vinyl shelf

Exception | 1 |

Summary: In a world full of routines, he becomes your one exception to it all

2.6k words

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Part 1 | Part 2

For a long time, you just thought of them as nothing more than dreams. Dreams of a better life, where everything went perfectly for you. From a stressful day in a bustling city that never sleeps to a metropolitan powerhouse where you have everything handed to you.

You don’t remember why it started happening. It was just there one day and has been happening ever since. Maybe it was a coping mechanism after your parents disappeared. Leaving you alone in a big world with nothing but the clothes on your back. You woke up from the first one happy, only to have a wave of loneliness hit you like a tsunami. Springing up onto your feet, you kept calling their names, searching room to room of the vacant home. Your voice echoed off the space, eventually ending up in a crying ball on the floor. The sobs were cut off by Ms. Anderson, a short and lengthy lady in her late forties, opening your front door and her being bewildered as to why there was a five-year-old alone in the apartment, that hadn’t been rented out for over ten years. She was kind enough to let you stay and unofficially adopt you. Probably feeling pity for the small shaking child that stood before her with salty tears gushing down her face, unable to explain where her parents had gone. Her stuff was placed into your home, well hers on account that she owned the place and had no recollection of renting it to your parents, and has stayed with you ever since. She has been the only parent figure you’ve had, your original parents’ faces and voices slowly fading out of your memory.

After that day, the dreams kept occurring more frequently as you grew older. Your innocent little kid mind couldn’t comprehend the realness that came from them. Inevitably days would get cut off in them when you were younger. The older you got, the less it mattered what time you woke up and your increasing knowledge of how they work grew. Your job now thankfully doesn’t require you in till the mid-afternoon. So, you try to soak up as much of it, in your other life.

Within the other life, in a place halfway across the world, the possibilities are endless. Being there is a three sixty from your life back home. You may look into the mirror seeing the same face and get called the same name, but it isn’t the same person in the ways that define you. A life of almost idiotic carelessness keeps it always interesting there. In a second you could be the best dressed and have a perfect experience without a worry in the world over anything with a price tag. For some reason money, there doesn’t matter. Parentless there too, you for some reason found a bank account with your name on it, with a continuous flow of deposits ending up in the bank account each month. It’s an unspoken rule between you and the balding older man who runs your finances to keeps the discussion about it to a minimum. Your needs are always fulfilled and sometimes over accommodated for there.

Within another moment it could be ripped away to your ‘reality’ with financial struggles and the constant fight of keeping yourself afloat with what you have. Your true self isn’t as fortunate as much as the wealthy one. Anderson and you both stay frugal with your expenses and work hard for what you have. Still living in the same apartment from all those years ago.

They both stay connected to you though, wherever you are, with a constant whisper like noise just out of reach. It keeps you attached to the other life while you aren’t entirely there. And if you choose to block out the world you stand in and listen to it; you can automatically return to the one you want. For the most part, you don’t even bother because you will just return the next time you fall asleep.

It’s always a constant routine of jumping between them. You can’t remember the last time you had a real dream. As night sets in one place and your body ‘goes to sleep,’ the day is already starting in the other. Waking up earlier than usual today in New York is causing your ability to stay awake to dissipate. Fulfilling the promise of meeting up in Central Park for lunch with a friend changed your routine of sleeping into the late morning into barely getting six hours of sleep. As your body relaxes into the couch, your eyes seem to roll back in relief. For most parts, days don’t start until the afternoon in Seoul. Today is an exception.

The world slowly fades from your senses in New York. Darkness surrounds your vision, with the final glimpse of your half-eaten dinner on the coffee table, fades. The sound of traffic and honking subsides, and the smell of dirt from the run down building dulls to a zero. All your senses stop before being restarted anew. Hints of fresh sheets seep through your nose along with a whiff of vanilla. The room becomes almost dead silent; the only sound is your breathing. Light shining through the windows of your high-rise apartment start burning into your eyelids. Your body feels heavy with drowsiness and light with happiness at the same time. You can sense your warms sheets draped over your body. It feels almost foreign to be here so early. Mornings are too dull even to bother falling asleep early back home.

