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prettyyoungandbored · 4 years

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Becoming Mrs. Wayne [The Dark Knight] Eight

Pairing: Christian Bale!Bruce Wayne x OC

Summary: Demetria Gallagher knew her cozy life would change the second she became engaged to Bruce Wayne. But what she doesn’t know is she’s getting more than what she agreed to. (I am trash at summaries.)

Warning: None

Taglist: dragonballluver, disgraceful-marvel-trash, barikawho (Let me know if you want to be tagged in this!)

Demetria laid in the hospital bed, toying with the thin, white waffle blanket the nurse had given her an hour ago.

The doctors concluded she’d had a severe panic attack, stemming from the trauma caused by The Joker’s attack. They gave her some medicine to put her at ease and stitched up her arm.

Alfred sat in the chair beside her. He rode in the ambulance with her and stayed with her throughout her stay.

While his company was deeply appreciated, the disappointment of Bruce’s absence sunk into her. How could he have left her? Where was he?

Just then, Harvey rushed in hurriedly.

“Dem, oh my god,” he said taking her hand. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alive,” she sighed. “How are you? What happened to you?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I was talking with Rachel and the next thing I knew I was dragged into some kind of safe room. Next thing I know, the cops let me out and told me what happened.”

“How’s Rachel doing?”

“She’s fine. No injuries or anything. I don’t know how she survived falling that far without a scratch, but I guess I have Batman to thank.” His eyes shifted to Alfred, his brows furrowing. “Where the hell is Bruce?”

“That’s the million dollar question tonight,” Demetria responded.

“Was he there when you were attacked?”

She shook her head. Harvey pursed her his lip, head shaking.

“He better have gotten locked in a room or I’m gonna kill him,”

“Harvey.”

“He should be here with you.” He eyed Alfred. “Where the hell is he?! Where was he?!”

“Enough!” Demetria spat. “First of all, you need to calm down. Second, the reason I’m ok and here is because of Alfred so don’t attack him.”

Harvey sighed and eyed Alfred. “Thank you for helping her. I’m sorry.”

“Understandable, Mr. Dent,” Alfred responded with a nod. “It’s been quite the night for all of us.”

“Go be with Rachel, ok?” Demetria said, taking Harvey’s hand. “She needs you right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Harvey nodded and kissed the top of Demetria’s head. “Call me tomorrow.”

He left the room and Demetria turned to Alfred. “I’m sorry Alfred.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured with a smile before returning to his newspaper.

Demetria pursed her lips back. “Alfred?”

He glanced up from his paper. “Yes, Miss Gallagher?”

“Thank you, for being there.” Her lips curved into a small, grateful smile. “And for staying by my side.” He gave her a small nod, smiling. “My pleasure.”

She sat up a bit. “Are you doing ok?”

He chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, Miss Gallagher. What happened tonight doesn’t compare to some of the other things I have witnessed.”

Before Demetria could question what exactly Alfred had seen in his life, a female nurse with sandy blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail entered the room.

“You holding up alright?” the nurse asked, setting down the clipboard on the nightstand beside the bed.

Demetria sighed, leaning her head back on the pillow. “I’ve had better nights.”

“I don’t doubt that,” she laughed kindly. She reached into the pocket of her scrubs and pulled out some makeup wipes from her pocket.

“We keep it for all the nurses, but I figured you could use it,” she said.

Demetria gave the nurse a kind smile as she took wipe. “Thank you. I knew I should’ve stuck with waterproof makeup.” She wiped her eyes and face before tossing it into the trash beside her. “Hopefully my face isn't as bad as it was before.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful, even with smudged makeup.”

She snorted. “You’re very kind.”

Demetria eyes then shifted tp the nurses standing around the desk area looking at her, whispering among themselves. The nurse turned to them, shooting a dirty look at them.

“They don’t mean any harm,” the nurse chuckled. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“I can appreciate that.

“My daughter suffers from them too,” the nurse went on. “Panic attacks, I mean.”

“How old is she?”

“16. Diagnosed just two years ago.”

“It’s hard when you’re young,” Demetria acknowledged. “I was 18 when I started getting them.”

“She’s doing better at managing them. Some days are harder than others.”

Demetria hummed, remembering what the first few years of her panic attacks were like - how she spent time and money trying to find the right medicine for her, how they would come up during lectures in college and she wondered if she was going to drop dead in the middle of class. At times they reduced her to tears, consuming her mentality.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Vanessa.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

The doctor, a male with silver hair and friendly eyes, entered, giving Demetria a warm smile. “How’s everything?”

“Alright for the most part,” she nodded. “The medicine has definitely kicked in.”

It was then Bruce rushed into the room. “I’m so sorry, honey. One of the clown’s men locked me in the bedroom. As soon as the officers got me out and told me what happened, I booked it over here.”

He took her hand, kissing the top of her head. “Are you ok?”

“She has stitches in her forearm,” the doctor explained. “She also suffered a pretty big panic attack so we gave her some medicine to calm her down.”

A sigh of relief escaped Bruce’s lips. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“Make sure she takes it easy the next couple of days. Give us a couple minutes and we’ll get you home.”

Demetria nodded, the doctor and nurse leaving. Bruce kissed the top of Demetria’s head.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I was grabbing stuff for us to leave and the next thing I knew-.”

She waved her hand. “It’s fine. As long as they didn’t hurt you.”

Her tone, while relaxed, wasn’t completely reassuring. His eyes met Alfred’s, who glared at him from the newspaper. He gave the old man a nod before returning to Demetria. “We’re going to get you home safe and sound.”

While he meant what he said, it was easier said than done. Outside of the hospital was a swarm of photographers and reporters. Demetria held onto Bruce’s hand, keeping her head low as he led her through the roaring crowd.

“Demetria, how are you feeling?”

“Was The Joker telling the truth? Is there something going on between you and Harvey?”

“Did you see the Batman come in to the party?”

“Show us the wound!!”

Bruce helped her into the passenger side of car before going to the driver’s side. He turned to the press. “My fiancé is fine. Thanks.”

Glittering flashes of light stood before Demetria, as she tried to keep her head low. The flashes died down as the car pulled away.

The silence in the car was deafening. Bruce kept his eye on the road while Alfred sat in the back of the car. In the passenger seat, Demetria pressed her head against the window, staring at the nightlife that passed by.

Exhaustion from the medicine and the trauma wrapped around her like a blanket. Still, in the back of her mind, something felt off about Bruce’s alibi.If he was trapped in the bedroom, wouldn’t he and Harvey have gotten out at the same time? Wouldn’t Harvey had heard him or seen him?

Also, what did Bruce need to tell her?

==========================================

When they arrived back at the penthouse, Alfred went straight to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. Demetria followed soon after with Bruce right behind her.

She went into their room first, Bruce watching her grab some sweatpants and a shirt before walking back out.

She turned to him, her eyes watering again.

“I’m...uh...gonna stay in the guest room tonight,” she said, letting out a sniffle.

“Dem-.”

“I want to be alone, ok?”

He nodded understandingly and watched her go into the guest bedroom. The second the door was closed, he eyed Alfred.

“I messed up,” he admitted. “I should’ve grabbed her first. I wasn’t sure how much time I had and I knew he wanted Harvey-.”

“The issue, Master Wayne, goes beyond you not saving her first,” Alfred cut him off, turning to him.

“What was I supposed to do, Alfred?”

“You already know.”

Bruce scratched the back of his head. “Rachel...after she found out, said she couldn’t be with me because of him. Suppose Demetria does the same thing.”

“Demetria is not Rachel, Master Wayne. Demetria has put up with the playboy facade you’ve created. She risked her sanity and comfort to deal with the people you both hate tonight. She’s given up the quiet life she loved to be with you. She’s made her sacrifices. It’s time you’ve made yours.”

================================================

Demetria curled up in bed, the medicine beginning to wear off. She clutched onto the pillow, staring out into the dark room.

Waves of exhaustion crashed over her body, but yet she couldn’t bring herself to fall asleep.

She cursed herself for pushing Bruce away, knowing deep down she didn’t actually want to be alone. She wanted to be in his arms, to hear him reassure her that everything would be ok.

Still, she couldn’t shake how he treated her at the party, as well as his excuse as to what happened to him at the party. As much as she desperately wanted to believe him, she couldn’t.

She got up from thr bed and made her way to her and Bruce’s room. She opened the door to find he wasn’t there. She sighed, closing the door.

He must’ve gone to the gym, she thought.

“Looking for someone?”

She turned to see Bruce sitting in the chair. He was out of his part attire, instead donning a brown polo shirt and black pants.

“I thought you would be at the gym,” she said, taking a seat on the coffee table that faced him.

“Took the night off.”

“You looked like your dressed to be somewhere.”

He flashed a tiny smile. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

She wiped her sweatpants with the palm of her hands, exhaling. Bruce straightened his posture, sensing she was fighting herself to speak up.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes stinging as tears began to fill her eyes. “Tonight was just...”

She let out a defeated chuckle, shrugging. “I don’t know where to begin. I don’t. There are a million different things that I want to say but...”

Bruce waited on bated breath, his heart sinking at the site of her crumbling down in each second that passed. Still, he was patient.

Her eyes finally met his. “I felt like an animal in a cage for people to stare at. Like I had no purpose other than to be talked down to or ridiculed. And the one person I needed the most....” She exhaled. “I really needed you there.”

He leaned in toward her. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry.”

He took her hand in his. “There’s something I need to show you. Go grab a jacket.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I’ll explain in the car.” His thumb grazed her chin. “I need you to trust me.”

His pleading tone managed to win her over somehow. She excused herself to grab a jacket from their room.

As Bruce waited, he could feel his heart race. The ambiguity of what would happen with their relationship after he would tell her broke him down.

Demetria returned wearing her green utility jacket over her shirt and sweatpants and her paid of white Keds.

“Let’s go,” he told her, grabbing her hand.

They went into the elevator down into the garage. The silence between them was deafening, both lost in their own thoughts. When the door opened, Demetria followed Bruce into his dark grey Lamborghini Murciélago LP640.

The second the car left the garage, Bruce broke the silence.

“Do you remember I told you I spent time traveling the world for a few years?” he spoke up. Demetria nodded. “Before I traveled, I tried to kill the man who killed the my parents. An assassin who worked for a mobster named Carmine Falcone beat me to it. So I visited Falcone who told me real power comes from being feared. So, I decided to spend some time studying the criminal underworld. I trained in combat under this group, the League of Shadows. I later found out they had plans to destroy Gotham, so I burnt down their temple.”

Demetria stared at Bruce, wide-eyed and mouth gaped open. Although she knew of the trauma and grief Bruce had carried from witnessing his parent’s murder, never in a million years did she think he was capable of murdering the guy. It was one thing to wish death on the guy who killed you parents, but to go out and kill him was a whole other thing.

She wasn’t sure how to respond, let alone process it, and judging by the deer-in-the headlights expression on her face, Bruce could tell.

“I came back to Gotham because I felt like the city needed protection,” he continued.

He pulled the car into an abandoned lot with a broken down warehouse bunker. He stopped the car and despite her hesitation, Demetria got out and followed Bruce.

Her silence terrified him, but he knew what he had to do. He opened the door, letting her in first before closing it.

Demetria’s stomach went weak, anticipation running through her. She followed Bruce into the dimly lit hallway before he stopped her.

“Stay here,” he told her.

Suddenly, the floor began to lower down into an underground room. Demetria’s heart rate picked up as she looked down.

The next thing she knew, she was in a brightly lit, spacious room with two, black military-esque Lamborghinis.

“What the fuck is this?” she said, eyeing the whole room.

This was it. No turning back.

“Demetria...I’m Batman.”

She whipped her head to Bruce, her mouth hung open. Her blood ran cold, her entire being knocked out by three words.

“You...you’re....you...” Her words failed her.

He motioned for her to follow him. He grabbed a remote from off the desk and pointed it at the wall across from him. A section on of the floor rose, revealing a glass case where sure enough, hanging perfectly inside was Batman’s costume.

Demetria eyes went back and fourth between the costume and Bruce, trying to make sense of what was happening. Bruce watched her, waiting for her to say something, anything. As far as he was concerned, he was watching what would be the end of their relationship.

“I....I don’t...I...I...” She shook her head. “I don’t know...what...what the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck? You’re Batman? You? Bruce Wayne?”

She stepped back. “How the hell am I supposed to believe this? How do I know that’s not a just a really good replica of his costume?”

“You told me on the rooftop that it was scary to have people take photos of you and that you feel like an animal in a zoo enclosure.”

She nodded her head, pressing her fingers to her temple. “Oh my fucking god.”

“I wanted so many times to tell you,” he said, taking a step forward. “I promised myself to keep you away from Batman because I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it.”

“But the balcony...”

“I didn’t want you out alone at night, even if it was on my balcony.”

Then it hit her. The party.

“If the suits in here, how did you have it for the party?” she asked.

“I keep a spare in a private room.”

She threw her hands. “How the fuck do you have so many private rooms? I know it’s a penthouse, but come on!”

She started pacing back and fourth. “So instead of training for extreme hiking or whatever, you’ve been doing this?”

“That’s correct.”

She ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, first you tell me you tried to kill the guy who killed your parents and then you tell me you’re Batman.” She threw her hands up. “I feel like....I mean...when the hell were you going to tell me any of this? Before or after the wedding?”

He shoved his hands in his pant pockets. “ I was going to tell you when I was done.”

“What do you mean when you were done?”

“Done with Batman. Gotham doesn’t need me anymore. It has Harvey.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s why you threw him the fundraiser.”

“He’s what this city needs and what it deserves.”

Then it dawned on her. Her speech from earlier. “You’re one of the reasons Gotham has a brighter future.”

“You were upset with my speech,” she figured out. “That’s why you went outside.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t upset, it’s just that I’ve been at this for so long, Demetria. While I’m ready to give up Batman, on the other hand it’s easier said than done.”

“Bruce, I said he was one of the reasons, not the reason.” She took a step toward him. “Don’t get me wrong, what Harvey’s doing is great, but it’s nothing compared to what you’ve done. Batman is the reason this city’s getting better.”

“But he’s also the reason you got attacked,” he pointed out. “I went into our room to grab some stuff so we could leave and I saw on the security camera that The Joker was coming. I knew he was after Harvey so I rescued him first. By the time I came back for you, it was too late. When I came back as Batman, he’d already gotten to you.” He shook his head. “I should’ve saved you first.”

Demetria put a hand on his arm comfortingly. “I wasn’t the target. Harvey was.”

“But-.”

“Bruce,” her voice was gentle, but stern. “Stop, alright? You did what was right.”

His hands cradled her cheeks. “You’re my home, Demetria. I just wanted to keep you safe.”

Safe. The word felt damning to him now.

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “If you want to leave, I understand.”

She cocked her head back. “Bruce...”

“It’s ok.”

“Bruce, I’m not going anywhere,” she told him, a light chuckle in her voice. “I mean, yeah, I feel like I’ve been thrown off, but none of this changes the fact that I’m completely, stupidly in love with you.”

A small, amused smile formed on his lips. “Stupidly?”

She rolled her eyes at her own word being said back to her. “Stupidly.”

His hands fell down to her waist. “I’m stupidly in love with you too.”

They leaned in, their lips pressing together in a perfect synchronization. Both melted into each other’s touch, Bruce pulling her closer to him.

When she pulled her lips back, she ran her hands through his dark hair.

“Promise me no more secrets, ok? No more hiding from me.” She paused, realizing her own hypocrisy. “That goes for me too, ok? I need to stop hiding my panic attack and anxieties and other shit from you.”

“No more hiding” Bruce repeated in agreement. He cradled her cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“I’m sorry too.” She ran her hands through her hair. “We used to be so much better at communicating each other. What the hell happened?”

“We got caught up in other things and forgot what mattered.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s just something we’ll have to work on being better at.”

She threw her arms around his neck, when her eyes lit up. “Oh, and one more thing. The next time you decide to throw a party with those people and abandon it, take me with you.”

“How about no more parties with them, period?” he countered playfully.

“That is the sexiest thing you’ve said to me.”

He chuckled. “You’re joking me.”

She shook her head patting his chest when it hit her. “Before I forget, there’s something else I need to tell you. You remember The Joker’s video from today? I know that location.”

“I know,” he said, shoving his hands in his pant pockets. “I found the letter in your drawer.”

“Oh?” She inquired, crossing her arms against her chest. “What were you doing in there?”

“I was packing us a bag and wanted to make sure I packed your anxiety medications. When I saw it wasn’t in the cabinet, despite having told you to put it in there, I grabbed it from the nightstand drawer.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Fair enough, I guess. Did it at least help?”

“I went to check it out after Rachel and I’s fall. Nothing was there except some traces of dried blood.”

“Could it have been that guy’s?”

“It’s possible.”

He opened a desk drawer, revealing a piece of the brick with dried blood on it. “I was going to check it out tomorrow morning.”

“Mind if I join you?”

His hands met her hips. “I would love that.”

She gave him a quick kiss, when the corners of her mouth curved mischievously. “Can I drive the batcar home?”

“No.”

“Can I sit in it?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I sit on your lap while we both sit in it?”

“It’s not big enough.”

Her mouth hung open. “Bruce!”

“I meant it’s not big enough for two people.”

“Hmmm, sure.” She pat his chest. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

She went to walk away when he grabbed her hand and pulled it back, bringing her face to his as his lips crashed onto hers. Both of them were too lost to realize their bodies had found themselves on the floor.

Needless to say, they didn’t make it home.

#bruce wayne x oc #bruce wayne imagine #batman #batman imagine #batman fanfic #the dark knight #the dark knight fanfiction #christian bale #christian bale x reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #bale!batman #the joker

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bangtan-madi · 4 years

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Year of the Rabbit — One: Scarlet

Pairing — Jungkook x Reader, mentions of Hoseok x Yoongi

Tags — best friend!Jungkook, non-idol au, flower shop au, gym au, florist!MC, gym owner!Jungkook, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining

Genre — fluff

Word Count — 2.4k

Summary — Blame it on the storm or the secret feelings or the snow-in, but one thing is for sure: a lot can happen to two best friends when they're confined to their stores overnight.

Part — 1 / 5(?)

Warnings — language, excessive cuteness/fluffiness that might cause cardiac arrest

— Next

The doorbell chimes, alerting you to the entrance of a new customer, a cold breeze blowing behind him. Your gaze shifts from your intricate arrangement of peach blossoms and orchids in the window display towards the tattooed man who's draped in variations of black clothing. You eye his hefty combat boots, arching an eyebrow as he steps off the welcome mat and tracks snow into your shop.

"I'm sorry, sir. I think you have the wrong store. We sell flowers here, not dumbbells. Try the idiot and his gym next door, and maybe before you track mud and snow into my damn store?"

Jungkook rolls his eyes, backtracks to the welcome mat, and makes a show of him wiping his boots. His eyes lock with yours the entire time, and he gestures with his hands after a few moments. "Happy now, your worship?"

You eye the twenty-something up and down, tilting your head to the side as if trying to make up your mind. "Nah, you're still here."

As you turn back to your work, Jungkook steps into the shop, ignoring your last comment. "Well, I've come here to place an order, in case you're wondering. Do you have any florists that are actually nice to customers?"

"Since when do you want to buy flowers?" Brushing your hands onto your jeans, you move from the window display back to the other side of the counter. Offering a forced smile to the brunet on the other side, you muster your most obnoxious customer-service voice and ask, "What can I get for you, sir?"

Jungkook rests his forearms on the counter and leans forward a bit, coming eye-to-eye with you. "How do I passive-aggressively say 'fuck you' in flower?"

Tapping your chin, you offer, "Well, I would want to know specifically who this 'fuck you' is directed towards, but a good place to state would be Geraniums for stupidity, Foxglove for insincerity, Meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations basically say 'you have disappointed me,' and orange lilies will show the hatred of a thousand suns."

Jungkook's grin widens. "Perfect. I'll take a dozen arrangements. Deliver them as soon as possible to my best friend's apartment."

"That'll be six million won."

His eyes bulge at the price tag. "Six million!"

You pout at him, sticking your lower lip out and batting your eyelashes. "Not worth bothering your best friend after all, Gym Bunny?"

Jungkook's facade breaks down at the mention of your longtime nickname. He snickers, his grin causing smile lines to appear at the corners of his eyes and tops of his cheeks. His laughter is contagious, eventually enticing you to do the same.

"Damn, I am glad you're back," he sighs.

You'll never admit it, but those words send a wave of warmth through you. Jungkook is someone you've been friends with for a long time, since before high school, before puberty, before being best friends with the opposite sex was awkward. For that, you're grateful. There's only been one thing that hasn't changed since then, and that's how you both feel about each other. You've been attached at the hip for over a decade. For most of your teen years and early adulthood, there wasn't a day that went by when you hadn't at least texted or called.

Even as you grew older, your lives turned out pretty similarly. Jungkook took a few college classes, decided it wasn't really for him, and opened up his own gym with fellow Busan-native Park Jimin. Between the two men's drive and natural athleticism, you weren't surprised at all when the business took off. You joined forces with fellow botany major students Jung Hoseok and Min Yoongi, and shortly after completing year two out of a three-year program, the trio of flower-children put a hefty down payment on the shabby chic building in old Seoul. By summer's end, the flower shop was in full swing and getting orders from both individuals and companies for events all over the city.

As luck would have it, Jungkook and Jimin's gymnasium is right across from your shop. This makes for healthy competition between the two groups, but no more so than between old friends. You both have always tried to out-do one another, but it's always with friendly intent. You harass each other like it's the last thing you'll ever do—you call him Gym Bunny, and he refers to you as his Flower Child—but in the end, there's no one you'd rather have in your corner than the boy standing in front of you.

"You've said that about seven times since you picked me up from the airport at Christmas."

"And I mean it, every damn time!"

"You sure about that?" you chuckle, shoving his shoulder from across the counter. "I mean, a single fall semester and you've broken up with your lady friend the second I came back."

He brushes your comment off with a wave of his hand. "Aish, that wasn't you. That breakup was a long-time coming. Thought it would be best to do it before the holidays so we wouldn't have that awkwardness to deal with on top of family drama."

You make a sound of disbelief and shift over to the back room. Jungkook follows you as you pick up several more empty vases and begin to take them to the adjacent window display, two at a time.

"I still feel bad for you, Kook. I mean, you didn't have anyone over Christmas or New Year's. Now it's the Lunar New Year, and not only do you not have a girlfriend, but the boys are also out of town."

Jungkook shrugs as if it's nothing. "I have you!"

"Well, actually..." Biting your lower lip, you turn towards him with a sheepish expression. "I kinda have to work late today to get some orders done for a wedding next week. With the holiday, and my fearless business partners out of the country, I'm cutting it close as is. I didn't want to wait until the weekend was over before getting those in. I was going to tell you, but..."

"Oh, I got you." He shakes his head fervently. "No, trust me, I understand. You're a business owner. You gotta do what you gotta do." He glances around the shop. "If it's worth anything, I like what you've done with the place."

You follow his eyes, spotting the tiny handing lanterns and ruby cards handing along the periphery of the shop. Even with two of the three owners absent, you wanted the store to feel celebratory. The small space was now a perfect blend of vibrant viridian and striking scarlet. You'd put in the effort a week or so ago, and it feels nice to have that acknowledged.

"Is there anything I can help with?"

"Um..." You gesture towards the supply room behind you. "Go back there and look at the register on the wall. Tell me how many sets of gold and red ribbon I have."

Jungkook eagerly slips into the back room and begins doing as you ask. In his absence, you turn moving merchandise across the shop.

"Yoongi and Hoseok leave you hanging on this order, huh?"

"Not their fault, they didn't know we were going to get such a massive job while they were away." You return to the backroom for the last set of vases. "Those two haven't had a day off in a while; between the final year at university and the shop being as busy as it is, there's always something to do. I told them I could handle it, no problem. It's about time they had a holiday by themselves. Didn't realize they'd go as far as Hawaii..."

Your companion snickers, "At least Yoongi-hyung will get some sun for once. And you have five rolls of red ribbon, and two rolls of gold."

You snap your fingers, an idea popping into your head as the final set of vases are set in the window display. "That reminds me: I need to place an order for that as well."

"What else do you have to do before you close?"

Biting your lower lip, you grab your notebook and pull the pencil from the spine, going down your list. "I need to handle the details of that big order, which includes a call with the clients. I need to get the vendor to confirm the details of a separate order. I also need to place an order for some supplies, which now...includes...ribbons." You scribble the notes in the margin so you don't forget. "Also a few admin things like paying the rent and utilities, which usually Yoongi handles...Oh! And changing the irrigation, which Hoseok usually does every month...and I think I'm a week late—shit."

Seeing your uneasy state and hearing you ramble on about all your tasks, Jungkook places a hand on your shoulder. You jump a little at his touch, nearly dropping your notebook as he breaks you out of your mental spiral. Luckily, your best friend has the reflexes of a cat. He catches it before it makes it to the ground.

"Are you sure you're okay, [Y/n]?" His voice is soft and concerned, nothing like the playful and teasing tone of before. "I know I don't know much about running a flower shop or ordering from vendors or cleaning out the irrigation-whatever...but you need someone to help you. You can't possibly get all of this done alone, tonight. Can't any of this wait until tomorrow?"

You shake your head with a sigh. "The vendors are closed after tonight and won't open until Monday. And the wedding those flowers are for is Friday. If I don't order tonight, they won't ship in time to get here. And the bills are a little late as is; I have to take care of those or Yoongi will kill me. And the irrigation is super important for plant health—"

"—But your mental and physical health is important, too," Jungkook reminds you with a gentle insistence. His brown eyes stare straight ahead, showing you with his attention how serious he is. "When did you get here this morning?"

"Um...I don't remember exactly, it was sometime around six—"

"—And what time did you leave last night?"

"Nine-ish?"

The brunet sighs, running a tattooed hand over his face. "You're gonna burn out, jagiya. You can't keep this up."

"It's only for tonight, I promise! Once this order is in, and these few things are taken care of, I'll be better about my schedule. I promise."

Jungkook shakes his head at your stubbornness, raising his hands in mock defeat. "All right, all right. You win. What can I help with?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes," he laughs. "What do I always say? You're the platonic love of my life; I'll do anything for you, Flower Child."

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to help your mind stay off his usual comment, one that somehow feels different these days. "Well...can you go home and feed my cat?"

He arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Are you serious? I meant here, at the shop, idiot."

"And I'm serious! Elizabeth the 3rd needs attention and dinner. You'd be doing me a huge favor, Bunny."

"You know, that cat hates me."

"Hey, she might be on to something. You are pretty shady."

Jungkook throws his hand up as he turns towards the door. "Y'know, the greatest part of you studying abroad was not being harassed every single day."

A mock-evil, villainous laugh bursts from your mouth, a sound you know only annoys him further. "You love me anyway!"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be back after I feed your damn cat, and I'm picking up dinner. What do you want?"

Your eyes widen, and your laughter fades as you bounce up and down where you stand. "If you bring Natsukashii takeout, I will love you forever."

Throwing a wink in your direction as he reaches the door, Jungkook replies, "You already do."

After he leaves, flurries of snow blow through as the door closes. As they dance in the air, melting against the hardwood floor and the potted plants that fill the cozy space, you gnaw on your lower lip subconsciously. A shiver runs down your spine, and your hands rub up and down your arms to stave off the chill.

But the late-winter weather isn't the cause of the tremor down your back, or the hairs standing on end along your forearms. This exact reaction is one you'd been shoving in the back of your mind for a while. Thoughts of Jungkook in a way you'd never considered before, something more than what you've been for the past decade, something that's changed so slowly over time you'd hardly noticed it, something that is definitely not platonic.

Heaving a sigh, you shake thoughts of Jungkook away, forcing them into the smallest closet in the back of your memory. With the last bit of mental power you can manage, you shove the metaphorical door closed and lock it tight. Those thoughts will be there tomorrow, just as they've been there every day for the past six months. You can deal with them then, because there's no way you'll consider acting on a fleeting emotion that might lead to the end of the one stable thing in your life. The one permanent thing. The one good thing.

Not a chance in hell.

The vermilion lights seem brighter as the darkness sets in. Lunar New Year is finally here, and the city is alive with festivities and revelry. The season of scarlet and change is upon Seoul—and for once in your life, you're relieved to be spending it alone, amongst the flowers.

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danyka-fendyr · 5 years

Text

Absence of Good - 6

Chapter 6: Take Your Troubles and Double Them

Okay so it’s a long time coming but here it is! I took so long writing this because honestly I was just super burned out and dreading writing it. So a part of this was written in small increments, but then today I actually wanted to write, so I sat down and -imagine this- just wrote it. Now I know I just did a fic where characters get injured but well... If two characters are two halves of a whole, the perfect yin and yang to each other, when the one gets hurt should not the other also get hurt? ...and I needed it for plot reasons because we’re finally to the point in this story where I’m storyboarding. Anyway, I hope it’s up to snuff since I actually edited this time.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

AoG Taglist: @pancakefancake @prettyboyspenerrr @youreasnack @alioop3818

Wordcount:

Warnings: Extremely dark themes. Violence against children. Death and murder. Death of children. Torture.

“Perhaps the greatest faculty our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain.”

-Patrick Rothfuss

You were sitting in the bullpen, working on not working. Technically you were supposed to be writing up reports, but it was early April and everybody had spring fever. There wasn’t a single member of the BAU who was actually doing what they were supposed to except maybe Hotch.

