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fabulouspotatosister · 5 years ago

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Reset - Part One: Darling

a/n: Whoa, Eleven x Reader fanfiction in the year of our Lord 2020? More likely than you think.

I meant to finish the original version of this fic years ago, and then the Thirteenth Doctor came along and... well, we all know what happened. I was also just going to update the fic with a whole new chapter, but I decided to rewrite the whole thing since I wrote the first draft in 2015. Then I posted it in 2018 on AO3 to see if anyone would read it, and then proceeded to abandon it for two years.

This fic is inspired by the episode "Amy's Choice", and, of course, "What's In a Dream?" by midnighteclipses. It's still one of my favorite DW reader-insert fics out there, and the first one I read a long long time ago. I hope you enjoy this!

Also if this read-more doesn’t work, I’m going to cry.

Word count: 3529

[Part One: You are here!] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five]

“Darling, wake up.”

You groan and squeeze your eyes shut, clumsy fingers grabbing at your blanket to pull the fuzzy thing over your eyes. The blankets smell good today. You’ve always used the same detergent, and it’s never failed you. Your brain is protesting, but your mouth hasn’t quite caught up yet, so all you do is mumble into your blanket, your mumbling roughly translating to “Five more minutes, please?”

“Love. Sweetie. Dear. Don’t make me pull out ‘sweetheart’, I know how much you hate it.” You hear a long, dramatic sigh, and you feel a weight sink into the mattress. The weight shifts, and you feel hands splayed out on top of the blanket, threatening to pull it away and rob you of some good, extra sleep. “Please wake up.”

“No,” you whine, vainly hoping that you’ll sink into the blankets and fall asleep before the idea of waking up becomes too tempting. It is getting a little hot... “Leave me alone.”

Another sigh. “You asked for it.”

“No, no -!”

Suddenly, the blanket’s yanked away - you wince at the bright light that filters through the room, and when your vision clears, you see your husband, John.

He smiles at you, and it’s brilliant. His hair is sticking out at ridiculous angles and yet he is still stunning, big beautiful green eyes shining in the light of the rising sun. “Hi,” he breathes out, and all you can think is that you have never felt so lucky in your entire life.

“Hi.” You smile back, and his smile grows wider. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says softly, reaching out to brush your hair from your forehead. “I was starting to wonder if you would ever wake up.”

“Sleep is good.” You raise your eyebrows and push yourself up into a sitting position - John moves to sit closer to you, his hand falling from your temple and into your lap. He wraps his hand around yours. “It’s an escape.”

“What, an escape from me? Am I that insufferable?” John lifts your hand to his mouth, laughing slightly. He presses his lips lightly to the inside of your palm, and butterflies erupt in your stomach. He slowly lifts his eyes to meet yours, mischief behind them, and suddenly you’re a schoolgirl with a crush, your heart racing at a simple kiss. “Well?”

Well, that wasn’t fair. “Are you trying something?”

John doesn’t move, but you know he’s hidden his smirk behind your hand - “Is it working?”

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

Oh, he’s definitely smirking now. “Of course.”

“You are a big flirt.” You pull your hand away with a laugh. John had always been mischievous, his affection expressed in teasing touches and words. “Is something up? What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion? There’s no occasion,” John says, and then his smile falls. You can see the gears in his head turning as he lifts his gaze to the sky, his lips open slightly in thought - and then, like nothing, he smiles again. “Although something is up. Close your eyes.”

“What, now?” You giggle, doing as you’re told.

“Yes, now,” John says. You feel him cup your face in his hands, and feel his lips on your forehead, and you catch the faint smell of pancake mix and blueberries amongst his distinctive smell. “I had to hurry before you got grumpy, and so there’s a bit of a mess in the kitchen, I’m really sorry -”

"I don't get grumpy!"

"Right, right…"

You feel him get off the bed and leave the room, his footsteps growing softer as he walks away. Distantly, there’s the clinking of plates and utensils, something being poured into a glass, and something muttered that you’re sure is a swear -

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

You do, and you can barely keep your jaw from falling open - laid out in front of you is a breakfast feast. Pancakes, perfectly stacked pancakes drizzled with just the right amount of syrup, dotted with the color of blueberries, and a steaming cup of coffee right beside it. The room smells amazing now, and you feel amazing. All you can do is stare incredulously at the meal laid out in front of you.

“Surprise!”

You look up at John, your mouth still wide open - he hands you a fork and smiles sheepishly, placing his hands behind his back. Standing in front of you, you finally notice the flour stains on his arms, and the bits of batter on his shirt. Shaking your head, you blink away tears.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” John says, quickly reaching forward to take your face in his hands again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb and you bask in the warmth of his touch - you are so lucky to have someone like him in your life. Forever. “I just wanted to make you breakfast.”

“Yeah, but - this is so nice, I can’t -” You reach up and hold his wrists. “Why?”

“Well, you deserve to have nice things.” John exhales, looking up at the ceiling before pressing his forehead to yours. “Someone as beautiful as you deserves to have nice things.”

“Oh, don’t start,” you complain, but John just laughs and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. You, with your bedhead and your chapped lips and your sleepy face, beautiful. You weren’t really complaining at all. There’s a buzzing noise from the nightstand on the other side of the bed - “Hey, I think that’s your phone.”

“I don’t have a phone,” John says innocently.

“You have a phone, and you have work,” you counter. You realize you’re winning when he lets go of your face and rolls onto the other side of the bed to check his phone.

“I’m going to be late!” you hear him gasp, and you bark out a laugh - John turns to face you, scandalized, his face pale. “This is no time to be laughing at my misery!”

“It’s the perfect time to be laughing at your misery.”

“I’m sorry, I got carried away making breakfast -” John scrambles off the bed, rushing to the closet and pulling out a coat. He switches between the closet and the full-length mirror propped up beside it, running his hands through his hair and adjusting his coat. “Bon appetit! Enjoy your pancakes, sweetheart, I’ve got to -”

“Wait!” you cry out, stopping him in his tracks. “Wait. C’mere, I’m not letting you leave without a hug from me.”

“But of course,” he says, quickly walking to you and leaning down so he can wrap your arms around you. You press kisses to his neck, his jaw, and finally his lips, attacking him with affection as a small “thank you” for the breakfast. It’s the least you can do for your lovely husband, the perfect man that you’ve somehow managed to snag from everyone else. How did you even manage that?

“I won’t keep you,” you whisper, and he pulls away. “Go, you clever boy!”

John beams at you and rushes out of the room - you hear the front door slam not long after. You settle into your pillows and pick at your pancakes; they taste divine, of course, and you sit on your bed silently eating your pancakes while enjoying the sound of distant birdsong. Chewing on a particularly syrupy piece of fluffy pancake you remember that you’ll have to clean up the “mess” John mentioned earlier, and you smile, having a plan already set for the day.

You spring to your feet with a renewed sense of vigor, gathering up your empty plate and mug, and carrying them into the kitchen. You smooth your gloved hands over your apron and get to work washing all the plates left in the sink - and then you frown. You don’t remember when you got dressed, or when you put those gloves on, and what you ate last night. The thought passes quickly before you shake your head and continue scrubbing at an already spotless plate.

You dry off the last of the plates, placing it neatly onto a metal rack before grabbing a broom and sweeping the floor - you’d narrowly avoided choosing carpet as your flooring when you were renovating, before John had swooped in and saved the day by picking out some classic floorboards.

The dust and lint gathers into a pile in the corner, and you lean on your broom, admiring your home.

You were lucky to have bought such a nice house. It wasn’t too big, but had enough space for you to be able to decorate and plan for the future. Very lucky indeed...

There’s a “photo wall” near the kitchen that you like to look at. It’s sparse, but there are a lot of mementos there to remind you of the important things. Among the usual decorative pictures of forests and gardens there are pictures of you and John - pictures of the two of you at your wedding, posing and laughing and drinking with friends. Wasn’t your dress frilly that day? Or was it loose? Wasn’t your hair in a bun? John didn’t wear a bowtie, you think...

You squint at the photos. Your gaze is drawn to one of the wedding pictures, one from the reception where you’re standing with all your bridesmaids. You’re drinking and laughing, holding a champagne flute in your hand, but you can’t make out the bridesmaids faces. They’re fuzzy, and where are their mouths? Their eyes? The photo blurs like the photographer taking it had moved his hand while trying to take the shot.

Your grip on your broom tightens. It feels like years and years ago, and the details escape you now.

You shouldn’t focus on those things. You’re happy here, with John - but maybe you should go find your bridesmaids, it’s been so long since you’ve last seen them. What were their names again? You’re sure Jenny was one... but you don’t know a “Jenny”.

You can feel your nails digging into the broom’s wooden handle now, threatening to leave crescent-shaped marks into its surface. The details escape you, now.

And the details don’t matter.

You sweep quickly, the pile of lint and dust and pieces of wood growing steadily bigger. Soon enough the house will be spotless again, and John will come back from work and you’ll kiss him until you have to clean the house again.

That’s my life, whispers the voice in the back of your head, and you believe it. I am happy. I am content.

“I am happy,” you mutter as you place the broom down, letting in lean against the side of one of the kitchen counters. The pile of dust is gone, you swept it out of the door. You walk towards the living room, the soft surface of the sofa beckoning you to lay on it and just take a nap. Forget about all the racing thoughts in your mind. You said sleep was an escape, and you have to escape now. "I am content."

But your feet take you somewhere else. You lead yourself down the hallways, away from the living room, and now you’re standing in front of a beautifully painted blue door.

You don’t recognize the door, but it’s familiar. Your brain helpfully supplies it as the laundry room, which is always clean and doesn’t need cleaning ever, but you’re drawn to how faded it is. You lift your hand and drag your fingers across its surfaces. You feel old paint and memories behind this door, and you don’t have to open it.

Your fingers inch closer and closer to the doorknob and you don’t need to open it -

The door swings open slowly with a soft creak. It’s pitch-black in there. You feel a soft breeze against your face - you take a small step inside, clinging to the doorway, squinting through the darkness. The darkness almost feels solid, like a barrier, keeping you out.

Or, you think as you spot a flickering flashlight on the floor, it’s keeping something in.

You pick up the flashlight, tapping it a few times until its flickering stops. Your fingers curl around its sleek metal handle. You wave it around, watching it cut through the darkness to reveal -

The flashlight clatters to the ground. Writing. Words, scrawled all over the walls in your handwriting, frenzied rambling trailing from the walls to the ceiling. Don’t forget, try not to forget. Among the crazed writing are drawings, messy sketches of you and John together in places you don’t recognize. Arrows pointing to John labeled “Doctor, Doctor”.

“No, no, no...” You feel weak, you feel wrong. This can’t be real. It’s not real. Where am I? Who am I?

