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givemethatgold · 3 years

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Fix’er Upper - Part Twelve

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader Warnings: Mentions of sex, swearing, mentions of drug use, fluff, smidge of angst? Length: 1.7k Notes: Managed to whip up this bad boy during a quiet moment today and should probably make y’all wait for it but I don’t really do posting schedules (as you’ve noticed) so enjoy. Not beta’d, not proof read, I’ll die on this messy hill.

Series Masterlist

Surprisingly, life didn't change too much after that night. Frankie continued to run his acreage and oversee the making of this year's cider. With some encouragement and support from you, he was starting to expand the business and already had a few pubs in the closest city clamouring to have his product on tap.

Meanwhile, the improvements on the house were nearing an end, for the indoors list anyways. The first thing Frankie had helped you do was to install your new soaker tub, immediately followed by christening it by making soft, slow love to you inside of it.

There hadn't even been any water, your impatience to be close to each other wouldn't allow for that. You had just stripped out of your coveralls, convenient work-wear for people who fucked like rabbits you had to admit, and sat in his lap with your arms and legs wrapped around him. His hands guiding your hips in a slow rocking motion, breathing each other's air as your open mouths hovered in a not-quite kiss, only breaking eye contact when you threw your head back as you came.

Autumn passed quickly and Winter had gripped Vermont, cloaking the countryside in a heavy blanket of white. Christmas was a cozy affair, you and Frankie had been asked to join Jacquie and Mark in their family's merriment. It had stirred something inside of you, watching a functional family laugh, sing, argue, eat, and love with such abandon.

It was everything you'd dreamt, initially, for your future with Brad. Now? Now you were starting to picture that future with Frankie's face as the patriarch, you just haven't built up the nerve to broach the subject yet.

You'd started working at the bakery, enjoying the early mornings surrounded by rising dough and sculling back coffees with the adorable older ladies who ran the place. You'd also begun doing the books for Morales Acres and Catfish Brewery. Frankie was a veritable genius but he claimed he had no patience for keeping receipts and tracking numbers.

You had a sneaking suspicion he was playing dumb in an effort to give you more time together but you really didn't mind. Your break-of-dawn mornings at the bakery had you tired, but after a full day of renovating or bookkeeping, you were downright exhausted and ready for bed by eight pm. This, mixed with Frankie monitoring the brewing, bottling, and distribution of his cider and networking at bars and pubs throughout the state meant the two of you rarely saw each other.

All of your hard work in your own house had made you a popular friend to call when someone needed decorating advice, or a helping hand once they realized they couldn't tile their kitchen backsplash solo. You never charged for your time, although payment had initially been offered until work had got around that you preferred a good meal and conversation over money. I mean, sure, you could use the cash but it just didn't seem right. And you loved helping people and making deeper connections with the town you now truly felt you belonged in.

Tuesday evenings had become an unofficial date night for the two of you. The bakery was closed on Wednesdays and bar owners tended to be less interested in business halfway through the week, something to do with the rush of the previous weekend having worn off and the worry of setting up for another one starting to grow.

This meant you could stay up late, enjoy a proper homemade dinner, maybe even watch a movie or share a bottle of wine while soaking in your big ass tub. It usually ended as a sleepover, your house being the preferred location; Frankie's loft was perfectly fine but it did lack a certain homey appeal.

This pattern, this life, that you'd created for yourself was making you happier than you'd ever been in your entire life. You weren't one hundred percent content, not yet anyway, but the path to getting there was on a direct trajectory. You still wanted to finish your college degree, maybe switch it over to horticulture. Building a greenhouse and selling flowers was still a pipe dream but something your heart truly longed for, something that Frankie was constantly encouraging you to do.

"Look, hun," he had called out to you a few weeks ago while supposedly researching the new line of bottles. "There's an auction next county over and they have all this confiscated stuff from a grow op that got busted!"

"What?" You'd made a face and laughed at the absurdity of it all. "What on earth would you use from a pot farm?"

He just gave you a salacious wink as an answer.

Frankie had been open about his past drug abuse and while some recovering addicts may want all mention of it banned from a conversation, Frankie found levity in treating the topic like any other person would.

It had taken you a couple of hours to realize why he'd brought up the auction. It had hit you with a jolt, knowing that he’d remembered your rambling from on top of the Ferris wheel. You didn't realize he'd been listening when you'd told him about your idea of taking over the flower stand at the market once the current couple retired.

Your heart had swelled and there was a concerted effort to prevent the sudden onset of tears from running down your face. God, you loved this man, maybe one of these days you should tell him...

This particular routine was working well for the two of you. It gave each of you your own space to relax, destress, enjoy the shitty tv shows you were too embarrassed to watch in front of another living person. It also forced the two of you to take your relationship slowly, communication being a constant learning curve. You were both really good and telling each other when you needed time alone, when you were feeling stressed or sad. You each had learned the tells for when the other was angry or just hungry, if it was hormones or if there was something that was actually pissing you off.

The thing you each seemed to struggle with was expressing the softer side of the relationship. Neither of you appeared to have the Words of Affirmation love language skill, yet you both craved to hear it. You showed how much you cared for Frankie with your acts of service; helping him with the boring side of the business, baking, deep cleaning the loft, even scrubbing out the massive fermenter in the Catfish Cider warehouse.

Frankie, on the other hand, showed his love through physical touch. At first, you had assumed it was a staking-his-claim kind of thing but then you noticed how he'd do it all the time. A hand on your lower back while walking, caressing your hand with his thumb when driving in the truck, carding his fingers through your hair while you watched tv.

This week's date night found you at his place, relaxing in the loft after a busy workday. You were making dinner while he 'helped' by sneaking bites of the prepped ingredients, arm slung around you with a hand in your back pocket.

"What're you looking for?" He asked, taking advantage of your distracted searching through his cupboards to sneak a few more pinches of grated cheese.

"A can opener!" You replied, exasperation raising your voice an octave. "I could have sworn I saw a white one around here somewhere..."

“No, pretty sure that one's yours. I don't think I have one?"

"Frankie," you deadpanned "how did you survive as a bachelor without canned food?"

"I ate a lot of take-out?" He looked indignant at your laughter, "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Can you stop judging me long enough to eat some burritos?"

Smoothing his playful scowl with a kiss, you sat down at the counter and enjoyed your first meal together of the week.

An idea was formulating in the back of your mind, though, and you barely tasted anything. As the evening progressed, the idea grew and you were liking it more and more. The final straw was you not having a toothbrush in his bathroom anymore, having forgotten that it had fallen off the counter and into the trashcan the last time you'd spent the night.

Using his, with a strange mixture of distaste and nonchalance, before making your way over to the bed, you began to plan how the conversation could go:

Hey Frankie, so you know how I have a big house all to myself? Yeah... And it had everything we need in it? Yeah... And there's more than enough room for two adults to store all of their things? Yeah... And I wouldn't have to use your toothbrush ever again? Yea- wait what? I think you should move in with me.

It wasn't very romantic but it was the most likely, considering your dynamic. Just as you were crawling into bed and snuggling under the arm he'd raised to allow you to get closer, his cell phone rang.

"Hello? - This is he. - Yeah, biological. - Oh god, when?"

The immediate change in his tone from questioning to horrified caught your attention, sitting up to face him you grabbed his free hand, silently letting him know you were there for support.

His eyes were out of focus and a panicked expression was slowly morphing his face as the conversation went on, but he gave your hand a squeeze back in acknowledgement.

"Yes, in Vermont. Do you have my address? - Okay, good, good...okay - When? - I'll have something ready. Umm... does she... does she remember me? - Oh. Okay, thank you."

Slowly lowering the phone from his ear, Frankie sat staring into nothingness for what felt like hours. His side of the conversation and the way he was reacting had you rattled. You could guess as to what was happening but weren't sure if now was the right time to pry.

"Babe? Is, is everything okay?"

Silence.

Gripping his hand tighter and rubbing his back you sat with him for a few more minutes before trying again. You didn’t want to push him but your heart was constricting in your chest from nervousness and concern for him.

"Can I get you anything? What do you need?"

His hand was now completely dead in yours; eventually, he turned his head towards you, eyes never fully focusing, and shook his head.

"I- she- fuck... I think you should go.”

Part Thirteen

#Frankie Morales x F!Reader #Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader #Frankie Catfish Morales x F!Reader #Frankie Catfish Morales x Fem!Reader #Francisco Morales x F!Reader #Francisco Catfish Morales x Fem!Reader #Frankie Morales x Reader #Frankie Morales x you

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word-ghost · 3 years

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so a while back I wrote a depressing lil prologue about my farmer, Peach. Now, thanks to all the awesome people at the grapefruit sky server on discord, I have a depressing lil prologue for Harvey too 😌

late spring, year negative five

Harvey slumped forward over the planner on his desk. The next seven days stared back at him, empty other than their number in the upper right corner. The month was near the end of its climb. Soon it would tumble into the next, and it would be a year since Harvey had left his life behind.

He straightened to match the wooden back of his chair, pushing away from the desk and glancing at the drawer to the bottom right. He reached down to pull it open. The drawer shuddered on its wooden slide, the left edge scraping against its ill-fitting frame. It was still there.

When Harvey first arrived to assume the life of his aged predecessor, Pierre had gifted him a bottle of scotch to celebrate their going into business together. What he’d meant was that Harvey would be writing a rent check in Pierre’s name every month for— forever. Harvey weighed the word against his experiences over the past months.

One of his more regular patients despised him. He was lucky if half of the rest showed up on time for their appointments; if they bothered to come at all. A quarter of those who kept their appointments didn’t take him seriously.

Harvey’s hand dipped into the drawer and carefully lifted the amber-filled glass. He didn’t know much about whisky, but after a brief examination of the label, he knew this bottle was nothing special. He removed the stopper and sniffed it like he might a wine cork. A smoky-sweet scent followed the sharp sting of alcohol. Harvey checked that the closest coffee cup on the desk was empty before he poured himself what he thought to be the standard amount.

Harvey was thankful no one was around to see him flinch at the taste. His college friends had always teased him, the one who brought his own bottle of wine to parties rather than go for the keg or the cooler of punch. They had fallen out of touch after he moved, but it was his failure as much as theirs.

With the smooth burn of courage still sliding down his throat he picked up the phone. He dialed the first number to come to mind. He waited for five rings before he heard his friend’s voice, and then it was only a recorded name.

“‘Benny Lawrence’ is not available. At the tone, please record your message—”

Harvey used a finger to depress the switch, and when he lifted it the dial tone blared in his ear once again. He dialed, wedging the phone to his ear with his shoulder. He swallowed another mouthful before the third ring.

“I can’t believe I’m talking to you right now. How the hell have you been, man?” Dan’s voice was a near shout over a backdrop of car horns and fragmented voices.

“When was the last time we talked?” Harvey chuckled, mild excitement beginning to bubble over.

“Damn, I don’t know. About a year?”

“Ah. Things aren’t much different than then. But I’m not complaining.” He wasn’t sure why he’d added the last bit. Maybe even now the things he liked about Pelican Town still outweighed the things he didn’t. As if seeking confirmation, he asked, “How about you? Still enjoying city life?”

“I have more time to enjoy it these days.”

“What do you mean?”

“Better gig, better hours. I’m in pediatrics now at— oh, damn. Harv, I gotta run if I’m gonna catch my train. Talk soon, okay?”

“Oh— yeah. Soon.” Harvey tried not to sound disappointed. The momentary joy he felt hearing his friend’s voice drained away. He hung up the phone and downed his drink, its burn suffusing in his chest as he poured another.

He picked up the handset once again, fingers putting in the numbers without asking permission. On the second ring, he thought better of his actions. But before Harvey could hang up, she answered.

Hearing her voice after all these months was like rediscovering a song to which he’d forgotten the words. Whatever version of it he’d stored away in his memory paled in comparison.

“Hello?” She repeated.

“H- hi, Violet.” Harvey swallowed. “It’s— it’s been a while.”

“Harvey?” She gasped. “Why are you calling me?

“We haven’t talked since—” he faltered; the absurdity of what he was doing finally struck him. “I guess I just wanted to see how you’re doing—”

“I’m—” she started, but a voice interrupted; muffled, but familiar.

“Who is it, Vi?”

A hand shuffled over the microphone, not entirely cutting out their conversation on the other end. Harvey closed his eyes, making out some words over his pulse pounding in his ears.

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know—”

“Hang up.”

“He sounds—” There was more shuffling, and the voices were stifled.

“Harvey?” Violet said a moment later.

“I’m still here,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Is— is everything alright?”

“You’re still seeing John?”

“Yes.” She paused. He could practically hear her prickle over the wire from some hundred miles away. “We— we got married.”

“Congratulations,” Harvey said after a moment of shock, unable to control the bitter edge to his voice. He leaned his elbows on the desk and scraped his free hand through his hair.

“I thought you would have heard by now.”

“How could I have? I was— I’ve been—”

“I know.” Her honeyed voice dripped with guilt. “I’m— I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“From you?” The whisky's warmth set his latent anger ablaze. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

“Don’t call here again.”

With a quiet click, the line went dead. The phone’s bell let out a fearful chirp as Harvey slammed the handset on its cradle. He gripped a handful of his hair, a knot forming in his throat. It shouldn’t have come as such a shock. But his head pounded and his stomach churned.

There was no reason Violet ever should have set her amber eyes on Harvey. He didn’t have the best grades, and he was never the most attractive person in the room. But she’d approached him at a college party, tapped her plastic cup of wine to his, and introduced herself.

From that moment their lives began to slowly merge. Her friends liked him well enough, and his buddies loved her. Their life goals were aligned. Their families got along— every splintered side of them. The years wore on, and the only problem in their relationship was him. Harvey’s eighty-hour workweeks wore him ragged. The patients he couldn’t help weighed on his conscience. And the stress of trying to achieve the dreams they had for their future caught up with him and broke him down.

Harvey couldn’t complete his internship, and Violet couldn’t accept it. Even after he sought help, and worked to improve his mental state, she wouldn’t understand why his plans had to change. Harvey believed they loved each other enough to survive anything. Violet believed she deserved to be a surgeon’s wife. Now she had everything she wanted, and she hadn’t needed him to get it.

Harvey’s thoughts swirled and clouded into a murky mess. He didn’t hear footsteps in the waiting room or the swish of the swinging door in the hall outside his office. He didn’t know anyone was there until—

“Dr. Palmer?”

Harvey whirled around. Maru stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Get out.” He glared at her through the tears in his eyes. His own tone gave him pause and he softened. “I’m sorry, but— please. Go.” He turned away from Maru, who hovered in the doorway, indecisive.

“What’s the matter, Harvey?” There was a softness in her voice he hadn’t heard before. Of course, he’d kept her at the same distance as anyone else.

“Please.” He leaned his elbows on his desk. His chest tightened around the breath in his lungs. “I can’t— I can’t be like this.”

What must he look like to her? No one in this town needed another reason to think him inadequate. Incapable. A small, choked sob escaped his throat and he hid his face in his hands, catching his tears before they could fall. His glasses clattered to the desk.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder, lingering there until his breaths came at a more even pace. Then, it moved to put the lid back on the bottle, and the bottle back in the drawer. It retrieved his glasses, wiped them clean, and placed them in his hands. Harvey swallowed the bitter remnants of his pride, put on his glasses, and thanked her.

“Are you okay?” Maru said, emanating patience he didn’t deserve after snapping at her.

“She— after everything.” More tears fell with the bitter laugh that left him. “Six years.”

A few versions of the story had already circled the rumor mill since he’d been around. Harvey was glad someone would finally hear his side of it. It all spilled out, and Maru listened. For a moment he felt a sliver of the warmth he had missed since he moved to the valley. The warmth he felt hearing his friend’s voice over the phone, and, as much as he hated to admit it, Violet’s too.

#creativewriting #creative writing #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #stardew valley #stardew #stardew valley fanfic #stardew fanfic #stardew harvey #sdv harvey #stardew maru #sdv maru #sad harvey #angst #cw alcohol #got u these feelings

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smitethestate · 3 years

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At first this GameStop hedge fund Reddit stock market war seemed funny but the more I try to understand the stock market the angrier I get. It’s so fucking complicated and so much of it just seems entirely absurd to me, like what do you mean people can buy future stocks, we’re dealing with time travel now?

Bottom line is that this is an entire world that those of us who actually have to work to survive are not invited to. I feel like I would have to take a $2000 college course to understand even the basics. Millions go hungry in the U.S. alone and rich fucks including these Reddit assholes spend their days doing this secret rich people trigonometry to collect obscene amounts of money and ensuring that us poors will never, ever have access to their sick virtual casino.

I’m done laughing and ready to start burning.

#rich people #eat the rich #fuck these people

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jaybear1701 · 3 years

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The call comes sooner than Pam’s expecting, though honestly she’s not even sure what she expects now that a good chunk of her life is back in shambles, just when she thought she had finally gotten her shit together.

