#I would end up just rambling about river being in hospital

[cartwrong]

Whumptober / Day 22 / Tourniquet

"Oh, that's not good."

“Roddy, that’s not fucking helping!” Shirley sneered, and River thought she might strangle the tech expert if her hands weren’t currently covered in River’s blood.

“What? It’s not,” Roddy said, offended as he turned a shade paler.

River didn’t need to be told things were dire; the pain and the large amount of blood staining his jeans were enough to tell him that. Well, that and the bullet hole in his thigh.

“Give me your belt,” Shirley yelled at the tech whiz, holding her hand out impatiently, leaving one still pressed against River’s wound.

“It’s Gucci,” Ho scoffed.

“I don’t give a shit. If you don’t give it to me right fucking now, I’m going to strangle you with it.”

It would be quite amusing to watch Shirley threaten Roddy’s life if River wasn’t also concerned about bleeding to death.

“You’re buying me a new one,” Roddy said as he reluctantly unbuckled his belt before sliding it from his jeans but holding on a second too long for Shirley to rip it violently from his hand. “That hurt!”

“Oh, does that hurt?” River yelled, pressing harder to the bullet wound in his thigh while Shirley wound it around his upper leg. “I’m sorry my gunshot wound led to a little rope burn!”

River groaned in pain, his vision going white as Shirley tightened the belt around his thigh, just above the hole in his pants, before inserting the empty clip from his gun into it and twisting.

“Fuck! Did you have to tighten it that much?” he asked once he recovered, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“If you don’t want to bleed out, I did,” Shirley answered, and that was fair enough. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”

As if on cue, Marcus returned, paramedics trailing behind him.

“Thank fuck,” Shirley said, waving them over. “Took you fucking long enough.”

“I couldn’t make them appear faster now, could I?” Marcus argued.

“Look at him, he looks half dead,” Shirley replied.

“I can hear you,” River slurred.

Shirley ignored him and turned to the paramedics checking her watch, “I just applied the tourniquet a few minutes ago.”

River found it more difficult to follow what they were saying as he realised the pain in his leg had begun to lessen. That had to be a good thing, right? Only now was he suddenly freezing, his body beginning to shiver slightly as the first paramedic, a man around his mum’s age, knelt beside him.

“Does he have any medication allergies?”

“Fuck if I know,” Shirley answered.

“No,” River said, his voice quiet.

“What was that?” the other paramedic, a woman a few years younger than him, asked.

“No,” River said, attempting to be louder.

He was getting tired now, and the paramedics were here, so maybe he could rest his eyes a bit.

“Wait!” he said, his eyes flying open as a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. “You should leave. Lamb–Lamb’ll be mad. Go.”

He tried to lift his hand and shoo them away, but his limb wasn’t cooperating. He tried again, his hand merely twitching on the blood-stained concrete beside him. Well, that was annoying. He tried, but he couldn’t make them move now; it was up to them if they didn’t want to be fired.

Again.

He let his eyes slip shut, the pain now almost gone, though he was colder than before.

“River, wake up!”

“Tired,” he mumbled.

The other voices blended together. Some he knew, some he didn’t. He hoped they were listening to him. Roddy Ho’s unmistakable voice was the last thing he heard before he succumbed entirely to the darkness.

“Can I have my belt back now?”

[catscidr]

«grip on your top is so tight you think he might even rip it, god knows the last time he had to trim his nails» 😭😭❤️‍🔥

I've always wondered how Zandik's hygiene is. I'm sure he doesn't give a shit about it. The only thing he cares about is the mechanisms. And how do you think 500 years ago students washed at sumeru?

you’ve come to the right person nonnie i love elaborating about seemingly boring and mundane details lemme ramble for a hot second (￣^￣ )ゞ

-> i talked about what i think his shaving habits would be like a couple of weeks ago (here). i think he would be less inclined to shave as an akademiya student than when he’s “Prime” because he just has.... so much to do, so little time. as a young adult he does grow a decent amount of facial hair (not enough for a full beard though i think), and as much as he dislikes having it, he doesn’t really bother to shave it unless it starts to get on his nerves. like, if he’s head-first into machinery and he keeps rubbing his stubble on the metal...... he’ll get back to his dorm room and quickly shave off the annoying stubble lol. but he doesn't shave it regularly, no. he doesn't gaf about his appearance, really, so doesn't care enough to have a routine

(naturally i like to think there's dorms in the akademiya LOL a shame genshin doesn't expand on living spaces other than just a couple of houses here and there sadge ˙◠˙ )

-> i like to think he’s a heavy nail biter to make up for having barely ever touched a nail file/clipper in his life. it helps him focus sometimes when he's locked tf in. some of his nails are less affected than others, like his pinky fingernails. even though they're all mostly dull, cracked or bitten off there’s definitely potential for him to scratch someone if he truly wanted to. and i'm sure he’d just rips his nails off when they got in the way of whatever research he's doing..

-> but boy oh BOY best for last. i think that they would maybe handwash their clothes in a tub/basin with soap, or if they don't have anything of the sort they could go up north to sumeru city and wash their clothes in the river.

.......but at the same time they did have akasha terminals (going off dottore's vague lore timeline because greater lord rukkhadevata created the akasha system and died around 500 years ago, so im assuming maybe dottore would have been in the akademiya when she died? but my brain hurts thinking about the possibilities so lets assume they all had akasha systems when he was enrolled lol)....... so maybe they had the technology to create basic washing machines (maybe something like this?)

though i'm sure he wouldn't bother himself with a proper hygiene routine, probably only washing himself and his uniform when it got dirty enough (which was probably often anyways) (and i'm sure the akademiya would basically just dresscode him if he showed up to class with soot and oil all over him, too)

and i like to think that maybe the akademiya dorms would have communal bathrooms/"showers" as well. but at the same time it's a super prestigious school so they could have individual bathrooms for each dorm room...... but at the same time² we're talking about 500 years ago........ so............. hmm..............................

in general he's more focused on research and conducting experiments n getting results, so being spotless would be the least of his worries. if he ended up getting sick as a result of his less-than-socially-acceptable hygiene he'd probably just use it as learning experience and use that knowledge for future experiments, like on his eleazar patients in that abandoned hospital. he'd do the bare minimum to Not get sick, has to dedicate as much time as he can in the akademiya to study forbidden knowledge. can't be bedridden with a fever, that's for pussies and he's Not a pussy... probably his daily affirmation. "i'm not a pussy, i am better than everyone. they all suck ass and i'm an alpha". yeah anyways

but WHATEVER!!!!!! tl;dr: he's a grimy little guy and reeks of blood sometimes but its ok we love him either way♡

[radiosandrecordings]

I found the start of a script I was working on in.. apparently June last year. It was supposed to be for a podfic because I wanted to do my own travelling-to-the-safehouse fic but apparently this is as far as I got. I think it’s pretty good though so may as well post it. Left in all the ah... More creative notes I was apparently giving myself for direction.  [Tape clicks on] 

[Sound of two sets of footsteps on stone, reverberating around a confined tunnel. Possibly water drip?]

JON [Firm, but soft. Like a memory foam mattress.] Martin? Are you still with me?

MARTIN [As if distracted, snapping back to himself]  … What? Oh, yes, yes, still… Still here. Sorry it’s just- [He falters, struggling for the words]  Hard. With- With everything. It’s all a bit… [A pause. He’s making vague hand gestures with one hand.] A bit much. 

JON [Flatly] Oh. [Realising] Oh!- Do you- Do you want me to let go of your-

[Walking stops around here] 

MARTIN (OVERLAPPING)  [Firmly, almost panicked] No! Uh- No. No. This is… This is good. 

JON [Trying not to sound pleased. Failing]  Oh! Uh- Good. Good. 

[Several beats of silence as the walking starts up again]

MARTIN  … It’s grounding, really. Everything else is… A lot. Even breathing feels weird. I’m too… Hyper-aware. Of my own lungs. Not sure I breathed in there, not properly anyway. You just kind of dissolve into the background. Even yourself is too much company. Your whole body just kind of feels like a limb you’ve been sitting on too long, all the blood flowed out of it. So it’s… Nice. To have you. As a- As a focus point. 

JON [Muttered] Something to be said about anchors, and all that.

MARTIN  What was that?

JON Nothing, just a… Bit of a personal joke. 

JON (CONT’D)  Anyway. I think there’s light ahead, hopefully this should be the end of the tunnel. No idea where it’ll spit us out though. 

MARTIN Guess we’ll see. 

[Beat]

Just… Don’t let go?

JON  [Unbearly fond. Get it together, gayboy]  ‘Course not. 

[Tape clicks off]

[Tape clicks on] 

[They’re outside. There are outside noises. You know what those sound like, don’t you? I know you’ve been at home for 3 months but please. Please try and remember. Is there wind outside? Maybe a pigeon? It’s south bank there has to be pigeons. You remember pigeons, right? Also, river noises. Boat.]

MARTIN Are we at-

JON (OVERLAPPING) Southbank. Yes. 

MARTIN Southbank? But the river, we’d have to have- 

JON (OVERLAPPING)  Yes, I’m… Not quite sure the same physics applies, when it comes to those tunnels. They’ve spent more time being moved around by a Leitner than not. I think they end where they want to end. Bloody miracle we’re not halfway to Twickenham. Or still in London at all for that matter. 

MARTIN  ...Right.

[He absolutely does not get it] 

MARTIN (CONT’D) [He lets out a breath]  Can we just- Can we just sit? For a minute? 

JON  [Quiet]  Of course, of course…

[Movement as they make their way to a bench and sit]

[A seagull squawks overhead]

MARTIN  The sunrise is nice… 

JON  [Clearly not looking at the sunrise] Yeah, it is…

MARTIN  Do you have any idea what time it is?

JON  I’d say… Just coming up on seven.

MARTIN What, Beholding goes to the trouble of telling you that and it can’t even pin it to the minute? 

JON Martin, not to sound like the most stereotypical Englishman in the world, but we’re on South Bank. I just looked over at Big Ben. 

MARTIN Oh- Er- Right. 

[A sigh. He relaxes from all the wound up tension]

… God it really is just there isn’t it. Like, it’s one of those things that, if you didn’t grow up here, you don’t really get that it’s… Real, y’know? It’s like, you can see it every day and never quite get past the notion that it’s something that only exists as… Cheap, shitty fridge magnets and… And novelty t-shirts. 

… Does that make sense? No, no sorry I’m rambling-

JON (CUTTING HIM OFF) [Quick, reassuring]  No, no I get what you mean. 

[A pause. He’s searching for something to fill the empty air, desperate not to leave a silence between them. It’s only tangentially on topic, but it will do]

… I grew up in Bournemouth. Did I ever tell you that? 

MARTIN [Voice slightly shaky, but solidifying]  Not in as many words, no. I think you mentioned it, on a… Tape. At some point. Not directly.

[He hesitates] 

… Do you want to tell me about it?

JON [Hesitant. He may not have been Lonely, but he’s spent a fair amount of time trying to diminish himself] Only if you want me to. 

MARTIN But do you want to tell me about it?

JON [Meekly] … Probably not the best story for now, actually. Not terribly interesting. And when it is, it’s just a bit… Miserable, really. Childhood orphaning never really leads upwards in the ways Dickens would have you believe. 

MARTIN ...Some other time then?

JON [Stumbles slightly, as if shocked by the knowledge that there will be times that aren’t this. NOW YOU’VE THROWN HIM OFF HIS RHYTHM!]  Y-yes. Some other time. 

[Pause. 5 Seconds? Ambience. Sound of voices around has started to filter in.]

JON [Slow] I was just… I was thinking. About what- What Peter Lukas said, back in…  [With vehemence] There. And how it was… Partially true, in a way. We may not know each that well but… I’d like to change that. If- If you do. 

MARTIN [Soft] I would like that. 

[Content hum] 

… Tell me something non-miserable, then. 

JON What?

MARTIN About yourself. Something that isn’t, I dunno, doom and gloom. What about, mmm, favourite colour?

JON [Amused, mock scolding] Are you five?

MARTIN Humour me!

JON Fine, fine… Actually, no. 

MARTIN No?

JON  No, you tell me what you think it is. 

MARTIN [Under his breath] I tell you what I think…

[Contemplative] Okay. Okay. What is… What is Jonathan Sims’ favourite colour… You used to wear a lot of green around the office, dark jumpers and tweed jackets and stuff… But I’m half convinced you just thought it was a ‘professional’ colour, to match your fancy new job. I think it’s… I think it’s purple. 

JON [Surprised]  Purple? Why 

MARTIN When… When you were in the hospital… Georgie stuck some photos up on the wall next to your bed. Old ones, polaroids, but in a kind of artsy way since they clearly weren’t from anywhere before the 2000′s. They were you in uni, and you had this ridiculous purple streak in your hair. So… Purple. 

JON [Quietly mouthing the words along, not quite processing] Had a purple streak in Uni…

[Startled, just processed fully the implications] Wait, you met Georgie?

MARTIN  Not in the hospital, a bit later in the Institute yeah, but… That’s another story for later. No, we never met in the hospital, I never quite felt…

[Grimace] Up to company, when I was there.

JON Right, of course.  I remember that, though. Some time in my second year; I got a bit tired of people assuming I was a post-grad student and thought I’d try and dye my grey streaks purple. It fit in with the sort of… Aesthetic, I was cultivating at the time. 

MARTIN [Absentmindedly, almost as if he doesn’t realise he’s saying it] I always liked your grey streaks.

JON [Shocked Pikachu but he’s got Dreamworks single raised eyebrow syndrome] Oh?

MARTIN [Oh shit, oh fuck, did I say that out loud] It’s just… Y’know. Nice. Not something you should want to hide. 

[Quickly changing the subject] … You didn’t answer though. Am I right or wrong? 

JON [Slow, amused. In a visual medium he’d be spreading his hands out] You got me.

MARTIN [Inordinately pleased] Really? Huh. Okay.  Guess mine. And no Knowing!

JON Oh, gosh, uhm… Yellow?

MARTIN [Hah!] Green! 

JON [Audibly :D because Martin laughed] Green? Why? 

MARTIN [Hummed] Mm, I dunno. Just something about it. 

[Volume of crowd has increased considerably now]

MARTIN [Slightly more nervous. The slight break in conversation gave him time to notice the people beginning to crowd around]

- 

I apparently didn’t get to include it in the script, but it was going to be a reveal later that actually, Jon doesn’t have a favourite colour. He just agreed because he wanted to make Martin happy. 

[unsupervisedpanda]

Late night panic attacks

Liam Dunbar x Reader

Summary: Your brother begins to avoid you and you are left all alone. You are hurt and want anything to feel okay. In an attempt and out of anger you run out into the woods with no means of communication. And you are in danger.

You are y/n Stilinski. Your older brother was obviously Stiles. You were pretty similar. Thing is he seemed to be avoiding you. A lot.

It bothered you. You had tried talking to Scott but he told you not to worry about it. That it wasn't anything to worry about.

You called Allison but she didn't answer and neither did Lydia. You were sick of being ignored. You even called your dad. All he said is he was busy with work. That's why you're here. Sitting on your bed crying into your pillow.

In a last ditch effort you decided you'd try Liam. Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz!

"Hello?"

"Liam! Hey." You were glad he answered.

"Y/n? Hey! Um this is sorta a bad time. Can I call you back?" You were slightly surprised but it's Liam.

"O-oh. Of course! I'll talk to you later then?" You stammered a little.

" Sounds great. Alright. Talk to you later." You hung up.

You then decided to try Stiles. He wasn't home and neither was anyone else. You were a little paranoid.

Bzz- the person you are trying to reach is unava- you hung up.

He sent you straight to voicemail. You threw your phone across the room. You were sick of being alone. Decidedly you grabbed your f/c hoodie/jacket and stormed down the stairs and out of the house. Little did you know your phone was ringing off the hook. And there was no one to answer.

"Damn it!" Stiles yelled slamming his fist into the steering wheel.

Scott and Liam watched in shock as the usually cool headed and sarcastic Stiles freaked out. He was calling you over and over. They had all realized you may be a target and that you were all alone. Alone. That's all Stiles could think.

You, little sister were all alone and he left you vulnerable. You had no idea about the supernatural world. You didn't know you could be in danger. You didn't know your brother was calling you. And Stiles didn't know that you were not only all alone but also all alone in the woods. Stiles pushed on the gas and sped towards his house.

You were pretty deep into the woods by now. It was colder then you gave it credit for so you pulled your hoodie/jacket closer around you. To be honest with yourself the cold felt nice. Calming. You looked up and the moon shown down on you. Your only source of light considering you accidentally left your phone at home.

You looked ahead again. You continued walking but soon stopped as you heard rustling. A squirrel? Or maybe a rabbit? You thought. Hoping it wasn't a person who wanted you dead, you continued. You were almost to the clear, crisp river when something pounced on you. You flipped around to see the culprit. It wasn't anyone you knew. They growled at you as if they were a wolf or something.

They had long hair on their face and sharp fangs and claws. You screamed terrified. You fought against the thing on top of you. His claws dug into you arms as he straddled you. You continued to struggle. Looking for anything to attack the attacker. You saw a rock not to far. Running on adrenaline you pushed the asshole off and grabbed the rock bashing it on his head. You quickly turned to run when he grabbed you and threw you into a tree.

You heard your bones crack. You screamed. Loud. All of your breath left you as you nearly blacked out. You whimpered begging for someone to save you. For this creep to go away or to end your suffering. Then it happened. You felt your throat tighten and lungs shrink.

"Help."

* * *

Stiles, Scott, and Liam had looked through the whole house. They had found your phone and keys, but no you. They all walked outside confused. Scott listened carefully. Listening for anything. It was silent for a while. That was until he heard a terrified scream. He and Liam both looked at each other and ran. Fast. They ran towards your scream. Stiles followed terrified of what they might find. Sprinting through the trees they followed every sound that sounded like you. Even your soft whimpers.

You panted out of breath.

"S-stop! Don't come n-near m-me!" You tried to breathe but it was getting harder and harder.

You knew why. A panic attack. You tried to sit up. Tried to calm down. The person only grew closer and closer until he picked you up choking you against the tree.

"L-let me GO!" You kicked and screamed.

Pain covered your back and ribs. Your lungs burning for air. Soon everything was fading out.

"Y/n!!"

Someone yelled. Someone familiar. You felt yourself falling to the ground gasping for air. Grasping for anything to hold. Soon someone was holding you. Gripping you gently.

"Y/n c'mon! Look at me. Focus on me!" You looked up still panicked.

Liam sat in front of you. You stared into his icy blue orbs. Stared at his lips. Pulled on his arms. Anything you could. Nothing worked though. Nothing was working. Soon you'd black out, not from getting strangled, but rather a panic attack.