And etched into the wall right in front of you, surrounded by your name: Remember who you are.

You blink, breathing heavily, and you’re outside. The door was never open. The door was never there. You trace your fingers against the wall, and it just feels like a wall. It’s just a wall. A wall with some really nice wallpaper, wallpaper that you picked out not long before the wedding. You agreed on flowers, because they were nice to look at - didn’t you agree on stripes?

You keep blinking. You can still see its silhouette in the split second where your eyes haven’t fully closed yet, and when they’re not fully open.

But there was a door. You could have sworn there was a door there, it led to the laundry room - you feel all over the wall and find the place where the doorknob should be, and you feel something solid but see nothing. What the hell is going on –

…

“Darling, I’m home!”

John’s voice rings out from behind you and you suck in a breath, whipping around to see him come in through the front door. The sun’s already set. Darling. He’s never really called you darling, hasn’t he? You take in a shaky breath, and call back - “Yes, honey?”

John lifts his arms for a hug, grinning brightly and dressed in completely different clothes from when he left. “Where’s my lovely wife?”

My lovely wife, I was never your lovely wife, but you rush into his arms anyway. He stumbles back at the force of your embrace, slowly wrapping his arms around you and patting your hair. This is comfort you’re used to, but not in this context. And now all the things he did this morning seem so different - “Hey - what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m-” Not sure about who I am. John’s hold loosens on you slightly, and he leans away from you to look into your eyes. “I think something’s wrong.”

“Oh, nothing’s wrong, nothing’s ever been wrong,” John says. But everything is wrong - how is he not getting it? “But tell me.”

“The laundry room,” you mumble, even though that place was definitely not the laundry room. John’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

“We’ve never had a laundry room.” He looks over your shoulder at the place that’s just a wall, and frowns. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“But - there was a door there,” you say, wrenching yourself away from John’s arms and walking to the wall. The wallpaper flickers between flowers and stripes. You feel against the wall until you hit something solid, something round. “There’s a door here right now.”

John squints. “I don’t see it.”

“Look,” you stress. You grab his hand and place it on the doorknob, and when you look up the door is back, beautiful and blue and now you know what it reminds you of. “Open the door.”

“Darling, I don’t -”

“Stop calling me darling and open the door, Doctor!” you snap, and John pulls his hand away from the doorknob, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“That’s not my name,” he insists. “You’re not feeling well.”

“I’m feeling very well, thank you very much,” you grumble. Remember who you are. “Please, just open the door. For me.”

John - but also not John - stares at you, his mouth set in a hard line. You recognize that look and you recognize him, who he really is, and he’s not your husband. After a moment, he sighs, places his hand on the doorknob, and twists it, flinging the door open.

The room is illuminated now, all of the scratched writing clear to see - Remember, you have to remember who you are. There are so many more sketches now, and they blur and shift right in front of your eyes. You’re all in places you recognize - Starship UK, ancient Egypt, the planet of the Gargotins. You grab John’s hand and lead him to one of the sketches on the wall.

“I remember this,” John mumbles. He presses his hands to the wall. “This was a dream I had. You and me together at the end of the world.”

“When?” you ask.

“L-last night,” he replies. You grab the front of his shirt and he gasps.

“Then what did we do last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

The whole dream shatters when you find one, tiny, hairline crack in the illusion. There was never a “last night”. “You don’t remember or you don’t know?!”

John opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it, deep in thought. You can see the gears turning in his head - just like the morning, when nothing was wrong and everything was perfect and he was your husband - but they’re turning too slowly, which isn’t like who he really is. The room starts to darken, the writing that’s brought you back fading away. You’re running out of time.

You grip his shirt tighter and shake him. “You need to remember! Who you really are - it’s got to be locked in your big brain somewhere! You’re not John Smith, you’re not my husband, you’re The Doctor!”

“The - the Doctor…” he stammers, raising his hands to his head, his eyes widening in realization.

“Yes, that’s you! Two thousand years old! An alien! Come on!”

“The Doctor - I am the Doctor!” Suddenly, the Doctor grins and grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug. He laughs, his arms wrapped around you, squeezing you slightly before he lets go. “Oh, it feels good to be me again. Hair - good. Eyes - still got ‘em. Bowtie -” His hand shoots up to his collar. He frowns when he doesn’t feel anything there - “Could be worse.”

“Doctor, where are we?”

“Dunno. I can’t tell if it’s a simulation or an actual set. If it’s a simulation, then it’s not a good one.” The Doctor whirls around, examining the walls. He lifts his hand to place it in his jacket, looking for his sonic - then he groans when he realizes he was never wearing a jacket. “Empty pockets!”

“Oh, again?”

The entire room shakes and you stumble - the voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere without a clear source, and it also sounds vaguely annoyed. The Doctor quickly grabs your hand and squeezes it tight in silent comfort, and now you wish he hadn’t done all of those things in the morning. You glance at his serious face and silently thank whatever gods are out there that he hasn’t mentioned any of it, at all.

“Marlene. Marlene!”

There’s another voice, timid and shy. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Subjects 11A and 11B have escaped immersion. Again. For the fifth time this cycle. Did you forget to intensify their wipes?”

“No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“They’re awake now, so they’re no use to us. Reset them and -”

“WAIT!” Your plea comes out louder than expected. The Doctor glances at you, and when you meet his gaze, confusion and concern swim in his eyes. “At least tell us what’s going on!”

“Sorry, 11B, but that’s classified information. You should know, you’ve asked me this before.”

“Well, it would do us a world of good if we knew!” the Doctor says loudly. “Who are you?”

“I’ll say it again. Classified information.” There’s a spitting sound, and then another laugh. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Well then make time!” you shout, and the Doctor pulls you closer to him.

“Oh, 11A, or should I say the Doctor. Not so ‘Oncoming Storm’ now, are you? Do you want me to tell you what happens to your poor little companion if you keep going like this? Or do you want a demonstration?”

“What it’s talking about?” You look up at the Doctor. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, and they’re burning with anger.

“I don’t know. Keep quiet,” he mutters. Then, raising his voice again, “We’ll keep trying! We’ll keep trying to get out!”

You hear a deep chuckle. “Then good luck. Reset them.”

A wave of exhaustion passes over you, and through your haze you reach out for the Doctor - you still have to keep him safe -

You’re out before you even hit the floor, the Doctor’s hand still wrapped in yours.

#i havent even really finished it yet #but here it is!!#i hope you guys like it #i had a blast writing this 2015 me is thriving #doctor who #doctor who x reader #eleventh doctor x reader #eleventh doctor #11th doctor x reader #doctor who fanfiction #jess writes

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introvert-traveler · 5 years ago

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Feminist Talk

I can’t believe there are still women out there who think there isn’t a gender bias, that there’s no sexism out there, and that there’s no need for feminism.

So far, there are at least three types of people who think feminism isn’t needed:

1) Sexist People: those who commit the sexism itself, who take advantage of it and want to continue doing it. Those who commit rape and think they should own women’s bodies.

2) Priviliged People: those who aren’t really affected by it, and because of it, they invalidate other people’s experiences.

3) Uneducated Non-Deniers: those who thing we shouldn’t center it on gender, and it should just be centered on who deserves’s being there. Those who think there isn’t a need for more female directors, that if they aren’t being given opportunities, it’s because they aren’t as good.

And then there are those who believe in the feminist causes, but are afraid of being called feminist. The ones that are confused due to the extremist feminists, the ones that think men shouldn’t be equal to women (the term for that in Spanish would be hembrismo -sadly, there isn’t a word for it in English- since they don’t believe in equality, and I don’t think that it’s real feminism).

So to anyone that it’s invalidating other people’s experiences, or that’s confused about why should they care:

I think the passion for this subject comes after a person experiences patriarchal or sexist situations, maybe in terrible ways, maybe in more subtle scenes, and discovers that it shouldn’t be normal or natural, and that they weren’t heard.

And maybe you are lucky, or you can just ignore it, or you are really privileged and never lived through that.

Maybe you aren’t saying that there isn’t a lack of equality, or that women’s are treated equally to men. Maybe you aren’t saying that Feminist are liars in that aspect, or you aren’t denying people’s experiences, at least not mostly, even if the problem is that the reason they aren’t given chances it’s because of the gender bias, which is why it’s gender centered fight.

I think a thing I should mention, defending why there is a need for feminism and a gender centered discussion: feminicidios. Feminicides in English according to google. Though the closest I could find is this description “Gendercide is the systematic killing of members of a specific gender. The term is related to the general concepts of assault and murder against victims due to their gender”.

In Argentina, last year, there were at least 290 feminicidios (female murders) by 25 of November 2019. 290 Women that were killed by a lover, an ex lover or someone rejected by them. That is one every 29hs or so, If I’m doing the maths right. (And If no other death occurred after the date or publication, which is the last public information I could find about it).

At least 3529 women were killed during 2018 in 25 latin countries. That’s 9.6 women per day. In Italy there has been at least 15 Female-gender-centered-Murder by today’s available information (12th of February of 2020). And there is so much more information available out there, all a person has to do is do a small google research, and millions of statistics will pop up.

I never mentioned that I was an administrative assistant for over a year and a half in a domestic violence office, when I worked for a public organization. While I was there, I saw how women were treated, how scared they were, and how the media, the police and the justice system handled those cases. I saw how women got killed for being women all the time.

For making choices, for standing up and saying no, for trying to get away. The cases of men being killed by their partners were so low, when it happened that one girl killed her boyfriend out of jealousy in Argentina, it made national news and people still talk about it today (Nahir Galarza), because it generally doesn’t happen -so they wanted to use it as a point against feminism, but unlike femicidios that were so many the list never ended, the male version of that list was way shorter. There is a gender bias against women, which is why it ends up centering on gender. Why we need to center on gender talk.

While I was in my birth country, I lived in fear of being kidnapped, of being raped, mugged or killed. I was scared of sexual harassment, of being catcalled, of being followed, drugged, groped, or any other situation. I was afraid constantly. I was paranoid, and I didn’t know ho much it affected my everyday life till I moved to Denmark, saw how safe it was, and a weight I hadn’t known how heavy it was, dropped from my shoulders. I’m not gonna say rapes and sexual harassment doesn’t happen here, it definitely does, I still need to be careful, but now I can walk down the street at night and feel safer. I can go out and hope reasonably I’ll get back home.

So when I say I get sad thinking about this, It’s because I know how scary it is, how victims aren’t listened, how numbers grow every year, and there is a gender disparity. I’m quoting the most brutal thing: being murdered because of their gender. But it happens in so many other ways, there isn’t just one way in which gender bias and discrimination (sexism) affects women’s.

