Pairing: Misha x OFC Word Count: 1,963 Warnings: None? A/N: In honor of RPF appreciation day I have decided to post the first part of my new Misha series. This story is near and dear to my heart. I have put a lot into this. A HUGE thank you to my best friend in the whole world and the one person who puts up with my nonsense for betaing this for me, Nicole (aka @iwantthedean) without her this story would never see the light of day. Hope you guys like it! Anyway, feedback for this is awesome! :)
The Kind of Date a Girl Would Enjoy
by Hideyoshi Nagachika feat. Ken Kaneki
Hello everyone! This is my first fic for Hide Week 2017! (Yay! I’m not late! You’re just… early.) Without further ado, I present to you a summary and some excerpts!
Day one – 永 eternity / forever
Summary:Following their conversation about what kind of date a girl would enjoy, Hide decides to take Kaneki on one, because no one should allow their best friend to take the girl of their dreams on a boring bookstore date.
Seeing Kaneki dressed in a white button-up and pressed black trousers did alleviate his worries some, and he snickered out, “You should get something cooler to wear, or at least something to change into,” Hide instructed. “I’m not taking you to church.” It was flattering though, that Kaneki took him seriously enough to get dressed up. “I know! Dive in some trunks!”
“Hide, seriously?” Kaneki looked about ready to slam the door on him.
“Nah! Just slapping your ass!”
Kaneki blushed and gave him a look that begged, “Why would you say that?”
“Go grab something to change into!” Hide repeated. “I’ll wait right here.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I just gotta take what I’m wearing off.”
“Would you know if a girl wanted to kiss you?”
The question caught him off-guard, but Hide managed to answer as
nonchalantly as he could. “Sure I would.”
“How would you know?”
For the second time without thinking, Hide offered, “Let me show you
how.” Hide dropped his bag on the ground, and took the novel from Kaneki and
rested it on his bag.
“First, I’d tell her ‘goodnight’, or ‘good afternoon’ in our case.
Then, I’d go to leave. If she stops me, I’ll wait. If not, I’ll go.” Hide made
to turn away, but the sudden pressure of Kaneki’s hand gripping his shoulder
stopped him, not because of its strength (which severely lacked, of course),
but by its surety alone. “Y-Yeah. Something like this.” He paused. “Then I’d
have to decide based on what she does next.”
“What should she do next?”
“You’re not in a library, you don’t have to whisper.” He didn’t take
the bait, so Hide continued, “Usually, a girl would wrap her arms around a
guy’s neck. Like in one of those TV dramas.” And Kaneki performed a variation
thereof, keeping the hand anchored to Hide’s shoulder in place while caressing
his nape with the other.
“Yeah. Just like this.” Hide wanted to lean forward, close the space
between them, and press his lips against Kaneki’s.
Summary: In a world where the last words your soulmate will say to you are written on your wrist, fearful and introverted Phil works in a bookstore. His greatest fear? The words counting down the seconds until he meet his soulmate, someone called ‘Dan.’ But it isn’t until he befriends a university student that he nicknames ‘Bear’ that Phil realizes that surviving through fear isn’t the same as living.
A/N: Sometimes these things seem to go along smoothly exactly in the way and direction the writer wants them too. Or so they say at least. I’ve never actually had that happen to me before.
This chapter is dedicated to Elana, who to this day was one of the first people to put up with my fangirling and though she may not look like much height wise, her kindness, intelligence, and overall wonderful personality makes up for it in full.
The book was sitting on his desk when he arrived the next day. A blue sticky-note stuck out of the top of the pages, something scrawled across the top with a black sharpie. Phil hung his coat on the back of his chair, taking a seat and pulling the book towards him. Balancing a cup of coffee in one hand, he opened to the sticky-note.
The message looked like it had been written in a hurry, although it was still a lot neater than Phil’s handwriting could ever be. Before he had even read the note he knew who it was from. He brushed his thumb over the writing as he gently removed the note and stuck it to his desk.
I finished this last night and I figured you might not have read it yet.
Smiling, Phil flipped the book shut, reading the title. Seconds.
Without a second thought he turned on the light, leaning back in his chair and opening to page one. If his manager walked in he was screwed, but the urge was too tempting and his willpower was too weak.
As he turned the page, Phil caught himself thinking about what Bear’s thoughts had been whilst reading Seconds. If there was someone with a definite opinion, it would be Bear. While it seemed on a surface level at least that Bear chose not to talk more than was necessary, their last conversation had shown Phil that there was an intelligent if somewhat sarcastic personality hidden underneath a layer of shyness and insecurity.
The bell jingled and he reluctantly bookmarked his page, plastering a smile on his face. Part of him was hoping that it was going to be Bear, but he knew it wasn’t before he had even registered who it was.
It was raining (entirely usual for Scotland) upside down and sideways (still usual) with fog thick as cotton wool (still usual) and a gale-force wind blowing off the North Sea (still usual, but give him a bloody break) as Killian Jones scuttled across the Quad, trying vainly to shield the armload of photocopied handouts under his mac. Heavy droplets splashed like pebbles as he broke into an all-out run, prayed at least not to die humiliatingly while there were witnesses, and ducked at last into the comparative safety of the cloisters, proceeding at a brisk trot as if he had intended to do this all along. He was trying to take the fact that the department had assigned them a classroom in one of the oldest and most charmingly historic (read: ancient, damp, and draughty) sections of the University as a compliment, as if the Martinmas-term seminar on medieval France that he was co-teaching with Belle would have the proper ambiance, and not as a veiled reference that they might want to be shot of him. As a junior professor, subject to the terror of adjunct pay and non-guaranteed fixtures, and moreover one who hadn’t published anything since his appointment, he was skating on thin ice, and he knew it.
Recovering some modicum of his dignity, Killian swiped the droplets out of his hair and opened the classroom door with a shove of his shoulder — it stuck in wet weather, which meant it stuck all the time. About twenty cold-looking undergraduates, freshers and sophomores mostly (or, as they were called here at St. Andrews, Bejants and Semis) were playing with their phones while Belle, disgustingly on time as usual, wrote notes on troubadour poetry on the blackboard. Killian carefully removed the handouts from his jacket, checked that they were still usable (another downside of being a junior professor was that he had no graduate assistant to lord it over, thus requiring him to spend thirty minutes fighting with the copier in the library basement prior to each class) and set them down, smoothing away a stray wet spot. Belle raised an eyebrow at him, but at least had the kindness not to ask as she turned to the room and clapped her hands. “Well, Professor Jones has made it, so let’s get started, shall we?”