Liam noticed you were slowly losing consciousness. He had to do something. Fast. He quickly pulled your face towards his and kissed you. You were shocked but kissed back. You slowly felt yourself calm down and melt into his embrace. Stiles quickly ran over to the two of you when he finally caught up. His little sister was in Liam's arms. You seemed content there. He quickly checked you over for any major injuries or blood. He found nothing he could see, but he had a feeling you had a couple broken ribs and a concussion. Scott had taken care of the werewolf that attacked you. Liam picked you up as you couldn't get up yourself and they all headed toward the Jeep to take you to miss McCall.

You woke up with an IV and your middle wrapped in many, many wraps. You also had a glass of water and some pain killers next to you. You quickly took them and then searched the room for your phone. Once you found it you called Stiles. Bzz-

"Y/n!?" Stiles had quickly picked up.

He didn't care if he was in class.

" S-stiles! W-where are y-you?" You hiccupped.

You needed your brother. Now. You cried and sniffled over the phone.

" Oh y/n I'll be there soon! I love you." He quickly hung up and ran out of class, but not before he grabbed Liam and dragged him to the Jeep. Scott obviously following. They all arrived at the hospital you immediately grabbing onto Stiles. Liam watched you and smiled. Scott watching the siblings as well.

"I was soooo scared. And mad. I was definitely mad! You Stiles better explain! A Fucking dog person-"

"Werewolf" Scott interjected.

" Werewolf tried to kill me! And you weren't there! And you weren't answering any of my calls. Neither was Lydia or Allison! Scott barely even texted me back and at least Liam actually answered and was considerate! You just left me all alone and what if you didn't find me! I would be dead!" You exclaimed heaving.

Stiles and Scott both looked down obviously feeling bad.

"Y/n I'm so so so sorry! I didn't mean to I just didn't want you getting hurt and the werewolf that attacked you was one we were hunting down. He attacked you because you're a weakness of ours. We didn't want to involve you. I mean obviously now you are involved but we didn't want you to be and-" Stiles rambled on and on.

A/n

You just smiled. When he was done you told Liam to come over and grabbed him by his shirt pulling him down on to your lips.

"That's a thanks for helping me. By the way I think you're pretty cute. Wanna go out?" You smirked as Liam blushed.

You sure were confident but he blamed it on the pain killers.

"Sure. I'd love to, y/n." He smiled.

I hope you enjoyed 💕 Sorry for any misspelling or grammar mistakes but hey it's a story! Bye my unsupervised critters 🐾💞

[ncitygirls]

matryoshka - part 1, 4k

sibling!johnny, taeyong x f reader, mark x f reader, platonic/‘sibling’!haechan

nct crime au, angst, cw: character death, death, mental illness, police, injury, violence

300 days

There are few people who can disarm a man like Johnny Seo. Since the rather untimely, and inexplicable death of his mother and father at the tender age of fourteen, he quickly adopted this persona. He considers it a token from his late mother. She had always said, in a voice as soft as the breeze in spring, that to be polite is to be in control. He holds himself to that quite forcibly, reminding himself time and time again that there is power in making others fold to him. At time it is as simple as approaching an adversary with a smile, and awaiting the flare in their skin, the bugle in their veins and the ripple in their muscles. There are few who can disarm Johnny Seo. But few does not equate to none.

“When will you discharge her?” Johnny began, the words rolling off of his tongue with an air of nonchalance that bordered on flippancy, but an edge that was new to even him.

“Mr Seo,” without thinking, Johnny rolls his neck, bracing himself for a response he knows he will refuse. He thinks it odd to loathe an act he is yet to commit, especially when he can still prevent it. What he hates more however, is that you are here to witness it. When the doctor sighs, letting his glasses hang around his neck, he smiles sympathetically. Johnny sees nothing but pity. “I’m not sure how else to say this, but physically? Your sister is stable enough to go home. When we went in to remove what was left of the bullet fragments and saw to her ruptured spleen, we managed to mend her torn ligaments. Her blood work came back clear, and for the most part, her vitals are stable. With a few weeks of physio, I think we would be able to discharge her. Ideally, she could go home this week.”

“Wonderful,” Johnny’s hollow cheer guides his hasty movements as he, unthinking, strips you of your blanket to reveal a sight he thinks might change his mind. Rows of red line your skin, moons of dried blood covering the heels of your palms. He cringes at the dirty cotton cuffs that strap you to the metal frame of your hospital bed. Johnny can’t seem to make sense of the sight. “Did this happen during the shooting?”

“No, Mr Seo,” the doctor shakes his head, his frustration with his patient’s only living relative shedding every second he watches Johnny take in your limp frame. “It is like I was saying. Miss Seo is fit enough to leave. But mentally-”

Johnny simply raises his palm, ignoring the tears that pool in and out the corners of your eyes, a steady stream gathering in your hairline as you relive the events the two refer to so flippantly. “She will do better at home.” It is unclear for whom the assurance is intended. The doctor, you, himself. It is all just hope. So it doesn’t matter. “She will do better once she’s home.”

“Mr Seo, as your sister’s physician, I must implore you to reconsider.” Johnny understands where the doctor is coming from, he truly does. Johnny, taught well by his father, prides himself in being understanding. Like his father before him, Johnny prides himself in being calm in the face of not only danger, but regular folk - those who go about their lives, slaves to normalcy. Those who live life year to year, those who plan their lives, who wake up to sleep, expecting to see the sun once again. Those who consider life a right, rather than a privilege. Johnny has come to understand men like this. Not by choice of course, but because he had to. Especially once you met Taeyong.

2,109 days

“I met a guy today,” the words crackle through the phone, Johnny’s fingers stilling as he finally takes a break from his work, placing a mental bookmark on his train of thought. He wants to ask where, but he doesn’t enjoy seeming interested in affairs of the heart. They sicken him. “He was really weird,” you hum as you kick the curb, swinging your arms as you traipse through what Johnny thinks must be your university campus. He pretends he bother to know your schedule, but never has a reason for why he always gets himself up before you leave every morning. “A good weird,” you add, “his clothes hardly fit, they were all baggy. It’s hard to explain.”

“You kids and your trends,” he huffs, spinning in his chair to watch the city, eyes landing on the bell tower of your campus. “What happened to a nicely fitted suit?”

“It’s a college campus, John. Plus, it’s like half ten in the morning,” you can hear his next question before he even asks. “I mentioned his clothes because I wanted you to envision him, not judge him.”

“Well, I am envisioning a bum.”

“Okay, but envision a cute bum,” you try. “A beautiful, cute, funny bum.”

“That is still a bum, y/n.” You hear the faint sound of floor boards creaking, a telltale sign that he’s pacing. “Did he ask you out?” You hum in agreement, always too shy to admit anything so personal outright. It is times like this he wonders why you bother calling him and not just Haechan. He’ll never tell you this however. Lest he lose his spot as your first call. “I hope ope he’s taking you somewhere nice?”

“Yeah, of course,” he knows you’re lying. He knows it’s Hyuck’s you're both going to. Not that there as an issue with Hyuck’s. Even if you’ve already had the menu four different ways, front to back and then back again. It’s where you take all your first dates, you give Haechan a chance to size them up, figure out if they’re worthy. “I just wanted to tell you first because I think he’s a real contender this time.”

“And you’ll be late home, so you won’t be making dinner again?” Your affirming grunt forced a long sigh from Johnny. However, no matter many times he claimed his annoyance was due to your absence inconveniencing him; you both knew the loneliness bothered him now. “Well, have fun.”

“I’ll try,” you sing. “And I’ll bring that coffee cake you love so much, okay?” Johnny offers his own affirming grunt. Though it sits a couple octaves below your own, you hear the sliver of joy he lets through. “Love you.”

He doesn’t respond. He had already hung up.

300 days

“Mr Seo?”

Johnny had finally shrugged off his suit jacket and let his shoulders sag when he heard his name for the umpteenth time that day. He wanta to ignore it, but what would mother say?

“Yes?” SMPA. The badge is hard to read as it glistens under the glaring hospital lights. But he can’t miss the shape, the obnoxious insignia.

“Good evening,” the detective starts, his smiling eyes are in direct contrast to the gloom and doom of the last few days. Johnny wonders if smiling with teeth is proper practice when greeting someone who almost lost their little sister. “I am Detective Lee, I have a few questions for you about the shooting at Hyuck’s Diner. If you have a moment.”

“Of course,” he sighs, straightening his spine. “I am sure you are aware, but I wasn’t there.”

“I think it’s lucky you weren’t,” the detective adds, a sad smile settling on the bed to your right. “I am a friend of Donghyuck’s.”

“Oh,” there’s a short second where Johnny feels an odd sense of comfort, one he believed would only come when you finally opened your eyes. He also feels some guilt. “I didn’t know he had any other friends in Seoul, I tried to reach everyone I could.”

“And thank you for that,” the detective lets his eyes fall on his friend’s unmoving figure for a moment, his gaze returning to Johnny when he feels a familiar prick. “I have been hard at work on this case. I received word you did not wish for your sister to remain in hospital. May I ask why?”

“It is a public hospital,” Johnny responds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can afford better.”

“Then why did you let her stay?” The detective asks, scribbling away. Johnny wonders what dictates the parameters of an investigation versus a friendly conversation. “Her psych eval?”

“No,” he sighs, eyeing Haechan to your right. “They wouldn’t let me take him too,” when the detective tilts his head, surprise evident in his round eyes, Johnny lets himself laugh for the first time in over a week. “You wouldn’t want to be me when she wakes up to find I left him behind.”

2,361 days

It is past midnight when you fly into Johnny’s bedroom, a dew gathering on your forehead, chin and neck. In his sleepy haze, he hears only the end of your ramblings, your steps ordered in a manner Johnny can only describe as frantic. It is not in his nature to panic, he leaves such trivialities to you. But when your wide eyes find his, fear brimming as you scramble to get ready, you throw him your phone and he finally sees why.

“There are a bunch of guys who won’t pay up at Hyuck’s and he’s scared. Let’s go.”

That’s how Johnny found himself parked outside Hyuck’s Diner in downtown Seoul, just north of the river. You didn’t give him a chance to park up as you dashed out the still moving vehicle, door left wide open. Johnny is thankful it’s late, but quickly notes it being far too late for Hyuck’s to still be open. As he parks up, he watches you storm into the near empty diner, sees the relief on Haechan’s tired face as you round the bar. Johnny can’t really make out what you’re saying, but he can see the fire in your eyes. He sniggers as he stalks after you, seeing his mother in them too.

“I said, pay up, or give it back.”

“That’s funny,” one of the burly men says, food spitting out his mouth and onto the clean bar top as he laughs in your face. While Johnny only counted two from outside, he can now see a third standing off to the side. When his eyes meet Johnny’s, he falters slightly, thick hands running through his hair as he avoids Johnny’s haunting figure hovering by the only exit. “Who exactly is gonna make us?”

“Me,” you grin, reaching for the back of his head and slamming it hard down onto the bar. You hear Haechan yelp in what you assume is fear for his newly polished, now dented bar top. As the guy to his left lunges at you, you’re quick to utilise your surroundings. Johnny almost applauds your ingenuity as you quickly reach for a used butter knife and practically mutilate the man’s fist. It is then Haechan disappears from your side, his head nearly halfway down the drain pipe as blood splurts onto his newly polished, now dented, now blood stained bar top. The first guy had rounded the bar, only to be met with a fist to the throat, and knee to the gut. Johnny sees you’re expecting something to happen as you repeat the motion before seeing sense. With your hand latched to his collar, you drag his doubled over body out onto the street before you knee him again.

In the middle of the intersection pours his unpaid bill, meeting one end of the deal. Johnny laughs at how visibly dissatisfies you are, considering how long their bill actually was. You fish his wallet out of his back pocket, taking a few hundreds to cover the balance. “Who even carries cash anymore?”

Johnny wonders too as you pass by him, walking back inside and turning on the third guy. “Your friend covered yours, so you’re free to go.” As he scrambles to leave, he keeps his eyes fixed on your brother, halting when Johnny moves to stop him, a lone finger pointing toward the man's weeping companion.

“Take them with you.”

It’s a few seconds before their presence is no more than a distant memory. Johnny is quick to clean the bloody bar top, and rearrange the furniture. He even loads the dishwasher as you tend to a still queasy Haechan. “When I text you, I didn’t think you would do all of that,” he huffs, backtracking as he notes the hurt look in your eyes. “I mean, I am so grateful. Really, I am,” he smirks, fatigue stealing the light that usually fills his eyes. “But I didn’t know you were The fucking Bride.” When you roll your eyes, he presses on, glimpses of his usual self slowly return as the adrenaline begins to kick in. “No, honestly! I wish I had cameras in here because- fuck! That was insane!”

“Alright, whatever. Get your things, you’re staying with us tonight.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Haechan asks, the worry in his tone hurting you beyond belief. “Do you think I should call Mark again?”

“Who, the cop? No, they won’t be coming back, trust me,” you hum. When Johnny emerges from the back, drying his hands on a clean rag, you jest, “no thanks to angel eyes over there may I add.”

“Oh my god, hyung! And you!” Haechan restarts, allowing you to pack up his things while he recounts the terror in the third man’s gaze as he locked eyes with your brother. “It’s like he saw a ghost or something.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, grabbing Haechan while Johnny locks up. “Or something.”

It’s nearly dawn when Haechan crashes. It was Monday and he needed to find cover for the open. But getting cover didn’t stop him fretting, and no amount of herbal tea nor booze could settle a frantic Haechan. It is laughable though, how it took no more than a film opening to send him off. You slip away at sunrise, snuggling up to Johnny who gave up on sending you away shortly after your parents passed. However, he still makes sure to express his disdain for the affection.

“At least stick to your side, y/n-”

“Thank you for coming tonight,” you breathe, clearly uninterested in satisfying his request. “I know you have to be up soon, and I’m sorry. But having you there was- yeah. Thank you.”

For the first time in years, Johnny lets you snuggle with him. An hour later, for the first time ever, Johnny lets Haechan do the same. He fears that this might become a pattern, the two of you craving so much affection it might suffocate him. Johnny knows it just might, but has found peace in that. Much like he has found peace in your insistence that Haechan be one of you. Because he is one of you, he too left orphaned at a young age, you took him under your wing. So much like that day, as Johnny falls asleep to the sound of your light snores, he also decides-

300 days

“He’s family.”

“He speaks so highly of you both,” Mark adds, smiling thankfully at your sleeping frame. “But I’m sure he would forgive you for doing what’s best for her.”

“She wouldn’t.” Johnny adds, though a part of him knows he might have trouble forgiving himself.

“What is it you do for a living?” Mark asks, eyes quickly scanning Johnny’s crisp suit. “I can’t say I recall Hyuck ever mentioning it.”

“A bit of this and that,” he jokes, glancing towards you. “That’s what she calls it.” He hates the melancholic tone he has adopted. It is pitiful. “After our parents passed, I took over their pharmaceuticals company just after I turned twenty-one. We dabble in everything; medicine, cosmeceuticals, nutrition, you name it.”

“That must keep you busy.”

“I work from home,” Johnny knows he is being foolish, trying to falsely place an accusation in Mark’s assumption. Johnny knows he fell into the classic trope of throwing himself into his studies, and then his work, just to avoid the harsh reality that his parents were gone and they were never coming back. He would readily admit he abandoned you in the beginning to grieve on your own, to figure it all out on your own. He just wouldn’t take that from a stranger. “I tried to be around for her as much as I could.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mark’s smile is kind, full of unfiltered sympathy. Johnny wonders if you have to practice such a thing, and if so, whether someone should have the doctors do the same. “I just wonder if you are wearing yourself thin is all.”

“You needn’t worry about such things Detective.” Johnny reminds, drawing the line between the two so simply, his eyes flicking slowly to Mark’s badge. “Worry about the case.”

“Of course,” Mark rushes, scrambling to defend his statement. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“And I you,” when the doctor enters to take both yours and Haechan’s vitals, he greets Mark warmly. Johnny feels no resentment to this warm reception, none whatsoever. But he can’t help but wonder what about him denies him the same warm greeting. He is quickly reminded of the first time he was to meet Taeyong.

1,977 days

“Your knees are shaking the counter, hyung,” Haechan sniggers. He knows he shouldn’t, he does. But he can’t help but bask in his friend’s nerves. How can the coldest man he knows be so scared to meet his sister’s boyfriend. As calm and collected as he behaves, Haechan is no stranger to worry, and it worries him to no end how the evening will go. From what he has heard from you, Taeyong is as nervous as one can be. And yet, your main concern lies in how your brother will react, and Haechan is an empathetic soul. He just knows he will feel it all. “Your vibe is really killing the mood, lighten up.”

“Shut up, kid.” Johnny warns, eyeing his watch every so often. “They’re late.”

Strike one.

“You know what y/n is like, she’s probably trying to talk him out of it.” Haechan notes how innocent Johnny looks with his head tilted, confusion bleeding into his features. “You are pretty scary hyung, maybe she thinks you’m scare him off.”

“Maybe he isn’t worthy then.”

Strike two.

“Or,” Haechan sings, adjusting his embroidered apron, Hyuck’s opening anniversary gift from the very man he is about to berate. “Maybe you’re not ready to watch your sister grow up, so you sabotage everything with your scary eyes and bad vibes,” Haechan shrugs with his chin in his palm, blinking sweetly at Johnny who resists the urge to flick his forehead.

“Don’t you have coffee to go pour?”

Haechan sniggers once more as he does just that, refilling Johnny’s coffee and shrugging. “Or maybe they’re stuck in traffic.”

So he can’t fly?

Strike three.

300 days

After a few hours, Mark returns for a detailed description of the three men he suspects may be involved in the shooting. Johnny says as much as he can recall, even going as far as to emphasise the detective’s lack of involvement. He suspects it is in direct retaliation to his earlier comment and ignores it, though Johnny quickly sees his own guilt reflected back in the detective’s guilt ridden eyes. “Will that be all?”

“Almost-” Mark starts, before glancing over at you. “I just,” he can’t seem to push past the lump in his throat. Johnny has given him everything he knows, that much is true. But after speaking with the doctor, Mark can’t help but wonder. “Why haven’t you tried speaking to her? Doctor Kim said she may respond well to a familiar voice.”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

Mark knows it’s a loaded statement. One dripping in regret, in guilt, and in shame. But Mark can’t afford for Johnny to be ashamed. Not with Haechan lying unconscious as you lie there, reliving that day over and over and over again. Mark needs you to wake up. But Mark also swore to never relinquish his compassion. All Mark knows of you is the stories he’s heard through Haechan. Though some have a rosier hue due to his familiarity with you, Mark is sure there is no exaggeration in your case. You are a good person. One who cares deeply, who loves deeply. Mark thinks those parts of you are the ones Johnny can tap into. He just won’t.

