

Disclaimer: I do not own Ikemen Vampire or any of its characters. All of that goodness is the property of Cybird. I do, however, own the plot of this fanfic. Please do not repost this on any other website.

Other notes: I know the prompt is mulled apple cider, but I decided to go with gluewhein instead considering Mozart is Austrian and I couldn’t help thinking of my mom’s traditional Bavarian gluewhein that she makes for the holidays. I don’t drink normally, but I have to make an exception when she makes it because it’s soooo good.

“They’re going to notice!”

He smiled against her neck, his kisses coaxing against her skin. “No they aren’t.”

“Yes, they will!!” She tried to keep her tone low, stern, but the corners of her lips turned up helplessly.

“Not if you stay quiet…” The smooch he placed to her neck was definitely far too loud, rising above her quiet hiss as she tried and failed to duck away from his kiss-needy lips, restrained by the arm around her waist.

It seemed the other guests hadn’t noticed their absence yet, the gentle murmur of conversation still rising into the cool night air from the trees beyond. As her lover placed another sloppy kiss to her neck, MC shied away from the lanterns’ golden light slanting between the trees, hiding further in the shadows of the tree he had dragged her behind earlier.

Mozart had looked at her with curiosity when she’d first presented the invitation to him, sent by the same duke that had housed and supported him before. The jolly older man was holding a party in the forest, something unusual to celebrate the fall season, and of course wanted his favorite musician to play, promising warm gluehwein and good company in return. The idea of having a piano hauled out into the woods seemed curious, but Mozart had seemed intrigued by it enough to accept the invitation.

Arriving at the party had been dazzling; not as lavish as some of the events she had attended with her boyfriend, but unique in a way that spread homey warmth through her chest. It made her feel at ease in a way being in a ballroom surrounded by aristocrats simply couldn’t measure up to.

Set up in a clearing a short ways into the forest, lanterns reminiscent of fairy lights had been strung from the nearly bare tree branches overhead, casting a soft golden light on the tables of food and the instruments that had been set up. Tripods with bowls of fire had been stationed in a ring around the clearing, lending a bit of warmth to the cold October night, and a wooden floor had been placed over the grass, ensuring that the ladies wouldn’t dirty their heels and long skirts. It was obvious someone had put a lot of work into making this idea of a party in the woods into a reality.

At first, MC had thought Mozart was only acting the way he usually did when they went to social events, the facade of the polite and amiable musician sliding into place, but after a few mugs of gluehwein, it became clear that his smiles and laughter had become much more sincere. His shoulders began to ease, his movements and words becoming more fluid at the expense of his poise, and it wasn’t long before he had a small crowd gathered around him, faces warm and smiling as they listened to him.

His disposition wasn’t the only thing that softened though. The mix of spiced drinks he fancied had brought about another, more intimate reaction from him, his hands bolder tonight as they pulled her closer and squeezed her tighter. He seemed to forget where they were and who they were with as the evening continued, her hands having to discreetly tug his away from more sensitive areas more than once.

After a hasty jerk of his hand away from her bottom while she was distracted by another guest, Mozart had whined in her ear, his lips pursed in pout. She’d had to restrain the urge to kiss those perfect, pouting lips as she made an attempt to frown at him, trying to keep her gaze stern. He seemed cowed for about a minute before his efforts to touch her renewed, drawing circles on her hip and sneaking a couple daring nips at her ear when no one was watching.

He was successful in drawing all of her attention away from the other guests, steadily guiding her towards the edge of the clearing without her notice until they were far enough away that he stole her behind one of the thick, towering oaks. MC’s gasp of his name was abruptly cut off by his lips crashing into hers, teeth clacking for a split second before he regained some of his coordination and began to devour her mouth. Mozart seemed caught between pulling her closer and pushing her harder against the tree trunk, seeking her warmth and solidity as he pressed every inch of himself against her.

She couldn’t help her quiet gasps and mewls of his name, barely managing to gasp in a few breaths before his lips were on hers again, his tongue snaking past her lips to tangle with her own.

They shouldn’t be doing this. Anyone could find them if they walked just past the edge of the clearing.

“You can’t wait to do this?” she whined as he nipped at her jaw, instinctively tilting her head back when his lips traveled to the soft space on the underside.

“I don’t want to,” he grunted in reply, his grip on her tightening as he continued, almost childishly, “Want you to look at me.”

“I was looking at you?” MC couldn’t tell if it was his heart or hers pounding so quickly, he was so close, and as he took her chin to look at her, his thumb tracing the bottom of her lip, a shiver wracked her form, the last of her reluctance disappearing under the weight of the heated look he sent her way. It was then that she realized just how much she’d underestimated a drunk Mozart. Sure, he was more friendly, more open with his expressions, but he was also a whole lot more dangerous, the hazy, wanting gleam in his eye breaking down all of her inhibitions if she looked too long.

Anything he wanted, she would give him, without a second thought.

“Look only at me.”

Just like that, Mozart felt her give in to him, purring in satisfaction when she pressed closer, held him closer, in equal measure. The rest of the party was forgotten, the duke and the lights and the piano standing strangely in the middle of the woods all distant memories.

His breath warmed her lips, the smell of gluehwein washing over her, and then the taste of the spiced wine was on her tongue, cinnamon and orange and rich red wine giving her tipsy prince a taste like ambrosia as she melted against him.

#ikemen #ikemen series #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #cybird #cybird ikemen series #ikemen x reader #otome #otome x reader #romance #fluff #ikevamp x reader #ikemen vampire x reader #ikemen vampire mozart #ikevamp mozart #ikemen vampire mozart x reader #ikevamp mozart x reader #tipsy prince (mozart x mc)

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toloveawarlord · 4 years

Text

Pt. 4

Characters: Alara & Mansion Residents

Tagging: @plumpblueberry @ihavenotfallenyet @lady-moonbroch @littlewitty @ladyhavilliard @miss-wish-a-lot @sakura-1819 @voltage-vixen @nad-zeta (Please let me know if you want to tagged/untagged from this series)

A/N: Alara is back to win over the tsun musician. Enjoy! Next chapter she is going to meet Jean!

“Good morning, Alara.”

Vincent was the first to greet the girl that continued to clutch onto the writer to avoid any of Leonardo’s attempts to speak to her again. The dining hall only held a handful of the residents, the others having gone about their day or had yet to rise. Spotted around the table was the Van Gogh brothers, both munching away on an enormous stack of pancakes, and another man that she’d yet to be introduced to.

