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admiringlove · 4 years ago

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hurtful things

+synopsis: genshin boys and the hurtful things they said.

+genre: angst; headcanons.

+characters: kaeya; diluc; childe; zhongli.

+warnings: swearing; crying; implied panic attack.

+order: hey bubs! i saw you doing requests and i HAD to ask for genshin angst :) spare me some tears pls <//3 preferably w kaeya or diluc or childe :) [submitted by @crackheadsara]

+author’s note: okay so i included zhongli bc he’s the love of my life, also i needed comfort from him after writing such hurtful things :D

+navigation: main menu, genshin menu.

— KAEYA.

“i’m better off without you.”

you know from the way your door was knocked in the middle of the night on a weekday after months, that it’s kaeya. you rub your eyes sleepily, trudging towards the door as anger and doubt fuse into a nasty green in your mind.

you unlock the door, pulling it open to see the man with the eyepatch tapping his foot on the deck of your home impatiently. he smirks when his eye lands on you, attempting to walk in but stopping himself when he realizes you're standing at the door, unmoving.

"kaeya, it's three in the morning. and it's monday. i have to report to jean in three hours," you mumble tiredly as you look up at him. the lamp grass by your windowsill outside and the moonlit night accentuated his cerulean eyes and contrasting coffee-colored skin. he frowns, peering down at you as he asks, "may i come in?"

you shrug, opening the door wide as you let the man in. he places his sword on the table and proceeds to walk into the bedroom when you ask, "where have you been for the past two weeks?"

"work," his reply is the same. you let out a sigh in impatience as you retort, "that's the same excuse as always."

he was tired and wanted to sleep off the fatigue from his latest mission. but when he hears you say that, something in him snaps and he turns around, his jaw clenched and a fixed glare making you a little agitated. he raises an eyebrow as he says, "well, unlike you, i am an actual important member of the knights of favonius."

"kaeya, all i meant was that you're always gone. you never write a letter back even if i send you one, and you somehow manage to come back every single time, expecting that it doesn't hurt me. what am i supposed to do?" your voice is small as you look down, hair drooping towards the ground. you're not even yelling at him, you're just worried. he always leaves you alone(sometimes you tag along, but you couldn't tell why nowadays he'd leave you alone without some sort of warning).

"does it ever occur to you that you're just a hindrance?" he bites back, thinking that you're trying to put up a front. you flinch at his words, causing him to force a jeer before he starts again, "you always come along, so maybe i wanted to be away from you for a bit. that's why i leave without a warning so i don't have to tend to your yapping all day. because i'm better off without you."

you gasp as you look up to his figure, now retreating to your shared bedroom. you hear him fall onto the bed with a content sigh as you stand there, wiping at your tears incessantly as hiccups escape your lips. you bit your tongue to stop yourself from crying, pressing a hand on your mouth to muffle the sounds so you don't disturb kaeya. you get a quick peek in, eyes widening when you see him sound asleep and tucked in.

so that's how it was, you think.

the next morning, kaeya wakes up to a cold bed as his arm reaches out to an empty space. his eyes immediately pry open as he wakes up, to see that you weren't here.

ah, he ponders to himself, you must've gone to tend to your duties.

he stretches, letting out a yawn before walking out to the kitchen. he smiles when he sees a plate of food left for him on the countertop with a note from you. but somehow, something felt very wrong about this whole ordeal. this had happened before—he had come back from insanely long missions to you before, so what felt different?

and then it hits him. the things he said last night. he frantically looks around, his azure eyes completely drowned in horror as he notices small changes in your shared household. a few picture frames are missing on the living room walls, your keychain isn't on the bookshelf anymore, and worst of all, when he runs into the closet, half of your clothes are gone.

did you really feel that bad about what he said?

in panic, he runs out and keeps going till he reaches the headquarters of the knights. he barges in this time, not returning the greetings of the guards upfront as he walks into jean's office.

"where are they?" he pants, "i-i messed up, do you know where they are?"

jean's eyes widen as she says, "our associates were having a hard time handling with the fatui in liyue harbor so they volunteered to go there for sometime."

"how long has it been?"

"they left long ago, it's about to be around ten hours since," she says. kaeya's heart shatters as he hears those words. he hadn't expected you to outright leave like that, but if you had said the same things to him, he definitely would've stormed out. his voice cracks as he looks at the ground in shame, "h-how long until they'll be back?"

"i.. don't know."

he regrets everything he's said. he truly does because he doesn't even notice that tears are streaming down his cheeks until jean comes to his aid. he hates himself for all of it—he hates that he has to live in a home where traces of you are visible everywhere; worst of all, he hates how he knows he lost you for good. even if you come back, he knows you wouldn’t run and melt into his arms like you did before. you’re gone now, fading into the darkness and away from him.

maybe it was for the best.

— DILUC.

“you’re nothing but a burden.”

after taking on a few abyss mages and mitachurls, diluc lets a grunt out in pain before you see the slash on his right arm. you gasp, pulling him to the side of the lake as you pull out a bandage and cotton from your bag to clean his wounds. he's reluctant to it at first, but he sits there quietly and broods as you clean the blood with cotton and some type of healing ointment.

you tie the bandage on his arm, a tiny bit of vermillion liquid seeping through the white cloth before sitting down next to him, finally catching a breath. sighing, you look up at him and say, "that was reckless."

"no, what you did was reckless. who told you to come along with me to dadaupa gorge? you knew what you were getting into when you came along, so don't put this on me," he grumbled, frowning as you look at him with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. you are sort of hurt, but you know he's only saying this in faux indignation, so it's okay. you chuckle out, beginning, "diluc, i was-"

"i don't know why i even bother with you at this point," he exasperates, looking into the distance behind you. he curses slightly under his breath, his rouge eyes filled to the brim with anger as it finally overflows, "you're nothing but a burden."

your eyes suddenly flick to gape at him in disbelief. you stand up, your voice hitching in your throat as you ask, "diluc, you mean that?"

and it all simmers down into ashes when he mumbles "of course i do" under his breath. your vision is blurry as you walk away from the red-haired man, your body trembling as you almost give away that you're crying your eyes out. you walk back in the direction the two of you came from, leaving your broken heart in the hands of diluc, who sat by the lake not muttering a word after.

he knows he's said things he doesn't mean; he does that all the time, but you probably knew that. he figures you're leaving to catch a breath of fresh air—to be away from the tension-filled environment for a bit, you had a habit of doing that at home. he sighs as he ponders over his words for a bit. he knew it was wrong to display such harshness to you, but you probably knew he didn't mean anything by it. he always bubbled over rash things when he was frustrated.

the sun sets in front of him, painting hues of aubergine and peach as it flows down. he wonders where you are, getting up from his spot by the lake to venture towards the path you walked off.

only when he can't find you, is when he thinks that you might've actually taken offense to his words. although he cares about you sincerely, he finishes his mission first, getting a lead on the abyss order—because protecting monstadt was his first priority. you lingered in his mind every second of every day till he finally got back home. and when he didn't find you there, he asks adelinde about it, who only shakes her head and tells him, "i'm sorry, master diluc, but i haven't seen them come back. i thought they were with you."

it all pieces together in his mind now, how a small gasp had escaped your lips when he had called you a burden. the way you nodded begrudgingly, getting up and walking away from his presence as your shoulders trembled. the way he could hear you choke back a sob, but still ignored it, thinking you had overreacted in the situation.

he searches the whole city for you. he searches every nook and corner, and even walks into the headquarters of the knights of favonius(he ignores kaeya's teases instead of biting back this time). and when he finally sees you, he holds himself back. his hand is suspended awkwardly in the air as he reaches out for you, your back turned towards him.

maybe this was better—maybe it was a good thing that you had walked away from him. this way, the abyss order won't be able to harm you. this way, he won't be able to harm you. this way, you'll be safe and sound, away from the storm known as diluc ragnvindr.