The electronic clock on the bedside reads eight in the morning as your eyes adjust. There is a tug at your waist. Then it hits you, the breathing isn’t just your breathing, but someone else’s too. The tug at your waist pulls you closer to the other person. Warmth radiates off them as they wrap their arms around you and tangle their feet with yours. Your breath hitches at the sudden impact and the chest from the other body vibrate as a chuckle leaves their lips.

“Goodmorning” a male voice whispers in your ear. He kisses the crook of your neck, and you try to go back to sleep, playing it off as if this was just a dream. This can’t be happening. Am I having dreams again? You think to yourself. The body isn’t disappearing though like in the few dreams you have had. What the hell happened last night? You think back to the last time you were here. You remember going out to the bar and having a few drinks, but you could have sworn you didn’t bring anyone back. The night ended a few minutes early before you fell asleep on your bed, the alarm clock on your phone back in New York interrupting your last moments of silence. Where did he come from? Did we-Oh god no, we couldn’t have. Another kiss is pressed against your shoulder. Goosebumps run down your spine as his nose grazes your ear.

“I know you’re awake. You snore when you sleep.” Another laugh leaves his lip as your cheeks turn pink. You open your eyes and turn over to face the stranger straight on. You look up at him as his hold on you loosens a bit, his slim fingers tracing shapes on your back. A smile forms on his lips as you stare at him.

Damn. How can someone be so handsome and look this breathtaking after they wake up? His face is flawless with smooth features and radiant skin. His eyes form almonds and are almost a dark as his messy bedhead. The tips of his ears stick out ever so slightly as you reach up and push a strand of hair away from his eyes, it for some reason bothered you enough to do the unthinkable action. Something about him seems all too familiar to you. Where do I know him from? Am I unconsciously making relationships when I’m not around? His eyes meet yours as you look back at him. The world seems to fade again, but your eyes stay in complete focus on his. The smile he wears is almost blinding. Everything about him makes you feel warm on the inside. How can you feel anything for someone you don’t even know? Or at least not to your recognition.

His face leans forward and comes close to yours. Just a few seconds away from each other lips colliding, a ring interrupts your moment. A groan escapes his mouth as he leans over to grab his phone. His arm moves out from under your body, and he slides his finger across the screen and holds it up to his ear.

“Sehun what do you want?” His voice gives off the annoyance at the sudden phone call. You can’t hear the person on the other side of the call. His eyebrows knit together as he responds.

“What do you mean we have to be in the studio today? I thought we had the day off?” He sighs and sits up in bed. His back is exposed as the comforter pools around his hips, and your eyes trail down his physique. His runs his hand through his hair trying to flatten it out.

“Fine. I’ll be there soon. Just hold off till then.” He hangs up his phone, throwing it onto the table and looks back at you.

“I have to go.” A frown forms at his words on your lips. For some reason, you don’t want him to go. You have the urge to pull him back into the sheets and cuddle into his side. Something about it all feels unnerving to you and just right at the same time. You knew he felt the same way as he turned back towards the bedside staring out the window for a minute before slowly slipping out of bed. He makes his way to the dresser that lays against the wall next to your bathroom door with his head falling low. He pulls out a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that you have no recognition of being there earlier.

“Want to join me in the shower?” he jokes as he takes another glimpse at your form. Another blush creeps onto your face as he laughs and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The sound of the water running snaps you out of your trance at the door.

You slip out of bed, and make your way to the dresser and pull it open. You put on a fluffy red sweater and some black high waisted jeans. A pair of fuzzy socks softens your steps as you make your way through your house. Your fingers trace the collection of vinyl against the shelf of your living room. You select a random one and place it on the player. You set the volume to medium and continue onto the kitchen. You fill up your kettle with water and place in on the stove. You hum along to music in the other room as you make your way to your kitchen to make breakfast. Does he want anything to eat? The only thing you can find is a few bagels in your pantry. Is this alright? Maybe I should ask him. You head back to your room and hear the shower still running. You’re about to knock on the door to ask when his phone dings. You go over and glance down at the screen.