He took a sip of his coffee, violet eyes never glancing in her direction.

“Why are you clinging to Arthur like that? If you aren’t careful, his strangeness will rub off on you.” Theo gave a little jab in between stabbing bites of pancakes covered with enough syrup to nearly spill off the edge of the plate.

A triumphant grin spread across Arthur’s lips as he patted her head with a gloved hand. “Leo gave her quite the scare and she came to me for protection instead of anyone else.” The detail of him being the only one present wasn’t necessary to his story. No matter the circumstances, he was the victor.

“I saved her from a collapsing pile of books.” Leo wanted to make things right but the fear radiating off her small body prevented that. Comte had informed him of her potentially temporary stay, but no amount of warning would have prepared him for how skittish she was.

“I’m sure that rising from the floor like a waking corpse wasn’t frightening at all.” The musician’s comment tossed out with irritation laced in it.

Snickers erupted from the others, drawing the glare of the pureblood in their direction. Leonardo had no retort to the snarky but accurate statement. Sebastian wheeled in a cart to serve the newcomers. “Please take a seat of your own, Miss Alara.” He placed a plate off eggs, bacon, and pancakes in front of the empty chair next to the writer.

Alara reluctantly released her hold on him to be sat on the cushy chair. No more time for frightful glances as she stared at all the delicious food right before her. The young girl couldn’t remember a morning when a fresh, warm meal had been given; leftovers of the adult’s breakfast, however little it was.

All chatter among the ones at the table ceased. The reminder that mornings of bickering and laughter weren’t normal for one among them. Alara attempted to wipe the tears from her face with the back of her arm, over and over as more drops slid down her cheeks. An overwhelming amount of emotion rushing over her. A soft apology slipped out between gasps of air.

Sebastian placed a reassuring hand on top of her head. “It’s quite alright.” He didn’t need to say more, those few words assisting in calming the child down. As she sniffled, the butler knelt to attend to her unbuckled shoes without comment. He’d be sure to keep a closer eye on her.

“Are you leaving already, Mozart?”

Alara turned her attention to the one in question. Violet eyes met hers.

“I’m going to start composing today. In peace, I would like.” Mozart gathered his sheet music and half-filled coffee mug. He didn’t quite understand why the others were so enamored with a young human who cried over breakfast.

No sooner had the musician left, did the others begin to file out one by one. Theo and Vincent going into town, and even Arthur had business to attend to. He’d lingered until she’d had her fill of breakfast. “I’m off to do some writing.” With a gentle smile and a wave, the writer disappeared into the mansion.

The girl gathered up her plate, the only piece left on the long table and carried it into the kitchen where Sebastian was filling up the sink to begin cleaning up. “Can I help?” Alara asked, letting her plate slip into the water and sink down.

“There’s no need for that. You are free to go play—”

“I like the hot water and soapy bubbles. I’ll be really careful!” She flashed a bright smile.

Sebastian carefully considered for a moment before relenting. He fetched a chair for her to stand on, drying the dishes as she finished washing. Her movements were slow and purposeful, and she attentively scrubbed each one. “You’re doing well. I’m very impressed, miss Alara.”

“I used to help Nine clean up. She’d put extra bubbles in the water because I liked to play in them after we were done.” The memory one of the few she had from before coming to France. Alara cupped a heaping mountain of suds, squishing them away with her fingers.

The term one that he’d heard in his studies. “Do you know where you used to live before coming here?”

“Turkey, that’s where Mama said I was born and we lived with Nine for a long time.”

Sebastian dried the final plate and stacked it upon the rest. Their reason for moving to France must have been because of the relationship with her step-father. He decided against addressing it further. “Thank you for your help. I’ll do the remainder myself. If you require any assistance, do not hesitate to ask, as a lady of the house—”

Hopping down from the chair, the girl turned her gaze up to the butler. “Lady?” Her head tilted in thought before she continued, “Miss Lily was the Lady of Estate. She was very pretty but had a scary look whenever she saw me. I was forbidden from going into the big house.” She could only remember once or twice when Lily came around their house.

“The monsieur was married?” Sebastian pieced together the picture that the child wouldn’t have seen.

Alara tapped her finger against her chin twice. “Mama said that she married beau-Pierre and that I should only listen to her and no one else. Aren’t married adults supposed to share a bed?” The staff would talk as if the child weren’t there, but her mother said they were liars.

Implications that a child wouldn’t understand. His original suspicions of a transaction shifted slightly. The mother must have been a mistress. That would explain why the mistreated child had been dressed in a silken nightgown. Should any discover his secret lover, the monsieur could cover it by saying he only cared for the two, a generous gesture to a young lady and child in need.

Behind that façade was a brutal man with a heart made of stone. How shameful, the butler thought. The topic began to wear on the girl before him. Her thoughts shown on her saddening features. Sebastian cleared his throat and retrieved a cookie from the jar. “For your assistance. I appreciate the company. Now off with you.”

Cookie in hand, Alara set off into the mansion. The further she ventured, the more convinced she became that this home was a castle. The hallways seemed as endless as the number of doors leading to various rooms. A library filled with more books than she could count. A parlor with many foreign games. Any open door was subject to inspection. Even though she was inside, the girl wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. It hadn’t been long since breakfast and yet her body felt oh so heavy.

Wandering back to her own room, a door previously closed now stood ajar. The polished marble floor beckoned her inside. A piano sat elegantly in the middle. The desire to press at least one key was overpowered by how exhausted the child was. Alara wobbled as she moved inside, only wishing to lie down.

Would they be angry if she were ill?

The staff of her stepfather would have cursed her for being a bother.

Out of sight behind the curtain that swayed with the breeze coming in the open window, she succumbed to her own weight, dropping to her hands and knees before laying flat on her stomach. Her lashes dragged downward, barely able to remain open. The cool tile soothing against her heated cheek. She could sleep in this very spot.

“Why are you lying on the floor in my music room?” The salty voice laced with slight irritation.

Alara could little more than squeeze her eyes shut in fear of a reprimand.

Mozart placed his sheet music on the piano bench before he approached. Was she attempting to play with him? He couldn’t waste his valuable time on silly children’s games. Narrowed violet eyes softened upon further inspection. Her labored breathing and rosy cheeks signs even he could recognize. “You’re ill. Why are you hiding in here?”

Her small hand patted twice against the tiles. “It’s cold.” A stark contrast to how heated her face was. The chill made the warmth a little more bearable. The girl started to lift her body up with weak movements. “I-I’ll go-”

“You can hardly stand.” He couldn’t understand. The frightful expression that had crossed her features after he’d asked a simple question and now the water pooling in her eyes as if he’d given her a stern scolding. He couldn’t bear to watch her struggle so helplessly.