“Hey, Garcia, I’ve got a fun fact for you,” you said.

“Am I going to like it or is it about serial killers?”

“You’re going to like it.”

“Then fire away!” Garcia beamed at you.

“Did you know that the average human needs at least 8 hugs a day to maintain oxytocin levels?”

Garcia looked like the cat that ate the canary. “So what you’re saying is…it’s actually beneficial for me to declare group hug time!”

Immediately she latched onto you with an enthusiasm that could only be achieved by one Penelope Garcia, and with a glare that dared the rest of the team not to come join in.

Some people might be surprised that Spencer was the first to join, but the people who knew him knew better. While the Doctor might seem stiff and awkward from afar, once he got comfortable with people he could be quite warm and affectionate. It just might take a few months or…years. Either way Spencer had no reservations about snuggling into you, and his head was a surprisingly good fit on your shoulder.

It didn’t take the rest of the team long to join in, cocooning you in an envelope of human warmth.

“Does this count as my eight hugs for the day since there’s like, a dozen people hugging me right now?”

“There are exactly 6 people hugging your right now and no,” Spencer said. “It has to be chest to chest contact to count as a full hug.”

“So this counts as no hugs?” You asked, disappointed.

“Don’t worry sugar plum, I’d be more than happy to provide you with an unlimited supply. Whenever you need a hug you just let me know,” Garcia said, patting you on the head as the group hug disbanded.

Not a moment too soon either as Hotch walked in to announce a new case. Nothing like murder to raise your oxytocin levels.

Hotch made the briefing short and sweet, as he always did. There was a series of child abductions happening in Pennsylvania, which meant time was of the essence now more than ever.

“This unsub is escalating at a rate we couldn’t have possibly foreseen. He’s quickly getting desperate and has already shown himself to be deeply unpredictable. Amongst his victims is now 22-year-old Alicia, a nanny to one of the children he abducted. This unsub will go through anything or anyone to achieve his goal, and the murder of Alicia Bennet shows no signs of remorse anywhere in the body positioning or methodology. Wheels up in 10.”

You could feel the panic hit you like a shot of whiskey, burning in the pit of your stomach. You tried to control it though. Panic always came with this job, but it was harder with unsubs like this. Fast moving and unpredictable and ruthless. Something in you knew before you ever stepped foot on the jet that this one would haunt your nightmares.

Spence noticed your distress immediately, finding it in the jittery way you grabbed your go-bag and the shaking hands that made you a cup of tea on the plane before you sat down by yourself to think while the rest of the team brainstormed. After giving his contributions, he was quick to join you.

“It’s eating you alive, isn’t it?” He asked.

You looked up at those soft brown eyes and knew there was no use lying to him. He always knew exactly what you were feeling. You communicated in a language you didn’t even know, in the quirk of his mouth and the skim of his fingertips and the curve of your spine and the whispers of your breathing. A tacet tryst all your own.

“I don’t like time crunches.”

He accepts that as an answer and an end to the conversation. Except there is never an end to your conversations anymore. The silence just stretches into a requiem of every word between the two of you, a living, breathing thing still. Which means there is nothing awkward about you interrupting it, because the conversation is still going.

“Do you ever wish you’d just…taken a gap year? Or several gap years? You certainly had the time.” You laugh a little bit.

Spencer’s answer is fast enough that you know already what he will say.

“I thought about it once. After everything with my Mom…I almost did.”

“So what stopped you?”

“Well I brought up the idea to my Mom and her reaction was basically that I would give up what I loved over her dead body.” Spence huffed a smile, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “What about you? You had the time to take a gap year too. Why not?”

You leaned back against the smooth leather of the jet seat behind you.

“I thought about it. When I was 16 I had this brief ambition to take a gap year to be an occupational therapists assistant.”

“That’s not even a real gap year!” Spencer elbowed you teasingly before going serious again. “So why didn’t you?”

“Well to say my parents thought it was the worst idea I’d ever had would be an understatement. I pitched them the whole scheme, you know? I would go and get my associates degree and then I could use that to get the job and train for a year then help pay my way through college while I was getting my psychology degree. They said that if I stopped for a year though I would never go back to school and get my bachelor’s and then it would all be a waste. So, here I am.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, thoughtful as he always was. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to go after your dreams.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy to be here, so it all turned out for the best.”

Hesitantly, Spencer’s hand came to rest over yours on the armrest. “I’m happy you’re here too.”

You turned your face away from him, but you were unable to stop your eyes flicking back to him, your breath coming too fast for a different reason now. There were certain lines that coworkers just didn’t cross, and you and Spencer…you had been skirting those lines for quite a while. This was just a new way to push the limits.

You should have known right away that it would be a bad idea to try to go undercover. There was a reason you didn’t go undercover in your line of work, the reason being it was stupid. But the best way to catch this guy might just be to masquerade as a nanny for a child that you were almost certain he would target. What made you so certain? Well, she was his after all.

Eventually, Garcia had pieced together enough clues to determine that your killer was a Mr. Derek Mayner and that he had a young daughter who had been adopted by an upper middle-class family. Her mother had hid her existence from him, but you could only assume he had found out since the girl’s mother had been killed when she was only two in a way that fit your killer’s style all too well. Unfortunately for Mayner but fortunately for Gina, his daughter, he was put in prison shortly after that for drug possession and a series of other crimes including aggravated assault and a few other more minor charges. Once Garcia discovered that it was easy to draw a connection between the girls who looked eerily like Mayner’s daughter, as well as Alicia Bennet’s resemblance to her mother, the chilling cherry on top of this case.

Gina’s adopted parents had agreed to let you pose as a nanny, as the other option was leaving their daughter almost entirely unguarded against her serial killer father. You had been the obvious pick from the team as you were the only one who was young enough to be a truly believable nanny. And who would suspect sweet little you was hiding a gun inside your purse?

In theory, everything should have gone off without a hitch. The adopted parents would go out for dinner at the same time they always did on Saturday, their standing date, leaving you with Gina. You would be wired, and so when the unsub broke into the house trying to abduct the sweet 4-year-old girl in your care you would speak your codeword and the team would come back you up while you got Gina to safety.

In theory, the unsub didn’t take you by surprise.

In theory, the unsub didn’t come out of nowhere and shove you into a glass coffee table.

In theory, your mic didn’t break.

In theory, you didn’t get abducted with a 4-year-old girl you were supposed to protect.

Everything was better in theory.

You came to groggily, trying to gain your bearings. Everything hurt but breathing especially. The first thing you realized was that you had probably broken a rib. Well, not you. Derek Mayner had broken your rib. Wait…the unsub. Where was Gina?

You looked around in a panic, causing a sharp, stabbing pain to shoot through your chest before you caught sight of her. She was slumped unconscious just off to your right, and it looked like her tiny little body had been drugged. Something to keep her docile while Daddy dearest kidnapped her.

She stirred slightly, coming out of her drugged haze slowly. She blinked up at you with wide chocolate colored eyes for a moment before quickly bursting into tears. That was bad. That was very bad.

Before she could attract her father’s attention, you quickly pulled her into your lap, holding back a scream from the pain in your ribs.

“There now, it’s alright sweetheart.”

You doubted you looked like it was alright. You could feel the scratches littering your face and body, and you were sure there were some shards of glass stuck through your arms, fibers laced through your face. It didn’t get better when you failed to calm her.

“Take your hands off my daughter.” Mayner growled at you, slamming the door open.

“I’m just trying to calm her do-”

“I said take your hands off her!” He screamed, reaching around her to hit you.

The blow landed weakly, but the pain of it was increased by the injuries you had already sustained. It jarred Gina out of your arms, which only made her cry harder, her distress increasing. Mayner roared, furious.

“Look what you did!”

That was when your pain really began.

He dragged you out to a barn at the edge of the property, an abandoned house he had been keeping you and Gina in. Grabbing chains that implied a sickening amount of premeditation and perhaps more kills than you had given him credit for, he strung you up from the rafters, your toes barely dangling from the floor. With your broken ribs, the agony was unspeakable.

Mayner’s past kills had been fast, more business-like than most of the unsubs you dealt with. His primary focus had been getting his daughter, and his aggressive tendencies took a backseat to that. Now that he had her though, he was free to explore. And explore he did.

It seemed like the pain was never ending, exploding across your body. In the back of your mind you noted that it probably meant something that Mayner’s preferred weapons were knives, and he really liked stabbing. You clung to that, trying to escape to a different mindscape.

In your head, you were on the jet, discussing a case. Your case, since apparently you could only get so far removed from your current situation.

“Impotent, most likely,” Rossi said casually.

“That would explain the stabbing, but not the daughter. You think his impotency happened in the two-year gap where he was in jail?” Morgan asked.

“It’s possible.” Emily leaned forward in your mental rendition of the jet. “That would explain the obsession with his daughter. As far as he knows, she’s the only child he’ll ever have.”

“That makes sense. A man’s children are his legacy, and a man like Mayner would be obsessed with taking control of that.” Hotch nodded.

Mayner dragged the knife up your side, and your mental vision blurred red hot. You tried to focus, tried to bring it back, but it hurt. Gosh, it hurt so bad. You scrambled for any memory you could reach, any happier, higher place. Your brain supplied you with an unexpected one. You remembered Spencer telling you a story of when an old unsub he and Hotch had interrogated in jail tried to kill them. Spencer had talked him out of it by asking one simple question.

You took a jagged breath. “Do you want to know why you did it? Why you killed all those girls?”

Mayner froze, and a wild hope sprang up in you.

“I mean, that’s not like you, right? You’ve committed a lot of crimes, sure, but you’re not a murderer.”

If you could just string him out long enough, the team would come for you. You knew they would. They had to.

“I did it for my daughter. You wouldn’t understand.”

“But I think I do understand Derek. Because you didn’t have to kill all those little girls. But you did it anyway, didn’t you? And you liked it, right? I can tell you why if you just put the knife down.”

“What would you know about me? You’re just a nanny.” He spat in your face.

You tried to hold back your disgust, not to let any weakness show. “I’m a psychologist. I work for the FBI, and I was assigned to go undercover and protect your daughter. And do you know why they picked me? Because they knew, they knew that I would understand you Derek. That I’m the only one who can.”

“What do you know about me?” He demanded, lowering the knife ever so slightly.

“I know that it started with Gina’s mother, right? She was the first person you’d ever really killed. And when you did, there was such a rush, wasn’t there? You would do anything to get that kind of high again. It was better than the drugs, better than anything you’d ever done before. So then you wanted to do it again. But more than that, you wanted your daughter back. So what did you do? You went after your daughter, like any good father. But in the process, you couldn’t control your appetite, could you? You had to kill. But you could have killed anyone, anything. So what do we have to ask ourselves now?”

The barn exploded, and you could have cried with relief.

“FBI! Put the knife down now!” That was Morgan’s voice, strong and authoritative.

Derek didn’t put up much of a fight. Sure, he liked murdering people, but he also liked staying alive. You had broken before he was even cuffed.

Tears poured down your face, the excruciating pain and relief washing over you.

“Get me down,” you begged, a mantra rolling out of you over and over again. “Get me down. Get me down.”

It was Spencer who raced to your side, gently extricating you from your chains. Who caught you as you collapsed, yelping in pain.

“I need a medic here! Now!” Panic laced his voice, and you dimly registered that you had never heard Spencer this afraid before.

“G-Gina, is she?”

“She’s fine. Just breathe, okay? You’re going to be okay.” Spencer’s warm hands cupped your face, and you realized you were freezing.

“I’m, I’m okay Spence,” you tried to say through stuttering breaths. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Medic!” Spencer’s voice was a frantic demand now, but it was getting dimmer.

You vaguely registered Mayner, begging you for an answer as Morgan dragged him away.

“Why?” He asked. “Tell me why.”

You coughed, which hurt, but seemed to come secondary to the hot blood dripping down your chin. Summoning up all of your remaining strength, you looked Mayner in the eye in a last act of bravado.

“I have no idea.”

Then you passed out.

You came to for the second time in what you guessed was 24 hours, except this time you were in a hospital wing.

“Mmmm,” you murmured quietly, shifting in your bed. “Is that morphine I feel?”

You heard Spencer chuckle to your left. “Actually, it’s fentanyl. They tried to give you morphine, but I convinced them fentanyl would be better.”

“And by that he means he bullied the poor nurse into giving you the good drugs,” Garcia said from your other side.

You laughed weakly, but that definitely still hurt. Guess the drugs could only do so much.

“Okay Penelope, you’re going to have to stop being funny now because that hurt.”

It seemed you had unintentionally caused the blonde distress as tears sprang to her eyes and she leaned forward to give you a very gentle makeshift hug.

“Oh, I’m just so happy you’re okay! Spencer’s been sleeping in hospital chairs for the past two days and we were all so worried! About you, obviously, not him, although we were kind of worried about him too because he already slouches so much and-”

“Spencer!” You frowned over at him. “Go home.”

“No.”

“Yes. You’ve been sleeping here for two days? That’s insane. You’re going home and you’re going to take a bath or shower, whichever you prefer, and then you’re going to eat some real non-hospital food, and then you’re going to sleep for 9 hours in a real bed.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Spencer protested.

“Which was all well and good when I was asleep and flirting with death, but now I’m awake and I feel fine. Which means you need to go take care of yourself.”

“But what if they try to give you morphine instead of fentanyl? Or what if they don’t run the right tests or they miss something that I would have seen or what if-”

You precariously turned so that you were facing him better, wincing slightly as you did so. “Or what if you went home and rested and let Garcia and the rest of the team take good care of me, and then you came back tomorrow?”

“She’s right, boy wonder. In your current state of delusionalness, you wouldn’t be able to catch anything the doctors supposedly missed anyway. Come on, I’m having Morgan drive you home.”

Before he could complain further, Penelope ushered him out of your hospital room, leaving you alone with the strong scent of hand sanitizer and latex gloves, under the bright white lights that were sure to give you a migraine if you kept staring at them. So you turned to the only other option left. You closed your eyes, stopped staring at the cursed lights, and went to sleep.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.”

-Fyodor Dostoevsky

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #matthew gray gubler #mgg #tw: violence #tw: mention of drugs #tw: torture #tw: death #tw: child death

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hobohumanitarian6 · 4 years

Text

This is a long post so please be warned!!! I need to get some things off my chest....

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING POSSIBLE⚠️

Feedback to this post is open-ended. You cannot offend me and will not be blocked.

⭐ So here's the thing: one of my late grandmother's friends just posted that her 29 year old son died in his sleep with seemingly no explanation. This really shook me I guess. For one, I used to hang out with this kid during the summers a lot. My specific memories are very vague, but deep in my consciousness I know that I have called him friend in the past. For another, many things lately have been prompting me to ask the difficult questions ie

Why in the fuck am I here?

What's the meaning of it all?

When is my life going to get better?

How do I prepare myself for better things?

Am I blocking me or is something else blocking me?

What am I doing wrong that the universe doesn't think I'm ready for a new chapter?

Am I really with the right person?

What about the afterlife?

Am I going to be silenced or speak out?

What if I can't do some of things I want/dreamed of?

What is going to satisfy me if my future doesn't go as planned?

⭐ I've been doing quite a bit of soul searching through all of this, established the framework of the person I want to be and

BAM! 🧱 💥 🏃🏻‍♀️

Straight into a fucking. Brick. Wall.

⭐ I am in one of the worst continental states in the US (by even statistic) and before all of the shutdown and pandemic began, I had plans to be relocated with my new job, a place to call home & reunited with family by June 1st. Clearly that didn't happen....

⭐ I am spending $900 a month for a 250 ft² motel room just so I am not out on the streets.

Homelessness. Can we talk about that for a second? People getting arrested for being out past curfew because they don't have a place to go, put in jail because they're in the way, not tested or treated for the virus because they generally have no insurance, giving people loads of food stamps so the emergency assistance funding is broke-

600 dollars of groceries is a lot if you have a fridge, freezer, microwave, oven, toaster, etc not if you have to buy your food from overpriced convenience stores and gas stations and fresh food from grocery stores that 70% of the price is for the packaging it comes with!!

Soup kitchens closing because they don't want to risk contamination. Who's feeding those without a hot meal? Do they realize malnourishment is the quickest way to get sick with any pathogen!?

Shelters closed because of overpopulation. Domestic violence homes turning battered women and children away because there's too scarce of resources and funding. Yet people care about big corporations going bankrupt? Please tell me what the difference is between a goddamn human fucking life and a couple lawsuits because you didn't know how to prepare for an ever-changing economy.

Thank the universe i am sheltered with minimal resources to take care of myself and I have a steady job due to an enormous company's "chance on a down-in-the-dumps contractor." This job I have held steadily for a year despite chronic health issues has been the best thing to happen to me by far in a long time. I am definitely not by any means complaining about my job or that I even have life necessities right now. Several million don't have that.

⭐ The problem with this state is there are no resources for a person who's struggling to make an honest living. I lost my apartment two years ago because I had to take a medical leave of absence at my job then, got behind on rent and was evicted without a chance to catch up. The power was cut three nights before I had to leave, and I owe a deposit on the electric company to get any type of service back in my name. The realty company who owns the apartment complex will not allow a payment plan without a fraction of the principle paid down, so therefore I cannot apply for private or realty housing and I have been on the waiting list for federal housing assistance for 3 years without a single word. I also had my bank card stolen with my ID when I was trying to catch a bus to work a few weeks after that so whoever it was made small purchases that my bank applied interest and late charges to so that is also standing in debt. Thank universe my current employer allows direct deposit to a savings account at a bad credit institution or I'd be royally fucked.

⭐ Before I made the hard decision to doll out almost a G a month just for a room, I tried sleeping in my pickup. I even took the effort to pallet it for a platform bed & make benches to live in free campgrounds, cemeteries, truck stops, boonie dead ends, and behind abandoned buildings. I had a 12V converter that I connected to a rice cooker and made a tin can stove to grill small portions of meat on a single-egg mini skillet. I kept getting chased off by rangers, cops, annoying people trying to do crack and not get their lives better, and eventually violently detained for "suspicious activity" - I was thrown on the ground, put in handcuffs, patted down by a male officer with no female present, searched my vehicle without consent & written a citation: this was 2 am, I had a campsite reservation, I was clearly sleeping & my vehicle was current. The officers did not give me their name or numbers so I could not make a report.

⭐ I have chronic health issues - hip dysplasia & hyper mobility (not severe enough to be EDS), anemia, rexhia (NOT PRO ANYTHING), pre diabetes, H.S, BPD, PTSD, endometriosis & chronic migraines. I have filed time and time and time again for medical assistance but have always been denied. Every time I try to see a doctor, they claim I have this-or-that infection caused by this-or-that disorder, sent to an overpriced pharmacy with illness-irritating antibiotics that just keep me in an unending cycle of flares and barely-managable pain. Do not let anyone privileged or wealthy confuse you - you are not treated the same if you don't have coverage. Sorry to say but it is indeed a fact.

⭐ With this job I work 40-50 hours a week, eat as healthy as I can on a dime sized budget, and cover all my expenses. Yet I cannot move forward in this state on to better things. I want so badly to have a family, to go to college, etc but I cannot do this with living month to month someplace that isn't even my own.

⭐ The emotional affect this has had on me is tremendous. I am embarrassed of my situation, and never allow any guests in fear they'd judge me. I never take any photographs, which is heartbreaking because it has been one of my long-time hobbies. I am extremely guarded and I lie about small details to protect myself. I have severe trust issues and I always hold a dagger at my waist because I have to assume any minute you'll pull out a Glock.

⭐ Naturally I am an empath and this has brought me more compassion and understanding than I ever thought possible. The police brutality against people of color and racism in socio-economic programs truly breaks my heart because as a white female and all the struggles and discrimination I've endured, I can only begin to understand it's 1000x harder for people of color especially. I stand behind your protests 100%. I beseech you, go fight for what you deserve! I will be begging higher powers for your protection indefinitely!

⭐ I have gained a new perspective on non-profit organizations and volunteer work. Some are truly amazing and their stories move people to tears; others are truly wicked stealing from the poor, embezzling cash flow for their own vanities. Please please please research the charity you are interested in thoroughly before getting involved. Volunteer work will always be appreciated- and will teach you many invaluable lessons. If you help these organizations and need help yourself: respect yourself, hold yourself high, and ask for the assistance. They will generally be more inclined to help. If you are turned away, try not to be bitter. Administrators only do as they see fit.

⭐ That's another thing - bitterness. This has been the most vile and roughest character default I've ever had to battle with myself. When you've been through the shit and you can't see the sewer (sts) it's so easy to stay in the dumps. It's so easy to feel entitled because you've clawed your way to the top. It's easy to feel angry with everyone because it's you vs the system. It's so fucking easy to give up completely and stop trying and just lay down and die. It's easy to step in front of a two ton bus, oncoming freight train, taking the entire package of extra strength Excedrin not because you have a migraine, but just not to feel a thing, go completely numb for one single second. It's easy to go down to the head shop and get a nickel bag of weed to chill and get a 5$ pizza and forget you have responsibilities.

IT'S SO FUCKING TOUGH MAN

⭐ Growing up strictly religious, I tend to shy away from Christianity or other "preachy religion" now. I hate having Jesus shoved down my throat at a service before a hot meal on a Tuesday night and the "speaker" automatically assuming I need to stop smoking crack and going to jail and get my life back on track and God will bless me when I'm in the 46% who has never been to county and hold a job while trying to get back on my feet.

ADDICTION IS NOT POVERTY GUYS

I still support people who go to church and speak in tongues if that satisfies them. I still support people who are strictly vegetarian and make a pilgrimage to the mecca if that satisfies them. I still support people who have 7 two week long feasts a year for something that happened 4000 years ago if that satisfies them. I still support people who believe in baptisms for the dead and not drinking coffee if that satisfies them. I still support people who call Jesus the Nazarene and believe that Lucifer the Dark Lord will prevail if that satisfies them. I still support people who call down the power of the moon into their plant babies and give thanks to the triple goddess if that satisfies them. I support religion or practices of all kinds.

I believe I was meant to be tolerant and be good to others. That this life will give back what you put in. That there is a higher power that governs all and it is up to you to determine just what that is to you. Not to tell people what is wrong with their lives just based on your personal story.

⭐ During this pandemic, I have done a lot of soul searching. Journaling, listening to podcasts, listening to seminars on values I'd never know existed, trying to discover who I am. This journey has included empathy training, reiki, yoga, somatic movement, feldenkrais methods, and astral meditation. I just have a list of these questions I'd like answered or given suggestions to:

What do you believe is the meaning of life? Is there any philosophers, speakers, teachers, theologians, writers, musicians etc that can help answer this?

What is your definition of religion in it's rawest form?

Do you know of any resources I may not have thought of?

Is there any criticism you can give good or bad?

Am I focused on one thing and neglecting another?

Do you have any further opinions on the topics listed above?

Do you have a suggestion of the next right step?

Do you have ideas on how I can help with the aforementioned problems?

How do I stop feeling like I'm wasting my time?

How do I find contentment in everything should I die tomorrow?

What is your opinion of the afterlife?

How do you find happiness in the midst of bullshit?

What did a friend/relative/mentor tell you when you were going through an existential crisis?

Have you felt trapped too? Due to the covid or otherwise?

Any curse words, songs, books, movies, etc of use?

🌸🌸I sincerely appreciate any feedback 🌸🌸

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degenerate-perturbation · 4 years

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Chapters: 18/28 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

When the Maiden’s Teeth launched, Yvanne dreaded the onset of seasickness, before remembering that she was here explicitly as a mage didn’t have to hide her magic anymore. At first she felt shy using magic—it had been so long, and a part of her was afraid she’d forgotten—but when the ship began to pitch and roll properly, she rapidly got over it. The spell for suppressing nausea wasn’t exactly simple, but cast well consumed little enough energy that she could afford to keep herself cloaked in its soothing aura indefinitely.

She had spent her last voyage huddled miserably in the hold. Now she stood on the deck, nominally a part of the crew, feeling the spray of the sea

The captain was a grey-bearded Nevarran man. He was, charitably, not particularly talkative.

“When do we arrive?”

“Soon.”

“What should I do if there’s already a strong wind?”

“Eh.”

Yvanne soon gave up.

The strangest thing was how the crew treated her. They were unfailingly polite—but it was a politeness born of fear. After all, all they knew about her was that she was an apostate, a criminal. That she technically wasn’t didn’t seem prudent to mention. Yvanne got the impression that most of them didn’t really know what magic was and wasn’t capable of, and suspected that a few thought that she was already possessed. She tried explaining it to them a few times, and got a lot of polite, nervous nods.

Having nothing to do, she practiced wind spells, dreading the moment she’d be called upon to do her job. The might of her magic had once summoned storms and sustained armies; now she wasn’t sure if she could even manage a decent gale.

But as it happened along the journey the winds were fair, and Yvanne’s services weren’t needed. After several days of bored staring at the horizon, they made port.

Dairsmuid...wasn’t what she’d anticipated. It seemed so plain. She had been expecting—well, more than this. This port looked not too different from any large Ferelden town.

She made to disembark, eager to release her anti-nausea spell, when the captain stopped her. “Be back in two hours.”

“Back?” she said quizzically. “But I’m getting off. Isn’t this Dairsmuid?”

He looked at her like she was stupid. “No,” he said, “This is Jader.”

“Jader? But that’s in Orlais!”

“I congratulate you on your grasp of basic geography.” He went back to examining the manifest.

“But I thought this ship was bound for Rivain.”

“Yes, yes,” the captain said irritably. “Eventually Rivain. But first, Orlais”

“And when exactly will we reach Dairsmuid?” she demanded, but the captain pretended like he hadn’t heard her.

She didn’t go ashore. She spent her two spare hours steaming in her hammock belowdecks, furious at the captain for his rudeness, Anders for putting her on this ship, and the Maker for making her be born in the first place. She would come to regret this decision when the Maiden’s Teeth launched again, and her opportunity to set her feet on dry ground for a time disappeared.

The few days she had spent with nothing to do had been tolerable. The next few, less so. Yvanne could tell by the sun that they were headed west, not east. They were getting further from Dairsmuid. This would be a long voyage.

The prospect of nothing to do for weeks on end but be alone with her thoughts was unspeakable. So she cut the skirt of the dress she’d bought back in Highever in half, clumsily stitched the tattered remnants into half-decent trousers with a borrowed whalebone needle, and resolved to become a sailor.

She learned to tie knots, scale the rigging, read the stars. What she liked best were the songs. The sailors sang work songs as they heaved and pulled, and these she learned swiftest of all; their simple call-and-response structure made that easy.

The crew didn’t seem exactly thrilled by her participatory spirit, though she could usually find someone to show her how to do something that needed to be done. With her magically augmented strength, she made for a fine strong pair of hands, and the Maiden could always use those.

The only member of the Maiden’s crew that didn’t keep some level of distance from Yvanne was a Qunari woman covered in intricate tattoos. She was as much an outsider as Yvanne, and no wonder; as the only Qunari aboard, she stood out. Easily eight feet tall, she had biceps as thick as Yvanne’s waist, and a long white braid that wrapped around the sawn-off remnants of her horns. It was she who taught Yvanne many of the skills she needed to be a real member of the crew.

“So you’re Qunari?” Yvanne finally asked her, by way of casual conversation.

Immediately the woman’s massive hand darted out to cuff her across the ear. Yvanne saw stars. “What was that for!” she demanded.

“I am not Qunari. I am Tal Vashoth.”

“Alright,” said Yvanne, who didn’t know the difference and had a hunch that asking would warrant another cuff across the ear. “What’s your name, then?”

“I am called Cheddar.”

“Cheddar?”

“Under the Qun I was told I was Arvaarad. Now I am no longer under the Qun, and I choose what I am called.”

“So you chose to be called Cheddar?”

“Yes,” she said proudly. “And what are you called?”

She hesitated, but what was the point? “I’m Yvanne.”

Cheddar burst out laughing.

“What?” Yvanne demanded. “What’s so funny?”

She grinned. “Someday when we are better friends I will tell you what that word means in my language.”

Yvanne harrumphed. But she took that to mean that they were at least some kind of friends.

From Jader they made port in Cumberland. The College of Magi met here, Yvanne was vaguely aware. The Maiden wasn’t staying in port for long enough for Yvanne to see much of it, though the soaring pillars and golden domes of Cumberland tempted severely. Surely this was a city large enough to fit several Denerims within it. She found herself feeling terribly provincial, and sorry that she wouldn’t be staying.

After Cumberland the Maiden again made west. Yvanne nearly tore her hair out when she realized where the vessel was headed. She was further now from Dairsmuid than ever. She confronted the captain over this, nearly kicking down the door—with slightly more force than she could naturally produce.

“Yes, yes,” he told her, unphased by the crackling in the air. “First Jader, then Cumberland, then Val Royeaux. Then Dairsmuid.”

“Are there any other stops that I should know about?”

“Get back to work,” the captain said disinterestedly.

Her anger drained quickly, though, when they made port in Val Royeaux. It shamed her proud Ferelden heart, but it was the most beautiful city she had ever seen. They had a few days of shore leave, and received some of their pay besides. This astonished her; she hadn’t realized that she was getting paid.

She wandered the markets and cafes with Cheddar, gawking at the ridiculously outfitted and masked Orlesians.

“I’ve been a sailor for many years,” said Cheddar, “But Val Royeaux still impresses me. Bit of a backwater compared to Qunandar, sure, but I like how colorful it is.”