— CHILDE.

“it’s not like you mean anything to me.”

it's not often you see childe. he's always in liyue, and you're here, stuck in monstadt or snezhnaya. it's cold today(as it always is) in snezhnaya, the snow covered almost everything outside as you looked out of your window, sipping on hot coffee as you sigh at the wilting roses on the sill. they'd wilted when you had gone to monstadt and you didn't have the heart to plant new ones.

just thinking about the blue-eyed childish man would make your heart bloom and cheeks flustered. you longed to spend more time with him, really. if only he wasn't affiliated with the fatui, he'd be able to spend more time with you. it had been months since you had seen him, and you longed to be in his arms once again, but who knows when that'll happen again? whenever he comes home, he chooses to spend a night with you and then head back. he'd laugh alongside you, tell you about his adventures, and give small reactions when you told him about yours. and the next morning, you'd wake up to an empty bed with a small note by the table, saying how he has to leave for work.

a knock at your door snaps you out of your entranced state. as you open the lock and look out, you see childe, standing there with a tired grin and disheveled hair as he walks in without a word. he hands you a small paper bag, saying, "i brought you back something from liyue this time."

the same excuse, you think. it's always the same. he brings back small mementos and souvenirs as a pretense for staying, and by the time you think you can forgive him, he's gone. he plops down onto the sofa, stretching his arm out so you could join him. the thought of confronting him crosses your mind, but you shake it off—since he had only just gotten back.

the night is the same as always. talking about each others' adventures, eating dinner by the fireplace, laughing alongside one another until you hit the bed. it's quiet now as you watch over his sleeping figure, his lapis-colored eyes now hidden. you sigh as you lay there for hours on end, twiddling with his brown hair as you wait for him to wake up(so this time you can actually say goodbye).

when his eyes flutter open, he's a little taken aback when he looks over at you to see you wide awake. his brows furrow just a smidge as he says, "you're up."

"well, i wanted to say goodbye this time," you chuckle dryly, "you always leave without waking me up."

"i don't like the way you said that," he says, getting up from his position on the bed. you look away from him, your eyes displaying hurt as you murmur, "i don't like the way you leave."

"well, it's my job. it's not like i'm an adventurer like you, wasting my time around. i'm a harbinger and i have responsibilities," he says. his voice is neither too soft and nor too prickly, and you can tell that he's a little worked up by the way he lightly nips on the skin of his bottom lip as his gaze bores into you.

"i didn't say you don't. all i said was that you could maybe sometimes stay for more than one night. it feels like you're using me, and when you're bored, you leave."

"oh?" he cocks an eyebrow as he stands up, "i'm using you, huh?"

you grimace at the tone of his voice, and when you look at him, you notice the sheer annoyance he puts up towards you. your voice is small when you ask him if he loves you—because you don't know anymore. seeing him once in a few months for the past few years has sure hurt you more than anything, and if you don't tell him now, then you might never get a chance.

"what if i say i don't?" he smirks, walking up to you, "it's not like you mean anything to me. what if i agree that i am using you to make myself happy until i'm bored, so i can then throw you away?"

he doesn't like what he's saying either. his mind is screaming at him to stop, but he's worked up. he's irritated by the way you jabbed at him first thing in the morning, even though he knows you're right. his heart almost stops when he looks at the expression on your face after he says those words, and as he reaches out his hand for you, you turn away.

your voice cracks, and he's sure his heart did as well when you mumble, "i-i'd like you to leave, please."

"wait, i didn't mean-"

"tartaglia," your eyes look into his, perhaps for the last time, as you give him a sad smile, "you don't have to come back to me anymore."

it hurts him as he leaves your home that morning. it hurts him when he comes back months later to see that your home is now empty. it hurts him because he tarnished the you that was once his.

it hurts him, but he thinks it's for the best if you stay away from him if all he does is bring you pain.

— ZHONGLI.

“i’d like you to leave me alone.”

zhongli was never one to pick fights. he was peaceful; his thoughts were positive(most of the time), and he almost always preferred to talk about his problem rather than fighting about it—he believes that fighting will only bring pain, so why not confide in one another about our problems instead?

he's quiet. he's not shy(it's quite the opposite, actually), but he's one to prefer to only talk when absolutely necessary. he's the type to listen rather than speak, saying something like, "we have two ears and one mouth. speak less than you listen."

he smiles when his mind goes back to the time when he said that to you while having a cup of tea together, and you'd replied, "my mother used to tell me that when i was a child."

because it's true; every child in liyue harbor has heard those words at least once in their lives. the quality of listening is appreciated more than the quality of speaking—and zhongli, for one, was a listener.

you, on the other hand, were a speaker. you always woke him up every morning with a smile as bright and everlasting as the sun, babbling about breakfast and tea as he got up from the bed. you were the one that carried conversations on your shoulders on morning walks, you were the one that intertwined your fingers with his as the two of you walked amongst flowers, adoring them as you talked about the contrasting colors of silk flowers and glaze lilies. he loved you for that. he loved you because you were a speaker. he loved you because you were a perfect balance, the only one who could soften his hardened heart. the only one whom he'd chosen to wake up next to in the mornings, the only one whom he'd let ruffle his hair without asking(because he secretly liked it).

so why had he reversed the roles tonight? why was he the one to bubble out his frustrations to you, speaking in a cold and stern manner instead of the loving tone that was only reserved for you? why was he the one to speak tonight, and why were you the one to listen?

it's not like he was actually frustrated—he was only thinking about something else as you asked him what he wanted for dinner. it surely wasn't your fault when he had poured over turbulent words to you. and he knows that the ones that hurt the most probably were, "i'd like you to leave me alone."

he looks up at the stars, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he walks back into his shared home with you. he looks around, and when there's no sign of you, he feels himself break apart even more.

had you actually left? he wants to run to you and tell you he hadn't meant any of those words because he hadn't. he wants to touch you, to caress you, to please you, to make you smile—and he wants to admit he was wrong. he wants to make it right, but he doesn't know where you are.

he walks into the empty bedroom, sitting on the cold mattress as his eyes sting. he doesn't understand what's happening, or why there are small drops of water falling from his eyes. he doesn't understand why everything feels heavy all of a sudden—his heart, his throat his lungs, everything. he doesn't understand why he feels like he's trapped in a box, and the water seems to be filling up more quickly than he'd prefer. he wants to reach for air, but he can't.

he couldn't breathe without you.

he hears the door close and immediately gets up in haste to walk to the living room where he sees you take off your boots. you turn around to see him, his disheveled hair and frantic eyes finally calming as he walks over to you and engulfs you in a warm embrace. his throat cleared up, and so did his heart and lungs as he mumbles against your ear, "i'm so sorry."

you smile smally, looking up at him as you cup his cheeks and wipe a stray tear, and mutter, "it's okay, zhongli. stress gets to the best of us."

god, how he loves you. he places a small peck on the top of your forehead as he feels his lips turn upward at your touch and the scent of glaze lilies lingering over you tells him that you'd been to the flower garden. he sleeps with your fingers weaved with his that night and pulls you even closer if you untangle with him in sleep.

he makes a promise to himself saying he'd never hurt you like that again, and he keeps it.