Quite pitiful.

Stooping down, Mozart scooped the child up, awkwardly holding her slightly away from his body. “I’ll only escort you to your bedroom this once. Do not expect this kind of treatment from me.” The whole room would need a thorough cleaning since he had no idea what she’d touched. For reasons unclear to him, the musician wanted to be sure that the child didn’t suffer unattended.

“You aren’t upset with me?” Alara asked, the first words spoken to him since he’d tucked her into the bed. She had no memory of the last time someone had put her to bed when sick, always a nuisance to the staff.

“Why would I be? It’s not as though one can control when they fall ill.” How absurd. Children can’t care for themselves, so it’s only natural that an adult look after them when needed.

However, that couldn’t possibly be him.

But upon further searching, there was no one else about to do so. Neither Sebastian nor Arthur, the two most qualified to watch over the sick girl, were in the mansion. Giving a resigned sigh, Mozart pulled an armchair to the bedside. “I’ll only remain until Arthur can treat you.” He’d planned to practice a new piece today, but that could wait, he supposed.

Alara rolled over onto her side to see him better. She pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say. His emotions unclear, but he didn’t look angry. Their eyes met and Alara opened her mouth to speak before promptly shutting it.

“What is it?”

“What was your name again?”

“It’s Mozart, although you cannot refer to me as that in public.” Could a child her age even understand that?

A moment of silence passed between them as her brows knit, the child deep in thought. Rubbing her fists into her tired eyes, she yawned softly. Sleep calling to her, but pale green eyes flickered back to him. “Can I call you Mozzie?” She wiggled from beneath the covers, fighting the inevitable.

Violet eyes immediately turned away to gaze out the window, a hint of pink on his own cheeks. What a peculiar child. The genuine innocence of her question too cute to deny the question. “Do as you wish.” A quiet giggle was all the response he received.

“Do you play that piano?”

For a child that was sick, she had the energy to ask a lot of questions. “Yes.”

“Will you play it for me when I’m better? I like pianos. They make pretty music.”

Mozart reached out to pull the cover back up to her shoulders. She squirmed too much. It would be easier for her to rest if only she’d stay still. “If you’ll close your eyes, I will make time to play one song.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as she gasped and snuggled down, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would aid in putting her to sleep any faster.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave even long after she’d fallen asleep.

“Admit it, you like her, Wolfie!” Arthur teased the musician from the doorway after discovering him with the ill girl. He’d brought her a treat from his trip into town only to learn of her feeling under the weather. It was all too adorable to witness a softer side of him.

Mozart scoffed, abruptly standing to leave. “She’s incredibly helpless. I’ve lost a valuable day of practice.” He cast a glance down at the girl, resisting the urge to brush her hair away from her features. It hadn’t been horrible to keep her company, but Arthur surely didn’t need that information.

As he turned to leave, a light tug on his hand brought his attention back to the bed. Peeking up from beneath the covers, Alara flashed a tired smile. “Thank you for staying with me today, Mozzie. I feel better already.”

“Rest more or you’ll only end up ill again.” He had to admit that seeing her smile was relieving. The break from his normal routine may have even inspired the musician to create again. As he exited the room, Mozart stole another glance at their new guest.

Perhaps, it wouldn’t be entirely despicable to have her stay.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp mozart #ikevamp sebastian #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp theo #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp comte #she is winning over even the most tsundere of vampires #and so they met

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abundanceofsoph · 3 years

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SkyFire 3: Chapter 11

The Holidays in NYC: Dec 2017

Word count: 3.3k

SkyFire 3 MASTERLIST

Aurora had always loved Christmas growing up. The chill in the air, the lights and decorations strewn around town and the towering pine tree in the corner of the bar. There were never many presents under it; usually a small something her mother could pull together and art supplies from Helen and Greg, but Christmas was never about the presents in their home. Instead, the festive season meant going ice skating with Ella after school, Christmas Eve waffles with her mum, carols to be performed at the piano, and Helen teaching her to make gingerbread biscuits and plum pudding. Even after Louise‘s death tarnished Christmas Eve and left a heavy cloud hanging over Christmas Day, the month of December still brought so much joy to Aurora's life and she made a choice once she moved to New York to focus on only the happy memories she had from childhood, knowing that if she didn’t then this time of year would slowly crush her under the weight of her grief. The atmosphere completely changed in Manhattan with the Christmas spirit and she loved every little aspect of the season. In the city, Christmas was now filled with new traditions like picking out a tree with her fathers and stringing lights with Nat and Bruce. It was introducing Steve and Bucky to cringey festive movies and ice skating in central park with Harry. It wasn’t the same as it had been growing up in London, there were far more presents under the tree now and the family around the table much bigger and louder, but despite these changes or perhaps because of them Christmas remained Aurora’s favourite time of year.

Now, however, there was pained edge to all the festive joy. She still loved ice skating in Central Park and strolling through the Christmas markets, but the cold seeped into her bones, chilling her in a way it never had before Columbia; the ache in her left arm and shoulder a constant reminder of the bullets that had ripped her apart 3 years ago. She was good at hiding her discomfort most of the time, holding back grimaces and fighting back the urge to rub at her residual limb as it throbbed. The full impact of winter had made itself known when she had returned to New York with Harry after the bands final performance before going on hiatus and while most of the people around her were unaware of her struggle, Harry caught on quite quickly. She hadn’t really been that surprised when he realised she was struggling a few days after returning from the band’s final performance on X Factor. They had just returned back to the tower from a walk in Central Park and while Steve was putting the final touches on dinner, Aurora had quietly excused herself from the room. Harry had quickly joined her, finding her curled in on herself in the hallway rubbing at the ache in her shoulder. Ever since that year Harry had always made a conscious effort to help her through the winter months, always on hand with heat pads, a massage, a steaming hot bath or even a surprise getaway to a warmer location. Rori tried not to let her body’s protests impede her activities however she now paid more attention to the forecast so as not to be heading outside on the worst days and she always rugged up with thicker jackets than most people would deem necessary.