“Haechan was my first friend in Korea. When I moved here as a kid, my parents worked at the orphanage he was at. He made fun of my Korean for a year straight before I could finally understand and speak fluently enough to defend myself. But, I guess it was okay, you know? He was helping all the same. I was a scrawny kid, I used to get picked on a lot. He was always there. Even though he got beat up too. He’s in all my earliest- my best memories. growing up. He’s like my brother. If he was awake, I think I’d-”

“But he isn’t,” Johnny reminds, eyes locked on your sunken face. Johnny knows what Mark is doing, he knows the tactic very well. He is quite acquainted with guilt as a form of persuasion. “He’s not awake, detective. The doctor said he doesn’t know if he will ever wake up. You know, I overheard the doctors say they haven’t seen spinal fractures that severe in their fifty years of combined experience. They said if Haechan ever opens his eyes again it will be a miracle. If he walks again? This hospital would be internationally renowned. Those surgeons would be infamous. But they can’t. They can’t so it. They can’t do it because they don’t have the facilities for such an operation, and even if they did, Hyuck couldn’t afford it. Even if he could afford it, y/n would have to wake up and give them the okay, because this idiot made herself his guardian so he could practically sell his soul for the loan for that fucking diner.

“So, I’m sorry, detective. I’m sorry that the only thing standing between you ever seeing your friend again is my selfish sister.”

“Mr Seo-”

“But you must agree, she is selfish. She thinks she’s the only one hurting, the only one who has lost something, lost someone.” Mark only sees what Johnny is doing a few seconds too late. As Johnny raises a lone finger to his lips, his eyes catching on the stream pouring down your temples. Mark’s heart nearly beats out of his chest as your vital signs begin to whir, the machinery at your bedside coming to life as Johnny reminds you that, “people die every day. Our parents, Hyuck’s parents, and now Taeyong-”

“Don’t!” You scream suddenly, your body nearly thrashing off of the bed. Johnny fears the force with which you rise could snap your arms in two, but nothing is more worrisome than the bloody red rimming your crisp white eyes; the visible and painfully rapid rise and fall of your chest; the tremor in your chapped lips. “Don’t! Please! Please don’t say it-”

Johnny had never moved so fast. His hands clinging to your trembling frame as he stroked the back of your head. He chanted quickly in your ear, pleading with you to stay with him as he promises to stay. “I won’t go anywhere, I won’t leave you. Never. I promise. Just please, stay with me, okay? I need you here, Hyuck- Hyuck needs you, okay? I need you to stay with me, we’re all we have. Please, y/n-”

Mark couldn’t help but feel intrusive. His earlier pushing began to feel filthy, unfair, unjust. But how could he know you were this far gone, this distraught. Nothing is more sickening than the soft, croaky ‘yes’ that spills from your lips. Your bloodshot eyes lingering on his frozen frame before you see Haechan. You tremble again, your body nearly convulsing as you recognise the boy beside you.

“Shh, he’ll be okay- I promise- we’ll get him help. I promise you- we’ll be okay.”

Johnny rarely spoke out of hope. He was a man who would cling so tightly to reality, you would sometimes joke that his knuckles would snap from the pressure. But as he holds you tightly in his arms, rocking your hollow frame back and forth, he realises he has nothing more than hope.

But since when has hope ever been enough?

[mermaidsneedwater]

you see him after the break up

This was requested as a part two to this post. They can be read seperately! I hope it came out okay :)

⇒ jaebeom

Oh no no no. This could not be happening to him. Jaebeom panicked when he saw you and some guy walking towards him by the river walkway.

Should I turn around and run? Or maybe I should crouch down and hide? Whatever Jaebeom was going to, he needed to decide quickly because here you came.

Walking hand in hand with a guy he didn’t recognize, Jaebeom awkwardly smiled when you finally came face to face with each other.

“Hi Y/N.” He said.

You still looked beautiful. Damn this was going to be hard. He wondered if you were happy with the other guy. He pondered the possibility of you missing him as much as he missed you.

“Hey.” You replied awkwardly. “Honey, you know the guy I mentioned before? This is him, Jaebeom.”

The stranger looked him up and down, seemingly sizing Jaebeom up before reluctantly shaking his hand. “Hey. I’m Chris.”

“So how have you been?” Jaebeom asked turning to you, “I haven’t seen you in... what a year?”

“Yeah I think so.” You nodded. “I’m good, how about you?”

“Same old, I just got back from an overseas tour.” He replied. He cringed internally, way to bring up a touchy subject Jaebeom.

“Oh that’s great. I’m glad things are going well for you.” You politely smiled.

Jaebeom noticed that Chris was holding your hand a little more tightly as he spoke. “Baby, we should get going, we have that thing.”

Jaebeom winced at Chris’ nickname for you, that was his name for you. You were his baby. Were.

“I should get going too. It was nice seeing you Y/N” Jaebeom said, trying to relieve the awkwardness of the situation. Turning to Chris, he joked “She’s a great girl Chris, don’t screw it up like me.”

“Trust me I won’t.” Chris said with condescending smile. “I’m never letting her go.”

“Good. I wish I had done the same.” He muttered in response.

Jaebeom waved goodbye to you both as you walked in opposite directions. He turned around to see Chris’ arm around your waist, whispering something in your ear. You laughed and smacked his chest lightly.

Even after a year, Jaebeom could feel his heart break in two all over again, with no one to blame but himself.

⇒ mark

“Y/N? Y/N L/N?” The voice on the phone spoke.

“Yes?” You answered.

“I’m calling because you were listed as an emergency contact for Mark Tuan. He’s been in a car accident.”

Your heart sunk in your chest. “I see. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Walking into the hospital, you stopped at the reception desk. A young lady greeted you with a small smile. “Hello miss, how can I help you?”

Frazzled, you ran a hand through your hair. “I’m listed as an emergency contact for a patient here, Mark Tuan?”

“Okay let me check for you.” She looked to her computer screen, pulling up his file virtually. “Yes, he is in room 241.”

“Is he okay?” You asked, praying that nothing bad had happened to him.

“You’ll have to discuss that with the doctor miss.”

Thanking her, you walked to room 241. With each step you took, you could feel the air leave your lungs. Though you’d only left him last week, you’d never be able to live with yourself if something had happened to him. Your hands trembled as you reached for the door, before you could touch the handle, you were stopped by a woman.

“Who are you?” She asked, holding a clipboard at her side.

“I’m Y/N, I was listed as an emergency contact for Mark Tuan, I heard he was in an accident.” You explained nervously. “Is he ok? What happened?”

“So you’re Y/N. The patient was asking for you when he arrived in the emergency room.” The Doctor brought her clipboard up to tell you the situation. “He is okay. Mr. Tuan was in a minor car accident. Though his blood alcohol level was .087%, which means he was drinking and driving. Injury-wise he’s going to be alright, we did a CT scan and found that he broke a couple of ribs.”

Exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you responded. “Oh okay, thank god. Thank you so much doctor.”

“He should recover in one to two months, I’ll prescribe some medication for the pain.” She continued. “You can see him.”

Nodding, you took a breath and entered the room. Mark laid in a hospital gown on the bed, looking out the window. He was hooked up to multiple wires, the room silent except the dripping of his IV bag. As you took in the sight of him, your blood began to boil.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” You shut the door behind you. “Are you insane? Were you trying to get yourself killed?!”

Mark turned to see you at the foot of the door. Overcome with relief, he could only whisper “Y/N.”

“Drinking and driving? How stupid do you have to be!” You continued yelling.

“Y/N.” Mark spoke again.

“What!?”

“You look good.” He said, taking in your appearance. “How have you been?”

Your face softened at his words. His antics had accomplished his purpose, bringing you face to face with him since your break up. This was exactly the kind of thing you had hoped to avoid, as you’d left him a note explaining that your relationship was over.

“You can’t do this Mark.” You told him.

“Do what?” He replied innocently.

“Things that are endangering your life. You need to stop being so reckless. It won’t bring me back to you.”

He grabbed your hand, begging “I realize I was wrong. It took me a little bit, but I know. I don’t want to be with anyone but you. Please reconsider.”

“Change your emergency contact.” You told him, taking your hand out of his. “And please take care of yourself. I’ll call your friends to come take care of you when you’re discharged.”

⇒ jackson

I want to see you. it’s been two months and I can’t get you out of my head. let’s meet for lunch.

Jackson had sent you this message this morning. Unsure of what to say, you decided it was simply best to say nothing. But when you checked your phone that evening you were greeted with one more.

meet me for one coffee. i won’t bother you again.

Unable to decline his invitation, you texted him back. tomorrow at 1.

thank you

That was how you found yourself face to face with Jackson once again.

“What can I get for you two today?” The waiter asked.

“I’ll have an iced coffee and she’ll have a latte with an extra shot of espresso please.” Jackson ordered for the two of you.

You had both forgotten the comfort and familiarity of your relationship. Sitting at the table felt like old times, almost.

“I’m sorry for ordering for you, force of habit.” Jackson apologized.

“It’s fine, at least you got the right order” You joked.

Half smiling, Jackson fiddled with his rings. “So you’re probably wondering why I asked to meet... And honestly I’m grateful you came. I know after what I did, I wouldn’t have if I were you.”

Silently nodding, you were curious as to what he would say.

“I just– I miss you. It’s as simple as that. I daydream and I think about you, I can’t eat without thinking if you are too, when I wake up in the morning I still reach out for you in our bed.” Jackson rambled. “What I’m trying to get at is, I think we should–“

“Wait.” You stopped him. “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh– okay. What is it?” Jackson asked.

“I’m moving.”

“Like across town?”

“No. To New York.” You told him. “I leave in three days.”

Jackson sat back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, I can do long distance. We can make it work.”

“No Jackson. I don’t want to. And I don’t think getting back together is a good idea.” You told him. “I’m moving because I need a fresh start. There’s nothing left for me here”

“But what about us?” He asked.

The waiter came back with your coffees, setting them down in front of you.

“Jackson, I can forgive what you did, but I can’t forget. Every time I look at you all I can think is back to that moment.” You admitted. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. I’m saying I need space from you.”

You watched as his fell. The goal of this meeting for him had not been accomplished. You signaled the waiter for the check. Leaving cash for both your coffees, you stood up. “Goodbye Jackson.”

⇒ jinyoung

You turned the key to your apartment. Former apartment. It had been a week since you’d last spoken to Jinyoung.

Slowly walking in, you grabbed the boxes you’d brought and pulled them inside. You turned on the light and were startled by the figure hunched over the couch.

“You scared me.” You exhaled a breath of relief.

“Sorry.” Jinyoung grumbled. He sat up on the couch and looked to you at the door. “I guess you were serious.”

You watched as he stood up from the couch. He looked disheveled. You could see the dark circles on his face, his hair messed up and his scruff had been unshaven for what seemed like days.

You walked past him and went straight to your bedroom, intent on getting your things out as quickly as possible.

As you headed to your closet, you set the box you were holding down and began to take your clothes off the hanger.

Jinyoung quietly came into the bedroom and watched as you packed.

“So this is it?” He said. “We’re really over?”

Ignoring his voice, you continued with your packing.

“Just do something. Yell at me. Throw something. Scream. Cry. Anything. I can’t take this silence.”

Not looking back at him, you placed a pile of your folded clothes into the box. “I don’t want to do that. I want my stuff and then I’m leaving.”

Jinyoung got up from the bed and held your hand, turning you to face him. “Don’t do this. Don’t end something good.”

“What do you want from me? You think I want this? I never asked you to cheat on me. You did that all by yourself.”

Shaking his head, he pulled your hand to his cheek, “Tell me what I can do to fix this. I made one mistake, I can do better.”

You took your hand out of his and turned back to the closet. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is. You want to fix things? Let me go.”

Jinyoung watched you, dejected and drained. He slowly watched as the apartment transformed from your home to just his apartment.

Taping the last of your boxes, you began taking them to your car, one by one. Jinyoung watched from the window as you shut the trunk of your car and drove away.

Now he was left with nothing but an empty house and the consequences of his actions.

⇒ youngjae

You sat in bed, scrolling through the articles about Youngjae and Mina’s relationship. It had only been 3 weeks since you’d broken up.

They’re so cute!

This is my dream couple xoxo

Youngjae looks so happy with Mina

Frustrated, you threw your phone against the wall. Leaning over to your bedside table, you grabbed the can of ice cream and dug your spoon into it. You contemplated for a brief moment whether you should get out of bed to get a real bowl, but at the moment you couldn’t be bothered with such things.

You’re roommate walked in to find you holed up in your room. “Y/N when was the last time you left this room?”

“I don’t know maybe a couple days ago?” You shrugged, having another bite of the ice cream.

“Okay just give me the ice cream and we can talk.” Your roommate said slowly.

You frowned as she successfully pried the pint out of your hands. “Leave me alone. I just want my ice cream, I think I deserve that much.”

“Okay, that’s it,” your roommate said setting the tub down. “You’re going to shower and get dressed, tonight we’re drinking.”

“Oh no. I have plans with another pint of ice cream and the new Scream movie.”

“Y/N, you’re going out and that’s final!” She insisted.

A few hours later, you stood at the bar of some club your roommate had taken to you. Sipping on a gin and tonic, you scanned the room sullenly.

“Can you at least try to smile?” You roommate nudged you. “You have to put yourself out there. Have you ever heard the saying, in order to get over someone you have to get under someone else?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just really not in the mood.” You said, taking another sip of your drink.

“Fine, do what you want but I see a guy checking me out so I’m going to go talk to him.” She huffed.

Raising your glass, you signaled the bartender for another drink. “Okay, have fun. I’ll be here. Sad and alone.”

Tracing the rim of your glass, you sat alone. Before long, you heard a voice speak.

“One soju please.”

Oh god. You knew that voice anywhere. Turning the other way, you attempted to hide your face.

“Y/N?” Youngjae asked. “Is that you?”

Oh shit.

Turning around you saw your ex-boyfriend, he stood tall in a sleek blazer and some jeans.

“Hey you,” you said awkwardly. “What brings you here.”

“Oh, um. It’s Mina’s birthday.” He said. “She wanted to go out with some friends.”

“That’s great.” You said bitterly, downing the rest of your drink. “I’m glad you guys are happy.”

You left some money for the drink and began to leave the bar.

Texting you friend, you headed out the entrance of the club. don’t feel well, going home.

You pulled out your phone to order a car.

“Y/N! Wait!” You heard a voice call behind you.

Youngjae ran, coming to stand in front of you. You looked down at your phone ignoring him.

“Let me take you home.” He said. “Please,”

“I’m not really your concern anymore.” You said defiantly. “I think I can get a cab on my own.”

“Please Y/N.” He said, holding your wrist. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“Like you know anything about what’s right.” You rolled your eyes. “Just go back to your new girlfriend. You guys make a great couple.”

“Y/N,” he started again.

Your cab pulled up in front of the club. “Just do me favor? The next time you see me in public let’s just avoid the pleasantries and do our own thing.”

And with that you shut the door of your cab and watched through the window as you drove away.

Youngjae could only watch and let you go, what right did he have to do anything else anyway?

⇒ bambam

“And she just laughed when you told her?”

“Yup.” Bambam nodded.

Yugyeom sat in disbelief. “Wow. Maybe you guys are better off broken up.”

“What? No.” Bambam refused. “I just need to go apologize to her and we can work through this.”

“Why are you trying so hard to put this relationship back together? Clearly you didn’t want to be in one since you were cheating on her. Most guys would be out celebrating right now!” Yugyeom replied.

“I don’t know, I just feel like I’m missing a piece of myself without her.” Bambam hadn’t admitted that out loud before. “I need to make things right.”

“Yeah but does she want to make things right?” Yugyeom asked. He paused for a few moments to let his best friend ponder the question. “Anyway, I should get going. I’m sorry about your eye again.”

“I deserved it.” Bambam muttered. They were of course referring to the fact that Yugyeom had punched Bambam two weeks ago when he refused to tell you that he was cheating on you.

That night Bambam found himself awake and restless. When he closed his eyes, his mind would run wild with thoughts about you, making it impossible to actually sleep. He got out of bed and put on a sweater, intending to take a stroll at night.

Walking along the street at night, he watched as a couple passed him by. Were they in love? Were they doomed to fate like you and him? As he crossed the street he didn’t even see the car turning the corner until it came to a screeching stop.

“Hey!” He called out looking to the driver.

He was shocked to see that it was none other than you. Walking to the side of the car, he knocked on the window.

“Care to tell me why you almost ran me over?”

“The light’s about turn green. Get in the car.” You told him.

Weighing his options for a brief moment, Bambam sat in the car. “Where are we going?”

You turned to him, laughing a little, “Nowhere? Everywhere?”

Bambam shook his head, “I feel like I don’t understand you anymore.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Can’t really walk around alone at night, so I thought a drive might help.” You explained.

“Me too. Until you almost ran me over.” He tried to joke.

“I’m sorry. But in my defense you came out of nowhere.” You told him, merging onto the road overlooking the river.

You pulled the car onto the side and sat with water moving in front of you. Slowly coming to a stop, you drummed your hands on the steering wheel.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Bambam asked.

“You first.” You said, looking straight ahead.

“I was thinking about you. I miss you. I miss what we had.” He admitted. “Now you.”

You leaned back in your seat, taking in his words. “I was thinking about us too. And if I’m being honest, I was scared. And that’s because I felt so free when we broke up, like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I couldn’t sleep without feeling like our entire relationship had been a waste of time.”

Bambam was taken aback. Our entire relationship had been a waste of time.

“Y/N–“

“Look, if you’re here to try and get back together, then you should just leave. Don’t make things more complicated than they already are.”

He slunk in his seat, he could now see the writing on the wall, you were done and better off without him.

“And if I’m not?”

You turned to look at him, sadly smiling. “We drive around for a bit, I drop you home, and then we go on with our lives. We never hear from each other again.”

⇒ yugyeom

Yugyeom knew this was a idiotic idea. His friends had told him it was an extremely dumb thought. But still he couldn’t help but do it.

He sat at the café by the JYP building that you’d often visit him at. Yugyeom figured that if the café was the place your relationship had gone wrong, it had to be the place to make things right.

Since your break up, it had been like you’d vanished off the face of the earth. You’d effectively blocked him out of your life, changing your phone number, secretly moving into a new apartment, he couldn’t even look up your profile on Instagram to cyber stalk you. Yugyeom only realized when you were gone how much he loved you. One moment you were together, and the next every trace of you had disappeared.

So for the last 3 months, he’d been hoping to ‘accidentally’ run into you at the café. Yugyeom figured that when the moment finally came, he’d apologize and convince you to take him back.

At first he’s told himself that he’d wait for you a week, then two weeks, a month, and now three months. He knew nothing about your life without him, so he could only guess your routine.

Yugyeom was sure that for the ninety-second day in a row, you wouldn’t show. That was until he unmistakably heard the sound of your laugh.

Following the sound, He looked to find you on the phone entering the café. Overwhelmed with the sight, he quickly stood up to take a peek at you.

Surely enough, you were even more beautiful than he remembered. Your hair had grown a bit, and you’d walked into the café radiating a kind of confidence he’d never seen before.

Nervously running a hand through his hair, it was time to act on the plan he’d been concocting for the last 3 months.

He waited at the table, until you’d finished ordering your drink. When he saw you step up to the counter, Yugyeom brushed against you.

“I’m so sor–“ you started before realizing who you’d bumped into.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?” Yugyeom asked, pretending to be shocked.