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nagito-kissmaeda · 4 years ago

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Mr. Komaeda’s Lesson

THE FILTH ARRIVES

Summary: You should really proofread your assignments before submitting them... AKA: Professor Komaeda fucks you over his desk (literally my dream) Word count: 4258 Contains: she/her pronouns, explict sexual content, unsafe sex, professor/student relationships, gentle dom nagito (he’s very gentle i swear) Read on AO3 ミ☆ Please send me a DM or an ask if you’d like me to write something for you!

The soothing smell of camomile lemon tea wafts around the small office. The blinds are half open, casting the orange light of the setting sun across the smooth leaves of a peace lily that resides in a pot hanging in front of the heating unit. The warm air rocks it gently back and forth. The atmosphere in the room is light and pleasant, but it does nothing to ease your nerves.

“Do you want some?” Professor Komaeda asks as he pours himself a cup of the aforementioned camomile lemon tea. He has a little teapot sitting on his desk, it’s very cute.

You clear your throat, fidgeting in your seat, “No thank you, I’m fine.”

“Okay, let’s get started then, shall we?”

You’ve been dreading this meeting for weeks now. Your professor had been very insistent that this wouldn’t be a discussion about the quality of your work, but more about what he could do to help you maintain focus in lectures. There was also a brief mention about your most recent assignment, he said that he wasn’t concerned, but did want to run through a few things with you.

He was very polite about it, which makes the true nature of your distraction only more reprehensible.

“So, first I want to start with a simple question. How are you doing?”

“Uh, fine?”

He nods and takes a sip of his tea, “No problems outside of our classes? You don’t need to answer if you aren’t comfortable.”

“No i- uh. I’m fine outside of classes too.” You fidget again, twisting your hands in your lap, “I’ve been...tired? But that’s my fault, I stay up too late.”

He hums thoughtfully and rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “Could that be having an affect on your focus? I can see that you have been distracted in our most recent lectures and just want to make sure it isn’t a fault of myself or my material.” He laughs a little to himself, “I know I can be a little boring sometimes.”

Professor Komaeda is not boring. He’s probably the most engaging lecturer you’ve ever had, passionate about his subject matter and very enthusiastic about class participation. He also wears really tight trousers and has long dexterous fingers that you can't help imagining inside of your-

“I mean, being tired could be the problem?” A bold faced lie.

“Well in that case there isn’t much more I can suggest than a good night's rest.” He gives you a long look that makes you squirm in your seat, “I only graduated a few years ago myself, I understand the urge to make the most of your day, but you can’t keep burning the candle at both ends.” He takes another sip of his tea, a drop misses his mouth and rolls down his chin. He catches it with his thumb, which he then brings up to his lips and sucks. You swallow deeply, tearing your eyes from where his lips are meeting his skin. Your knee starts bouncing. Nerves.

“Would it help if you sat a little closer to the front of the lecture hall?”

It wouldn’t. Especially not on warm days when he loosens his tie and undoes the first three buttons on his shirt. You spent a whole lecture transfixed on the dip of his collarbones once. Not great for your note taking, “maybe I’ll give that a go next week” you say. Another lie.

“Okay, try that out and let me know if it helps.” He gently sets down his teacup and starts working his white hair up into a bun. His fingers are so delicate as he combs through the strands, pulling his hair up and away from his pale throat, exposing the length of it to your hungry eyes-

A noise escapes from your mouth. Almost a whine, but not quite. Professor Komaeda doesn't say anything, but his intense eyes meet yours for just a moment. You clench your thighs together.

“Are you ready to talk about your assignment now?” He asks, picking the teacup again. It’s decorated with sunflowers, almost criminally cute, “No reason to be nervous. I want to make it clear that this matter hasn't had any affect on your grade, just some advice for next time.”

You nod shakily. Despite all of his reassurances, you are still very nervous. Partially because you wanted a good grade, partially because you had worked on that essay day and night with the intention of impressing him. So stupid.

He gives you a pleasant smile and rifles through his desk for a moment, pulling out what you quickly recognise as a printed copy of your essay, “Take a look, i want to see if you can figure it out first.”

“Um...okay…” You skip past the title page and into the meat of the essay, reading through all of your points and making sure there weren't any obvious spelling mistakes. There wasn't anything that you could see, “Sorry...um...what page is it on?”

His teacup clinks when he sets it down again, leaning forward on his elbows and resting his chin on his hands. You can feel your heart fluttering in your chest, your palms are getting sweaty, “It’s on the title page actually. I’m surprised you didn't notice it.”

You shoot him a quizzical look and flip back to the first page. Your stomach plummets.

Titles have never been your thing, summing up an entire essay in just a few words isn’t easy, so you usually use a placeholder right up until you submit it. You remember changing it, you remember triple checking it was changed before you emailed it through. But something must have gone wrong because in big bold capital letters, the title of you assignment reads:

ESSAY SO GOOD PROFESSOR KOMAEDA WILL FUCK ME OVER HIS DESK

Your hands are shaking, the edges of the paper crinkling under your tight grip. You are going to fail...you are going to be expelled...you are going to-

“Ah. I see you’ve realised your mistake, hm?”

Your head shoots up, forgetting for a moment that he is still sitting across from you.

“Professor...I-I’m...obviously I’m…” you can’t get out a goddamn sentence, your mouth has all dried up, “I don’t even...I can’t…”

You are taken aback, when Professor Komaeda giggles. It’s a light little sound, he covers his mouth with a hand, “You are very bold, aren’t you?”

“I….”

“No need to worry, I’m not reporting this to the dean or anything like that. I see no reason to expel you over a silly little mistake like this one.”

“You...You dont want me to drop you class?”

He laughs again, you shrink under the intensity of his green eyes, “I’m not going to make you, no. If the situation isn’t going to make it even harder for you to focus during lectures, you can still come to class. I won't stop you, it is your choice.”

He is being remarkably cavalier about all of this, it’s almost unsettling, but you don't want to drop his class so you can't help being grateful, “Thank you so much, I...I promise i won't do this again.”

Professor Komaeda hums aloud, eyes half lidded as he looks at you from across the desk, “Won’t do what again?” he asks, though honestly its more of a purr, “Won’t think about me fucking you, or wont make the mistake of writing it down?”

Hearing the word fuck drop from that perfect mouth of his sends you into overdrive. Your thighs are clamped so tight together that your legs are shaking, you can feel yourself breathing hard, “I...uh...I....” you swallow, “I won't do...either?”

“There's no need to lie to me.” He breathes, standing up from his chair and rounding the desk. You can feel yourself quivering in his shadow, he towers over you. Your breath catches in your throat when one of his hands makes contact with your chin, slowly lifting your head up until you meet his eyes. His expression is positively hungry, “I want to make something very clear. This is your chance to leave, if you do we will never speak of this again. If you don’t, well…”

All you can do is stare at him, mouth going dry with realisation.

“Your essay was very good, by the way.” He leans down until his nose is almost pressed against yours, you can smell the tea on his breath. You can feel the warmth of his skin, you can count his eyelashes, “Good enough that i’ll fuck you over my desk if you still want me to.”

In a moment of hungry lucidity, you grab him by the tie and tug his lips down to yours. Colliding in a positively ferocious kiss. You feel him laugh against your mouth before he slips his tongue in between your lips and traces your upper row of teeth, his tongue is wet and warm, your thighs are rubbing together as you grow desperate for any sort of friction. Professor Komaeda must be in a similar state, because he grabs you by the waist and tugs you up to your feet. Pressed firmly against him like this, you can feel the evidence of his arousal through his slacks, a moan escapes you when you feel his hips buck.