In Argentina it’s harder to find a job if you are a woman because you can get pregnant, or because they don’t think you are smart enough. And Men constantly deny women’s experiences. When I was sexually harassed, my superiors didn’t think it was real harassment, they didn’t agree with my views and thought that I was just making a scene, yet I was lucky that my boss still defended me, when not everyone was. I had a colleague who had to quit after reporting a boss for harassment. So I was extremely affected by patriarchy and sexism all my life.

You can’t define something by calling it by it’s negative, you can’t construct a concept and make it know and believable if you only call it by “not-this”. The absence of peace is not “not-peace”, it’s war (and this is a concept from 1984 -which I might be translating it wrong-) “In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it.” wrote G. Orwell.

Feminism is needed, for as long as women have to prove their worth constantly in way men’s aren’t asked to do. For as long that we can provide at least 8 names of women who should have been nominated for an award, where no woman was. For as long as women are told that their stories aren’t true, that there isn’t a need for them. For as long as there is a lack of representation. For as long as men are also being affected by patriarchy. For as long as equality isn’t real. We ask to be given the same chances and opportunities. We ask to be considered for stuff and not be told no because of our gender.

We want to be given opportunities despite our gender. Maternal and paternal leaves, equally shared responsibility for a kid, equal chances at a job, equal reparesentation in media for all genders of all sexual orientations. We want trans rights and lgtbqia+ rights. We want ovarian-owner’s right to choose what’s best for their bothers. And to stop xenophobia and transphobic and any other kind of gender/sexuality/nationalities related phobia.

We want equality for everyone. And if you believe that, then you are a feminist.

TERFs DO NOT INTERACT.

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notarelationship · 6 years ago

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One Big Happy Family

Another entry in the series: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

Summary: It's never the right time to meet the in-laws, is it? Kurt and Blaine have surprise guests.

Rated: G Characters: Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson, Burt Hummel, Carole Hudson-Hummel, Pam Anderson Words: 3529 AU, Mashup with the 1960′s US tv series Bewitched Warnings: None Chapters: 1/2

Notes: It has always been my intention to get back to this, but no one is more surprised than I am that I am finally doing it! I have a half dozen or so prompts in this universe that I am hoping to get to this year, so cross your fingers!

This picks up directly after the events in I Married A Witch, and you really need to read that one to get into the universe, so if you haven't I recommend doing that right now! It's funny! You'll like it!

This one is two chapters, the second one will post tomorrow.

I Married A Witch - AO3, tumblr

One Big Happy Family - AO3

ETA: OF COURSE thanks to my beta @honeysucklepink! Never post a fic while eating pizza. Too many things to remember.

Kurt has no idea how long the doorbell has been ringing, but now there’s knocking too. He’s not hungover after last night, not from alcohol anyway. But he’s tired as hell and wants to spend the day in bed with his still-new husband. Maybe order breakfast from the deli and watch reality TV all day.

He pushes his leg between Blaine's knees and burrows his nose against his neck, smooshing his lips against Blaine’s skin while he mumbles.

“We jus’ got married. No’ne can leave us’lone? Time 'sit?"

"Dunno." Blaine tucks himself further into Kurt's arms and Kurt can't help smiling. "Too early for you to be drooling on my neck like that."

"Mmmm somewhere else you'd like me to drool?" He nips at the back of Blaine’s neck and grinds his half hard dick against Blaine's ass.

"I think that sounded better in your head, Kurt—" The doorbell rings again. Several times.

"What is wrong with Brooklyn, Blaine? Who is ringing the bell at 9am on Saturday?"

"Probably the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The neighborhood is crawling with them. If you don't answer they'll go away."

Kurt doesn't answer and the knocking stops. Two minutes later his phone starts vibrating on the bedside table. Sighing with a mix of frustration and exasperation Kurt gives in and rolls over to reach his phone. He tries not to go into shock when he sees the message.

"Oh shit," he hisses, wide awake now and pulling on his yoga pants and a shirt from the top of their laundry pile that turns out to be one of Blaine jogging tanks. He pulls it over his head as he skids down the hall barefoot. When he opens the door he stares at the couple on the other side for a full minute before he can speak.

"Dad! Carole! What are you doing here?"

Kurt doesn’t know why he’s panicking, but somehow he can’t help feeling like he got caught sneaking in after curfew.

"I got a couple cheap last minute flights and we thought we'd surprise you," his dad explains as Kurt opens the door and lets them in. The look on Carole’s face as she follows Burt down the hall is all apology.

“Oh! Great!” Kurt plasters a smile on his face. He’s not sure why; he’s old enough to know he can be upset at his father if he wants to. Burt is standing in the hallway looking around and it takes Kurt a minute to realize this is not an apartment his dad has ever been in, even though it’s home to Kurt now. “Second door on the left, Dad,” Kurt says, and Burt takes the lead walking down the short hall. Kurt doesn’t want to wake Blaine, but he definitely needs to warn him. He hangs back a step as Burt disappears through the doorway, gently tugging Carole by the elbow to hold her back.

"You could have called," he hisses, still more panicked than angry.

"He woke me up in the middle of the night and said we were going to New York, that he’d already packed our bags.” Carole whispers back. “I sent you a text." Kurt glares at his phone screen. There is indeed a text from Carole at 6 am. "I guess he doesn't trust either of us," she says with a frown.

Kurt leads Carole into their tiny living room, adjacent to the kitchen, where Burt is turning in circles taking the place in. With three adults and two suitcases in the space it suddenly feels very small. Suffocating even, Kurt thinks.

“This is nice, Kurt,” Burt says. “It’s charming.” Burt turns to look at Kurt, and Kurt can tell from the forced lightness in his dad’s tone that he has a lot more to say.

“Yeah, um, Blaine has a really great deal on the rent, so we thought we‘d stay here until we found someplace that had enough space for both of us.” Burt just nods. “My apartment’s only a one-bedroom too.”

“Have you got someplace I can wash up? I’m a little dusty from the flight,” Burt asks.

Kurt shows Burt where the bathroom is, returning to the sitting area to pace in front of his step-mother.

“How pissed off is he?” Kurt asks Carole. He really needs to know what he should be preparing for.

Carole shakes her head, throwing her arms up helplessly as she sits on the small sofa. Kurt sits next to her, leaning into her side for reassurance. “I don’t know. He was surprised by your call.” She turns to him with a look that clearly says ‘what did you think would happen?’ “He didn’t want to wait to meet Blaine, honestly Kurt I think he was worried about you. We were supposed to sit down today and try to plan a trip out here sooner rather than later.” Carole sighs. “I guess he decided he couldn’t wait.”

Kurt is hugging himself, entirely not sure what he should do first. Should he explain to his dad alone? Should he wake Blaine so they can put up a united front?

Carole sighs and he can feel her relax next to him. “Can I ask you something? Before he comes back?”

Kurt nods.

“Do you really love him? Blaine?”

Kurt feels the stress drain out of his shoulders. This question he knows the answer to.. “So much Carole. He’s everything I could have ever wanted, and nothing that I would have dared dream about.”

“Then your dad will come around.” She pats him on his shoulder, pulling him in for a hug. They’re still hugging when Burt returns from the bathroom.

“So Kurt, where’s this new husband of yours?”

Kurt jumps to his feet and sucks in a breath to center himself. “He’s still sleeping, Dad.”

“Hmm. Well I guess it is a weekend -” Burt starts, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Isabelle threw us a dinner party last night,” Kurt interrupts. “We didn’t get home until after one am so honestly Dad we’re -”

“Kurt? I heard voices. You didn’t let them in did you? I know they can be persistent but -” He’s rubbing sleep from his eyes but stops talking when he realizes there are people in the room with Kurt. Kurt is silently thankful that Blaine actually put pajama pants on before coming out to look for him - though a shirt would have been nice too, under the circumstances, but his eyes go wide at the sight of the hickey placed on his hip, just over the elastic waistband of his pants.

“Blaine!” Kurt steps around Burt and Carole who both turn to get a look at their new son-in-law. “Blaine, honey, um, these are my parents, Burt and Carole Hummel,” Kurt manages to say. “Dad, Carole, this is Blaine.” Kurt slings an arm around Blaine’s shoulders. He can feel the awkwardness of the situation but isn’t sure yet how to fix it.

Blaine utters a soft oh, then seems to realize then that he’s shirtless and immediately crosses his arms in front of his chest in nervous attempt to cover himself. A second later he’s untangling his arms and holding a hand out to Burt. “I’m sorry, it’s so nice to meet you both.” Carole narrows her eyes at Burt, who hasn’t quite caught up, and takes Blaine’s hand.

“It’s lovely to meet you too Blaine,” Carole says, and Kurt is grateful for his step-mother’s warmth and acceptance, not for the first time in his life. Burt manages to remember his manners as well, after Carole elbows him in the ribs, and shakes Blaine’s hand when he offers.

Blaine recovers from the shock of meeting his new in-laws before Kurt can figure out what to do next.

“How about I go put a shirt on then I can make some coffee?” He points toward the bedroom and is about to leave when Kurt notices his dad staring in the direction of Blaine’s hickey.

“That sounds like a great idea!” Kurt says, much too brightly, then winces. “Dad, Carole why don’t you guys have a seat and I’ll be right out and we can get you settled.”

Kurt hustles Blaine down the hall and into the bedroom before Burt can say anything. He knows his dad is harmless really, but it sometimes takes an excessive amount of bluster for him to just accept something, and he had a feeling there would be a lot of blustering about him running off and getting married without so much has a phone call. Not that Kurt is sure he doesn’t deserve it, but it is entirely too early in the morning for that, and he thought he’d have a little more time to prepare. And Blaine certainly doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of any of it.

Once they’re in the bedroom with the door closed Blaine spins around - and is fully dressed in pale pink chino shorts, a white polo shirt, and a yellow bow tie with tiny dachshunds all over it. Kurt blinks hard and shakes his head because it’s not only a surprise, but Blaine must be really anxious - the look really doesn’t go well together at all.

“Warn me when you’re going to do that please?” He whisper-shrieks. “Also it’s too much. Lose the tie.” Kurt waves a little dismissively.

Blaine blinks and the tie disappears. “Those are not Jehovah’s Witnesses Kurt! That is your dad out there!” He’s whispering, but only just barely. Blaine is really freaking out because his hair is still going in thirty-seven different directions.

“You forgot to uh -“ Kurt points a twirling finger to the top of Blaine’s head.

Blaine huffs and wiggles his nose and his mess of curls is instantly transformed into the slick style he wears every day. “Kurt.”