“What’s Qunandar like?”

“Big. Efficient. Steel and smoke and wondrous works.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “But I don’t miss it.”

They passed a stand of colorful pastries that looked like tiny clouds. Cheddar’s face lit up. “Here, little bird, you have to try these,” she said eagerly. “I’ve only ever seen them sold in this particular quarter of Val Royeaux.”

Yvanne bought one. It tasted exactly like how she always imagined clouds tasted, and disappeared almost at once. The sugar was so intense it made her teeth hurt. “Since when am I ‘little bird’?” she asked, wondering whether it would be worth her meager pay to buy another sugar-cloud.

Cheddar grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I can’t bear to call you—what you’re named. It’s just so silly.”

“This coming from someone named Cheddar?” Yvanne said indignantly.

“At least I chose my silly name.”

They both laughed.

For the first time in years—for the first time since she’d met her—Yvanne hardly thought about Loriel at all.

—

The next leg of the journey was the longest yet. Yvanne’s hands grew thick and calloused. Salt settled in her hair, and the sun freckled her skin. As time went on, she had to rely on arcane warrior magic less and less to pull her weight. For the first time in her life, she actually had something identifiable as muscles.

One morning she forgot to cast the anti-nausea spell, and didn’t realize it til late in the afternoon, when despite its absence, she felt perfectly fine. The sea was within her now. She wondered how much sooner this might have happened if she’d forgone the spell entirely.

The other sailors never quite felt fully at ease with her, but that was changing, especially as she used magic less and less. Sailors had to trust each other in order to work together. But what she thought really did it was the songs. It was hard to sing with a person, striving for the same goal, hauling the same load, and not get to like them at least a little. The longer Yvanne spent as a sailor the more the crew seemed to forget that she was also a mage.

“You have to tell me,” she asked Cheddar one night. “Why Cheddar?”

The Vashoth woman wrapped her braid contemplatively around one massive finger. “I will tell you,” she said. “When I decided I would no longer be Qunari, it was not an easy journey. First I had to escape the Qun in mind and soul. That part was very hard. Then I had to figure out what I was to do with my Saarebaset—”

“Saarebaset?”

“Things like you. Eh, I forget the word—maj? Mage?”

A drop of cold slid down Yvanne’s back. “Things?”

“In your language Saarebas means ‘dangerous thing,’” Cheddar said casually. “And yes, I knew they were dangerous. I knew if I ceased to be Arvaarad, demons could take them, and many would suffer. But they made me so sad. I didn’t want to hold their leash anymore.”

“You were like a Templar.”

“No,” Cheddar said irritably. “I was Arvaarad. Now I am Cheddar. Get it straight, eh?”

“Alright, alright. So why Cheddar?”

“Oh, yes. I told my Saarebaset that I was freeing them. They begged me not to. They would be lost without me. That was the worst part. It almost made me reconsider! But I was no longer Qunari. I could not protect them, even if I wanted to.”

“What happened to them?”

“Oh, they killed themselves, I think,” Cheddar said vaguely. “That is what they are supposed to do. I doubt they had the imagination to do anything else.”

“And you let them?!” Yvanne stood up, unconsciously pulling in Fade energy in preparation for—she didn’t know what.

“I could hardly have stopped them.”

“You could have freed them, too!”

“I told you—they did not want to be free.”

“You didn’t try!”

“They were Qunari, body, mind, and soul,” said Cheddar, unperturbed. “I had no say over their souls. That was their business and theirs alone.”

“Then—you could have stayed for them.”

“And remained a prisoner myself?” She shook her head. “Now that I was not willing to do.”

Yvanne had no response to that.

“That’s life for you.” Cheddar shrugged. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

With effort, Yvanne let go of the Fade energy she hadn’t realized she’d been holding on to. “Yes.”

“Once I had freed my mind and my soul, I had only to free my body. Now that part was easy. I just walked away.”

“You could do that?”

“Sure. It was easy. I was stationed in Kont-arr, on the north coast of Rivain. Hardly the Qunari heartland.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” said Cheddar, “I was walking down the road, completely alone for the first time in my life. The first night, I slept under an white-barked tree, ate what I could find, drank from puddles of rainwater, and I did not see another soul. At some point along the way I realized I was no longer Arvaarad, but did not yet know who I would be. I could not stand to be Arvaarad, but neither could I stand to be nobody. Within that very hour I saw a man headed up the road, his cart pulled by a brawny goat. I did not speak his language very well, but I asked him the name of his goat. He answered that it was ‘Cheddar,’ and that was as fine a name to me as any, so I decided that it would be my name, too.”

“You named yourself after a goat?”

“Yes!”

“That doesn’t strike you as demeaning? What with, you know—” Yvanne gestured vaguely at the remnants of her horns.

“No more demeaning than accepting someone else’s naming of you like a dumb animal is named,” she said disdainfully.

“Fair, I guess.” Perhaps some day she would leave Yvanne behind for good. “I didn’t realize you were from Rivain. What’s it like?”

Cheddar thought on this. “Bit of a backwater,” she said eventually. “Swamps are full of crazy women summoning demons. But it was home, for a time. Maybe you’ll like it.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

They lay in their hammocks for a time—Yvanne curled inward, Cheddar nearly spilling out from hers, legs dragging on the deck floor. The Maiden creaked in her comfortable way. Somewhere beyond the haven of the ship that had become (however briefly) home, roared the sea.

Eventually, Yvanne said: “So will you tell me what my name means in your language now?”

Cheddar grinned. “No. It is much funnier this way.”

—

“Hey, Cheddar,” Yvanne said as Ostwick—yet another stop that Yvanne was not, in so many words, informed of—disappeared behind them. “You were kind of a Templar—”

“Arvaarad,” Cheddar corrected. “Not much like your toothless Templars.”

Toothless. Not the word Yvanne would have used. “Right,” she said, disheartened. “I’m just surprised. Of everyone on this ship you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to think I’m dangerous—”

Cheddar burst into laughter. “Of course you are dangerous!” she said. “At any moment demons could burst through and take your soul, and then you would kill us all in your mad rage.”

“That—that wouldn’t happen!” Yvanne said, indignant. “I trained to guard against that. I was the youngest Harrowed mage in a generation.”

Cheddar waved away her words with a wiggle of her fingers. “Trained,” she said dismissively. “That is just there to make you feel safe! You cannot train to guard against a demon. It will take you whether you will it or no, if it decides it wants you.”

“If you think I’m so dangerous, then why befriend me?” Yvanne demanded. “Why agree to work alongside me at all?”

Cheddar gave her a quizzical look.

“The sea is dangerous,” she explained, as though Yvanne was a slow child. “But still we sail upon it.”

“But—”

Cheddar reached out to pat her on the back. “Do not worry. If demons eat your heart,I won’t blame you. I’ll know you couldn’t have done anything about it.”

Yvanne was so puzzled by this reaction that she only managed to produce a consternated, “Thanks, I think?”

“Enough about that,” said Cheddar. “Ostwick is little to write home about, but next we go to Antiva City. Now that is a marvel! Rialto Bay at this time of year is a flurry of colors from all the ships that come to trade there. You can find anything in Antiva City!”

Yvanne found herself looking forward to it, and not thinking too much about what would come after.

—

But as it happened, Yvanne never reached Antiva City, because off the coast of Llomeryn, they were attacked by pirates.

The rival ship began to approach late in the day. Yvanne didn’t notice it at first. When the captain pulled her away from swabbing the deck to summon a wind, she didn’t think it too strange, although usually she was only ordered to use magic if the winds were really still. A merry gale already the sails that morning, albeit at an angle, when Yvanne took up her position

Her wind magic was woefully inefficient, even she could tell. Only a fraction of the magical energy she was expending was going into the gale itself; the rest sparked off as waste heat, crackling sound, and little lightning strikes that left her hair standing on end. Work like this at Kinloch would have seen her whipped.

“Can’t I stop yet?” she complained to the captain. “The wind’s plenty strong as it is.”

“No.”

“But—”

“You’ve your orders.”

She grumbled, but maintained the wind. Only then did she notice the other ship on the horizon.

“Are we close to a port?” she asked a fellow crewmember, a dwarven woman named Molly who was adjusting the aft sail in earshot. “I thought we weren’t due in Antiva City for another few days.”

Molly only shook her head and grunted in response. By afternoon the captain had not changed his orders, and she was starting to feel faint. Cheddar brought her a midday meal.

“Is it normal for a ship to pursue another for so long?” she asked Cheddar, once she’d finished scarfing the unexciting sailor’s fare.

Cheddar looked to aft, and the other ship there. It was still there—and closer now than ever.

“No,” she said. “Probably pirates. Captain hasn’t said anything to prevent panic, but everyone knows, I think, or at least suspects.”

“Pirates?” Yvanne said anxiously.

“Oh, sure. Plenty of their ilk around here.”

Yvanne watched the ever-less-distant blur for a time. Now she understood the captain’s orders, but would it have killed him to tell her? “How are they still behind us? I’ve been summoning wind all day!”

“They’ll have their own windmage,” Cheddar explained. “And they’ll be in a smaller ship, not so loaded with cargo. They will not catch us at once, but if they are very determined, they will catch us.”

“And then what happens?”

“We fight them, of course!” Cheddar laughed. “These canons are not just for show.”

“And if we lose…?”

Cheddar rubbed her chin. “Well, we might be killed. Or compelled to join their crew, or marooned on an island, or enslaved.”

“Killed? Enslaved?”

“Well, that’s life for you.” Cheddar shrugged. “But I’ve never been killed or enslaved by pirates before, so I don’t see why I should start now.”

Yvanne watched the ship in the distance. It didn’t appear to draw any closer, but that made it worse—the thought that they would be caught inevitably, however long it took if they did not make Antiva City first.

And it was inevitable. At her peak Yvanne had commanded oceans of mana—and even then she’d consumed lyrium by the gallon to sustain her casting habits. Since then, she had abandoned magic, let it atrophy and rot away like a vestigial limb, and while she had forgotten nothing, she was not as strong as she had been. She could already tell that she wouldn’t be able to sustain a wind this strong for much longer; already she was feeling the telltale signs of mana exhaustion.

“Get back to work, windmage!” the captain barked in her ear startling her out of her reverie.

“If I do that, I’ll be useless by sundown,” she protested. “Unless you happen to have a stash of lyrium potions somewhere aboard that you’ve failed to inform me of?”

He scowled at her.

“The problem is you have me summoning wind,” she complained. “I can do so much more than that. If you’d let me—”

“Do your job,” said the captain. She sighed and began again to cast.

And still the pirates approached.

Well, we might be killed...or enslaved. Was that true? She had no way of knowing, but no real reason to doubt. But the Maiden’s cannons were strong, weren’t they?

Now the pirate ship was close enough that even a dull eye could spot the colors they flew.

The crew was beginning to murmur nervously. Some threw her dirty looks, no doubt holding her responsible for being bad at her job.

The next time Cheddar came to check on her, as the sun was setting, even she looked a little unnerved. “What’s going on?” Yvanne panted. She was scraping the very bottom of her well of mana.

“Things don’t look good,” said Cheddar. “Raiders out of Llomeryn can be handled civilly, but these aren’t Raiders. Those are Silesian pirates, sailing out of Tevinter. They don’t generally come this far.”

Yvanne did not like how nervous she sounded. “What does that mean?”

“It means that we had better sink their ship before they engage. Or else.”

“Or else…?”

Cheddar shook her head. “Best not speak of it. If you are lucky you will not live to see it.”

“And what are the odds of us sinking their ship?”

Cheddar made a noncommittal sound and wiggled her hand back and forth.

Yvanne snapped. She ended the wind spell, damn what the captain said. She would have to take this into her own hands. The pirate vessel was obviously too far for ordinary combat magic. She could shoot all the lightning she wanted at them; it would still fall short, though it would probably fry plenty of the fish in the sea in the bargain. And any closer, the pirates’ own mage—and they would well have more than one, if they were out of Tevinter—would be more than a match for her. Her mind tumbled and spun and produced an idea.

“Cheddar,” she said, steady, “would a smaller ship like theirs withstand stormy weather as well as ours?”

“No, of course not,” she answered, puzzled. “It would be much more likely to sink. Piracy’s dangerous business, after all.”

Yvanne’s teeth flash in the growing dark. “Great,” she said. “I’m going to try something.”

Cheddar didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

“I think we have no other choice,” she said grimly “You may want to hang on. And tell everyone else to hang on, too.”

For a moment she thought the Vashoth woman was going to stop her, that her essential Arvaarad nature would get the better of her. But she only shrugged, said “Alright, little bird, good luck,” and asked no more.

Yvanne wasted no time, even as other crewmembers shouted at her for abandoning her post. Betrayer, they called her, faithless abandoner, but she paid no heed. She climbed the rigging with practiced if not expert ease, until the deck below was dizzyingly far away.

Vertigo she was used to. Being in the crow’s nest itself was another thing. Barrel duty—for the nest was little more than a barrel fastened to the main-mast—was often doled out as punishment, and no wonder; every motion of the ship was multiplied many times over, with every motion threatening to toss the barrelman into the sea. Yvanne regretted having no anti-nausea spell, but now there was no time for it.

What she needed was a storm. A big one.

She had always been good with storms. Her earliest use of magic had been lightning, and many had told her that even her healing had felt like a shock back to life. It was all second nature to her, the thunder and the lightning and the wind and rain—not so much the constituent parts as the tempest as whole. Of course she was no good at tempered wind spells; her magic tended to spread out and spark and roil. A simple gale did not become her.

But a deadly storm at sea to sink a rival ship? This she could do.

She reached inside herself, drawing from the endless well of power that she knew the Fade to be, and found—a puddle. A few drops. It was like forcing the ocean through a drinking straw.

Cursing her shortsightedness in not abandoning her post earlier, she wished for lyrium above all things. She had not had a drop of it in so long. But she had no lyrium. She had nothing. She was spent, utterly empty.

...no, not utterly empty. There was power yet inside her. Power in her blood.

Sickening memories overwhelmed her at the thought, worse even than the swaying of the ship. She reached again for the Fade, desperate for any other way.

Please, she called out in panicked anguish. Please! But there was nothing.

She would have to do it.

At first she worried that she would not remember how to do it—but blood magic was not the sort of thing one could forget. She had no dagger; only her own ragged fingernail. She had to make several attempts, and she had to press hard. At first she worried that she simply wouldn’t be able to break the skin, but finally her scrabbling succeeded. The wound bled, and it hurt.

Like a dam breaking, new power flowed through her. It came from a reservoir that was all her own. And from this reservoir, still clinging to the mast, she began to chant.

Nobody came up to stop her. She silently thanked her friend for it.

The storm that materialized off the coast of Llomeryn came on fast, even for a storm at sea. Mere minutes ago the sky had been clear, and now clouds gathered there like battalions of an army. As her lips formed the words—words that were not necessary, no more than the precise shapes of her fingers, although they helped—the storm grew. The waves rose taller, rougher.

The clouds she had gathered rumbled darkly. Rain began to fall, first in drops, then sheets. They fell so cold and hard that it hurt her skin, and this pain, too, she channeled. Life was pain—where had she heard that? Life was pain, sure enough, and life was power.

She could feel the storm’s power. It dwelled in the clouds, in the growing waves, the rising winds. It filled her up even as her blood flowed. For one wild moment, she felt alive again.

Lightning streaked out towards the Maiden’s mast, sure to strike—and at the last moment, she turned it away. Instead it hit the pirate’s vessel. In the distance—though it was increasingly hard to see—she saw a brief fire ignite before being put out.

The waves reared up taller than the mast itself; the Maiden surged up, crested, fell. She could no longer see the other ship, and anyway, now all her focus was concentrated on keeping the Maiden intact. She had more than an inkling that the only thing that now protected it was some fey power she had summoned from within herself—but which was not quite of herself. But the storm was hers, and the ship was hers, as Vigil’s Keep had once been hers; this, she would protect.

Time froze, or compressed, or both. She could not have said how long she clung to the crow’s nest, crackling with blood and spirit, her awareness more in the wind and water than her body.

The storm raged.

Eventually, it ceased.

The Maiden had survived.

She had no idea how she got down from the crow’s nest. Her world spun and sparked, the residual rain flattening her clothes to her skin and making movement all the more difficult. Rough warm hands studied her; the grey blur resolved itself into her astonished friend.

“Wow!” she told Cheddar, breathless and giddy. “I had no idea I had that in me!”

After that she knew no more.

—

Yvanne awoke in chains and darkness, sodden and frozen.

She tried to scream, and realized she was gagged. I failed, she thought despondently. The pirates had captured them after all.

No! She would not allow it! She would die first. She would ensure she died first—

—but no. She had seen the encroaching ship break and sink. Hadn’t she? It had been so dark. Perhaps she had felt rather than seen them go down.

She risked a wisplight, and as its greenish glow illuminated her surroundings, her heart sank. This was the hold of the Maiden. Her own crewmates had put her in chains.

How long she sat there shivering in the dark, she couldn’t say. She’d never been in solitary at Kinloch. Loriel had always managed to protect her. She had no worked out method of marking the time, save by her growing hunger and thirst; and even then this told her little, save that she was very hungry, and very thirsty.

And worse, she was tired; tired in a way she’d never been before. Something vital had been wrung out of her. Even her connection to the Fade felt tenuous, a fog obscuring her sense of it. The blood magic, she realized dully. It had drained her so completely that, though enough time had passed by now that she should have full access to the Fade again, she had almost no mana at all. This was what Loriel had been doing to herself? It was completely unsustainable. No wonder the Tevinter magisters sacrificed their slaves.

The shackles chafed her wrists, and her shoulders ached miserably from the awkward position they’d been forced into, but the gag was the worst of it. It had been done inexpertly and pressed at the corners of her mouth, making it impossible not to drool.

But finally they came for her.

Two men, who she had trusted with her life less than a day ago, hauled her abovedecks, where relentless daylight nearly blinded her. It must have been high noon already. The Maiden had survived, yes, but barely. The mainsail was in shreds. The jibe was gone altogether. The mast leaned at a crooked angle.

But all the crew were alive. Alive, and staring at her, not a shred of pity in their eyes.

The men forced her to her knees.

She found Cheddar in the crowd, towering head and shoulders above the rest. Yvanne stared at her, pleading, but Cheddar only gave a little shrug.

Someone ripped away her gag. The captain approached her, keeping a careful distance. He looked only, and said nothing.

Yvanne fought the bizarre urge to apologize. She kept her chin up and looked him in the eye.

“Windmage, you are being tried for treason,” the captain said finally.

“Treason?” she burst out. “I saved all our lives!”

“You have lead this ship into needless danger. You have blown us hopelessly off course. You have all but destroyed this ship. All this is tantamount to treason.”

“I’m no citizen of any country,” she protested. “How can I be a traitor?”

“You are part of this ship!” roared the captain, “and now you will answer to it!”

She glared. “I did only what was necessary to preserve the life of this crew. At great personal cost. I’m no traitor.”

“She’s possessed, I say!” shouted a crewman. His name was Derrick. He had ruddy red cheeks and a fondness for dirty jokes. He’d shown her how to tie a bowline knot. “Demons dwell within her! Traitor or not, we must be rid of her before she dooms us all!”

Stone-faced, the captain turned to Cheddar. “You, Arvaarad. You know about demons. Is she possessed?”

“Cheddar,” Cheddar corrected absently. She scrutinized Yvanne with her bright blue eyes, and for a moment Yvanne was so bold as to hope. Then Cheddar shook her head. “Can’t say for sure. Demons are tricksy; it’s their nature. She might be possessed, and the demon yet hiding.”

“And do you suppose,” said the captain, “that an unpossessed mage would have been capable of what we saw?”

Cheddar shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Best assume every mage is possessed, if you’re not sure. Saves a lot of trouble in the long run.”

Murmurs of assent spread through the crowd.

“Please,” Yvanne said. “At least consider self interest! You’ve blown off course. With the damage to the ship it may take weeks to find your way back. Once my mana regenerates I could shorten that time to mere days.”

“That would have been so,” said the captain, “if you could be trusted.”

“Alright, then,” she replied coldly. “Don’t trust me. Fear me instead. You saw what I did last night. You all know what I’m capable of. Do you suppose, if you turn on me, that you’ll be spared my wrath? Release me now and I may yet guide this ship to safe harbor. Keep me bound and you may be sure that none of you will ever see land again.”

Scraping at the corners of her soul for even a drop of mana, she managed to briefly make her eyes glow. Just to make a point. Just so that they would remember what she was.

It almost worked. Several members of the crew drew back or gasped.

Then the bosun—an Orlesian elf called Annette—called out, “She’s bluffing. She has no mana left. She said so herself! Arva—Cheddar, that’s true, isn’t it? They need time to regenerate, do they not?”

“That’s true,” Cheddar said reluctantly, not looking at Yvanne.

“If she had any power she would have freed herself already,” the Orlesian snarled. “If she really had the power to slay us all and seize the ship, she would have done so. I suggest we do not wait to see whether she is capable of this. Execute her now for treason while we still can!”

“Bad luck to slay a mage at sea,” rumbled another crewman, a burly Marcher with a short blond beard. “The winds would turn on us. We would be lost for certain.”

This got murmurs as well. Thank the Maker, thought Yvanne, rejoicing, for all these stupid bloody sailor’s superstitions.

“That’s true,” said the captain, measured. “Bad luck to slay a mage at sea. But neither can we risk her presence.”

At length he considered.

Finally, the captain spoke: “Throw her overboard. The sea will decide her fate.”

Yvanne at least had the satisfaction of not begging as they hauled her to the edge. Even now at her most powerless the crew was loath to touch her; they dragged her by the chains.

She had one chance to look back at the Maiden, at these people she had raised her voice with, these people she had trusted, at Cheddar who she had thought her friend. The Vashoth met her eyes. There was no trace of guilt in them. Regret, perhaps, but not guilt.

All of a sudden the crowd receded. She stood bound and alone at the precipice.

“You will jump,” ordered the captain.

“You can’t be serious,” Yvanne said dully.

“We prefer not to force you. We are good men. And I am sympathetic,” the captain said reasonably. “I understand it was not your fault. But you cannot remain aboard this ship. If we must use force, we will.”

Cheddar gave her an encouraging smile and a shrug, as though to say, Well, that’s life for you!

Yvanne gazed at the choppy waves. How many miles would her body sink? How long would it take her to drown? Would it hurt? Would it be so bad?

She tried to think of some parting words, but found that she had nothing to say. Nothing at all.

Whether she jumped or slipped or was pushed in the end did not matter. She managed a single deep breath against all odds, and then she sank, dragged down by the weight of her chains. She struggled; it was a difficult instinct to suppress. Her hair and clothing billowed out, medusa-like. How quickly the light went away, how rapidly the pressure built. Only a moment ago she had bathed in sunlight and in air, and now her world was crushing darkness, crushing cold.

Now this was truly the end of the line. The Fade would not save her. Her blood would not save her; it would hasten her death if anything. She could not escape the chains, and even if she did, what then? She could not swim forever. The sea would get her in the end.

Oh, and wasn’t it better this way? Wasn’t it neater? What in her life had been worth living, since she had left Vigil’s Keep? What a pointless farce it all had been. A drowning woman’s final gasping struggle, before succumbing to the totality of her irrelevance. How fitting, how neat.

Her lungs burned. Seawater poured into her throat. Oh Maker, drowning hurt. She had not thought it would hurt so much.

Then all of a sudden the pain receded. Her rigid limbs relaxed. It no longer seemed so bad to drown.

The blackness in front of her eyes faded to a pale and calming grey. It would be easy. It would be good.

Then somewhere something deep inside called out with the animal fury of a thousand generations:

want

LIVE!

The pale grey of a peaceful death bloomed into a violent green.

—

Eventually she washed up on a beach.

She had no memory of how she came to be there; not of escaping the chains (though she must have, for they were gone), nor of floating on the currents, nor of being deposited on the shore. It did not seem like she had been unconscious; she could not say that she had ‘woken up.’ At best it felt like she had been a passenger inside herself, and was only now fully in control again. When she searched for the memories, they were not there.

Best not to think about it, she told herself as she lay in the sand, the tide lapping at her feet.

For hours she lay there, too tired to move. She drifted in and out of consciousness, half in dream and half in fantasy, not quite in either realm. Every time she managed to open her eyes, the sun had fallen further into the horizon.

Around dusk she finally sat up and examined her surroundings. The beach was deserted, littered with stones and shells and little creatures. The strangest trees she had ever seen grew further up the beach, swaying gently in the late-afternoon breeze.

Abruptly she was struck by a memory at Kinloch Hold. Back before Anders had tried to escape across the lake and gotten them all banned from outside time, they’d been permitted on the lakeshore. Yvanne had liked to swim, and Loriel had liked to sit on the rough grey sand and read, but sometimes she could be persuaded to come play. They’d waded in the shallows and looked for interesting rocks and shells and built lopsided structures in the sand. Then at night they would giggle and whisper about the island they would rule someday, as soon as they escaped. When had they stopped fantasizing about their secret island? Presumably the day they realized that they would never escape.

Despite everything, this place was beautiful. Soft white sand. A soft breeze of gentle air. The smell of salt and fading sunlight, the rustling of the trees. She watched as the sun sank into the sea and set the sky aflame, a panoply of color just for her. As it set, the stars came out, a sparkling veil with no moon to dim their shine.

She wondered if Loriel would have liked it here.

Then she bent over in shattered grief, keening, and for the first time, felt no anger, none at all.

#amell #surana #femslash #dragon age #please read my wizard lesbian fanfiction

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lottes-ocs · 5 years

Text

one chapter (first chapter maybe? def towards the beginning though) of my story. i turned it in for a workshop in class (capped at 12 pages double spaced). a note from my workshop document:

“Since this is going to be a longer work, I will likely expand upon Adam’s personal and inner life towards the beginning, so that the breakdown and the subsequent conversation with Ezra don’t feel as sudden. I will definitely add more documents like the emails, maybe therapist’s notes or text messages, and I might play around with POV in some later chapters, however, my plan is for Adam to be the primary narrator throughout.”

also lmk if i get anything egregiously wrong. i do have ptsd myself, but i also consulted 2 of my schizophrenic friends to make sure i didn’t include any details that would conflict with that and also to get details about antipsychotics correct

tw for suicide mentions, mental illness, unreality, some graphic imagery.

[January 21st, 2019 // 9:00 AM] Since I got discharged from the hospital last month, I’ve been grateful to live alone. Granted, it makes the paranoia worse, but I’m the only one who needs to know how often I’ve tried to talk to shadows or woken up yelling at the void. And I’m the only one who needs to know that I, a 30-year-old man, have been sleeping with a nightlight. But look, when my room is completely dark, mirages of my father and Dr. Wronski appear in the corner with their faces peeled off like in an autopsy and they won’t stop apologizing. I tell them I forgive them and they double down, I offer them solace and they weep with guilt, I articulate my own guilt and they articulate what it feels like to die. Only the nightlight makes them go away. Does that all sound stupid? Sure it does, but it feels a lot less stupid when I just need some sleep after another day trying to balance crushing grief with debilitating mental illness with my normal-person job, teaching abnormal psychology. Classes have been back in session since last week, so for a week, I’ve felt like a fish teaching marine biology. Or something out of Mariana’s trench. Ezra walks into my office, looking just a little too put-together for the workday (as usual), perfectly-tailored pants, perfectly ironed shirt, and perfectly styled curls, and snaps me out of my self-pitying daze by setting down a large stack of papers on his desk next to mine. “The anxiety essays,” he says with an imperious sigh. “Was I this dumb in undergrad?” “Probably not,” I say. “You were a little older than them.” “And I actually had anxiety.” He’s made a point of bringing up his own issues since I got back. I think he’s doing it so I don’t feel embarrassed or isolated, but he does love to talk about himself regardless, and besides, the support of one grad student doesn’t outweigh the nastiness of some of the higher-ups. “Do you have any new bits, Ezra?” I try to change the subject to his comedy (he does standup on the side, and I hear he’s not bad). “Eh, nothing good. You look tired.” He brushes me off with forced nonchalance. “I’ve had plenty of work to catch up on.” There’s actually no reason that he should know why I was gone, it’s my business, but he definitely does. Everyone does. I work in the psych department, so the people here know what it means when someone’s witnessed the death of their mentor and is subsequently out for a month with no further explanation than “illness.” “Have you, uh…” he clicks his tongue in thought. “Did you drink coffee this morning?” I nod with an exasperated smile. “Well, y’know, the Keurig’s in the lounge if you need it. And I’m in 522 most of today if you need help. Catching up on work, or whatever.” He drums casually on the doorframe, shoots me finger-guns, and heads down the hall. I like Ezra. He’s my TA now, but we were both in grad school working towards our doctorates together, up until last spring, when I received mine. We’re the same age, and he’s definitely smarter than me (as he is most people), he just started college late. I think it’s very sweet of him not to be a condescending dick to me (I seem to be a popular target for condescending dicks lately) especially because Ezra can muster up a dangerous amount of condescending dickishness when he feels the need. However, I process absolutely none of what he said. I was listening, I was trying to listen anyway, but my head’s not working right, not right now. I really didn’t get enough sleep. It’s a vicious cycle. The hallucinations and intrusive thoughts keep me up, the lack of sleep worsens the severity of the hallucinations and intrusive thoughts. In fact, since I arrived at work forty-five minutes ago, I have kept a mental tally: Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab myself: 3 instances. Sudden and overwhelming urge to stab Dr. Carlisle for looking at me weird: 2 instances (fuck off, it’s not like I’m going to act on it). Sudden and overwhelming urge to break down crying: 45 instances. Rats underneath my desk: Yeah, I don’t know, I called maintenance and they told me they’re fake, so I guess they’re fake, even though I can see them. Hanging woman in the back corner of my office: Don’t mind her, she’ll be gone within the hour. I’ll be sorry to see her go, though. A sense of unreality is creeping in. I try to keep Dr. Beauchamp’s voice in my head, “if there shouldn’t be any real dead people in the room, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room.” Well, there was that one time, you asshole. No, fuck it, there are almost definitely no real dead people in the room. I reach into my briefcase, desperate for the pill bottle, because I know my thoughts are going to turn into alphabet soup if I don’t do something soon. I split a Clozaril tablet in half and swallow it hastily. I am not supposed to split it in half, and I am not supposed to take more than one dose in a span of 24 hours, and I have a Ph.D. in psychology, obviously I know I’m lowering the efficacy in the long term and increasing my risk of side effects. But at this point, let me die of agranulocytosis if that’s what I’ve got coming. I’ll be out of a job and wasting eleven years of higher education if this shit doesn’t stop. Maybe that isn’t true. It feels true. Maybe it isn’t.