He laughs again, pulling away from your mouth to press a hot kiss to the side of your throat. You feel his long fingers toying with the hemline of your skirt, slowly slipping up underneath it, “These pretty little things…” he whispers, tugging on the top of your thigh high stocking and releasing it with a snap, “do you wear them for me?”

There’s no point lying anymore. You can’t stop shaking, “I...yes…”

You feel him moan against your skin, sinking his teeth into the join between your neck and shoulder, “Did you really think I wouldn’t take notice? Of the way you undress me with your eyes in class, of these tiny little skirts you started wearing?” He grabs a handful of your ass and you squeal, “you’re so gorgeous. You could have anyone in that class if you wanted, but here you are with me-“ he grinds up against you, cock warm and hard through his slacks, “-I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve this.”

His voice is so soft and gentle, even while he’s palming your ass and grinding his hips against yours, he still talks like he’s giving a lecture on historical literature. It’s hot, how easily he is able to maintain his composure while you are little more than a quivering mess beneath him, but still...you want to see him come undone.

You hear more than feel your knees colliding with the wooden floorboards. Professor Komaeda is unable to give little more than a surprised look before you have his slacks and boxers shoved halfway down his thighs and his cock in your mouth. He lets out a shocked little moan, burying his long fingers into your hair as his hips stutter forward. Now that was the reaction you wanted.

“Oh...ohhhh-“ he whines, slowly moving himself in and out of your mouth as you tease his head with your tongue, “ahh...your mouth feels so good, angel.”

You were not expecting him to call you angel. It’s like a bolt of lightning to your cunt, your hands jump up the dig deep into the meat of his thighs as you moan downright salaciously around his cock.

“I can feel you moaning.” He whispers, “I can’t believe how much you’re enjoying this” you look up at him through your lashes and see his cheeks are red, his perfect lips are swollen from his biting them incessantly. You moan again just from the sight of him, he hisses and his hips cant forward deeper into your mouth, “wow. You...You really like doing this don’t you? Wrapping your perfect soft lips around my filthy cock?”

Filthy? That makes your eyebrows jump. You could always tell that your professor had some sort of inferiority complex, but you didn't realise it was...this intense.

“S’pretty.” You managed to slur around him, “Tastes good.”

He laughs again, it explodes from his mouth and shakes his shoulders. Unbridled, almost wild. He grins down at you, “I’m sure it doesn’t taste as good at you.” He purrs, tucking your hair behind your ear, “get up on the desk.”

Well, you weren’t going to say no to that. You give his cock one last long lick before standing back up from the floor, just before you hoist yourself up on the table, Professor Komaeda grabs you by the wrist, “Panties off, please.”

You feel yourself turn crimson, but dutifully shimmy out of your panties and let them drop to the floor. He smiles at you, hands curling around your waist as he leans into your ear, “that’s my girl.” He whispers, and lifts you up onto his desk. His hands are cold on the bare skin of your thighs peeking out from the top of your stockings, your stomach twists and curls as he slowly edges your legs open, and drops to his knees between them.

“Oh my god…” you squeak, he’s staring up at you with a look that is downright sinful and he doesn’t break eye contact, even when one of those perfect fingers slips inside you, “agh!”

He chuckles warmly, gently thrusting his finger in and out of you, “you’re so wet, angel...I can’t imagine why someone like me is making you so aroused, but I’m not complaining.”

His finger curls inside of you, and your hips jolt, “Mmph! Pro-Professor I-“

He smiles saccharinely as a second finger pushes its way inside you, “Nagito.” He corrects, pressing a hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, “We’re well beyond the need for formality. Don’t you think?” You cover your mouth to muffle a squeal as he adds a third finger. Your knees are wobbling and you can barely breathe, he’s just sitting between your legs and grinning at you, “Now let’s see if you taste as good as i imagine, hm?”

He pulls your clit in between his lips and sucks. You have to bite down on your hand to keep yourself from screaming, “F-Fuck...Nagito...I--hng!”

“It is after hours, you know.” He whispers, you can feel his breath on your cunt and you shiver, “There’s no reason for you to restrain yourself.” He licks your clit again and moans, “Haa...It may be selfish of me, but i want to hear you. If you’ll let me.”

“Oh god-” You hiss out when his tongue starts circling around you, “-keep doing that, and you’ll hear me alright.”

Nagito giggles and peers up at you, “Then I suppose I'll get back to work.” He hoists your thighs over his shoulders, and starts eating you out in earnest. You lean back on your elbows, and watch his soft white hair bob between your thighs as his tongue works it’s magic, he alternates between running the flat of his tongue up the length of you and focussing directly on your clit. Your toes are curling, mouth wide open with a constant stream of moans and whimpers that you have no hope of stopping. It feels so good, you had dreamt about this alone at night in your bed and even in those fantasies it hadn't felt this good.

His fingers slip out of you, but before you even have a chance to complain, they are replaced with his tongue. You moan so loudly that it rumbles through your chest, your hips rise up to meet his mouth and his hands curl around the soft flesh of your thighs, tugging you even closer. He groans. The wet muscle is slowly thrusting in and out of you when he presses down firm on your clit with his thumb, “I--mmph...Nagito m’gonna cum…” your hips are grinding relentlessly up against his face and you can feel your hair sticking to your forehead with sweat.

“Cum for me, angel.” He whispers, thumb rubbing your clit in brutal circles, “I want to feel you squeezing around my tongue.”

You throw your head back in a howl as his tongue slips back inside, the desk rattling with the force of your quivering hips. You can hear the slick sounds his mouth is making against your cunt, the way he is panting and moaning just from the taste of you. The tightness in your stomach grows unbearable, then he curls his tongue upward, and it snaps. You see whiteness behind your eyes, thighs shaking with the intensity of it. You can feel the vibration of Nagito’s moan inside of you and his fingers dig tight into the meat of your thighs. He’s enjoying your orgasm almost as much as you are.

When he finally pulls away from you, the lower half of his face is glistening with your wetness. He gives you a pleased smile, eyes half lidded as he brings his wet fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean, “I knew you would taste good.” He whispers, wiping the mouth with the back of his hand, “Think you can cum again, angel?”

Just watching him suck on his fingers is enough to get you going again, “Yeah, I definitely can.”

He laughs and stands up from the floor. His cock is flushed red and dripping, you suddenly realise he hadn't touched it that whole time, he must be painfully hard at this point. You lick your lips, you can't help it. He follows your line of sight and smiles, “Be a good girl and bend over the desk for me, please.”

You slide down off the desk, ready to follow his orders but quickly stop yourself, “Oh. One second.”

“Hm?”

You grab the teapot from the desk and quickly rest it on the windowsill, “Sorry. That was a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Ah, yes. You’re right.” His hand slips up to your cheek, thumb resting on your lips. He smiles when you pull it into your mouth and suck, “I’ll have to thank you for saving my carpet. Unless you see any other hazards, i would still like to fuck you.”

That word again. It sounds doubly filthy when he says it, the way his lips mold around it is downright sinful. A shaky moan drops from your mouth as you turn around and do as he asks, your breasts are squished up against the sturdy wood, and the desk is a little too tall for you, your feet are dangling just above the floor. You’re shaking with anticpation, and it grows even worse when you feel the warmth of Nagito’s palm caressing your ass, “For my own peace of mind…” he whispers, his other hand running a finger up the length of your sex, “When do you graduate?”

You laugh, “It’s a little late for that, isn't it, Professor?” you feel his hand still on your ass and you clear your throat, “Uh, this is my last semester. A few months.”