This year was no different with the aches setting in while they were exploring Tokyo and only worsening as they settled back into life in the tower. Steve and Tony had already picked out the tree for the penthouse before their arrival but the last of the ornaments had been left for Aurora to place, the carefully wrapped hand painted baubles from her childhood added in amongst the Avengers themed ornaments that Clint had gifted the family ironically a few years earlier. As he did every year, Harry voiced his argument against Die Hard being a Christmas movie, but despite his grumbling he allowed his wife to pull him onto the sofa and curled up against her as Bruce Willis saved the day. With the time off from tour, Rori took the opportunity to throw herself back into her painting and spent hours at a time working in comfortable silence with Steve in their studio. A few days before Christmas, Anne and Gemma flew into town and Anne happily joined Steve in the kitchen to prep for the gigantic Christmas dinner required to feed the large group that would be in attendance. The pair shooed any offers of assistance, knowing that it would be more of a hindrance than a help, leaving Harry and Rori plenty of time to spend with Gemma. The three of them binged crappy Netflix Christmas movies and caught each other up on everything from tour and Gemma’s own adventures over the past few months, happy to just be spending time together.

xXx

Christmas Eve started quietly on the penthouse floor of Avengers Tower. Ever since their formation, the Avengers followed the unwritten rule to steer clear, either remaining on their own residential floors or leaving the tower altogether. Tony had remained up in the lab till the early hours of the morning, so he was sleeping away most of the day while Steve and Anne were baking for the following day in the kitchen and Gemma had made plans to catch up with friends, leaving early after a quick breakfast.

Sometime around mid-morning, Harry had appeared in the kitchen, kissing his mother on the cheek as he silently passed by her to make two mugs of coffee. He also poured some cereal and heated up a pop tart before placing it all on a tray and carrying it back to the bedroom where Rori was buried under the duvet. Anne and Steve remained silent as they watched him trudge back down the hallway, his hair sleep mussed and sticking in every direction. Steve placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as Anne frowned at her sons dejected demeanour and slumped shoulders. Her normally loud and goofy boy wore his heart on his sleeve, and she ached to see him shouldering his wife grief without complaint. She was proud of him for it, but it didn’t make it any less painful to watch.

Of course, what Anne failed to realise was that it was not only Rori’s grief burdening his shoulder and pinching his brows together. It was weighing heavily on him that this would be their first Christmas without Robin and he was fighting against the urge to wallow in that sense of loss. Looking after Rori on the anniversary of losing her mother, her home and her childhood was a much needed distraction and he welcomed the diversion. It was always easier for him to be the shoulder to lean on than to be the one in need of leaning, a trait he shared with his wife which was understandably not always great for communication or dealing with heavy emotions but they managed the best they could.

After a slow morning spent in bed, they made their way downstairs to the arts studio so that Rori could throw herself into another painting. She was in no mood to talk, so Harry simple set himself up on the sofa with his latest book, content to merely be a comforting presence so that Aurora knew she wasn’t alone. As darkness fell outside and dinner time approached JARVIS softly let them know that Tony was ordering in Chinese and asking for their orders.

Once JARVIS announced that the food had arrived, they made their way back upstairs to where Tony and Steve had queued up a Christmas movie and Gemma and Anne were already waiting on the sofa with them, both nursing glasses of red wine. Rori happily wedged herself between Tony and Harry after piling dumplings, noodles, and spring rolls on her plate and settled in as the movie began.

The Chinese food was long since polished off and they were debating which movie to watch next when Steve disappeared to the kitchen. He returned a little while later once they had settled on the next film with plates of waffles for everyone and all the toppings weighing down the tray it was all balanced on. Aurora bit back tears at the simple gesture. Looking around at the family surrounding her caused the heavy weight of grief in her chest to flare. Carrying on this little part of her life with Louise made her miss her mother more than words could express, but it also kept her closer and in some small way included her in the new family that Rori had surrounded herself with, both with her dads and with Harry’s mum and sister. She knew that her mum would have loved everyone in this room and Rori was certain that it would always feel unfair to her that it required losing her mum in order to find those surrounding her now.

xXx

Without speaking about it, Harry and Aurora instinctively swapped rolls once they woke Christmas morning. Where Harry had taken it upon himself to support Aurora through her own grief the previous day, now it was Rori’s turn to help her husband, as well as Anne and Gemma as they navigated their way through their first Christmas without Robin.

Harry was already awake when Rori fluttered her eyes open to the soft morning light filtering in through her window. She rolled over to find him staring at the ceiling and without saying a word she wrapped herself around him, pulling him tightly against her and placed a kiss on his bare shoulder. They remained silent for long minutes before Harry finally broke out of his haunting daze. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured, turning in his wife’s arms to kiss her gently.

“Merry Christmas,” she replied softly, returning the kiss. “Do you want to talk about it or is it better to not acknowledge it?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice deep and laced with pain. “I feel like if I even say his name, I’ll burst into tears but then not talking about it feels like I’m trying to forget about him.”

“I know it’s hard baby,” Rori replied, “but whatever you decide is ok. If it hurts too much to talk about it, then that is ok. Doesn’t mean you don’t still love him or that he doesn’t matter. You have to do what’s best for you. Nothing to apologize for or feel any guilt about.”

“I love you,” Harry said, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“I love you too, H,” she replied, carding her fingers through his hair.

They remained in bed for a while after that, wrapped up in each other before finally getting up and getting dressed to head down the hall to where the rest of the family were gathered in the living room. Harry fell onto the sofa next to his mother, curling up into her side while Gemma sat on her other side. Anne happily threw her arms around both of her children and Rori took up a spot on the floor at Steve’s feet, leaning back against his calves.

“I made breakfast for everyone,” Steve offered once they were both settled. “You want me to make either of you something?”

“I’m good thanks Pops,” Rori answered. “I’ll just wait for lunch. H?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Coffee?” Tony yelled from the kitchen.

“Coffee please,” Rori yelled back, shooting a brief worried glance at Harry when he once again declined the offer. He seemed to be trying to melt into both the sofa beneath him and his mother beside him. Anne met her gaze across the room and offered a small supportive smile as she squeezed Harry’s shoulders a little tighter in her hug. In that small silent exchange between the two of them, the conversation was clear, they would do anything to help the man they both loved through his pain and it left Aurora in awe of Anne’s strength in that moment, only being able to imagine how much of her own grief she was pushing aside to be present for her son.