She knows it’s a mess of her own making, for once again allowing emotions to prevail over reason, but it still hurts, the pain somehow worse than it was a decade ago. Back then, when she and Ellen first walked away from each other, Pam knew that Ellen would always have a piece of her heart. But now? Now it feels like she left it entirely in Houston, her chest aching and hollow.

She answers the phone on her desk without thinking, on autopilot after a late drive back to Austin, a sleepless night tossing and turning on a motel bed, and not enough caffeine in the shitty coffee from the faculty lounge.

“Pam Horton,” she says in the most upbeat voice she can muster, cradling the receiver to her ear.

“Pam, it’s Larry.”

Breath catching in her throat, she’s torn between dread and hope. She briefly considers hanging up, but Larry’s next words make her hand still.

“She’s a mess. You’ve gotta at least talk to her.”

Tears sting Pam’s eyes and she squeezes them shut. “I can’t do that.” She knows she couldn’t bear to hear the heartbreak in Ellen’s voice, or worse, see it spread across her face.

“Why not?”

“You already know.”

Larry sighs on the other end. “Look, I know you think you’re doing what’s best for Ellen. But she deserves a say. Don’t take that away from her.”

She wants to snap at him to mind his own damn business, irritation spiking. She doesn’t need Larry twisting the knife when he’s had a decade of reaping the benefits of his marriage to Ellen. But she bites the inside of her cheek and manages to refrain. It’s not Larry’s fault that things are the way they are, at least not entirely. Pam keeps her voice steady when she says instead, “Thanks for calling, Larry.”

“Pam, wait--”

“Bye.”

Pam hangs up the phone quickly, already feeling worse than she already had. But she refuses to cry. It’s all for the best, she tells herself as she leans back into her desk chair. For all of them.

She got over Ellen Wilson once before.

She can do it again.

Eventually.

But today is definitely not that day.

Especially not when Pam’s hunkered down inside one of the college’s fallout shelters, breathing in stale air and wondering like the rest of her students whether the next breath could be their last. They’re surrounded by thick slabs of concrete and rebar. In one corner are two massive water tanks that the custodial staff have been trying to fill since the harsh blare of the air-raid siren blanketed the campus in panic and confusion. A few other instructors huddle around a transistor radio, anxiously awaiting any word that the emergency is over.

If Pam could, she’d laugh at the absurdity of it all. Because of course the world could end in nuclear armageddon the day after she left the love of her life.

She knows she should try to comfort her small class of budding writers, who fidget on the cold metal of their folding chairs. Should maybe tell them that everything’s gonna be all right. But Pam knows better than to lie, so she keeps silent, mind zigzagging from one thought to the next.

Pulse pounding in her temples, she wonders if her parents made it to their bunker and wishes that she had returned their last calls sooner. Hopes, with a pang between her ribs, that Elise has made it to safety. Tries not to imagine Flannery, their Maine Coon cat, cowering beneath what used to be their bed.

But most of all, she thinks of Ellen.

Always Ellen.

She allows herself, in a moment of weakness, to envision how the morning would have gone if she had just stayed. Pam would have held Ellen close, forever amused by the fact that the fearless astronaut--the girl who caught the tank, no less--always preferred to be the “little spoon,” back tucked snugly against Pam’s front, their legs curled into one another’s. And before she’d have to slip out of bed to solve the latest crisis at JSC, Ellen would’ve turned in Pam’s arms and warmed her with a gentle kiss.

Regret squeezes her lungs so hard, she almost can’t breathe, and she forces herself to suck in air and push it back out. It must come out harsher than she intends because one of her students leans toward her, forehead creased with worry.

“You okay, Ms. Horton?”

Pam’s lips form a wholly unconvincing smile. “I’m fine, Judy.” Snapping out of her stupor, she reaches inside her messenger bag on the floor, pulling out a small notebook and a pencil.

“What’re you doing?” Judy watches Pam flip to an empty page.

“Pouring out a double,” Pam deadpans. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“How can you write at a time like this?” Another student, Valerie, asks.

Pam can’t tell them the truth. That if she doesn’t do this, she just might break down entirely.

So she merely shrugs as she presses lead to paper. “How can you not?”

Somehow, the world survives.

All thanks to a handshake in space.

When the news breaks over the radio, Pam is weak-kneed from relief, clapping and cheering with her students and colleagues. She wipes away the wetness on her cheeks as pride swells within her, knowing that astronauts she’s known and loved saved them all.

In some small way, it makes her feel justified in her decision to leave Houston. Even though Ellen herself wasn’t on the Apollo, Pam knows she would have been involved in the ultimate outcome. Ellen was born for leadership, and had so much good yet to do. Pam did the right thing in removing herself as an obstacle on Ellen’s path. Right? Right.

Her fellow professors want to celebrate their new lease on life. But Pam’s exhausted and wants nothing more than to crawl back to her motel room with some bourbon and pass out. So she takes her leave, picks up Chinese takeout, and swings by the liquor store where she buys a bottle of Michter’s, convincing herself that she selected it for its quality, and not because it’s Ellen’s favorite.

A shower, full belly, and three sheets to the wind later, Pam finds herself on top of the squeaky motel bed, surfing the late-night news for NASA coverage. Purely as a concerned citizen, of course, and not to catch a glimpse of the agency’s beautiful acting administrator. There’s nothing, though, and Pam lays her right arm over her eyes to block out the spinning room.

She dreams of Ellen.

Always Ellen.

They’re on the gray surface of the moon, surrounded by the twinkling darkness of the star-studded universe. Ellen, in her white space suit, is walking in the distance, her legs skip-floating across the dusty surface. Pam, however, is left exposed in the vacuum, unfathomably alive as she runs after Ellen. Or makes the attempt, hopping in weak gravity. No matter how hard she tries to cross the distance, the farther Ellen seems to pull away.

Her chest hurts, but Pam calls out anyway.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Please.

Her words are swallowed by cold silence.

Pam wakes with a gasp, swallowing air into her lungs, heart pounding against her ribs. Blinking rapidly, it takes her several long seconds to remember where she is, the motel room slowly coming into focus. The television’s still on, now airing the morning news. Empty takeout boxes remain scattered on a small desk. For some reason, the room’s phone is off its hook, dangling off the side of the nightstand to her right.

Pam chokes back a sob.

Ellen doesn’t try to contact her, as Pam feared she might after her last conversation with Larry.

She should feel relieved. It's what she had wanted, and intended, when she left the letter on Ellen’s bed. And yet, she can’t stem the undercurrent of disappointment that lingers.

The news about Tracy and Gordo Stevens breaks while Pam's searching for a new apartment. Sitting in her favorite pub in Clarksville, tucked away on a quiet street in the historic neighborhood, she’s halfway through the newspaper classifieds when a sudden hush descends. One of the servers turns up the volume on the television above the bar. Photos of Tracy and Gordo in their blue flight suits flash on screen, their smiles confident and bright.

A news anchor says something about an accident at Jamestown, and how they and two other astronauts had lost their lives during the repairs. The exact details are lost on a shell-shocked Pam, a pencil slipping through her now slack fingers. It seems like only yesterday that she was pouring drinks for them both. They had been two of Pam’s favorites--Gordo with his terrible jokes and off-key singing, and Tracy with her kind smile and quiet determination.

They had always treated Pam as one of their own, and she can’t believe they’re gone.

It doesn’t feel real, and yet it’s now reality.

A few weeks later, every channel airs the funeral in Arlington National Cemetery. Elise has it on the television when Pam drops by their house to pick up the last of her things. Well, it’s not their house anymore, technically. It’s Elise’s until the lease to the small rambler expires at the end of the month.

They haven’t seen each other since Pam had left Elise for Ellen, and it’s every bit as awkward as Pam expected. Elise has every right to be hurt and angry, and Pam wouldn’t blame her if she felt the need to lash out. But Elise is civil, almost disconcertingly so, keeping her expression neutral as she walks ahead of Pam to the living room.

“I went ahead and packed the rest of your stuff.” Elise crosses her arms, maintaining her distance.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Pam ducks her head. Elise is nothing but efficient. It’s one of the things Pam loves about her. “But thank you.”

“I’ll let you get to it.” Elise nods and returns to sit on the couch.

A suitcase and several boxes are waiting next to the dining table. Flannery greets Pam instantly, curling around her ankles. Smiling, Pam bends down to pick up the orange Maine Coon.

“Hey, little guy, I’ve missed you,” she murmurs into his soft, fluffy fur. Flannery purrs in response.

On the TV screen, the president is giving a speech at the cemetery’s white-marble memorial amphitheater. Behind him are four coffins draped in the stars and stripes, and Pam’s heart clenches.

“Did you know them, too?” Elise cradles a mug between her hands as she watches the coverage.

“I knew the Stevenses, yeah,” Pam admits quietly.

“Guess there’s a lot you didn’t tell me,” Elise huffs out.

Guilt courses through Pam as she gently lowers Flannery back onto the floor. He meows in protest. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. It was just a part of my life I wanted to forget, I guess.”

Elise doesn’t respond, her eyes glued to the news coverage, where the camera pans to the crowd. Pam’s breath stills when she catches a glimpse of Ellen in black standing solemnly between Danielle Poole and Molly Cobb. She’s on screen for less than three seconds, but it’s enough to discombobulate Pam, who tamps down another swell of grief.

“I’m surprised,” Elise says suddenly, turning her head to regard Pam. “That you’re not there with her.”

I would be, Pam thinks, in a better world. But that’s not the one they live in, and Pam’s not even sure she’ll live to see the day when relationships like theirs will be accepted or, at the very least, tolerated without condemnation.

“It’s not my place,” Pam says vaguely.

She can’t bring herself to tell Elise the truth of what she had done, how in the end she had let Ellen go for the greater good. The pain is still too fresh. Without elaborating further, she picks up the first box with a slight grunt. It’s heavier than it looks.

It takes only a few minutes to load up her car, both amazed and sad that the tangible portion of a life with someone amounted, in the end, to so very little. Elise meets her just outside the storm door with the suitcase, saving Pam one more trip inside.

“Listen, I just…” Elise bites the corner of her lip, brow pinched. “I want you to be happy. And I’m trying to understand, but…”

“I know.” Pam attempts a smile she’s sure comes out half-hearted and weak. “I want you to be happy, too.”

“Just not together.”

“Elise…” Pam exhales slowly through her nostrils. A car rumbles down the street behind her. “I think,” she swallows against a lump forming in her throat, “if Ellen hadn’t walked back into my life, you and I would still want different things.”

Disappointment ripples across Elise’s face, and another wave of remorse washes over Pam. Children have been a sticking point between Pam and Elise, and it isn’t an issue that would simply resolve itself with time. Elise deserves someone who wanted, without hesitation, to build a family with her. And as much as Pam loves her, she just isn’t that person.

Pam takes in a deep breath. “We were friends before. Maybe… maybe one day we could be again.”

Elise only stares, blinks once, twice. “Maybe. I need some time, I think.”

“I understand.”

Nodding, Elise opens the screen door, but pauses before stepping back inside. “Take care of yourself, Pam.”

“You too.”

The door closes with a soft click that nevertheless feels loud in its finality. On a long exhale, Pam picks up the suitcase and walks away.

Life moves on, as it always does, without a care for tragedy or triumph.

In some ways, it’s easier than the last time Pam put herself through a hard reset. She’s not starting from scratch in a new city, or struggling to make ends meet as she works her way through grad school. She has her health, her career, and her freedom to live her life out in the open.

Pam settles into her new apartment in Clarksville. It’s better than the hole-in-the-wall she had rented way back when in Houston, but not by much. Still, it’s hers and she’s grateful for the distraction of unpacking, organizing, and decorating. Between those tasks and teaching, she doesn’t have time for much else.

But sometimes, in quiet moments alone, usually in bed staring up at her dark ceiling, her mind wanders and wonders--just how different would her life be if she had gone down the roads not taken. What if she had stayed with Ellen a decade ago? Could she have tolerated Ellen’s marriage to Larry? Would she have been able to stand the constant fear and anxiety from Ellen’s stints on the moon, not being able to have the same privileges as other spouses and wives? And what of Ellen’s potential foray into politics? Could Pam have found the strength to support her without resentment?

Pam doesn’t know, and will never know, but she explores the possibilities in poems jotted down in notebooks, stories scrawled in journals, and snippets scribbled on restaurant napkins and whatever scraps of paper she can find when the muse strikes. It helps, she thinks. Or hopes.

And so she pushes forward one day at a time: eat, sleep, teach, write. Eventually, she becomes so engrossed in the routine that she blocks out nearly all else, completely missing the news about NASA’s acting administrator stepping down to the surprise of the Reagan administration.

"Pens down, that's all she wrote folks!"

There's a palpable sense of relief around the room, even as some of the first-year students groan when Pam calls time on their final exam.

"Come on, it wasn't so bad, right?" She smiles from her desk as they turn in their papers. "I'm proud of you all. Have a terrific break."

Pam gets up to erase the instructions she had written in the blackboard. The chalk dust makes her nose crinkle, and she brushes her hands off on the front of her pants. Once the classroom empties out, Pam gathers the exams and slips them inside her messenger bag, cursing under her breath when she accidentally knocks a pen from her desk.

As she bends down to retrieve it, the door opens once again.

"Be with you in a sec." Pam stretches her arm to grasp the pen. Straightening back up, she turns to greet her student. "What can I do for…"

Her heart stops.

Ellen Wilson smiles.

"Hi, Pam."

#ellen x pam #for all mankind #ellen waverly #pam horton #spacepoet #canon divergent fix-it fic

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gabswrites · 3 years

Text

Aren’t you dating? ~ TSS

Two oblivious best friends.

Pairing: Logince

-----

This is a story of two best friends. They have been together throughout kinder, elementary, middle and high school.

They have survived it all. The hormones, the different interests, the jealousy, the sexuality crisis. They were so different but they worked, and that was the important thing.

Now they were in college.

Logan wanted to be a Teacher. Everyone thought he was going to study Engineering or Astronomy, but Roman knew best. One day, when they were seniors, he had confessed to Roman that he wanted to teach, he wanted to be a role model for children, and help them improve themselves. Roman thought it was great and told him that he would be the best teacher a child could have. He still didn’t forget the wide smile Logan gave him.

On the other hand, he was more extra and everyone knew it. Roman wanted to be an actor, he was studying theater and be in Broadway one day.

They were in their second year. After suffering the first year in the dorms, Roman and Logan decided to rent an apartment with two more students and new friends: Virgil and Patton. Life was amazing, wasn’t it?

Even though they were studying two completely different things, they were always together. Everyone knew that wherever Logan was, Roman wasn’t too far away and viceversa. Actually, everyone thought they were together. They even had weekly dates for God’s sake! It was so obvious they were in love with each other that no one even bothered to ask them if they were together or not.

They just assumed. As Logan assumed he would never had a chance with Roman because why would Roman want to be with him?

They just assumed. As Roman assumed that Logan would never want to be with him because Logan would never date someone as dumb as him.

It was absurd, really. How two people could be so oblivious?

They shared smiles, laughs, movie nights, embarrassing moments, forehead kisses, cuddles, they were there for each other.

Let’s be real, they were so together, that it wasn’t even funny. Even Virgil and Patton thought they were together.

“Logan! Guess what?” Roman came like an excited puppy with something in his hands.

Logan who was studying in the table looked up and smiled at his best friend excitement.

“What is it, Roman?” He said rolling his eyes pretending he was annoyed.

“Why do you never want to guess? You’re not fun” Roman pouted but got closer and showed Logan what he had on his hands. “I was thinking it could be great to go for a weekly meeting”.

Logan gasped. He couldn’t believe it.

“That is... “

“Yeah, it is.”

“That is two tickets for a Sherlock Holmes’ Escape room?” Logan couldn’t believe it, he was speechless. “How... when... “

“Do you like it?” Roman murmurs.

“Do I like it? Do I like it?” Logan is not a very affectionate person, least of all physical affectionate but this for sure was an exception. He stood up and hugged Roman. “I love it. You know I love it”

Roman hugged back even though he was taken a little by surprise. Logan didn’t usually hug him. It was always him who hugged Logan. He melt in the hug smiling.

Logan was smiling wide and he couldn’t deny it anymore. His heart was too full and he just needed to let it out.

“Roman”

“Logan”

Both of them laughed nervously.

“You first” Logan said.

Roman look at his eyes and took a big breath.

“I’m in love with you”

Both of them stayed silent for a second and then Logan started laughing.

“You don’t have to laugh at me Logan” Roman stepped back, his voice breaking.

“No, no. I’m sorry.” Logan took his hands. “It’s just... I can’t believe you love me. I’m in love with you too”

Roman laughed too. He was too happy and didn’t know how to react. He understood why Logan had done the same.

“What is so funny?” Another voice asked, it was Patton.