He sighs pleasantly, “Ah, that’s good. This has been very fun, though i'm not sure we should do it again.” You feel the head of his cock kiss your entrance and hiss through your teeth, “At least...not for a few months.” You can hear the smirk on his face.

“I’ve waited this long.” You say, grinding backwards into his cock, “I can wait again.”

He leans down until his mouth is right beside your ear, “Good girl.” He whispers, and finally thrusts inside of you. It feels so good, he fills you so well. Your cheek is pressed firmly against the hard wood of the desk and a pathetic little mewl escapes your mouth at the feeling. You cunt already dripping from your last orgasm, you take him so easily, so smoothly. It feels like he is meant to be inside you.

You feel a hand on your lower back, pushing you further down onto the desk and Nagito hisses through his teeth. Pumping slowly and deeply inside of you, like he is savoring it, “You’re doing so well, angel. I--fuck...You’re so warm.” his breathing is laboured, the rhythmic sound of his hips hitting your ass is echoing around the room, “I still can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you. I must be the luckiest man alive.”

“Please...more!” you whine, trying to force him deeper inside of you with the movement of your hips.

Nagito lets out a strangled moan and starts pounding faster, one of his hands slipping down between your legs to circle your clit, you cry out at the extra stimulation, toes curling inside of your shoes. The desk is shaking with the force of his thrusts now, there's a cute little statuette of a frog that falls down to the carpet with a clatter, but he doesn't stop.

“You feel so good, darling...I--I don't think i can-” a groan rips through him and you can feel his thrusts growing sloppier, “-you’re so good for...so perfect...I can't hold--ah ahh” he swallows, “Please, angel, i want to feel you cum again.”

You’re close, mouth raw from panting and moaning, legs going numb from behind suspended in the air. Then, the finger on your clit presses down firm and his cock grinds up against your g-spot. That is all you need, you come unraveling under him, the walls of your cunt clenching impossibly tight around him.

“Ah, yes!” He cries, grabbing your hips and pounding you desperately, relishing in the feeling of your hot, tight cunt. Milking him dry, “Good, girl. So good for me.” Then, he cums, you feel his cock throb deep inside of you as his hips stutter and slow.

It is only now that you are hit with the realisation. You just fucked Professor Komaeda. Holy hell.

All you can do is lay there while he slowly pulls himself out of you. Wincing a little at the wierd feeling of emptyness. You manage to roll yourself over, laying flat on your back with your legs still dangling from the desk. Nagito laughs and presses a kiss to your cheek, “Are you alright?”

You laugh weakly, “We’re going to get in so much trouble.”

“Not if no one finds out.” He tucks some of your hair behinf your ear, “Don’t worry about it, I’m very lucky with this sort of thing.”

“I just dont want you to get in trouble.”

He giggles, “That’s very kind of you, but this was as much my choice as it was yours.” he runs his fingers down your cheek and gives you a gentle kiss on your lips, “I meant what i said, about meeting up again.”

You manage to pull yourself up until you are sitting upright, you give him a sleepy smile, “Yeah, me too. I like you a lot.”

“How very sweet of you to say, angel.” He presses his forehead to yours and tangles your fingers together, “Let’s get you cleaned up now, hm? Can’t have you walking home like that”

To be honest, you aren’t sure you can walk at all.

____________________________

A few months later, you are sitting in the local cafe and applying for some jobs on your laptop. You did well on your final assessments and graduated with flying colours. It’s only a few more days before you need to officially move out of the dorms, and finding a new apartment (along with a job to pay for it) has not been easy so far.

You huff and push your hair back from your face. Your phone pings, and you ignore it. It’s been pinging for the past few minutes and you are not in the mood to check it. The job you are currently applying for made you retype all of the information in your resume even though you just uploaded it, and you are not happy.

The phone pings again and you groan, grabbing it and flipping it over. It looks like it’s just the group chat, as loud as always. As you go to close the message notifications though, you see one from about ten minutes ago that isn't from your group chat. Your heart is racing.

Hello!

I still have your number from when you asked for an assignment extension at the beginning of last semester. I hope you don't mind me using it. It’s been a few months, I'd like to see you again, if you wouldn't mind.

-Nagito

Oh shit. Your heart is beating a rapid tattoo in your chest. You had been so caught up in the job hunt and apartment hunt that you had all but forgotten about...this. You swallow and manage to force your shaky hands to type.

Oh hey!

It’s nice to hear from you. I’m free this weekend if you want to meet up, I still live in the dorms though, so it’ll have to be your place.

It's only about a minute before you get a reply.

Lol! I was thinking we could start with coffee, but I'm not going to lie and say i wasn’t hoping it would end up in my bedroom.

This weekend works for me. I can pick you up around 11?

You smile at your phone, cheeks turning crimson.

Sounds good. I’ll see you then.

You quickly update his contact details in your phone from Professor Komaeda, to Nagito <3.

#komaeda x reader #nagito x reader #komaeda nagito #nagito komaeda #danganronpa #danganronpa x reader #danganronpa fanfiction #sdr2 #super danganronpa goodbye despair #FILTH

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anissanightyoung · 3 years ago

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Of kisses and Roman traditions

[SUMMARY] Where Seungkwan enjoys kissing you and blames it on the Romans.

Idk what this is. Fluff? Flirty!Seungkwan definitely. Oh and noona!reader😁

3,087 words

HAPPY 6 YEARS TO MY BOYS💖💎

masterlist

You and Seungkwan have already kissed on three occasions. You didn't want to put too much thought into it, and you never mentioned it anyway. But sometimes it's hard to stop thinking about what those kisses mean.

The first kiss was at Seungkwan's house. All your friends were already asleep, tired of playing all his board games, and drunk innumerable bottles of liquor. You had finished cleaning up when Seungkwan came towards you. "Yah, why did you clean? This is my apartment.” You laughed at his half-asleep state, you could see just how tired he was trying to beat Soonyoung with one drunk. He did his best, but Soonyoung kept giving him +2s and +4s of tequila or vodka and mixing alcohol in Seungkwan's system ended badly. He threw up twice overnight.

"Look at you, hangover's gonna bite your ass in the morning. And you know I can't sleep when this place is trashed." You can hear him laughing lazily, trying to stay awake. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Seungkwan grins, "Starving. Creamy cheese bagels. Feed me?" You laughed at his antiques. You met him a year ago, and you know drunk Seungkwan needs to eat before he goes to bed. "This is a way of waking up hangover-free, noona. You should try it." But you know that Seungkwan will still have a headache the following day, with an Americano as a telling sign.

"You're too cute for your own good, do you know that?" You joked to him, shaking your head. You were warming up the bagel when he took your hand. "Happy anniversary, noona."

"What?"

"Do you think I wouldn't remember? It's the anniversary of the first time we met.”

"What a sappy, sappy man you are." You laugh while finishing his sandwich. You turned around to face him and said "ah" so he could take a bite out of the bagel. When he did, it was as if he had tasted food for the first time. When he had already swallowed his first bite, he suddenly threw his arms into your waist, swallowing you in a cuddle. That surprised you because he's not usually that sweet, and now he's very touchy.

"What are you doing?" You asked him when he set his bagel down on the counter and tugged the ends of your shirt pulling you closer to him. This is the only time you have noticed how he is a few inches taller than you, and that he has long eyelashes a bit like those of a baby. You were that close to notice that. He slowly bent over your face, staring directly at your lips, waiting for you to stop him. When you didn't, he closed the gap between the two of you and kissed you softly.