They remained in the living room for the remainder of the morning as the other members of the Avengers slowly made their way up from their own floors until the room was bursting with Clint, Natasha, Bruce, Thor, Sam, Bucky, Peter, May, Happy, Pepper, and Rhodey. Steve and Anne had outdone themselves and lunch was incredible. Everyone was bursting at the seams by the time they tapped out, leaving plenty of leftovers to feed them all for the next week and they finished the afternoon with eggnog and cheesy Christmas rom coms as the sun set outside and the TV and the lights on the Christmas tree provided a soft glow to the room.

xXx

2 days after Christmas Rori borrowed one of her father’s cars and crossed the East River to drive out to the North Shore on Long Island. She arrived at Oheka Castle a little after 9 and after parking, she was almost immediately pulled into a hug from Liam who had arrived a few minutes before her, having come straight from the airport.

“It is so good to see you, darling.”

“Good to see you too, Li,” Rori replied warmly. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Liam replied, taking her hand, and leading her inside and out of the cold. “How’s H?” he asked as the climbed the front steps.

“He’s good. Enjoying spending some time with Gem and Anne while they’re visiting but he said he’s looking forward to dinner tonight. How are Bear and Cheryl?”

“They’re great. You should see Bear lately. He’s pulling himself up to stand and I’m sure he’ll be walking within the next few weeks.”

“Can’t wait to give him a big cuddle when we’re back in London in a few weeks.”

They continued to catch up throughout the day while they roamed the property and decided on locations for different scenes for the music video they would be filming over the course of the next few days. Aurora also had a final fitting for her dresses and then the day was over, and Liam joined Aurora in the car for the drive back into the city.

Harry met them in Williamsburg where they had dinner at a food truck that Rori had read about and then wandered around until they found a dive bar with an open mic and grabbed a booth in the back corner where the lights were low and they were less likely to be recognized. It was a such a fun night, with all three of them having missed hanging out together and just getting to pretend that they were normal friends in their early 20s just out for drinks after work. By the end of the night, Aurora’s cheeks ached from laughing too hard and she wrapped an arm around each of the boys as they stumbled out of the bar and down the street, winding their way back to where she had parked, giggling hysterically in the way that only drunk people did. Having always been the sober member of the group, Rori had discovered years ago that nights out were far more fun when you let the drunks sweep you up in their high and because of that she knew that to anyone watching the three of them right now, no one would believe that she wasn’t just as drunk as the two men hanging off her shoulders. They finally managed to make it back to the car and Rori drove them back over the Williamsburg Bridge and through lower Manhattan until they reached the tower and called it a night.

xXx

The first day of filming began in hair and makeup with Rori having her hair curled, while a red lipstick and a dark smoky eye was applied by a lovely girl called Jessica. Once her look was finished, she slipped into a red backless tulle gown, over which she wore a heavy black winter coat as she made her way out into the gardens for her first scene. The crew were already set up and ready to go by the time she arrived and after chatting with the director, Hannah, for a few minutes, Rori slipped out of her jacket and approached the top of the short set of steps that she would be filmed descending while she sang.

“Ready?” Hannah called and when Rori nodded in reply, the studio recording of For You started playing and Aurora stepped forward, staring down the barrel of the camera while she lip-synced along to herself.

“Cut!” the director called.

“Holy fucking shit Hannah,” Rori yelled. “It’s cold as balls.”

“I’m sorry Aurora,” Hannah replied. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but I promise you it’ll be worth it. You look fantastic.”

“Let’s just keep moving before I freeze to death, yeah?”

“You heard the lady,” Hannah smiled. “Let’s get set for the next shot.

Rori spent the remainder of the day running around the estates beautiful rose garden, cursing Liam and his warm, comfortable room inside where he was filming. The following day she was still outside in the garden, now suspended in a harness as she floated in the air, trying to pretend that she wasn’t shivering to death. Aurora was very excited when they reached day 3 as she finally joined Liam to film inside after enduring the frigid New York winter air in the sheer gown that did very little to protect her from the elements. She was in a different dress now and the new challenge was no longer pretending not to shiver, but instead acting romantic with Liam. Many takes were ruined when one of them broke into giggles but eventually Hannah called a wrap on the video and after changing out of their costumes, they drove back into the city to spend a final evening together as Liam was flying home the following day to spend New Years Eve with his family. They parted with wishes of Happy New Years and plans to see each other at the end of January when they would perform the song on the Tonight Show to promote the Fifty Shades movie it was attached to.

xXx

As he did every year, Tony once again hosted a massive New Year’s Eve party, filling the penthouse floor of the tower with the who’s who of New York City. Having learned from their mistakes on the first New Years following Columbia, Harry and Aurora were now well practiced in how to handle the night while navigating around her PTSD. This year was no different and they joined in the party upstairs, catching up with familiar faces and dancing the night away. With half an hour to go until the ball dropped, they made their way to the elevator riding the car down to the sound proofed recording studio that would be their refuge for the remainder of the night. Earlier in the day, Harry had set up a nest of pillows and blankets, as well as setting out snacks and drinks. they settled in to watch a movie and see in the new year while avoiding the fireworks. They fell asleep cuddled together on the floor of the studio and Steve woke them the following morning, having made pancakes and waffles to welcome in 2018. Unlike most of the towers residences there wasn’t a single hangover amongst Tony, Steve, Harry and Rori, allowing for the four of them to get an early start on the day.

NEXT CHAPTER

OR CONTINUE READING ON AO3

#skyfire fic #Husband Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #dad!tony #ptsd #domestic fluff #iron dad #step dad steve rogers #aurora stark #harry styles #tony stark

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shintorikhazumi · 3 years

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A Warm Diana Chapter 5: A Higher Degree

A/N: at end of chapter. Hello. Enjoy? ~Shintori Khazumi

~0~0~0~

Where do we go from here? Is there any other way other than forward? What is this dance we’re doing, a step forward, yet two steps back. How do we progress in this heated tango?

What are we waiting for? Where do we go from here?

~0~0~0~

Diana wouldn’t say she was a prodigious dancer, but she’s been to enough social events to not be terrible at it. Akko would obviously beg to differ because, in her eyes (and everyone else’s, she supposes), Diana was amazing at anything she laid her hands on, anything she picked up.

So, it was on this fine day, at this very moment, as she was seated on the wooden floor, in a little corner of the room with her back against the wall, that Akko would stare in wonder and amazement at her friend…friend? -Were they still at this stage? Most possibly with how Akko had been dancing (the only kind of dancing she seemed to be good at, as of the moment) around the issue of whatever relationship they both had. Though, she knew something had changed between them. There was this freshness in their relationship dynamic that had changed it in its entirety. That, she could not deny, nor did she want to. At the same time, however, there was equal amounts of intimidation mixed into this hot-mess recipe of a relationship.