[January 21st, 2019 // 1:30 PM] FROM: Dr. Raymond Carlisle TO: Dr. Adam Collins SUBJECT: Checking in.

Dr. Collins, I sincerely hope all is well. I received word that you cancelled a lecture today. I need hardly tell you that you just had a month off for Winter Break, and two weeks before that for the beginning of your hospitalization. I hardly think an even further extended reprieve from your work is fair, and if you genuinely do, that’s a conversation we need to have. To be frank, Dr. Herrmann and I feel it is irresponsible to allow someone in your condition to continue to work, in the field of psychology no less. Though I do not at all doubt the competence of our colleagues at the medical center, nor your mental facilities, I feel compelled to let you know that if your psychological state continues to cause issues with your work the department might require you to take a leave of absence. While I hope your treatment plan begins to work to its full effect soon, your own safety and the integrity of this department are top priority.

Best wishes, truly,

Dr. Raymond Carlisle Head Professor, Psychology (555) 555-5555

My hands tremble with anger (and hopefully not tardive dyskinesia) as I type my reply.

FROM: Dr. Adam Collins TO: Dr. Raymond Carlisle SUBJECT: Re: Checking In

Dr. Carlisle, all is as well as it possibly can be needs to be. I don’t respect you as a colleague and I believe your total comfort in your new position, which I need hardly remind you is Dr. Wronski’s old position, is quite frankly borderline disrespectful. If it’s irresponsible for someone in “my condition” to continue to work then why do you give a shit if I cancel my lectures? Leave me the fuck alone or I’ll mention you by name in my suicide note. At the moment, it is difficult for me walk by Dr. Wronski’s old office, which I have to do to get to 525 (where that lecture is held). Could I request a change of I was having a panic attack you absolute dick how are YOU allowed to continue to work in the field of psychology when you have NO compassion My new medication has occasionally been making me sick. That issue should be resolved either way after I meet with my psychiatrist next week.

Thank you for your concern, Dr. Adam Collins Department of Psychology

[January 22nd, 2019 // 10:30 AM] I think back to our last faculty meeting, at least my last faculty meeting, in November. It does feel like a while ago, and it’s hard to fathom that Dr. Wronski was still here then. It gets easier to fathom when Dr. Carlisle comes in and takes his seat at the head of the conference table, simply because of how wrong that is. I picture her there instead, how things are supposed to be, how it should have been. I think about how someone should have helped her when they still could have. I really picture her there instead for a moment, her image replacing Carlisle’s. I blink once and she’s gone, and he’s back. As he starts talking, though, I feel a tap on my shoulder and see her behind me for a split second, ephemeral and transparent like the dots in a grid illusion, then she walks away and disappears. My whole body is left feeling cold, sharp, and jolted, as if I fell on a blade without expecting to. I’m filled with dread as I realize Carlisle’s words are simultaneously turning to nonsense and growing louder in my ears, and a high, harsh noise like microphone feedback intertwines itself with his voice. Dr. Wronski reappears in his place again, but she is lifeless this time, blood pooling from her head like it was when I found her, circling her hair in a grim halo. Her eyes are clouded with even more film, her mouth is agape, and I can feel my breathing grow rapid. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I am in the middle of a meeting; I will not fall apart like this in the middle of a meeting, not when my “mental facilities” are already being called into question. I pinch myself, internally repeating “there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here, there are no real dead people here—” “Dr. Collins, are you with us?” Dr. Hermann’s voice pierces through my mantra, entirely unfriendly, entirely accusatory, despite the faux-sweetness she is trying to summon. “Yes.” My voice sounds thin and weak, and blood rushes to my face. I shut my eyes again, since I feel tears prickling at the corners of them. Not fucking here, Jesus Christ, not fucking here, I think to myself. Then I think again about my last meeting, the old hierarchy, the time when I fell asleep at one of these in October after a particularly long night and Dr. Wronski just pulled me aside afterwards and asked if I was okay, and if there was anything she could do. And now the image of her corpse won’t leave my head. It overwhelms me. I don’t see her in the room anymore, but I might as well be back in her office when I first found her body, the first time in my life I had ever truly hoped that I was only seeing a figment of my imagination. The gun in her hand— I try to think of anything else. Anything to keep it at bay. I click my pen repeatedly (Carlisle asks me to stop), I scratch at my wrists and pull at my skin, anything to shift my focus to anything else. Nothing is working. The lump in my throat grows. My heartbeat gets faster, my chest starts to hurt, and suddenly I can smell the blood and rot that permeated the room that night, and I am helpless to stop it— Someone grabs me. I look up to see every eye in the room on me. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, and I realize I’m in the middle of this meeting, crying and having a full-on panic attack, surrounded by people who already think I’m a headcase. I am sobbing and shaking and unable to steady my breathing and to them it seems completely unprompted at best, and at worst, it seems like it’s because Hermann and Carlisle snapped at me. And even in the midst of my abject humiliation, the image of Dr. Wronski lying in a pool of her own blood is still in my head, still absolutely fucking killing me, and I couldn’t calm down if I tried. I get up and walk out. That’s what fucking happens when I’m forced to try to power through episodes. I could care less what Carlisle does to me right now, I will not stay in there and continue to look like an emotionally unstable baby in front of my colleagues. I go to finish up my breakdown in the privacy of my office, catching a glimpse of myself in a window on the way and hating myself even more at the sight of my own disheveled hair and bright red, tear-streaked face. I sit down and hide underneath my desk, pop another half-a-Clozaril tablet that I try not to choke back up (I’m still hyperventilating so hard I could vomit), and bury my face in my arms. “Adam?” I look up. “Ezra.” I am barely composed, still hyperventilating, swiping at my eyes furiously and futilely. I look away, and I hope maybe he’ll think I’m just sick. I expect him to walk away, pretend that he never saw me like this and just silently let it color his perception of me. But he comes and sits down next to me underneath the desk. I don’t know what to say. “Do you want me to go?” he asks, after a moment. “You don’t have to.” I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t really want him to. Nobody else is this understanding with me anymore. I keep trying to collect myself, barely noticing at first when he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do you need anything?” I shake my head, still not making eye contact. Theoretically, I’m getting the help I need, and maybe I do need the support of a friend right now too, but I don’t want to trouble him. Besides, I must look pathetic, cowering under a table and weeping, almost comically vulnerable. Hm. “Ezra,” I turn to him, finally, after a few more minutes of whimpering. I know my eyes look crazy, bloodshot to hell. “Can you take me to a mic?” “A mic?” “Yes. A standup mic. I want to see what it’s like.” “Really?” he smirks. “Yes, why not?” I can’t think of the last time I laughed, at least not genuinely. I can’t think of the last time I let myself. My self-loathing has become entirely unfunny, my psyche and my job both absolute nightmares, not to mention the actual nightmares—I need something light. Something just a little bit light. “You would… enjoy that?” “Yeah.” It makes me sad that he seems surprised, though I can’t blame him. I’ve been awfully serious, not even just for the past week or month, but probably since my dad died last spring. He reads my disappointment. “Sorry, Adam, I just… do you like comedy?” “I don’t know. My therapist laughs at my jokes sometimes.” He smiles at that, and I smile too, through dissipating tears. “Well, if you really want to, yeah. The next one is Thursday night.” I nod and take a deep breath. I realize Ezra hasn’t taken his hand off my shoulder, and he is absent-mindedly rubbing circles into my back. Maybe it’s stupid, but I stay as still as I can. I don’t want him to notice that he’s doing it and stop. “Is everyone there funny?” I ask, just to keep his focus. It’s a dumb question. I rephrase myself, “How funny is everyone?” He exhales a chuckle. “Honestly? About thirty people go up every night, sometimes more. They’re mostly shit. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty to laugh at with the shitty ones.” He proceeds to tell me about the guys who show up high every time and just get up on stage and talk about nonsense (or weed itself) for 5 minutes, the wannabe Dangerfields and Seinfelds and Mulaneys who “never actually managed to glean what joke structure is” (though to be fair, It’s not like I have either), even the bigoted old men still trying with unflinching determination to resurrect “get back in the kitchen” jokes. I am losing myself in his stories, feeling at least marginally more relaxed, when Carlisle appears in my doorway. Ezra takes his hand off my back. Carlisle glances at us with confusion and disgust. “Dr. Collins, if you would please… get up and come see me in my office.” “We’re actually grading papers right now,” Ezra shoots back, in a tone of voice that says “yes, I think you’re stupid.” “Take a break, please,” Carlisle replies, glaring and exiting. I look hesitantly at Ezra, before getting up to follow him. “I do want to come,” I say. “To a mic.” “We’ll talk more later. I should still be here after you’re done facing the wrath of god.” I know I’m about to get chewed out to an extreme degree. Still, I can’t help but grin back at him.

#psychology story

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sassycassie-s-writing · 6 years

Text

Healing Hearts

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Jason Todd/Robin/Red Hood

Rating: PG-13/T

Original Idea: This list

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) I’ve been so eager to share this one for a while. I love it so much! It has a lot of odd time jumps but I tried to make those as clear as possible. @welovegroot @batboys-and-other-messes

^^^^^

I grew up in Gotham. I knew the rumors and myths of Batman like the back of my hand. But I didn’t believe he was real till I was twelve and he and Robin saved me from a robbery. My mom and I were at the bank when it was being held up since Mom was getting a new car.

Batman and Robin swooped in through the skylights, beat the robbers up, and made sure everyone was alright.

Being the only kid in the bank, Robin came to me first. He was maybe a year older than me. Black hair and blue eyes glinting with gunmetal under his mask. He offered me his hand to help me stand up. “You okay, miss?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered—and then gasped.

“What’s wrong?” Robin wondered.

“The bruise on your jaw! It just vanished!” I exclaimed.

Batman appeared behind Robin and pinched the boy’s chin, turning Robin’s head to watch as the tiny little cut on his forehead faded and vanished from existence.

Batman looked at me. “Soulmates,” he said.

“Pardon?” my mom asked.

“Your daughter and Robin are soulmates. Their injuries heal in each other’s presence,” Batman said.

I felt a sting on my right thumb. When I looked down, the little papercut I’d had on it that had been flapping around for a couple days disappeared. Robin and I looked up at each other. “Whoa,” we said at the same time.

“Come, Robin,” Batman said, “there’s more to do tonight.”

Robin shook his head as though he were shaking water out of his hair. “Right. Yeah. Let’s go,” he replied. He glanced at me. “We’ll meet again, soulmate. I promise.”

I nodded as he and Batman went flying out the skylight on their grappling hook cables.

We did meet again. Several times over the next three years. Mostly in secret. Sometimes Robin would tap on my window in the middle of the night with a, “Psst!” to wake me up and we’d sit on my fire escape, letting my presence heal him of his injuries. He told me he only ever came to me when his injuries were bad because he didn’t want to put me in danger. Sometimes I’d hug him—realizing that physical contact sped up the healing.

Tap-tap! I opened my eyes. It was three-AM and I was fifteen, bitter that he was waking me up.

I crawled out the window and rested my head on his shoulder on the fire escape. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I'm going away for a while,” he whispered. “I found out something about my past and I have to go after it.”

I nodded tiredly. “Good luck Robin,” I muttered.

He took my hand in his free one and placed it over his eye to heal the black eye as the torn pieces of skin around my fingernails—nail biter’s life—grew back.

“About that. I should probably tell you my name before I go.”

“No. Don’t,” I said. “Wait till you get back to tell me, that way I know you’ll come back. We’re supposed to spend the rest of our lives together. I want to make sure I’ll have someone to spend the rest of my life with.”

Robin smiled. “Okay. I’ll wait. And keep out of trouble. I won’t be here to heal you.”

“I was about to say the same to you. Wherever you’re going, whatever’s going on, take care, okay?” I asked. “Because I won’t be there.”

“I will. Promise,” Robin said. After a moment, he sighed with relief. “Thank you. I feel much better.”

“Take care, Robin,” I advised. “And good luck.”

He kissed my forehead—the first time he’d ever kissed me. “I will. Thank you.” He jumped off the fire escape and disappeared into the night.

^^^^^

“What happened after that?” my best friend asked, three years later, sitting on that same fire escape.

“I never saw him again,” I said. “Not too long after, there was a new Robin. New face under the mask, new outfit, new weapon. Not my Robin. I’ve always just guessed he died.” I felt tears water up in my eyes, the way they had when the new Robin first appeared and no new hero mantle appeared at a similar time to show that my Robin graduated from the role of sidekick to be a hero in his own right. “I lost my soulmate before we could be anything,” I muttered.

My best friend gave me a hug. “I'm sorry,” she said, holding me close. “That must be hard.”

I held onto her tightly and cried. “I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life!” I sobbed into her shoulder.

“You won’t be, I promise,” she said. “Just because he was your soulmate doesn’t mean that no one else can love you. Loads of people never find their soulmates. Loads of people don’t even care to. Heck, I don’t believe I even have a soulmate. You and Robin were lucky that you had the time you did, but you can still find someone to spend the rest of your life with.”

I sniffed, getting over myself. “Right. You’re absolutely right. Thanks, bestie,” I said.

She laughed. “You’re welcome, bestie.”

We only ever called each other that as a form of comfort. A promise that we’d be there and support each other.

I sighed. “Just wish I knew what happened to him.”

^^^^^

Three Years Before…

THWACK! The crowbar smacked across Jason’s face. He grunted, pain exploding over his entire head from the strike. He grunted from his position on the ground. He was covered in bruises and cuts, in more pain than he’d ever felt before. He curled up as the Joker cackled.

I'm sorry. Looks like I won’t be coming home to you after all, he thought, picturing his soulmate’s face in his mind’s eye. The moon shining off her hair, her skin, her eyes. He pictured her smile, trying to use the elated sensation he always got when he was around her to distract him from the pain to no avail. I'm so sorry. I never even said a proper “goodbye”…

BOOM! The warehouse blew up. Jason cried out as his body was wracked with fire—

And then was silent.

^^^^^

Six Years Later…

I strolled down the street, heading home, after a long day at college. It was dark out.

A lot had happened in the three years since the day I told my best friend the real story about what I assumed happened to my soulmate—the dead Boy Wonder. His replacement—the one who wielded the staff—had graduated to Red Robin, Nightwing had taken a leave of absence and Batman developed a new fighting style, and another new Robin appeared. Also the Red Hood appeared not long after I first told my best friend about my Robin, made some messes, antagonized Batman, stole a lot of territory from the Black Mask, and occasionally popped up on the grid every now and then. Gotham. Qurac. Hong Kong. Los Angeles. New York. Seattle. Somewhere in Colorado. Gotham again.

And again.

And then he just never really left Gotham.

I puzzled over it while I walked. I was tired and really just wanted to get back to my own apartment for a decent night’s sleep. It was dark out and Gotham After Dark was even more dangerous than Gotham during daylight.

I wasn’t too worried. I’d walked off gangs before and hit more than one mugger in the nose strong enough to dissuade him from trying to steal from me.

As I passed an alleyway between a music store and a convenience store, I saw something not unusual for Gotham.

A vigilante.

Specifically, the Red Hood.

He was lying face-down in the alley, completely alone. I was too far away to see if he was breathing or not.

Everyone in Gotham had a vague suspicion that Red Hood had a policy against hurting women and children, and there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the alley, so I ran over to him. At the very least I could roll him over and check for a pulse before calling a hospital.

“Oh my gosh, Red. What did you pick a fight with?” I asked, kneeling next to him and rolling him onto his back.

His helmet was cracked diagonally across the face and he had a slash over his chest—that was bleeding hard and split the red bat symbol on his chest.

I pressed two fingers just under the curve of his helmet’s jaw, feeling for a pulse through the armored suit he wore. “Don’t be dead, please,” I muttered. “I’d have nightmares for months. C’mon Hood. Don’t be dead.”

He coughed and gasped suddenly, his hands flying to his helmet. He yanked it off and threw it off to the side to reveal a red mask underneath it. He panted and coughed more, wheezing.

He sat up, yanking off one glove to press his hand to the gaping slash across his chest.

Finally, he looked at me.

There was a streak of white in his black hair, but his eyes in the mask were familiar, somehow. Deep blue with a glint of gunmetal.

He let out an exhale that was almost a laugh, a grin twitching up his face. “Hi there, gorgeous,” he said. He winced and looked down at his cut. I followed his gaze, feeling for my phone in my jacket pocket in case I needed to call an ambulance before he passed out from blood loss.

I gasped as I watched it slowly close up before my eyes.

Red Hood started to quietly chuckle.

I looked up to his face again. “Robin?” I breathed.

“Haven’t been addressed by that name in a while,” he said, amused. He picked himself to his feet and held a hand out to help me up. “Thanks for healing me, soulmate.” I took his hand and let him literally yank me to my feet, flying up and landing against his chest.

“Whoa!” I cried out as Red Hood laughed and held me to him.

“You know, you’re even more beautiful than the day I left,” he said.

“That’s because I was an acne-ridden teenager when you left,” I said.

He chuckled. “Touché, love,” he said.

“What happened to you? Why did you never come back to me?”

“I died. Long story for another time. But I couldn’t find you. By the time I came back you weren’t at your parents’ apartment.”

Oh right. I’d moved out to go to college when Red Hood first showed up.

“So I didn’t look,” he continued. “I wanted you to be safe from this life—and from me. I didn’t come back a hero, if you remember.”

I did remember. But I didn’t care.

“Well… You’re alive now,” I said. I grabbed the back of his head and brought it down to mine, kissing him hard. His hands slid into my hair, tilting his head for a better angle. I felt him sigh with relief through his nose as the last of his injuries healed up in my presence.

When we pulled away from each other, he peeled the mask off his face. “By the way, the name’s Jason Todd,” he said.

I laughed and hugged him. “Nice to finally meet you, Jason Todd.”

“You too, beautiful.”

^^^^^

One Year Later…

Creak! I heard the window to our bedroom open, even though I was half-asleep. Jason slipped in like a wraith and shoved the window closed again. He grunted when he finally flicked the lock. “Rough patrol?” I asked, rolling onto my other side to look at him through tired eyes.

“Rough enough,” he said, yanking his bright red helmet off and throwing it off to the side. His suit was intact—thankfully—and I couldn’t see any blood, but his movements were ginger.

He slid his wedding band back onto his finger and flopped down on our bed with a sigh.

I scooted over the bed and pushed myself into his arms, nuzzling my face into his chest.

He relaxed against my touch. “That feels better,” he said, burying his face in my hair.

I smiled.

Once he was healed from being in the presence of his soulmate, he got up and went to shower. I dozed through it but felt him pull me to his bare chest before I drifted off to sleep again.

#Healing Hearts #Jason Todd #Jason Todd Imagine #Jason Todd FanFiction #Red Hood #Red Hood Imagine #Red Hood FanFiction #DC #DC Imagine #DC FanFiction #BatFam #BatFam Imagine #BatFam FanFiction

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fearfilledvirgil · 6 years

Text

Ivity and Anx: part fourteen

Summary: Virgil listends to the song that Princey posted in his living room. Things go to hell.

Warnings: accidental self isolation, breif mention of migraines, parental abuse, attempt of muder, a knife, self-blame, self-depreciation, guilt

Word count: 5130

Pairing: Slowburn Prinxiety, lots of platonic Analogical

A/N: HI I RECORDED A SONG FOR THIS PART AND I’M SHAKING. Anyways listen to this song which is a recording of the song that Princey sings. But with my voice. And yes, I made Roman have the same guitar as I do because I’m emoTIONALLY ATTACHED okay? The video is bad, but just pretty please listen to it and read the chapter or both at once I don’t know. If you know how it sounds it gives the words a bit more meaning than just random poetry. Anyways. This chapter is very emotionally taxing and sad. It made several beta readers cry. Good luck. Taglist under the cut.

masterlist

Taglist: @rileyfirstname @verymuchanidiot @definentlynotjustanotherlemon @silversmith-91 @kanejandkruge @sander-fander-sides @lovecrazyjennybear @the-incedible-sulk @hexdream18243 @crows-with-hats @monikastec @definenormalifyoucan @i-am-absolute-fandom-trash @applecannibal @cats-with-blogs @bubblycricket @witchcraft--and--wizardry @bunnyartie @quietlypondering @elusivefalsehoods @hghrules @royallyanxious @quietwords-loudthoughts @squishynonbinarytwink @sortablue @illogical-anxieties @savingshae @a-fander-named-skittles @thelowlysatsuma @ughthatsprettygay @im-so-infinitesimal @certifiedtrashxx @karmels-stuff @littlelogicstillcounts @musicqueen1239 @nicological1 @the-average-loner

Today had been a long day, but that wasn’t unusual. Long days were a common thing for Logan since he moved into his college dorm, but that was mostly his fault. Classes hadn’t started yet, for either Logan or his friends going into their junior year, but that didn’t mean that Logan hadn’t started studying yet. The seventeen-almost-eighteen year old would spend several hours a day at the library, reading his textbooks and teaching himself the material for the classes to come. He also kept detailed and clean notes, something that made him happy.

His notes served a few purposes for Logan. It was a way to destress, it let out his creativity in a productive way, it helped him remember what he studied, and it provided him something to put on his Tumblr along with his bullet journal. He had what was called a studyblr, and was fairly popular. When he followed Virgil without telling him what his blog was, the younger nearly had a heart attack.

Logan’s pen stopped in the middle of the sentence he was writing. Virgil. He hadn’t talked to the younger in a while, which honestly scared him. The two used to be inseparable, considering that both were on the outskirts of the social game. Logan was always diving into books, and Virgil was always avoiding people at all costs. Now, though, with Logan off at college and burying himself in his books again, the two weren’t talking as much. Come to think of it, he hadn’t talked to Patton in a while. That was an oddity as well, since the excitable man loved talking to him. Logan loved talking to him. The college student felt a dip in his stomach, probably because of guilt. He was so busy studying at the library that he had begun to forget his friends.

A text tone interrupted the classical music streaming through his headphones, making him pause. A light of hope flickered inside his mind, because just maybe, it was one of his friends deciding to break the silence. He didn’t even realize how much he missed them these past few months until now.

Patton Heart <3: Hey Logan! I think you probably should check this out. It’s totally about Virgil, but you know more about the situation then I do.

After the first text, Patton sent with it a link to a video on YouTube. Logan was certainly confused, but once he clicked the link to preview the video, he understood. Roman posted a video, most likely unedited, of a song about Virgil.

Logos Brain: Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will alert Virgil. How have you been, Patton? I apologize for my momentary absence. I have been settling in here and regrettably forgot to talk.

Patton Heart <3: It’s okay!! I’m glad you’re settling in well. Make any friends?

Logos Brain: No one could replace you, Heart

Logan could not see, but Patton was flapping his arms everywhere at that comment. It gave him peace of mind knowing that Logan felt so strongly about him, even though he was known for not having any feelings. It made Patton warm and fuzzy inside, like most things that Logan said. What Logan could see, though, was his own phone pulling up Virgil’s contact and sending him the link to the video.

Pocket Protector: Virgil, Roman wrote a song about you. You may want to check it out.

Honorary Brother: Oh. Okay. Thank you Lo Sorry we haven't been texting

Pocket Protector: Its my fault. I was neglecting my friends in favor of studying

Honorary Brother: This is why I usually am the buffer. Taking ten minute breaks every half an hour? For your head?

Pocket Protector: Yes, Virgil. I promise.

Virgil was usually the one causing Logan to worry, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t worry about him too. The elder had an skill for getting headaches after reading or concentrating for too long. If he let the headache go without treating it, there was a more than likely chance that he would get a migraine. If it got to that point, little would stop the pain, and the migraine would persist for hours, or even days. That’s why Virgil made Logan have the ten for thirty rule.

Virgil shifted on the couch, trying to get more comfortable as he clicked on the YouTube link. He knew it was Roman, but he didn’t know how he could write a song about him of all people and be able to pass it by the record label. As soon as the video loaded, though, Virgil understood.

The title of the video was ‘Psychic, an Original Song by Roman Prince’ and opened with Roman pulling his arm away from the camera. He was sitting in a mostly dark room, fairy lights behind him, with his guitar resting on his legs. His head was almost out of frame, but the bottom half of his face was visible. Virgil sucked in a breath as Roman started talking on the video.

“I just want to start out with saying that this video is currently in no way related to Vidomen Records or any of it’s associates. I actually just wrote this song like… ten minutes ago, but I just.... I need to get this out. So. This is called Psychic.” Roman’s voice was soft, spoken with care and in his lower register. Virgil suddenly became aware that he did not, in fact, have his headphones in, and was making a loud commotion in the living room by playing the video.

Be seen not heard. Or, better yet, don’t be fucking seen either, but don’t leave this house, ya hear? The booming echo of the memory of his father’s voice made a shiver fall down Virgil’s spine. He quickly turned down the volume as low as it could go without being off. He then put the phone up to his ear, closed his eyes, and listened to Roman’s smooth voice begin to sing.

It’s almost like he can read by thoughts But I wish you could too All these emotions and things inside That I’m trying to get through to you.

Virgil’s heart plunged into his gut at the sheer emotion in the words that Roman sang. They were taken straight from Princey’s own heart, which made Virgil understand why he put the disclaimer at the beginning of the video. It was nothing like his usual, peppy, flamboyant songs. This song was pure Roman. Virgil held onto the phone harder as the slower chorus played through the small speakers.

If you could be inside my mind Then I wouldn’t have to try To put my pride aside And tell you the truth But the truth is hard to get out When it falls on closed ears So can you be psychic for me? Can you be psychic for me?

Roman took another breath to continue singing, but Virgil’s phone was knocked away from him. Fear stabbed him in the heart and gripped his lungs to make it hard to breath. His eyes widened, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his father grabbed his wrist. He was pulled off the couch, tossed down to the floor.

Vaguely, he could hear Roman continue singing with, “I know that you’re terrified.”

“What did I tell you about making noise?” Virgil’s father growled as he stepped closer to his son, who was now on the floor.

A little ways away, Roman continued singing with, “Because you’ve been cast aside.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” Virgil started to stutter, but was stopped from further apology by a kick to his side. The fear inside his chest was pushing at his rib cage, almost begging to be released. It was pounding, hard and fast like nothing he had ever felt before. He didn’t understand the difference in this punishment. It had started out just like all the others, so why was his adrenaline at an all time high? Why was he so scared, but not of the man leaning over him?

“Tell me what I told you!” the father figure yelled, his fists clenching as he stepped on Virgil’s wrist.

In the distance, Roman finished the chorus with, “Your feelings were twisted for fun. Words like bullets from my gun.”

It was at this moment that Virgil finally came to a screeching halt. Roman’s voice flowed into his ears as he sang the bridge again, somehow becoming louder with every passing second. Everything around him dimbed, the loudness of his father screaming his sentence again diminishing as his ears started ringing. The world was starting to go into some sort of slow motion, allowing Virgil to rethink over the decision that his mind had already made the moment that the phone was slapped out of his hand. Now he realised why this time was different. This time, he had Roman’s voice with him, a voice that he had once hated but learned to love. It was the soft tone that the singer used to comfort the other on those late night calls, and it was with him in this moment. This time was different because Roman unintentionally just accidently gave him hope. He didn’t understand why the lying boy would write this song, but it struck a chord inside Virgil. He didn’t register the dryness of his mouth or the pain in his wrist. All Virgil could think about was the word stuck in his throat, leaning off the tip of his tongue.

“No.”

“What?” Virgil’s father took a step back in shock. He hadn’t heard that word pass from his son’s lips since before his mother died. “What the fuck did you say?’”

“I said,” Virgil sat up from the floor, his hand finding his phone that was still playing the song and placing it in his back pocket. He was standing now, straightening his back with a slight bit of pain to be taller than his father. He was working on auto pilot, the world still fuzzy. “No.”

Thanks to the odd sensation of not actually being in his body that Virgil was experiencing, everything that followed was a blur. There were loud words, dodged punches, and spit flying everywhere. That much was processed in his head. Virgil was vaguely aware that he was also yelling, but what of, he didn’t have a solid grip. The words passing off his tongue felt like he was calling his dad out about being a drunk, and calling him out on how he treated his own son, but he couldn’t be exactly sure.