When he retired, he laid his head upon the counter and slept his intoxication away. You figured he’s too wasted to have done so. When you asked about the kiss the next day, he brushed it off, saying, “Sorry, got wasted trying to beat that tiger hyung.”

“Just don’t do it again okay? Friends don’t do that.”

“Yepp,” popping the last letter, “I’ll take you to your favorite burger place to make it up to you.” He drags you to his car while holding your hand. When he was driving, he held your hand still. “Hey, it's not okay to kiss, but it's okay to hold hands?” There was complete silence.

“Friends can hold hands, sure. When did friends start kissing on the lips?

“Friends with benefits do.”

“Ya are you asking me to? Cause you know I’m not into that kind of shit!”

Seungkwan laughed at your outburst. “Joking noona, sheesh. You’re getting old.”

“Shut it, I’m barely a year older than you.”

Throughout the ride, he didn't let go of your hand. However, you didn't seem to mind the extra warmth.

The second kiss took place around a campfire.

Soonyoung told the three of you that he wanted to go for a drive, and you were shocked when he suddenly parked by a beach. You never asked how Soonyoung got all of your clothes and other belongings, but he seemed to need the view of a peaceful ocean at night, so you all decided. You were already there, and the semester had just ended.

While you and Seungkwan were eating dinner you bought near the store, Seokmin began jamming to a guitar and singing his heart out. Soonyoung was on the lookout for the beach's caretaker to inquire about some wood for a campfire.

“I swear, I know Soonyoung oppa is the most spontaneous of us all, but I never expected him to be this bad. Is it really because of the finals?”

“He may look carefree, but hyung goes through a lot,” Seokmin chuckled. You understand; everybody has their own way of dealing with their baggage, and Soonyoung's are to be daring and laugh his problems away.

“Minnie, can you play the song you submitted for your music class as a group project?” Campfire?” You believe it is appropriate for the atmosphere of the evening. While Seokmin was singing, you glanced over at Soonyoung to see how he was doing. His smile is beaming, and his eyes are glassy as he takes in the stunning scenery in front of him. You were relieved to see that his plan worked.

You looked at Seungkwan, realizing that this was his first time hearing the track. “Kwannie, pay attention to the next line. It's comforting.” You sang with Seokmin when the part came up. It reminds you of how Seungkwan made getting out of bed easier every day. Your anxiety held you awake at night or made you fearful of what might happen the next day. But Seungkwan, he unintentionally shone on you at a difficult period. Slowly but steadily, you began to anticipate waking up knowing that he would face the day with you.

Soonyoung accompanied Seokmin to the market to buy some food after he finished jamming due to his hunger. It was time for you to jam. Of course, you'd choose Taylor Swift's The Way I Loved You, in honor of her Fearless cover. You've always admired Taylor Swift's music, especially the older songs because you identify with the words she wrote. You were grateful for how her music got you through your childish heartbreaks.

You were so engrossed in Seungkwan's angelic voice that you didn't know he was already squatting in front of you. Both of you were grinning at each other when the last chord was struck, and you kissed him as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. The kiss felt right; it felt like it was what completed the song you were singing; it felt like the happy ending the song promised. To keep your balance, you clutched his arm. When you jerked away from him when you awoke from your daydream, he immediately drew you back in and kissed you again, squeezing your hand three times.

The four of you had agreed to spend Christmas Day at Seokmin's. Your mother didn't let you hear the end of it when you told them you couldn't come home because your family has always been conventional. Your mother guilt-tripping you to come home, saying, "We're family, we're supposed to spend time together." “Ah, well, families are supposed to support one another, not nag each other to death when one fails to meet one's expectations.” After that, you hang up, assuming that if you don't agree, your mother will say something else that you don't want or need to hear.

Seungkwan was supposed to pick you up, so while you were waiting for him, you double-checked everything you'd packed to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything. Seungkwan's introduction of Soonyoung and Seokmin is one of the things for which you are grateful. You've outgrown your crappy friends from high school, so the trio is a breath of fresh air for you.

You place your bags in the trunk as soon as you see his car, like a little kid heading to Disney World. “Thanks for picking me up, Kwannie,” she said, beaming. You excitedly slid down to the passenger seat. He immediately hugged you once you were sitting, saying, "Ah noona, you're in a good mood?" You can see his smile doesn't reach his eyes when you've broken free from the embrace. He's giving you a fake one.

“This is my first trip away from my home. I already know it'll be a lot of fun.”

“Really? At Seokmin Hyung's house, you'll feel right at home. His mother prepares the most delicious Christmas dinner. My mother's cooking pales in comparison.” Seungkwan once gave you a dish made by her mother, and one bite was enough to make you feel like you'd died and gone peacefully to heaven. The fact that Seokmin's mother cooks better piqued your curiosity. “Ah really? Then I'd really have to give it a taste.” He smiled again, the false smile, and you're starting to get bothered by it.

“What are you doing, Kwannie?” You're giving me this strange grin.”

“What do you mean strange?”

“Fake smile. It's the first time you've feigned a smile at me. What’s up?”

“You can see right through me, can't you?”

“Yes, I do. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Nope. But I'd like to take your hand.”

Seungkwan is holding your hand and exhaling contentedly. He kept it until you arrived at Seokmin's house.

Seokmin's house is warm and inviting. They live in a house on a corner with a vibrant garden surrounding it. The living room has an L-shaped couch that can comfortably seat all four of you, with additional seating available. Seokmin and his sister have a wall full of family photos and accomplishments. You can tell Seokmin's parents are a laid-back, loving family, as shown by his kindness and good humor. You don't know if it was the long ride, but you fell asleep as soon as you sat on their couch after the house tour.

When you first awoke, you chose to visit their garden, which you recall has a swing set. Seungkwan is seated by himself.

You teased, "Where are your twins?"

“They went grocery shopping with Mrs. Lee.”

“What kept you from going?”

“Too exhausted from driving.”

“Then you should've just slept with me.”

Seungkwan swung his head in your direction right away. “I-uh, what?”

Then it dawned on you what you'd said. This is so humiliating. “Sleep!” you exclaimed, “Sleeping, with eyes closed and resting-“

“I never expected you to finally ask me-”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHEN YOU SAY "FINALLY" YOU LITTLE SHIT?”

He laughed out loud at your reaction while you chased him around the backyard. He quit running around after you told him that you wouldn't smack him in the head.

“I hate you.”

That made Seungkwan stop laughing.

“Do you regret meeting me?”

You were surprised at his sudden change of tone, no longer joking. “Is this what it’s all about?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“I'm not sure what got you to think like that. You said, “But you know our first meeting was a flop.” When people meet for the first time, they usually ask for each other's names, go through some more tedious formalities, and then seal the deal with a handshake. You had an early class with him, and you didn't mind sharing a seat with him almost every time because you thought he was one of the quiet ones. The year was difficult for you because things didn't go your way, you had a lot of misfortunes, and you had a lot of work piling up that was affecting your mental health.

As you sat down in your chair one fateful morning, you put your cup of coffee on your side of the table. This is where Seungkwan got his drink mixed up with yours because you both have the same coffee taste.

“- flop is an exaggeration for that noona-”

“-you drank my coffee in our 8 a.m. class thinking it was yours, I'll never forgive you.” Reliving that moment made you roll your eyes. “But you know what? You wouldn't have replaced it if you hadn't, and I wouldn't have had the best year of my life.” It may seem to be an exaggeration, but it is true. You were grateful for Seungkwan's carefree and playful personality, which helped you get through your lowest point. He had no idea what you were going through, but you were relieved that someone was taking care of you.