They had yet to actually talk about whatever it was that would happen from that point of their relationship after the date. Diana said she would wait, and Akko was far from knowing what answer was the right one to give. She knew she loved Diana, but she had doubts, not of her partner-to-be, but doubts in herself. This had made their interactions awkward and full of tension- the good or bad kind, Akko didn’t know.

And so, days passed uneventfully as they were, again, (quite frustratingly in their friends’ books apparently) at a standstill.

Anyway, Akko stared at her “friend” as she was made an example before the class as to how to properly do the waltz as they would be having another formal with the boys from Andrew’s school as it was nearing the end of the school year.

Andrew.

Akko visibly winced. Thoughts of the boy were seldom pleasant these days. What had been a beautiful friendship between them, she no longer knew what remained. Would Andrew even look at her, much less talk or interact with her outside of the required pleasantries?

She had always enjoyed the company of the male, despite their differences. He had a completely different view of the world from her, from witches. In a sense, it was refreshing. She also enjoyed it when he’d send her little videos of him playing tunes on his piano, be it an extravagant piece or a personal composition. She admired him as she admired any of her friends. And like all her friendships, she’d like to keep this one, cherished in her heart for as long as possible.

Still.

It hurt.

His words had hurt her, cut deep into her soul. While his confession came as an enormous shocker, she felt slightly flattered that a man of high pedigree such as Andrew would see her country bumpkin self as someone worth having feelings for. However, it could never dismiss that chat on the bench that continued to scratch at her heart each time she remembered the words,

[You can’t.]

Her eyes stung, her heart lurched; she shook her head, ridding her mind, temporarily, of the memory. She didn’t want to grow to hate the man. She just… She just couldn’t face him right now. That’s all.

Vision focusing, she was surprised to see her eyes meet Diana’s from across the room where she sat. Apparently, the heiress had completed her demonstration and was in the middle of taking long sips from her water bottle. Her figure stood in front of the large windows of the classroom often used for dance, meditation, sparring, and other practical applications of magic. Light gleamed through them, courtesy of the afternoon sun, rendering a glow to outline her form.

A droplet of water slipped down her slender neck, almost disappearing at the base of her throat. Akko found herself bewitched, her sight having unknowingly trailed after the transparent liquid, gaze travelling from there, back up to a shapely jawline, to pinkish lips that seemed to be tipping upwards slightly.

Suddenly, Akko felt the need to see Diana’s eyes, and she felt her breath stall in her lungs. There was a different shade to her gaze. Somehow it seemed playful, pleased; shimmering with some form of mirth at having caught Akko shamelessly gawking, but at the same time there was this… heat that Akko couldn’t name. It felt like it could burn her very soul if she remained looking.

Was it just her, or was it actually getting hotter in here?

She immediately broke the staring contest, opting to poke at a small dirt spot beside her on a wooden panel. Here, she had been sitting quietly in the corner, dreading over one of her friendships that might soon cease to exist, but over there was another friendship that she… didn’t quite know… um… what…

Akko scratched at her head with both hands, feeling a headache build with great speed. Everything was just so… confusing and frightening, worrying, sudden, hot, cold…warm-

Warm. A warm hand had taken one of hers that had been pulling at- and roughing up her hair. Another proceeded to pat the top of her head so gently, Akko could have sworn it wasn’t really there. It smoothed out her messy hair strands before she felt a ghost of a kiss planted there. A bolt of electricity ran through her spine as she jolted slightly, forcing a blush away.

“Is it that frustrating to be told to sit out of this practice?” Akko could hear small bells tinkling, a soft melody playing, interlaced with a voice she had to admit she loved so much, as much as the person who owned it.

“Maybe.” She shrugged, still looking downwards. “Though it wouldn’t be the first time I was called out and filtered out from the rest of the class for sucking at something… or well everything.” That last part she whispered to herself.

Oh, but Diana was an attentive girl. Especially towards people she cared for deeply. She heard every word, and with a sigh, she knelt in front of Akko’s hunched form. “Akko…”

“Do-don’t worry about it! It’s not like I’m not used to it! I mean, I know I’ve improved quite a bit in terms of school and stuff… and other stuff, but really. Diana, you don’t have to worry-“

“Akko.”

Said girl flinched. Her gaze still on that little smudge on the flooring.

“Please… look at me…” The voice was so fragile, so soft. It pleaded for her to give her attention to blue eyes and a sad smile. Who would be cruel enough to destroy such a beautiful smile any further?

So, she looked up.

“Hi.” It was spoken in such a gentle whisper. Akko was mesmerized once more. Her eyes could not be torn away from such beautiful diamonds. She swore every precious stone could never amount to much if compared to the sparkling gems Diana had.

“Hi…” She replied in a quieter, more broken voice. “I-“ Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth, opting to simply search Diana’s warm gaze once more.

“Class has been over for a while. This is also the last class of the day- in case you’ve forgotten.” Diana offered a kind smile. “You’ve been sitting here, unmoving. I suppose I got worried since everyone has already cleared the room.”

True to her word, Akko found that they were the only two people left inside. Even her teammates were nowhere in sight.

As if Diana had read her mind, she spoke, “If you are looking for Lotte and Sucy, they told me they needed to leave first as Sucy had been summoned by one of the professors from a higher year because she made another potion they could not quite decipher, and used it on one of the older students.”

Akko shook her head in amusement because of course Sucy would do something like that. Leave it to her to spice up any day. Both… figuratively and literally. Akko shuddered at the memory of being fed some concoction Sucy brewed up in their quest to create the quote-unquote, best hot sauce in the world.

Another realization came to mind that had her smiling. ‘”Lotte” and “Sucy”, huh… Everyone sure has gotten close.” The fact that Diana could now call her best friends by their given name brought about an inexplicable joy to Akko. It somehow made the weight in her heart lighter, her headache disappearing as she faced this gorgeous, amazing being in front of her.

“Thank you.”

Akko didn’t know what kind of face she had been making, but it must have been something special, seeing as Diana had suddenly flushed an adorable light red, seemingly losing composure for a few moments before coughing, and offering a confident smile to Akko.

“You are always welcome. Always.” Diana didn’t know what Akko was thanking her for, but she supposed this wasn’t that moment to question it. So, she responded, trying to hide how flustered she had been as Akko gave her the gentlest expression, the warmest- dare she say loving- expression she’s ever been on the receiving end of. The only other person she could remember to have looked at her that way was her mother. And still, it was something completely different.