Before Virgil could acknowledge it, he had screamed his throat raw. His father’s eyes were glaring daggers at him, wide and seething. He could only see red. Virgil, on the other hand, was coming back down to earth, and the hope in his stomach was washing away. Every ounce of confidence that may had been left fully disappeared when his father reached over the kitchen counter. He didn’t realize that they had moved so close to the kitchen in their fighting, and Virgil was going to pay for that.

Mr. Sanders drew his hand back, revealing a long silver kitchen knife. Virgil’s heart rate suddenly skyrocketed, his hands beginning to shake even more than they were. His father took a step closer, which made Virgil take a step back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t mean…” His eyes were glued onto the knife. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t fucking cut it,” His father was advancing quicker. He adjusted his grip on the knife. “You need to be taught a lesson.”

Virgil attempted to back away again, but instead fumbled over the couch. His back hit the cushions, but he was immediately attempting to scramble away. His father was still approaching with some sort of sick gleam in his eyes. Was this his plan all along? To get him to fight back, only to stab his chest to hear him scream and see the light leave his eyes? Did he hate him that much, that he’d kill him? Virgil fell off the couch, too caught up in the dark thoughts to notice the end of the sofa. The floor came up too quickly, and suddenly he was eating carpet. He heard his dad snicker behind him, dark and menacing. This was too much, this was too much and Virgil could not take it.

Somehow, he managed to get up off the floor. It was messy and ungraceful, but he grabbed his hoodie laying on the ground while getting up from the floor. With his hoodie in hand, and his phone in his back pocket, now all he had to do was get the fuck out of the apartment. Of course, Mr. Sanders had other plans than to let his son escape that easily. He follows Virgil menacingly, the glint in his eye growing as he started to raise the knife.

“I’ve been too lenient to you. It’s time you get what you deserve.” he said, looking at the knife and looking toward his son. Virgil’s vision swarmed in and out, his breathing all but stopped.

The next few moments would stay in Virgil’s mind the rest of his days. They played out in slow motion, frame by frame, as it happened.

Mr. Sanders lunged quite quickly, but it didn’t feel quick at all. Virgil eyed the knife, sharp and threatening, as it darted toward his chest. Before he could think, Virgil began to turn to the side, his eyes never leaving the intentional divits in the glinting silver. As he was trying to get away from the plunging knife, Virgil put his arms out in front of him. While he turned, his arms did too, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. The knife missed its mark on Virgil’s chest, but it still sliced through his upper arm. A small scream ripped from Virgil’s throat as it did so, but he pressed on. Since his arms were moving forward as he twisted, the knife was pressed deeper into his arm. But after it passed through his flesh, Virgil’s arms connected with his father’s body and pushed away.

Afterward, time sped up.

Virgil was running. His breathing was quick, coming in bigger gasps then before. He fumbled with the door for only a moment before it was open and he was running. He was going down the concrete stairs ten times faster than he usually did, only bent on getting away from the apartment. He needed to get away, even though he knew that he would eventually have to return. But for tonight, he ran like there was no tomorrow.

That was, at least, until his panic driven state began to wash away. His lungs burned, as did his legs, but at least he was away. Virgil took a second to gauge where he was. Upon looking around, he concluded that he was in Logan’s neighborhood. His legs must have carried him here due to muscle memory. Virgil thought that was okay for the moment until he realized something very important. Logan was not here. Without Logan, Virgil had no one. And, now that the fight or flight response had eased up, he just realized how much pain his arm was in.

So Virgil did the only thing he knew how to do: call Logan.

Once seated semi-comfortably on a bench in the neighborhood park nearby, Virgil attempted to pull his jacket on to attempt to keep the chill of night at bay. He took out his phone and sighed. More cracks had formed when he fell over the couch.

“Please still fucking work.” Virgil pushed the button to unlock his phone and let out a sigh of relief when it still turned on. He went to Logan’s contact number and hit the call button.

Logan picked up after two rings. “Good evening, Virgil.”

“Hey Lo.”

Logan could hear in Virgil’s voice that he was crashing from the adrenaline. “Is everything alright?”

Virgil considered lying for a moment. He knew that Logan could read him like a book, even over the phone, so he decided against it. “No. It’s not. It fucking sucks.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” When he didn’t get an answer, Logan decided to try something different. “Gauge?”

Virgil sighed. He was simultaneously grateful and hateful at just how well his friend knew him. “Eight and a half.”

“What happened?”

Virgil took a breath, his grip on his phone tightening. “Knife.”

There was shuffling at the other side of the line. “Virgil, Virgil, you need to get it looked at. It’s not something that I can help you with where I am.”

“I know that, Logan, but you know I can’t go to the hospital.”

“I know. There is someone else you can go to,” There was a pause, then the opening and closing of a door. “Someone who has helped you through a lot.”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

“Virgil.” The tone was testing, but Virgil didn’t care at the moment.

“No, Logan. I can’t.” Virgil shook his head even though he knew Logan couldn’t see. “Not after this long of time. He probably fucking hates me. He’s probably planning how to make next year a living hell.”

“He misses you.”

Three simple words. Something Virgil never thought he’d hear about Roman. Did Patton talk to Logan about it? Is that how Logan knew that Roman missed him? Logan wasn’t one to say or do anything without some facts behind it so it wasn’t a gut feeling.

“You don’t know that, Logan.”

“Yes I do. Patton’s said so. Several times.” At the moment, it sounded as though Logan was walking rather quickly. “Patton even told me that Roman’s tried reaching out to you.”

“Roman hates me. He’s out to make my life a living hell.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, but kept walking. “Do I honestly need to read to you a list of reasons for you to go to him?”

“You don’t have one of those ready, Pocket Protector.”

“Actually, I do. Give me a moment.”

Virgil shouldn’t have been surprised, considering that Logan was crazy over lists and notes. He would comprise one full of pros and cons about Roman. Sighing, Virgil put a little pressure on the cut, hoping to stop a little of the bleeding. There was a sound on the other end of the line of a door opening and closing again. Then came the ruffling of papers.

“Are you ready, Virgil?” Logan asked a few moments later.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. List away.”

“I’m ignoring that. Some of the pros of going and talking to Roman include: He knows about your past and would be least likely to completely, um, ‘lose it’ if you showed up bleeding. Roman also has been able to help keep you calm in moments of excessive alarm. Occasionally even more capable at it than I am. You are also very comfortable with him. At least you were before you realized who he was. You trust him to some extent. And I believe that he has no intention of hurting you.”

“Wait. Did you just say ‘I believe’?” Virgil couldn’t help but point that out.

“Based off of evidence I have collected, yes.”

“And what evidence would that be?” As much as he hated to admit it, he was curious about what would cause Logan to say that.

“One example would be that he told Patton that he ‘had ruined everything’ and ‘it was all his fault.’”

Virgil didn’t know how to respond to that. It was the last thing that he expected Roman Prince to say about him. He never thought that Roman would go so far as to blame himself. He thought that Roman would laugh about the experience and use it as more fuel against him.

“Virgil?” Logan’s voice broke Virgil out of his thoughts.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said would you like more evidence?”

“No, thank you. I don’t want want to hear the page and a half of evidence you probably have on that one point.”

“It is a page and a quarter.”

“Whatever you say.” Virgil couldn’t help the slight smile that was on his face. He missed talking with Logan so much.

“Anyway. Roman would also find a way to help you without making you go to the hospital. And just talking to him would be enough to, uh, pay him back.”

“Based off what Patton said I’m guessing?”

“Precisely. Though it is a possible con in he may not want to talk to you. It was a few months ago that Patton told me this.”

“Any other cons?”

Virgil heard the shuffling of pages from the other line again. “He could be upset that you didn’t let him explain himself. He could be upset that you broke off all ties. However it’s hypothesized that sitting down and talking to him about why will rectify that. Actually almost all of the cons I have written could be corrected by just talking to him.”

“Almost all?” Virgil’s curiosity got the better of him.

“The one outcome that wouldn’t be corrected is if he truly never cared for you, which seems highly illogical. I believe that there is an infinitesimal chance that talking to him will work.”

“Logan. Buddy. That’s not encouraging.”

“Why not? I am simply saying that there is a great chance that if you talk to him things will be alright.”

“Not that ‘infinitesimal’ means Lo.”

Virgil couldn’t help but chuckle when he heard Logan typing away quickly at his computer. He could almost imagine the look of disbelief on the other’s face. The sputtering from the other line proved that Logan was at a loss for words at misusing the term.

“I...deeply apologize for that, Virgil.”

“‘S all good. I knew you didn’t mean it.” There was a pause. “So you really believe it’s a good idea to go to Roman?”

“I truly do. While he may be arrogant, I do not believe that he will turn you away. He’s prideful but he still has a heart.”

“Alright. If he does I expect a major apology.”

“I promise.”

Virgil took a deep breath and was about to hit the end call button when something stopped him. It was some emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time. After pondering it for a minute, Virgil realized it was pride. He was proud of what he was going to tell Logan.

“I stood up to him.” Virgil whispered as he got up from the bench.

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, fearing the answer.

“My father. I... I stood up to him”.

“That’s… That’s good, Vee. If you did, I think it’s all the mor--”

“That’s not it, Logan.” Virgil cut off his friend. He was now standing near the bench, not ready to leave the familiar place yet.

“What’s not ‘it?’” Logan sounded worried. There was another shift on the other side of the line, signifying that he put down his papers.

“It all happened so fast, or slow, I don’t know. He may not have but... I turned and the-the-the blade went deep into my arm and…” Virgil took a deep breath to attempt to steady his heavily beating heart. He couldn't get it out. He couldn’t.

“You’re probably bleeding far worse than I anticipated because of, of your bravery,” Logan moved the phone to his other ear. “You did stand up to him, that’s what matters. And I’m.. I’m extremely proud of you.”

“Yeah but now my jacket is going to be soaked in blood.” Virgil joked as he started walking again. He heard a muffled ‘Jesus Christ’ on the other end of the line which made him crack a smile.

“If you do not go to Roman I will fly home and personally drag you kicking and screaming to the hospital and then to his house.” Concern was clear in Logan’s voice.

Virgil knew Logan well enough to know he meant it. “I’m already off the bench and out of the park. You’re just lucky the two of you don’t live that far apart.”

“We what now?”

“I ran into your neighborhood. Muscle memory I guess.”

“I am… sorry that I am not there to help you.” Regret was clear in Logan’s voice. He wished the world that he could be there to help protect his friend.

“Its okay. You’ve got collage, and… Like I said, he only lives a few blocks away.” Virgil was lying. He was lying so hard that it hurt. But he had to, because he couldn’t spend his entire life dependant on Logan. He had enough of Virgil’s bullshit and pain. He deserved a normal life full of learning, possibly love, without Virgil weighing him down. That’s all he ever did, really, was weigh him down. If Virgil hadn’t been so stupid as to go to his house all those years ago, hurt and afraid, then Logan’s life could have been free from pain. The most he had to worry about was love and knowledge. But no, Virgil had to ruin all of that.

“Virgil, talk to me.” Logan cut through Virgil’s internal thoughts. He seemed to do that a lot.

“What? Sorry, spaced out.”

“You worry me. I asked if you want me to stay on the phone with you?” Worry was even more evident in Logan’s voice than before.

Virgil pulled his hood up to hopefully block some of the wind as he turned onto the main street. It was late, past midnight at least, so there wasn’t too many cars to disturb the call. “Maybe? I don’t know. It sounded like I took you away from something.”

“That was… nothing really important. A dorm activity.”

“That you liked or not?” You fucking idiot Virgil. He was doing normal college stuff and you couldn’t even let him do that. Stupid.

“It was okay. I met this mess of a man, Nate, who scares me with how much he procrastinates.”

“So… ProcrastiNATE.”

“I hate you.” Logan couldn’t help the slightly fond smile despite his annoyance at the pun.

“Come on, you love me.”

“You’re right. I do. A lot, honorary little bro.”

“Did you just call me ‘bro?’ What has college done to you?” Virgil teased his best friend. No, that wasn’t right. Logan was his brother. They were closer than blood could ever make them.

“I tried! But honestly, you’re still Honorary Brother in my contacts.”

Virgil was silent for a few moments before he regained himself. “That means a lot to me, Lo.”

“I know it does, Virge.”

Virgil was still concerned that he messed up an important part of Logan’s experience at college. “Are you sure that I’m not taking you away from anyone right now?”

A knock on a door at Logan’s end of the call gave him his answer. “One moment.”

“Sure.”

Logan removed the phone from his ear and covered the speaker to hopefully minimize what Virgil could hear. He sat up from the chair at his desk to approach the door. Upon opening it, the man that he talked about to Virgil was standing there. Logan furrowed his eyebrows in confusion before raising one as to ask ‘what are you doing here?’

“Oh, good, this is your dorm. Okay.” Nate pushed up his sunglasses and leaned against the doorframe.

“What do you want? I’m a bit preoccupied.” Logan was annoyed, that much was clear. Virgil was just able to make out his words, which made him feel even more guilty than he already was.

“Dude, you left right in the middle of a conversation. And said something about a hospital. We worried.” the concern in Nate’s voice actually seemed genuine, at least to Logan.

“I’m helping out a friend of mine, its-” Logan was promptly cut off by Virgil on the other end of the line.

“Logan! Go back to the meeting thing!” Virgil half-yelled into the phone, hoping that his friend would hear him. “I’m almost there anyway.” That wasn’t the full truth, but it was close enough to the truth that Logan wouldn’t mind anyway.

Nate looked down at Logan’s phone, then back up to the younger with a smirk. “And the friend agrees with me. Come on, tell ‘em goodbye and come back! Brian’s about to talk school stuff and by the looks of ya, you’d like that.”

“Go, Logan!” Virgil yelled again. Logan brought his phone back up to his ear for the second part of Virgil’s sentence. “Besides, a dude named Brian? That’s gotta be cool. He has your last name as a name.”

“Yeah, well, you’re more important,” Nate gave him a goofy smile, to which Logan responded by tearing the phone away from his face and saying, “Not like that, you, uh, you...”

“Buffoon?” Virgil supplied.

“Buffoon! Wait, Vee, what does that even mean?” Nate watched these two sortof interact with a happy glint in his eye. They were good friends. Even he could tell.

“Dunno. Now go.”

“Fine. Goodbye, Virgil. Please call me if you need more assistance. Text me when you get there.”

“Will do, Lo. Talk to you later.” Virgil’s grip on his phone tightened. They were doing the dance of who will hang up again.

“Good luck.” Neither wanted to do it. Logan wanted to provide support, while Virgil didn’t want to let go of familiarity and the comfort of Logan’s voice. But he had to.

“You too.” Virgil said with finality before removing the phone from his face and pressing the end call button. Just like that, his fate was sealed.

Not only that, but Virgil knew that his phone was dying. He didn’t have time to grab anything other than his sweatshirt. No charger, no change of clothes, no wallet, no earbuds, no nothing. Virgil took a look at the time, and his battery, before placing it in his back pocket again. No earbuds meant no music, and no music meant that his mind was free to wander.

This was not a good thing, despite what some people might think. Virgil’s mind wandering was never good. Now he had the chance to think over all the reasons why Roman hated him, and why he would definitely turn him away. Virgil walked on like this, pain in his upper arm and worrying thoughts in his mind. It took everything in his being not to think himself creepy for knowing the way. The boy had given the younger his address willingly at some point after their split. Virgil saved it, most likely because of the lingering hope in his heart. Soon enough, he would reach the one place he never thought he’d actually go: Roman Prince’s house.

next part

Shoutout to the amazing @lovecrazyjennybear! She helped me a ton with this chapter (specifically most of Logan and Virgil’s conversation), and even more chapters to come. You are an amazing beta reader and an even more amazing friend! (and writer, and editer, and all the ideas you have. you are amazing all around)

#fail’s writing #virgil sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides incorrect quotes #virgil angst #tw abuse #tw murder #so yeah you all get to hear my singing voice and see part of my face #cool

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silkkpopbonnet · 6 years

Text

Dilemma

Back in her room, Yeon told Marcella what her friend already knew to be true. Marcella shook her head and listened. Marcella’s hanbok had been delivered while Yeon was gone, and she held the dress in her lap running her fingers over the fabric.

“What if he’s not so bad?” It was just like Marcella to look on the bright side of things. She ran her hand over her box braids, fingering the bands on some of them.

“Please, don’t find a bright side in this. My dad is trying to arrange me into a marriage.” Yeon put her head down on her vanity, wondering where her life was going. She couldn’t be a complacent, quiet wife, by her husband's side, doing his bidding.

Holding up a hand Marcella stopped her from saying more. “He never said that, a possible marriage. Look at it this way. Dating was never really great for you in Atlanta.”

Yeon opened her mouth to say more, but Marcella stopped her. “It was not, so don’t try to make something up, I’m your best friend. You never dated long, you didn’t like the guys. Maybe, just maybe this isn’t so bad. What if you meet him, he’s attractive, he’s a pretty nice guy. You fall in love.”

Yeon had to admit what if Marcella was right. Her normal upbeat attitude about things did keep her sane. Yeon sighed, propping her head on her hand. “Why, do you have to be so positive and helpful? This isn’t a fairy tale, either. It could go exactly as I predict, and he could be a self-righteous asshole.”

“He could be, but we don’t know yet, so we have to see.” Marcella stood up, placing her dress on the bed. “If it doesn’t work out, your dad has to back off, right? there’s no way he’s going to let his daughter date multiple dudes in his company. Looks bad.” Marcella stood in front of Yeon, poking her cheek. “Smile.”

Several pokes later, Yeon slapped her friend's hand away. “Whatever, we will see if you’re right.”

Later that night, Yeon sat at the table her hands in her lap, her hanbok freshly pressed and she waited for her father to bring in this Jun Seo. Marcella was all smiles sitting on the opposite side of the table.

“Yeon, stop scowling.” Her mother said, fixing a napkin in front of her.

Yeon sighed. ‘Ma, please.”

“Stop scowling, smile, and be polite. Look at Marcella, she’s ready for action.” Leaning her head towards, Marcella.

“I really don’t want to get in the middle of this, I’m just supporting Yeon.” Marcella put her hands up in defense.

Just as Yeon was about to say something, her father entered the room again. The man that followed him was taller than her father. He had to be at least 6′0″, his face was chiseled, a strong jaw, hair cut short, he wore a light gray suit, with a red shirt matching her hanbok. As Marcella and her mother stood, Yeon almost forgot too, and she scrambled up, bowing saying hello.

“I suppose, that means you find him attractive?” Her mother whispered.

Yeon ignored her mother, as her father made introductions, saving Yeon for last. “This is my daughter, I’ve told you about. Hyo Park Yeon.”

He bowed towards Yeon before taking her hand, kissing it lightly. “It’s a pleasure actually meeting you, I’ve only seen your pictures in your father’s office. Call me Jun Seo.”

She bowed back, her face heating up as he kissed her hand. Marcella gave her the ‘yes, girl take him’ face, as she smiled at Jun Seo. “Yeon is what everyone usually calls me.”

Her father instructed Jun Seo to sit next to her, and they began dinner. Of course, her father would make Jun Seo talk about his accomplishments while boasting of the things that Yeon did in college. He talked about her stellar GPA, volunteering at animal shelters, her proficiency in English, Korean and French. During the course of dinner, Jun Seo gradually scooted himself closer to her, until his thigh was touching her own under the table.

“You look beautiful, I must admit, much better than in your pictures.” Jun Seo whispered as he leaned over into her space, his breath touched her neck.

Silently, she damned Marcella as she shivered at the contact. He was handsome, funny, witty, accomplished, and he seemed to like her, but did they have anything in common? So far, besides speaking English and Korean, nothing. She nodded at what he said, determined to play hard to get. As dinner ended, and dessert began, her parents excused themselves to the kitchen to check on ‘the preparations’ they said, as Marcella excused herself to the bathroom. Yeon tried to give Marcella a face to stay, but her friend smiled leaving her in the room with Jun Seo.

“So, you’re 20, you were living in Atlanta, you’re still in college majoring in business economics and a minor in math. That’s boring stuff, I want to know you.” His voice was deep, the bass of it seemed to drum in her ears, and make her all the more aware of how long it had been since she was this close to a man.

“Like what? Be specific.” She turned towards him, willing herself not to smile.

He flashed his pearly whites at her, taking her fingers in his too warm hand. “Your hand is cold, are you nervous?”

She tried to remove her hand, but he held on tight. “No. It’s cold in here.”

Jun Seo moved her hand towards his mouth, blowing warm air on her fingers. “It’s warm to me.”

“You’re quite hands-on, aren’t you?” She asked him raising an eyebrow.

Immediately he let her hand go. “I’m sorry, does that bother you? I assumed since you are not Korean, it wouldn’t bother you to physically show affection.”

Ok, what? Yeon scrunched her nose up, sliding back from him. “I am Korean.” She felt irritation creep into her chest. “I am also black, I can be both. I don’t have to choose.”

Jun Seo smiled at her. “I simply meant, you are not full Korean. You don’t have the stigmas of a woman who grew up here. America is…more open to that sort of thing.”

“I am not full Korean. I’m a black woman. So, you would assume, I was ok with you touching me? You would think I was sexually open?” She put her balled fist under her chin, watching him search for what to say.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He put his hands up in defense. “I think what I said was wrong. We grew up in different households, perhaps what I know is not what you know. You spent a lot of time in America, and correct me if I am wrong, but if a man likes a woman there, it is acceptable for him to show physical affection. I simply thought you would be alright with this.”

She watched his face, he was trying to placate her. She decided to let it go, for now, turning away from him, taking a drink from her glass, saying nothing.

“Am I wrong?” His fingers gently brushed the curls on the back of her neck.

She shivered, mentally hating herself for not being immune to his charms. “When I don’t like it, I’ll be more than happy to let you know.”

He laughed, letting his hand fall down her back. “Your father said you had a tongue with fire on it.” Leaning in close to her, she could smell his cologne, he let his mouth graze near her ear, his arm settling in front of her, his hand covering her own. “I don’t think I mind getting burned.”

Yeon felt her heart damn near fall into her stomach, it had been so long since she even let a man touch her sexually. ‘You will not sleep with him, you will not kiss him.’ She chanted in her mind. Just as she was about to answer however, her parents came back into the room, her mother carrying dessert.

“I hope we weren’t gone too long.” She felt the absence of his heat near her, his thigh wasn’t even touching hers anymore, and she almost missed it.

Marcella came back into the room, not meeting her eyes, as she sat down. After dinner, Mr. Hyo and Jun Seo went to his office to talk, while the ladies went into the parlor.

“He’s very nice, isn’t he? And handsome too, your father wouldn’t disappoint you.” She stood next to the door of the parlor, holding onto Marcella’s arm. “We will leave you in here now, I think your father will bring Jun Seo in awhile.”

“Wait, what?” Before she could protest, both women left her in the parlor, standing in the middle of the room, looking like an idiot.

It wasn’t long before Jun Seo came in, closing the door behind him, he brought a glass of wine with him. “I bring a gift.” He settled himself on the couch, waiting for her.

“Look, Jun Seo.” He cut her off, putting the glass into her hand as she sat down.

“Drink, take the edge off your nerves.” He took a sip of his own, staring at her.

“No, I’m going to talk thank you. Don’t get any delusions of grandeur in your head. I’m 20, I’m not looking for marriage.” She took a sip of her wine, staring him down, accessing him.

“I realize. We can date a few years.” He smiled at her and continued to speak before she could protest. “You don’t know me well, I understand. We just met, but from what I can see, and what I know. I like you. Give me a chance. It wouldn’t kill you right?”

She sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at his attempt to look cute. “I can do that.”

“Good, I’d like to take you on a lunch date, tomorrow. I can bring a friend, for your friend. He likes brown women.” There goes that again, she thought, and she jumped to Marcella’s defense.

“He better not have a fetish. I don’t play that. She’s my best friend.” He shook his head at her.

“Not like that, I mean he prefers browner women, I don’t think it’s a bad thing or a good one. That’s just his preference.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll keep an eye on him, however, yes, you can take me out.”

“Good, now something else I’ve been waiting to do all night.” Jun Seo quickly took her glass from her, setting it on a low table in front of them. He moved his hand to the back of Yeon’s neck bringing her lips to his, kissing her.

She felt her lips soften as soon as he touched hers. The hand on the back of her neck, slowly left, trailing down her back, pushing her body into his. She moaned softly into the kiss, her lips opening, he didn’t take the opportunity instead he licked his tongue out trailing along her lower lip. She felt her resolve weaken, and just as she felt the need to attack him, he let her go, pulling her to a stand.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.” Bowing at her, he opened the doors wide to the parlor, and walked out, leaving her in the room, dazed and wondering if that really just happened.

The whole night Marcella quizzed her on what happened. Asking the same questions in different ways, seeing if there was more to be picked at with this guy. She told her about the kiss, and Marcella nearly squealed, asking for an exact play by play of the story. When the girls parted for the night, Yeon laid in bed, thinking about his lips on hers. So maybe, he wasn’t so bad. She could definitely give him a try.

The next day, she prepared for her double date. Choosing a simple outfit of jeans, a V-neck shirt, keds, and a kimono wrap. She still had her American style. She drove one of her father cars, to the venue and met with Jun Seo and his friend. They had lunch of the veranda, and she learned more about him. She saw how open he was, outside of her fathers home. He greeted her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, chaste.

She did still have a love of K-pop but she loved conscious hip-hop like Kendrick Lemar and Talib Kweli. He was a fan of Drake. She enjoyed science fiction movies, and he confessed there was no movie better than Predator. They both loved Star Trek, and Jun Seo admitted in his free time he played Call of Duty or League of Legends. She was more of a Metal Gear Solid or Final Fantasy kind of girl. The date ended, but he didn’t kiss her again, he hugged her whispering into her ear, that he couldn’t sate her appetite just yet for him. She rolled her eyes, departing with Marcella back towards home.

“So, are Y'all gonna date?” Yeon thought long and hard about her next words.

“Yes and no.” She looked down at her phone at a red light changing the song to one by SHINee.

“Ok, so what does that mean? You can’t do both.” Marcella sat back in her seat waiting to hear this gem of an explanation.

“We can date and he can take me out, but I’m not committing to anything just yet. I just got here, I still want to concentrate on school and have fun. My dad wants me to see if he’s ok and date. Fine, I’ll do that, but nothing serious.” She was confident in her answer.

“So, you're gonna hoe.” Marcella laughed as Yeon reached over, trying to hit her.

“Not gonna be fucking. I mean, I’d like to, but Korea is different than America in that aspect.” She smiled, giving Marcella, a side eye. “Maybe, he can taste the cookie, but that’s it for a sampler.”

Marcella bust out laughing. “Dirty bih!!”

The girls clubbed that night, sleeping in the next day, The following week was Marcella’s last week, and they shopped, saw movies that came out earlier in Asia, on that last Friday they decided to go to a new club in Seoul. Yeon let her hair go in a wash and go, she did up her makeup, applying a burgundy lipstick. She wore a short-sleeved, form-fitting club dress, that came mid-thigh, but had a low collared neck, a long gold necklace completed the accessories. Her gold calf high sandals adorned her newly pedicured feet, with her French tipped toes.

Marcella wore a long-sleeved, deep V-neck white dress. It was mid-thigh and she choose to accessorize in red, with red heels. Her thin chained silver necklace lay between her breasts, as both girls looked at themselves in the mirror.

“Walking sexbots.” Marcella purred, slapping Yeon’s ass playfully.

Yeon rubbed her ass. “I could go home with someone tonight.”

Marcella raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And have your parents pissed at me for not stopping you?”

“We can always say check into a hotel, say we were too drunk to come home.” Yeon grabbed a black clutch, opening her door.

“We’ll see.” Marcella walked past her, and down the stairs.

The girls drank, dancing the night away to a mix of American pop, rap, K-pop and K-rap. They danced with each other, and some group of guys, who had been following them half the night. Marcella was still on the floor grinding with some tall guy who thought, leopard print was the hottest thing; when Yeon went to sit down in their both, sobering up with water.

Jay didn’t really feel like going to the club tonight, but Gray was all about it. This new place had only been opened since last week, and people were already raving about it. Some Korean rappers, already said it could be their favorite spot, so they had to check it out.

“Come on, Jay, you’ve been in that studio for like two weeks. Besides, there could be some cuties out here, maybe take one or two home.” Simon-D smiled, at him as they got past the velvet ropes.

“You know that’s not my style.” Jay kept his shades, on following the waitress who was a little too happy to walk in front of them, letting her too tiny dress hike up on her thighs.

She wasn’t his type though, too eager. She leads them to a booth in the back, leaning back on the table to show them her enhanced goods. Jay looked around, putting his shades on top of his head. The spot was live, that much was true, and just as he was about to sit down, the lights flashed on a woman’s face, drinking a water bottle alone. He watched her lips around the bottle, his eyes moving to her face. She was beautiful. Gray, pulled him into the booth, and he didn’t hear what they said to him as he craned his neck around to see the woman. She had disappeared into the crowd. Jay stood up and looked for her again. There was another booth closer to her, he ran his hand through his hair, moving it away from his eyes.

“Let’s move to that booth. It’s still VIP, but I can see the club better.”

Gray and Simon-D groaned, protesting from moving from their spots, but when Jay had already started walking, they got up following him.

“What’s the rush? The waitress, was cute.” Gray called to him.

“Yea, if you like fake breasts,” Simon-D mumbled, earning an arm punch from his punch.