“Oh, I was just on my way to meet someone and thought I’d stop for a coffee. How about you?”

“Lunch break. Just picking up a quick bite before I go back to practice.”

“Right! What are you doing nowadays?” You asked, suddenly remembering.

Has she really forgotten that I’m in an idol group? Yugyeom wondered. She used to know my schedule better than me!

“We have a comeback soon. But anyways...” grasping for a topic Yugyeom panicked, “the weather has been so nice lately right?”

When you chuckled at his question, Yugyeom was confused.

“This is so awkward.” You said blatantly. “Of course this was bound to happen to us.”

Relieved that you’d broken the ice, Yugyeom laughed with you. “I guess so.”

“It’s okay Yugyeom. It doesn’t have to be like this.” You reassured him. “I’m not angry with you anymore.”

“Y/N, I just have to let you know how sorry I am.” He admitted. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he continued “I never meant to hurt you. I was so stupid, I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it.”

“I forgave you awhile ago. We just weren’t meant to be, it happens.” You shrugged. “You deserve to be happy. And so do I.”

Taking your coffee from the counter, you took out your wallet to tip the barista. “Be well Yugyeom.” Waving to him, you left the café.

Yugyeom watched as you walked out the door. He couldn’t help but feel an ache in his chest, realizing that he’d now lost you for the second and final time.

return to masterlist

[smolfoxbab]

okay here’s the Narumitsu angst (with a happy ending)

its my blog and i get to choose the hyperfixation to post about

((1,830 words //tw for injury + blood// hope u enjoy!))

Phoenix Wright wasn’t the type of person to make enemies. At least, not on his own. His selfless nature and optimistic personality made him a likable man to be around, even if he was often clumsy and oblivious at times. However, being a defense attorney was a different circumstance, one that brought a certain set of unspoken dangers with it. In proving his client’s innocence, the guilty verdict was placed onto another. While most of these people posed no threat behind the bars of their sentences, there was no guarantee a grudge wouldn’t push them to seek vengeance.

Miles Edgeworth had plenty of experience with this concept already. He was a prosecutor-- The Demon Prosecutor. Among the death threats and various other attempts on his life, he was all too aware of the risks that came with his job. But he had learned to shoulder them, right alongside the other burdens he carried. He also knew that Phoenix didn’t consider these things, didn’t consider his own safety as much as he considered others. Concussed, tazed, nearly drowned and beaten to a pulp in an infamously deadly river... none of it seemed to phase him. He never slowed in his pursuit for protecting others, and that... that concerned Miles more than anything.

“You need to be more careful, Wright,” he had said once in passing after a trial where a guilty offender nearly wrung Phoenix by the neck, the defense attorney standing just a little too close when the verdict was handed down.

“One of these days something... serious, might happen to you, and you won’t be able to just laugh it off.”

Phoenix only flashed him that dopey grin and said, “I’ll be fine, Edgeworth. For an unlucky guy, I’m pretty lucky.”

Miles wanted to believe that, truly. The man seemed to get off easy in dire situations more often than not, so perhaps he had a point behind his foolish reasoning. Even so, his worry lingered. Luck always tended to run out at some point.

---

Then one afternoon, his phone rang. He had already been driving towards Phoenix’s office, having been called over earlier on the premise of having an “important discussion.” He’d left as quickly as he could, but the traffic seemed to determined to keep him from reaching his destination. It was slow, and he seemed to be hitting every red light possible. It was at one of these prolonged red lights, as he sat impatiently tapping the steering wheel, that a familiar tune sounded off in his pocket. Sighing, he slipped his phone out and checked the screen, not too surprised to see Phoenix was the one calling. Forgot to tell him something in the first call, most likely. He hit “answer” and brought the device up to his ear.

“What is it, Wright.”

There was a raspy breath on the other end before Phoenix spoke, his voice just as hoarse.

“M-Miles, I... I-I uh...”

Miles’ brow furrowed, and he found himself straightening in his seat, grip tightening on the phone.

“Wright? Is something wrong?”

There was another breath, followed by a rather nasty sounding cough. There was then a sound that could have been a laugh, if it wasn’t so strained.

“Ah... s-something like that... I w-was trying to call... hhhah... I guess it d-doesn’t mmmatter... a-are you almost... here?”

The light turned green, and Miles pressed on the gas. Harder than he should have, perhaps, but he was uneasy now.

“Yes, I am. What is it, Wright? What happened?”

There was a grunting sound, and the rustle of paper. 

“W-well... fffunny story, ah... there was s-ssomeone at the door and it t-turns out it wasn’t... w-wasn’t you and ahm... shit-”

The hiss was sharp and pained. Miles turned a corner a bit too hastily, nearly catching a street sign as he swung around it. Before he could say anything, Phoenix continued.

“I’m not... I’m nnnot doing too hot, Miles... It’s getting... k-kind of hard to... focus...”

Miles clenched his jaw, trying to hold his composure. He was on the final stretch of road, he just had to get there.

“Stay with me, Wright. Stay on the phone. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah...” came the reply, but the strength in it was fading, “yeah... Miles...?”

“I’m here, Wright.”

He turned into the office parking lot as he said that, haphazardly parking and exiting the car in record time.

“.....what I w-wanted to... tell you... I... I love... you.”

Miles’ breath hitched as he ascended the steps. He would’ve have stopped completely if not for the adrenaline fueling his movement. A lump formed in his throat, which he heavily swallowed as he pressed on. Damn it, why now did he- Damn that man. 

“J-Just hold on, Wright. I’m coming up on the door now. Wright? Wright?”

Silence filled the other end of the line as he approached the door, which sat unlocked and ajar. A red smear stained the door handle, while more splashes led across the floor and deeper inside. Miles only hesitated a moment before flinging the door open, rapidly searching the room for the other man. It didn’t take long.

The defense attorney was slumped against a bookshelf near his desk, various papers and books scattered around him, along with his still lit up phone. He wasn’t moving. Miles sucked in a breath as he practically slid to Phoenix’s side, one hand clasping his shoulder while the other went to check his pulse. Thankfully, he could still feel it, though it was weakening.

“Wright? ...Phoenix, can you hear me?”

He tried to get some kind of response, lightly shaking his shoulder, but got nothing. He shifted his gaze downward, where he couldn’t help but spot the dark stain soaking underneath his jacket. He lifted the blue fabric slightly, trying to get some assessment of the damage. It looked too wide a tear to be a gun wound. A stabbing seemed more likely.

“Damn it. Damn you,” Miles cursed under his breath, shucking his jacket off and moving to put pressure on the wound. He set to call the authorities at the same time, his now-shaking hand nearly dropping the phone entirely. He stared at the unconscious man before him as the phone rang, mumbling to himself before the responder picked up,

“If you die, you fool, I’ll... I’ll bring you back and kill you again myself.”

Emergency services responded quickly, and an ambulance was sent with haste. The police force arrived as well, with the ever-diligent Gumshoe heading the charge. Ever-diligent, and ever-emotional, as the detective seemed to blast through one emotion after the next while Phoenix was being prepped for the drive to the hospital. Miles was given the assurance as he boarded the ambulance himself that, no matter what, the culprit wouldn’t get away with it. In the tense silence of the ride that followed, Miles let that statement repeat in his head- let it hold him together. They wouldn’t get away with this. He would see to it personally... Once he was assured that Phoenix was going to make it out of this alive.

---

Several hours of absolutely nerve-wracking waiting in the hospital lobby followed after, but all well worth it when he was informed that Phoenix was in stable condition. That didn’t stop him from nearly throwing the recovery room door off its hinges upon arrival, however. He needed to see it for himself, confirm with his own eyes that the other was alive. 

A tired smile greeted him from the bed.

“Hey Edgeworth...”

Miles stood in the doorway for a moment, silent and stiff. Then, slowly, he drew in a breath, let his shoulders relax, and stepped inside with the door closing behind him.

“Wright.”

Phoenix winced at the tone of Miles’ voice, like a child about to be lectured by his parent.

“Look, before you get m-”

“You are an absolute moron, Phoenix Wright. I mean really of all the idiotic- Not only do you call me as you’re bleeding out, rather than contact the authorities-”

Phoenix attempted to interject.

“To be fair I was actually trying to call the-”

But Miles didn’t let him finish.

“But then you have the gall to go and declare- to tell me that you- in such a dire circumstance you decide to claim-”

“Miles-”

“Not seconds before I walk in on what could have well been a murder scene- And what would I have done then? Knowing you had said such a thing before I could even have a chance to process it let alone-”

“Miles if... if you don’t feel the same I-”

“Reciprocate.”

Both of them fell silent then. Phoenix, slack-jawed and staring straight at Miles while the prosecutor locked his gaze to the floor, feeling the heat begin to burn in his cheeks. Phoenix blinked rapidly, beginning to flush a bit himself despite his currently paler complexion.

“Y-y-you mean you-”

Edgeworth huffed and turned towards him, closing the distance between himself and the bed before closing the distance between the two of them. It was an impulsive kiss, and not the one either of them imagined would be their first, but it was real. Phoenix was real, and still here, returning the kiss like it was the most natural thing in the world. A wince and a hiss broke the moment though, Phoenix pulling back to sink into the mattress he’d started to push off of. Miles pulled back hastily, rubbing at his arm with an awkward clearing of his throat.

“A-apologies, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no- my fault, really. And look I... I’m sorry for worrying you and... how I said that really wasn’t how I meant to go about it-”

Miles cut him off again before he could start losing himself in his rambling.

“I... I know, Wright. I would be far more concerned if your plan had been to confess to me by having a near death experience.”

Phoenix chuckled nervously and looked elsewhere, giving Miles the chance to take up the seat next to his bedside.

“Yeah that’s... a little far out there... even for me. But Miles, you really...?”

Phoenix looked back with a start as Miles took his hand, his grip cautious but protective. Miles attempted to play it off as if he was exasperated, rather than jumbled mess of feelings he was grappling with. The mess of feelings he had been grappling with for some time.

“Honestly, I would have thought just now made it clear enough, but. If I must say it to convince you. Yes, Phoenix. I... I love you, too.”

There was a pause, far too long yet far too short, before Phoenix smiled. Still tired at the edges, but warm and genuine. 

“Okay then. I’m... I’m really glad to hear it isn’t just... I’m glad.”

Miles couldn’t help but smile faintly himself, gently squeezing the hand in his.

“...As am I. Now... why don’t you tell me how you got into this mess?”

[revasserium]

beauty as a perspective (or a study of truth through the lens of a boy who has always believed in fairy-tales)

anon: And it is beautiful with Hinata First love with kageyama? Please :) 

101. and it is beautiful hinata ; 1.8k words

there are so many things he considers to be beautiful -- the sunrise, the sunsets, the way the moon lingers on the horizon after a whole midsummer’s night, like it’s waiting for the first rays of sunlight to spill across the world, the way the stars are relentless in their twinkling, as if emboldened by the darkness that beholds their very beings -- that they are made all the brighter by night’s all-consuming dark. 

there are other things too -- a well-aimed spike, crystal cut and down the line, right next to the pole, a perfectly arched toss, slow enough for thought, but too fast for the opponents to follow, the double-rolling saves that noya-sempai had promised to teach him and still hasn’t gotten around to, the way a clean sneaker sounds against the well-waxed floor of a freshly cleaned gym, the sound of a volleyball meeting skin, the flutter of a net, the chorus of voices as it echoes towards the ceiling. 

the cheers of the crowds when a point gets scored. when a match is won. 

the weight of happiness, so light and yet so, so heavy too, enough to make his bones feel like they’re filled with gold or silver or maybe magic itself. he thinks there’s nothing more beautiful than playing... and winning. 

until he meets you. 

your name breezes through him like a summer wind through wheat, leaving no part of him unruffled and untouched, all this thoughts tangled and out of ordered, but so beautifully so. he watches you go like a child watching the end of a really good dream, powerless to stop it, but still with the naïve hope that perhaps, if he just kept his eyes open (or closed) for a moment longer, maybe, just maybe you’ll stay -- 

“hinata-kun, its your turn to help clean the classrooms.” 

he snaps out of his reverie (did you know that’s the word for daydream in french? how fitting, right? and when tsukki had asked, drop-jawed and all, where the hell hinata had learned such a thing, all he could do was shrug and blush and say he’d read it somewhere -- to tsukki’s compounded shock and confoundment), the teacher is watching him with a hiked eyebrow, and half the class was giggling. but you, you’re standing next to his desk with a sweet, expectant smile and he’s lost all over again. 

(who was he, anyway? before he knew what your smile looked like? what your voice sounds like? what the color of your hair was beneath the morning sun, or in the golden glow of dusk?) 

“let’s do our best, hm?” you offer him your hand. 

hinata had never wished for after class chores to last forever, but he has now. 

he doesn’t know how you get onto the topic of volleyball, but it always ends up there somehow... with him -- and he finds himself rambling like he always does when he’s nervous, blabbing out an invite because yeah! it’s pretty cool! and there’s a practice match today! and oh, yeah! i’m on the starting lineup and of course you can come watch! i’m super awesome y’know! -- 

and then the horrifying, daunting realization that he’s going to have to play. with you watching him. with your eyes, like pools of amber so deep and clear they remind him of melted caramel during the holiday school fairs, with your smile like tasting a favorite treat after a long, hard day’s practice, with your laughter and your voice like -- like -- 

“what’s this? hinata’s brought a friend?” there’s something in the texture of suga-sempai’s voice that hinata isn’t sure he likes but he’s too nervous to call it out at the moment. instead, he tries desperately to explain why the hell he’d brought you along, not that he’s really sure either, other than the fact that he doesn’t ever want you to leave his sight ever again in his whole life but, well, he can’t really say that out loud without sounding like a freak -- 

“uh -- it’s not -- i mean, yeah! we’re friends! i think so at least -- well anyway -- ahhhhh -- she likes volleyball and there’s a practice match today and i told her she could come and watch cause i’m really awesome at it and she just moved here from tokyo, or actually she stayed in france for a while before that! can you believe it? hey -- wait do you know kenma from nekoma? they’re from tokyo too, right --?” 

kageyama fixes him with a flatlined look even as you smile. 

“she’s not from the same school, idiot.” 

hinata puffs up as he turns to kageyama but thankfully, daichi is there to pull them apart before things get really nasty. he flashes you a sincere and somewhat apologetic grin. 

“ah, thanks for coming. you can find a seat up there, and uhm -- welcome to karasuno.” 

hinata finds himself watching you go (he nearly yells when you wave at him from the second level, that is until kageyama elbows him so hard in the side he actually does yell). 

“focus, boke!” 

“shut up, crappyama!” 

“ha? what did you say?” 

“both of you, quiet!” 

they both flinch at the sound of daichi’s voice. 

but hinata can’t help stealing another glance towards you, thinking that this feels different, somehow. different than all the other practice matches he’s played before. it’s like his vision is sharper, all his senses on high alert -- he can smell the sweat on his teammates’ skin, can see each spec of light as it refracts off of the newly waxed gym floors, can feel the weight of your eyes on him like a superhero’s cloak -- beautiful and full of responsibility. 

and he plays well that day, he thinks -- got a few really solid quick’s in, and he only messed up on two of his serves, which, all things considered, is probably a record low for him. kageyama only yelled at him five times, also on the low side. 

they manage to scrape a win, and it was mostly asahi-san’s doing -- noya-sempai being awesome as ever, too. still, he thinks it’s been a good day. he almost forgets that you’re watching for a while, but only for a while, and as the match draws to a close, he’s again keenly aware of your eyes on him. 

he turns to grin up at you, shooting you a thumbs up. he finds you no longer sitting, but standing by the railings, your eyes huge and happy as you wave down at him. there’s a flush to your face that makes him want to walk off a bridge right into a very, very cold river but he shelves that thought for later as you make your way down the stairs, jogging right up to him, your smile so brilliant he thinks he might go blind if he stared too long. 

he blinks, still dripping sweat down his now very wet uniform. 

“shouyou! you were amazing! i mean, you are amazing --!” 

he almost jolts at your use of his given name, but then he remembers you asking (because you liked the sound of it or something; he’d forgotten what you said after that cause he was too busy marinating in the fact that you liked the sound of his name) if you could call him that. and him saying yes. 

“for a while there it looked like you were flying, like really flying!” 

he nods along with your excitement, his smile growing so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt and god, what what happen if he just kept on smiling wider and wider? what would happen to his face? would it stretch and keep on stretching? or maybe he’ll accidentally split his face in half and have to get stitches from the hospital, which wouldn’t be fun but for you, he thinks, it’s worth it. 

“y-yeah! cool! right?” he leaps ups as if to illustrate, but as with all things he does on a spur of the moment impulse, it doesn’t go quite as planned. he ends up smacking his head on the doorframe of double gym doors, leaving him whining, curled up into a ball on the ground, and you kneeling by his side. 

“shouyou? are -- are you okay? oh my god, what happened?” 

he winces as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, grinning awkwardly up at you. 

“i wanted to show you!” 

“show me what?” 

“what it looks like to fly!” 

tanaka is fussing over hinata, loudly asking if he’ll get a concussion while tsukki is remarking to that getting a concussion might be good for him; noya and tanaka are both laughing so hard they’re also curled up on the ground. 

you giggle, “save some flying for next time.” 

“for... next time?” 

“yeah, for the next time you play.” 

“will... will you be there?” 

you smile, nodding, offering him a hand. 

“if you want me to be.” 

“yes! yeah -- oh man, i do! i really really --” 

“good, then i’ll be there.” 

“aahh, that’s amazing! super great! ahhhh i’m so --- mmmm -- i’m so happy!” 

he leaps up and is about to jump up again before he realizes you hadn’t let go of his hand yet. 

he blinks, heat washing up his face like jumping head-first into a steaming onsen. 

“hey! you said you’d save some for next time, right?” 

hinata laughs, “right -- for next time.” 

you give his hand a squeeze before letting go, turning to greet his teammates. hinata watches you, like he’s been doing from the second he’d set eyes on you a week and a half ago, when you’d introduced yourself to the class. 

like when he’d all too enthusiastically volunteered to show you around the school, like when the pair of you had stopped in the library, and you’d run your fingers along the spines of all the books like greeting old friends. 

like when you flipped open a book of fairy-tales and traced the outline of a boy with melting wax wings, plummeting from the sky. 

“you know, i used to always daydream about flying as a kid,” you said. 

hinata quirked his head, “why?” 

you smiled, “dunno, seemed like a fun thing to do.” 

hinata smiled then too, “well, it’s not that hard.” 

you looked at him, “you... know how to fly?” 

“sure i do!” 

you laughed, then, but not a mocking kind of laugh -- a delighted, dancing kind of laugh that made hinata’s whole chest fill with hot air and helium. 

“you promise to show me some day?” 

hinata had nodded so hard his head might’ve come right off it’s hinges. 

“hey, what’s ‘daydream’ in french?” he asked. 

you blink at him, “reverie.” 