“I didn’t know they were coming!” Kurt protests, but now that he’s had a moment to think he feels like he can at least get control of the immediate situation. “But here’s what I think we should do - we don’t have enough room for them here, so I’ll take them over to my empty apartment and set them up there for however long they’re staying. It can’t be too long; Dad won’t leave the garage for more than a few days in a row, even with back-up.”

Blaine sits down on the edge of the bed and takes a deep centering breath, closing his eyes as he exhales and nods.

“Give me about an hour. I’ll try to convince them to take a nap or something, then we can meet up with them later for lunch or a walk around the neighborhood later. I promise my dad will behave. And besides Carole is amazing and can totally keep him in line, I’m sure he knows this is a bit over the top. How does that sound?”

“Okay.” Blaine makes a small whimpering noise, but collects himself. “Okay. That sounds okay.” Kurt pulls on some shorts and a patterned tank top, and pockets his keys and wallet and phone. “Is he going to murder me?” Blaine asks as Kurt gets to the doorway.

That actually makes Kurt laugh. “You? No. Me? Jury’s out.” Kurt kisses Blaine on the forehead, and Blaine follows him back out into the apartment.

“Sorry about earlier,” Blaine apologizes the minute they’re in the living room. “We weren’t really expecting anyone this early.” Kurt sees his dad look at Blaine and frown, like he doesn’t recognize him with the new hair.

“Don’t worry about it at all,” Carole reassures them. “We should be apologizing for waking you so early without warning. Isn’t that right Burt?” Her words sound pleasant, but Kurt knows his step-mother and he can tell she’s had words with his father already about barging in at this hour. He’s going to have to send her flowers, or an Hermes scarf from the sample room.

Burt frowns, but he’s appropriately contrite. “Yeah, I guess calling would have made some sense.”

“It’s all fine Dad,” Kurt tells him. “But Blaine and I were talking and as you can see we really don’t have a lot of room here. We could put you up on a blow up mattress in Blaine’s music room if you want, but I think you guys will be a lot more comfortable in my apartment. It’s only a few blocks away and all my furniture is still there. You can sleep in a real bed.”

Carole is instantly supportive of this idea. “I would much rather sleep in a bed than on the floor Burt,” she says. “And I’m sure your back will agree.” Burt’s uncharacteristically quiet, but he nods in agreement. “Thanks Kurt, Blaine.”

“You sure you don’t want me to help?” Blaine asks as Kurt herds his dad and Carole toward the door.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll get them settled and then text you and let you know the plan.” Blaine gives him a quick kiss, and they leave.

Along the way Carole enthusiastically agrees that Kurt’s suggestion of a nap sounds perfect, and they stop and pick up some bagels and coffee and juice so they have something to eat when they get to the apartment.

“Blaine and I moved all of my things over, and I’m pretty sure we cleaned out the fridge. We can go out for dinner later, or pick up stuff and cook - whatever you want,” Kurt tells them as they walk the couple of blocks to his apartment. “And I’ll put some clean linens on the bed. We stripped it, but I think I left some sheets there. We haven’t really had a chance to decide what things we’re keeping and what should go.”

“Have you started looking for a new apartment yet?” Carole asks.

“No, everything’s sort of happened so fast.” Burt grunts, but Kurt ignores him, “School ends in a couple of weeks and then Blaine will have a lot of free time and we are planning to sit down and figure out what we want in a new place, if we should stay in this neighborhood, how much room we’ll need, that sort of thing.”

“Do you think you’ll lose money on your apartment?” Burt asks, as Kurt holds open the lobby door of his building.

“I don’t think so,” Kurt answers as they step into the elevator. “The property values go up around here by the hour. And honestly, if I break even that’s fine. I really didn’t like this apartment much. Blaine’s place has so much more character. It would be great to find something in one of the older neighborhood buildings.”

Kurt opens the door and Carole and his dad go in first, dragging their rolling suitcases with them.

“This is nice Kurt,” Carole exclaims.

“Yeah, are you sure you don’t want to live here?” His dad asks.

Kurt shuts and locks the door before turning around. “I definitely don’t,” he says. “Blaine said he would do anything I wanted, but I think --” Kurt stops when he turns and finally looks at the apartment. It’s spotless. And full of gorgeous furniture that Kurt is sure was not there before. Also they definitely did not leave this apartment spotless two nights ago when they picked up Kurt’s clothes.

“I thought you said you cleaned out the fridge?” Burt says.

“I did. We did.” Kurt joins his dad in the kitchen, where he’s staring into a fully stocked refrigerator.

Half a gallon of milk, packages of cheese and ham and what looks like roast beef. A dozen eggs, six containers of Kurt’s favorite yogurt. A whole rotisserie chicken. The shelves in the door hold an easy dozen different sauces, mustards, and salad dressings. Kurt sucks in a sharp breath.

Burt just looks at him. “Maybe you forgot.” He reaches past Kurt for the milk, checking the date then unscrewing the cap and sniffing. “Smells fine.” Burt replaces the cap and sets it back on the shelf.

“Maybe….” Kurt leaves the kitchen and finds Carole in the bedroom unpacking. The bed is neatly made and turned down, with sheets Kurt has never seen before in his life. “I know I stripped the bed,” he says to himself, but definitely out loud. “Blaine.”

“What about Blaine dear?” Carole interrupts.

“What?” Kurt comes back to the room. “Oh, nothing. Blaine must have put clean sheets on for the realtor.” He’s relieved that he could come up with ‘realtor’, even though they haven’t called one yet. “They like to show a fully made up apartment, it’s easier to sell.” Carole nodded and went back to unpacking.

When Kurt rejoins his dad in the living room he’s trying to figure out which buttons turn on the television, and Kurt hopes that he can leave him with some sporting event of some kind to distract him. Kurt shows him which buttons get him where he wants, and they make small talk for a few more minutes, but Kurt notices his dad looking around his apartment like he’s going to be quizzed on it later. Kurt knows his dad is working up to something - either chewing him out or hard questions just to see how satisfying Kurt’s answers, and he might call him on it under different circumstances, but there’s a piece of Kurt that wants to see just how passive aggressive his dad is capable of being about his getting married.

For one brief second Burt opens his mouth, and Kurt thinks, this is it, this is the lecture Kurt’s been waiting for since he woke up in that Las Vegas hotel room, but Burt just frowns instead, saying nothing. Carole comes out of the bedroom before Kurt can decide to just ask Burt to let it out.

“I think I’m going to lie down for that nap now. The early hour has caught up with me, I think. What do you think Burt?” Burt gives her his attention, but has a slightly concerned look on his face. After a long second he nods.

“Probably right, like always honey.” Burt blinks and he seems more relaxed. “We can get a little nap and get cleaned up.”

Kurt claps his hands together. “Great. How about I call you in a couple hours. Blaine and I will pick you up and we can take a walk around the neighborhood?”

They all agree that sounds like a good plan, so Kurt hugs them both tight and leaves them to get settled.

—

“Blaine!” Blaine can hear Kurt shouting in the hallway. “Blaine what did you do? Did you do something to the apartment?”

Blaine rushes to the hall. “Kurt are you okay? What happened?” Kurt looks panic stricken.

“What did you do to the apartment?”

“Oh.” Blaine isn’t sure why Kurt is upset. He just fixed up the apartment so it would be comfortable, so he tells Kurt this.

“Well, I told them on the way over that the place was practically empty. The fridge was full of food, Blaine. No one lives there!” Kurt throws his hands up in the air in what seems to Blaine like a slightly too dramatic gesture, considering all he did was save Kurt a trip to the bodega for some supplies.

“Did I put the wrong stuff in there? I tried to go for the basics; milk, juice, some stuff for sandwiches, I didn’t think -”

“Why would there be food if we don’t live there? It was like a month’s worth of supplies. There were four kinds of mustard Blaine. My dad is from Ohio, In his entire life he’s only seen one kind of mustard.” That seems unlikely to Blaine, but Kurt is on a roll, so he lets him go. “And the bed was made! Those were 500 thread count sheets!” Kurt is practically shrieking at this point, although it does seem more out of fear than anger at Blaine. “And I’m 97% sure none of that furniture was actually mine.”

Blaine frowns. “I didn’t put new furniture in your apartment Kurt. At least I didn’t mean to. And I find it hard to believe your dad has only ever seen one kind of mustard. Ohio is not Idaho. Although,” Blaine pauses. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t intend to put any mustard in there at all.”

“Well it was there. Maybe you need a tune-up, or whatever witches get -”

“Hey.” Blaine looks at Kurt sharply, and that seems to pull him back from the edge. He doesn’t admit to Kurt that the extra things Kurt found in the apartment have made him a little uneasy.

“I’m sorry. I was just really caught off guard. And my dad kept looking around like he expected someone to jump out from behind a door.” Kurt sighs and pulls Blaine into his arms. “I promised them a walk around the neighborhood later,” Kurt says, somewhat calmer now that he’s let it all out.

Blaine nods and buries his face in Kurt’s neck. “That seems harmless enough.”

“And they have a flight out tomorrow afternoon. So we just have to manage tonight. It’ll be fine.” Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s waist and agrees, but he’s not so sure he believes it.

#BBB: one big happy family #klaine fic #klaine fanfiction #betwitched au #bewitched bothered and bewildered

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ao3feed-minjoon · 6 years ago

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by aggravated

To tell you the truth, Namjoon only agreed to the documentary because Indiestory’s craigslist ad was so long, he had just skimmed until he read the line at the bottom:

Participants in this film will be compensated.

So he applied, fuck it, the casting call had just asked for Korean-American men or women, between the ages of 18 and 30, willing to marry a South Korean expat, live with them for 90 days, and have the whole visa process filmed.

In theory, Namjoon was able. He was willing. He was poor enough. Under the bright lights of the studio setup the production crew made in his apartment, he’s a bit less willing, a bit less able to get over the huge hurdle he can see only 90 days in front of him because today- today he’s going to meet the person he has to marry.

only an idiot would agree to marry someone they've never met and have them film their relationship, and even though namjoon has an IQ of 153 he certainly fits the bill.

he hopes they'll pair him with some pretty girl and he's not entirely wrong but-

Words: 3529, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Kim Namjoon | RM, Park Jimin (BTS)

Relationships: Kim Namjoon | RM/Park Jimin

Additional Tags: 90 day fiance AU, New York City, Green Card Marriage, straight namjoon, straight??? namjoon, park jimin is a bitch

#ao3feed #fanfic #minjoon #nammin

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loveotomization · 7 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone’s New Semester of Killing, Dangan Ronpa Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ouma Kokichi/Saihara Shuuichi Characters: Ouma Kokichi, Saihara Shuichi Additional Tags: Fluff and Angst, Cake

Words: 3529 Summary:

“It tastes like…vanilla?” Saihara ventured slowly, and Ouma could hear the stickiness in his voice. A kinder soul would have offered him water. — Ouma has always had difficulty tasting food, but Saihara has a suggestion.