Roman looked back at Patton and jumps excitedly in the same spot.

“Logan is in love me with me and I’m in love with him and I’m gonna date him so much”

Logan hid his face in his hands.

Patton looked at them confused. “Aren’t you already dating?”

----

Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated :3

#tss #sanders sides #ts roman #ts logan #Logan Sanders #Roman Sanders #oblivious #friends to lovers #best friends #fluff #ts patton mention

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skeeter-110 · 3 years

Text

I Dreamt About You Every Night

Tony Stark has been dead for seventeen years due to a mission gone wrong. He's survived getting blown up, palladium poisoning, terrorist attacks, and even Thanos himself, and he gets killed by - what was supposed to be - a simple day-to-day mission. Or, so everyone thought.

|| Chapter One || || Chapter Two ||

Chapter Three:

“You don’t start searching for truth until something goes terribly wrong and you realize that you need it. There's no going back after that." - Tarryn Fisher, F*ck Love

"So how is May doing?" Tony awkwardly asks as they began to set the table, already dreading the answer.

He wasn't stupid. He knew he missed almost two whole decades - hell, seeing Pepper almost twenty years older than him rather than five years younger was surreal on it's own - he knew there was a big chance May was no longer here.

"She - uh - she passed. Two years ago." Peter says, confirming Tony's suspicions.

"Oh, Pete, I'm sorry." Tony sighs and, not for the first time, realized how much he truly missed over the past few years.

"It's okay. Well, it's not 'okay' but we kind of saw it from a mile away. She was diagnosed with dementia and eventually it just got to the point where she could hardly remember how to swallow so we knew it wouldn't have been too much longer." Peter explains, Tony giving Peter a sad smile in return.

He wasn't quite sure how to react to the news that he wasn't even able to say one last good-bye to his closest friend. To the only reason that he was even allowed and able to call Peter his son.

Thankfully, the subject got dropped quickly when footsteps were heard coming into the dining room.

"Hey, Claire, did you wash up? Mama's just about done with dinner." Peter greets the pre-teen that walked in.

"Yeah." The girl - Claire, Tony's mind supplies - slowly replies, hesitantly walking towards the table while side-eyeing Tony. "Uh... Dad?" Claire asks, Peter completely oblivious to the looks the pre-teen was giving Tony due to him walking into the kitchen.

"What's up?" Peter asks as he walks back into the dining room with a bowl of rolls. It wasn't until he saw the looks that Claire was giving Tony that he began to understand what was happening.

"Why does he look like Grandpa Tony?" Claire asks, her eyes not leaving Tony even once.

"Yeah, that is an explanation that will come with dinner. So go wash up if you haven't already." Peter says before making his way back into the kitchen.

Tony just watched as Claire continued to give him the stink-eye as she walked away; shivering once he was sure she was gone. She was almost as scary as Tony remembers M.J to be. Which wasn't a thought he should be having about his granddaughter.

And that - that right there was enough to stop Tony in his tracks. Because it was only then that he realized he had grandchildren.

Not when Pepper told Tony that Peter had a whole family now, not when M.J walked in pregnant with three other kids following her behind, and not even when one of Peter's daughters called him grandpa.

Right here and now it was finally hitting Tony that he was technically a grandfather. And, just like with all the rest of the information that's been dumped onto him, Tony wasn't even sure how to feel about that.

He didn't have too much time to dwell on it, though, before a bunch of chaos insured.

Annie-May ran into the room, practically barreling into Tony as she tried to evade a teen boy that was attempting to chase after her. It wasn't until then that Tony actually got a good look and noticed the crutches he was using to get around.

"Come here, you little runt!" The boy yelled at Annie, the small girl jumping up on the wall and crawling up to the ceiling to avoid getting swiped at by the pre-teen. "Oh, that's so unfair. Get back down here!" The boy yells at Annie, seething a bit more when all the girl did in return was stick her tongue out at him.

"Excuse me? What do you two think you're doing?" Peter asks in that "Dad" voice that even Tony had become accustomed to using, raising his eyebrows when no one answered him.

"Annie-May was messing with our project." The boy all but tattles.

"I was not! I was trying to get you to come downstairs for dinner like I was told to do!" Annie argues back making Peter sigh and rub his face.

"Okay, Ben, quit chasing and tormenting your little sister; she was told to come get you for dinner. Annie, you don't need to mess with their science project in order to get him down here. Now, Annie, get off of the ceiling and go in the kitchen to see if your Mama needs help; Ben, go wash up for dinner." Peter corrals, playfully ruffling Annie's hair as she walked by.

"You know, I don't really have to wash up. I washed my hands at school before coming home." Ben argues, earning a very unimpressed look in return.

"That may be true, but weren't you and Claire working with chemicals for your project?" Peter asks, the silence he got in return being all the answer he needed. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Go wash your hands." Peter says, lightly pushing Ben's head towards the bathroom, making the pre-teen laugh as he began walking away.

"Welcome to my - somewhat - controlled chaos." Peter jokes, finally acknowledging Tony as he sets a bowl of salad onto the table.

"Yeah, well, you can't really be all that surprised considering you used to run me and May ragged." Tony teased right back making Peter laugh.

"Let's just be thankful that none of them have tried to sneak out in pajamas and use their powers to save kittens from trees." M.J chimes in as she walks into the dining room, Peter letting out a gasp in faux offense.

"It wasn't pajamas!" Peter protests, earning unimpressed looks from both Tony and M.J.

"Yes it was." They both said at the same time, making Peter huff and mumble something about being attacked in his own home. M.J just looked at Tony before giving him a small smile; a huge accomplishment in Tony's eyes since he remembers it was almost impossible for him to do before everything happened.

"It's good to have you back. I don't know how you're back but I'm glad either way." M.J says, patting Tony on the shoulder as she walked past.

"You know, I think that's just about the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Jones." Tony says, pretending to sniffle and fold his hands over his heart.

"Don't get used to it." M.J says, giving him the same side-eyed glare that he had just received a minute ago from Claire.

"There's the same scary girl I remember." Tony teases only earning an eye-roll in return.

"Well, you might as well take a seat and start making your plate up before the kids get here and you're left foraging for scraps." Peter says while him and M.J both sat down at the table.

Tony just chuckled and shook his head, deciding to take the warning and sit down also. If Peter's children had even a lick of the same appetite he has, Tony knew he should definitely take them up on the offer.

Almost as if they knew plates were being made, all three kids were running into the dining room, all but plopping down into their chairs and scrambling to put food on their plates.

Tony couldn't help but watch in awe at how easy it was for the perfect picture of domestication to occur. Almost as soon as every one had food on their plates, the kids took that as invitation to begin talking about their days.

Once again, Tony was left marveling over how much he missed. He missed Peter getting married, and having his first kid; along with his second and third. He missed most of his life with Pepper, and he missed Morgan graduating high school and going off to college.

Tony only allowed the sadness he felt to wash over him for a second before quickly turning it into determination. He was going to do everything in his power to make sure that he didn't miss anymore time with his family, and he was going to make sure whoever did this was going to pay for it.

"So, are we just going to continue to ignore the big elephant in the room eating dinner with us? No offense." Claire pipes in once it seemed that everyone was somewhat finished with their dinner.

"None taken?" Tony brushes off, unsure if he really should take that statement as a slight or not.

"It's kind of hard to explain." Peter starts, glancing over towards Tony and sighed when all the scientist did was shrug. Tony figured that since Peter - obviously - knew his kids better, he would be better fit to explain the situation to them.

"Well, you all know how there's bad people out there that don't like the Avengers? And how they'll do anything to stop us from doing good?" Peter begins, waiting for all the kids to confirm before continuing. "Well, we don't know why, but those bad people thought that the best way to stop the Avengers was by taking Grandpa Tony."

"But why would that stop the Avengers?" Ben asks.

"And I thought you guys were sure he was dead. Didn't you guys have a whole funeral for him? Why would you have a funeral if you didn't even know he was dead?" Claire chimes in before Peter could even answer Ben's question.

"So this is what Grandpa Tony looks like?" Annie blurts out, still making it impossible for Peter to answer any questions.

"Okay, okay, slow down. We're not sure exactly why they took Grandpa Tony, but we can just assume it was to stop the Avengers and take over. And we thought he was dead because the bad guys managed to make a fake body to trick us. They probably didn't like that we were hot on their trail trying to find Tony." Peter explains, both teens nodding their heads as if all of this made perfect sense.

"So, what happens now?" Claire asks, making Tony and Peter look at each other. Neither one of them really knew how to answer that question. They hadn't actually gotten that far yet.

"What happens now is you kids finish up your homework and get ready for bed." M.J replies when she realized that none of the men there knew how to respond. Of course, without fail, all three kids began to whine at the apparent absurdity of it all.

"Dad?" Claire asks, doing her best to give Peter her patent puppy-dog-eyes.

"Nope, sorry, I have to agree with your mother here." Peter says, making all of the kids grumble and groan as they got up from their seats, cleaned up their messes, and reluctantly made their ways back into their rooms.

"I am going to clean up in the kitchen, you boys need to talk and figure out what your next move is." M.J says, planting a kiss on the side of Peter's head before walking off towards the kitchen.

"So, I guess we need to figure out our game plan, huh?" Peter awkwardly asks, unsure really of where to go from this point.

"We need to figure out where they took me first before we plan anything else." Tony starts.

"How are we going to figure that out? Tony, I've re-watched the only footage that we have over and over again for five years. Not one clue of where they've hidden you popped up. All the clues we had were a dead-end." Peter tells the scientist.

"Maybe there's something in the field they dropped me off at." Tony shrugs.

"Yeah, maybe. It would probably be best if we went at night, though. That way it'll be harder for anyone to see us snooping around." Peter agrees, trying to come up with a simple plan that won't raise suspicion.

"So it's settled then; tomorrow night it's time to suit up." Tony says as they both began to stand up, Peter laughing and pulling Tony in for a hug.

Tony couldn't help but melt into the hug, glad to hold his boy - who was not really a boy anymore - in his arms.

"I missed you and your pop culture references." Peter light-heartedly admits, making Tony chuckle and ruffle Peter's hair.

"I better get going, though, so I'll see you tomorrow, Pete." Tony says before walking towards the kitchen and exchanging goodbyes with M.J.

"See you tomorrow, Tony." Peter repeats as Tony leaves through the front door, watching as Tony got into his car and began to drive away.

Something deep down in Peter's gut told him that no matter what, they weren't going to find anything but trouble tomorrow.

Tag List: @spideyspeaches @lost-lunar-wolf @joyful-soul-collector @hatakehikari

#peter parker #tony stark #irondad #fanfiction #adult peter parker #presumed dead #michelle jones

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candlelight27 · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2: Reach For My Hand

Summary: Sylvain has been ignoring you since you met him. You had been in love with him since you met him. College is about to offer you a fresh start. New academic year, new life. You were ready to forget him. But fate seems to have other plans… (COLLEGE AU)

Series: Seeking Your Warmth If Only For A Day

Warnings: Objetification (?), anxiety attack, curse words

Pairings: Sylvain Jose Gautier x Female Reader

Word Count: 4562

AO3: Reach For My Hand

A/N: Sorry it took too long. My writing process is unpredictable. Besides, it was a boring chapter at first and I think I managed to make it interesting? Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you have suggestions, requests, theories or whatever leave a comment of come talk to me on tumblr - same username.

Your first week of university had passed all at once. Time flew between jotting down notes, going back and forth, meeting all your new teachers and, overall, trying to survive. Thankfully, Lysithea had shared all her notes with you, so you weren’t that lost – since Claude was keen on gossiping with you in the middle of lessons…

…And since Sylvain proved himself to be a huge distraction. And an active one, in fact.

The ominous day Byleth paired you with him, Sylvain had approached you after class. Hands in his pockets, his chest a little puffed and a glamorous grin on his face, he had the perfect pose to be on the cover of a teenage magazine. And with his casual tone, he nonchalantly asked you for your number..

“We better stay in touch to finish the project”, he added. Your heart skipped a beat – or two or three – and you nodded. You hoped that excitement would go unnoticed. There was the slightest shyness in his voice, but you discarded the thought. It was absurd to consider you’d awaken even the smallest amount of insecurity in him, regarding the fact that he was the embodiment of confidence.

“Sure”, you smiled and grabbed a pen. Sylvain stopped you muttering a ‘wait’ and took out his phone. He opened a tab for a new contact.

“Here, write your number.” You took it and started writing. Then, it hit you that Sylvain actually knew how you were called. He had edited the blank space, where you saw all the letters that spelt your name standing triumphantly. He even had added a heart emoji next to it. So, even if he had never acknowledged your existence, he was aware of it.

“Write me whenever you feel like it,” he said with a wink. Your name rolling out of his lips was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard.

As he went away and followed Mercedes out of the classroom, Claude rose his eyebrows.

“Well, that went better than expected. Our plan is running smoothly,” he hit you with his elbow.

“Your plan, Claude. I never agreed to it,” you sighed, while he just chuckled and let it be.

But that wasn’t the end of the phone matter. Not at all.

The next day you met your new teacher, Catherine. She was interesting, and she made her lessons about the Evolution of Warfare quite enjoyable – which was itself a great deed, in your opinion. However, there was a downside, and it was that the blonde woman talked your ears off with her millions of tales that weren’t that interesting and definitely not exam material.

It was early and you were barely awake when you felt the light vibration of a message on your mobile phone. Who could be at that hour? You looked next to you. Marianne was as still as a corpse, Claude was probably asleep and Lysithea was fiercely taking notes, so it was not any of them trying to be discreet. Ingrid would never use her phone during a lesson, so she was ruled out too.

With caution, you unlocked the screen of your phone and placed it on your lap.

Unknown 09:45: Are you bored too?

Did Dorothea change her number again?

You 09:46: Who are you?

Unknown 09:46: Look right 😊

You did. And you came across Sylvain waving at you. You saved his number quicker than you’d like to admit.

You 09:48: Good morning, Sylvain

You 09:48: And yes, I’m bored to death

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a smile gracing Sylvain’s countenance, and you felt like a schoolgirl all over again.

Sylvain 09:49: Is Claude asleep? For real?

You 09:50: Most likely…

And that was the beginning of your academic doom.

It turned out that Sylvain was a compulsive text-writer. He wasn’t shy about sending you millions of messages at any time. And you, foolish as always, responded every last one of them. Against your will, as you typed on your phone, butterflies flied around your stomach.

The first days, he limited your interactions strictly to Catherine’s lessons and breaks. But as the week progressed, you found yourself going to sleep a little later just to share a few more words with the infamous flirter.

You two didn’t have meaningful conversations at all. You talked about high school, books, films, you shared jokes and silly occurrences… Yet it made you feel that an already existing connection tying you with Sylvain was awakening. It was absurd, to think there was a bond that had been formed before between both of you, but you couldn’t cast aside that sensation. Like a distant memory of a dream you once had. Like the primal needs our bodies feel. You felt there was something that linked you with him, and it was ancient and significant.

When Claude discovered what you and Sylvain were up, he was delighted.

“Don’t you realize that’s just what we needed for our plan?”, he opened his eyes and leaned in closer, so your classmates wouldn’t hear him.

“Again, your plan, Claude”, you shook your head. “And you seem to be making it up as it goes.”

“Well, that’s my charm, darling,” he laughed, and went on playing with his phone. You threw him your best deadpan look.

With so many distractions, the weekend arrived in the blink of an eye. It was rather cloudy when you woke up, and late, because it was Saturday and you didn’t have any obligation. You rolled in bed, throwing away your blanket and yawning.

Then, you heard a thud next to you. It was your phone. You remembered you had been talking with Sylvain when you fell asleep. You deliberated if maybe it wasn’t better to ignore him for a day. You were starting to get your hopes up, and you wanted to avoid another disappointment. But as if your hands moved on their own, you opened the conversation to see what you had missed.

Sylvain 01:13: What do you mean you HAVEN’T seen Loog and the Maiden of Wind???

You 01:15: ??

You 01:15: What’s wrong?

Sylvain 01:17: It’s Ingrid’s favourite film!

Sylvain 01:18: More like, she loved complaining about how they got all the scenes from the book wrong

Sylvain 01:18: Still she made me watch it like 1819341973 times

You 01:19: She wanted me to watch it

You 01:20: I just happen to have really good excuses 😉

Sylvain 01:25: Well you are going to watch it with me

You 01:26: Why would I?

Sylvain 01:27: It’s called solidarity

You 01:27: I don’t have that

(Unread) Sylvain 01:31: ☹

(Unread) Sylvain 01:31: Please, suffer with me

(Unread) Sylvain 01:33: C’mon I promise I’ll be good, I won’t bite you

(Unread) Sylvain 01:33: Unless you ask me 😉😉😉

(Unread) Sylvain 01:35: So I’m going to believe that you’re asleep and are not in fact ignoring me

(Unread) Sylvain 01:34: Good night, princess <3

You sighed and got up. What were you getting yourself into? And what were you trying to achieve? ‘Don’t implicate yourself too much’, has said Claude, but you were already in too deep. But your friend probably knew as much and was plotting something entirely different.