“wow... beautiful.” 

you laughed again, nodding, “it is, isn’t it?” 

and he decides then, watching as you smile at something suga-sempai says, as you quirk your head curiously at kageyama, making him flush a hilarious shade of crimson as well, that sure, there are a lot of beautiful things in this world. 

but none of them quite so beautiful as you. 

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Icarus, and the Fire

Author: @thatsrightdollface

For: @bebexox4

Pairings/Characters: Hajime Hinata/Nagito Komaeda.  Other characters mentioned.

Rating/Warnings: T.Self-deprecating/self-destructive thoughts.  Religious and folklore-based imagery.  Mentions of ritual sacrifice.  Non-graphic descriptions of canon-typical violence.

Prompt: Chapter 5 Angst with happy post game ending (I hate sad endings :( ) Arguably, the second part of this could be used for your third prompt, “Post-game romantic confessions under moonlight,” too!  To a degree.

Author’s notes:  Hello – I really hope you enjoy this gift!!!  It’s the second prompt of two you can expect for this season’s Komahina Secret Exchange.  I hope you’re having a great day and doing as well as possible.  Thank you, again!!!

Just before Nagito Komaeda died, the fire reaching for him seemed ruinously golden, bright and hot as the sun, and he heard Hajime Hinata’s voice from the door of the plushie factory.  Of course his killing game classmates would get the fire extinguisher grenades before the flames properly ate at Nagito’s skin, catching on the ragged edges of his coat.  Nibbling at his hair.  Of course.  The fire wasn’t what was supposed to kill him, technically, according to the plan he’d dreamt up like a prayer, falling to his dirty knees at Hope’s feet.  This was an offering.

Nagito knew he was going to die here, however it happened, and he only had a few breaths left.  They were smothered, horrible breaths, too, and the world smelled like so much burning fabric.  Nagito’s mind was smoke and pain, pain like static, straining to hear Hajime’s voice before the end.  Why Hajime Hinata?  He was the enemy; he was a Remnant of Despair; he was the only one of Nagito’s killing game classmates he absolutely knew he couldn’t trust.  Hajime had been the sole survivor when the entire talentless Hope’s Peak Academy Reserve Course was lost…  a different ritual offering, you know, but this time to the stiletto-heeled, snickering Goddess of Despair.  Junko Enoshima.  Nagito saw Hope as something greater than all things…  something to make this whole world worth it…  and he was offering himself to Hope, just now.  This was different.  This was what he’d decided — no, what he knew — had to be done.

It was terrible luck to be caught in Junko Enoshima’s killing game…  truly, just awful.  But it was an amazing opportunity, too.  From despair came Hope, after all — that’s what Nagito had been preaching to everybody here on Jabberwock Island, and that’s what he had to believe with his whole soul or else how could he have ever made it this far?  Hah.  It was simple, really.  One of Nagito’s classmates was a member of the Future Foundation, even if they didn’t realize it yet, and only that one person among them all hadn’t become one of Junko Enoshima’s monsters.  And so, you see?  It was wonderful luck, now, that Nagito could save that single near-holy classmate, even if it meant he and everything else on this island went up in flames.  Hajime Hinata, too.  Even if it meant this might be one of the last times Hajime spoke outside of a class trial — with Nagito straining to listen, even if he willed himself not to, even if he knew he shouldn’t want to hear.

Hajime’s laughter, self-conscious chuckles in the back of his throat.  Hajime’s indignant, baffled exclamations, trying to keep the peace among their group…  Hajime’s earnest frustration, struggling to understand Nagito even when everyone else they knew here had given up.  Hajime’s voice could get so stumbling and soft, when he and Nagito were reading together on the beach; Hajime had ridden the island’s rollercoaster with some of their classmates a while back, and Nagito had been able to pick his whooping scream out from everybody else’s.  He’d listened for it, then, too.  

It had been wonderful luck to meet Hajime Hinata.  Nagito would have told you that from the first time they spoke.  Hajime was earnest and warm, and it had been easy to walk beside him.  They could slide together almost like friends, at first, before the killing game really got going.  Unspeakable, wasn’t it, that someone would actually want a friend like Nagito Komaeda?  And yet, it had been true: Hajime’s eyes had relaxed a little, finding him, and Nagito had felt his lips curl up into a soft smile even when he had no right to it.

It didn’t really feel like that long ago, with Hajime shaking even more sand out of his shoes and Nagito frantically scanning his mind for interesting things they could talk about.  Sometimes Nagito would ramble on sing-song tangents for way longer than he’d meant to, and he truly believed Hajime tried to hear every word.  That was a new feeling.  There was no one else Nagito would have wanted squeezing his hand as he lay limp in yet another hospital bed, sick with the killing game’s Despair Disease.  Nagito’s hand would have been sweat-sticky and feverish, but maybe if he’d understood…  maybe if he’d stayed…  Hajime wouldn’t have minded.  He could’ve washed his own hands afterwards, even, and then just sat on a chair by Nagito’s bed if he was alright with that.  Would he have been alright with that?

Things had changed, even before Nagito reached the Final Death Room and the wicked truths inside.  Who Hajime was.  The Hope’s Peak Reserve Course.  All that.  Hajime’s eyes were tired and beseeching, watching Nagito like he might be important to him, sure, but also like he might slide a knife out of his sleeve at any second.  They hadn’t understood each other yet, but even so it had been one of Nagito’s luckiest moments, falling into step beside Hajime Hinata.  And so, logically, it had been one of Nagito’s unluckiest moments when he realized Hajime wasn’t the one he would have to save.  

Hajime had tried to confess to the “crime” of belonging to the Future Foundation, because he thought maybe it would save their friends’ lives.  Nagito had said he wished he could believe him, and that thought was grabbing at him, even now, hot against his skin as the flames. What if Hajime could be kept safe? What if Hajime could stand for Hope, too, and they might both have statues set up somewhere grand, reborn in beatific metals?  Reborn from fire.  But of course, Nagito’s luck wouldn’t let him stay close to someone like Hajime, someone who made him feel solid and nearly steady inside.  Fortune and tragedy were two sides of the same coin: Nagito had always known that.  He was the Ultimate Lucky Student, after all, and his luck was ridiculous.  His luck was easy to see as something mythic, from time to time, when it made him feel as helpless as he felt just now.  

Let’s say Nagito’s luck was like the story of Icarus, this time.  Whenever he got too happy — whenever he wandered endlessly high, too close to the sun — of course his wax wings would melt, next, and he could do nothing but fall.  

Nagito had let himself fall in love with the hope sleeping inside Hajime Hinata, and now he would die with ash in his hair, cheeks sticky with tears.  Of course he’d taped over his mouth so no one could hear him scream when it happened.  Whatever Nagito’s last words would have been, no one could hear them.  If Hajime was the sun — just as good luck was the sun, shall we say? — Nagito had wax dripping down his back in oily bubbling rivers, now.  He should have known…  no, he had always known…  this was the most he could have hoped for.  Nagito was a stepping stone for Hope.  Wasn’t that enough?  

And so why was he listening for Hajime Hinata’s voice, up until the end of things, even as he clutched that final-death spear of his so tight, even as he reminded himself this would all be worth it soon?  Alright then.  And so what if he was?  What next?  Maybe the Ultimate Lucky Student was like Icarus again, enjoying the sunlight on his skin even once the fall had already begun, and the world below was hurtling closer all the time.    

***

Later.

Much later.

Nagito Komaeda was sitting by a bonfire, and tasting smoke in the air again.  Everything was different, this time, of course.  The fire was crackling golden, true, but it was cozy in the dark of a starstruck Jabberwock Island night, and if Nagito fell back there was someone close enough to catch him.  No killing game plots, no burning plushie factory curtains.  Hajime Hinata was near enough that Nagito could feel the sand rustle beneath them both as he shifted, gesturing with his hands as he spoke to their classmates.  No, not their classmates — they were the former Remnants of Despair, all of them left behind, and they hadn’t been a “class” in a long time.  Their “friends,” then?  Nagito was huddled in close, part of the circle, and when he’d hung back at the edge of things too long it had been Hajime who pulled him in.  Hajime, with a soft hand on his back.  Hajime, who murmured, “Sit by me?” into the curve of Nagito’s cheek, breath against his neck.  

And so Nagito was here, watching the other former Remnants of Despair burn campfire wood by the edge of the sea.  The sparks drifting over that dark water reminded him of faraway fireworks, and… despite everything that had happened…  it did feel like they should be celebrating.  Nagito and his teammates had their minds back, and they belonged to each other so much more completely than they had ever belonged to despair.  (Or, so Hajime had told them during one of those rallying pep talks of his — he’d been looking straight into Nagito’s eyes as he said that part, and Nagito had swallowed hard.  Aching to believe him.)

The Remnants of Despair had helped the Future Foundation put an end to a despair-inducing mind control video not too long ago, and then they’d come back here, to where their second chances began.  It had all been so much to wrap their heads around…  the killing game being a simulation, for one, and all of them being criminals the Ultimate Hope was defying his higher-ups to rehabilitate.  The only Future Foundation member hidden among them had been an AI, after all, a shadow of their friend who had died at despair’s hand so long ago.  But the Ultimate Hope… Makoto Naegi…  believed in all of them, and Nagito had been able to shake his hand, once.  It had been broad and warm, so different than Nagito’s own pale spindly fingers, crisscrossed with scars his relentless luck left behind.  

The Ultimate Hope had asked why Nagito’s hand was so sticky; the Ultimate Hope had fought to keep the people Nagito tried to execute for Hope’s sake kicking around in the world.  The Ultimate Hope shared his title with Hajime Hinata, now, some people said.  That had been a lot to try and comprehend, too…  that Hajime, reinvented with every talent under the sun, godlike and impossible, could still be so much like he was before.  It was oddly comforting, smelling his cheap shampoo, imagining reaching out to play with his spiky hair.  They could sit in silence, together, and Nagito could almost forget there was no reason Hajime should ever want to spend time with him.  It had been Hajime who’d fought to piece Nagito’s brain back together after the simulation…  it had been Hajime who refused to leave him behind, and built him a mechanical arm to replace the one that was… ah…  gone, now.  Looking at Hajime for too long was like staring into the sun, nowadays: it burned Nagito’s eyes worse than the salt wind over the ocean.  But that mostly meant Nagito had something to say to him…  that mostly meant Nagito might cry, if he thought too hard about what it would have been like if his plan had gone exactly as he thought it needed to go.

“I’m glad you aren’t dead, Hajime Hinata,” might have been a good place to start.  “Seeing you work for Hope’s sake is amazing, but even if you weren’t — even if you were still a talentless nobody from the Reserve Course — I’m so glad I was wrong and you aren’t dead.”

It could’ve been Hajime already knew those words were waiting on the tip of Nagito’s tongue.  He kept offering his hand, after all, and now… sitting by a bonfire on Jabberwock Island, listening to his friends work through where they’d have to go next…  he rubbed Nagito’s shoulder a bit and offered him an exhausted, resolute smile.  They couldn’t stay here long, given that it was only a matter of time before people tracked their boat — given that it was only a matter of time before they were caught, and maybe locked away, maybe killed.  Hajime had vowed to lead the Remnants of Despair around the world, spurring society on towards Hope.  They needed a battle strategy, for something like that.  They needed outrageous, harebrained schemes, kinda like the ones Nagito had come up with during the killing game.  They were going to make something near-holy of themselves yet.

But when Hajime grinned at him, Nagito leaned in closer…  not for Hope’s sake at all, really.  Nagito imagined Icarus again, flying towards the sun even though he knew what could happen.  Nagito dangled on the brink of happiness, shuffling his feet against the edge of the cliff and deciding to let himself feel.  He offered Hajime his own hand, this time, and their fingers twined together against the sand.  Palm trees swayed in a gentle wind; the Ultimate Musician interrupted this planning session to try and start up a campfire sing-along.

“You should be careful, you know,” Nagito whispered, his voice starting up even though he tried to hold it back.  Even though it would ruin this moment, under so many stars, with salty wind in his hair and firelight catching in Hajime’s mismatched eyes.  Red and green, Ultimate Hope and useless Reserve Course student.  “If you let me like you too much, it’ll be dangerous.  My luck…  you know who I am, Hajime.”

You know what I almost did to you…  what I was willing to do to everyone.  You know, you know, you know.  And so why?

Hajime sighed.  He reached out so slowly and brushed a little sand off Nagito’s cheek, there where all the rest of their classmates… friends…  could see them, if they managed to glance away from this sing-along train wreck long enough.  “Yeah, I know who you are,” Hajime said.  And that was all.  He said it in the same sort of voice someone else might have said, “I love you,” Nagito thought.

Maybe it was Hajime who was Icarus after all, in this scenario — maybe they flew towards each other, and if they fell together it would be enough to break the fall.  Soft wax wings and golden light.  Sand and ocean and a million places left to go.

Hajime didn’t pull his hand away, not for a while.  He explained that his fingers had fallen asleep, when he finally did.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

I love the idea of bagginshield bingo!! I'm going to have to ask for Blacksmith Thorin :D

I thought I was never going to get this finished in time! But here we go. I do apologize, the ending is a little rushed. This gives me some interesting possibilities towards getting the bingo now. ;) Thanks for the ask and please enjoy!

Title: Reasons Why Not to Live in the Shire

Summary: Thorin is a traveling blacksmith who grudgingly travels to the Shire for work every year, but there is only one reason why he would ever decide to stay.

Hobbits. A species slightly more tolerable than men, and infinitely easier to stomach than elves. Still hobbits, with their frivolous conversations and round bellies that speak of full meals and not an ounce of hardship, made Thorin grind his teeth. Especially when they spurned Thorin’s masterpieces in well crafted hunting knives, intricate hair beads, and jewelry so fine many couldn’t believe it was iron and not silver. No, the hobbits wanted pots and pans, door locks, sometimes a wind chime, but only if it was plain. They deemed the sound quality lost if he bears too much detail. He didn’t mind that some folks had simpler tastes, if they were at least consistent with it.

His metalwork would be passed in a heartbeat if it was “too embellished”. However, Bofur’s carving skills would be the talk of the market. His pipes were top sellers for their caravan every year. Even Dori’s tea sets and weaving would catch their eyes. Hobbits. If they didn’t pay as well as they did, Thorin would have their caravan pass the Shire every year.

“You’re late this year.”

Thorin passed the reins over to his oldest nephew, Fili, before hopping down from the cart to meet with the Thain. Thorin had worked well with his father and brother before him. Isumbras Took, on the other hand, was fair, but rather curt. Of course, Thorin credited that to his advanced age. Hobbits, much like the dwarven royalty, passed on the title of Thain through the males of their line with no abdication except in death. Yet, they tried to argue that the position wasn’t that of a king. Isumbras has only been Thain for four years and looked days away from passing the title onto his son, Fortinbras, which is why Thorin figured the gentlehobbit was accompanying him today. The business of training heirs and ruling ‘kingdoms’ were tasks he was thankful would never have to be his.

“You’ll have to excuse us. We had a death in the family this year.” Thorin explained somberly.

It had been a mining accident. Vili, Dis’ husband, was taking on some extra work while they were in Ered Luin, and a tunnel collapsed on him. She and the boys were devastated. Thorin had considered the man a brother and was hurt by the recent loss. Normally, they would have arrived in the Shire by summer’s end, but he couldn’t begrudge his family their time to mourn. The Thain nodded sympathetically.

“I understand the sentiment. My sister, Belladonna, passed away this spring as well. The white plague. It took her husband eight years prior as well. Left poor little Bilbo up on the Hill all by himself, but he’s a resourceful lad. Seems to be doing just fine, even if he is a little thinner.”

Thorin listened to the hobbit ramble about his family, nodding along appropriately. That was the other thing about hobbits. They were practically all related, and would spout stories about each other as if Thorin was expected to know exactly who they were talking about.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Thorin stated.

The Thain nodded his appreciation as he looked over Thorin’s papers of commerce, allowing their caravans the right to sell in the Hobbiton marketplace.

“I know your lot tries to clear out after about two weeks, but you ought to consider staying through the Harvest Festival. I’m sure a little extra coin will more than make up for your late start.” Isumbras encouraged.

“And Bilbo’s birthday.” Fortinbras pointed out.

“Yes! The lad is turning 44! A good grounded year.” Isumbras nodded eagerly.

Thorin nodded politely, feeling his attention begin to wane. 

“We will consider your offer. Thank you for your hospitality.” Thorin spoke the practiced words as he jumped back onto the wooden bench.

Isumbras and Fortinbras waved at them as they urged the ponies forward on the well traveled lane.

“Can we stay for the hobbits’ festival?” Kili asked eagerly from the back. “I’ve never been to one.”

“I’m sure it’s like every other festival we’ve been to.” Thorin grumbled.

“How can we know for sure if we don’t go?” Fili interjected with a smirk.

Thorin rolled his eyes at his nephews’ playful attitudes, pleased to see them smiling once more. Which is why he couldn’t outright deny them.

“I will consider it.” He sighed.

The two cheered and immediately began chatting about what could possibly happen at a hobbit festival that would be different from the dwarven and mannish festivals they had been to beforehand. They came up with eating competitions, sleeping contests, and jumping contests due to their large feet. Thorin merely shook his head as he worked on tuning them out.

The Company had already pulled into their usual spots and were hard at work setting up their displays as Thorin and the boys crested the hill. Their group was made up of five individual families, each with a different craft. However, after so many years on the road together, they were one big family at this point.

There was Bombur with his wife and children, and they would sell dwarvish pastries and tarts. Thorin was assured those weren’t the same thing. His brother, Bofur, and cousin, Bifur, were wood carvers. Bofur tended to focus on the practical end of furniture options and pipes while Bifur loved to create toys for the little ones. The next family was Dori and his brothers. Dori usually tended to keep Nori close by to keep the former thief out of trouble, but Ori worked with Balin selling books, quills, parchment, and inks. 

Gloin, with his brother, wife, and son, were the hunters in their group and sold off what they couldn’t eat. Oils from the fat that his wife somehow managed to scent with different kinds of flowers. Furs and leather also came from their stand, and Oin tended an apothecary. That left Thorin, Dwalin, Fili, and Kili to man the forge while Dis handled their sales. It saved Thorin from having to talk to the hobbits personally which tended to work out better for everyone involved. 

It took them the rest of the day to get settled in, and Thorin could see some of the hobbits passing by with their curious, yet suspicious stares. The gossip mill ran so fast here, he was certain they would have a line of customers by the next morning. There were three peak times in a hobbit market, and they all revolved around their meal times. The morning rush would happen between first and second breakfasts, the midday would be right before tea time as they wandered out of their smials to socialize, and the final one would happen right before supper.

Right on cue, as soon as the sun’s rays touched the earth, here came the hobbits to check out their wares. Even from the back of the forge, Thorin could hear their grumblings about how they were late this year, and how inconsiderate it was to keep them waiting. He knew he would have blown up at somebody by this point, and he could only thank Mahal for Dis’ patience to be able to handle the ridiculous and fussy creatures.