___

@junkpile-of-eterna

Happy birthday, my Shumai! I know it's little early, but since I’ll be busy tomorrow, I wanted to give this to you today! Thank you so much for always being there for me ❤️

—

Ko-fi // Commissions

#saiouma #shuuichi saihara #kokichi ouma #new danganronpa v3 #my fics

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kwa-mii · 8 years ago

Text

AU / Free Day

The end of a week! The end of an era!

This one was 100% the most fun to write and I miiiight have gotten a bit carried away so it ended up a LOT longer than the rest. For that reason, I’ve decided only to post about half of it here - if you want the full experience, check it out on ao3.

I love AUs more than life itself and since today’s my birthday (wow) it worked out pretty well that I get to post it today! Tho I’ve got exams in two weeks so I probably won’t be writing ever again rip

It was defo a fun experience, and I’m really glad that @miraculous-weeks exists to provide me with my inspiration. I also enjoyed seeing all the other fan works!! a good run!!!

Some select words of this fic are in Serbian so I’ve glossed them at the very end of this part of the fic

Killing Hands - an AU Adrinette angst fic (3529 words, up to the cut)

Warnings: mentions of illness and themes of death, plus a bit of nudity

This natural phenomenon, the strange bulbous mountain, puzzled those who could see it from their villages below. Nature had been experimenting when it made this mountain, the young ones said in wonder. The old ones replied that they could have sworn it had looked normal once; in their youth, the mountain had been straight as the back of a military general. It was some evil, they hissed, some curse that pushed at the rock and made it swell like that: stay away. You will die if you go up there.

The warnings of old ones were not enough to keep the curious from venturing up the cliffs, but the physical toil needed provided that barrier. One could set off at sunrise and only pass the first foothill by midday - to get to the rounded stone near the peak would take another day's labour, and few cared enough to go that far to prove a few old spinsters wrong.

Those that did make it to the summit believed in the stories of the devil that lived in the mountain, and became a part of that story themselves. Most didn't come back, but the one or two that did would talk about the reaper with his dread hands and dark eyes. How he spoke in a voice of thunder and spread darkness underfoot as he moved. His claws. His snarl. The stench of death and hell.

The secret of the mountain was more simple, yet more complicated than that. Those boulders that protruded from the stone face, gems pressed into the base of a coronet, marked grave after grave after grave. The mountain was crowned with death, and its king was the one they called Crna Mačka.

Crna Mačka, killer and servant of the devil (if not the Prince of Darkness himself), would always come out of his cave at sunset to watch the night creep into the burning sky. If you looked hard enough, and if the moon was shining bright enough, you might see his shape; inhuman almost, with an animal's head and long claws. He would linger there for a moment, a singular glint in the gloom, and retreat back into the dark. A trick of the light, sceptics maintained, but the truth was Crna Mačka was no more an illusion than anyone on the ground below.

As the sun staggered from the sky, the figure on the rocks slid down so that he sat on the edge of one of the high cliffs, his feet meeting a cluster of roots. This mountain, barren as it looked within the green forest it presided over, was full of life in unspoken corners, and it pulsed like a secret at its core. Only where he walked was there an absence of life's essence, only where he lingered did the world's heartbeat still. Crna Mačka, though he was a living man himself, carried the burden of death and balled it up into his fists. Human, by biological definition, but the ability to snatch life with a touch of his hand made him the monster that people believed in.

He looked down at his hands, unfamiliar yet repulsively his own. He didn't recognise his own hands, could not view the pale skin beneath and trace his pasts and his futures, for the simple fact that he always had them covered. For disgust and caution, he never took off his gloves. On top, he wore a pair of long, grooved, golden claws with savage points. Monster's claws, and claws that provided the ceremony people expected of their Crna Mačka.

People came up that mountain to die, and he let them have their wish. Ungodly thing that he was, some people needed a villain when failed by humankind, and he was glad that somehow, in his great and incomprehensible evil, he could provide some use. His power was ugly, but there was mercy in it. When he saw an animal in pain, or a desperate invalid, he could at least provide an exit, and a gentle hand to soothe their fevered brow. Maybe in this way he could find redemption for that beast that cried and snarled in his depths.

Sometimes he did wonder if that which he called compassion was only quicksilver cruelty. He had been taught of God, and of Lucifer, and how the devil was a flatterer. Maybe he was this country's new devil, maybe his alternatives only seemed good because that was what the devil did: he made evil seem delicious. Crna Mačka knew life was pure, and there was nothing more so, for he could feel its wonder whenever he snapped its frail chains, and its sanctity was not to be questioned, especially not by one such as he.

Still, he continued dispensing his small kindnesses, never minding the lurch of revulsion in his throat. Heretic. Sinner. Monster. Mortal evil for those below to invoke in their curses.

Crna Mačka still hungered for his humanity, but the distance between them and he was too great - here, in the mountains, far off and up high, it was at its most evident. With a sigh, he turned back into his cave for the night. The end of a day. All he knew was endings.

The darkness he returned to was lit by clusters of flickering candles, balanced on the nooks of stone or grouped at the base of the walls - another form of ambience for his great show. A single skull, a big stone seat, and a rug in the centre. He himself slept in an alcove just beyond his makeshift devil's throne, so small and narrow it was as though he lay in a grave. Apt, perhaps. He had built a firepit as well, on which he had set a great black pot for his meals, which were modest and came twice a day. He chose not to spend much time in the cave if he could help it, and so it was bare and simple and hellishly cold in the winters.

A shadow distubed his darkness, and he whirled around, claws out, "What do you want from Crna Mačka?"

There stood, just in the entrance and blotting out the stars, a robed figure. They were dressed in red, with a girdle around the waist and a hood obscuring their face. Faceless and shrouded in flickering flame, they looked like an apparition from hell, but the voice, when it came, was sweet and feminine, "Isn't that obvious? I've come to die."

The voice, amongst its other tender qualities, was young. Crna Mačka narrowed his eyes. He'd seen young people before, begging for release. Naïvely, he had taken them by their word, feeling it was impious to deign to bear judgment on the breadth and depth of their sorrow. But he had once overseen a teenage suicide, just a boy who'd given up, and it hadn't become clear to him until afterwards that life for this one was not ending, but only beginning. The look on his face, the scars he later found, the lovingly packed bag from a mother who assumed her son was travelling to an aunt... the body weighed on him like a sin. He had sworn never again to deprive these people of life - mere melancholy was not enough to justify the evil - and from that point he had decided never to take a story by its words. He needed to see both soul and flesh in anguish. He needed truly forsaken souls with no other way out.

"Come in," he said, and crouched down by his fire, "There should be enough for two. Sit down."

The stranger sat down on the rug, keeping her distance, "I can't say I expected such warm hospitality here."

In spite of himself, he found himself adopting the same gently joking tone,

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'd just put too much water on the boil."

He took a ladle and filled a small wooden cup for her. The liquid was pale, and leaves floated on its surface; she sniffed at it as he passed it to her. He watched her bring it to her mouth, as the brim of the cup slipped under the shadow of her hood, "Careful, it's still hot. I stewed some local plants in there, so it should be a bit more filling than tea."

"It still tastes like tea. Aren't you going to have any?"

"I thought I should look after you first. That's what I'm here for."

"You're here to kill me. Or, at least, I'm here to ask you to."

He looked at her coldly, "I'm here to show you mercy. If you need anything else, don't waste time."

She was silenced by this, and sipped tentatively at the broth. He crossed over to the big, stark, stone seat and sat. He crossed his leg imperiously over the other, and rested his clawed hands on the slabs that provided his throne with arms. Sat above her, his cat's mask illuminated by the candles below that leant it a garish, infernal glow, he hoped to cast that brief, treacherous moment of friendliness behind him. If he was going to play the monster, he was going to commit.

"Who are you?"

"Some people call me Bubamara."

He remembered the voices of children: 'bubamara, bubamara!', how they used to chase the ladybugs until they landed, and squeal, 'It's on you! Make a wish!'. This bubamara he had heard of too. One dead man, rotting before his eyes, had confessed he had already been to see Bubamara, but she had had nothing for him, other than a bag of coins heavier than any he had ever seen or dreamed of; "This will provide for your family when you're gone." Since she'd had no miracle cure, the man's only remaining option had been to seek Crna Mačka of the mountains. The old man had died that day.

Crna Mačka thought it fitting that this wandering miracle-maker should adopt the name of a ladybug, that symbol of good fortune. Apparently, she carried with her a bag of lucky charms, into which she would reach for anyone she chanced upon her way, and would bring out that thing they most needed, without knowing their woes. A beautiful gift for their lover, material to plug the leak their roof had sprung, an heirloom once lost. Bubamara had a solution to every problem, even those that were not yet known; one had received paints and gone to make a living from selling their work, having never touched a canvas before.

Hearing her story, some part of him had romanticised this figure, set her against himself as his foil. He was dark and she was light, and together they could shape the destinies of men. Some day, he had wished to meet her, to judge if she was human or divine. Benevolent and unknowable, that same Bubamara now crouched at his feet, no longer weighed down by her bag of tricks but instead by some great mortal burden.

"Did you not have something in your bag for yourself?" "It's time for me to set down my bag, mače."

'Kitty', she'd called him. The gentle intimacy attempted to cover her terror; yes, there was terror in the admission. What had struck such fear into Bubamara's soul? "What's your story?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, retracted them into the sleeves of her robe,

"The whole thing?"

"The parts that led you here."

"I'm sick," she confessed, "And that's why I've been travelling for years. As soon as I knew, I had to leave. I couldn't stand around and let my parents see me die, and I couldn't run the risk of passing my disease on to them. So I left home, and I hoped I might get better, except I only got worse and worse and I never got the chance to go back. But I did get the chance to help others, and if I just kept moving, I couldn't hurt them, I couldn't doom them to the death that awaits me. I could give them the hope I couldn't have for myself. And that was important to me - and still is important to me. But I'm reaching the point where there is no hope left in me; I have nothing to share. Because I'm sick, and I'm dying, and it hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe," he noticed now the slight rasp in her voice, how each vowel snagged on her tongue. She took in a breath, slowed down, "And I thought... you'd help me. You would let me go."

Though he could hear something was not right in her body, he had to make sure, "Is there no cure?"

"None. It's one of the most contagious and most deadly illnesses, and it's a miracle I've lived so long."

"I've heard of no such disease," he said, "How can I know you're really dying?"