The two continued to talk, as Jay slid into the new booth, with a good vantage point on the woman he wanted to look at. She was mixed that much was obvious, she had thick curly hair, that framed her face, her eyes gave away her Korean heritage. She stood up waving to another woman, and he nearly choked on his tongue looking at her body, she was shapely, he wasn’t a breast man in the first place, but those hips. That ass. He was in love on looks alone.

“I see what he sees,” Gray said, pointing her out to Simon.

Simon gave him a nudge. “She’s cute, go say hi Jay, why you still sitting here?”

They both knew why. Jay loved giving his fans a show, he danced and played around, his videos were steamy, and yea he could make sex sound like an art form but in reality, he was private. He was shy and quiet. Only those close to him saw how he truly was. What fans saw, what they heard and who Jay Park really was, didn’t always correlate. He wasn’t really listening to them, all he knew was that the lyrics to his song solo were in his head now. ‘Please be single, be single, be single.’

“Naw, she probably got a man, woman like that.” He leaned back, watching as her friend, headed back to the dance floor. He ordered a drink, looking away from her, thinking if he should just nurse it for the night.

Yeon swiveled her neck around, now that the room wasn’t spinning anymore. She sighed, feeling the heat of eyes on her face. It was always a peculiar thing, thing, when in a room with hundreds of other people you could feel, one pair of eyes on you. It was like a creeping feeling, somewhere in your soul, that nagged at you. She looked around carefully, before settling on a face, that watched her. His eyes darted away from her face, and she watched his friends start to laugh at him, pushing him playfully. She grinned, so it was him. He was cute, his hair was longer on top, and kept falling into his face, making him push it away.

Were those tattoos? His whole left arm was covered in them it seemed, down to his hands. She looked away, finishing her water, but peeking out the side of her eye. He looked back at her, god licking his perfect lips, she seized the opportunity and snapped her face back towards him smiling, He nearly died, turning his whole body away, from her. Was he really about to sit here and play like she didn’t just catch him? Yeon rolled her eyes standing up, she fixed her dress, walking around the back of the booth, while he was looking away.

Jay felt his heart race, she caught him again. He should really just say something to her. Gray echoed his thoughts. He looked back towards her table, she was gone. Shit, had she left? Where did she go? Just as he wiped his jeans off, about to get up, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“So, you were gonna play cat and mouse with me all night and not say hi?” Even her voice was sexy, he turned on his best smile turning around to look at her.

“Naw, I was sending you mind waves, for you to come to me.” He stood up, holding his hand out to her. “I’m Jae-Beom Park.”

“First name, last name, you must be American, that and no accent.” She took his hand, shaking it. “Are you going to invite me to sit?”

Jay looked flustered. “I’m sorry, yea go ahead.” He let her slide into the booth, trying to not let her catch him, staring at her ass, as she did so.

“I”m Park Yeon Hyo, by the way, just call me Yeon.” She turned towards his friends in the booth. “You guys are?”

Gray and Simon-D introduced themselves quickly before excusing themselves.

“Your friends don’t wanna throw salt in your G-A-M-E huh?” She laughed lightly.

“If I have any,” Jay said, trying to look humble.

“Uh huh.” She smiled at him, and he licked his lips, looking away. “Why do you keep looking away?” She pushed at his arm lightly.

“I don’t know. Nervous. You’re beautiful, you’ve probably heard it all, I’m wondering what I could say that’s different, and would pique your interest.” He was honest, in that statement, he looked full on at her, and Yeon watched his mouth move as he talked.

He was way too good looking, to be some regular everyday guy. “For starters, that. I don’t think I’ve heard it all, but you’re welcome to try.”

“You got jokes,” Jay stated, laughing at what she said.

They traded banter back and forth, he didn’t feel like he was even talking to her long, before his friend found her, and came up to her. “I’m ready to go are you?”

She nodded her head at Marcella, before turning to Jay to apologize. “I’m sorry, we’ve been here awhile, and I’m ready to sleep as well.” She stood up, offering her hand to Jay, frowning on the inside that he hadn’t asked for her number.

As she turned to walk away, she felt his hand on her shoulder stopping her, he looked bashful, pulling out his phone. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna hate myself tomorrow, if I don’t get your number.”

Marcella let out an ‘ohhhh’ in the background as Yeon rolled her eyes at her friend.

“I can’t let you do that now can I?” She took his phone, putting her number in and calling it, once it rang she hung up and handed it back to him. “Guess, I’ll hear from you whenever, Jae-Beom.”

She turned quickly, holding onto her friend's arm walking out of the club. Jay stared down at his phone, looking at her number before adding her name. He wondered how soon, was too soon to text someone.

Chapter Three

#dilemma #jay park #aomg jay park #black female lead #black female character #kpop for black fans #kpop for POC

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meredithritchie · 6 years

Text

Mask of Anonymity: Anonymous Asks as a Teen Outlet

[The following is an article I wrote for a campus submission. I retained the rights to publish it here, as well. It regards my experiences as a fandom blogger.]

“Hi, I’ve been suffering with what is probably depression for years without any help and recently it’s been getting worse,” begins the anonymous message that drops into my inbox one night. It’s a teenager asking me how to keep themself stable until they can get a diagnosis from a pediatrician. I tell them I’m proud of them. I tell them I’m not an expert. I tell them to be kind to themself. I tell them they’re loved.

Since founding my Tumblr blog in April of 2017, these messages have become almost routine. In just a few months of actively posting my fanedits and fanfiction online, I amassed almost five thousand followers. In this particular fandom, where the most popular bloggers have ten thousand followers, that’s a dramatic amount. Via the blog’s anonymous ask feature (colloquially called “anons”), anyone in the world can drop a question into my inbox without revealing their username, even if they aren’t one of those five thousand. Many if not most of these followers are minors, and some of them are not even of the minimum age to use the site: thirteen. My sister is twelve and loves watching fandom videos on YouTube, and in one year, she will be old enough to make an account with access to my blog and the blogs of all five thousand of my followers. I wonder if she’ll be one of the faceless messages I get in my ask box.

“Could I ask for some advice? It's about gynaecologists and vaginal health while being trans.”

“What I’m wondering is, how did you go about narrowing down lists of colleges to go to?”

“I basically cant[sic] think anymore and it's really hard to do school work because of this. Do you have any advice?”

“How does one stop obsessing over someone, when that person will never be theirs?”

“Hey I really need some help like older sister stuff help”

“I had a breakdown at school today. At least I think that’s what happened because I don’t remember it clearly.”

Some of it is generalized, and some of it is specific, but it all comes from a recognizable place of teen struggle and fear. Sometimes these messages linger in my inbox, as I try to struggle for just the right words. Other times I feel urgency, and dash off a response as quickly as possible. I re-read the post later and wonder if I said the right things, if I said what I meant. I’m not the only one.

Other fandom blogs, some even larger than I am, have turned off anons or closed their ask box entirely because of an influx of personal rants, requests for help, and even suicide notes. While Tumblr’s anon feature is meant to be a place for shy and intimidated users to express themselves in a way that isn’t possible via conventional social media like Facebook and Twitter, the double anonymity of a hidden screenname offers confidence to say things that are otherwise difficult or even unsayable. When it comes to personal questions and statements, many young people lack a safe location to speak them, and the ask box offers a unique relief. Many teens don’t want to speak to their parents, teachers, or guardians about their sex life, their mental health, or their personal problems. Even Googling answers sparks fear that a teacher will confiscate their phone, or a parent will borrow their laptop, and evidence will be left in view. With a generalized segregation of America by age, most teens also don’t have other adults which they can speak to on a friendly basis, let alone speak to face to face for advice on difficult issues. Often the only adults that young people interact with face-to-face are authority figures like older relatives, teachers, and coaches. In the absence of face-to-face interactions, teens instead turn to the leaders of their fandoms, who often foster online personas as Fandom Rens, Moms, Uncles, and Sisters. Plenty of older fandom members cultivate this image, though “older” is relative and in a small community these members may be only eighteen or nineteen years old, though they are generally in their twenties and thirties. While many fandoms have a primary userbase of tweens and teens, these senior members often run the most popular blogs and produce the highest quality fanart, fanfiction, and other fan content. During fandom “discourse,” these older members often lead the way and resolve conflict.

“Discourse” in fandom is not like discourse in the academic sense. While academic discourse encompasses many elements of rhetoric and debate, fandom “discourse” is essentially a euphemism for argument, frequently with an ethical element or discussion of “problematic” behavior. This discourse can involve either relationships between real human beings like celebrities and fandom members or the content of any fictional work contained in the fandom canon. The wide umbrella of “discourse” covers everything from discussion of whether a fandom celebrity’s recent comment was racist all the way to whether fanwriting two characters romantically is incestual when both characters are figments of a third character’s imagination. In essence, discourse gets hairy, complicated, and even philosophical. Like real political and social issues and like fandom itself, discourse gives some young people a sense of belonging and also the feeling that they are on the side of right and reason. An individual’s choice to participate in discourse becomes part of their identity.

In this way, fandom becomes what Mary Louise Pratt refers to as a contact zone, “where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other.” Through fanfiction “AUs” (alternate universes) fans of color write white characters as PoC, queer fans write cisgender/heterosexual characters as LGBT+, and neuroatypical fans write neurotypical characters as autistic, depressed, anxious, or otherwise neuroatypical. While alternate universe only emerged as a genre with the rise of the internet, these stories reflect a longer history of the insertion of the subordinate into dominant texts. Pratt refers to a text called The First Chronicle and Good Government, in which a man native to South America uses the language of his colonizers, the Spanish, to talk about the experience of the indigenous people, “in which the subordinated subject single-handedly gives himself authority in the colonizer’s language and verbal repertoire.” Through this text, Pratt touches on what she calls transculturation, a product of the contact zone, in which “members of subordinated or marginal groups select and invent from materials transmitted by a dominant or metropolitan culture.” In the modern world, the dominant culture produces Steve Rogers, a cisgender man, and fandom reinvents him as a transgender man. The dominant culture creates Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, two white children, and fandom reinvents them as black and Indian. The dominant culture offers Legolas and Gimli, both ambiguously straight, and fandom reinvents them as a gay couple. For young marginalized people encountering this kind of contact zone for the first time, fandom becomes a community that is irreplaceable and unique, where they have the ability to express themselves and see themselves in characters.

Between the aspects of community in fandom itself and the discourse which offers a cause and creates both positive and negative relationships, it is hardly surprising that young people turn to fandom elders when they encounter a problem. After watching older fandom members participate in, manage, or even quell discourse, younger fandom members begin to look up to them as people who have all the answers, as leaders of this unique community. The availability of anonymity makes the opportunity even more enticing. A kind older fandom member becomes everyone’s shoulder to cry on, everyone’s outlet, and everyone’s therapist. While this may serve as a resource for plenty of teens, there is always an associated toll taken on the mental wellbeing of the members who serve them. Fandom creators want to help their followers, but may be struggling with their own past or present depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorders, body image issues, and attacks on their identity.

Self-proclaimed “Fandom Grandpa” @randomslasher (known in the community as LJ) runs the largest art and writing blog in my fandom and has struggled with a history of anon rants and anon requests both to themself and to their partner Thuri, who also runs a popular blog. As long ago as 2013, LJ posted, “I don’t think I will ever understand people who hide behind a mask of anonymity for the sole purpose of making someone else feel bad. Just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should [emphasis original].” LJ has made additional posts before and since requesting that people abstain from ranting into their inbox, but the issue continues for LJ and other major bloggers who gain new followers every single day. Many of these anonymous messages are never published, as evidenced by posts like this one, which appeared on LJ’s blog in 2018: “Anon i’m sorry to hear that, but that wasn’t a safe ask to send someone without a trigger warning, and i won’t publish it. Try to get help if you can.” The message of the post alone is ominous, and one can only guess at the content of the ask.

The teenage years are known to be a time of struggle, both personal and social. This is significant now more than ever as depression and anxiety rates among teens rise, and many teens experience suicidal ideation, unhealthy relationships with their own bodies, and struggles with their gender and sexuality in addition to the classic problems of teenhood which should be no more serious than asking someone to homecoming, getting a driver’s license, or taking a chemistry exam. However, as student struggles become more severe, especially among marginalized groups, resources to cope with this period is not moving apace, and young people use fandom as a resource to get answers and to express themselves. Older fandom members are suddenly bearing the weight of hundreds of teen struggles, and most of them have no formal training or resources to cope with them.

#writing

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justbwi · 6 years

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Race Start

(i just can’t find a relevant gif but i mean...soft jungkook...am i right?)

Word count: 2904

Pairing: jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff / highschool au

Summary: requested by @loudandweird “A fluffy scenario based on this please? <Jungkook x Reader> They both like to go to the arcade a lot and they suddenly change personalities. Both are super aggressive, loud and competitive while playing, like they are enemies, but once they exit the arcade, reader goes back to being loving and affectionate and Jungkook the playful and bashful him.

A/N: it’s been a longgggggggggg wait i’m so sorry my bun ;w; please forgive my piles upon piles of schoolwork and exam papers *bows* hopefully it’s worth the wait~ and I’ve make some changes with your request ;) enjoy ^3^

It is a misty Autumn evening, a time when the leaves turn gold, painting the streets in a shimmering afterglow. The wind gently weaves its fingers through the few loose strands of hair that is shielding your vision away from the school’s courtyard, where a couple of students still linger around even the bell has long rung.

You are warmly nestled on a bench standing under the protection of a maple tree, legs swaying back and forth in sync with the passing seconds. An uneasiness presses on your chest as you heave out a heavy sigh, its source tracing back to the collection of college application forms sitting by your side. You could certainly use some distraction at the moment just to stop yourself from overthinking over the strategies your professors have kindly suggested using. It is not like you already have a clear idea on what career you would like to pursue in the future anyways. Dreams and ambitions have not always been of a great importance to you, not that you have never thought of them since childhood, but it is the surge of helplessness with which they always come along that stops you from pondering over any possibilities. You cannot seem to pinpoint something you are particularly good at from which you can earn a good fortune. Throughout the few years of high school, you just do as you are told no matter you like it or not. You are definitely not sitting among the top academically, but at least you are doing fine and you have never failed a test before unlike someone whom you just so happen to be waiting for and whom you…

“Hey, Y/N,” the slightly high-pitched voice breaks you out of your own reverie. You look up to find a pair of doe-like eyes staring right back at you.

You blink as the boy in front flicks your forehead playfully seeing it takes way too long for you to respond, earning a couple of giggles from his group of friends standing behind him.

“Ah, Jungkook. You are here,” you reply in an almost unamused tone which catches his attention right away.

The group falls silent when they realise the change in atmosphere, waving a friendly goodbye in your direction before excusing themselves as if their presence could have annoyed you. You forcefully put up a smile and return the gesture. You most certainly do not want to rain on the parade of Jungkook’s overly-excited group of friends’ at this moment and you are grateful that they have left before you have the heart to ask them to. In fact, you do not have the mood for Jungkook either. You could have his day ruined n a bit since you cannot help sulking and getting drowned in a sea of thoughts from time to time. But he does not seem affected, not even in the slightest.

Jungkook takes advantage of your troubled state and pinches your cheek once again, knowing that you are not in the mood for retaliation, as he straightens himself before you and chants, “Let’s go!”

And just before you finish collecting yourself to be able to refuse, he is already taking long strides towards the school entrance, leaving trails of his infamous minty scent in its wake.

You follow the boy out, staying on his left almost as a routine. Jungkook does not speak for the rest of the walk and that makes you even more anxious than ever.

“Where are we going?” you giddily ask, the unknown destination stealing part of your attention span away from the trouble earlier on. You set your gaze over to the horizon, where the sun is about to set, its red glamour setting your whole body on fire. Autumn should not be hard to endure with the heat waves long gone, but your chest still feels heavy as if you were forced between two stone walls, slowly pressing in.

Jungkook chuckles in reply. It is surely untypical of him to act mysterious. In this relationship between the two of you, his name shouts nothing like little surprises the way yours will never get in line with the word ‘future’. You avoid thinking about what things will be like tomorrow because you hate to ponder on the unknown which tends to add onto your fear and worries. That also accounts for the fact that you are slightly envious of Jungkook, who seemingly has his future meticulously planned and acted upon. He is a talented musician, a known fact to the whole town ever since he was born a week before you. He has a wonderful voice that never fails to lull you into sleep when he crawls into your bed at thousands of dreary nights. His voice is not too high or too deep, just about right to your liking, like honey dripping your throat. You know that his gifts have to recognised someday, that his voice has to be heard all around the world, but somehow you want to keep this treasure to yourself. This soft and tenderness is encasing you at this moment and you hate to let it go.

“Y/N, we’re here,” Jungkook announces as a matter of fact, putting half of his body weight onto the sets of doors ahead, clearing the entranceway for your entry.

You steal a glance at the banner hanging high up on the wall nearby and five seconds are all it takes for you to figure out what is to ensue. This gaming centre is located right around the corner in the neighbourhood both you and Jungkook reside in. Ever since its grand opening, the two of you have been admiring its glory from afar but never have either of you the courage to take a look from the inside because well…school sucks and second of all, you guys were told that you were underage.

“Do you really think that looking at what I couldn’t have will make me feel better now?” You reply, unamused. Just as you are about to shy away from the unknown once again, the boy tightens his hold at your wrist and guides you to the opposite direction.

"Who says we are just looking at it from afar this time?" Jungkook smirks and swiftly makes you walk ahead, generously letting you have the first taste of freedom and this refreshing scene imprinted in your memory.

You blink hard as you get adjusted to the apparently dimmer lighting inside. The interior is much bigger than the way you have always imagined it to be. Rows upon rows of gaming machines mark the boundary between the counter from where game coins are retrieved and the actual paradise yearning for your touch. The boy is long gone before you notice his absence as if he knew the way in and out here way better than you. He came back with a wide smile, the coins clattering against each other in a small plastic bag which is then nicely transferred to you.

"Up for a race? Best of three. The loser of each game gets to decide which arcade they are going for next," Jungkook suggests playfully.

"What race?" You reply confusedly and fail to figure out the answer yourself in his brown-tinted iris.

"You are clearly struggling with college application. Let's just use that as a bet. If you win, you will have a night's out at Ruby's. My treat." He winks as he inserts a game coin into the dancing machine on his right.

You step onto the panel when the screen goes black, anticipating the start of the song. "What if I lose?"

Jungkook returns with a final game coin slipping through his fingers into the slot, his steps light as compared to the strong base pounding in the background. "I get to choose what you are putting in your college application." And that sounds ridiculous and fair to you at the same time - ridiculous because he could have come up with the craziest idea ever existed and you would have no right to fight your way through; fair because the bet is clearly laid at your odds -you are either going to have your stomach satisfied or your troubles solved. It does not sound terrible at all, does it?

Before you have more time to ponder over it, the music has already begun and as far as you are concerned, you are several beats behind Jungkook. You frantically jump to the corresponding buttons when the arrows pop up on the screen again, stealing glances at the boy from time to time to see if he is doing better than you.

Despite your effort in catching up, the song ends on a note where Jungkook is proudly announced as the winner.

"Dancing king right here, ladies and gentlemen," Jungkook smirks and bows to no one in particular.

You come down from the game panel, panting hard. His infamous smirk seems to make your insides boil, sparking off fury that is threatening to eat you alive. "I am gonna get you," you sputter, the urge to win fuelling every vein of yours.

The brunette chuckles at your change of tone. "Alright. You can choose the next game."

You glance around. The shooting gun looks tempting but you think of how marvellously good Jungkook is at his video games and stop halfway in your tracks to the range, heading for the air hockey instead.

"First to score ten wins," you plainly declare and move to the opposite side of the table.

Jungkook nods and places the puck at the centre, his index fingers gradually sliding off as your body tense up in anticipation.

"Ready, set..." the boy slurs, his gaze steady on the puck. "go."

You eye his quick movement, his right arm outstretched in the hopes of scoring the firsl goal. Instinctively, you move your paddle right in front of the slot on your side of the rail in defence, going left and right to dodge the attack. Once the puck stops within your range, you lift up the paddle to capture it under as you glance up, mimicking Jungkook's smirk. You prepare yourself for a powerful strike, one that will tear Jungkook's tactics apart. He notices your change in posture, his eyes narrow to squint at the puck in movement.

Ding.

"Ten points to Gryffindor. I win," you chant, arms flown high up in the air.

Jungkook chuckles dryly. "Don't tell me that one single score worth ten points, Y/N."

"Well, you did not ask," you reply, not forgetting to shoot a satisfactory wink Jungkook's way just as he did a few mintues ago.

"Where is the fair play we have always stressed on?" The boy argues with his lips pursed, pulling his best act of a poor puppy.

You shrug and take a long stride towards another arcade machine nearby. There is nothing like fairness when it comes to the competition between the two of you. Knowing how ambitious you yourself are, you treat every bet seriously as if it was a matter of life or death. Sometimes, it is not the price of winning the bet that makes you devote all of you to the game but the sheer ounce of pride and satisfaction over the fact that you have defeated the almighty Jeon Jungkook which sound just right at the end of the day.

You notice Jungkook take a quick turn to the left and follow him. "That's a tie for now. I mean I can only imagine you filling in the application form before my eyes. I like the sound of Entomology," the boy smiles, the crinkles at his eyes making the whole idea look less frightening than it should be for a person suffering from insect phobia like you.

You shiver unknowingly. "I can literally taste the perfectly cooked rib eye steak, melting at the tip of my tongue. Shut up and pick your game, Jeon."

"Here we are," Jungkook nudges you lightly, bringing you back to the real competition.

The basketball arcade is the nearest to the entrance. You have certainly greeted it from afar but you long decided that you would never play a game that is at Jungkook's favour. His height, accompanied with his excellent reflexes, have never done you any good in all the ball matches the two of you have engaged in before. Apparently, they are not going to do you any good at this point of speaking either.

Jungkook has finished slipping in five game coins before you can possibly back out. "Shoot at the same time. The one with highest count of goals win," he announces the instant rules and stomps his fist onto the 'start' button.

Hurriedly, you step in between the boy and the machine, blocking his direct access to the basketballs falling behind the rail. You tiptoe and aim for the best shot as the net sways left and right.

"Goal," you quietly wish as you watch another basketball striking in the same direction, swiftly hit yours and go straight for the scoreboard. Your ball springs back and slams against the protection shield instead.

"Better luck next time, kid," Jungkook chuckles. Since you have your tiny figure sandwiched between the machine and him, the angelic laugh of his seems to vibrate against your back, making you hyperaware of the proximity.

You blush, not sure if that is out of shame or the fact that Jungkook's breath is hot against the nape of your neck; the fact that his pants would sound way too sexy as he purposefully kneels down a little bit to grab a basketball, breaking apart your useless blockade. "Stop that!" You protest.

"What exactly do you mean?" Jungkook asks with a smirk visible at the corner of his lips.

You roll your eyes and make good use of this distraction to score more goals. Eventually, you pull off. You are not sure at which point did you start taking the lead in the game despite all Jungkook's advantages, but you did win after all. That's all it would ever matter.

"I win," you say as a matter a fact with the widest smile you could have ever mustered ever since the arrival of those college application forms. You swear you have not been this pleased for a long time.

Jungkook applauds, the same grateful smile reflected on his face. “Congratulations, my queen. Ruby’s waiting at your doorstep but not Entomology, luckily.”

You hum at the mention of Ruby’s and lick your upper lip subconsciously as you picture the smell of the freshly grilled steak, but that is still not ample to calm your nerves when the idea of college pops up in your mind. Now that you have won, you really did lose yourself an excuse on filling in the application. Suddenly, the idea of losing does not sound terrible after all if you could have someone decide your fate.

“Maybe I should just go for Entomology. I mean…I literally have no idea what I should be studying in college,” you sigh, arms thrown in the air in defense.

The sudden change of topic drains the surrounding light atmosphere alongside Jungkook’s smile away. “You know I’m joking right, Y/N,” Jungkook laughs dryly, the sound still came out endearing albeit forced.

“Or I could just follow your trail. I will just go and study music. Yes, I will definitely struggle with playing the right notes but that way I get to see you every day. That’s still a benefit, I suppose,” you reply and nudge the boy for an approval.

Jungkook grimaces. “For the sake of mankind, don’t do music. Save them the risks of being deafen, please.”

Rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder half-heartedly. “I am serious, Kook.”

Jungkook shifts his body to look at you properly, his right hand on your head, patting you lightly as he replies, “Y/N, just do what you like. You have always been a wonderful painter, right”

“But, no one pursues drawing as a job in the real world…” You fight back weakly, knowing for sure that you will be happy studying Arts despite what the adults say.

Jungkook shakes his head the moment you utter your stance. “Van Gogh, you are way too young to be worrying that much. Y/N, you and I both know that you are a gifted child. You can always make something out of those ‘unrealistic dreams’.” He lowers his hand to caress your rosy cheeks, the corners of his eyes shimmering with something anew. “Or…you can always do what you are good at instead.”

His last reply sends you back to a confused state. You blink. “And that is?”

“Me.”

“You know what?”

“Hm?”

“That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

Jungkook chuckles, his bunny-like smile a little too adorable at the moment that you just cannot resist the urge to kiss it away. You smile into the shallow kiss, slightly aware of the fact that both of you are still in a public area.

“Y/N,” the boy calls softly.

“Hm?” You coos as you weave your fingers through his brown strands the way he has always liked it.

“I can already tell that you are really good at this. I wonder how much you can improve when we get out of here?” His hands slowly glide across your back and down your hips.

“Up for a race?”

“Sounds just about right.”

#bts #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook scenario #jungkook fluff #jungkook scenarios #bts scenario #bts scenarios #bts fluff #jeon jungkook #bangtan scenario #bangtan fluff #bangtan scenarios #jungkook fic #jungkook fics #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #tiff fics #bts fic

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bassehendricks4-blog · 6 years

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Craft Of Paleo Soup

As if dropping weight had not been hard good enough, effectiveness usually triggers a plateau: a discouraging, and also sadly common, amount of time where weight-loss relates to a comprehensive stall. As well as in the end, if weight-loss is actually not attained or even preserved, that surgery is actually most likely looked at a failure (oh wait, that corrects, the fat loss treatment is actually never looked at a failure; this is actually the person that is actually the failing); as well as I'm suspecting that the individual which had the completely healthy and balanced body organs severed or repositioned for weight loss are going to be actually rather dissatisfied, also. Sandra: Absolutely no that is actually very various, therefore as soon as your body weight stabilises you're no more receiving those beneficial bolsters off your atmosphere, thus you are actually refusing latest, smaller clothes, your buddies are no longer discussing the modifications and you've sort of got utilized to the important things you have the ability to perform at your lesser body weight. One vivid factor on the scene resides in simple fact both the Western side Australian Unsparing authorities and right now the Victorian Benevolent authorities have actually launched this brand-new Live Lighter in weight campaign, which is the initial really potentially quite helpful social advertising great communications that can definitely assist us begin to change our personal beliefs as well as perspectives around a healthy diet regimen. My favored person (okay, certainly not really) to argue along with on this subject urges that the trick to weight-loss (even lasting!) is actually http://montrez-vousblog.info (in spite of total absence of evidence) When I state that I raise weights and also I'm still fat, the response is actually invariably, Well, you are actually just not doing it enough." When I inquire how much and how typically I ought to lift weights, the solution is, More than you're performing right now." Which is http://montrez-vousblog.info/iheater-experience-de-test-amazon-commandez-forum-presentation/ , considering that he doesn't know jack about just what I'm performing currently. While in theory people who shed smaller amounts of body weight could look at the same metabolic stagnations and leptin deficiencies, that is actually far more challenging for an individual to keep a huge fat burning if they begin at a BMI of FIFTY compared to a BMI from 30. This initial number falls into one of the most severe group from obesity, phoned tremendously obese." For perspective, a person crosses over into obese" region with a BMI of 25. All the relevant information is actually wonderful insight except for the ones who hardly consume anything and wish to reduce weight, ha ha your killing your metabolic rate and your simply heading to obtain everything back faster than just what you dropped this!!! and that could simply induce you to provide secret is personal recognition some times counting callores may be awfel and personaly i do not perform that because compared to i began to cheat myself. After chatting an although I found out a few other traits: 1. She was slammed for her body weight at a young age, 2. She began self-restricting biscuits when she was 7 or 8 years old, and 3. She was commonly a much higher body weight, attempted all the diet regimens, and also this complete sobriety regimen is actually the only one that has functioned" for her in terms of keeping her body weight down long-term. I want to invite you to participate in a research venture I am working with and will greatly appreciate your aid to do thus. The title from my analysis is Customer Assumption from the Efficiency of Herbalife Supplements." The reason of my research is actually to check out just how Herbalife individuals view that taking Herbalife supplements assistance in weight management and/or weight management. Greetings there, my little girl and i are both on the holsford diet plan and also in merely 10 times our company have actually both dropped over 5kgs each.ijust might certainly not believe this, presuming that our range had was out of kinds i contacted above my taiwanese good friend and also asked her to tromp the scale, she examined me as well as pointed out whye mee i no put on weight" i answered no no no i presume the range is actually all washed up damaged" she answered no is accumulate" so a hearty major thankyou to MR HOLFORD as well as we are each heading to proceed consuming healthy and balanced food.