“Oh Thorin! I think you’ll want to handle our next customer.” Dis teased.

Thorin raised an eyebrow at her looking up from the bent pan he was trying to hammer back into shape. He didn’t talk to hobbits unless… He screwed up his face in exasperation even as he rushed towards the front of the stand. So maybe not all hobbits were bad. In fact, there had been a young lad and his mother who had always been very appreciative of Thorin’s crafting. 

When the dwarrows first started appearing in the Shire marketplace, the lad was barely of age. He was lean, something unusual for a hobbit, and had a boundless amount of mischievous energy. In fact, that was what endeared him to Fili and Kili. The three would sneak off to the pubs or down to the river as soon as the Company pulled into town. Over the years, Master Baggins tempered out, but his hazel eyes still screamed for adventure. In fact, with as much as the other hobbits tended to watch him with judging eyes and mockingly disappointed whispers, he figured the only reason the lad hadn’t run off into the wilderness yet was his mother.

Misses Baggins had probably the kindest heart of any being Thorin had ever met. She greeted them not only with respect, but as if they were old friends dropping by for a visit. A few years back, she had commissioned Thorin for a set of silver spoons, and had asked for his very best work. She wanted her dining set to be ‘the envy of Hobbiton’. It was the first time he had truly poured his heart into a project in the Shire, and it was well worth the effort when her face lit up at the sight of her spoons. He had etched flowing vines and leaves in the handle of each spoon with a little acorn sitting at the end.

She made it a point to brag on his spoons every time they came back. It got to the point where the rest of the Company teased him into bribing her for compliments. However, Misses Baggins was quick to point out how credit is only given where credit is due. There was not a hobbit that didn’t seem to at least respect Misses Baggins, and as for her son, he absolutely adored her.

As the golden haired hobbit picked his way through the market, Thorin couldn’t help but notice there was something vastly different about him from their last visit. He never greeted a single person, be they dwarf or hobbit, unless he was spoken to first. Even from this distance, Thorin could tell his reply was curt and impersonal, his smile polite but forced. Sympathetic, but approving, eyes from the masses followed Master Baggins as he slowly made his way to the forge. 

Thorin watched him, unsure of how to greet him. Much to his sister and nephews teasing, there had always been an attraction, at least from the young hobbit’s end. Of course Thorin was an old dwarf, and did his best to dissuade his affections. However, as the years went by, Thorin learned there was a difference between hobbits and dwarrows in terms of age. He watched as Master Baggins transcended young adulthood pushing into the maturity of middle age. Then one summer, two years ago, Thorin was watching Master Baggins sitting out on his front porch smoking his pipe in the dying like of the sunset, and it hit him. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life.

It had been a sobering moment, and one he still didn’t know quite what to do with. Did the young hobbit still hold to his childhood crush or had that died in the wake of his maturity? Was it something Thorin should even pursue or would his mother frown upon such a relationship? Perhaps his greatest shame, how was he to court someone when he couldn’t remember their first name.

“Good morning, Master Baggins.” Thorin finally called out as soon as the hobbit was close enough.

“Hmm?” The hobbit questioned, clearly distracted before putting on that forced smile once more. “Good morning, Mister Thorin. We certainly missed you this summer. I hope everything is okay?”

Thorin knew he was staring at the hobbit’s abnormal pale complexion and listless expression, but once he brought up their tardiness, Thorin ducked his head.

“We lost Vili earlier this year.” Thorin confessed knowing the hobbit had been close with the boys’ father.

He hadn’t expected his entire demeanor to fall. His body slumped, and his eyes looked haunted and lifeless.

“I’m...so sorry. My condolences.” He whispered. “Please excuse me.”

Thorin watched as he picked his way back up the hill as if in a hurry. Fili and Kili poked their heads out in confusion.

“What’s wrong with Bilbo?” Kili questioned.

“I’m not sure, he...Bilbo?” Thorin spun around on them.

Fili glared at Kili who was looking sheepish. Thorin wanted to be irritated that they had known his first name the whole time and didn’t tell him, but he was more focused on the name itself. Where had he heard the name Bilbo recently? The Thain’s conversation came rushing back and dread seeped into his very soul. Thorin didn’t think as he hopped the counter rushing past the suspicious and bewildered hobbits to get to Bag End.

Thorin pounded on the bright green door, the hobbit’s long sought name falling easily from his lips. Bilbo’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion when he finally answered the door, a surprise gasp on his lips upon seeing Thorin. The dwarf only took in his red cheeks and watery eyes before pulling him into a hug. Bilbo was limp in his grasp before folding his arms tightly around Thorin’s torso. His body shook like a leaf, and Thorin’s tunic slowly began to develop wet spots. He could care less. 

“It’s okay, Bilbo. I’m so sorry.” He soothed as the hobbit clinged to him like his life depended on it.

“You figured it out.” His shaky voice huffed. “Fili and Kili will be so disappointed. They were making bets on when you would ask after my first name.”

Thorin rolled his eyes over the top of Bilbo’s head before burying his nose deeper in the hobbit’s wild curls. He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head making sure Bilbo knew that he had people to care for him. He would take care of his infuriating nephews later. When Bilbo finally pulled away, Thorin wouldn’t say he looked better, but his eyes at least looked less lifeless.

“What can I do?” Thorin asked as he rubbed the tear stains on Bilbo’s cheeks with his thumbs.

The hobbit bit his lip, unable to look Thorin in the eye as his ears turned pink.

“I...No, I couldn’t…”

“Bilbo.” Thorin cut off his ramblings. “Anything.”

“Stay.” Bilbo whispered, ducking his head in shame at requesting such a thing.

Thorin sucked in a deep breath before releasing it.

“Done.”

“What?” Bilbo questioned in shock.

“I said done.” Thorin repeated with a small amount of amusement.

“But...your family?” Bilbo murmured.

“They know the way to Erebor well enough at this point, and they have each other to lean on. You clearly need me more here, so I will stay.”

For a moment, Bilbo looked like the young lad he had met all those years ago. Then his face broke out in a bright smile before launching himself back into Thorin’s arms. The dwarf laughed as he held tight to the hobbit. His hobbit who knew good food and hardships. He would suffer the Shire for the rest of his life for him. He knew? Perhaps, he could persuade Bilbo to make the journey with them next year. For now, Bilbo was all the reason he needed to stay.

[lazylazyhowl]

A work in progress— (sasusaku oneshot)

—because the Sharingan may let him copy a lot of things, but skills of the heart are not amongst them.  [Sasuke. On, accepting himself. And her.]

AO3 Link

—

"Maybe next time."

His words are calculated.

Maybe, he's said, and given himself a way out. Given her a probability that, should the odds fall through later on, he can point at and absolve himself of responsibility. The same shit Itachi pulled when they were younger, really, except he won't apologize for it.

He sees the way her face lights up with hope and feels a mirroring force of optimism inside him that he has to clamp down to keep from bursting through the surface and muddying the reality of what he's doing.

His journey cannot involve her no matter what. He's not ready to be with her in any capacity of the words. Perhaps never. But he also doesn't want his last—but only for a while, he adamantly tells himself—memory of her to be a frown.

She's been burdened enough where he's involved. So he'll let her see him off with a smile, even if it's only self-gratification.

There is no guilt when he leaves her with his own smile and gratitude and goes on his way.

.

.

The day before his departure, she demanded a spar. He was bleary-eyed squinting at her, in her ninja gears, standing in the damp cold of early morning in front of his door, the flush of her cheeks of strange particular interest to him for a moment before he simply nodded.

She cited professional purposes ("I want to make sure you're in proper conditions for travel, Sasuke-kun.") even though he had already agreed. Even though her reason was crap and made no sense whatsoever.

He wondered if that was the only reason she thought he would accept, even if not believe; and if her request the only one she thought he was least likely to turn down.

He wondered if she was right.

Thanks to her he never had to find out. He only had to hurry and leave for the training ground with her, knowing Naruto would appear soon after, demanding the same of him. But not for the same reason. (Whatever that might have been.)

.

.

He helps people during his travel, but otherwise generally stays away from them. It's for both his and their good.

More for his.

People ask too many questions, and even the simplest ones dredge up far more than he's willing to deal with.

"Who are you?" they'd ask. "Just a shinobi," he'd answer.

But he's not just a shinobi. Avenger. Missing nin. Akatsuki. Terrorist. War criminal. The list goes on and he cannot in good conscience cross off any one of the items. Those personas, damned as they are, are still a part of him, and if he closes his eyes, he can recall them all in sickeningly vivid details.

"What's your name?" they'd ask. "Uchiha Sasuke," he'd tell them.

And then it's a coin toss on whether recognition and fear flit past their expressions. For the first few times, he's even considered using an alias, but that would have been such a meaningless thing to do in a journey of redemption.

And cowardly.

He's done with running away.

Or so he tells himself.

.

.

It's a calm, sunny day when he stops at a dango stand in a village near the border between Fire and Rain. The decorative flags caught his eyes, he supposes, but he still can't quite pinpoint what has possessed him to purchase a stick of dango for himself.

Itachi loved these (his chest tightens the way it does whenever he's reminded that he can only refer to his brother in past tense), and maybe that's it. But then what?

He isn't one to waste food (though it's debatable whether this is 'food') so he brings it to his mouth and slides the first ball of dango from the skewer.

And he flinches, not from the taste but from the smile that flashes through the front of his mind, innocent and genuine.

His throat runs dry. Too sweet. He makes it through the second ball of dango before leaving the rest behind on the table.

.

.

The night before his departure, Naruto finagled him into joining the rest of team 7 for ramen as his farewell party. There wasn't just team 7 at the party.

She was there, of course, with same the dark rings beneath her eyes that he'd noticed rather belatedly during their spar in the morning. Those hadn't kept her from giving him a few bruises and grazes, but he'd be a little less bothered by them if she hadn't also healed him up afterwards.

("But you don't like the hospital, Sasuke-kun.")

She was out like a candle before they even got to the main course.

Being enthusiastic neither for the people nor the ramen, he jumped at the opportunity and volunteered to take her home.

As he left the shop with her, Naruto called after him not to try anything funny and the table erupted into laughter and catcalls. He did not dignify any of that with a response.

She was completely malleable in his arms (Susanoo), her warm breaths seeping into the chest of his shirt, and he didn't dash through the air and over the roofs of civilian houses to get to the shinobi side of the residential district.

Abrupt movements could wake her, and she would fight to stay awake again.

Susanoo used enough chakra already and he needed to be conservative for tomorrow.

Reasoning ironed out, he took a leisure stroll to her apartment, occasionally glancing down to ensure her eyes remained peacefully closed.

.

He supposes he did attempt something funny that night. He called upon his Sharingan and committed to memory things that rightfully should be of no consequence to him.

.

.

He enjoys the long stretches of solitude in his travel, even if his voice will croak from disuse once he hits civilization again.

He likes forests best, especially after rain. The musk of earth and tree sap reminds him that clean air exists, and there is no curious gaze on his Rinnegan, no whispering except for the rivers and trees.

A heavy flapping of feathers reaches his ears, and he holds out his arm to receive the messenger falcon.

Letters from his team.

Naruto rambles, illegible at places, about everything and anything that has happened and then some more; and Kakashi includes some personal postscripts after a mission briefing.

He reads hers last, after feeding the bird and sending it away.

He's forgotten if he was the type to save the best or worst for last.

It's the first time she's written to him, and she's surprisingly succinct. Perhaps reserved. A greeting. Comment on the weather. Well-wishing. Her name. And that was all.

But against all logic, he felt her longing for him.

He isn't sure if it's the way the ink seems to tremble at certain strokes, or how the creases where the paper was folded adds a depth to the spaces she's left between the sentences, that seem to be filled with unspoken sentiments. Or if it's just his inflated ego.

He burns every letter he receives, as the information might get into the wrong hands, but can't bring himself to do the same for hers.

Fortunate, then, that she's written nothing that would be of interest to anyone.

(But him.)

.

.

The feeling of her eyes on him was calming, almost spiritual, like a brush of warm smoke at the back of his neck, downy feathers on his skin. He could have pretended sleep forever if she wasn't likely to figure him out the longer he kept up the charade.

.

.

It occurs to him one night, looking out the dirty window of an inn, that he has no idea who he is, if not war criminal, not terrorist or Akatsuki or missing nin; if not an avenger.

He's certainly no hero.

The more people he helps, the less he feels himself. There's a disconnect between what he's doing and what he knows himself to be. More often than not, he'd ask himself—what would Naruto do? What would Sakura do? What would Kakashi do? What would Itachi do—have done? (Damnitdamnitdamnit.)

And whatever he'd think they would do he'd do just that. It makes for surprisingly simple problem-solving.

But at his core he's not selfless like Itachi. Not faithful like Naruto. Not loyal like Kakashi. Not kind like Sakura.

At the end of the day, he still doesn't know what he would do.

He scarcely acknowledges it, but he keeps chasing after the back of these great people. He's running himself ragged trying to catch up, but he's so aggravatingly slow that it's a wonder he hasn't lost sight of them all.

He fears it's only a matter of time. And then he will once again be lost and directionless.

He's Uchiha Sasuke, and he no longer knows what that means.

.

.

"Oniichan, you suck." This statement is followed by chattering agreements of the other kids crowding around him on the dirt floor of the orphanage.

Children are vicious creatures, he's beginning to learn. He struggles to recall if he was ever this much trouble to Itachi as a kid. They are also incredibly unhygienic, and they incessantly tug at his clothes and hair, poke at the stub of his arm with such disregard that he almost misses the fangirl treatment from way back when in the village.

By the fifth time that they make him redo the voice for the rabbit-dog-cat-looking thing in the story, he's teeteringly close to setting Amaterasu-fire to the worn book in his lap.

His rescue comes in the form of the old matron appearing in the doorway announcing dinner. The children abandon him like one would a sinking ship.

"Thank you for playing with them, Uchiha-san."

He nods noncommittally as he receives his own bowl of food from one of the older kids. It was hardly his choice when the little ones ensnared him within their circle of skin and bones, threatening to cry if he didn't comply, so he thinks her gratitude is therefore unneeded.

None of these is needed. The feeding him, the lodging. He's only sticking around for at most a few more days to take care of the group of mountain bandits that has been harassing the orphanage. He would have been fine setting up camp nearby and not having to deal with the children growing attached (because he knows they will), but the matron insisted.

He's always had this inexplicable soft spot for the elderly, and he wonders if it's not in parts due to the fact that so few in his world get to be old and grey.

.

.

 "So Little Piggy went to ask Mommy Pig."

The matron's lilting voice floats to his ear as he perches atop the roof of the orphanage, miles and miles of moonlit forest spanning out before him.

 "'What is happiness, Mommy?'"

 "'It's your tail, sweetie,' said Mommy Pig, and Little Piggy looked at her wiggling tail."

For the longest time, he's had an idea of what happiness should be.

It was the firmness of Itachi's back. His mother's warm meals, and his father's approving grunts. It was a compound brimming with powerful chakras, and memories of children play-training in the clan's private training grounds; and red tomatoes getting snuck out of his mother's garden.

 "Little Piggy looked at her tail and began to chase it around in circles until she was out of breath. But no matter how hard she tried she couldn't catch it at all!"

Happiness was home, when home wasn't yet piles of bodies and dark corridors and slipping on cold blood.

He has no idea what happiness would look like now.

 "'Mommy, how can I ever catch happiness?" asked Little Piggy."

 "'Well, sweetie, your tail will always be there. Why don't you keep walking and let happiness follow you?'"

He closes his eyes and taps into the warm hum of collective chakra inside the orphanage, the tiny sparks flickering dimmer and dimmer as sleep slowly claims the children.

 "And so Little Piggy listened to her mother. She walked forward without worry, for she knew her happiness is always wiggling right behind her. The end."

"Goodnight, my dears."

Matron closes the book and gets up from her squeaky chair to stand by the window right beneath where he is, likely to stare out into the forest.

"Goodnight, Uchiha-san."

If he didn't have his shinobi hearing he never would have caught the whispered words.

He's turned the bandits in to the authorities and said all goodbyes in the afternoon. She doesn't know he's there, and he's all the more puzzled.

He stands guard for the rest of the night and silently slips away from the orphanage's grounds at the break of dawn.

.

.

The weather in Tea is shifting into spring when he arrives at its border. After a few days of travelling in silence, he stumbles upon a cherry blossom tree that has flowered early, its cloud-like plumage colourful in a sea of solemn green; low-hanging branches swaying in invitation.

He tells himself it's as good a resting spot as any, and feels a decided sense of betrayal that the spilling flowers don't smell the way he thinks they should.

.

.

A letter arrives suddenly, informing him of her kidnapping, and he doesn't remember another time that he's been more desperate. She's not someone who'd just let herself be taken, and he fears the worst.

Her letters that he's saved in his pocket weigh like a ball of lead near his heart. He's running as if his life's at stakes. Perhaps it is. For the first time since getting the Rinnegan, he wishes he knew how to control it better.

Then, watching her take down her captors, he learns these:

She's grown so much, has come so far from that little girl she once was and no longer needs to be rescued, least of all by him.

He's the very reason why she's been taken in the first place, her weakness, just that kind of toxic existence to her.

After making sure she will be safe, he leaves and doesn't look back.

.

.

Just as she has been born into this life to love him, he must have been born with the sole purpose of bringing her pain.

He only needs all of two weeks in Konoha to have her crying before him again. The weather is grey as if matching the storm in his heart. They're standing in front of that bench where he's left her once upon a time, and he can't say he doesn't notice how history is dangerously close to repeating itself.

Every muscle in his body is coiled for battle, ready to cite the 'maybe' in his promise and gain the slightest semblance of equal moral grounding with her.

She's chewing on her lip in an attempt to bite back her emotions (probably more for his sake than hers. She needs to stop making things easy for him). The tears haven't spilt yet, but they are there, glazing over jewel-like green eyes.

"I thought this time surely—" She cuts herself off when her voice cracks and chews on her lips some more, breaking eye-contact. "What went wrong, Sasuke-kun?"

.

 Before he could stop himself, he'd already slapped her hand away, shouting at her not to touch him.

She simply smiled, like a mother dealing with the tantrum of a child, and calmly finished changing his bandages while guilt still had him in its vice.

.

He went wrong, but what else was new? With her, he's both a madman and a smitten fool, angry and frustrated and thankful and disgusted and confused and elated and most of all scared. Terrified.

The way she hugs herself and seems to be on the brink of falling apart is nauseating to look at. He's getting worked up over what was supposed to be a simple goodbye. But that's the problem, isn't it? Nothing's ever simple when she's involved.

"You know that this is your home, right? You've never needed to earn any right to stay in it."

"…I know."

She raises a doubtful eyebrow. "Do you?"

.

It had taken him two years and countless good deeds to finally find the resolve to forgive himself and return to Konoha as someone he thought would be worthy of his friends.

Yet all it took was one smile from her to undo all the confidence that he'd built up like it was a house of cards. He realized immediately that no amount of atonement would ever redeem him enough to be worthy of her.