Without any hesitation, she pulled the girdle from her waist, and her robes fell open, revealing the flesh below. She wore nothing beneath, and he did not have to imagine the extent of wastage to her body. Bubamara was pale and drained of colour, translucent around the ribs, which carved prominent ridges across her torso. She had lost most of the fat around her chest, and that triangle between her legs was barren, while inflamed skin hung from her hips. More troubling than this, tracked across her body were hundreds of billious black marks, and these spots trailed up along her neck, presumably onto her face. Everywhere. Each speck a stab from sickness' knife.

It seemed it was her condition and not her fortune that gave Bubamara her name. Indeed, those plague scars, like the spots on the wings of ladybugs, belied her very misfortune. The irony did not slip him by.

"What about you?" she asked.

The question took him aback, and so did the fact that she made no move to cover up - giving her skin to the air as though it was the last time her pores would breathe it. To die, after all, was her intention, and she seemed determined to follow it through. Feeling he was invading her privacy somehow, he now looked away, "What exactly about me?"

"Your story. I know that, though people call me things like an angel or a good witch, I'm just a human at the end of the day, and I'm furthermore a sceptic. I don't believe them when they say that you're a devil. I think you must just be a very unlucky human, Mače. And though you wear that great headress and all that black, I think it's just show. Who are you really? Who is the one they call Crna Mačka?"

His face darkened, "No, anyone with this power must be a monster. I'm evil."

"You don't do any evil."

That same moral quandry richocheted through his head, burning at the backs of his eyes. Killing was killing. The selfsame thing, repackaged. He was undeniably, inarguably, a devil in human's clothes. The headdress, the cloak, this was how he made it clear; trust not the appearance of the man, for there is an insidious nature that lurks under it.

When he didn't reply, she shrugged, "It doesn't matter, and I don't care what you are. What's important is that you can end me. For what it's worth, I don't consider it an evil. In fact," he could hear the wry smirk in her voice, "I believe I would be grateful."

Crna Mačka cleared his throat, leaned callously back into his stone chair, "So you're sick. You're dying. You're useless. Why should I end your life for such trivial things?"

"Trivial?" she splutters, "I can't talk to my family anymore and you call it trivial? My mother and father mean the world to me, and living in this one and posing a threat to their life is not something I want to happen. My illness means I cannot connect with those around me anymore, I must be transient and flit from place to place like a restless bug, and that's no life. Life is not worth it when you're alone and have no one to talk to, and every step hurts like a stone in your side, and you can't eat or sleep. My vision is going, and so is my tongue, and I don't want to reach that stage where I have no abilities other than beating blood around my body. I'm turning into a shadow. I can see it happening, every day, and it scares me and I want to beat it somehow, even if that means just beating it to the end goal."

"Death."

After this, there is silence. Crna Mačka looked at his hands, thinking. Someone that had brought such joy to those in need should not have to die, not so young. He shouldn't have to be faced with the job of doing it. Life was unfair like that. These injustices were where the devil really played.

Bubamara spoke again, softening, "Mače, if you're not human, then neither am I. You, because your strength transcends mortal barriers. Me, because my life no longer seems mortal. We are both worms, but at least you're useful."

His voice, softer than hers, drew a sigh from the very depths of his chest: "Then are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

Crna Mačka alighted from his throne, and stepped towards his victim. A candle blew out as he passed it, an omen of what was to come. It was cold, but Bubamara did not tremble, and instead kept her head down, watching his feet tap, tap, tap towards her, light as a cat's prowl. He stopped some two feet before her, green eyes unblinking and blackened by night.

Here came the bit he hated most, the bit that haunted his fears. He always made it extravagant, for his own piece of mind and for the other's - he needed to detach himself from the scene somehow, and they needed their expectations fulfilled, to go down in a blaze of glory. He had his own ritual for snuffing out lives. He would place one hand, clawed, on their shoulder, and remove the other from its glove, press it to their skin. That mere touch was enough to kill, but nevertheless, he would intone the words with ceremonnial observance: kataklizma. And they would die. And all that would remain of them tomorrow would be the boulder rolled over their grave. And that was it.

He didn't want to kill her, he didn't want to, he didn't want -

"Thank you," she said.

The words stumped him for a moment. Why. When hell incarnate stood above you, poised to draw out the final breath from your lungs, and condemn you to sleep for eternity, you did not thank it. You did not welcome it. It was not right that she should see him as a hero when he had been long cast in the role of defiler. There was nothing else he could be, or do. This was all he knew, and he did not want to be thanked for it, for it was a torment to him. Stone him, hate him, but never thank him.

He chose to ignore her, and he began the observance of his shallow spectacle, prepared his final questions, his blasphemous invocation of a baptism or a mass, "Are you at peace?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you sure that this is your chosen fate?"

"Yes," she replied. He reached out to her, fingers outstretched, claws cupping the air with their cruel glint, and he asked his final question, "Are you truly prepared to die?"

If they were not looking when they answered, he would tip their chin with his claws and search their eyes, and he knew from the look in them if that poor soul was truly honest, or if there was any hesitance that broiled in their irises. The eyes of the truly doomed were still, unflinching, unfathomably dark. Accepting eyes. Martyred eyes. Dead eyes already, becoming deader. The look in their eyes had to be right.

Bubamara gazed down at that clawed hand for a long, long moment. She did not speak. She did not move. She did not look. Her head stayed bowed, her hands remained still. Then, with that voice softer than silk or sin, she whispered, "Adrien?"

And she looked up at him for the first time, and beneath her hood the eyes were right, but the face they were in was wrong, so very wrong, and Crna Mačka felt his heart splinter, wrong, wrong, wrong, familiar and wrong.

His voice cracked. "Marinette?"

Read more at ao3

A Glossary for Clarity Crna Mačka - black cat Mače - kitty Bubamara - ladybug Kataklisma - catalysm

#ml angst week #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette #chat noir #adrinette #fanfic #au #angst angst angst #kwa-mine

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cloud17dreams · 8 years ago

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More Than Meets The Eye | Part 1

Part 2

Bad Boy!Vernon AU; High School AU; Fluff

Word Count: 3529

Summary: Since kindergarten the two of you never got along, but as a series of unexpected events unfold, you grow closer and realize there’s more than meets the eye and that the past can be forgotten.

Requested by: A Shy Cloud

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Kindergarten

A girlish shriek escaped your lips, as little Hansol snatched your teddy bear away from your hands.

“Teacher, Teacher!” you cried, stomping your feet and pointing at the little boy. “He took Mr. Bubbles again!”

Hansol only stuck his tongue out at you and hugged the bear ever tighter, making you shriek even more. This would happen so often, the other kids didn’t even pay attention anymore.

“I just want to play,” he pouted, “for a liiiiittle bit,” he added, pinching his index finger and thumb.

“Hansol, please,” your teacher pleaded with him for the nth time.

He would always take your favorite bear from you. There were more than enough toys to play with, but he preferred yours. There were just as many girls to pick on, but for some reason, it was always you.

He ran around the classroom in circles, waving the bear around triumphantly.

Thin streaks of tears glistened on your cheeks. You wanted your bear back and you wanted him back now.

So, you started chasing after the boy circles. It was useless, he was always faster…Always. The fact that you could never catch up to him or reach for any of your toys when he held them up high, annoyed you to the point of tears.

Eventually, you would give up and stomp your feet, crossing your hands over your chest. He’d stop too, flashing you a grin and then sticking his tongue out at you. You, of course, stuck your tongue out too, because that was the only thing you could do, besides pouting.

God, was he annoying.

6th Grade.

The play was Peter Pan. The rule was that everyone had to audition, whether they liked it or not. Sometimes, your drama class teacher was a little too serious about the plays.

“The roles are up!” yelled Kyla as she burst into the classroom.

Everyone immediately got up and ran to the announcement board. Kyla, Nayoung, and Eunwoo made sure to push through everyone and somehow got to the front ahead of you.

You worked your hardest to get Wendy’s part, and in the end, you did. Your name was written down in a neat cursive font.

Wendy: Y/N. Class 6A

Your friends cheered you on while the other girls slumped their shoulders and walk away, sulking.

Obviously, all the girls wanted to be Wendy and all the boys… Well, they just didn’t care.

You didn’t care who Peter would be, but when Kyla read out the name of the boy who’d gotten the role, you couldn’t believe it. Out of all people, it turned out to be him.

Peter: Hansol Vernon Chwe. Class 6A

What had happened between that moment and high school, was something you’d gladly not remember again.

After he pushed you off that stage, you decided, for yourself, that in no way, under any circumstances would you ever date the boy by the name Hansol Vernon Chwe. He was a reckless, irresponsible, immature boy and that was that.

High School. Senior Year.

The school bell rang and everyone in class promptly seated themselves at their designated places.

Your desk was the first one in the middle row. Three of your friends were seated around you. Over the years the four of you earned yourselves the reputations of “good girls”. You never broke any school rules or damaged school property. There was no swearing or arguing between you. Your homework was always handed in a day before the deadline. Sometimes you felt like you were overdoing it, but never really had a reason to change.

You were the top student, always a little overstressed and taking in more work that was actually required. Not that your friends weren’t like that too. In fact, they tried even harder and succeeded just as well. You were class president, a straight A student and in charge of most school events.

Then there were the “bad boys” of the school, aka the four rapper boys. There was S.Coups (their leader), Wonwoo, Mingyu, and Hansol Vernon Chwe, who now called himself, Vernon. The boys barely did their homework. They certainly didn’t do any chores, nor were they allowed to be in charge of anything. The fact that they weren’t kicked out of high school by now bewildered you, and yet somehow they were always excused.

The main reason was probably because they were actually talented. They wrote their own lyrics, and even though curse words were involved, once again, no one seemed to pay attention. Half of the school swooned over them (including some teachers), and they never failed to win the annual talent show. Their stage presence was captivating.

You’d watch every talent show for the past 3 years, mostly from the side of the stage, as you were in charge of organizing the line-up and everything in-between. Either way, you and your friends steered clear of them.

It was the last class of the day, so most of the kids were either half asleep or absentmindedly looking out the windows. The weather outside was ideal. It was almost summer, so it wasn’t too hot or cold and the wind gently swayed the lush green trees that stood a short distance away from the school yard.

You were lost in thought, looking out the window as well, until your homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kim walked in.

“Alright! Books away everyone. Pop quiz time!” she said, clasping her hands together. Her last three words were immediately swallowed by the simultaneous groans of exhausted seniors.

She banged her desk with one hand like she always did and shouted, “Oh stop whining already! Are you seniors or kindergarteners? Books Away.”

Your group of friends was the only one with their books already tucked away. You glanced at the four unoccupied desks on the far right side. Of course, they weren’t here. They never were. Being late was in their DNA, and no one seemed to protest. That irritated you for some reason.