Ignoring your best judgment, you started typing.

You 09:53: Good morning!

Goddess, you felt stupid.

“Good morning”, greeted Ingrid when you left your room. “I got some pastries for breakfast.”

“Nice.”

You sat next to her and started to munch on the first sweet piece you found. The television filled the room with a comforting background noise. You were half listening the weather and the news. Your phone suddenly beeped, indicating you had a new text message. You looked at the screen with discretion and unlocked it with an unbothered appearance, trusting Ingrid wouldn’t ask questions.

Sylvain 10:01: I unilaterally decided we’re watching the film today, princess

You couldn’t hide your expression, and Ingrid looked your way.

“Who are you texting?”, she tried to use a teasing tone. “I’ve never seen you so hooked on your phone. Is it Claude?”

There was no use in lying, so you’d answer thruthfully. You could even get some intel about Sylvain without revealing your game if you played your cards well.

“Oh, no. It’s Sylvain?” You feigned disinterest.

“Is he bothering you? I could scare him off,” she offered, with her eyebrows furrowed.

“What? Don’t do it.” A small and nervous laughter escaped your mouth at the idea.

“Don’t tell me he’s done it”, Ingrid said, and she rested her head on her hands, her attention focused on you.

“What has he done?”

“Charming you!”, she replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ingrid, I was paired with him for some project. That’s all,” you assured her.

“Well, just don’t fall for him. He can be very disgusting sometimes. He’s a good friend, but he’s not a good boyfriend.” She hummed. “As far as I know, of course.”

“Don’t worry,” you smiled, appeasing, “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s weird, though. He never texts anyone on his own accord. He always says it’s a waste of time.”

“It’s for the project. No biggie,” you affirmed, yet you knew you’d have to keep in mind that fact.

“Ah, that must be it,” Ingrid shrugged. “He may be always chasing skirts, but he’s very diligent with academic matters.”

You 10:15: I have a better idea

You 10:16: Let’s go to the library and start Byleth’s project

You weren’t ready for watching a film with him. In the best-case scenario, you’d faint like Bernadetta on your high school days.

Sylvain 10:17: The library? In this era of technology?

You 10:17: Yes.

Sylvain 10:18: Okay, fine

Sylvain 10:19: You are right, old-fashioned university professors love their bibliographies filled with books :/

Sylvain 10:19: But you owe me one film

You 10:19: … we’ll see.

You 10:19: Let’s meet at the library at 6 p.m.

“I’m going to the library with Sylvain today,” you commented to Ingrid.

“Do you mind if I invite Ashe over?”

Well, you weren’t expecting that. You noted mentally to compare notes with Dorothea, because now you didn’t have any doubt that there was something going on between her and Ashe. Never ever had she invited a guy before that wasn’t Felix, Sylvain, or Dimitri.

“Oh, yeah, go ahead, I don’t mind,” you encouraged her.

“Cool!”

You were getting ready, mulling over what you were going to wear. You didn’t want to try too hard, this wasn’t a date, but nevertheless you wanted to look good – despite the fact that if anyone ever asked you, you’d completely refuse that thought had crossed your mind. It was absurd, but denial helped you to keep going.

As you struggled to decide, you heard Ingrid biding you goodbye and the door being closed. You supposed she was going to meet Ashe and bring him to your place. You grinned to yourself. Immediately after, your phone started ringing. It was Dorothea. She had a distinctive melody that she sang herself for you. What on earth could have made her call you? She was the queen of voice messages.

“Yes?”, you began.

“You better tell me what the fuck is happening!”, she yelled with her usual dramatic twist.

“What is happening?” You were quite confused and tried to go over all the things she could be referring to.

“Don’t play dumb. First, Ingrid is all starry-eyed when she talks about Ashe and now you have a date with Sylvain? Is the water in your apartment poisoned?” You wondered how she found out, but Dorothea had a sixth sense for love affairs.

“Well, Ingrid is the one with an actual date,” you pointed to divert her attention. “I’m just going to the library because-”

“Because a project? Why does it sound so familiar? Ah, yes, it’s what I told my parents when I was going to make out with a classmate in high school. And don’t distract me throwing Ingrid to the wolves.”

“What do you want of me?”, you exclaimed out of frustration.

“A confession!”

“Who are you? Seteth?” You could hear Dorothea’s sweet laugh at your joke.

“How could I be so stupid? Your crush has been Sylvain all these years!”, she was creating a fuss on the other side of the phone. “I’m not going to lie, I didn’t expect that, not in the least.”

“You are assuming way too much.”

“Shut up! I guess Sylvain is a whole reason himself to keep it a secret, but you should have told me.” Dorothea made a pause. “My poor baby suffering all those years in silence! Aunty Dorothea is here to comfort you!”

“Quit the joking. Now tell me what I should wear for my not-a-date”, you said indignantly.

“Oh, right. Do you recall the Red Canyon? You definitely should put on that thing you wore. It will catch his eye, but it doesn’t seem way too elaborated.”

“Thank you, Dorothea, you are a genius. Are you reading my mind?”

“Really? I can see right through you”, she giggled. “You haven’t changed. And I would you why you are so worried about your clothes when it’s not a date, but you’d just mutter any excuse and ignore me altogether.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Now, inform me of you not-a-date with Sylvain when you’re finished right away, okay?”, she finished with her motherly intonation.

“Fine, fine! Goodbye, I have to go now!” You saw the time and it was really late.

You got dressed in a hurry and grabbed your laptop, some notebooks and a couple of pens.

By the time you arrived at the library, Sylvain was already there. He was looking around, his bag grabbed laid causally on his back, hold by the handle with his strong fist. His other hand was resting in his pocket.

While his appearance was laid back, you were a bundle of nerves. As soon as your gaze found him, you felt a knot form in your gut. You denied that the young man could have that kind of effect on you, but the evidence was overwhelming. Why did it have to be so difficult in person? It had been so easy when you didn’t have to see his face – so handsome it was unnerving. You were the opposite you had been on your telematic conversations, far from your calm, charming and charismatic charade.

He was wearing a simple long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. It was a mystery for you why he didn’t opt for a modelling career. You forcibly reminded yourself that despite his beauty, he was a Don Juan, totally uninterested in you. You chanted Claude’s words ‘see what happens, don’t implicate yourself too much’ as you approached him.

Suddenly, his tan eyes focused on you as he recognized your figure, so you composed yourself the best you could. His lovely lips displayed a soft smile.

“Hey, Sylvain”, you greeted with an affected amiability. Still, you were tense.

“Hello there, princess.” He winked at you. “It’s nice to see you outside the classroom.”

“Yes, it’s refreshing,” you nodded.

You entered the big building with Sylvain at your side. Neither of you said anything, justifying yourself in the mandatory silence of a library. Some girls giggled as you walked past them, pointing at you two. And you noticed Sylvain looked a bit annoyed. The next thing you noticed was your teacher Catherine distracting the black-haired librarian with her nonstop chatter.

You turned your head to comment something to him, but he grinned, and you forgot your words. You simpered back, and he seemed content with that.

At last, you were in the ‘working-group’ area. The library itself was almost empty – but Dorothea told you it would be filled to the brim during finals week. There were some students chatting and taking notes, but not too many since most of the would be probably going to bars, pubs, and discos. And it was right then when it hit you that Sylvain was not in some sort of date or in a quest to gain the favours of a pretty girl.

So far, you had detected two oddities in his behaviour. Texting and spending a Saturday evening in the library. And the common factor was you.

“Where should we start?”, asked Sylvain as he took a seat, startling you since you were absorbed in your thoughts. You mimicked him and made up your mind.

“Let me thing”, you said. At the same time, you took your laptop from your bag and turned it on. “Since we have to talk about the early history of Faerghus… maybe we can cover the foundation first?”, you suggested. Sylvain had a notebook and a pencil and started scribbling an outline of the project. “We’ll need… a biography of Loog. Or two. And a history book about the 8th century.” You peeked his handwriting. It was neat, with small letters. His S’s had an characteristic flourish.

“I have a good book on the Crescent Moon War, which is also a theme featured in our project”, he said, staring at his sheet. “Well... it’s Miklan’s”, Sylvain grimaced as he added that part, “but I can borrow it.”

“That’d be great.”

“Do you know what’d be great?”, he looked at you. “Watching Loog and the Maiden of Wind! I don’t know what you have against films. It would have been a perfect way to spend our Saturday.”

“Again?”, you laughed.

“It’s for research purposes. No fishy business here.” He placed the palm of his hand over his chest. “Scout’s honour.”

“If I accept will you focus on out project?”, you bit your lip.

“Yes! I promise.”

“Okay. How about we watch it once we’re finished?”

“It’s a deal.” He winked again, looking satisfied with himself. Then, he stood up. “I’ll look for the books we need. In the meantime, you can search on the Internet some good articles on the controversies of Loog’s biography.”

At the moment he vanished, you breathed deeply to calm your heart, since you could almost hear it thudding in your chest. This meeting had been more awkward than you had expected, at least on your part. You wondered if Sylvain was feeling it too, the rusty mechanism of two people who knew each other but had never held a whole conversation in real life.

And all the same… It didn’t feel bad, being next to Sylvain. It was great, even if you were on edge. If you didn’t know it was impossible, you’d describe that sensation as familiar. A déjà vu of some sort, as though you had gone over this stage with Sylvain a million of times and every time your pulse shot up.

You tried to concentrate on looking for articles. You found a couple of them that could be useful, singed under big names of the field that would increase the credibility of your work.

You were absentminded during the rest of your search, trying to figure out how to be natural in your next conversation with Sylvain. You were a little insecure, even when Sylvain seemed to be comfortable with you. Your head was full of what ifs.

“I got our books!”, Sylvain announced cheerful, interrupting your worry.

He sat again next to you. And you swore he was closer than he was before. You could feel the heat emanating from him, warming your arm. And you could hear him breathing. His scent reached you. He had used just deodorant, which along with his natural smell was intoxicating. His shoulder bumped into yours in what looked like a premeditated manner.

“We could split the work. Maybe we could work together on the main structure and the final draft, and work on the information on our own…”, you said as you tried to concentrate on the pile of history volumes rather than any matter related to Sylvain. Otherwise you’d forget how to speak.

“That seems fair.”

Sylvain made himself comfortable, resting his chin on the hand opposite to you. This way he had a perfect view of what you were writing on your computer – and your face, but you refused to believe he was that interested in you. He was invading your personal space in every way and he didn’t care.

“What do you prefer?”, you asked, all professional. You weren’t going to move away.

“I don’t mind, love,” he shrugged. “What do you prefer?”

“Sylvain, we are a team. You should give your opinion.” He remained silent and you dared to turn your head away from the screen of your laptop. He was smiling, but his eyes were half-close, as if figuring out what you were thinking. “Sylvain?”

“Ah, yes.” He blinked. “We’re a team.” He stopped, savouring the word. “I’ll take the Crescent War Moon in that case.”

He then wrote a couple of lines on his notebook. You could see he was writing down a list of ideas on bullet points. You did the same on a sheet of paper you had on you. After a couple of seconds, he talked again.

“Thanks for taking into consideration my preferences,” he placed his arm around the back of your chair.

“Why wouldn’t I?”, you questioned seriously. You were at total lost with him, so you leant in closer. You couldn’t care less, you were just playing his game. He acknowledged it, because you could see him narrowing his eyes at your movement.

“Let’s say some people is not as nice.”

You didn’t answer. What could have you said? It was not what you were expecting him to reply.

Breaking the bubble that you both had formed around you, two girls appeared out of nowhere. They were the ones you had seen before when you entered the building. Instinctively, you distanced yourself from the redhead.

“Sylvain?”, one of them started. They both were wearing fake grins.

“Do I know you?”, Sylvain asked, showing a bit of discomfort.

“Of course? We had a date in summer!”, the girl continued. She hadn’t taken the hint. “So, my friend and I were wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight, go to a bar, then you could come to our apartment, you know…”

You opened your eyes in surprise at the girl’s forwardness. And judging by Sylvain’s astonishment, he wasn’t expecting either such a direct and shameless offer. Did Sylvain have to deal with that too often? It made you feel uneasy. Of course, Ingrid would say he’d deserve it, because he had cultivated his reputation himself, but every part was so wrong. The way they talked to him as if he was a piece of meat, they way they looked at him.

“I’m afraid I must decline your offer, darling,” he talked in his most conciliatory voice.

“What? Really?”, said the other friend, huffing. “You said he’d agree.”

“Well, I’m working on a project with my friend, so… I’m quite busy.”

“I can’t believe you are rejecting us, Sylvain,” she made a disgusted face. “Anyways, your choice. Enjoy your new girlfriend, but I guess it will last like one week before you can find someone better.” Then, they turned around, looking behind a few times and gossiping.

“What the hell?”, you wondered, bewildered.

“Just my routine”, he sighed.

“We can continue another day, Sylvain”, you tested the waters. You sensed something was wrong and that he wanted to go home, and you had the feeling that he wouldn’t admit it by himself. “It’s getting late anyways.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. Let’s go” He put the piece of paper inside one of the pages of a volume he was going to take. “We can meet other day to put everything together.”

“Of course.” You started putting away your things back in your bag. Sylvain was no longer smiling.

“Can you pass me that book?”, he pointed at the red one you had on your side.

You took it and offered it to him. He extended his hand, and when he placed his fingers around it, they brushed yours. Your heart started to beat fast.

Yet before you could make sense of the occurrence, a stabbing pain stroke you. It felt like a spear had pierced through you, right below your chest. It was so real, so shocking, tears started to form on your eyes. You felt blood coming out, but when you looked for it, there was nothing there. The pain was beginning to expand, a wildfire burning your torso.

You put your palm where you felt the pain, unable to breathe. Suddenly, Sylvain realised something was wrong. You were opening your mouth to take in oxygen, but it was in vain.

“What’s happening?”, he could be shouting your name, but you couldn’t listen because the only thing you heard was a rush on your ears.

He grabbed your arm, but it only made it worse. It made all those strange phenomena more sharp and real. You whispered a faint ‘let me go’, and Sylvain moved away immediately. His steps were so fast he hit the chair and it fell down.

All of a sudden, when his skin wasn’t in contact with yours, everything subsided.

“Are you okay?”, Sylvain asked, alarmed. You hadn’t seen him that serious in all your life.

“Yes. I…”, you didn’t finish the sentence. Instead you recovered your breath slowly.

“Stop making so much noise! And don’t break the furniture!”, a kid appeared from behind one of the bookcases. His hair was dark brown, and he wielded a broom that he used to threaten. You felt a little embarrassed, so you muttered an apology before grabbing your things and almost running to the exit. Sylvain followed you closely.

“Are you okay?”, Sylvain repeated once you were on the street. As far as you could tell, he was concerned, but more than worry, his eyes displayed suspicion and curiosity.

“Yes. It’s nothing, I just had a problem breathing… maybe it was the dust”, you brushed it off.

“It might have been an anxiety attack. Some people have a lot during their first year at university”, he noted. His smile came back, reassuring. It was incredible how his demeanour could change so quickly. “What a day, huh?”, he laughed. “We should meet again soon. I had fun despite everything.”

“Despite the awkwardness too?”, you replied, both playful and too exhausted from the experience to second-guess your interactions with him.

“What do you mean? That was the best part!”

“C’mon Sylvain!” You denied with your head.

“I don’t know, okay? It just felt nice. You make good company.” He was staring off inro space, and you hoped in the most obscure part of your heart that he was being honest.

“Oh, and you realize that now?”, you teased.

“Better late than never,” your classmate added.

“I suppose.”

Step by step you started walking in the same direction. You were in silence. Each of you had much to make sense of. You weren’t paying attention to the time, until you reached a familiar crossing.

“I’m going this way”, you said as you signalled your direction.

“I’m happy we got paired up in class,” he stated. He was just as handsome as when you met him, but he had a sadder air.

“Me too. See you later, Sylvain.”

“See you.” He stood there, watching you disappear into a corner. Then, he talked to himself. “What a day…”

#sylvain x reader #sylvain jose gautier x reader #sylvain jose gautier #fire emblem three houses fanfiction #Fire Emblem Three Houses #reader insert #sylvain x female reader #Female reader #college au

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lucywiggin · 4 years

Text

Bodyguard

Chapter 1: Kang Gook hates stupid love songs

“Never again, “ Gook murmured to himself as he entered his apartment, “no more idols. I’m not doing this ever again.”

It was almost midnight, and he was just back from fifty-four days of being part of the world’s second most popular boy band (and they were very bitter about not being the first) security detail. Hye-mi suggested the gig because she thought it would be a nice change of pace, and would allow Gook to do some European site-seeing on his free time. Well, it was a change of pace, but not the kind he had in mind.