He can be seen chewing his mouth, attempting to conceal his smile. “Ah dumb main character in a drama,” air quotes the phrase, ‘I wish I hadn't met you.' “I instantly thought of you.”

“Huh, that's strange.”

“What is?”

“That. As I previously said, this has been the best year I've had in, what, three years? And it's all thanks to you. I might be harsh with you all of the time, cursing at you whenever I get the chance, but that's just how I am. I'm glad I got you as one of my most reliable friends, my rock, and my go-to person. Even Seokmin and Soonyoung oppa were introduced to me by you. Seungkwan, I'd rather live in a world with you in it. Don’t think otherwise.”

Seungkwan stared at you and felt a combination of emotions. He kissed you when he understood what he felt. At first, you thought it’ll be quick like the last time, a peck. But he deepened the kiss, and when his tongue touched yours, you hear him groan. He tugged you closer, afraid you’ll get away. He reassuringly held your hands, squeezing them three times just like the second time. I can get used to this. You thought. You focused on his soft lips, how you’ve always felt content while kissing him.

He pulled away, his chest heaving for breath. “Holy shit,” Seungkwan said. You nodded in agreement, apparently unable to concentrate because of your heart beating so loudly.

“I-, uh, I--”

“I thought we’ve talked this through?-”

He sighed deeply before adding, “I-I got cold. Sorry, noona.”

“You dumb shit, if you were cold, I would have made you hot chocolate. I’m nice sometimes you know.”

“I don't mind,” he smirked, “you're hotter anyway.”

“What the heck is wrong with you? I swear to god, you've been flirting with me since that drunk uno shit.”

“It's a Roman thing to kiss under the mistletoe,” he said, pointing to the mistletoe he was carrying.

You both laughed it off, thinking about how ridiculous it sounded. “Roman tradition my ass.”

You and Seungkwan are both in the hospital on New Year's Eve.

“Ah, what a dumb plan you had there,” you exclaimed, staring at him in disbelief.

“Well, I've always wanted to go out of my comfort zone...”

You give him a light smack on the head. “Shut up. Now I'm trapped in a hospital over New Year's because of your dumb plan.”

It's never a good idea to combine Seungkwan with hiking. Sure, he's fit, but when was the last time he went hiking?

“Then have Seokmin hyung or Soonyoung hyung accompany me.”

“They're still at Seokmin's.” You and Seungkwan both arrived at your dorms earlier than anticipated. After all, you didn't want to overstay your welcome; it was your first time. You were worried that Seokmin's mother would think you were too at ease in their home.

“Well, if you want to go home, you can.”

“Who will look after you if I go home?”

For a moment, Seungkwan didn't dare add a sarcastic comment on that question. So, instead, “Come on y/n, don't be so mad...”

“Where are your manners, I'm your noona?”

“three kisses in and I still can't call you by your name?”

You blushed when you remembered all of the times Boo SeungKwan kissed you and how sweet his soft lips were.

“Noona is blushing, wah.”

“I hope your ankle doesn’t heal you little shit.”

Raising his eyebrows at you. "You don't mean that. You love me."

"Of course I do. I love all three of you."

He reached for your hand. "I bet you love me more." There it was again, Seungkwan surprising you with his sudden seriousness. He was staring straight into your eyes, waiting for your response. Luckily, a nurse came in to check his vitals.

A few minutes after the nurse came out, both of you were ignoring each other due to that sudden tension. To ease the situation, both of you just watched television until you fell asleep.

"Y/n wake up." Nudging you by your shoulders. "We're nearing the countdown. Cmon," and urged you to stand by the window, waiting for the fireworks.

Seungkwan then leaned in to put an earphone in, with a song already playing in the background. You realized it was a song written by Soonyoung's classmate, Woozi, for a songwriting class. You were bopping your head to the music when the ten-second countdown started.

You and Seungkwan alternately sang along.

"I promise myself, while drinking a glass of water in the morning, to tell you"

새벽에 물을 마시면서 혼자 다짐해 나는 너에게

"Beautiful words like the lines in a movie"

영화처럼 달콤하고 예쁜 그 말

"The words I've prepared overnight for days"

몇 날 며칠 밤새 연습했던 그 말

"I want to say them to you tomorrow with clenched fists"

내일은 꼭 두 주먹을 꽉 쥐고 말해주고 싶어

Seungkwan turned to face you just in time for the next line.

"You are pretty."

너 예쁘다

As soon as the clock struck twelve and the fireworks went off, Seungkwan kissed you. What astonished you was how you knew he was about to kiss you and how you returned the kiss with fervor as he deepened it. You can't help but compare this man to fireworks; how dark it was before him, and how awestruck you were when he came into your life.

Seungkwan was the first to back away, touching his forehead to yours and giggling like a joyful little kid. “Did you know that it’s a Roman tradition to kiss on the first minute of the new year?”

“Blaming the Romans again, I see?” playfully raising your eyebrows at him.

He laughed at that, giving you no excuse. "I love you, Y/n."

You grinned as you silently thank the Romans for their weird traditions.

#seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #seventeen x y/n #seventeen imagines #svt #svt seungkwan #boo seungkwan #seungkwan x reader #seungkwan x you #seungkwan scenarios

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uchihaprodigy · 2 years ago

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@sharkfinx said:

It's those weeks were Sasuke is around, which would meant one thing; Kisame wouldn't be able to touch the kitchen due Itachi hogging it. Just as early after the breakfast, he could already listen to the sound of chopping vegetables.

"Ohhh, 8 am. That's earlier than yesterday neee." Kisame chuckled by himself, while prying open a big wooden barrel that was delivered at their door that same morning. Knowing well that was from his mom. Since his release from prison; even though they disagree that their son didn't had a "prideful" escape than submitting himself to be "tamed citizen". They had been sending little souvenirs of their travels around the world. Mostly for Itachi—since Kisame never had a sweet tooth. Now they could spoil their son in law as a thanks for giving their pup a second chance. Kisame carried the sweet boxes from the barrels to their kitchen, pilling it in mamory balcony behind Itachi. He was quiet while reading their letter, until his expression started to turn; eyebrows lifting together, eyes following the sentences quickly, re reading it twice.

"Itachi-san.. itachi-san.. excuse me one second? Listen."

Ita-chan and Kii-chan. I'll pull your limbers one by one since you been hiding an grandson from me. What's his name? What's his age? How long?"

"I have no ideia what's they're talking about? They're saying they "saw the photo" but? Which photo they mean by it?" His yes switched to their portrait close by the TV. Where's Kisame, Itachi and Sasuke were in it. Suddenly the tenseness of his expression softened as he walked by Itachi's side. Showing the letter.

"They mistook Sasuke kun by our child. He he he. Well, we're… an Family now, aren't we? Can you believe it?" Leaning the head to the side in an automatic manner to fit their view, there's a little smirk on Kisame's attentive eyes. Closeness suggesting his desire for something. Firm palm that was placed in a half hug over Itachi's shoulder.

"From having trouble with Biijuus to this. Isn't funny, nee? Daa-rii-ngg ~?"

The sound of chopping started an hour ago, only pausing when Itachi stopped for a cup of tea, or sometimes to refer to a recipe. Most of the dishes he’s cooking come from an impeccable memory, but today, he’s expanding his repertoire. By the time he detects Kisame’s footfalls moving around in the hallway, preparations are complete.