There was this need that arose in her heart. It had always been there, but in this particular moment, with the golden rays of the sun hitting both girls in just the right way, Diana’s pulse quickened drastically as her mind felt like it had been wiped clear of any rationality. She subconsciously leaned forward, closer to Akko whose eyes went wide, mouth slightly agape, cheeks splashed a rosy color. There was an impulsive desire taking over Diana’s actions. Akko’s scent- the source was drawing ever nearer; it made her dizzy. Her hand, previously atop Akko’s head, now rested on her burning cheek, the other had fingers interlocked with Akko’s, squeezing it close to her heart. Her lips parted, she took a quick intake of air before she found her voice to say, “Akko, I lo-“

“Anyone still here?” Diana froze. Akko was already frozen long before.

At a speed faster than her broom could take her, Diana had detached herself from Akko, standing shakily a good four feet away now.

“Y-yes, Diana Cavendish is s-still here.” She spoke with all the confidence of a peanut on a pizza. And she didn’t think there were any peanuts on pizzas.

“Oh, miss Cavendish.” One of the janitors tipped his hat at her, standing by the door. “Miss Akko, too!” He gave a friendly smile and wave to the academy staff’s favorite witch. “I’m sorry if you were practicing or anything. I’ve been instructed to clean and lock up this room, so I have to shoo you away, regrettably.” He informed them kindly.

“It’s no trouble.” Diana released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “We were just about to head out, weren’t we Akko?” Said brunette nodded a bit too enthusiastically, not trusting her voice enough to speak. Brushing dust from her lap, she attempted to get up, only to fall back onto her bottom as Diana worriedly returned to her side in record time.

“Are you okay, Miss Akko?” The janitor asked, having entered the room now, mop in tow.

“Perfectly okay! Just a little weak in the shins, as they say.”

“Knees. It’s knees, Akko.”

“Right. Those.” She breathed. A pause. “What are those?” She chuckled nervously, head spinning. Diana’s sudden proximity did no favors for her erratic heartbeat as she felt a hand grasp her waist, supporting her onto her feet.

“Are you sure you two will be fine? Need me to call for help?” The worker offered, concerned gaze switching from one girl to the other.

“No, no need.” Diana smiled, arm not leaving its position around the small of Akko’s back. “I’ll make sure Akko returns to her room safely.”

“Okay then, I guess. I’ll be starting now, just head on out the back door.” He pointed to the other entry- and exit- way of the room, beginning his mopping.

“Thank you for all your hard work.” Diana gave a small nod of appreciation, Akko muttering her thanks as they were given a wave in return.

Gathering some of their belongings- towels and Diana’s bottle of water- they slowly walked to their classroom to grab their bags and head back to the dorms. All the while, Diana’s arm remained securely wrapped around Akko’s waist.

They both knew it was there. Diana could stand to ignore the fluttering of her heart, but it seemed as though Akko could not.

“Umm, Diana… If you could- I think I can walk by myself alright now.” Akko mumbled with her head hung low.

Diana retracted her hand hesitantly, feeling as though Akko would fall if she let go.

“Thanks.” Akko continued walking, not too fast to leave Diana behind, but not slow enough to fall into pace with her that they’d have to walk side-by-side. Akko found it easier to breathe if she walked just a bit ahead.

“Yes, of course, I-… my apologies for… if that made you uncomfortable.” Diana had promised she would wait for a proper answer, and Akko seemed so relieved, going home from their date. Diana thought it would be fairly smooth- with a few hiccups along the way- sailing for them and their “relationship”. However, morning came and days passed, and it could not get any more awkward as Akko would have moments of simply staring at Diana for extended periods of time, whether it be in class, during meals, as she patrolled the hallways; and this would be contrasted by moments like this. Moments where Akko couldn’t even look her way.

She felt her heart ache as she stared at Akko’s back. It seemed much smaller than it usually was. This period of Akko’s life made apparent that she was just as fearful and doubtful as any other. The believing heart that was her magic could also be stunted in the face of trials. And while those trials might not have to be saving the world and fighting large dragons, love and society were definitely scary things to think about as they grew into adults.

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

It was a silent walk the rest of the way to the dorm, and upon reaching Akko’s room, the pair halted.

There was only the soft rustle of the wind outside, a noise from down the hall.

All was completely still.

“Diana-“ “Akko-“

“Oh- you go first-“ “Go ahead-“

“I insist!” “No, no, you…”

“…”

“Pfft-“

The pair burst into soft laughter, tension easing from their shoulders. Diana felt happy tears slip from her eyes as they were tightly shut, her heart feeling lighter all of a sudden. Minutes could have passed by, neither girl was aware of how long they’d been laughing. Diana’s cheeks were starting to hurt. Akko’s giggles tickled her ears, and she just adored the way it sounded. Though light, a small pang of longing returned to her chest, along with a stir of frustration brought about by not knowing just what was going on.

Diana’s laughs subsided, ending neatly in a sigh, eyes looking to the tips of her shoes. It was not a view she often saw. She usually had her head held high in pride and confidence. Here, she was just as insecure as anyone delving into a territory so unfamiliar.

“Diana.” That voice called her, soft and anxious. “Thank you for walking me back.”

“Anytime.” The top student responded, lifting her head up to give Akko one final smile before she’d have to march off to her room without looking back as she always did to curb the restlessness of her very soul and prepare it for another day of tiptoeing ‘round eggshells and each other.

The sight she was met with today, however, caught her off guard. Though it had been so tense and awkward, stuffy that it made it hard to breathe so few moments ago, right now, Akko was anything but those things. She was smiling gently, as if any of the things that had been plaguing her the past few days, and maybe weeks hadn’t existed in the first place. She was smiling at Diana. Her eyes were so warm, gaze tender, her smile small but… just- Diana couldn’t explain, but it made butterflies run rampant in her stomach.

Calloused hands tentatively reached forward. Diana couldn’t seem to move. Akko cupped her face with a gentleness some would think was alien to the girl, what with her usual rambunctious nature. Diana found it all too fitting, though, because of how she knew Akko.

She searched Akko’s face, trying to find hints of worry, hesitance, fear. She herself felt those things, wondering if this was but another one of her day dreams as she waited for the reply that could completely take their relationship down new paths. She only found calmness and peace, and a bit of joy.

Somehow her eyes stung, and she felt a rush of heat throughout her entire body. Was this relief? At what? Diana could feel the corners of her mouth lift, though her lips shook. Perhaps she had let an emotion slip as she felt Akko brush the wetness away from her cheek.