Assassins and terrorists, he could handle; but he just wasn’t acquitted to dealing with a crowd of hysterical fifteen-year-olds. All that crying and yelling when there was no real danger meddled with his instincts.

But nothing mattered now, because he was home, and he’d never have to listen to another stupid love song again. That was a privilege he never would have appreciated in full fifty-five days ago. Gook was only twenty-eight, but dealing with teenagers and their music made him feel ancient.

He put down his suitcase, yawning. He convinced himself to change into shorts and a t-shirt, then fell face-first on his bed.

Gook woke up at eight-thirty to find a message from Hye-mi.

“Min-hyun really wants to see you,” Hye-mi’s message said, “could you drop by at around ten?”. Gook doubted that Min-hyun actually said that – she was only ten months old – but he went to shower and dress.

“Look who’s here,” said Hey-mi in baby voice as she opened the door, holding Min-hyun, “it’s your uncle Gook. He’s been away for a really long time!”

“Hi,” said Gook.

“How are you?” Hye-mi asked.

“Fine,” said Gook, “it was a long, noisy tour.”

Hye-mi led him to the kitchen. “Sit down and hold her for a moment,” she ordered, “I need to get my iPad.”

Gook held Min-hyun, supporting her head the way Hye-mi taught him when Min-hyun was less than one day old. She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

Hye-mi returned. “Your new client,” she said, passing him the iPad, “Han Tae-joo.”

“No,” Gook said after one look at the photo. “Not another idol. Teenage girls are loud .”

“He’s not an idol!” Hye-mi protested. “He’s the new chairman of the TB group. Pil-hyun went to high school with him. “

“I thought you went to high school with Pil-hyun,” said Gook. “Didn’t you go to school with him, too?”

“I transferred only for the last year,” Hye-mi explained, “Han Tae-joo’s father sent him to England at about the same time, so I haven’t met him until five weeks ago.”

“Why five weeks ago?” Gook asked.

“His father suddenly died of a heart attack, and we went to the funeral. Then we mentioned him to mom, and she insisted we invite him to dinner. He’s an only son and his mother died when he was young, and you know how mom is with strays.”

Gook was a living proof of that, though he thought treating a Chaebol as a “stray” was pushing the definition of the word.

Hye-mi went on, “he was here for dinner twice, and she likes him. She told him he should hire you, and he told her he’d think of that. I guess he did, because he called me four days ago and asked to hire you. We already negotiated your terms.”

Gook knew he was doomed. Between Hye-mi and Ms. Jung, he was stuck with the Han Tae-joo gig until told otherwise.

Still, he wasn’t giving up without a fight. “Do you really want me to take the job because he was friends with Pil-hyun in high school? That was ten years ago.”

Hye-mi laughed, “Oh, they weren’t friends. Tae-joo stole three of his girlfriends in a row.”

“He sounds like a brat,” said Gook.

“Pil-hyun says he was,” said Hye-mi, “but so was Pil-hyun, and look at him now. Pil-hyun actually thanked him: he said that if he wasn’t single at the right time he would have never asked me out. In a way, we owe him a favor. “

“Because he stole Pil-hyun’s girlfriends,” said Gook. He hoped Hye-mi would see how absurd that was.

“I’m calling you a taxi,” said Hye-mi, who obviously couldn’t see the absurdity. “You’re meeting him in an hour. I sent everything you need to know about him to your email.”

Gook accepted his fate. “Okay,” he said. “Fine, I’ll meet with him.” Even though he was feeling less than cheerful, he smiled again at Min-hyun before handing her back to her mother, because it wasn’t the baby’s fault that her mother and grandmother scared him into submission.

“Dinner is at seven, don’t forget!” Hye-mi called after him, “mom really missed you. We all did.”

“I won’t forget,” Gook promised before he closed the door.

Chapter 2: A very un-Chaebol Chaebol

In the taxi, Gook reviewed everything Hye-mi sent him about Han Tae-joo. They were both twenty-eight, but that was where the resemblance ended. Han was the sole heir of the TB group, a less than ethical (though no suspicion was ever confirmed) conglomerate. He graduated from Oxford University’s Merton College with a first in Economics, then moved to the US, where he completed an MBA in Berkeley. After graduation, he worked at a Sillicon Valley start-up – not the TB’s group American branch, Gook noted – until five weeks ago, when his father passed away because of a heart attack. There were also pictures of him with nine different girls overall, usually at charity events – Han was somewhat of a playboy. Gook was not disappointed, or so he told himself. Most men were attracted to women; why would Han be any different?

Han Tae-joo looked even better in person than in his photos, which Gook definitely did not care about, thank you very much. He was also the most un-Chaebol Chaebol that Gook had ever met. For one thing, he didn’t remain seated behind his desk and waited for Gook to bow to him respectfully, but was out of his chair the moment his secretary let Gook into the room, crossing the space between them to shake Gook’s hand enthusiastically. For another thing, he smiled at Gook. Gook had met more than his fair share of Chaebols – they were abundant in his line of work – but they rarely bothered looking at him, let along shake his hand or give him a smile bright enough to light a room.

“Kang Gook,” said Han, “I’m Han Tae-joo,” not Chairman Han, Gook noted. “I’ve been looking forward to meet you.”

Even if Hye-mi’s notes didn’t include Han’s long stay abroad, Gook could have guessed from his behavior that he spent a fair amount of time out of Korea. One had to admit, Gook thought, that Han’s attitude was refreshing.

“Chairman Han,” said Gook respectfully, bowing slightly. Just because Han broke protocol didn’t mean Gook was allowed to do the same.

“Please,” Han gestured at one of the visitors’ chairs in front of his desk, “take a seat.” He waited until Gook sat, then went back to sit behind his desk.

“You know,” Han said, “at first I looked into your resume only out of respect to Ms. Jung. She insisted that you were just the person I needed as my chief bodyguard. However, after the results of your background check returned, I realized she was right on the mark. If I want to survive in this position, I need you to have my back.”

“And you got all of that from a background check?” Gook asked before he could stop himself. There was something about Han that tempted him to throw caution to the wind, and that made Han dangerous. Gook was a professional, and he wanted to leave the gig with his reputation intact.

“I got all of that from your background check plus Ms. Jung, Hye-mi and even Pil-hyun’s recommendations,” Han replied. “According to all your past employers but one – we’ll get to him in a moment - you never use force unless you have to, which means you have a strong moral code. You’re discreet, well-mannered, and my favorite thing about you: you have superpowers.”

shitshitshit

“Superpowers?” Gook asked carefully, putting on his best poker face. “Chairman Han, have you been watching too many Marvel movies?” And that was downright rude, but Gook was caught off-guard. Hey-mi knew about the telekinesis, but he would bet his life she didn’t tell Han. But who did?

Han didn’t look one bit disturbed by Gook’s rudeness.

“Telekinesis and mind control, to be precise,” he said.

doubleshit.

“You’re careful, which I like. According to my sources, you have used your powers on others…” Han paused and made a show of picking up some papers and consulting his notes, though Gook was sure he memorized every incident, “a grand total of eight times, out of which only two included mind control. The first of those was when you ordered that rapist to turn himself in and confess – which he did. “

That was almost seven years ago. It was Gook’s second gig, and he noticed his own client pouring something into a girl’s drink at a club. After that, Hye-mi took over vetting his clients before he accepted a position.

“How do you know I had anything to do with that?” Gook asked, his voice neutral. “Perhaps he had a sudden attack of conscience.”

Han snorted. “Sure he had; of your conscience. He doesn’t have one. About three days later he denied everything he confessed to. Fortunately, he handed the police enough evidence before that sudden change of heart. Then there was the assassin who tried to murder your client, who was also very talkative for almost three days, then again had that mysterious change of heart.”

The incident with the assassin was three and a half years after, and Gook really should have known that commanding him to spill everything to the police would put him at risk.

“I’m guessing the effect of your commands lasts a little less than three days.” Han didn’t wait for Gook’s response. “There were also six incidents of you using your telekinesis. The last time, according to my very reliable sources, was three weeks ago, when you saved a fourteen-year-old girl from being crushed to death by over-enthusiastic fans of that boy band.” Han finished.

Dammit, thought Gook. He thought he was discreet on that one. How did anyone notice, in the middle of that mass of screaming kids?

“I must say I’m disappointed – I expected a kitten saved from a tree somewhere on the list.”

Gook did not appreciate being mocked. “Get to the point,” he said. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“No!” Han seemed surprised, as if the possibility never crossed his mind. “I’m saying that I know what kind of man you are, and that I want you on my team. I don’t want a thug,” Han said, turning dead serious, “those are dime a dozen. I’m hiring you because you’re just the opposite. Look, I know that if I do anything illegal with you around, I will find myself at the police station, confessing my crimes, and I still want to hire you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It tells me you put a lot of trust in me for no good reason.”

Han put his elbows on the desk, leaning closer to Gook. “I have a very good reason,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been out of this country for ten years. I know very few people and I trust no one. But to succeed in this position, I must be able to trust someone.”

“And you decided on me?” Asked Gook.

“You are, by far, the best candidate. Accept the position, please.”

Gook never thought he would hear a Chaebol use that word, especially not in such a pleading tone. Either Han was the world’s best actor, or his need - desperation, even - to hire Gook was genuine.

“Okay,” said Gook. “But anything illegal, and you’ll be confessing on YouTube.” That felt strange, acknowledging the power he did his best to forget about. He never shared that secret with anyone, not even Hye-mi.

Han didn’t seem concerned, quite the opposite: he beamed at Gook, holding out his hand for another shake. Gook took it.

“Deal,” said Han.

“Deal,” Gook repeated. “I’ll start tomorrow,” he said, “I’m going to need your address and daily schedule.”

“Don’t you want to know how much I’ll be paying you?” Asked Han.

Gook shook his head. “Hye-mi already negotiated with you,” he said, “she knows what she’s doing.”

“She does,” Han agreed. “Smart lady. Scary, too.”

Gook couldn’t help himself: he chuckled. So did Han.

The story is complete! and you can find the next chapters in AO3. (13824 words overall).

#han tae joo #where your eyes linger #kang gook #alternative universe #different first meeting #homophobia #mind control #telekinesis #Choi Hye-mi #Kim Pil-hyun

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susanoosama01 · 4 years

Text

Midam Headcanons part 2

After they get out of the cage, Michael is pretty weak for some time. Adam is also wounded and unstable so they drag themselves to a motel and stay there healing for a few weeks without letting anyone else close to them. They don't even draw the closed curtains to let sunlight in. After two days, Adam wants to take a shower and eat. Since Michael's grace isn't recharged yet, he lets Adam control his body and silently observes the human. Adam makes sure to use lots of hot water and eat everything he likes half because he missed those trivial things and half to show Michael there are nice things about being human.

When they finally step outside, they find a flat immediately. Adam gets a job in the nearby cafe with a little of Michael's help faking all his documents. Michael doesn't understand the necessity of getting a job. He can materialise money after all. But Adam doesn't want to accept money he did not earn. Also he needs distraction. He needs somewhere to start if he's ever getting his life back. Michael doesn't get it for a long time but doesn't oppose the teen, instead simply observing.

'Why do you want to become a servant to get some paper? I can create it for you.' 'Michael I am not a servant. It is called working. And you can't just create money, that's not how life works.' 'At least let me create one of these buildings for you. You can hire other servants to work for you and earn your money.' 'Michael no.'

Adam tells Michael about every small thing he wants to know. 'Why do we have to change clothes so often?' 'Why does everyone stare at those screen things all the time?' 'Why can't you go grab food when you're hungry? Why do we pay for everything? God didn't create you like this.' 'Why does this man in the box pretend to be Lucifer? Lucifer doesn’t live in the City Of Angels anymore. He also couldn't care less about humans or their crimes. What is a nightclub? Why do you watch this ridiculous man?'

When Michael gets his own vessel he fakes his own documents with Adam's help. When Adam sees the fake ID he is frozen where he stands for a few seconds. He asks Michael why he did something like that when they had already chosen his fake name along with his fake parents' and his age. Michael just shrugs and tells Adam that 'Michael Milligan' sounds better than anything else and is more familiar.

Michael Milligan is 25 and he never went to college as he lost his parents at a car accident a few years ago. He works at the cafe with Adam.

When they fight it usually turns into a small battle. Michael wrongly pairs all Adam's socks and makes him search for a pair for ten minutes. Adam just wears some of Michael's and claims everything he wears once as his own. Michael starts stealing Adam's t-shirts and hoodies as counter.

Once Adam got really pissed and tried to eBay Michael for 50$. He wrote Michael's number there and watched with glee as Michael received numerous spam calls for the 'Archangel for Sale' for two whole days before he took pity on Michael.

They marathon Disney movies and other things about angels. Michael's favorite so far is Frozen. He likes Elsa because she reminds him of Lucifer. He also likes Good Omens.

Once when he was still not fully recovered from the Cage, Michael had some kind of angel fever. It was nothing serious or dangerous. Michael was just cute and grumpy for five days. Adam made sure to get as many photos of him sleeping on the couch with his Elsa blanket Adam got him as a joke as he can manage and fed him everything he likes.

Michael once lost Adam in the grocery store and couldn't find him because of the enochian seals in his ribs. He just went to a cash register and sat there for ten minutes sulking. In the end the cashier made an announcement for Adam Milligan whose kid was waiting there. Adam came runnig and laughing. They got him a phone of his own after that incident.

'You have reached the voicemail of-' 'What do you need my name for? Is this another strange human custom?' 'The person you have called can not be reached at the moment. Please try again later.' 'Who are you woman? Why do you have Adam's phone?'

Adam makes Michael listen to Christian Rock. Like Skillet or Flyleaf. Michael sings All Around Me for weeks.

They eventually go to Kate and Adam's house. Adam gets the place back but can't bring himself to move back in there. He rents it to a single mom with a baby girl for half its worth.

Adam studies through the nights on final week. Michael just sits on the fluffy carpet and quietly flips through the books Adam puts down. He sometimes helps Adam as he is perfect at algebra and organic chemistry. After Lucifer moves in, he helps most of the time instead of Michael because he is a better tutor according to Adam and he really wants to do something for the teen.

After Lucifer first came to their house, he tried to spoil Adam by snapping five star restaurant dinners and luxury hot tubs into the flat. Just like he told Michael, he tells Lucifer that he doesn’t need to constantly give or be perfect to earn love. In fact, love isn't earned. It just doesn't work like that. Like he guessed, Kate Milligan's exact words get to him too.

They play card and video games together. In the first week after Lucifer arrives, Adam suggests a game night for the brothers to spend time. They make snacks and sit down. Turns out Lucifer doesn't know poker. Even Michael learned it from the TV and internet. The two of them spend the night teaching Lucifer the game.

Adam asks when Lucifer was born. The younger archangel doesn't know his birthday. So Adam asks Michael and tells him to calculate exact date on the human calender. That year Lucifer gets his very first birthday party. Adam and Michael bake a big cake together and invite their friends. Gabriel and Raphael appear two. While the youngest of the four is familiar with the concept and immediately starts stuffing his face with cake, Raphael doesn't understand much. Sam isn't really too comfortable around Lucifer but still comes anyway. Dean grumbles something about how he wouldn't have believed it if he had been told that he would celebrate the Devil's birthday back at the Apocalypse. Castiel is almost as clueless as Raphael. Somehow they all survive the night without any incidents. Except Adam and Michael who got Lucifer a camera, no one remembers bringing gifts. It doesn't matter though. For the first time ever, someone told Lucifer that his existence is something to be celebrated and Michael is the happiest Adam has ever seen him as he hugs his brother. Adam discreetly snaps a photo in Lucifer's new camera of them laughing with arms around each other and Michael ruffling Lucifer's hair.

Michael's birthday is the same as Adam's. Theirs is after Lucifer's so the party is even better this time around. Even Raphael who doesn't like Adam very much softens when Adam pulls him in for a hug instead of the offered handshake because Michael joins and it is the first time that Raphael is emraced by his older brother. The four archangels tell their funniest stories all night. Like how Lucifer accidentally seperated the continents while secretly playing with Michael's sword or how a toddler Gabriel broke into God's work room once and created the most absurd animals while playing there. In the end, Michael too used to sleeping after months of living with Adam dozes of and all three of his brothers snuggle against him eventhough Raphael is a little hesitant at first. They make another perfect picture for Adams album.

Michael and Adam get a car after a year and a half of living together. Teaching Michael to drive is hard. The archangel just zaps the whole vehicle when they are stuck in traffic. He has no patience for that when he can just fly.