‘Where the heck are you Chanyeol?’ the text reads from someone named Baek. ‘You’re supposed to be here, and I don’t think I can cover for you this time if Junmyeon finds out you’re missing.’

“Chanyeol…” His name rolls off your tongue like liquor. Where do I know that name from? The bathroom door clicks open as you turn around. A half-dressed Chanyeol emerges from it with his hair still damp. He rubs the towel against his hair as he sees you. Your eyes trail up toward his visage.

“Did you say my name?” he whispers as he discards the towel in the hamper next to your bathroom. He grabs the hoodie he had earlier and slips it on over his head, it is baggy over his fit body. He makes his way over towards you and slips a hand around you to grab his phone off the bedside.

“Oh yeah,” you feel uneasy again at his proximity. “I was wondering if you were hungry? I’m making tea and breakfast. Well, bagels and tea.” His body towers over you. The feeling of smallness is never ending around him. He grunts in approval as you squeeze past him into the other room. You can hear him follow behind you into the kitchen as the kettle whistles, telling you its ready. You turn off the stove and turn to grab two mugs off the shelf. Chanyeol has already beat you to it, setting them next to your stove. You smile at his action and pour the boiling water into the cups. Placing the tea bags in the mugs, you make way over to the toaster, putting two halves of a bagel into it and pushing down the button.

You lean your back against the countertop and watch Chanyeol from the corner of your eyes. He picks up his mug and brings it close to lips, blowing air on it once before taking a sip of it. He catches your glance and motion towards your cup. You just shake your head, your eyes trailing back to take notice of other things.

The toaster pops the bagel back up, and you return to making breakfast, taking a quick sip from your drink. Chanyeol’s phone dings again at another notification. He slips his phone out and reads it over once before setting his cup down and moving out of the room towards the door. You quickly finish spreading Nutella over the toasted bagel halves and put them back together into a sandwich, before wrapping them in a napkin. This time you follow him, to the front door of your apartment. He slips on a pair of sneakers and tucks his hair into a hat hanging on the coat rack.

“I’m sorry I have to leave you so suddenly.” He glimpses down at you as you place the wrapped bagel in his hand.

“It’s okay; you must be a busy man.” You laugh to ease the pain that somehow crept into the pit of your stomach. You don’t want him to leave.

“I guess you could say that.” The words seem sarcastic as he pulls open the door, slipping out the other side. You hold it ajar, your frame leaning partially out. “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Next time?” You question him in surprise.  Does he want to see me again?

“Of course, who else do you think I can escape off to late at night?” The smile is mischevious as he places all his attention on your face.

“I’d like that; I’m not a person who’s good at goodbyes.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll see you soon then.”

“Mmm. See you soon Chanyeol.” He starts to make his way down the hall, and you begin to close your door as he stops dead in his tracks. He rushes back towards you and stands as close to you as humanly possible.

“I forgot something.” His actions are a blur as he plants a soft kiss on your lips. They mold together with yours and your hand’s snake around his neck. He wraps one of his around your lower back, pulling you even closer. He pulls away seconds later, leaving you breathless. A final smile resides on his lips. “See you later Y/N.“ 

You stare at him as he slowly disappears down the hall and around the corner. Something about him is as mysterious as your own life and you know he’s going to be the only exception to the continuous struggle of your bizarre reality.

(Hello I’m Jordan, the author of this series??? I really don’t know what this is going to become, or if I’ll ever finish it, but I felt like finally putting one of my ideas out here for the public. I hope you all enjoy it and I don’t mind feedback on my writing. Till next time, bye)

Frances Farmer will have her revenge on Seattle

Steve Rogers x Reader

My first attempt at writing anything Marvel, so be nice.

I’m a hardcore Nirvana fan btw.

Nirvana -Frances Farmer will have her revenge on Seattle.

“Nirvana?” You mouth forms a warm smile at the handsome man sitting across from you. The two of you were enjoying a quiet breakfast at the Tower, it seem like everyone else was out and about.

“Rogers, you have Nirvana on your list!” You glee with excitement, holding up the little notebook to show the Avenger.

“Yes, I know. That is my handwriting, (Y/N).” Steve muses with a smile, thinking to himself how incredibly cute you were. Especially, with your hair slightly disheveled around your face and glasses  resting on the tip of your nose.