"Welcome home, Sasuke-kun."

 And the worst part was that he wanted to stay regardless.

.

"Don't be annoying, Sakura." And he can see her visibly shrink back like she's been hit. He might as well have. His fist curls at his side, itching to do something just to stop her from further torturing her steadily swelling lip.

Instead of leaving him alone as he expects her to (and how senseless it is to keep expecting something that will never happen), she steps forward and grabs gingerly onto his mantle.

"Are you…unsatisfied in Konoha? With m—with us?"

He doesn't respond, and she seems to take his silence as agreement and starts to cry in true. Big, fat droplets roll down her cheeks as she matches his gaze. The raw hurt in her eyes startles him.

"What will make you happy, Sasuke-kun?" She tightens her grip, pulling him infinitesimally closer, choking on her words. "Please, please tell me how I can make you happy."

"That's not your problem." That's apparently also a wrong thing to say. She looks resigned now, and the sight somehow claws at him even more. The wind picks up suddenly, nearly drowning out her next words.

"Do you even want to be happy?"

He thinks for a length and honestly cannot say for certain he does. He can hardly picture what his happiness would be now that the old one is so drenched in blood, and misery is a lot harder to take away from a person.

It's ironic, then – or perhaps apt – that he would chase after something he doesn't really want. Because he's full of greed and self-gratification.

She once again takes his silence into her own narrative and lets out a long sigh. Meeting his gaze again, her eyes are already dry, red-rimmed, beseeching. Her voice is but a whisper.

"Is there something you want, Sasuke-kun? Anything?"

If she puts it that way, he wants a lot of things, as a greedy man should. Full control over the Rinnegan. Restore his clan. A tomato garden. Her. To name a few.

But he looks at her, her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks and bruised lip, and sees that she is all wrong compared to everything he's etched into his memory; and blurts out the single thing that floats up to the forefront of his mind right then.

"I want you to be happy."

It takes her a second to react to his words, her large eyes becoming impossibly larger as her mouth opens only to close again. He's not sure why she's so surprised. Of course, he wishes her happiness, even if that will be independent of his own.

A million emotions seem to flicker past her expression in a second, of which he only identifies disbelief, suspicion, melancholy and finally exasperation before she inexplicably bursts into a short fit of giggles. She lets go of his mantle and, before he can miss the anchoring hold, reaches for his tight fist and brings it up between her palms, squeezing.

"I can do that."

She's smiling that smile that unravels him to his core again, her eyes glittering. And he can blame his carnal desires for overriding all of his faculty, but he finds himself ensorceled.

"How about we work on it together, Sasuke-kun?"

His chest is strangely free of heaviness as he uncurls his fingers, almost in a daze, and encases her callused yet delicate ones.

"Hn."

.

.

A few days before his departure, he asks if she would come with him and she agrees easily, if not a little exasperatedly that he'd waited so long to ask, and he's mystified as to why he's stayed up all night worrying that she wouldn't.

.

.

Three months into their journey together, a newly formed part of him is startlingly assured that she will always have his back, and nothing—nothing can ever change that.

.

It takes a while longer, but the day finally comes that he figures it out.

He's Uchiha Sasuke, and he means everything to Uchiha Sakura.

—

Notes: I do not own the children story.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #349

“we’ll meet again, when both our cars collide”

When was the last time you had a PopTart? It's been many, many months. Do you like hot chocolate? Well duh. Who made you laugh the hardest today? I haven't really laughed today. Who was the last person to promise you something, and what was it? Hmph. Would you ever jump into a fire to save your bestfriend? I know I would. Do you have a callus from writing too much? No, I only have calluses on my feet from when I used to walk for hours on end. They just never permanently went away, even with grooming. Who is someone you’ve made a bad first impression on? I dread to guess what the girl Jason dated after me was told about me. I shouldn't care at all, but I do. I have every reason to accurately be defined as "the crazy ex," and I fucking hate it. Who is your best guy friend? Girt, a friend from high school. Do you read cereal boxes while you’re eating? I did as a kid, but now I don't. I just kinda stand and eat. What’s the last thing you accidentally (or purposely) burnt? I kinda burnt the roof of my mouth on pizza the other night. Do you know anyone with a lip piercing? Me, haha. I know others, too. What did the last tattoo you saw, look like? I don't remember. Have you ever given birth? NO FUCKING THANK YOU. Do you enjoy making out? I mean if I'm in the mood to and I love you, yeah. Why exactly do you take surveys? "I genuinely like doing them and they’re great for venting and sorting out thoughts and whatnot. I can just ramble and get things off my chest." <<<< This right here covers it. As well, it's just a boredom killer. And I happen to be bored very, very often. Rockband or Gutair Hero? Both are great, why choose just one? What are you listening to right now? Halocene's cover of "Helena" by My Chemical Romance. It's beautiful. What kind of energy drinks do you drink, if any? None, because I just can't do energy drinks. They taste like pure poison to me. Have you ever been swimming in a river? No. Swimming in a river sounds pretty dangerous... Does your alarm clock wake you with music, or with an annoying buzz sound? Music. When you broke stuff in the house as a child, did you blame it on siblings? I'm hoping you don't mean breaking deliberately, 'cuz I wasn't that kind of kid. But anyway, I don't believe I did. Did you make it all the way through the Oregon Trail game? Yes. I was obSESSED with those games as a kid. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Which one are you more scared of? Tigers, probably. They're so stealthy and, while I may be entirely wrong, seem like the top candidate of the three to attack a human, be it for food or defense. And have you SEEN the muscles on a tiger? Christ. Describe the best use that you’ve found for duct tape: Uh, taping things lmao. Do you wrap gifts or use gift bags? I use gift bags, because I can't wrap for shit. What fast food place do you avoid at all costs? Arby's is really gross to me. Are you afraid of deep sea creatures? Just giant squid... *shudders* Have you ever agreed to purchase something on Ebay and got scammed somehow? No. I did, however, purchase something on deviantART and never got the product. It was going to be a present for Jason. In dA's defense though, I've bought like... two or three other things from there, and there were zero issues. It's really about the people you trust. If you get a call that says “Unknown”, do you answer it? Nnnnope. Do you have any bobble head figures? No. Have your parents ever left you somewhere without realizing it? I don't think so. Have you ever been in a tanning bed? No. Did your last kiss mean anything to you? Well yeah, I wouldn't have kissed her otherwise. Would you say that you have a nice smile? No; I've been self-conscious of it since I was a kid, mostly because one of my eyes looks more squinty than the other, but they both are to me. I've always said I look high when I smile lmao. Is there an ex you want to make up with? My mind immediately screams "Jason," but I know that's a horrendous idea. Our last talk ended peacefully and even with care and good wishes, and I need my fucking impenetrable head to accept that's where it needs to end. He does NOT need to re-enter my life. It would be so bad for me. Do you remember how you felt on 9/11? I have no memory of it, if I'm being honest. What outfit makes you feel the most attractive? None. Other than yourself, who knows you the best? Really? Whoever reads these lmao. What’s one complaint that you have about school? Common Core and how every student's school experience was not tailored towards their unique goals. Like they try to cram a shitload of identical and usually useless information into a kid's brain to make them a jack of all trades, you could say, but not enough information they need to properly pursue their career future. It causes such an unnecessary amount of frustration and stress. I have many, many complaints about the education system, but this one tops the list. What do you do while you’re on campus but not in class? Back in college, I would just do stuff on my laptop. Do you know anyone who has Autism/Asperger’s syndrome? Yes. Are you open to a same-sex relationship and why or why not? Well, considering I'm bisexual... Do you remember life without the internet? No. Have you ever found yourself to be ugly? I've gone my entire life thinking I'm ugly, if I'm being real. What is your state’s minimum wage? $7.25 a fucking hour. :'''''') Is there something you want to say to someone but can’t/won’t? There's a few people. What is your first memory of being in a hospital? Considering my mom worked at the local hospital when I was a kid, I remember being there quite, quite young, playing with my older sister in Mom's and her coworkers' room. I think Nicole was too young to really "play." Do you have any relatives with red hair? No. What is something good that has happened to you in the past week? I got my first Covid vaccine. My arm hurts like a motherfucker now, but to protect my mom, it's worth it. Please get vaccinated. How much was the rent/mortgage at the cheapest place you’ve ever lived? That's never been my business. Have you ever been to a gay pride parade? No, but I would go to a local one if I could actually walk five feet without being in serious pain and sweating like a pig. Do you still keep in touch with your very first best friend? We're friends on Facebook, but that's it. What was the topic of the last conversation you had with your dad? I can't remember, but it was recent, because we all met at Ashley's house for Nicole's birthday celebration. How often did you visit your grandparents when you were growing up? Pretty much never, given they all lived no less than like, 10 hours (via car) from where we lived. My immediate family are the only people in NC. When two family members are fighting, what do you usually do? Stay out of it, but admittedly try to listen just to know what's going on. Do you like the smell of men’s cologne? Yeah. What’s your all time FAVORITE freezer food? Do you eat that a lot? I survive off of microwaveable freezer food, so this is very hard... uhhhhh... perhaps this Banquet bowl meal that's mac 'n cheese with spicy chicken. It's absolutely delicious, like you'd never guess that sucker was just popped in the microwave. I'd say I eat it a moderate amount; it's a reliable option if Mom's not cooking and I'm really hungry, because it's super filling. Do you like documentaries? Have you ever watched one and find it boring? I enjoy them, particularly when they're about animals. Were you ever a fan of macaroni & cheese? Do you like Kraft dinner? Ha, speak of mac 'n cheese. I love it, and Kraft makes it fine. Do you burn incense? Not as much as I used to. I love the smell and just general vibe, though. What would you consider an unacceptable first date? Going to a bar or something. Have you ever been so sick you had to be taken to the hospital? In the head, anyway. Is there anything currently bothering you? Multiple things. Would you say that you’ve got something ‘special’ about you? No. Do you like things vampire-related? I don't really have an opinion on vampire stuff. Are you the kind of person who does not like talking about their past? I don't care. Have you ever been to a casino? No. What’s the last thing you wore a costume for besides Halloween related events? Back when I still took dance classes and we had the yearly recital. What does your father do for a living? He's a mailman. What’s the last app you downloaded on your phone? Haha, I re-downloaded this ollllldddd game I had before, Nyan Cat: Lost in Space (or something like that?) for my niece to play. She's hooked on it now. Are you in any discomfort right now? Yeah; as I mentioned, my arm really hurts. What do you know the most about? Of all things I know, almost certainly meerkats. Are you seeing anyone? No. Have you ever hooked back up with an ex, just for sex? Was it a mistake or no? No. Have you ever gotten in trouble for using a phone in class? No, because I didn't use my phone in class. Have you seen all the Shrek movies? No, which is a fucking crime. I need to see the last one. Have you ever finished a whole video game? Plenty plenty plenty. Do you know anyone with a pet snake? Yeah, myself included. If you had to live in an extreme environment — think Sahara, Antarctica, under the sea, on the Moon— where would you want to live? Why? Probably Antarctica. I'm sure it would be unpleasant, being that cold, but I feel there's more you can do about being cold than being in the scalding heat of, say, the Sahara. Living on the moon or in the deep ocean sounds super sucky. How was your day overall? It's been okay. Not as bored as usual, at least. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust? Like... zero. I want to say my dad, and I almost do, just... nightmares make that very, very difficult. Plus his past. What does your mom call you? Normally just "Britt." Write a sentence in another language: Oh god, my German is so rusty... uhhhh... Hallo, ich heiße Brittany, und ich bin 25 Jahre alt und wohne in North Carolina. I think I got the grammar right? Have you ever sent an X-Rated picture to someone? No. Even if I was comfortable with my body, I would be way too paranoid to at any point have a naked picture on my phone, even if I deleted it. Like, hello blackmail, but also, nothing you delete is ever really gone permanently. What big city do you live near? Raleigh is like an hour away. Do you like breaded chicken sandwiches? omg YES Is there a Sonic in your area? Yes, it's my favorite fast food joint. You have GOT to try the pretzel twists with cheese dip. Have you ever gone to a thrift store? Yeah, I love 'em. Do you think Johnny Depp is attractive? I do. Are you happy with the state you live in? No, not at all. I hate this place. Bunch of homophobic, racist rednecks. How many times have you seen the opposite sex naked? It's not like I counted every time I saw my ex naked over three and half years lmao. How many times have you seen the same sex naked? A few times. When days go by, do you cross them off on the calendar? I don't use a calendar. Are you currently counting down to something? If so, what? MY TATTOO APPOINTMENT!!!!! :''') I know I can't stop talking about it, but ugh I'm so excited. May 19th, c'mon already. Do you pay rent to your parents? No. Do you dye eggs for Easter? I used to as a kid. Not so much anymore. Are you in debt right now? For what? Oh god, I don't want to think of this. Would you ever work night crew? I really, really wouldn't want to. Humans are diurnal for a reason. Being awake in constant darkness would depress the fuck outta me, and it'd feel so lonely, with everyone I know asleep. Who was the last person that lied to you, or that you can recall lying to you? What did they lie about? How did you find out they were lying? I don't remember. Has anyone ever called you ugly, straight up, before? How did you react to this? No, not to my face. Who is the most stubborn person you know {excluding yourself}? MY MOTHER.

[lilacandladybugs]

What’s your current relationship with god? I’m very curious lmao

I’m sorry if this sounds incomprehensible and rambly and disjointed or pretentious. I care a lot more about this than almost anything else in the world and I wish I could do a better job of explaining myself. But I feel like why I believe in God or what my relationship with him is like is like trying to explain who I am. And I’m just the accumulation of everything I’ve ever experienced or that I think and I feel like it’s really important that I communicate it correctly so here is my attempt.

Here’s a video that’s really good that I think will give some good background information. If you don’t want to read all of this, the video is probably enough to explain.

TLDR: This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. Death isn’t supposed to happen, it isn’t a part of the natural order of things. God loved us so much he died to fix it, and rose again to defeat death. God loves me and I love him, and I’ve never found peace or fulfillment like that in anything else.

I hope this makes sense anon let me know if you have any questions or if I misinterpreted your question. 

TW suicide // grief // abuse // rape mention (not v bad or graphic or anything)

Long version:

I think I've always thought that there's something naturally (for lack of a better word) poetic about existing. Not really meaning that it's good, but kind of that everything feels really purposeful it seems to flow together like an old epic. Everything seems intensely meaningful to me.

I've always thought that life was tragic. That death is a fracture in the way things are, like we live in the ancient ruins of a long lost civilization.

And I've always thought that life seems like an incomprehensibly wonderful gift, because how can there be tragedy if there isn't anything worth losing? But somehow it seems like peace is the basic way things are, that normalcy isn't normal at all but like this status quo of goodness which makes bad things happening not only heart breaking but surprising.

Reconciling all of those ideas is really confusing.

I'm a strong proponent of thinking analytically about what you believe since the answer we choose to the question of whether or not God exists is like quite literally something we bet our lives on. We bet our life that God exists or that he doesn't, that things have meaning anchored in an external source or that they don't. 

So while I grew up a Christian I've never felt really dead in it. I want to be uncomfortable. I want to be stubborn in asking questions and I don't have a problem with questioning authorities on why they believe what they believe—especially if they really confidently assert it. I want to be able to know things and understand them.

My junior year of high school three of my closest childhood friends died, and several others almost died. I remember sitting up at like two am listening to twenty one pilots self titled album just like seething and exhausted asking lord why would you abandon me like that?

Some other really horrible things happened to people that I cared about, I felt abandoned and rejected by Christians just for being broken, some of them caused it or contributed to the trauma and abuse. How could people who claimed the name of God do that?

My debate partner's best friend killed himself the same year that my friends died, and he became an atheist and I stayed a Christian. We fought about it a lot. I really seriously considered becoming an atheist.

The thing that I couldn't accept was the lack of eternality. 

Really ironically I think I stayed a Christian for the same reason that my friend became an atheist. We were both asking why all of the living world is crying out in anguish. We both wanted to die. We both were angry. We both were horrified.

My friend thought that the question of “where is God?” was harder to answer than “why is there meaning to death?”

I'm a Christian because I'm horrified. He's an atheist for the same reason.

If you don’t feel like reading it, here’s the TLDR: there is no reason for someone to do something or not do something if God isn’t there to tell them to. There isn’t a moral grounding for law.

Arthur Leff was an atheist law professor at Yale in the eighties, and he wrote about the moral grounding for laws in his essay, Unspeakable Ethics, Unnatural Law. The question he was asking was what can we do to ground morality? What can we do to prove objectively that there are things one ought to do and things one ought not do?

I am unwilling to accept that. There is something evil about abuse, neglect, rape, torture. There is something about these things that violates human rights, human dignity. There's something about them that goes against objective moral law.

But without God there is no moral law. So I wouldn't be able to say, "you should never rape someone, because rape is wrong." And everything that I had experienced flew in the face of that.

Dr. Leff wrote this about that question;

“All I can say is this: it looks as if we are all we have. Given what we know about ourselves and each other, this is an extraordinarily unappetizing prospect; looking around the world, it appears that if all men are brothers, the ruling model is Cain and Abel. Neither reason, nor love, nor even terror, seems to have worked to make us "good," and worse than that, there is no reason why anything should. Only if ethics were something unspeakable by us, could law be unnatural, and therefore unchallengeable. As things now stand, everything is up for grabs.

Nevertheless:

Napalming babies is bad.

Starving the poor is wicked.

Buying and selling each other is depraved.

Those who stood up to and died resisting Hitler, Stalin, Amin, and Pol Pot-and General Custer too-have earned salvation.

Those who acquiesced deserve to be damned.

There is in the world such a thing as evil.

[All together now:] Sez who?

God help us.”

In the end, it comes down to this; Do I believe that the complexity of the universe is because there was someone intelligent actively involved in its design, do I believe that information, reason, logic, emotion, and morality exist and are reliable because they have grounding in God’s identity? Do I believe that God is who he says he is?

And I guess the answer to those questions was yes.

I saw God. He was there in the stillness - in the sunrise and sunset and at 2 am after I couldn't cry anymore. I felt him. And I know part of his goodness that I wish I never had to know. I felt like I was lying breathless bleeding out in a gutter watching the stars. Almost like a pause - just a moment in time where I was hurt enough, still enough to hear his voice.

One of the most important things I learned is that life is not hopeless.  If life is a story, then the last chapter of the book has already been written. This is the premise of the song It is Well with My Soul by Horatio G. Spafford.

“When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, God has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, o my soul” 

The powers of evil and darkness can take away my friends, my sanity, my family, and even my life, but God has already saved me, and I can find peace in spite of my circumstances. Three of my friends died, but God has already conquered death. I feel powerless, but God is powerful. I feel abandoned, but God loves me so much that he died a horrible torturous death for me. Living in light of that is peace. 