The neighbour's teen daughter has a crush on Michael. The girl hits on him a few times. Adam makes fun of Michael who is pretty oblivious for days once he notices. Jokingly he tells Michael that maybe he could get her something for Valentine's and ask her out. Michael asks about the specific holiday in all seriousty. Adam wakes to find Lucifer and Michael trying to make chocolate and arguing in whispers at 5 a.m. on the day. He just goes back to bed and pretends to not see them. The chocolate tastes awful. But Adam still smiles and thanks Michael because it's too cute how Lucifer ushers him into the living room and gives his brother a thumbs up when Michael wants to just change his mind. His gift for Michael is a little different. He gives him the photo album he handmade and tells Michael that he cherishes all their moments together.

They adopt a kitten. At first Michael doesn't want an animal in the house. One mere week later though Adam finds him sleeping with the small thing sprawled over Michael's chest. The little ball of fur ironically named Michelle by his previous owner never stops following Michael around after that.

Lucifer and Michael constantly go back between Heaven and Earth after some time. Just helping rebuild their childhood home. They take Adam to Kate's heaven. When the teen sees how peaceful and happy the place is, he also feels better. Kate's spirit has heard Michael's prayer back at her grave and she gives them her blessing.

They don't have a ceremony. They just change their documentation again and have a small celebration much like the birthdays with wedding cake and drinks. Sam and Dean give Michael the 'you break his heart, we break your face' talk. Raphael asks if he can make a speech and Lucifer carries their rings, turning the moment into some kind of ceremony anyway.

Michael introduces Adam as his mate to all other angels. The Heaven celebrates too. All the angels Adam and Michael helped have befriended the human after all.

Lucifer permanently moves to Heaven. Adam and Michael finally move into the Milligan house after their tennant finds a new job and moves to the other side of the city. With the new photos, Michael's Elsa blanket draped over the couch which ,Gabriel makes fun of non stop, the other archangels' leftover stuff the house becomes a home again.

Part 1

#Spn #Supernatural #Midam #michael x adam #Lucifer #Gabriel #Raphael #dean winchester #Castiel #Sam Winchester #adam milligan

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sugaxjpg · 5 years

Text

02 | blank check; m

⤷ “Let me get this right, okay? You threw my name in as your fake girlfriend because you needed to prove yourself to your empty-headed friends, and now you need to fix it. Still,” you paused, raising your eyebrows, “your way of fixing is not to disclose it as a lie, but to cover it up with an even bigger and riskier one. Is that correct?”

⤷ PART 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |Co-written with @pantaemonium

✓ Couple: Jungkook x Reader | Fuckboy!AU & FakeDating!AU

✓ Filed under: smut, tragic comebacks

✓ Words: 8,048

Author’s Note: Hello, everyone! Before anything else, Laura and I would like to thank you all for the overwhelming support we’ve received for part one. We are beyond thrilled that you guys are liking this series as much as we are!! Without further ado, let’s get down to business (to defend the huns).

“There is no way in hell I’m wearing this, you hear me?” you screamed against the phone for the third time in less than ten seconds. A high-pitched ding indicated the audio had been sent, and that was your signal to toss the device aside. Jungkook would not listen to it, like he had not listened to the other ten voice messages you had blessed his chatroom with.

The last message you had received from him had been short and dry, more of a user’s guide than a text. It exhibited his advanced SAT vocabulary and his outstanding talent to be concise. Lambda Kappa Pi. 11pm. Say you’re my girl and they’ll get you in. Good luck with the dress.

My girl, as if there was a dimension out of the multiverse you had been thrown into in which you would say such nonsense. My girl, your brain echoed, this time in his voice, that you imagined would be hoarse and whiny during sex. No, no, that was not an image you wanted in your mind.

“Hey, I’m Jungkook’s girl,” you spoke as you imagined yourself babbling at the entrance of the frat house, clad in that skin-tight little red dress. Imagination is a very powerful weapon to use against oneself, and it immediately transfigured you into a Legally Blonde character, one of the sweethearts from Delta Nu but with no rich daddy, no fake tanning, and no equilibrium to stand over the sky-challenging high-heels he had sent along with the dress.

You’d look far more like a clown that had just ran away from the circus, that’s for sure.

You clenched your jaw at the absurdity of that idea, ignoring the butterflies that begun dancing in your stomach. His girl. Stupid ass. You would never do something like th—

—Ding!

In a reflex, you practically threw yourself on your bed to reach for your phone, chest bubbling up with the ridiculous excuses that he could have sent back to you. Instead, however, what you were met with was a simple series of condescending texts:

Jungkook’s only neuron said: u’ll look great bby

Jungkook’s only neuron said: im getting heated just thinkin of u in that ;)

You said: You prick

You said: That dress doesn’t even cover my ass properly

Jungkook’s only neuron said: that was what i was hopin for

You groaned out loud as your eyes read his message, mind working faster than the quick progression of your thumbs against the screen — you better be ready for me to ruin you with the favor I have stored up, then, you texted back.

Jungkook’s response arrived all too soon. There was no physical time to toss the phone back onto the bed, to try the diminutive piece of clothing on and see if there was a way your boobs could survive without suffocating. As the notification blared through the speaker, you imagined him, expecting your reply by the phone, biting his nails. In your imagination, he was nervous, at least a bit; but Jungkook and his cohorts did not know nervousness, at least not when confronted to tests of women. They followed all those ludicrous bro-code-or-whatever-they-called-it rules; and making girls wait for their replies was in the book.

“Ruin or be ruined, that’s the world we live in,” you read out loud, trying to find in between the words Jungkook’s personal trademark. Unexpectedly, there was no baby. No typos. No superfluous exhibition of his very pompous personality. Had he asked for help? Perhaps Namjoon, the only one in the frat house with a functional brain. Maybe Yoongi, but it sounded way too contained to his taste.

“Quote your sources next time,” you typed rapidly, grinning all the way. “See you later, bby.”

Now Jungkook’s Only Neuron could type and ruminate over your odd response all he wanted. There would be no more texts until the party — except perhaps a picture or two of you in that dress, blurry and terribly illuminated. The ire of the gods would fall upon him when he tried to zoom in into your boobs only to find pixels. A taste of his own medicine, that was what you called this cruel stratagem.

Now, there were only a limited number of things which could count as social humiliation for you. As mentioned aforetime, failing a ridiculously easy class or exposing your underwear were near the top of the list, alongside some awfully personal experiences, but you never thought there would be something to top all your expectations. Turns out that 90’s movies make a so called “makeover” to be something great and empowering when, in reality, it had to be the spiritual equivalent of intestinal cramps in the middle of a road trip. And yes, you had been through that. No further comment.

Maybe the movie director of your life was sadistic. Maybe that experience was karma for ruining poor Jungkook’s mental health earlier that day. Whatever it was, it was the new number one on your list of social humiliation. You could not claim you hadn’t gotten anything out of that night — but experiences make you grow, right?

You knew you had fucked up the second you walked up to the fraternity house — that stupidly large, greek-like mansion that pulsated under the progression of the awfully loud music — and saw a pair of underwear on the grass, lost amidst a sea of bottles and beer cans. And then a bra. And then an used cond— Jesus Christ! Were those kids acting out Animal Planet? There were limits. There had to be. Goodbye to your long lost purity.

To top it all off, it was cold. Not nice, chilly cold, but winter-is-here kind of Game of Thrones bullshit. The wind was like cold daggers against your skin, piercing your naked legs as you moved closer to the entrance door, benumbing your senses to the fullest extent. Whatever it was that you had in store for Jungkook, it had to be equally torturous to that walk of shame — the night had not even started, and you were already constructing an escape plan.

“Hey,” you said as you stopped in front of two athletes, crossing your arms before your figure — thank God for your common sense, since the leather jacket you wore both covered your insanely tight boobs and gave you a bit of heat. You wouldn’t have started a conversation with them if not absolutely necessary and, in that case, they were blocking the passage. “Excuse me, please.”

One of them turned to you with arched eyebrows, looking you up and down, “You seem familiar,” he mumbled, infecting the atmosphere with a terrible scent of alcohol. To be fair, you thought you knew him too, but did not want to get into friendly terms with any of them. “Whatcha’ doing here?”

Hell, here goes nothing, “Jungkook called me here.”

“Jungkook, who?” The other one — the travel-sized counterpart — laughed, hitting his friend’s shoulder in his drunken haze. “We know no Jungkook.”

They were still blocking the entrance, and you were not in the mood to commence an arrogant dissertation on why they did know the Jungkook you were referring to, and why was their ruse so evident. Shivering inside the leather jacket, you tried to find a way around the words he wanted so desperately to hear. “I am his friend,” you said.

The smaller of the two scoffed. “Jungkook has no friends.”

“I thought you knew no Jungkook,” you smirked, devilishly, but the brainless pair would not subside in their efforts to rip a confession out of your — literal — cold body. “For fucks sake. I am his girl. Jungkook’s. The one that gets to fuck him every night while you two try to resist the homoerotic dynamics you have seen yourselves trapped into. Now let me in, Tweedledee.”

“A straight-up bitch. Hot.” They murmured as you made your way into the hall. Inside, a myriad of bodies crammed the room, pressed against one another. Girls in short dresses and stressed boys trying to get their attention roamed around, red cup in hand. Their scent was sweetly rancid, a mixture of alcohol, sweat and pheromones you would not be able to stand for long without a drink in your hand.

No. Wait. Probably wouldn’t be the wisest of ideas to be intoxicated while pretending to be someone else’s girlfriend for the night. You got awfully sincere when you had alcohol, and the last thing you needed was to ruin your saved favor, especially after going through all the trouble you did. Next step would not be to drink away your disgust, as compelling as that seemed to be, but to find out your pathetically inadequate fake boyfriend.

Taking a deep breath, you skirted the overabundance of bodies as you made your way past the main living room, finding solace in a somewhat calm corner of the ambient. You leaned your back against the asperous wall, taking your phone out of your purse. Numb, your thumbs cried under the effort of unlocking the device and moving to his contact — that arrogant smile on that nauseatingly perfect display picture — to type your impatient messages:

You said: Hey, loser

You said: I’m here already

You said: Where can I find you?

You waited for a few seconds to see if he would get online, but nothing appeared on your screen. For a moment your mind wandered towards the possibility of it all being a prank, after all: to get you, a serious and stuff girl, in that outrageously small piece of red fabric would be a huge joke on itself, even more if he managed to show it off to his friends. If that was the case, you would transfer colleges. Not to be overdramatic or anything.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I told you to wear a jacket, baby girl.”

The second you raised your gaze, you came to regret your reckless decision — not in the cutesy, hesitant manner you were feeling aforetime, but in the this-was-a-horrible-idea-and-my-life-is-over type of shit. Not because you were in any sort of danger, but because you accepted the fact that you had absolutely no way to control yourself near the sheer sexual temptation that was Jeon Jungkook. Not like that.

In all his glory, the idiot looked the best he ever did. With his black hair slightly disheveled, parted almost in the middle, and eyes gleaming under the neon lights of the frat house, he looked like he had just stepped out of a photoshoot for Men’s Health. His team’s jacket — blue and white, with the symbol of your college — had its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms; unbuttoned so it presented you with the v-cut shirt he wore underneath, grey. You could see the outlines of his fucking abs with that crap. Muscle pig. It was absurd. He should take it off.

And of course, there were those fucking thighs. But you would not allow your gaze to fall under his waistline just yet. Yet.

A hum from his part interrupted your momentaneous fall into inferno, making you realize how quickly your heart started to beat. “You’re lucky you’re hot as fuck,” Jungkook acknowledged, his own eyes falling to your form, eyebrows slightly arched. “I always knew I had good taste for girlfriends.”

The silence between you was bubbling with an unspoken tension. Sexual, Cosmopolitan would have defined it as purely sexual. "Ten Easy Tips to Know if your Crush Wants you Too," or something of the sort would had been plastered all over the cover, where a barely-legal model would have judged you with doe-like eyes.

Jungkook's roseate tongue came out to wet his lips, to fill the void words had left behind with a heavy sigh. You wondered what those lips tasted like. Had you been asked to guess, you would have said cherry, or strawberry — although you were certain he had been drinking beer or, worse, cheap tequila shots.

The faux courage that had been motioning your body forward ever since you abandoned the dorms was now slipping in between your fingers as you reached for the hem of his jacket. "You look—" you started, but your mind went blank in a maelstrom of adjectives, amongst which you found barely no insults.

"—smoking hot?" Jungkook ventured. He was not mistaken, but still you scoffed. It the quintessence of your being, the endless sarcasm; you could not just abandon the truth of your nature for a boyfriend. A fake one, to top it all.

"I was going to say stereotyped, but hot also fits. I guess," index pressed against his chest, you leaned forward reducing the space between your bodies to naught. Air escaped in between his teeth when your lips caressed his ear with your murmurations. "What now, baby?" you mumbled, oblivious to his fingers as they traveled up your arm in a tender caress.

"Honestly?" the impish gleam of his eyes was a bad omen or, at least, the indication that you were not prepared in the slightest for what was to come. "I want to kiss the hell out of you, but not here."

For a second, you allowed yourself to forget that it was all an act. Without a second thought, you found yourself biting your lower lip in sheer desire. Lucky you, the boy would most likely think that was part of the fake love, and not your raging hormones coming out to say hello. “I would very much like that, yes,” you purred out against his skin, pressing your chest against his own. His heart was beating fast, but yours was no different. “Where to?”

Jungkook seemed to take a second to calm his nerves, clearing his mind from the impulses that flashed within his needs — if he were to be sincere, you two could forget that plan and just have a private place for yourselves, but there was a protocol to follow, his reputation at stake. “Couch,” that word came out in a serpentine whisper, muffled as if had been verbalized miles underneath the sea. Against your waist, his palm held your skin in an almost protective manner — yet, both of you were holding back now.

You hummed in agreement. His scent was intoxicating you, the heat of his body was monopolizing your most logical of conceptualizations. “Take me whenever you need me,” you agreed as one of your hands slid down his chest — jesus, those fucking abs — and towards his own hand. You intertwined his fingers in his, loving that position a bit more than you probably should. “Should we?”

If he had said something in return, you did not hear it. Before you could control yourself any further, the boy was already guiding you past the chaotic ocean of exhilarated bodies, holding down to your hand as if it was his own version of salvation. Jungkook was lucky he was hot — very fucking hot, at that — otherwise you would have cracked another joke or two about how eager he appeared to be. Still, you were certain it would backfire.

“I see you want to put up a show,” was what you said instead, accompanying his harsh movements as the two of you arrived upon the center of the room — the heart of the party, if you could say that. From your peripheral vision, you could see splashes of blue and white moving around, signaling that more of his teammates were around. Classic show off. “Want everyone watching.”

“You have no clue, babe.” Jungkook turned around just in time so he could see the glimpses of lust coruscating inside your eyes. Bedroom eyes. Cute. “I want that jacket off.”

“No deal,” you told him promptly. With a groan, the boy threw himself on a beige couch nearby, sitting somewhat close to where another two jocks conversed vigorously, waving their red cups in the air like they were not half full. It was only a matter of seconds before they saw the two of you — more precisely you — and his pretty spectacle would finally begin. “Why do you want to expose your girlfriend like this?”

It was no problem. He could take it off himself.

As a response, Jungkook simply placed his hands on his thighs, signaling you that it would be your seat for the night — seems like you would be sitting in his lap, after all. “Come here, baby,” he requested. Okay, you would be lying through your teeth if you said that the place did not appear to be as inviting as possible. “Let me have a taste of you.”

To hell with it. If you were going to act it out, you might as well put up a show, and calm down your raging hormones as you did so.

And fuck, there were some things that 90s movies could never prepare you for. There was no scene, no soundtrack, no music video able to distract you from how firm his legs were as you sat down on top of them, dress slightly moving up your thighs. There was no director, no storyline that could guide your hands around his neck as you tilted your head and closed your eyes, falling to the absolute misery that was Jeon Jungkook. There was nothing in the entire world that could have made you pull away.

What a terrible fucking idea.

Jungkook groaned as soon as your lips met, quick to set the pace as a quick, needy, sloppy kiss. His hands, before so vacillating, now had traveled to your ass, where he squeezed your flesh, making you press down your hips against his, not letting it go for a second. You melted against his kiss, allowing yourself to sigh and moan against his mouth as his tongue encountered yours. Lacking places to hold onto, your hands moved to his cheeks, then to his hair, intertwining in his black locks and pulling on them.

Okay, there were things you regretted. You thought there was nothing capable of topping the preposterous plan of pretending to be Jungkook’s girlfriend, but that was because you had not reached that point of the night just yet. Because you had still not pulled away just enough so you could speak, caressing his lips with your own, speaking in a voice so filled with lust that you were surprised yourself. “Is that all you can do, kiddo?” you provoked him. “Come on, Jeon, is this how you treat your girl?”

He smirked. “Believe me, princess, there’s nothing I’d love more than treat you the way you deserve. Anything for you. But, you see, the audience is waiting and, as much as I would love to fuck you raw in this couch, I’d rather give the show I promised, and then renegotiate the initial clauses of our little contract,” then, a small pause, “if you are interested, of course.”