What was going on right now? Diana wanted to know. She had grown accustomed to a daily push-and-pull of edginess and trepidation with every action they performed around one another. She was getting used to the somewhat cold goodbyes in front of Akko’s dorm room. She was familiarizing the hours she got up in the middle of the night to think about Akko and how to talk to her come the new morning.

So what was this warmth right now? Why-

“Why are you smiling?” Was that a weird question to let loose? Diana slipped up, she rarely did, but she wasn’t quite thinking clearly.

“Should I not be?” Akko chuckled.

“No, I love your smile. You look beautiful.” Diana responded in a heartbeat. She reveled in the way the red blossomed across Akko’s visage, and she found herself grinning in elation.

“You- I… you’re… more. Well, you’re- Diana!” Akko exclaimed with a pinch to the heiress’ cheeks.

Diana felt laughter bubbling in her chest once more, a tear slipping past only to be caught by Akko’s thumb again.

“And why are you crying!”

“Am I?”

“Well, I would think so.” Akko mumbled, massaging the area just below Diana’s eyes gently. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into you?” She quipped back. “Suddenly you… you… it’s like you’ve suddenly become comfortable around me.”

“I’m always comfy around you, what are you talking about?” Akko replied, though she was not looking at Diana as she did so.

“Akko, admit it. These past few days, our interactions could not get any less stressful- Ah yes, if I’m crying this is quite possibly stress-relief.” Diana chuckled, her words clearing up some things in her head, at least.

Those same words had a different effect on Akko, as she frowned.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized in a small voice. “That’s probably my fault. I’m sorry.” The guilt in Akko’s voice leaked out.

Diana felt the hands on her face loosen their hold, but she grasped them, holding them in place before they could let go. “No.”

“N-no?” Akko faced a serious Diana, wondering if her apology would not be accepted and this was as far as Diana was willing to give in to her selfishness.

“Oh, no. No, I mean- It’s not your fault. Or maybe it is, I suppose? Not exactly, not quite. Do you… do you understand what I’m trying to convey?” Diana said all in one breath.

Akko blinked, she felt like laughing all over again. They were both acting out of character. Akko didn’t know she could be so anxious, and another thing she didn’t know was that Diana could look so adorable with her cheeks squished between Akko’s hands, eyes wide and attentive towards Akko. It was so cute that Akko felt her chest squeeze.

“No, Diana. I don’t think I do. I don’t understand a thing, and I don’t think you do either.” Akko freed her hands from Diana’s, turning her back to the girl as she threw her arms into the air, yelling, “Hahaha, this is such a mess!”

She ran to a corridor window, looking at the empty yard below. Unlatching one side, she opened it just enough to shove her head out and scream another round of,

“This is such a mess! I’m such a mess!”

Whoever would hear the sudden noise during this quiet afternoon might get surprised, but not as surprised as Akko who felt a presence by her side, as the other side of the window opened, and an excited Diana hollered, “I’M ALSO A MESS! SUCH A HUGE MESS!”

Akko heard the clock tick once, before a grin painted itself across her face. “YOU’RE A FANTASTIC MESS!”

Diana’s eyebrows could almost touch her hairline, Akko swore, with how high they were raised right now. Then something flashed in those crystal blue orbs. A look of determination? Of challenge?

“WELL, THEN YOU’RE A BEAUTIFUL MESS!”

Oh. So that’s how they were going to play.

“YOU’RE A SPECTACULAR MESS!”

“YOU’RE AN INSPIRING MESS!”

“BUT YOU’RE THE INSPIRING MESS!”

“YOU’RE THE UPLIFITING MESS THEN!”

A deep breath. “THEN YOU’RE THE MOST GORGEOUS MESS I’VE EVER MET IN MY LIFE. SO GORGEOUS YOU’RE NOT EVEN A MESS ANYMORE? WAIT CAN A MESS BE GORGEOUS? AREN’T YOU A GODDESS INSTEAD?! YOU’RE HOT TOO SO WOULD THAT BE COUNTED AS A HOT MESS?”

“Akko- gh..pfft- you’re still screaming.” Diana laughed, wondering if the questions Akko had flung at the wind were things she was supposed to be asking our that loud.

“Well…” The girl seemed to have calmed, lowering herself from the window she had half-climbed out of, torso hanging dangerously above the ground with her legs keeping her locked in. “Maybe we got a little too excited.” She rubbed the back of her head sheepishly.

“Perhaps we have.” Diana reached a hand out for Akko to take-

“WHO IS YELLING IN MY DORMITORY?!”

Oops.

“Akko, do you fancy a little exercise?”

“Oh my god, Diana, are you proposing we run in the hallways right now? Inside school?”

“Time to think fast, love, time is of the essence if you don’t want to get caught.”

The pet name made Akko blush, but she could deal with that later as she grasped Diana’s hand, pulling her along as she began her take-off.

“Keep up with me if you can.”

“I think I’ve done that long enough to be fairly acquainted with anything you pull, and I can probably do better.”

“Is that a challenge, Miss Cavendish?”

“Depends on how you see it, Miss Kagari.”

As they ran as fast as their legs could take them, away from Akko’s room, searching for a way to lose those footsteps behind them, Diana’s lungs burned with the need for oxygen. But it felt good, somehow. So good.

Staring at the back of the person pulling her forward, fingers interlaced, she couldn’t help but smile. It felt like something else was moving forward. Their relationship, whatever it was- though still just as confusing-, was moving forward. Diana could feel it. It was getting better, and she prayed it would stay that way.

As her body temperature climbed a few degrees higher from the exertion, she couldn’t help but think that this love burned hotter too.

And as Akko chanced a glance back at her, a goofy smile splayed across her lips as she silently mouthed a, “Thank you, Diana.”, though she might not know what was going to happen from that point on, the top student couldn’t help but believe that their relationship was now also at a higher degree.

A/N: It’s been… three years? I don’t even know what to say, honestly. Other than I’ve decided to commit to just finishing this story now. I don’t if I’ll write new ones, but I don’t wanna leave my half-assed work like this. The past two years have been… the best and worst learning experience for me. And now that I’m in college, I feel so unmotivated with everything. I’m wondering if picking up writing again will open up a passion I lost. Haha. Cheers! I’ve missed it a lot. Sorry for the bad chapter, I don’t know how to write anymore. Yes, their relationship is still kept vague, but please bear with me.

I wonder if my old readers are still here with me.

~Shintori Khazumi

#lwa #little witch academia #A Warm Diana #diakko #dianakko #fanfic #well look who's back #maybe #diana cavendish #akko kagari #kagari atsuko

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