“I got you, Steve. Come on.” You get up from your seat, grabbing his empty plate with yours. Steve grabs the cups and walks with you to the sink.

“Leave them, Bucky likes washing dishes.”Steve chuckles at your total lie, knowing well enough that Bucky hated seeing dirty dishes in the sink.

You drag the man to your quarters, but he lingers at the door waiting for a proper invitation in. With a scoff you tell Captain America himself to get his “gorgeous ass” inside. You pretend to not notice the blush flaming on his cheeks, instead kneeling down in front of your record collection. Steve takes a seat on the edge of your be, watching you meticulously pull out a few vinyls from the shelf.

“Nirvana is a grunge band fronted by Kurt Cobain, vocals and guitarist. Kris Novoselic, bassist and lastly, although not the original drummer, Dave Grohl. Who formed another band after Kurt died, the Foo Fighters, you should write them on your list.”

You point to the notebook in Steve’s hand, pausing until he realizes you were expecting him to write them down. So with a small smile, he quickly writes the band down.

“Okay, we have several choices.” You scoot on your knees over to Steve, holding the records up to show him.

“So which album?” You question out loud, skimming through the vinyls until you come upon your personal  favorite.

“Bare with me Rogers, this is not the music from yesteryear.”

“Really, (Y/N)?” He throws his hands up with the laugh that always makes your heart jump a beat. You shrug getting up on your feet and going to the record player. You carefully lift the needle, setting the record slowly down, moving the needle to the correct spot. The crisp sound of the needle hitting the black shiny vinyl is one of your favorite sounds. The guitar starts strumming at a steady pace for the first 12 seconds, before the bass and drums kick in, the music is loud and aggressive. And when the vocals kick in, dry and raspy, the entire song engulfs you into a pit of pure wildness.

Steve watches the way your head moves up and day to the beat, fingers tapping at your thighs and your voice low singing the lyrics. The blond man has no control over his body, as he moves up from his seat on the bed, moving toward you. His hand hesitates for a moment, before touching your shaking shoulder, slowly spinning you to face him. You are caught off guard, giving off a nervous laugh as blue eyes stare right into yours.

“I like this song,” Steve smirks, his hand moving to your face, “ but not as much as I like you.”

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest, opening your mouth to tell him how you feel, but the music drowns your soft voice. Steve laughs, moving forward to turn down the volume, his chest so close against yours, there’s a 100% chance he can feel your heart pounding away.

“What were you saying?” He teases, placing his other hand on your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I-well I like you too, Rogers.” You admit with a playful shrug. He pretends to be offended by your shrug, backing away until you grip his shoulder.

“Come here, old man.” With all the strength you can summon, you pull the man back and throw your arms around his neck. The two of you laugh for a second before going quiet, Steve tilts his head to the side as he moves down toward your face. You close your eyes, anxiously waiting for the kiss. And when it comes, it’s everything you expected. His lips soft, their movements deliberately gentle, full of desire and a lost longing. A lost longing that you were determined to fill.

Setting Sun - Chapter 17 Excerpt

I’ve had a ridiculously shitty week and I can’t stop feeling sad and worn down today. I’ve gotten basically nothing done, work-wise, that I really really needed to do this week, and I feel awful about it. Little tiny things have gone wrong all day, I haven’t exercised since Monday, and overall this is the closest I’ve been to depression in a good while, though it’s mostly due to bad sleep and some health issues that I know will clear up.

I’m not done this chapter yet. I’m close, but the delay in my schoolwork means I have to put it before fanfic, and I know y’all understand that. But I want to share a fluffy scene with you anyway because I like it and I think you’ll like it and I want to make people happy. If you like it, please let me know. <3