The boy was an idiot, or so you had thought: Jeon Jungkook, the dumbass that lets his dick make every essential decision, and doesn’t grasp even half of the references you throw at him. Apparently, that was not the case, and his intelligence was extensive only when he had to protect his pride and bring to term an important business. In other words, he wasn’t dumb, he wa just a selfish little prick.

Fingers sauntering up your thigh, Jungkook murmured in-between delicate kisses, and it made it impossible for you to deliver a witty remark. Every few words he would stop to taste your flesh with the tip of his tongue, and then nip it with his teeth. Lost in the feverish reverie of his tender caresses, you abandoned yourself to the feel of his kisses as his lips marked the path towards your jaw, your cheek. With a sigh falling from your swollen lips, you hoped to express the thirst he had incited, but he merely watched your reaction, diverted. Motherfucker. He knew what he was doing.

“For now,” he said against your ear, marking each word with a tap of his finger against your thigh. “This will have to do.” His thumb slid past the hem of your skirt and fuck, how you wished he were to continue his journey towards your underwear. There had been no specifications about that matter, but you had added your distinctive touch to the outfit. Jungkook did not know yet, but he would have loved to take that off you.

“I really think you can step up your game, Jungkook.” You looked around, biting your lips. None of the players around you were particularly interested in your little affair. Short skirts and exhibitionism were the daily bread of all those jocks. Luckily, that night no one had pulled out their dicks to measure them or start a peeing contest. Perhaps later in the night, when alcohol run freely through their bloodstream, eliminating their inhibition — or what was left of it, anyways. “This show of yours will impress no one.”

As if motioned by the fuel of a good challenge, Jungkook pounced over your lips. His touch was no longer delicate, contained, or meticulous, as it was before. Earlier, all he had wanted was to create a beautiful painting in which you, a girl that would have never had any interest for the jock in the class, was head over heels for him. He cared not about his audience, not anymore, as he could not bring himself to think of the friends he was supposed to impress. His only and most primal desire was to prove himself, to erase the disdainful sneer tainting those lips that were like nectar against his tongue.

You threw yourself off his lap and leaned your back against the arm of the sofa, being trapped between it and his large figure. In the impetus of his sudden adoration, you lost your hold on reality and allowed for him to overtake you, pressing his chest against your own. Jungkook’s hand in the small of your back cushioned your descents to the inferno of his hips pressed against yours, hands exploring your waist, and the curve of your breasts over the tight dress.

It was getting more and more difficult to come to your senses when all you could feel were his palms against your breasts, only to go down to your ass a second later. Your dress was being pulled upwards, your heart overtaken by the intoxicated by rhythm of the song as one of his legs moved in between yours, pressing down on your core — gradually at first, but then strong enough for you to moan loudly against his mouth. This kid was playing with fire. You loved it.

You were out of breath and out of mind when a voice called from the outside world, that universe of flashing comets and red asters circulating around your sweltering bodies. “Hey kid! Jungkook!” the unknown timbre insisted further and, before you could recognize it, Jungkook had pushed himself away from you to smile at a stranger. Whoever it was, you wanted him killed for interrupting your search for nirvana. “You know we have rooms for that kind of unholy shit. Leave all the exhibitionism for Jimin, he loves it.”

With a smirk, his victory became plastered across his douchebag face, “I got carried away, sorry,” Jungkook explained, lips shining with the remnants of your gloss. His hand was still against your waist, but he showed no shame when he winked in your direction, purposefully following your eyes as they grew darker — he was loving it. “Tastes like heaven, y’know?”

The other guy, whose name you could not quite recall, simply rolled his eyes at the out-of-character sentence, “Whatever you say, dude,” he mumbled underneath the music, unaffected by show you two had put up. Instead, his gaze seemed to be a bit lost in the remanent liquid that dwelled on the bottom of his red cup — poor kid was completely wasted. “Uh, by the way, before I forget. Namjoon has been looking for you for like two hours or whatever. He says, and I quote, that he wants to see it or he won’t believe it.”

Jungkook’s smile grew by a few millimeters, finding in that sentence the opportunity he needed. He didn’t need half of your GPA to understand what his friend was referring to, “Yeah, sure thing, man,” he answered. You were amazed how casually he was acting for someone who still had one hand holding tightly to your ass, but you could not claim you did not like it. In fact, he could strip you naked for all you cared, fake boyfriend or not. “Where is he, by the way?”

Chewing on his words for a second, the guy paused. His chocolate-colored eyes got lost in the horizon and, at last, you came to understand that he must have consumed something other than alcohol — hey, no judgement, you were not precisely the morally superior person in that conversation. “He was at the game room with the dudes. I don’t know if they’re still there.”

“Perfect,” Jungkook exclaimed, his palm squeezing your ass once again. Only then did you notice that, in the meantime, his shirt had rolled up a bit. Now you totally could see those abs you have always dreamt about and, good lord, they were even better than what you imagined. If you were not acting then, you would have cursed out his unnamed friend for interrupting that slack of paradise — but hell, the ghostly sensation of his lips on yours still got the best of you. Fucking prick. He was too powerful. “Thanks, Tae. You didn’t see anything.”

Tae… Taehyung. Oh, now you remembered. The kid who got high and ate pizza from the bottom of the pool in freshman year. Disgusting and slightly worrisome. You thought some memories could be left forgotten.

Taehyung suspired. “I did, though,” only then did his gaze navigate back to you, lingering on your face for a couple more seconds than necessary. You didn’t know if it were the drugs acting up, or if he was examining your artificially naive expression. “Hot choice of panties, by the way. Your ass looks great in lacy black. Cheers to that.”

“You have really good taste, buddy.” With a radiant smile, you agreed. Past the blur of weed and alcohol, Taehyung replicated the gesture, and raised his red cup in a giddy toast. Whether he was lauding the glorious roundness of your ass, or the intricate beauty of your one and only pair of expensive panties, you did not care. There was no use for shame within those walls, especially when your ass was indeed hot confined within the soft lace. “Imaginary cheers to that.”

It was a moment of amicable comradery, even though Taehyung was one shot away from becoming the buffon of the party. Around your waist, Jungkook’s fingers tightened but, before you could turn around to face his predictable displeasure, the moment ended, and you were presented with a luciferous smile.

“Noted. Thank you dude, see you around.” Jungkook screamed over the loud bass of a terrible remix of a very popular song you wished was shorter. The constant chit-chat developing around did not help communicate but, luckily, you were not required to hold a challenging conversation that night. With a peck in the lips and a light squeeze of your ass, Jungkook prompted you to move. It was strangely loving — for a jock, at least.

Once anew, he guided you through the crowd, a hand in your waist and the other buried deep in one of the pockets of his jacket. The picture was magazine-worthy. One of those blurry shots, taken with a Polaroid, that could had made it into the cover of an Indie album — even if Jungkook could have starred in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, jacket and all.

“Where is that fucking game room?” The question felt extremely bitter against your tongue when you had to wipe someone else’s sweat off your arm. The party was heating up, and not in the good way. “Please tell me it isn’t some Fifty Shades of Grey shit.”

“Didn’t picture you as one of those.” Jungkook let go of your waist to interwine his fingers in yours. It was calming, the chilliness of his hand against your sweltering skin. “But no, here we never watched that. The dudes are, you know, more into anal compilations and shit like that— not me!” He rushed to say, hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Baby Jesus wouldn’t not approve.”

That was, by far, the weirdest conversation you’ve had in a long time.

“Pity, now that I thought we would make a great pair.” You sighed. “I guess I’ll have to find another hot dude to watch my kinky porn with.”

“I— sweet lord.” With shaky hands he massaged his cheeks. You were exhausting, even for him. Good. “We’ll discuss that later.” Jungkook opened one of the doors in the hallway, leading into a big space that was, precisely, only meant to game. “Now we have business to do.”

Biting down on your lower lip, you took a couple steps into the large area, absorbing its details. The first thing you noticed, as your company closed the door behind you two, was that it was soundproof — finally, a blessing for the night. As the excruciating buzzing in your ears still lingered, your hearing started to focus on the diverse conversations that dwelled beyond those closed doors. From what you could notice, there had to be around fifteen people in there — stereotypical jocks and cheerleaders, if you were to be quite honest — and they were mostly segregated into two smaller groups. One of which, you recognized, had the individual you two had been looking for.

Now, Kim Namjoon was a specimen of his own kind. You had no idea what kind of satanic pact had he resorted to, but it had been good enough to gift him the brain of a Harvard professor and the body of a professional athlete — all wrapped up in that team jacket, which suited him so dangerously well. You would be lying through clenched teeth if you were to say you had not checked him out at least once or twice during your shared Advanced Literature classes — but that was a secret that would be buried with you. Again, he was still one of those fraternity types, and blowing up their egos was as easy as blowing other, less christian areas.

Again, you would be lying if you said you had not considered that either.

Jungkook’s arm found the curvature of your waist once again, making you fall back into your usual acting state. Next to you, the boy was smiling freely — not in a sympathetic manner, but in a I’m-getting-good-sex-tonight kind of smile. He could keep dreaming, for all you cared. “What’s up, Kim?” he cheered, guiding you around the grey couch. Considerably large, it was surrounded by two armchairs, forming a square-like shape in the center of the room. On the wall next to it, a baseball game was silenced on the LED screen. “Thought I wouldn’t see you tonight.”

Namjoon had his elbows resting on a marble table, seating on one of the tall benches that surrounded it. You were surprised he had even found empty space in there, since all you could see was a pandemonium of empty bottles and pizza boxes. “I should be one one saying that, Jeon.” The other jock smiled just as freely, exposing those dimples you had always found unbearably cute. He did not look at you for a second. “You are not one to vanish during a party. Did you get laid or something?”

“See, Namjoon, your friend Jungkook is trying to get laid tonight, but let’s see how that goes, right honey?” You butted in, to Namjoon’s dismay. Very delicately, like the Disney princess you were not. You sat on the couch, paying no mind to the many diverse types of stains dotting it. Kim Namjoon was not going to ignore you, like you were a nothing but a pretty decoration Jungkook carried around to show off — especially not when you could beat his non-existent genius ass any day during a debate. “Hi, Namjoon. Didn’t see you in class last Wednesday.”

“Hangover.” He explained, taking a bite off a chewy slice of cheese pizza. “I have to confess I am surprised. I thought you were joking when you said you two were—”

“—dating, yes. I’m a married man now, Namjoon. No more getting laid with just anybody.” Jungkook flopped by your side. His hand went immediately towards your naked knee, and there it stayed. Very subtle.

“What do you guys talk about?” Namjoon pried, impertinently. In his timbre you could perceive a hint of disbelief, and it was understandable. He had seen you in action, going after your debate opponents like a shark in bloody waters. Jungkook was, compared to the you he had witnessed, a kindergartener in nappies, and he simply couldn’t comprehend how the two of you could work together — or even compliment each other, honestly.

“Volleyball.” Jungkook said, with an enthusiasm that made your wry smile pathetic. “She loves volleyball.”

Namjoon crackled at the unexpectedly joyful response. “Never seen her in a game.”

“I’m more of a theoretical fan of — of the sports.” Eyes disappearing into the fakest smile, you tried to escape the trap Jungkook had thrown you into. Namjoon was correct. You had not set foot in a court ever since high-school, and even back then you had only done so because it was mandatory. “I have watched Haikyuu at least thrice. I’m an expert.”

“She’ll come to the next one.” Jungkook kissed your cheek, interrupting your excused before it was too late. The touch of his petal-like lips was, at the very least, pleasant. “We made a deal. She wears my jacket and I use the shortest pants I own for the game.”

Namjoon chuckled at the idea, still skeptical. You knew he would be a hard one to convince, since he usually saw through your bullshit — both in debates and in real life. “Yeah, right,” was all that he managed to say, still dodging your gaze. Oh, you saw what he was doing. Sneaky motherfucker. Sly little snake. By avoiding you and focusing on your fake boyfriend, he was both pressing on the one easier to slip on the lie, and annoying you. He knew how you got when you were hot-headed and that was, once again, a recipe for disaster. “In all seriousness, weeaboo anime aside, what do you… theoretically like about volleyball?”

No eye contact still. Fair. Two could play that game.

“Physics,” you answered within a heartbeat, almost surprising yourself by how naturally that response came from in between your lips. Not necessarily a lie, too. But that was a long story. “I told you this already. Volleyball can be explained with high school-level of mechanics. Energy and work, force, projectile motion… You know the deal.”

Namjoon hummed, watching closely the line of cheese that dripped down his pizza. “Yeah, I know the deal,” he told you. He had not bought it. “And I know you know it too. My question is,” he paused, looking up to point at Jungkook. “Does he?”

Well, you just had to know it would backfire like that. Still, you barely had time to feel panic starting to germinate in your throat before Jungkook interrupted the conversation with flawless grace, “Not much, that is why she’s teaching me,” perfect. Simple. Fail proof. You could barely believe that the single neuron that inhabited his mind managed to make a synapsis with itself and come up with that. “Yo, man, why are you so defensive all of a sudden? You’re making my girl uncomfortable.”

My girl. You hated how much you liked that.

His friend hesitated for a second, chewing slowly on the piece of food. It didn’t seem like it was any good. In the very least, it was cold. “Yeah. My bad, dude. Bad week,” Namjoon was quick to apologize, which you did not believe for an instant. He was smarter than that, more arrogant than someone that would so fast admit to his own fault. “Guess I just can’t believe you managed to get a girl like Y/N. Life sucks sometimes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you were the one who asked it, even if both of you were thinking it. It was your turn to try and not to get defensive, but it was getting harder and harder by the second. You crossed your legs, which induced for your red dress to slip up your legs. Namjoon followed the movement, and then his gaze was stuck. Oh. Maybe there was another reason for his lack of eye contact. “Don’t tell me that the great captain Kim Namjoon is suddenly jealous.”

He shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. But you do look hotter than ninety-five percent of the chicks I’ve seen all year,” and then, his next sentences were directed straight at Jungkook. “I don’t know if you had the chance to see it already, man, but she has a great taste for underwear.”

Ninety-five was a good percentile, but you were indeed hot in that dress. Namjoon trembled, almost imperceptibly, when you slid your legs over Jungkook’s lap, to cuddle against his chest. In all honesty, the posture was not comfortable, not in that dress. Had you been back in the dorm, in your PJ’s, the tale would have been completely different; but Namjoon’s expression was a poem — a terrible one, at that — and that was enough satisfaction for the moment.

When you sighed, Namjoon replicated it, in a long-drawled, cheese-scented exhalation. The sound he emitted was pitiful, but it helped you comprehend fully the frustration the poor boy was submitted to, and the ultimate reason behind his pizza binge. His was a severe case of blue balls, and you were the one and only cause it. Cute.

“Namjoon, if you really want to address my exquisite taste in underwear, you can tell me directly,” you said. A thread of cheese remained in precarious equilibrium in between his lower lip and his hand, as he struggled for once to follow your words. The genius had short-circuited over lacy panties and the grossest kind of PDA. Another achievement unlocked in the marvelous experience that was college. It would look beautiful in your curriculum, right beside your volunteer work. “Jungkook is more used to seeing me without it. He wouldn’t understand our fantastic taste.”

“Babe,” Jungkook whined, caressing your thigh to make you cognizant of his presence. “I do love your underwear—”

“—Scattered all over your bedroom.” You whispered in the most impish little voice. By the glance he returned, Jungkook had loved the image. Maybe it was just your imagination, maybe you were in character and your discerning was altered, but you could have sworn his dick had twitched at the thought. Interesting.

To drown his sorrow, Namjoon took yet another slice of pizza. The boy could eat. He was still munching his previous victim, and it was making you hungry. Jungkook was very hot and all, but he had not offered to get you a drink or something to eat. Chivalry was, indeed, dead. “Let me ask you a question, Y/N,” Namjoon murmured in-between greasy bites. “It’ll be easy. I promise.”

“I’m all ears.”

“What is it, exactly, what made you fall for our ace?” Namjoon inquired. It was an unexpected question. A cheerleader could have asked the same, waiting you to offer a bland response in the trite language all popular girls had long mastered like: his big, big eyes; his toothpaste commercial worthy smile, the humongous size of his — not his brain, that was for certain.

But it was not a cheerleader the one to make the question, but Namjoon. Out of all the athletes in the house, Namjoon was the only one you had ever exchanged more than a few words with. Interesting words. The kind that — put together in a coherent sentence — form conversation two functional adults can take pleasure in. “Does he read Whitman to make you sleep?” He pressed further.

Before you could think twice, the words were already departing from your lips. “He rants about your pep-talks, that’s enough to have me snoring in seconds.”