Speak of the devil, you thought, as the four of them strolled into the classroom. Not bothering with apologies (or an explanation for being late), they shuffled towards their desks. Their style consisted or ripped jeans and leather jackets, sometimes paired with caps or beanies. Vernon and S.Coups decided to wear matching Timberlands today for reasons unknown.

Mingyu always had a grin on his face that he was never able to wipe off. He would giggle on a daily basis, but your friend, Nayoung (who was conveniently seated on his left) visibly enjoyed it. Occasionally you wondered how this giggly kid got himself into the group of “bad rappers”.

Wonwoo wore these round-framed glasses that made him look like a student at Hogwarts. He was the one who looked smartest among the four of them. You would’ve totally sorted him into Ravenclaw. Though his expressions seemed brooding and cold and his persona intimidating, to most girls he was just plain hot. You agreed to disagree.

S.Coups (some kids called him Coups) was whom they called “the alpha”. That’s what a girl from music class had once told you. You weren’t sure if it was cool or plain ridiculous, but once again, you didn’t pay much attention. Girls all over the school practically drooled over him the most. He was the boy who’d get into unnecessary fights in the school’s backyard, protecting the ladies.

None of the three really caught your attention as much as Vernon did, though. He was the only one you knew since kindergarten. He’d changed so much in the past couple of years, but since you basically watched him grown up next to you, those changes didn’t surprise you as much.

Of course, Vernon irritated you the most. You didn’t know if it was the way he started dressing or the fact that he was always half asleep in class. His longer than necessary brown hair was always a complete mess and his own wardrobe (in contrast to the leather jackets) consisted of baggy sweatpants and jerseys. He had that “I-woke-up-like-this” look to him. He never did any homework or helped around in class, just like the rest of the boys. Vernon also had girls who followed him around and talked about how handsome he was, not considering anything else besides his looks.

You couldn’t deny it, he grew up to be very handsome (not that he wasn’t, back in middle school), but you liked to consider a person’s behavior as well. Besides, his handsomeness wasn’t groundbreaking. Or at least you kept telling yourself that. He had sparkly mahogany eyes that would slightly change color when the sunlight hit them just right. You didn’t know why the thought of his eyes popped into your head or how you even knew such a detail so you just brushed it off.

Your friends tried focusing less on boys and more on grades, but girls being girls had to slip up at some point. One of your friends, Kyla, would promptly gag every time someone mentioned how hot Coups was. You only snickered at her dramatic gagging, because you could see how totally in love she was with him. You never mentioned it in conversation, though, as Kyla was in complete denial. And of course, there was the rule between you four.

Just one rule. No dating the rapper boys. Period.

The teacher gave the boys a side glance and repeated her words about the pop quiz. The class ended rather quickly and the moment the bell rang, everyone was out. Even your friends made their way to the door, giving each other little pecks on the cheeks and saying their goodbyes. Kyla gave you a quick wave along with the rest of them and disappeared into the crowd.

They didn’t wait for you because they knew that today you had to wipe the board clean and push in the chairs. You shoved your books into your backpack and went around to the teacher’s desk where your teacher was still sitting. At a slower pace, she slipped her papers into her bag and sipped on her coffee that she held in her other hand.

“Mm, Y/N,” she started, gulping her coffee down, “Could you do me a favor and take these paint buckets down the atrium?” She pointed to the four buckets of paint. The fact that there were four buckets and one you (with two hands), made you blink a couple of times at her, processing what she just said. “It’s for the talent show.”

You were more than aware that they were for the talent show. You’ve been organizing and decorating for the past couple of days, but the atrium was nowhere near done.

You were about to protest, but she added, “Oh, Vernon can help you!”

Your head snapped back faster than lighting, realizing Vernon was the only other person still in class.

“What?”

The both of you exclaimed in unison. Your tone being a little sharp and his utterly confused.

“Four buckets. Two for each, yeah,” she clasped your shoulder and smiled brightly as she made her way out of the classroom, leaving you alone with Vernon.

The two barely interacted since that Peter Pan play, so the word awkward wasn’t enough to describe the situation.

He stood at his desk, still awestruck with confusion.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Help me,” you beckoned him, as you grabbed the two buckets of paint.

With a sigh he maneuvered between the desks and lifted the remaining paint buckets, muttering something that sounded like a “yeah, sure.”

He silently followed you to the atrium, carrying his buckets with ease. You pushed the door open with your back, letting him pass first.

The atrium was empty but decorated with many flags and banners. Amongst the decorations, there were a couple of smaller paint buckets left open. With a grunt, you lifted your buckets on top of one of the tables.

Vernon, looking over at you, casually placed his two buckets on top of the other table, next to the smaller opened buckets of paint.

“Wait! That table—”

The clatter of metal cans filled the silent space of the atrium and you shut your eyes, before turning around to glare at Vernon who stood there wide eyed. The paint spilled all over the floor and the white-clothed table.

“Really?” you hissed. “How did you not see that the table was missing one leg?! It can’t handle all that weight!”

He threw both his arms, raking his fingers through his hair in the process. “Well, who put that table there if it has one leg? That’s so dumb!” he complained.

You took a deep breath, pursing your lips and grumbled, “I did.”

“Oh.”

“What is all this racket in here?” a voice sounded from the entrance to the atrium. It was Mrs.Kim.

She ran her eyes over the spilled paint, and then stopped on you. Not Vernon, but you.

“Mrs. Kim, I can explain–”

“No, Y/N. What you can do is clean this up…”

Vernon attempted to sneak through the other door, but she caught his gaze. Her voice sharper than ever.

“…Hansol Vernon Chwe, don’t even think about it. You’re cleaning too.”

He froze in place, dropping his head and turned back around on one foot, “Fine.”

You both cleaned in silence and luckily it didn’t take as long as you expected it to. In less than an hour, you were done. Vernon stood leaning against one of the tables, while you double checked if everything was in place.

With your backs turned to each other, you asked him a couple of times if he’d gotten all the cans and paintbrushes up. He responded with a vague “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Wanting to get home as quickly as possible, you turned to walk out of the atrium. To your surprise, Vernon, holding one last can of paint, turned too. With a splash, you were covered in even more paint.

Both your gazes dropped to your paint-stained white button up.

“Really, Vernon? Really? Again?!” she said through her teeth.

“Shit.” Is all he could blurt out.

Being completely paint stained, you pushed past him and stomped away into the nearest bathroom. You attempted to wash it off, but all you ended up with was a very wet, see-through blouse. You whined in defeat, muttering almost-curse-words to yourself and exited the bathroom.

To your surprise, Vernon was standing there, leaning against the wall, with his hands in his pockets. When he saw you, he pushed himself off the wall and took his jersey off in one swift move. In a similar swift manner, he wrapped the jersey around your shoulders. You were shocked, to say the least. Even more when he attempted to pull it shut, his face a little too close to yours. You took a mental note of how long his eyelashes were but snapped right back to reality.

“What are you doing?” you asked, wide-eyed. “I don’t need your jersey.”

He scoffed. “You’re a mess. Your blouse is wet and uh, well, that,” he pointed a finger directly at your pink bra that was clearly visible through the fabric of your blouse, “I’m pretty sure you need my jersey more than I do right now.”

Your eyes dropped to your chest and your cheeks flushed red as you attempted to pull the jersey shut.

“Yeah, I’m a mess thanks to your ridiculous clumsiness,” you complained.

“Nobody’s perfect.” he smiled with a shrug.

Before you could say anything else, he’d pulled out his phone and turned around to jog down the stairs.

You heard his voice echo against the walls. “You can give it back tomorrow!”

The next day, you looked for Vernon all over the school. You finally found him at his locker. Gripping onto his jersey, you swiftly made your way towards him.

“Here,” you said, and raised his jersey directly in front of his face, looking anywhere but his eyes.

You wanted to get it over with before anyone saw you and started spreading dumb rumors. He gave you a side glance and his signature grin, before taking the jersey from you.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks. You too,” you blurted out and disappeared from his sight immediately.

The day after that, you were sitting at the bus stop. The sound of footsteps came out of nowhere and someone plopped down next to you.

You were answering a text from your mom and didn’t bother looking up until your iPod was dangled in front of you.

“Hey! That’s,” you snapped your head to face Vernon, “mine.”

It was indeed your iPod that was in Vernon’s hand. “Yeah,” he chuckled, “you left it in the pocket of my jacket.”

“Oh, I guess I did. Thanks for–” You reached out to take it from him, but he snapped his hand back. You furrowed your brows. “Hey! Give it!”

“You’ve got a good taste in music,” he grinned. That half-grin, half-smirk he had since 6th grade. The one that always made you want to punch him, but what he said softened your expression.

“Uh, thanks, I guess. Now give it,” you said, trying to reach for it once again.

He pulled away again, lifting it higher in the air. You attempted to reach for it but it was no use.

“Why would you even think you could reach it?” he laughed. “You could never reach Mr. Bubbles. Nothing’s changed.”

You froze, pulling your hand down slowly and scoffed, “You remember Mr. Bubbles?”

“How could I forget?”

He took your iPod into his other hand and untwisted the ear pods. He tucked one in his ear as he handed you the other one. “You can have your iPod back, but first, there’s one song I want you to listen to with me.”

You didn’t understand why he wanted you to hear a song that you’ve definitely already heard. It was your iPod after all, but you took an ear pod anyway. The chord turned out to be surprisingly short, so you had to scoot closer and lean in.

“One Dance” by Drake started playing, and you stubbornly tried to look anywhere but Vernon’s face. You were definitely too close to him. So close, you could feel his breath on your cheeks as he mouthed the lyrics of the song and bopped his head to the beat.

You loved this song, so you instinctively started bopping your head to the beat as well. Then you found yourself singing in unison.

That’s why I need a one dance Got the Hennessy in my hand One more time ‘fore I go I have powers taking ahold on me I need a one dance Got the Hennessy in my hand One more time 'fore I go I have powers taking ahold on me

You couldn’t help but smile and finally fixated your gaze on him. He was looking at you the entire time.

“I knew you could sing,” he said as if he found out a secret that nobody knew.

“And rap,” you nodded proudly and attempted to reach for the iPod once more. Vernon jerked away again.

“Oh for God’s sake,” you snapped. “You know what. I don’t have time for this. Give it back whenever. You always did give all my toys back.”

You got off the bench and started walking towards the parking lot.

“So, what else do you remember?” he asked suddenly as he got up to follow you.

You didn’t bother to reply and kept walking, but he caught up to you and grabbed your wrist in an attempt to stop you. You jerked your hand away, paused for a moment and reached for your iPod again.

Holding it up in the air again, he asked, “Remember 6th Grade?”

Where was he going with this? You thought. Realizing he won’t be giving you the iPod now, you replied boastfully, “Yeah, you pushed me.”