Whenever I felt like I couldn’t keep going there would be something to stop me. I heard his voice in music, and in my friends that held me when I cried, and in morning glories on my morning walk. I kept lists of all of the times this happened, every time that someone encouraged me to keep going, every time that someone would quote a Bible verse when I was crying out for God to answer me, every time that the world paused. Everything asked me the same question, do you think it means nothing? Do you think that there is a direction that we’re going? Are we coming from nothing and going toward nowhere?

I had friends who heard him too. He was so gentle to us. I wasn’t able to go to church, I wasn’t able to listen to worship music but the LGBTQ+ community took care of me, they were isolated from church as well. There was enough for me in that God promised he would take care of me, and he did. He died for me. He talked to my trans friend and said, “listen, your parents have rejected you and said you’ll never be your son, but I am a good father. I love you. Be my son instead.”

God mourned with me. He saw everything and he was angry. I was able to breathe because I knew that in the end there will be justice for abuse victims, because God said that he is the holder of justice, and vengeance will be his.

When one of my friends was hospitalized I stood outside during the beginning of a thunderstorm and watched the clouds and the sky darken and lightning flash across the sky.

Even the wind and the sea obey him. He asked me if I trust him. 

I guess my answer was yes.

In spite of everything that I went through, I was more thoroughly convinced that I ever was before that things matter. I was convinced that abuse is evil. I was convinced that death is an abomination. I was convinced that these laws of morality are woven into the fabric of the universe. I was convinced that God died to save us from that reality. I was convinced he loved me.

I still am

[flowers-creativity]

Whumptober #13 - Delayed drowning/intubation

Fandom: The Musketeers

Characters: Aramis, Porthos, Athos, d’Artagnan

Warnings: Modern AU (Police) (only mentioned in passing)

Summary: Porthos takes an involuntary bath that has consequences - good thing Aramis had taken the guestroom for the night and is right there ...

Notes: So that’s the last Whumptober fic in October. I’m a bit sad that it’s over and that I didn’t write more but I had fun, and I hope you did, too! (There might be more Whumptober fics in November. Or Comfortember. Or something else. The point is, I’ll keep writing 😉.)

As always, not a medical professional (nor intimately familiar with French hospital policy), so please forgive any inaccuracies!

AO3 link

Aramis had to suppress a smirk as Porthos closed the door of his flat behind him and turned to make his way towards the bathroom. There was no other way to describe the sound of it than as “squelching”.

“You go on ahead and sit down,” his best friend called over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Sure thing,” Aramis replied easily. As he walked to the living room, his face turned serious, though. At the moment when the suspect they had been chasing had managed to topple himself and Porthos into the Seine, it hadn't been very funny. Two struggling men in frigid water and nothing they could do from the river bank … But even if Porthos was not an accomplished swimmer, his superior fighting skills had allowed him to overpower the hooligan with only some minor dunking. The guy had certainly swallowed a lot more water.

He shed his coat and holster and picked up the remote, turning on the TV and making himself comfortable. Belatedly, he snagged his coat again from where he sat on the sofa, fishing for his mobile phone, then settled back and flipped lazily through the channels while internally debating if some hot Chinese soup or pizza was better for comfort after an involuntary bath.

By the time Porthos emerged, freshly showered and in a fuzzy bathrobe, he had placed the order and immediately reported: “Food should be here in twenty minutes.”

Porthos grunted and dropped into the sofa cushions next to him. “What'd you got?”

“Chinese.” Aramis smiled. “It's not chicken soup but won ton soup might still be good for warding off a cold.”

Porthos nodded. “Sounds good.” He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Aramis leaned forward and looked at him critically. “How are you?” he asked. “Honestly.”

The other man opened one eye again and glanced at him sidewise. “I'm fine, 'Mis,” he replied. “You looked me over already, remember? Just tired and still cold, and y'know, bit bruised here and there. Don't fuss.”

Aramis raised his hands and sat back again, smiling. “You know me,” he said mildly. “I always fuss. Just let me know if anything changes, okay?”

“Will do,” Porthos promised. He looked at the TV and frowned. “What's that, Truffaut? You're not serious. Gimme that remote.”

Aramis let his smile widen into a grin and held up the remote in a challenge. “Come and get it.” Porthos released a low growl and ducked in his seat, tension coiling in his powerful muscles, and Aramis was quick to scramble to his feet and flee before he could throw himself at him.

Aramis opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling, confused for a moment before he recognised the familiar silhouettes of the furniture in Porthos' guest room. It had been late by the time they had eaten and finished the film they had agreed on in the end, so he had opted to stay over – which was something that occurred at least twice a week, and if he didn't, it was Porthos staying with him half the time. They were really living in each other's pockets …

He sighed and turned around, wrapping an arm around his cushion. It wasn't a bad thing, even if he dreaded the day Porthos would find a woman he wanted to stay with. He knew it would happen one day, and he'd long accepted the fact that it wasn't in the cards for him – he would be happy for Porthos, of course, but losing this closeness would still hurt. “Don't borrow trouble, Aramis,” he murmured to himself. So far, it hadn't happened. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

A loud thump from outside made them fly open again, and he sat up, immediately alert as he reached for his phone and gun on the night-stand. Who or what had that been? If someone was breaking into the flat, he was about to be unpleasantly surprised by not only one but two police officers. One of which had had a hard day and would be particularly bear-like about being woken up in the middle of the night.

Sliding out of the bed, he tiptoed towards the door, trying hard to make as little noise as possible while he strained his ears for more noises. There was a rough cough – whoever it was wasn't actually trying to be quiet, and it took an embarrassingly long moment for Aramis to remember that the much more likely explanation for the noises was not a burglar but the man the flat belonged to. Maybe he needed to take some time off if he was seeing criminals everywhere.

He placed his gun and the phone on the floor and opened the door. In the low light of the hallway, he could just make out a large figure which he now easily recognised as Porthos. As he watched, his friend took another stumbling step and threw out an arm to catch himself on the wall.

And in the next moment, he was falling.

“Porthos!” Aramis jumped forwards but didn't manage to catch him in time. The sound of Porthos hitting the floor reverberated jarringly through his bones. He caught himself just in time before he followed Porthos down to the floor and stumbled to the light switch. Bright light flooded the hallway when he turned it, and he squeezed his eyes shut – only for a second, though, then he sprinted back to Porthos who was on his stomach and was trying fruitlessly to get up again. His fingers scrambled on the hardwood floor without finding purchase.

Aramis fell to his knees next to his friend and grabbed his shoulder. “Porthos, what is it?” he asked urgently. “What's the matter?”

Porthos tried to reply but what came out of his mouth instead of words were a series of harsh coughs, followed by wheezing breath. His eyes were wide and desperate as he gasped for breath.

Aramis breathed in and steeled himself before he started speaking: “Porthos, I'm here, I'm here. I've got you, okay? I'll figure it out.” He grabbed one of his friend's flailing hands and squeezed, trying to be and sound as assured as possible to calm him down. “I'll turn you on your back, okay?” Without waiting for a reaction, he did just so, grabbing Porthos' shoulder and hip. The big man's body was tense but he didn't fight him. Once Aramis had turned him, he bent over him, his hands and eyes searching for an injury. There was none he could find – all that was there was the rattle of Porthos' breath in his lungs, punctured by painfully sounding coughs that had him curl up on his side, bracing his abdomen. Finally, the medic sat back and told his friend: “I'm going to call for help. Hang on, Porthos. We'll get through this. Just hang on.”

He darted back into his room and snatched his phone, already halfway back to Porthos' side by the time he had unlocked it and called the emergency number. He started speaking as soon as the operator at the other end picked up: “Aramis Herblay, police officer, 13th Arrondissement. My partner, my, my friend can't breathe.” He took one of Porthos' hands in his free one and squeezed it, urging him silently to hang on. Porthos' lips were starting to turn blue, and while his eyes were on Aramis without wavering, he could see confusion and fatigue starting to creep in and replace the fear, clouding his gaze and tugging at his eyelids. “No, his mouth is not blocked. I think it's water in his lungs. We're off duty but he fell into the Seine yesterday afternoon--” He stopped his rambling with effort to listen to the operator.

But any answer she had to that went unheard because in that moment, he felt all tension bleed out of Porthos and, looking up, just caught a last look at his friend's eyes as they slipped close. “He lost consciousness,” he told the operator, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Please send someone!” He rattled off Porthos' address and waited until she had confirmed it, then dropped the phone and bent over Porthos again, tapping his cheek. “C'mon, Porthos, don't do that!”

There was no reply, and Porthos' eyes remained stubbornly closed. The only visible sign that he was only unconscious was the sharp rasp of his breath, each intake of air a hard-won battle. Aramis placed a hand on his neck and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the pulse there, much too fast but at least still strong and rhythmical. He pulled out his crucifix and kissed it in silent prayer, then settled down at his friend's side, ready to jump into action if his faltering breath were to cease entirely but praying with all his might that it wouldn't come to that.

The doors to the emergency room opened with a pneumatic hiss, and d'Artagnan came storming into the waiting area, Athos on his heels at a slightly slower pace. “Aramis!” their youngest called when he caught sight of him, hurrying over. “How-- What's-- How is he?” he asked as he dropped into a crouch next to Aramis' crumpled form.

Aramis clenched his fists – his hands were still trembling. “I don't know,” he replied bleakly. “They took him back a while ago and didn't tell me anything yet.”

Athos stood before the two of them, his hands deep in his coat pockets. “But he made it so far?” he asked, and Aramis marvelled again at how good their lieutenant was at keeping control in situations like this. From his tone, Athos sounded implacable, almost uncaring, but they all knew to read the signs that showed he was anything but. He was sure those hands in Athos' coat pockets were clenched into tight fists, too.

“Yes,” he hurried to reassure the others, “and I'm sure he'll be fine. He held on until the EMTs got there.” There had been a few terrifying times when it had seemed as if he'd stopped breathing but before Aramis had even started rescue breathing, he'd started up again.

Athos sat down next to Aramis, took a hand from his pocket and placed it on Aramis' shoulder in silent support, while d'Artagnan got up from his crouch and slid into the seat on Aramis' other side. The sharpshooter leaned into Athos' touch a little, unashamed of the comfort it brought him. His friends, his brothers, had only been there with him in this room for a minute, tops, but he was already feeling much calmer.

“Actually, can you tell us again what happened? Athos was a bit fuzzy on the details, he mostly knew that something happened to Porthos and you were going to the hospital with him,” d'Artagnan asked.

“Huh?” Aramis shot a sidelong glance at Athos who only raised an eyebrow and shrugged expressively. Fair enough, he supposed – to be honest, he barely remembered what he had said on the phone call himself, standing in a corner of the hallway and watching with eagle eyes what the EMTs were doing with his unconscious friend. “It must've been because of his fall into the Seine yesterday. Secondary drowning. Basically, some of the water he'd swallowed went into his lungs, and--” He broke off when a doctor entered the waiting room and looked around before he called: “Monsieur Herblay?”

Aramis was on his feet in a flash and strode over to the man, the other two at his heels. “That's me,” he told the doctor.

The doctor nodded but regarded the other two men with a raised eyebrow, and Aramis made an impatient gesture. “Everything you can tell me, you can say in front of them,” he said. “We're all the family Porthos has.”

The man looked somewhat sceptical but finally shrugged under the weight of Athos' glare, clearing his throat. “Well, I'm happy to tell you that Monsieur Vallon is doing fine, under the circumstances,” he said. “There was fluid in both lungs but we drained them without any complications. He's on the ventilator right now and should stay on it until the irritation has gone down a bit – I expect that we can wean him off by morning. There is a risk of pneumonia, of course, so we're looking at two days as an inpatient, maybe three, so we can keep an eye on that.”

Aramis blew out a relieved breath. All of this wasn't fun but it wasn't too bad. Porthos would be okay. “Can we see him?” he asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Well, he's sedated, and it's hardly visiting hours...” he began.

“We'll be quick,” d'Artagnan said, “but you must understand, getting a call in the middle of the night that something is wrong with our friend and rushing to the hospital – we just need to see him with our own eyes.” He turned the full force of his puppy dog eyes and painfully earnest expression on the doctor, and Aramis could not suppress a smirk. Maybe one day, their youngest would have learned all that Athos had to teach him, including how to glower, but until then, this combination was also surprisingly effective.

The man made a valiant attempt to resist but finally relented. “Ten minutes,” he told them strictly as he motioned for them to follow. Aramis did so, holding out a hand to d'Artagnan at his side with a grin as he passed him. The young man gleefully slapped it in a low-five, then fell into step behind him, Athos bringing up the rear.

Of course, Aramis almost regretted it immediately when the doctor opened a door and stepped aside to let them in, repeating again the ten-minute time limit. He always forgot how much he hated hospitals – and seeing people he cared about in the hospital. Porthos looked surprisingly small in the hospital bed, a stack of monitors next to him beeping their discordant rhythm, and there was the tube going into his slack mouth, secured against his cheek with some tape. He had regained some colour but was still looking grey and washed out, dark shadows beneath the fan of his eyelashes.

They approached the bed slowly, almost hesitantly. Aramis sat down in one of the straight-backed, hard plastic chairs and took Porthos' hand, squeezing it. “Hey Porthos,” he said, “that was quite an experience. Don't do that again, you hear me?”

d'Artagnan looked at him a bit strangely. “He can't,” he pointed out, “he's sedated, right?”

Aramis returned the look unapologetically. “Maybe,” he conceded, “but maybe not. The human brain is a mystery, d'Artagnan, and science can only tell us so much. I might not know if he can hear me but when I want to talk to my friend, I'm going to talk.”

d'Artagnan shrugged. “Fair enough,” he conceded, sitting down on the edge of the bed and slipping a hand in Porthos' unruly curls. Athos took the last remaining chair and Porthos' other hand. He did not speak but his thumb stroked small circles on Porthos' skin. And for a bit, they sat in silence, all of them just drinking in the sight of their fourth. He was not okay right now, not yet, but he would be.

[jdinnocent]

I appoligise in advance for my ramblings and for filling the timeline but i’ll shut up about this show after this post and stop writing essays 😂

So I just watched ‘Johnny Depp: Where Did It All Go Wrong’ I knew it would be a bad idea but the family were watching and I had to be there to correct the bullshit. I could go on for years about how bad this was, anything with a warning at the start about scenes being created for tv purposes is never going to end well. A few points I have to make though:

* The reporters involved were, as expected, incredibly biased.

* They, without saying directly, gave the impression (my whole family agreed that they got the same vibe) that Johnny was somehow involved in River Phoenix’s death. A scene they had acted out for this show.

* They also ‘acted’ out when Lily Rose was seriously sick in hospital.

* Amber was talked about as a “strong and beautiful” women. With mentions to the age gap, all textbook victim blaming.

* No mention of Johnny suffering from abuse at the hands of Amber but all for the mention of her lies.

* The TMZ video was described by the The Hollywood Reporter journalist as “a video that shocked America.” This gave a new meaning to the word dramatic.

* There was an absolute belter of a quote about how nothing in his personal life had ever reached the success of his professional life, apart from... “possibly his children.” POSSIBLY. Oh do get fucked his kids are his absolute world, the achievement of being their father is more than any role or movie can and will ever give him.

* And finally it ended with a journalist saying how he was “loveless and broke.” HA.

Ironic really because ‘loveless’ Johnny Depp has just managed to fuck the world press in one fell swoop ☺️

[creative-poptart]

Tralala ok what about the US Bois, UT Sans and UF Papyrus reacting to an S/O who ends up getting sick and delirious because of a really bad fever, and they keep thinking that there’s something super important they need to do so they keep trying to stumble out of the house?

Oh no, I hope this doesn’t come from personal experience for you. Being sick is never a fun thing, and this is even worse than just being the usual level of sick!

US Sans/Blue: He’s 100% on top of you being in bed and keeping you from going outside. As long as your sickness doesn’t last for more than five days, Blue will take off of work and keep you in bed. You can’t possibly have a better nurse than him because he simply has everything already stocked en mass for you. Soups, tissues, cold compresses, you name it, he has it somewhere for the sole purpose of taking care of you. Skeletons don’t have illnesses in the same way that humans do, after all, so he won’t worry about getting sick from you. If you even try to get up from the bed, especially if you’re delirious, Blue is quick to scoop you up into his arms and forcibly cuddle you. Any arguments that you have against staying in the house are carefully countered. He won’t let you up until you’re entirely better, even getting his brother to help if needed.

“NO, YOU ARE SICK! I DO NOT CARE IF THERE IS SOMETHING YOU NEED OUTSIDE, YOU HAVE TO STAY HERE AND RECOVER FIRST!”

US Papyrus/Stretch: Stretch is, most of the time, will be keeping a distant eye on you if you’re sick in bed. However, you’re going to make things difficult for him by trying to get up and go outside almost every single hour. This is both somewhat hilarious and equally frustrating. On the one hand, he’s amused by the feverish ramblings that you’re spewing, which are entirely funny. On the other hand, though, you’re sick and trying to go out and get something that you need to have in your own mind. He’s going to keep you as close to him as possible, making sure that you’re either in his arms or within his magical grasp. If you’re persistent in trying to get up, Stretch will make you hold onto him like a koala bear. Take a nap while you’re there, it’s gonna be a long time before he even thinks about letting you go. You’re very soft and cozy to him.

“you think that just because you asked nicely to go outside that I’m gonna let you go? nah, not a chance, honey, you’re too comfortable for me to get up.”

UT Sans/Vanilla: This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that he’s had to deal with a sick person refusing to go to bed. Vanilla is very much aware of the fact that his brother behaved much the same way on the few occasions that he would get sick. You’re really not much different, except that you’re a human, and your sickness isn’t magic based. However, he treats you in a very similar manner, keeping you confined to bed and making sure you’re not getting up too much. He’s got a little schedule going on for when you get medicine and how much you have to have. If, at any point, you try to get up from the room, Vanilla’s going to take you back gently. Any delusional mumbles are simply agreed to at the time, then you’re tucked back into bed with a kiss on the forehead. He’s probably one of the best to keep you getting better, laziness is his forte, after all.

“bathroom breaks only, sorry about that. no, your foot does not require a break from being in bed, get back in bed so you can rest up.”

UF Papyrus/Fell: If you’re looking for the rough-and-tumble bed nurse, you’ve got the perfect one right here. Fell isn’t necessarily the nicest when it comes to handling sicknesses. He really doesn’t know what to do with you, but at the same time, he wants to. There’s going to be a lot of research on his end on how to make sure you get better quickly. If your temperature gets any higher than what it’s at, he’ll take you to the hospital immediately. However, since you’re trying to leave the house, he plays a lot of catch, namely catching you as you’re about to set foot out the door. Every time, you’re picked up and carried right back to bed, then laid down and held there by hand. Fell is internally panicking that you can hardly understand him with the fever going on, but he seems fine. At the end of the day, when you actually sleep, he finally relaxes, but only a little.

“STARS ABOVE, YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL YOUR IMMUNE SYSTEM, AREN’T YOU?? JUST GET BACK IN BED ALREADY, YOU’RE SICK!!”

Thanks for the ask, River-Anon! (Because you did the tra la la like the river person!)