I'm sorry since you was available in telling me you wanted to consume organic as well as weren't sure concerning all the chemicals in the meals, as well as I composed some BS regarding exactly how it was a strategying stone." I am actually sorry because a lot of you possessed thyroid issues and the SURVIVE point you ought to have been performing was eating a gluten-filled, chemically-laden starvation diet. Web site creator Stan Rak has a highly specialized, data-driven background and has utilized his skills to produce a data bank of over one hundred 1000 food to ensure his visitors could obtain complete active ingredient listings, AND ALSO different colors coded info and also a certifying device that pinpoints damaging components as well as highlights healthy versus certainly not so healthy and balanced possibilities. Sorry, can not aid myself reply your article yet as an Accredited Athletics Dietitian seeking advice from for ballet colleges, I don't assume this dish program appropriates for you as you discussed you are actually a professional dancer and a teen, I can't possibly observe there's enough iron for you not to mention other nutrients like carbohydrates (gas for your dives as well as rotates), calcium mineral etc. chance that helps. When I review it with chance I was actually quickly let down along with anguish when I realized that this diet is actually damn near impossible in my globe, I believed overcome also considering that. I am actually from the North yet live in the South, I bring in routine funds working as a center training class government worker, I rest at a workdesk all day, I work an elliptical device at nights and also and I am actually overweight by merely about TWENTY extra pounds.

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hollandtomholland · 7 years

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Something More

- A Tom Holland oneshot.

(A/N): Happy Valentines day, loves! Technically it’s over where I’m from (it’s 4:05 am) but I might just get there in time for all of you guys in the US. I thought I’d celebrate today and christen this blog with a not-so-little something I’ve been working on for the past week. It clocks in at just under 6k, twice as much as I’d intended, but you know what it’s like when you really get into something. I haven’t written anything like this in about three and a half years, so I’m a little rusty - bear with me! I hope you enjoy and I’d really appreciate any feedback if you’re willing. Also - my formatting keeps messing up in the mobile app and removing the read more, so sorry to everyone who has to scroll through this massive wall of text. Much love xo

Summary: Everyone has that one person who seems to dip in and out of their lives, reappearing when they least expect it , and for you that was Tom. He was as mysterious as he was charming, and the chemistry between you was electric - but he was never around for very long. When he appears on one of the most important nights of your life, nothing is certain. Is this just another fleeting chapter in your shared history? Or is it something more?

Warnings: Very mild angst, but mostly pure fluff.

There was something thoroughly magical about a gallery opening that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Perhaps it was the sheer amount of creative talent gathered in one space, sharing ideas and murmuring their appreciation, or the powerful energy of never-before-seen artworks that were finally able to inspire and move those who looked upon them. Or maybe, you thought, it was just the champagne. Whatever it was, you were grateful to be there.

Tonight, you were finally able to stand in that space and feel proud of yourself. Three of your portraits hung on the wall before you, beautifully framed and looking way more professional than they’d ever done before. Many people would consider photography to require less skill, less artistry than painting, but you wholeheartedly disagreed. Even after years of experience, you still marvelled at how even the tiniest change in angle, the most imperceptible shift in lighting, or the most minor adjustment of focus could produce the greatest of results. Every single person you photographed was different, and so was your approach to photographing each one. You put the utmost effort into creating something that would reflect their personality in a single shot; soft lighting to bring out someone’s warmth, a low angle to convey their confidence, blue tones to communicate some inner melancholy. Each little detail you tweaked was like the stroke of a painter’s brush, and you’d honed your craft to perfection.

Appearing behind you with a glass of champagne in each hand, Jocelyn regarded you warmly. “How are you feeling?” she asked, handing you the fuller of the two glasses. You took a long sip, feeling the bubbles fizzing against the roof of your mouth. “Kinda like this” you remarked, holding up your glass with a wry smile. She laughed. “Is that because you’re nervous? Or because you’ve seen him?”

You followed her pointed gaze to the far corner of the room. A well dressed man was stood by the coat check, handing his coat to the attendant. As he turned to survey the room, you caught sight of his face.

Ah, you thought.

Him.

Everyone has that one person who seems to dip in and out of their lives, reappearing when they least expect it , and for you that was Tom. The first time you’d met him was five years ago, at a friend’s housewarming party. He was charismatic, strikingly polite, and full of sparkling conversation that charmed everyone around him in an instant - including you. You’d barely had the chance to speak to him properly that night, exchanging one or two words across group discussions, but from that moment on he was to become something of a recurring character in your life. This second time you met, several months later, he appeared as the friend of a work colleague, joining your team for the weekly pub quiz. This time the two of you were able to engage one on one, and you were struck by how this near-stranger could make you feel like the only person in what was a very crowded room. Maybe it was the way he made intense eye contact when he listened, or maybe it was the warmth in his voice as he spoke to you. Whatever it was that he had, you missed it very much when he failed to return the following week… and the week after that. “He’s a busy guy” your colleague had told you, when you finally brought up the subject of his absence, “We were lucky to get him just the once”

The following year, you saw him several times, including once in a restaurant where you both happened to be on a first date set up by the same person. You acknowledged each other politely from across the room, and you found yourself much more interested in him than in the guy sitting in front of you. His name still escapes you… Kevin, was it? Or maybe Scott… Regardless, the date was not a success. You had excused yourself to the ladies’ after the main course, bumping into a slightly frazzled looking Tom on the way out. “Everything okay?” you had asked him, and he’d glanced furtively back into the dining room. “Never go on a blind date” he’d told you earnestly as his eyes met yours, “This girl… she doesn’t like dogs”.

“I know the feeling” you’d replied, gesturing towards your table where what’s his name was currently picking his teeth with a knife. Tom had taken one look at him and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, eyes fixed onto yours once again. “May we both escape this alive” he’d said solemnly, before a broad grin lit up his face. With that he turned and walked away, fingertips brushing down your arm as you parted. You’d watched him for a moment, and were about to return to your own table when he suddenly looked back at you. The conspiratorial wink he’d proceeded to give you sent a delicious shiver down your spine, and for the rest of the night all you could think about was him.

And so it went on, the two of you bumping into each other every so often and never in the same place twice. He was never with the same people either, but the two of you had a mutual friend so often that you wondered if everyone in the city knew him. There was the time you met by the stage door of a theatre, both knowing the lead actress in the play. Once he was at a birthday party of an old school friend, having worked with them a few years back. Only last year he’d turned up at your college friend’s wedding, having known the groom since they were children. The last time you’d seen him, he’d appeared at a garden party with a friend of a friend, introduced as the guy she’d been seeing for a few weeks. You’d watched him sitting close to this girl you vaguely knew, laughing and sharing in-jokes you didn’t quite understand as a tight knot formed in your stomach. The burning stare he’d given you across the table, however, was the same as it had always been, as was the warmth in his voice as he said your name. You left early that night, excusing yourself over a fictional headache. By the following week the girl was seeing a different guy, and you hadn’t seen him since.

No matter how many times you met him, though, you never seemed to make any sort of progress. You got on like a house on fire when you were together, the chemistry electric, but as soon as you parted it was like he’d never existed. No way of contacting him, and no idea of when you’d see him again. On many occasions you’d berated yourself for not asking for his number, something which seemed so easy and yet proved so hard. It seemed you were stuck in this awkward ‘more than acquaintances but less than friends’ position permanently, unable to make a break through. The only exception to this was the night of the wedding, but you’d done your best to never think about that again.

Jocelyn was one of the few people who you’d mentioned Tom to. You’d tried to keep it as casual as possible, telling the tale of your many meetings as if it was just a funny story that meant very little - she’d seen right through you. After that, she’d pressed you for details every time you saw him, treating the whole situation like the most exciting thing she’d ever heard. Last year, he’d appeared at the opening of her husband’s last business venture, and she could barely contain her excitement at finally getting to see the Mysterious Tom. She greeted him with the same polite interest she offered everyone else, but as soon as he was gone she’d sidled up to you with a knowing glint in her eye; “I get it” she’d told you. “He’s cute, charming, and a little bit mysterious. No wonder you’re so hooked”.

So here he was now, at one of the most important events in your life so far. It made a strange kind of sense, if you really thought about it. Jocelyn watched you with interest, trying to decipher the expression you were just about managing to keep neutral. “You weren’t expecting him” she surmised, as you took another long sip of champagne. You shrugged nonchalantly, feeling more bemused than anything else. A small part of you had actually wondered if he’d be there, but a bigger part of you had brushed that off as wishful thinking. “Who invited him?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “Could be any number of people”. A moment of silence passed as you both watched him, before Jocelyn turned to you again. “You should go say hi” she suggested, earning a vigorous shake of the head from you. “What would difference would it make” you sighed, before turning back to your portraits. “Besides, I don’t want to ruin tonight by making it all about him. I want to enjoy this moment fully and properly”

This was true. Every time you saw Tom, you were left feeling disappointed regardless of anything else that had happened. You could be at the most amazing party and have the greatest time, but the rush of warmth and excitement you felt in his presence left everything feeling cold and dull as soon as he was gone. It led to you resenting yourself, hating how one person could have such a strong effect on you when you probably meant nothing to them. Just this once, you wanted to avoid all of that. Everything had been perfect thus far, so why would you want to risk ruining it?

“That’s fair enough” Jocelyn commented, unable to argue with your sound logic. “It’s a big enough space, you should be able to avoid him without too much difficulty”.

And she was right. The following hours passed by without incident, though the thought of him still lingered at the back of your mind. A few brief glances in his direction were all you allowed yourself, unable to stop yourself from indulging no matter how strong your resolve was. He still had the same intense effect on you, even from afar. Jocelyn acted as a lookout, barely leaving your side and hurrying you away to another area once or twice when she spotted him rounding the corner. Still, you managed to make it effortless, mingling with everyone in a way which made you feel like you fitted in for once. To your surprise and delight your work had attracted much praise from artists and patrons alike. Even more encouraging, by the end of the night a ‘sold’ sticker had appeared on one of your portraits: a self portrait you’d taken last year, something very personal that you’d been hesitant to show.

“What did I tell you,” Jocelyn reminded you, as the two of you stood by the coat check. “It’s some of your best work”. It was late in the evening, and she was preparing to leave. Only a handful of people remained in the gallery, and Tom had not been sighted for at least the past half hour. “Are you sure you don’t want us to drop you back?” she asked you, and you shook your head.

“It’s a kind offer, but I want to stay here just a little while longer. Really make the most of it, you know?”

“Of course. You’ve earned it”

She gave you a parting hug before exiting the gallery, joining her husband who was waiting outside. You gave them a wave as they left, noticing for the first time that snow had begun to settle on the pavement. It snowed every winter in the city, but tonight it seemed even more magical than usual. The ‘sold’ sticker on your portrait drew your eyes again, and you walked over to fully take it in. Your first show, and you’d already sold something. It wasn’t the money that excited you, in fact that hadn’t even crossed you mind. Just the knowledge that someone liked your work enough to purchase it for themselves was reward enough, and you couldn’t stop the enormous smile from taking over your face.

“You should be incredibly proud of yourself”

You knew exactly who that voice belonged to. Slowly, you turned to face the speaker, face fixed with an expression that you hoped conveyed pleasant surprise rather the strange mix of emotions you were currently feeling.

“Tom! I didn’t expect to see you here” you addressed him casually, as he stepped forward to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His lips were warm against your skin, his hand resting on your bare arm, and you tried to ignore the sensation this stirred up in your stomach. “Wouldn’t miss it” he replied softly, his eyes meeting yours as you parted. In that moment you wished it was possible to suppress a blush, feeling the scarlet heat creeping onto your cheeks. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice.

You took his words to mean that he was here by the invitation of one of the other artists. “Who did you come for?” you asked him. Who was your mutual friend this time? Who was the lucky person who’d earned his support, whose presence had drawn him there tonight?

“You”.

He spoke the word so casually, as if it should’ve been completely obvious. This was clearly no big deal to him, but you, on the other hand, were slightly thrown. You looked at him with genuine surprise this time. “Really?”

“Of course. I passed by earlier this week and your name on the poster caught my eye. I knew I had to come, I’ve been wanting to see your work ever since you mentioned you were a photographer”

This was new territory. For once, Tom was not here as someone’s friend, or someone’s colleague. He was here for you and you alone, a situation you had never dared imagine would occur.

“And I must say, it was worth the wait. These are simply magical” he said earnestly, turning his attention to your portraits. “The way you capture your subjects… it’s beautiful”.

You were momentarily lost for words. Tom looked at your work the way no one else ever had, with such intense wonder and fascination. You could tell that he really meant what he said.

“Thank you. Really, thank you, that means a lot to me”

He shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing. “I suspect you’ve heard that a lot tonight, though” he added, seemingly unaware of the effect his words were having on you. “People have certainly been very kind” you admitted.

“I’m not surprised, talent like yours is hard to ignore” he enthused. “You’ve really blown me away”

He turned his gaze back to you as he said this, his eyes bright and intense as they locked on to yours. His voice was soft and low, the last sentence laced with an undertone that hinted at a deeper meaning. Part of you wished he’d stop doing that; you were trying to keep your feelings out of this, and the fire he ignited in your stomach betrayed you entirely. Another part of you craved the familiar thrill. This was not what you’d intended to happen at all, but you should’ve known it was inevitable. Silently you berated yourself for letting him get to you so easily, just like you did every time. You decided then that you should take your leave, whilst it was still early enough to avoid that dreaded crash from a Tom-induced high.

“Well, it’s getting late, isn’t it? I suppose I should be heading home for some rest after all the excitement of tonight” you began, fixing a smile onto your face. Conversely, Tom’s smile faltered at your words. “Oh, that’s shame”. His voice was less sure than usual, and this sparked your curiosity. “How so?”

“I was hoping that you’d let me take you out for a drink or two, perhaps, to celebrate your achievements” he confessed. The intensity in his eyes gave way to a hopeful softness, before his gaze dropped from yours. Suddenly his confidence was replaced with a vulnerability that you’d never seen before, a whole new side of Tom revealed to you that you’d never expected. “I found a great little bar that I thought you might like, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything”

In that moment, your resolve crumbled. He had you entirely.

“I’m sure I have a couple more hours left in me” you said softly, any previous hesitations forgotten. Tom looked up at you, his eyes full of hope. “Are you sure?” he asked, and you nodded.

“Of course. It’s a lovely idea, thank you for thinking of me”.

His whole face lit up at your words, that familiar confidence and cool composure restored. “It’s my pleasure. I’ll just go get my coat then, shall I? Oh, and let me get yours too”.

With that he was off, striding through the gallery to the coat check. You watched him, very aware that you should be angry at yourself right now. You’d intended to avoid Tom at all costs, and yet here you were, agreeing to go out for a drink with him. Somehow, though, you didn’t mind. Something about tonight felt different, it was undeniable. Unlike every other time you were with him, this time, it was just you and Tom. More than that, he’d expressed explicit interest in spending time with you, all of the effort coming from his own free will. This wasn’t just another coincidental crossing of paths - this was deliberate, and filled with potential that both excited and intimidated you. Part of you knew that you were opening yourself up possible disappointment, but a bigger part couldn’t bear to cut the evening short.

You met Tom at the door, where he helped you on with your coat. His fingertips brushed across your neck as he pulled it over your shoulders, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. He turned to you with a smile as he opened the door. “It’s barely a five minute walk away, we should be back in the warm in no time”.

Five minutes or fifty, you wouldn’t have cared either way. You barely noticed the cold as you walked, as swept up as you were in Tom’s sparkling conversation. He had this way of making you feel as if you’d never been apart, picking things up where you left off no matter how long it had been since you last saw each other. “It’s just here” Tom said as you approached the bar, holding the door open and gesturing for you to step inside. It was a beautiful little place, decorated with 1920’s style flair and softly lit with elegant chandeliers. It wasn’t as busy as most bars in this part of the city, with just a gentle hum of conversation and plenty of space to sit; he’d chosen well.

“This is lovely” you told him, as he led you over to a table tucked away in the corner.

“A friend of mine had his birthday drinks here a few weeks ago,” Tom replied, “And for some reason it made me think of you”. He spoke so casually, unaware of flutter this drew from your stomach. The very idea that you were on his mind when you were apart had never occurred to you until he’d mentioned seeing your name on the poster earlier, and now this… perhaps you’d underestimated his perception of your connection.

Tom pulled out your chair for you, and then went up to the bar to order some drinks. “I remember your usual: double whiskey, neat” he assured you, and moments later he was back with a glass for each of you. He waited until you’d had a sip before he spoke again, gaze fixed onto yours. “So,” he began, “Are you going to tell me why you were avoiding me earlier?”

The whiskey burned in your throat as you swallowed suddenly. Up to this point you thought you’d got away with it, but it appeared you weren’t as subtle as you thought. He didn’t seem annoyed, though – just curious. “Avoiding you?” you weakly replied, willing your mind to formulate a convincing excuse that never seemed to come. “It certainly seemed like it. Every time I tried to approach you, your friend – Jocelyn, isn’t it – hurried you away. At first I thought it was her who was trying to keep us apart, so I stopped trying and waited until you were alone. It was the expression on your face when you turned around that told me you’d known I was here the whole time. You weren’t unhappy, I think, just… uncomfortable”.

He looked at you earnestly, searching for answers in your face that you were trying to hide. It was no good; something about him made it impossible for you to lie. You let out a deep sigh and hid your face in your hands. “I’m sorry, it was… yeah, I just… ughhh”. You let your voice trail off, words failing you entirely. You didn’t dare look at him, feeling completely and utterly ashamed of yourself. How could you possibly explain away this one without sounding thoroughly pathetic?

“Hey, hey…”

A gentle hand reached out and took hold of your wrist, drawing your own hand away from your face. “Look at me”.

Reluctantly you shifted your gaze upwards. Tom’s expression was one of sympathy and reassurance, which only served to make you feel worse somehow. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, I’m sorry” he said softly, his fingertips lingering on your skin for a moment before he let your hand rest on the table. And then, even softer still - “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable”.

Sitting up a little straighter, you gathered together the little composure you had left and chose your words carefully. “No, you don’t need to be sorry for anything. You were right, I was avoiding you, which was a childish thing to do”.

“Can I ask why?”

Honesty was, scarily, the best policy in this case. Time to put your feelings into coherent sentences, whether you felt ready or not.

“It’s just that… look, tonight has been great. And we’ve met at lots of other great nights, right? But sometimes when you’re around, and I can’t explain why… I overthink, and suddenly things aren’t so great”

You chanced a look at him, hoping that your words made some sort of sense. It appeared they did; Tom nodded. “And you wanted tonight to stay great. I understand that” he said calmly, his brow furrowed slightly.

Both of you were silent for a moment. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking underneath that cool exterior, and suddenly the atmosphere felt unbearably heavy. You missed the fun, amiable repartee that you usually shared with Tom, and you scrambled to return to it’s familiarity. “And look at how things have turned out now, still great! I was just being silly, classic me” you babbled, taking on a tone that you hoped was convincingly light.

“I made it weird, didn’t I” Tom murmured, still unreadable.

“What? When?”

“At the wedding”

“Oh, well we don’t need to -”

“When I kissed you”

And there it was.

The one topic that you’d banished from your mind, the one thing that you refused to dwell on, was out in the open. Tom’s voice was thick with emotion, but exactly which emotion it was you could not tell. Longing, maybe? Perhaps that was too far. Or was it regret? You hoped not. Your best tactic, you decided, was to play it as cool as possible. “These things happen, people make mistakes -”

“It wasn’t a mistake” he interjected, his eyes suddenly burning into yours. “Kissing you was not a mistake, I don’t regret it. Do you regret kissing me back?”

Although it was true that you’d tried to forget the kiss, the one thing you could never do was regret it. It was, without a doubt, the best kiss of your life. It was a warm summer’s evening, on a balcony looking out onto the lush gardens of a stately home. One minute the two of you had been talking, and the next his hands were on your waist and his lips were on yours. You could still remember the raw energy between you, how nothing had ever felt more natural or instinctive than to kiss him and be kissed back. No, you could never regret that.

You did, however, regret the way you’d sprung back inside without another word, the second you heard someone calling your name. You regretted that when someone later mentioned that Tom was looking for you, you’d spent the rest of the night holed up in your hotel room overthinking. And you regretted the immediate shut down you went into after convincing yourself that he hadn’t meant it, that you were nothing more than a potential fling to him. That was the easy option, you realised. You hadn’t needed to confront your own feelings, you could remain in denial and avoid reality.

“No, I don’t regret it” you asserted, watching as Tom’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. He took a sip of his drink, swallowing hard. “I tried to find you afterwards, but no one had seen you. I asked your friend for your number, but I guess it was outdated cause when I tried to call it, it was disconnected. We seem to have so many friends in common, and yet when I wanted to reach you I couldn’t find a single person who could help me do that”.

“You tried to find me?”

“Of course, but nothing seemed to work out. It was as if I had to wait for pure luck to put us in the same place again, just like every other time we’d met” he explained. “I held out hope that we’d cross paths again soon and the next time would be different”.

You couldn’t suppress the bitter laugh that bubbled up from your throat. “It was different” you reminded him, taking another sip of whiskey to dull the uncomfortable memories that were resurfacing. The look on his face told you that he knew exactly what you were talking about. “I know,” he began, rubbing his cheek self- consciously, “I was with another girl”.

Back then, you’d expected the next time you saw Tom to be full of unspoken awkwardness - the fact that he turned up with a date was a full on gut punch that confirmed your worst suspicions. The night of the garden party, you’d told yourself that you truly meant nothing to Tom. Any feelings you had for him were one sided, you’d determined, and it was stupid to hope for anything more. “That was… not a great evening” you admitted, with a wry smile.

Tom let out a gentle chuckle. “Not for me either. I’d spent so long thinking of what I was going to say to you, making up my mind to do things properly, and the minute I gave up hope and tried to move on, there you were”.

“I hope you didn’t break up with her on my account” was all you could say, more than a little overwhelmed by everything you were hearing.

“She broke up with me. It was fairly amicable, she sensed something was off and cut it short before I could” he recounted, running a hand through his hair.

“I guess that’s a good thing”

“It was. It wasn’t right for me to be with her when I was…”

He trailed off, letting out a deep sigh. He let his gaze drop, rubbing his cheek again in a gesture that betrayed his usual self-assurance. You watched him, unsure of what to say, as he stared into the bottom of his whiskey glass. The stare turned into a wistful smile, and his eyes met yours once more. When he spoke again, his voice was full of conviction and raw emotion:

“When I was in love with someone else”.

You felt like the breath had been knocked out of you. Your mind reeled at this statement, so plain and simple and yet so full of complex implications.

“You were in love with me?” you asked, your hand gripping tightly around your whiskey glass.

“I still am”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the intensity in his brown eyes revealed the passion behind his words. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? All you could do was stare at him in stunned silence, and he seemed to appreciate the effect his declaration had on you.

“When I saw your name on that poster, I knew that I had one more chance to do this properly… to tell you how I felt. I came to terms with my feelings a long time ago, and I’m not going to apologise for them, but if you don’t feel the same I will respect that and walk away”.

The look in his eyes cut you to the core; vulnerability, with a tinge of hope.

“Just please, say something,” he implored, “Anything”.

There was only one thing you could say: “I’m in love with you too”.

Because after all, you were in love with Tom. You’d never said it out loud before, not to yourself, not even to Jocelyn, but it was the undeniable truth. You were in love with the man sitting in front of you, the man who had poured out his feelings and confirmed that that two of you felt exactly the same way. You had been wrong all along; your connection was than more than just acquaintances, much more than friendship, and went far beyond anything you’d ever imagined.

The sheer joy and relief on Tom’s face was immediately apparent.“That’s… more than I ever could’ve hoped for” he breathed. You sat in silence for a short while, just smiling at each other and basking in the pure exhilaration of the moment. Your bubble was burst by a pointed cough from the bartender; it was only then that you realised you were the only customers left, chairs stacked onto the tables around you.

“Whoops” Tom chuckled, flashing the guy an apologetic smile.

“We should probably go” you added, and the pair of you stood up hurriedly. Tom helped you on with your coat, before offering you his arm. “Shall we?” he asked, that familiar glint of confidence back in his eyes. You slipped your arm into his, and he led you out into the street. For a while you walked along in comfortable silence, sharing a euphoric high. It was Tom who spoke first.

“By the way, I hope it didn’t seem too forward that I bought the portrait of you” he said warily, shooting you a sideways glance.

“I didn’t even realise that was you”

“Part of me thought it was a strange thing to do, but the other part… well, it was just enchanting. You looked beautiful, ethereal, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I was going to give it back to you, see. I remembered you saying that it was a shame you had to sell all your work to make money, because you’d love to keep some pieces, and that one is definitely worth keeping”.

You felt the hot blush creeping in as he spoke, overwhelmed yet again by his kind words. “Thank you” you mumbled, marvelling at how he still had the power to surprise even after everything that had already been said. Tom turned to look at you, and a grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Are you blushing?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the pavement. Stepping in front of you, he brushed a hand across your cheek. “You are! Is this because I told you that you looked beautiful? You always do, I thought that the first time we met. You look even more beautiful now”. He gently cupped your face with one hand as the other came to rest on your waist, and then his lips were on yours.

Up until this point, you’d considered the kiss at the wedding to be the best kiss of your life; this one blew it out of the water. His lips moved fervently against your own, warm and soft but more and more urgent as the kiss deepened. Your hands were in his hair, and the hand on your waist pulled you into him, your bodies pressed close together. Breathing became irrelevant; to kiss and only to kiss was the all consuming thought. You’d both been waiting for this moment, and were making the most of every single second. It didn’t matter that you were in the middle of the street, in full view of every passer by. This kiss was intimate, euphoric, everything you felt for each conveyed better in actions than in words. This was the type of kiss that took over your mind, your body, and it couldn’t have been more perfect,

You don’t know how long you kissed for, and you didn’t care. When your lips finally parted, Tom held you close to him, unwilling to let you go just yet. “Wow” he whispered, his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Wow” you agreed, as you smiled up at him. He looked perfect, softly lit by the streetlamps with tiny wisps of snow settling in his hair and eyelashes. “I’ve been invited to a housewarming party tomorrow night, and I want you to come with me” he began, and you couldn’t help but let out a gentle laugh.

“What?” he asked, his nose wrinkling adorably.

“Is it Allie and Connor’s party, by any chance?”

It was Tom’s turn to laugh. “Don’t tell me, you’re invited too”.

You nodded, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit” he added, shaking his head in wonder. “But would you like to go together? As a couple?”

“Of course I would” you assured him, “It would be a welcome change”

“I wholeheartedly agree with that”

The two of you began walking again, arms interlinked as the snow sparkled around you. Tom grinned charmingly at you. “Just one thing, though”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to need your number”.

#Tom Holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #file under my stuff

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lxveille · 7 years

Text

happenstance

woozi x reader

word count: ~ 6900 warnings: swearing, (binge) drinking a/n: university!AU; also if you are living in dorms it is Rude™ to sexile your roommate as regularly/badly as Wonwoo does in this fic so don’t do it !!!

When your roommate goes to spend the night with her boyfriend for the first time, she generously offers her own bed to Wonwoo’s sexiled roommate. Which is how you end up practically living with Jihoon instead of your best friend during midterms week.

Your bed is littered with textbooks and highlighted articles you’d spent more money than you should have printing out at the library. Thursdays are often a night when you end up going out with your roommate, but a few key things have changed this week. First of all, your psychology midterm paper is due on Tuesday and you have about half a page of bullet point notes to show for the research you’ve completed so far. Being behind on coursework has never stopped you from being convinced into bar hopping instead before, though.

So perhaps more of note is the fact that your roommate -- your best friend and the impetus of many of your perhaps questionable decisions -- has officially started dating. Things have changed from her freshman year ‘no-strings-ever’ policy. You’ve met Wonwoo several times. Frankly, you’d been skeptical when Xiening first told you she was going out with some guy from her 300-level literature course. And even more skeptical when she reported that the two of them were taking things slow.

Slow is why tonight, nearly two months after her first date, is the first time she’s disappeared from your shared dorm room to spend the night with Wonwoo.

You ought to be grateful for the peace and quiet afforded by her absence. There’s a reasonable chance of making good headway with your paper like this. Still, the concept your room being tranquil in any sense of the word is bizarre.

When the door opens, you don’t look up from your laptop at first. Instead, you simply ask, “What’d you forget?” Certain in the assumption that it must be your roommate dropping back by again. It wasn’t like it’d be a long walk. Wonwoo happened to live on the floor above yours.

“Uh -- sorry, I might have the wrong room,” comes an unknown, masculine voice.

That gets you to look up pretty quickly.

“Who the hell are you?” you snap. He looks like a deer in headlights, laptop tucked under one arm like he should be on his way to a study room in the library rather than barging into someone else’s dorm room.

“I was looking for someone else’s room,” the stranger rephrases, taking a step backwards to look at the number on your door. “You, uh, don’t know anyone named Xiening, do you?”

You sit up straighter on your bed, brow raising at the mention of your friend’s name. “Well, you’re a gutsy one, aren’t you?” It feels safe to presume this must be someone she hooked up with prior to Wonwoo. You’ve never known exactly what kind of magic Xiening had, but her one-night-flings always seem to come calling back for more eventually. Though this one doesn’t exactly look like her usually kind of guy. Handsome, you suppose, but with features that are somehow both softer and less friendly than the type she normally gravitates towards. “She has a boyfriend now,” you tell him matter of factly, “She’s actually in his room now, so -- you’re out of luck.”

He looks at you like you’ve just grown a second head.