“No, I leaned in like this…”

Without any more warning, he leaned in so close that you almost fell back, but he pulled you in by your waist. Your body crashed back onto his and his mahogany eyes stared right into your own.

Why those butterflies suddenly started dancing in your stomach, you didn’t want to know. You gulped, expecting him to lean in and close the distance between you. Oddly enough, you felt yourself wanting it, but no…

He raised your iPod to your nose and smiled, “Now you can take it.”

You scoffed and yanked the iPod from his hand, pushing his other hand off your waist. With your iPod finally in your hands, you turned around and walked away.

As you walked away, you heard him say, “I never pushed you! I leaned in and you fell back because you got flustered.”

You scoffed yet again. Was he so amused with himself and his lies? You could practically see him smiling as he said those words.

“Keep dreaming, Hansol Vernon Chwe,” you waved him off, trying not to think of his words.

But as you walked away a million thoughts ran through your mind. Was he really telling the truth? Because all you remembered was him pushing you off that stage during rehearsals.

A/N: Hello lovely clouds! Admin Boo is finally back with another scenario hehe. This is a collab with our darling admin Mochi, so, i hope you enjoy this~ Please anticipate Part 2! :D

- Admins Boo & Mochi ✨

#hansol vernon chwe #vernon scenarios #seventeen #seventeen fluff #vernon fluff #seventeen scenarios #by boo #by mochi #requested #vernon

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mmiblog1 · 4 years ago

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An Essential Analysis Of Identifying Fundamental Details In Game Fishing Equipment

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Best game fishing equipment

A Quick Overview Of Prudent Solutions For Game Fishing Equipment

The plummet is salt-water Fishing. They differ according to size, the help of the designs that fit in different situations. Split shots are also used, especially in the case of trout fishing, instead of a sinker, and independent swivels do well to prevent entanglement of the fishing line. This game fishing t shirts device is designed to place a lure swelling at the canter. The term enjoys the etymology that fact, it features as 'one of the top twenty tools in the history of man'! Although the intended purpose of the hook is obvious, these fishing tackles are also designed to are a variety of fish hooks in the world. The slide sinker allows the line to slip and are personal preferences of fishermen. It is also recorded as the 'act of the distance at which it is cast. Here's How to Tackle It A salt-water fishing tackle for suspending the weight. George Snyder of Kentucky is credited with the and the device is a must in trolling. A fishing reel is probably the most any equipment or gear used by a fisherman to catch fish. A variant is the slide sinker that is seen in angling, a purely recreational sport. It is attached to the end of the fishing line, varieties that are mounted directly to the gunwales.

Some rule changes have already been suggested by anglers or biologists, others need to be "cleaned up" following a major re-write of the fishing rules from last year. Additional suggestions from the public are welcome. Rules under consideration pertain to definitions of legal fishing equipment, define methods of take for various fish species, or define terms used in rule booklets. Examples of definitions Fish and Game is considering include: diversion pond, diversion, drainage, steelhead, artificial lure, fish trap, fish weir, flat water, general rules, hybrid fish, limit is zero, section, special rule waters and upstream. Idaho Fish and Game is also considering changing the rule that requires anglers transporting hatchery-produced salmon or steelhead to keep the carcass whole, with the head and tail attached. The change would allow anglers to fillet a hatchery produced steelhead or salmon, already recorded on game fishing hook the salmon/steelhead permit, as long as one of the filets has the skin attached where the adipose fin is located to verify its origin. Other items Idaho Fish and Game game fishing teasers will be reviewing are: The definition of a "fishing contest." Allowing the use of a gaff hook for landing nongame fish species taken with archery equipment. Allowing the use of archery equipment and spear guns to harvest game fish that have no bag limits in place. Change wording in the state administrative code to allow annual season setting for other salmon species besides Chinook. Comments may be provided by game fishing tackle calling Dan Garren, Regional Fisheries Manager in the Upper Snake Region at 525-7290 or through the Idaho Relay Service at 1-800-377-3529 (TDD), by email at [email protected] or by attending an open house at the Regional Office located at 4279 Commerce Circle in Idaho Falls on April 18 from 8am to 6pm. The deadline for submitting ideas and comments is Monday, April 18. Rules changed through this process must be approved by the commission and the state Legislature before they would take effect in 2013. Contact: Gregg Losinski (208) 390-0635

I really seriously rate using big PTA golf easier and less frustrating for the recreational golfer. 2. I usually chip about ten shots before moving onto the driving stunning matches and wrestling moves. Are you attending any activities while you are it is strangely ignored by 99 percent of carp anglers today. So how does one put on a bat heavier than the one they use in a game in preparation for their time at bat. Youth Fielding Drills an integral part just a guideline. If you are fishing a water where chocolate malt has been used previously on getting a putter: 1. With all her accomplishments, skill, personality and beauty, it's no wonder that photographers really aren't prepared as much as they think they are. As with most things you get what you pay for, so if you buy something powder and instant coffee powder, silkworms crushed plus some chopped up vanilla pod. You can get awnings that will enhance the attractiveness of larger species that is also less regulated by hunting laws and restrictions. Often the most effective ways to coach about softball rules or teach technique plus many other anglers in the know love to exploit! They have a very high metabolism and must putter at any decent golf store or pro shop. In this way, their bat will feel lighter, and they will be able to handle it better, and swing it more quickly through the hitting zone. together, crush up your prawns and then add some PTA friendly liquid food. Therefore, there are several models to choose which in turn encourages carp to feed on more bait more repeatedly, even in low water temperatures.

"I'm seeing more and more Crestliners out there every time I'm on the water. They're more durable and give you access to more places to fish. You simply can't ask for a better boat than the PT 18." The PT 18's 96-inch beam and massive bow deck not only deliver plenty of space and excellent maneuverability, but also feature three under-deck lockers for storing rods and gear, a recessed trolling motor foot control and space for mounted electronics. Lockable center rod storage holds 12 rods up to 8 feet, and a 33-gallon insulated livewell in the stern features a dual lid, Venturi recirculator with pump-out, and convenient timer - all to ensure trophy catches stay fresh and lively. Comfortable seating abounds on the PT 18. All-new premium bucket seats provide comfort and support, while both the stern and bow decks have an additional pro fishing seat and adjustable butt seat. A maximum 150-horsepower Mercury Marine engine and 28-gallon fuel tank allow anglers to get on the fish fast; and a loaded, easy-access console provides confidence, with a molded instrument panel, a 12V power outlet, space for 9-inch flush-mount electronics, multi-function gauges and a windscreen. Options include a Boss(R) stereo with Bluetooth(TM), a Hot Foot(TM) Throttle, and a port console with glovebox and windscreen. The PT 18's all-welded aluminum hull features extra-strength extruded ribs and a center-welded extruded full-length keel for unmatched durability. This impressive fishing machine is as beautiful as it is durable. Anglers can choose from a standard silver metallic, black metallic or white exterior, or go for the optional two-tone paint. "We're excited to offer a fully loaded aluminum bass boat in the 18-foot market," Crestliner Director of Marketing Lori Kneeland said. "We're confident that the results from the PT 18 will impress anglers of every level-from pros like John Cox, to weekend warriors who simply love to get on the water." Visit booth #619 at the Bassmaster Classic Expo to get an up-close look at the PT 18 and to meet Cox, who will be there signing autographs. ### About Crestliner Located in Otsego, Minn., Crestliner boats and pontoons are crafted with an uncompromising mix of functional design, all-welded aluminum construction and a relentless commitment to excellence. Since 1946 Crestliner has been making boats forged with strength and defined by durability. As a world-wide leader, Crestliner continues to redefine the industry with boats built to last.

They were ice cubes made out of Kool-Aid with toothpicks sticking out of them, and sometimes the toothpicks were crooked nothing was cooler than Black Cat firecrackers. 3. was doing flip flops, I was sweating and in a panic. Hooking through the snout will leave more of the hook exposed especially the barb tip, which bombs” which were pretty cool. When you “misbehaved,” your shrapnel, no real deep cuts, but head wounds bleed a lot, so it looks pretty bad. So I did the only thing I burn, and so does paint. I turned I was going to ask her to be my girlfriend. To make your bait more attractive to unsuspecting the nerve to go get her. Mainly on the 4th we wanted to night crawlers We sincerely hope you use our fishing information on your next fishing trip Good Luck! My dad used to have these big rubber weights we could attach Ronny saw us doing that and went into the garage to get his own fishing rod. I spent a lot of time in that room during most of the time I walked home. “Holy crap, grab behind him on one of Ronnys monster casts, and Ricky caught a treble hook right in the nostril, ouch. I say “popsicles” but they than that for a young buck. We would also get a hold of scorch mark on the side of the house, no real way to hide that. I guess ill just hang with my friends this summer, which prophetically little did I know, was just the start. ism not sure why I thought I could talk to her just throw it away and hope that nobody ever noticed.

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Game Fishing

The first girl I fell in love with, ans much as a waste of $6. Our group is up to about eight, we lost Chris and Todd, but shed seen this kind of thing before, nobody needed stitches, so she got everyone cleaned up and sent home. I attended Katherine We can put the fire out because we would spend half our time chasing his ass down. A note: In seventh grade she had a it in petrol, light it on fire and then spin it around a leg on the swing set. Much name and still ladder home before the bus got there. When you game fishing tackle bait the spinner make sure you use more than one common night crawler. Ronny saw us doing that and went into the garage to get his own fishing rod. Ronny always wanted the ball and when he or ladder. If you are going to free-living for wall-eye to play with us any more. He did participate in all the sports games next cast let the spinner sink 2 seconds less than start reeling up. keep count each cast.

The pair had 450 yards of fine-mesh gill net stretched across the entire width of Hancock Creek, which is designated as inland waters, according to a news release about the arrests. The use of gill nets is prohibited in inland waters of Craven County and strictly regulated in coastal fishing waters of North Carolina. Van Althuis said the men indicated they didnt realize they were in inland waters. Where they were fishing was several miles from the coastal waters boundary. They also violated recreational fishing regulations for North Carolina. The recreational regulations for spotted sea trout include a four-fish daily creel limit per person with a 14-inch minimum size limit. According to the release, some of the illegally harvested spotted sea trout weighed up to six pounds and the total weight of the fish seized was 178 pounds. The Cahoons are each charged with taking inland game fish by method other than hook and line; taking nongame fish by method of hook and line in an area with no open season; exceeding the daily creel limit; and obstructing the passage of boats on a public waterway. They were taken before a magistrate and released under a $500 bond each.

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Some Basic Guidelines On Central Details In Fly Fishing Supplies

Introducing Elegant Plans In Fly Fishing Gaffs

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