Victor holds out his hand to Yuuri, and in the low light from the lamps he looks like something ethereal. “Yuuri Katsuki, may I have this dance?”
Yuuri looks down at Victor’s fingers, downs the rest of his wine, and bursts out laughing. Victor pouts.
“Okay, or not.”
“I’m s-sorry,” Yuuri giggles, wiping at one eye. “It’s just…I used to fantasize about you saying literally those exact words to me when I was thirteen.” In an instant he realizes what he’s said, and covers his mouth with both hands, feeling his face get hot.
Now Victor cracks up. “That’s…fucking adorable, honestly.”
“It’s creepy,” Yuuri mumbles from behind his hands.
Victor kneels on one knee (on one fucking knee) in front of the couch, and gently lifts Yuuri’s hands from his mouth. “It’s adorable,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Now would you dance with me already?”
Yuuri lets himself feel mortified for another twelve seconds before he nods, and it all melts away at the sight of Victor’s delighted face. He stands.
“Excellent. Be right back.” He crosses the room and picks out a vinyl record from the shelf, carrying it to the turntable that sits beneath the TV. Yuuri watches Victor go through the delicate motions—placing the record on the platter, running a wide brush across the vinyl to clean it of dust, placing the needle just so—and his heart does so many flips and flops that it could probably medal in Olympic diving. Finally Victor stands and crosses back to pull Yuuri to his feet, and the song begins with an incredibly familiar guitar line—
Yuuri furrows his brow. “…Is this Kishi Bashi?”
Victor doesn’t answer; he just smiles, so brilliantly he could outshine the sun, and begins to dance—nothing complicated, just rocking from foot to foot, one hand curved just beneath Yuuri’s  shoulder blade, and the other holding Yuuri’s left hand.
“You are the answer to my question / you are my accomplice in a crime / you are my wing woman and did I mention / we were together in another life? / In that dreaming, you probably were my wife…”
Yuuri nearly melts into a puddle. Victor has a Kishi Bashi album on vinyl. That means—
“Yes, in case you’re wondering,” Victor cuts in, as if reading Yuuri’s mind. “I’ve known about Kishi Bashi since before the Cup of China.”
If the heat in his cheeks is any indication Yuuri’s face might burst into flames at any moment. “…Oh. I…”
“I knew I wanted to kiss you at the Sochi banquet,” Victor grins, leaning in to let his lips graze Yuuri’s cheek. “Getting a Kishi Bashi lyric from you in China made me realize that as soon as I did, I’d never be able to stop.”
Yuuri has no earthly idea how to respond to that, so instead he rests his head against Victor’s shoulder and mumble-sings along with the chorus: “Hotaru Hotaru / Futari no yume wo mireru hotaru no… / Hotaru Hotaru / Tsuneru to yume ga / Sameru hotaruyoru…”
“I’ve actually been meaning to ask you,” comes Victor’s voice, breath tickling his ear. “What does that mean?”
Yuuri smiles, lifting his head to meet Victor’s gaze.
“Firefly, firefly, two dreams we saw of fireflies; with a pinch, we’ll be awoken, from the night of fireflies,” he recites. “Fireflies, are, um, supposed to be the souls of soldiers who have died in war, in Japanese mythology. Which is great inspiration for my free skate, I suppose.”
Victor’s face falls just a little bit for a fraction of a second, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light. “Oh. I—”
“—they’realsoametaphorforpassionatelove,” Yuuri yelps, and if there is a god Victor will not have heard him properly—
Victor dips Yuuri like a ballroom dancer and kisses him. There is no god, and Yuuri’s kind of okay with that.
Alright, he’s more than okay with that.
“You are the answer to my question / you are my accomplice in a crime / you are my wing woman and did I mention / we were together in another life?“
Yuuri closes his eyes, letting the lights shine softly pink through his eyelids. The wine has relaxed him, spreading sleepy tendrils from his heart out through his limbs; Victor’s arms around him feel so natural that it’s insane to realize they haven’t done this every single day for years.


“This little girl got to meet Lana at the signing, though she had nothing to sign so Lana Del Rey took a vinyl off the shelf signed it for her and went "I’ll pay”.“

All You See Are Sympathetic Eyes (original work)

His Toyota Corolla makes a series of unpleasant noises as he turns into the driveway - the squeal of a steering pump followed by the grinding crunch of suspension rods getting ready to energetically vacate their mounting bolts.  He’d had this delivery job for only two years now, and already doubled the mileage on his car, and odds were great it wasn’t going to last much longer.

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