He scoffed. “Nice comeback, it’s a pity that you’ve been avoiding my question like the plague,” Namjoon said in what appeared to be a groan, patience starting to run thin. At last, he appeared to have finished eating his horniness away, for he dropped the last slice of pizza back in the box. “Let me rephrase that, then—”

Next to you, Jungkook fumbled on his seat. “—Namjoon, bro, that’s enough,” he said firmly, almost an order. From the way Namjoon’s eyebrows moved together into a frown, you could tell that such serious demeanor was also uncommon amongst his group of friends. Jungkook was only serious in two situations: during games, and when his white knight complex had been activated. You would guess that was the latter. “I know it’s hard to believe, all right? Even I don’t buy it sometimes. But this is exactly why we didn’t tell you guys earlier, I knew you’d have a blast interrogating my girlfriend. And this is not cool, alright? It’s not cool that you’re over here talking about her underwear and acting like you’d be a total catch compared to me. Fuck that shit, dude, don’t ruin the night for us just because you got some jealousy stuck up your ass.”

Silence. The other boy took a second, then two, to chew what was left on his mouth, closely analyzing his friend. You could see the wheels moving inside Namjoon’s brain and — unlike Jungkook — he had more than one synapsis to make. “Hey, fair enough,” he said. And then he started smiling. Actually smiling. Putting-the-Cheshire-Cat-To-Shame kind of smile. “What has gotten into you tonight, uh? Jesus. I’m just fucking with you, didn’t think you’d get this overprotective. That’s some serious shit you’ve gotten yourself into, Jeon.”

Jungkook seemed to take an instant to fully digest the unforeseen change of demeanor, then joined his friend in his laugh. “Bro, what the fuck? You were annoying as hell,” he was clearly puzzled, even if you could see sheer alleviation in that smile. Oh, honey. He was not acting over there, was he? Poor kid really took that to heart. “Get outta here with that interrogation bullshit, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Look at that, you already know one famous victorian character,” Namjoon sarcastically celebrated, turning back at you — still living in the apex of confusion. You should have stayed home and read a book, where men are predictable and fraternity athletes as just a ghost in your memory. “You’ve been a positive influence so far, Y/N, props to that. I’ve been trying to get him to at least watch the movies for ages.”

“He only agreed to watch it once I explained Iron Man featured in it.” Taking advantage of your fake-girlfriend privileges, you slid your hand under Jungkook’s shirt. Fingers dawdling over his warm skin, you delighted in the sensation of his muscles quivering under your touch. It would not be noticeable to Namjoon — although he was particularly sharp that night. Words encompassing your feathery caresses, you murmured into his ear. “I’m thirsty, babe.”

Namjoon looked away when you nuzzled Jungkook’s neck, to bury his jealousy under another pile of cheese.

“Do you want some beer?” Jungkook blinked twice, trying to decipher the sudden change in the inflections of your voice. It was no longer playful, teasing, but dripping something he could have only categorised as desire. Jungkook was dense, enough to miss the a very evident innuendo by a mile. “I can go get you something.”

“No, not that.” Your fingers treaded an undiscovered path towards the lines of his hips, and the hem of his pants. His brain had missed the memo, but his dick was extremely eager to catch up, and was now constricted against his belt. The moment he rose from the couch, the boner would be exposed, and it would give him the perfect opportunity to drag you away from the room and towards his bedroom. “Jungkook… Let’s go.”

“I need to go to the bathroom first.” He excused himself to Namjoon, who had decided to embrace his solitude by hugging the pizza box and returning his attention to the baseball game. His team was losing. Big night for Kim Namjoon.

Jungkook pecked your lips and scurried from below your body. The room was cold now that he had left, and Namjoon was not willing to talk.

“So… pizza, huh?” you said, fixing your clothes. The last thing our brave captain needed was to take another glimpse at your ass.

Namjoon stared into the screen, absorbed by the little figures moving around. It was hard to believe that someone like him could he find baseball so entrancing. “So…Jungkook, huh?”

There it was. Jealousy, in its rawest form. He would never be so explicit in front of Jungkook, they were friends after all, but with you Namjoon could say whatever thoughts crossed his mind. “You know Jungkook isn’t as stupid as he wants all of campus to believe. He might not be a genius like you, but he is smart. He’s just a little bit caught up in the popularity game,” you said. The words leaving your mouth surprised you. Kind words for Jeon Jungkook, what a night to be alive. “Don’t be so surprised, Namjoon.”

The baseball game was no longer as relevant, for Namjoon deigned to look at you. Browns knitted in incredulity, he dropped the last slice of pizza and cleaned his hands in the team jacket. Symbolically, it was not a good thing, but he was probably overdosing on cheese. “I’m not surprised. Maybe you like him, after all.”

“Maybe I do.” You confessed with a quick wink and a guilty smile. “He gives good head, too.”

“That’s too much information.” Namjoon was nauseated, but he would never say it aloud. There was also the possibility that it was not nausea the grimace transfiguring his cute face, but jealousy. “You should go get your boyfriend, though, I think he got lost in his own reflection or something.”

Just like Namjoon had suggested, you followed Jungkook’s trail towards the bathroom. Trail, as in asking the couples making out in the hallway where the bathroom was. The first pair had not responded you, they were too busy sucking each other’s tongues to even form a coherent sentence. Titty in hand, the man in the second pair of lovers, explained where to find the bathroom — that was also known as the knocking shop.

To be fair, you knocked, but the music was too loud and the sound too timid. When you received no indication from Jungkook, you opened the door. At first you could not see past the outrageously pink sink. It was horrifyingly ugly. Jungkook rested against it, his forehead was pressed against the mirror, his warm exhalations creating beautiful designs over the reflective surface. One of his hands gripped tightly the sink, the veins of his arms visible, like rivers you had loved to explore through your fingertips. His other hand was trapped within the confines of his jeans, pressed against his dick. With every sigh and every moan, he would roll his hips against his hand, fucking himself into oblivion. All signs of arrogance vanished from his features when he was about to cum. Vulnerability looked so pretty on him.

You wished there was a joke you could crack, even if to yourself, that could serve as a coping mechanism to whatever the fuck you were being presented with. Still, nothing came out of your lips besides a loud, slightly horrified:

“What the actual fuck, Jungkook?”

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reddieandgoodnight · 5 years

Note

1 + 19 for the kiss prompt for reddie !

You got it! This is a sequel to this, though you don’t necessarily have to read that first (just know Eddie survives losing his arm in the fight with It and is with Richie now). Also, I’m letting the Losers keep their memories after the battle with It. Hope you like it!

1. breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths

19. kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

Eddie sighs as he looks at himself in the mirror. It’s slowly becoming less jarring to see himself with only one arm, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still disconcerting sometimes. Then again, he supposes he’s lucky to even be alive. Heaven knows he shouldn’t be. That much blood, that much pain — he should have been dead.

He wriggles into a t-shirt he stole from Richie. Putting on clothes with one arm is not easy. Richie usually helps him dress every morning, as Richie had since he’d awoken at Mike’s house — and probably before that, though Eddie doesn’t remember.

Eddie wanders into the living room. Glancing out the window shows him a sunny neighborhood with palm trees, so different from the New York he’s used to. Sometimes it’s strange, being all the way on the other side of the country. So far from where he’s from and from what he’s accustomed to. But having Richie here with him has made the unfamiliarity easier.

When Richie had asked Eddie if he wanted to move in together, Eddie hadn’t even hesitated before he agreed. He knew he was uprooting his entire life to move to Beverly Hills with Richie. But he didn’t want his old life anymore. He could never go back, not after he’d remembered his childhood and everyone with whom he’d shared it— Richie most of all.

Eddie had returned to New York for a spell to set his affairs in order with the limo business.

And to see Myra again, just once. To serve her with divorce papers.

She’d fretted over him at first, like she had been the one to lose an arm and not him.

Eddie had taken a step back from her grabby, fat-fingered hands. “I want a divorce,” he’d said, handing her the papers without preamble.

Myra had been inconsolable after that, all tears and screaming and accusing him of never having loved her. Maybe Eddie agreeing with her on that last part had been unwise, but he refused to lie anymore to save her feelings. To allow her to manipulate him into telling her what she wanted to hear. To give her the right to act exactly like his mother. Especially when the truth was that he was gay and in love with Richie — a truth he was finally accepting about himself for the first time in his life. So he didn’t.

Richie had been waiting for Eddie afterwards at his office. He’d refused to let Eddie travel from Derry to New York alone.

“What if you need to drive somewhere? Or need to iron your clothes? Or —”

“Richie, I’m not going to need to iron clothes. Also, it’s New York. Nobody drives —”

“Except for you! That’s what you do! And what if you need to, I don’t know, open a jar or something?”

“Why the fuck would I need to open a jar?”

“I don’t know! Point is, Eds, you’re not going by yourself. I just…” Richie had paused, grimacing. “I can’t… I can’t not be able to see you. Not after… that. Just…not yet. Please.”

A twinge had gone through the space where Eddie sometimes could still feel his missing arm. And he’d known exactly what Richie meant. After passing out from blood loss and shock in the Derry sewers and then missing out on a couple of days in the hospital before the doctors let him regain consciousness, the last thing he wanted to do was to not have Richie right in front of him, to know Richie was safe, that there were no otherworldly creatures of death coming to kill them.

It was gone…but the terror sometimes remained, a scar Eddie had a feeling would always be a part of each member of the Losers’ Club.

“…okay, Rich. Okay.”

Richie had drawn Eddie into the office by the elbow and closed the door.

“Are you all right?” he’d asked, so concerned. Richie was able to use his contacts again after they’d left Derry, so his brown eyes had been especially bright as he gazed at Eddie, gently touching Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie wanted to lie, to say everything was fine. But just because something was right didn’t make it easy.

So Eddie shook his head, and the tears began to spill.

“Hey, hey,” Richie had murmured, pulling Eddie against his chest.

“This is so stupid,” Eddie said, furiously wiping under his eyes. “I’m not crying because of Myra. It’s just… It’s just —”

“I know, love,” Richie said, kissing Eddie’s forehead. “But things are going to be okay. I promise. Who knows? Maybe you’ll actually be able to get a tan in California.” He laughed as Eddie smacked his shoulder.

“I’m not the one who turns into a lobster under one UV ray, you idiot,” Eddie huffed, letting himself be distracted.

“Yeah, I remember your cute summer tans now. You always had a million freckles.” Richie grinned. “Cute, cute, cute, Mister Eddie Spaghetti,” he said in a singsong voice, pinching Eddie’s cheek.

“Fuck you,” Eddie had muttered, but he’d been smiling.

“One thing at a time, dear.”

“Oh my god, you are the worst.”

Eddie smiles now. Richie always seems to make him smile, even if it’s against his own wishes.

He heads down the hall toward Richie’s office…studio…thing.

Richie had told Eddie on the plane ride from New York to Los Angeles about how he’d worked as a radio host through his college years, picking up side gigs as an events DJ to make ends meet. His “Voices” had always been terrible when they were kids — they’d just sounded like Richie. But Richie had been able to perfect them, at least enough to amuse one of his college professors into offering him the radio host job.

The rest was history after that, Richie had said. He’d worked his way up until he’d been able to buy his own radio station. And now people come to him to get him as a guest on various talk shows and podcasts. He’s even done some standup and some song recordings, which his fans love.

Fans. Richie Tozier has fans. Eddie shakes his head, still bemused over that. But it isn’t shocking. He loves Richie — he’s not surprised other people love Richie, too. They should.

When Richie had fallen asleep on the plane, Eddie had pulled out his laptop to search for Richie’s work. He’d found some of Richie’s songs on YouTube and had put on his headphones to listen. Most of them had been love songs, often with a similar theme — searching for someone you’d lost, someone out there waiting to be found again. Eddie’s soul ached hearing Richie’s sweet voice because now… Now he knew what Richie had really been singing about, even if Richie hadn’t known it while writing the tracks.

He had startled Richie awake with a kiss. He couldn’t help it. Based on Richie’s momentarily confused but then enthusiastic response, Richie hadn’t minded.

Eddie pokes his head into Richie’s office. Richie has been working from home — though Eddie suspects it’s less working than it is Richie keeping tabs on him.

Richie sits at his soundboard, laptop to the side as he strums a guitar, murmuring lyrics to himself.

“I took you at your word when you said you would steal my heart,” Richie sings, so very softly. “Yeah, this might sound absurd, but would you be my thief? Take all of me, every part? Love, love, love is my crime. So baby, come catch me, and let’s do the time.”

This song isn’t one Eddie’s heard. He finds himself leaning against the door, just listening, wanting to savor the sound of Richie’s voice.

“I think we might be outlaws. I think I might be in love,” Richie continues, so caught up in the song that he doesn’t notice Eddie. “‘Cause I’m all out of reasons, like seasons — winter, summer, fall. They’re all washed up.”

Eddie’s heart clenches as he watches Richie play, those beautiful long-fingered hands gently cradling the guitar, eyes closed and face serene. This is the first time since they’d gotten here that Eddie has seen Richie with a guitar. It’s also the first song of Richie’s he’s heard that sounds… hopeful. He doesn’t want to give himself the credit, and yet… maybe it’s because Richie has found that long-lost love all of Richie’s previous lyrics had been pining after.

“If you’re still way over there, maybe slide on in by my side. ‘Cause I’m just an outlaw, wanted if you want me. I love you every day and every night.”

Eddie can’t help it — just like he couldn’t help it on the plane.

Richie looks up just in time to catch Eddie’s lips against his. He grunts with the tiniest bit of surprise, but he rallies quickly. He sets the guitar aside and grabs Eddie’s hips, yanking Eddie into his lap. The kiss is eager, and as always, it feels like coming home — for both of them.

Eddie loves the slot of Richie’s mouth against his, fitting in a way he’d never thought possible. He loves pressing his hand against Richie’s cheek and feeling the stubble there. He loves the faint smell of Richie’s deodorant and cologne, mixing with the intoxicating scent of Richie’s skin. And the taste of Richie’s lips, sweet with Chapstick.

After a time, Richie pulls back, gasping a little. He peers at Eddie, that glint in his eye that promises imminent danger to Eddie’s clothing.

“You know, I wanted to finish this song before you heard it,” Richie says, mouth falling into an easy grin. “But you just had to come and distract me, huh?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, resting his hand against Richie’s chest. “Couldn’t help it.”

“It’s for you,” Richie murmurs. “But then, all of the songs were for you.”

Eddie smiles, feeling too full of love to even begin to express it. So he just presses another quick kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth, laughing as Richie tries to follow him when he sits back again.

“You can finish it now,” Eddie says.

“Okay, but I’m going to have to kick you off my lap to hold the guitar.”

“Rude, but fine,” Eddie says, loving Richie’s answering laugh as he stands up.

Richie picks up the guitar again, strumming a little as he refocuses. “I think we might be outlaws, mmm hmm,” he mumbles, nodding to himself.

Eddie watches for a moment before wandering behind him, looking at Richie’s tousled hair and broad shoulders. As Richie begins to sing again, he allows himself to bend down and press up against Richie’s back, resting his forehead against Richie’s neck. He smiles as Richie sucks in a breath.

He’d never acted this way with Myra, but Richie seems to pull this affectionate physicality out of him. Eddie presses a kiss to Richie’s shoulder, then to Richie’s neck. A small giggle slips out of him as Richie bungles a chord, smiling broadly as Richie laughs.

“You are incredibly distracting,” Richie says with more fondness than Eddie has ever heard directed at himself.

“So are you.”

Richie turns around in his chair. “What am I going to do with you?”

Eddie stuns himself a little with his boldness as he climbs back into Richie’s lap, invigorated as Richie sets the guitar down again and holds him close. “When did you start working on this song?” he asks, curling a finger in a lock of Richie’s hair.

“While you were in the hospital.” Richie hesitates. “I love you so much, Eddie. So goddamned much, it…almost scares me sometimes. And I know love songs are a little cheesy…but sometimes music is the only way I know how to say something.”

“Richie, I already know,” Eddie whispers. “You show me every single day. I hope you know, I… That I…”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I love you so much,” Eddie finishes. He can never say the words enough times.

Richie gives him a crooked, toothy grin. The same one Eddie remembers so well from summers down at the Barrens. From movies at the Aladdin. From barbecues in Bill’s backyard. And birdwatching with Stan. And slingshot practice with Bev. And dam-building with Ben. And taking photos with Mike.

Eddie still hates that he ever forgot any of them, but this feels like a second chance.

Richie leans forward and kisses Eddie again, and it’s so easy and right. He pulls back just enough that their lips are still brushing as he begins to sing again, almost murmuring the words. “Lock me up for good, right here in your arms.”

Eddie smiles against his mouth, feeling Richie’s lips match his expression.

“You vandalize my neighborhood… with your piercing eyes… and devilish charm,” Richie croons into Eddie’s mouth.

As Richie yanks Eddie closer, and as they fall into each other — and later, into bed — Eddie finds himself singing it back, meaning the words more and more with each and every refrain.

“I love you every day and every night.”

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie fic #ash writes

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