“Yeah… I’m aware of that. Wonwoo’s my roommate. She told me to crash in her room because of that.”

“Sorry, what?” You glance at where your phone is sitting beside your laptop. There’s not a single text from her that you’ve missed. And this seems like it should be the kind of thing she would have asked you about before offering up her bed to some guy you didn’t know. At least it was the kind of thing she used to check in with you about -- strange the apparently the policy changes when she’s not coming back to the bed with the individual in question.

“She said her roommate -- or, I guess you, apparently -- would be out tonight.”

“Clearly I’m not.” You gesture at your own self vaguely.

“I can tell.” Somehow he manages to sound like the one who’s had his privacy disrupted despite unequivocally being the intruder in this scenario.

Briefly, you consider storming upstairs to ask Xiening just what exactly she was thinking when she told this guy he could crash here. Except you know exactly what she was thinking. The downside to whole college-roommate setup is that one half can often ends up drawing the short stick whenever the other gets laid.

“You still didn’t answer my question. Who even are you?” Other than Wonwoo’s roommate, you imply.

“Jihoon,” he answers, and where you think he’s going to ask for your name as well, he instead says, “So can I stay here or not?”

“Why don’t you just go out and find someone to take you back to theirs?” you suggest, gaze diverting to one of the marked up case studies littered across your comforter.

“I’m not gonna go find someone to hook up with just because Wonwoo’s sexiling me.”

You flip the page of the article and look over at Jihoon again. “You and I are very different people,” you remark dryly. A part of you hopes it’ll be off putting enough that he’ll want to sleep anywhere else.

“That’s not an answer,” he replies just as flatly.

“Whatever. Stay if you want, just don’t expect the lights to go out anytime soon,” you tell him, looking back to your computer screen, “I have way too much paper to write.”

That gives Jihoon all the permission he needs to properly come inside the small room. “That’s fine. I have things to work on too.”

With that, he sat down on Xiening’s bed and opened up his own computer. He plugs in headphones, which you take as a confirmation of your already growing suspicion that he might not be much of a talker. You’re thankful for it. At least it means you won’t have any serious distractions to your attempts at productivity.

It is odd though. At least for the first couple of hours, it takes you by surprise ever time you glance over to see Jihoon where you’re used to seeing your best friend. But by the time you’ve written four and a half pages of your midterm -- and it’s well into the early AMs -- the glances go from awkward to feeling like this is completely normal.

It is fascinating how quickly human beings can adjust to small changes at times.

The clock in the corner of your screen reads 4:32 when you finally decide you ought to head to bed if you’re going to be conscious for your afternoon lecture tomorrow. (It’s not as if you haven’t shown up to that particular class feeling like death rolled over. And that has been with more than just a lack of sleep weighing you down.)

It surprises you a bit when you see Jihoon still sitting with his back propped against the wall and attentively working on something on his screen. You shut your own laptop and stretch your back before unfolding your legs and standing up.

“I’m gonna try to get some sleep in,” you announce, heading over to your dresser. Jihoon hums a questioning tone, and you presume he must not have heard you. “I’m gonna want to turn the light off soon,” you speak a little louder, glancing at him from over your shoulder as you pull pajamas out of a drawer. He gives a short nod.

It seems like he doesn’t intend to say anything about it at all until your fingers curl around the hem of your shirt.

“Aren’t you gonna… go to the bathroom or something to change?” he questions. You throw a look his way once more after you’ve already peeled off your top and nearly laugh when you spot a tinge of pink at the tips of his ears, evidently from the sight of you in just leggings and a bra.

“Look, this is still my room. I’m not changing my routines just because you happen to be staying here tonight,” you explain as you pull a large t-shirt you’d gotten for free at some campus event on. “Feel free to not stare, though. That’d be, you know, probably a decent courtesy.”

“I didn’t think you’d just…” He trails off, looking back to his computer like he’s trying to glue his eyes to the work there now.

“I mean, do you stare at Wonwoo when he changes? Or, like, are you the kind of roommates that always change huddled up in the further corner from each other?” You kid as you switch leggings for loose fitting pajama shorts.

“We don’t actively try to see each other naked,” Jihoon answers, with what you think might be a touch of humor.

“It’s safe, by the way,” you tell him once you’ve slipped your bra off from under your shirt. “Lights off good for you?” You pause by the lightswitch. This might be the first time you’ve asked a guy that question outside the context of sex.

“Yeah, I can work from just my computer’s light.”

“You’re seriously still working?” Disbelief is evident on your voice as you flick the lights off and make your way back to your bed.

“Midterms are coming up,” he reminds you of what you already know. From the light of his screen, you can still make out his features as you settle underneath your blankets. He looks as weary as you feel.

“You know, the more tired you are when doing important shit, the more likely you are to fuck it up?” You offer him the same sage advice a friend of yours had given you during an all-nighter once before.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he remarks sarcastically, his eyes searching your own out in the dark.

“Reminder: I don’t even know you. If you’re looking for a vote of confidence, I abstain. Hit up Wonwoo instead. I doubt he and Xiening are still at it.”

Jihoon shakes his head and starts typing again. “Goodnight,” he tells you.

“Good luck,” you chime back, rolling over to face the wall as you close your eyes.

You manage to wake up at quarter to noon. Before your lecture at three, you meet up with Xiening for your usual late Friday lunch. She has the distinct glow of someone who’s had good sex with the past twenty-four hours, and she confirms as much over your second cups of watered-down cafeteria coffee.

“I wouldn’t appreciated even like… a head’s up about his roommate, you know,” you bring up as gentle as you can manage.

“I know. I’m so sorry about that whole thing. Honestly, I thought you wouldn’t even be in!” she says, biting into her lower lip with concern.

“Don’t worry too much about it. It turned out okay. Just, uh -- definitely a new way of spending a Thursday night.” You force a small chuckle, and Xiening smiles weakly in return.

“Really, though. When Wonwoo told me earlier that Jihoon mentioned you didn’t seem thrilled by the arrangement, I felt like a total fuck-up,” she carries on, nails tapping nervously on the dining hall table. “I wouldn’t have offered, but I just want Wonwoo’s friends to like me, you know?”

“I told you not to worry,” you insist, blowing onto the still steaming coffee in your cup to cool it before taking a sip. “I’m on your team. Always. If letting Wonwoo’s sleep-deprived roommate borrow your bed is what you want, I’m down, okay?”

Xiening’s head dips forward as she laughs a bit more genuinely. “You’re aware you’re the best, right?”

“Bitch, that’s what I’ve been saying since freshman year. You’re finally on board?”

“Hey! I’ve definitely sung your praises before now! Just ‘cause I’m dating now doesn’t mean I won’t still be your best wingwoman,” she argues, grinning as she points an index finger at you accusingly.

You roll your eyes. “I love you, but you are accidentally the worst wingwoman. Guys gets so excited by the thought you might be approaching them that anyone else is disappointment in comparison.”

“Oh, come on,” she denies, taking her own turn to eyeroll, “You’re a babe. It’s not like you’ve ever struggled to find someone to hook up with in the first place.”

“Mm, related note: I’m gonna need a serious rager night once all our midterms are over. Because I think I’m doomed to stay a hermit until then and I might lose my mind.”

“We will -- promise,” Xiening agrees.

But all your midterms won’t be out of the way for another week. And so that evening, when you hear others on your floor starting to play music in their rooms and spot girls doing smokey eyes in the bathroom, you’re settling back into your room with more work to do.

Xiening sends you a text first this time before Jihoon shows up. It arrives only a few minutes before he does. But you’re grateful not be caught off guard when he opens the door at least.

“Hey, Jihoon,” you greet him as if you’d done it a hundred times before.

“More essays?” he questions. You nod without looking up from the sentence you’re currently typing out.

He settles in without any further exchanges. In a way, it’s nice to have someone else working alongside you, even if you don’t even know what he’s dealing with at all. Still, a bit silent company doesn’t succeeding in helping you stay as focused and energized as you might have preferred.

It’s nearly eleven at night when you groan and collapse back into your pillow in frustration. For the life of you, you swear you’ve written your essay into a conclusion three pages too soon.

“You alright over there?” Jihoon asks, with more amusement in his voice than you expect. You turn your head on your pillow to look at him and give an exaggerated frown.

“I’m dying,” you state, “Like, the slowest, most boring-as-fuck death.”

“So the paper’s going well, I take it,” he laughs, and you feel half tempted to chuck a pillow at him. Instead, you feel a burst of laughter pass your lips.

“Don’t you need a break by now?” You suggest after a couple of moments, sitting up again, “We could go get coffee or something. Save ourselves from this room.”

“This room’s still a change of scenery for me,” Jihoon points out, shrugging his shoulders.

You glare at him briefly before throwing your head back to look at the ceiling. “You seriously just wanna stay locked up in the room all night?”

“No,” comes his simple answer, “But I don’t want to ruin my GPA either.”

“Fuck, a fifteen minute coffee run is not going to ruin your GPA, okay? Please?”

You’re not sure why you seem to be insisting Jihoon comes with you. It’s not as if this break isn’t something you could take on your own. Perhaps it’s just out of habit, since he’s the one sharing the room at the moment, and this is the sort of thing you’d usually ask of Xiening. Although she takes far less convincing than Jihoon.

The two of you aren’t even out of the building before he admits that he’s stuck in the paper he’s writing, too. You berate him for fronting like he didn’t need a break for a good five minutes of the walk it takes to get from your dorm to the cafe in the student center.

“Will you drop it if I buy your damn coffee?” he asks as you’re pulling open the door to the building.

“Realistically -- no. I basically collect this kind of shit for rainy days,” you joke as he passes inside.

“Well then enjoy buying your own caffeine.”

“Thanks, I totally will!”

He gives you a look that feigns annoyance at your exaggeratedly chipper tone. But there’s just enough of an upwards quirk in his lips that you know he’s in on the jest of it all.

It becomes a regular thing: having Jihoon as essentially your new roommate by the time the sun goes down. Xiening claims she and Wonwoo actually spend a fair amount of time actually doing work on their midterms when they’re spending all this time together. They just enjoy the domestic feel of falling asleep together at the end of it all. By Tuesday, you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve teased her about how she isn’t fooling anyone by claiming the cuddling is all they do.

You don’t mind this new circumstance. You haven’t since Friday night and that humanizing late-night coffee run. Your late nights working on midterms are peppered with conversations, and taking short breaks together to go down to the student center for a restock of coffee or snacks.

Which doesn’t mean the week is any less exhausting. But the unexpected opportunities getting to know Jihoon have made it a considerably less miserable experience than your horrible ratio of hours working to hours sleeping would suggest.

On Thursday, when you finally submit your last midterm paper, you go immediately back to your room after class and collapse into nap that lasts several hours.

When you wake up, Xiening has already left for Wonwoo’s, and Jihoon is immersed in something on his computer.

You yawn while asking, “You’re still not done with midterms?”

He groans out a no that tells you plenty about how he feels about the fact.

“That sucks,” you sympathize, sitting up and stretching arms over your head. Your phone chimes, and you find a long sequences of messages in a group chat of your friends. Enough of you have officially survived midterms week that there’s a night of drinking well underway in planning already.

“You’ll be free of me interrupting your process tonight, at least,” you announce as you look up from your texts.

“Oh?” For a moment, you think Jihoon sounds nearly disappointed.

“Mmm -- gonna go out with some of my friends tonight. So you’ll weirdly actually have the room all to yourself. At least until I come back to crash.” Possibly all night, you suppose, if you end up going home with someone else.

“So Xiening wasn’t being totally unreasonable when she first thought you wouldn’t even be here a week ago,” he remarks.

“She just happened to underestimate that I can be a responsible students. You know, sometimes,” you confirm as you begin looking through potential outfits for the night.

You consider going to the floor’s bathroom to change tonight. It would go against the philosophy you shared with Jihoon the first time you met. Yet somehow trying on different party dresses seems like a different.

In the end, Nayoung ends up talking you into bringing a couple options over to her dorm. Not that you told her about your debate surrounding Jihoon. Rather, you just told her you aren’t sure what to wear. And her insistence that you’re already already missing out on good pregaming with her, Soyee, and Haebin provides a good enough resolution to your dilemma.

So you throw a few favorite dresses into a bag and wish Jihoon good luck on his assignment.

The girls talk you into something form-fitting and royal blue. As well as into taking shots of grapefruit vodka. After the second one, you ask whether or not Xiening is coming tonight.

“One of her professors made the midterm paper due on Sunday,” Soyee explains, pronouncing the day of the week like it was a curse.

“And she didn’t finish it in advance?” you question as you go about filling up the lined up glasses once more.

“It’s a miracle she’s finished any of her papers on time, isn’t it? She’s been at her boyfriend’s basically every night for a week, hasn’t she?” Haebin points out. “I love her but she is seriously borderline too loved up, you know what I mean?”

“I feel bad for Wonwoo’s roommate,” Nayoung cuts in as she helps you redistribute the shots to the small group of you, “He’s basically been kicked out of his room by Xiening.”

“He’s actually been crashing in our room,” you reveal.

“Like, regularly? I know he was there that first night but he’s been there every time?” Nayoung gives you a shocked look.

You nod and add, “He’s there right now, actually.”

The room erupts in a chorus of different opinions on whether or not that classifies as weird or not. You only bother trying to insist it isn’t a few times before requesting:

“Can we just go back to cheersing that midterms are the fuck over?”

That suffices. And with blood already rushing with a decent amount of liquor, the four of you head out for the bars around ten.

The night becomes a blur of bar lights and dancing with your friends sometime after eleven.

Haebin is the first to stop smiling and ask if the lot of you can head back to campus. None of you are belligerent enough insist staying once someone wants otherwise. So the stumbling walk with arms linked back home begins.

Normally when the group of you go out, you and Xiening separate off from the others when you reach the student center in the middle of campus. Since Soyee, Nayoung and Haebin live in a different building from the two of you, it’s always made since to part ways there so that everyone has the shortest possible walk home.

Reaching the quiet center point now, though, it dawns upon you that Xiening isn’t here to help make sure the both of you make it to your building.

“We’re obviously walking you to your building,” Soyee says when you blurt out at much.

“No! That’s so, so far for you guys!” you exclaim, your voice echoing a bit in the empty, practically abandoned spaces.

“Is like… ten minutes extra,” Nayoung slurs her argument, leaning a bit heavily into your side.

“You’re not walking home alone,” Soyee reiterates, seemingly the least drunk if her enunciation is anything to go off of.

Haebin lifts one finger and chimes in, “I, you know, might need to use your bathroom but -- yeah.”

So the chain of you continues together uphill to your building. You spend much of those minutes babbling on about how much you adore all three of them.

“You have your keys, yeah?” Soyee checks in when you reach the front door. You shuffle through a few things in your bag before pulling them out as a reply. “Haebin, are you good or do you need to go in for a minute?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good, I’m good! I jus’ wanna go to bed.”

After what might have totaled to two rounds of hugs goodbye, you make your way inside and unsteadily up the stairs to your floor. You don’t bother counting how many times you nearly fall and half-stumble in your heels on the steps.

The door to your room is unlocked when you get there. The lights are still on, and you find yourself laughing without real cause when you see Jihoon is still working on his laptop. He has large headphones on that keep him from truly noticing your arrival until you make your way into the space between the two beds.

“Uh -- are you okay?” he asks when you plop down on the hard tiled floor to pull your shoes off.

“Are you?” you ask back, leaning backwards to look up at him. Tilting your head back so far makes the whole room spin sideways.

“Yeah, I’m alright” Jihoon answers, brow furrowed in a way that didn’t align with his words. “You need a hand there?”

With shoes tossed aside, you push yourself up onto your knees with both hands. Something lurches in your throat, and you think it might have been the last two drinks at the bar that pushed you over the edge. Jihoon doesn’t wait for an answer from you before putting his laptop aside and coming to your side.

His hands steady upon your elbow and shoulder, he helps you stand up entirely and make your way at a sloth’s pace to sit on your own bed.

“Pajamas?” he asks.

You lie down on your bed, legs still dangling off the edge of the mattress. “I just wanna sleep.”

“Yeah, that dress doesn’t look like comfy sleepwear though.” Jihoon tugs lightly on one of your hands to encourage you to sit up again. Your eyes are closed when you nod an agreement.

“Middle drawer,” you tell him as you point lazily towards your dresser. He disappears from your side and you begin fumbling your way out of your dress.

“Okay, geez, I was gonna say you should --” he doesn’t finish his reaction to your state of undress as he shoves a few articles of clothes into your arms a few moments later. “Just put those one.”

You comply and proceed to crawl underneath your blankets. Your bones feel like deadweight, and you think you’re already half-asleep when Jihoon’s voice is back in your ears insisting you drink some water before passing out. You shake your head as much as you can will yourself to do, and feel a hand shake your shoulder in reply.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” Jihoon states, flicking at one of your ears. You groan and sit up again, shakily taking your freshly filled water bottle from him.

The water tastes impossible good on your dried out tongue. After a few good gulps you rest the bottle in your lap and look over to where Jihoon is sitting on your bedside. “You’re nice to me,” you say dumbly.

“I’m not mean,” he answers, half-chuckling at your sudden realization.

“Yeah but -- um -- you look like you should be,” you confess. After another desperate sip of water you carry on, “Like one of those grumpy people are fuckers people.”

“If you say so. Didn’t you want to sleep.”

“I do!” you enthuse, nearly dropping the water bottle in the process, “But also wanna let you know you’re, uh, you know the word? Like -- um, like dope but, you know, a more legit word than that.”

“How much did you have to drink?” Jihoon asks, to which all you can manage is a shrug.

If you ramble anything else out to him, your mind doesn’t let you recall in the morning.

But you do thank Jihoon in the morning, despite your pounding head. You’re pretty sure it would be several times worse if it hadn’t been for the water he’d handed you and the ibuprofen he’d left on your bedside table for you find when you woke up.

He’s still lying in Xiening’s bed, looking at you sleepily as you sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “Seriously, you were way nicer to me last night than you needed to be,” you maintain. “You were still working when I came back, weren’t you?”

Jihoon nods without lifting his head from the pillow.

“Trust me, I know how annoying of a messy bitch I can be when I’m drunk. I’m sorry you had to deal with it.”

“You’re not a bitch,” he murmurs into the blankets.

“Thanks? I mean -- I don’t really use it in the, like, bitch-bitch way. But I guess I’m glad you don’t actually think I am one.”

Jihoon hums something sleepily. Your hand pats lightly at one of his legs through the blankets. “I’m buying you brunch today, by the way. So let me know when you want to go.”

“Huh?” He half sits up at that, head of messy hair tilted to one side as you stand up.

“Brunch. You know, coffee and whatever the hell you want to eat? I owe you for not letting me pass out on the floor last night.”

The offer of free food makes Jihoon get out of bed much sooner than it seemed like he would.

You take him to your favorite place to get weekend brunch, and express no shortage of dismay when he says he’s never been here before. His only answer for you is that he and his friends aren’t exactly the brunch kind of people.

“So what is this miserable midterm you’re still somehow working on?” you ask him around the time you’re both half-way through your meals. “It must be due today, right? This is technically the last day of midterm week.”

He shakes his head as he finishes chewing a bite. “It’s an original composition for one of my music courses. The professor made it due next Wednesday because of the creative aspect.”

“How’s it going?”

“You already hit the nail on the head with ‘miserable.’”

It’s not until later in the day, when your hangover is long gone, that you decide have a solution to Jihoon creative block.

When you come back to your room from dinner with Soyee, Jihoon is taken off guard when you announce, “Good! You’re already here.”

“Yeah… Wonwoo and Xiening are watching some movie in our room. Didn’t really feel like being there when they go from netflix to chill.”

“I was thinking, and you should go out tonight.”

“Is this a subtle way of telling me you have some guy coming over?” Jihoon questions, though he refuses to look your way as he does so.

“Nope! I’m gonna go out with you,” you explain, sitting down beside him on Xiening’s bed. As per your suspicions, he has the composing software open on his screen.

“I can’t go out,” he refuses, “I still have so much of this to rework before I can even finish it.”

“I know, that’s why you need to go out!” You jostle his shoulder with your own to punctuate your point. “You’re all in your head about it. And, look, it’s not due until Wednesday, right? So you still have plenty of time to sort it out after you take a night to clear your head.”

“Can’t risk it,” he says, and goes to lift his headphone back up over his ears.

“Hey, wait!” You reach out and place a hand on his wrist. “You think Mozart composed his operas by staying cooped up inside some tiny room all day and night?”

“Uh–” He begins, but you don’t let him get a word in before you’re carrying on.

“He didn’t. Mozart fucking killed it at billiards and partied hard, okay?”

“That just doesn’t sound true,” Jihoon says pointedly, shaking his head at you. You let go of his wrist and stand up, placing your hand on your hip.

“What? A bitch can’t know her history of classical composers?” you challenge, feigning more offense than you really feel. “Get up, Wolfgang. We’re going out.”

“You’re not gonna drop this, are you?”

“If you don’t feel re-upped on inspiration after taking a night off, I’ll write a four-page apology to your professor myself.”

“Like that’d change anything?”

“I mean, if he’s a sixty-year-old musician he’s probably a sucker for the story of temptress bitches and liquor distracting musical geniuses from their callings.”

“That’s… the grossest thing you’ve said on so many levels.”

“Yeah, I know,” you concur, nodding deeply, “So are you coming or not?”

“One drink.”

No one in the history of the college drinking has ever successfully kept a promise of ‘just one drink’

So three drinks later, you and Jihoon are dancing in a dark corner of a dive bar to an Earth, Wind & Fire track. The bass might as well be moving your feet for you as you sing-shout lyrics at Jihoon, grabbing one his hands in your own as if you’d written the words ‘say that you remember’ yourself and just for him.

It’s not clear if the flush across his face is from alcohol or embarrassment at your antics. Or something else, as he ducks is head from your view with a laugh you only just hear over the speakers blasting music.

It’s just past midnight when the two of come tumbling out of the bar hand-in-hand. You’re not sure exactly how it happened, unless it’s somehow just the case that neither one of you let go once you’d taken it while dancing.

“So why do you know about Mozart’s past times?” he finally asks as your ears adjust the contrasting quiet of the street.

“Like, half my friends are music majors,” you tell him with a laugh, “Soyee just wrote a midterm paper about how he wrote a shitton of dirty songs for his friends, or something.”

“You’re a good friend,” he comments, and you glance up from your careful steps on the sidewalk to give him a puzzled look at the sudden observation. He averts his gaze from yours just as soon as you make eye contact. “I mean, listening to your friends go on about their academic stuff and actually retaining it.”

“Mmm, and letting their boyfriends’ roommates basically switch rooms.” You grin a bit wider when he laughs.

“Never thought getting regularly sexiled would be a mixed blessing, true.” Your joint hands swing back and forth at a steady rhythm between the two of you.

“Now wait -- am I the blessing or the mixed part of that?” you tease as you come to a stop at a crosswalk. Headlights from passing cars in both directions illuminate Jihoon’s face as he looks back to you.

“It’s not obvious?” He speaks lower that you’re anticipating. The words would sound begrudging if not for the tinges of pink still coloring his features. Your smile twists into an inquisitive one, and your fingers lace a little tighter against his own.

You glance up at the traffic light. From this angle, you can still make out the shift from green to yellow. Before the oncoming traffic is brought to a stop to leave time for you both to cross, you lean in to press your lips to Jihoon’s.

His fingertips press into your knuckles with the surprise of it before he kisses you back. It’s a slow, exploratory kind of kiss. The taste of lingering vodka on his tongue doesn’t bother you, but when your chest bumps against his own, you realize this might not be the best place to have a make out session.

“You’re coming back to my room, right?” you nearly whisper when you pull your mouth away from his. Looking over your features with a dazed adoration, Jihoon only nods in reply.

He kisses you again in the stairwell of your building. As if it had only just fully registered that you’d expressed interest in him, he pulls you close to him and kisses you with an urgency that feels akin to disbelief. Your small giggles cut the second kiss short, and Jihoon grins with his arms around your waist. “You’re cute,” he confesses, lips skimming against the skin of your jaw.

“Come on,” you say, nudging his leg with your knee, “One more flight of steps.”

One more flight brings you to your hallway, and then to your door. But a muffled sound of crying steals your lusty smile from your face when you go to unlock it. When you open the door, both you and Jihoon frown at the sight of Xiening in tears on her bed.

You abandon Jihoon in doorway to rush to her side. “What happened?” you ask her, pulling her into a hug with all thoughts of getting laid gone from your mind.

“Wonwoo --” she chokes out through a sob as she buries her weepy face in your shoulder, “We fought!”

“What? Do you wanna tell me about it?” you continue, rubbing circles into your friend’s back. You glance back over your shoulder to the door and mouth at Jihoon to leave.

He looks dumbfounded, but he nods and closes the door before he goes.

In the morning, Xiening’s eyes are still puffy from tears. It had been a small thing, of course, that had felt like a world-shattering fight just by being the first time they disagreed. Haebin is the one to successfully convince her to go talk things out with Wonwoo.

You text Jihoon about half an hour after Xiening leaves to do just that, asking if the two of you could meet up to talk. He answers that he’s in the library, finishing up his composition midterm.

You find him on the first floor, and you’re glad he hasn’t tucked himself away in one of the silent study areas of the library. You collapse into the empty chair beside where he’s working and ask if Wonwoo told him anything about the argument.

At that question, Jihoon attention shifts from you back to his screen. He tells you doesn’t know anything about it.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you talk to him about it at all?”

“He didn’t want to talk about it,” Jihoon answers too simply.

You roll your eyes. “You’re no help at all.”

He shrugs and continues entering notes on the score in front of him. You shift in your seat, wondering why the air feels so thick between the two of you this afternoon. Jihoon spares you a few glances as he continues composing before suddenly admitting, “When you said you wanted to talk I didn’t think it was about our roommates’ relationship.”

“We came back last night to find my best friend crying. What else would I want to talk about?”

“Nothing,” he says after a moment, looking back to the program in front of him, “I hope they sort things out.”

They do. But Jihoon stops crashing on Xiening’s bed.

You’re not certain what changed. Or rather, you’re not sure what changed between the two of you kissing and him suddenly deciding to avoid you. You go as far as asking Xiening where Jihoon is spending nights now, but she doesn’t know.

Actually reaching out to Jihoon feels like a step too far. After all, the two of you aren’t actually roommates. It’s none of your business if he’s found somewhere else to go on the nights his room is otherwise occupied by Wonwoo and Xiening.

A week goes by without more than a text from Jihoon. You’d asked, on Tuesday night, if he was in a good place with his piece. His reply had only read yeah.

You’re not happy with the new distance. Which may be partly responsible for the eagerness in your acceptance when Xiening asks if you want to go out tonight.

Hitting up your favorite bar with her succeeds in getting Jihoon off your mind. At least until Xiening announces that Wonwoo is going to drop by to hang out for a bit.

“Cool,” you tell her, “I feel like I haven’t actually seen him in ages.”

It’s considerably less cool when he shows up with Jihoon in tow.

“How’d your last midterm turn out?” you ask him somewhat hesitantly. Wonwoo and Xiening might as well have left the two of you alone with the way they slip into their own conversation as soon as they’re reunited at the table.

“I’m happy with it,” Jihoon answers with a succinct nod. At least it’s more than a one-word response.

You look down into the mixed drink in your glass. The low lights of the bar reflect in the dark liquid, and you listen in briefly to the couple laughing together just to your right.

“Your plan worked after all. The -- uh -- the getting out of my head thing. It did end up making it easier when I came back to the composition,” Jihoon continues just when you think the lack of conversation between you two will officially settle into awkwardness. “So, thanks.”

“I’m glad it did.” You smile faintly as you bring yourself to look at him once more. “Even if it ended up being kind of a crazy night.” Your eyes indicate towards Xiening and Wonwooo, and Jihoon lets out a sigh that almost tries to be laughter.

“I guess so.”

He’s the one avoiding looking at you now. You glance once more towards the chattering lovebirds before leaning forward a bit in your seat to reduce the space between you and Jihoon. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, debating for a moment if you might be overthinking and making one too many assumptions.

Impulse wins out, and you half-mutter, “You weren’t the crazy part of that night, you know?”

You lower your eyes to the scuffed up tabletop between you for a moment before checking to see if that brought Jihoon’s attention back to you. It is, but he looks for a loss of words. Still, there’s fondness that you recognize in his eyes from when his hands had been pressed to your sides.

“It’s been kinda lonely in the room without you or Xiening there,” you go on, biting lightly on your lip when you offer a tentative smile.

Jihoon does the same double-check as you had that your respective roommates are still too caught up in each other to notice your own discussion. “You were the one who acted like nothing happened at all.”

“I was worried about Xiening.” You worry the truth might not seem solid enough an excuse to Jihoon, but you stick to it nevertheless. “It also wouldn’t have been… great timing if they were about it break up.”

“But they didn’t,” he utters simply, giving a fleeting look their way before focusing in on your face again.

“No, they did not,” you reconfirm, shaking your head slowly. “So…”

“So I’m glad Wonwoo talked me into this.”

You wonder if this is just coming for drinks tonight or the decision to take up Xiening’s offered bed in the first place.

By the end of the night you’re convinced it’s probably both, because Jihoon isn’t crashing on Xiening’s bed anymore. He’s sleeping in yours.

#seventeen scenarios #woozi scenarios #lee jihoon scenarios #seventeen imagines #sfwseventeen

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