“Hmm…?” An incline of the head says he’s listening. Although he continues washing bowls, there’s less clanging of steel against ceramics, and less swishing of water until that, too, stops. “A what?” Brows furrow as Itachi reads the letter for himself, a baffled expression crossing his face for a second before he snorts, amused. In the photo they mailed over, Sasuke was sitting, and they were standing behind him like a pair of proud parents. Some kind of misunderstanding was bound to happen, he supposes.

“Are they aware neither of us can carry children, Kii-chan?” He levels a squint towards Kisame, eyes travelling to his stomach in feigned suspicion. “Unless you’re hiding something from me...” A soft snicker sounds as he dries his hands and turns, enabling him to snake his arms around Kisame’s waist. “It's going to break their hearts when they find out their grandchild is my 30-year-old brother.” Or they could play along. All they need to do is pick up a dark-haired child from the orphanage. How difficult could the process be? Some clever use of genjutsu will cover their ex-terrorist histories-

Kisame’s query puts a stop to his train of thought and Itachi blinks at him slowly.

Gone are the days when he would sit for hours on end, re-watching memories from his childhood by abusing his sharingan to the point of chakra exhaustion. Food no longer tastes like iron and sand. Itachi sleeps better, eats better, doesn’t cough up blood periodically with the medical care Konoha provides. And yet.

“Sometimes... I can’t.” How does he explain that everything feels like a fever dream he’ll snap out of with one wrong move? However, the brush of his nose against Kisame’s feels real, their mouths connecting in a kiss feels real. The cloth clenched in both hands and the flesh beneath them feels real.

“Don’t darling me.” Itachi is here, he is present, and he’s slightly annoyed. “When are you planning to pick up the shrimp I ordered? I need it for lunch.” Kisame being here too, is more than he ever could've imagined or asked for.

#♧verse: eternal anbu #☆cherished kisame #i feel like this needs #a more specific verse name #for this #us specifially #this whole collaboration #-chin scratch-#sorry for the late #im disgusted at my #inability to manage time lol #our guys acting suspiciously gay here #do you see it

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razieltwelve · 3 years ago

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My Origin Story

I’m often asked about how I got into self-publishing. It’s something I’ve talked about in previous posts, but I want to talk about it again. It’s been years since I started, and I think time has given me something of a different perspective.

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a long time. However, I first began to take my writing more seriously in high school. I started posting my writing on the internet under various pseudonyms, and I gradually honed my skills. I won’t say I was good back then, but I steadily became less horrible. It still wasn’t something I showed to people I knew in my everyday life, not even to my family. My writing was, in my opinion, still too rough and raw to present to others, except via the anonymity of the internet.

Fast forward to university. I continued to improve my writing as best I could. In fact, I devoted most of my spare time to writing. It was at this point that I began to write fan fiction. Now, I can already tell what some of you are thinking, but writing fan fiction was honestly the best decision I could have made at the time. Fan communities are wonderful things. You don’t have to be the best writer to be welcomed, and you can get access to a far larger amount of critique and advice than you would get as some random lone writer on the internet.

My writing improved markedly during this time since I was now getting regular feedback. Now, obviously, it’s true that most fan fiction readers aren’t professional writers or critics. Sometimes, all you get is “I like the bit where people got stabbed”. Yet amongst all of the one word reviews, random hate messages, and simple but welcome words of encouragement, you do meet people who are genuinely interested in helping you improve. I’m talking about detailed reviews that can be pages long, covering everything from sentence construction to overarching plot critiques.

In my Honours year, I finished my first novel. Before you ask, it’s not something that I’ve published although I do intend to go back and fix it up one day. What mattered wasn’t how good it was. No. What mattered was that I actually finished a novel-length story. It was a bit of mess at times, but it was 100,000 words of original fiction. Sure, it wasn’t great, but it was mine. I actually printed it out and had it bound in a manner similar to my Honours thesis.

During my PhD years, I continued to write, and I began to submit my short stories to fiction magazines while sending out inquiry letters to agents and publishers about my longer stories. Over the four years of my PhD I wrote three novels and many short stories.

And this is where my origin story takes a bit of a dark turn.

Do you want to know how many short stories I got published?

Zero.

Do you want to know how much interest I got from publishers and agents about my longer stories?

Zero.

That’s right. I got absolutely zero interest from anyone about my original fiction.

That’s not a good feeling, let me tell you. It can be very disheartening. I might have thrown myself into fan fiction with a bit more enthusiasm then because at least there, in those communities, people liked what I wrote. Despite all the rejections from publishers and agents, I could at least say that in certain communities, my writing was well-loved and respected.

After bashing my head into the proverbial wall for a couple of years, I began to look into self-publishing. If my writing was genuinely good, then surely I’d be able to sell at least a few copies if I self-published. I wasn’t going to get ahead of myself and predict best-seller status or anything, but I had to be able to sell something, right?

I spent the next few months studying the market and learning how to make eBooks and design covers. Finally, I was ready. The very first book I self-published was The Last Huntress. That book was a labour of love. I pored over every sentence. I obsessed about the characters and the setting. I promoted it as best I could via the communities I was a part of, and then I sat back and waited for the magic to happen.

That last part, the bit about the magic? That was sarcasm.

There was no magic.

In that first month, I sold something like 17 copies.

All told, that translated to around $6.50 for me.

Staring at that result was not the happiest moment of my life. I did the mental arithmetic. Even if I increased my sales a hundred fold, it still wouldn’t be enough for me to make a living via writing. Heck, I could increase my sales three hundred fold and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Luckily, my years of unrelenting failure had somewhat numbed me to this latest failure. I decided to try again. The sequel and some other stories actually managed to do a little better, but that was hardly saying anything. It’s kind of like how if your leg has been cut off, you probably won’t feel the pain of a broken finger all that much.

After a full year of massive failure, my knee decided to explode because of course it did.

Cue surgery.

Cue misery.

Cue six weeks with my leg locked straight in a brace.

Sitting on my couch with my leg propped up beside me, I decided that I wanted to write something different. No more serious fantasy. No more high fantasy. My humorous fan fiction was what had first endeared me to readers, so maybe it was time to write something funny. Besides, it might take my mind off the fact that I had weeks of my leg in a brace to look forward to along with months of physiotherapy.

And don’t even me started on how awkward it was to have a bath or use the toilet.

I was throwing around ideas for what kind of story I could write when a scene came to mind: a necromancer being forced to beat his own wayward creation to death. All I really had was that one scene. It sounded pretty funny to me, so I started writing just to see where it would go.

Two Necromancers, a Bureaucrat, and an Elf is what that idea became.

That book sold more copies in a month than all of my previous books combined had managed in a year. In fact, it managed to outdo all of my previous books combined several times over.

I can’t tell you how much it meant to me to see those numbers rolling in. It wasn’t a bestseller by any means, but it was the first time that I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t wasting my time, that maybe I could actually do this.

Things have changed a lot since then.

I’ve written more books, and although they’ve had varying degrees of success, they’ve all done so much better than I could ever have imagined during the doldrums of that first year. Humour, it seems, is what I’m best suited to, along with slice of life, and I’m more than happy to embrace that. I’ve even been lucky enough to have some of my books turned into audiobooks.

So there’s my origin story.

It’s easy, I think, to only remember the things that worked, but it’s important to remember the failures too. Writing isn’t an easy thing to do, especially if you’re aiming to make a living out of it. People can be cruel. You’re going to get reviews from people saying that you’re awful, that your story sucks, and that you should quit writing. But you’re also going to get reviews telling you that your story made someone’s day, that you made someone smile, that they can’t wait for the next book.

I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without those years of failure and disappointment. One of the most important qualities to have if you’re going to write humour is the ability to laugh at yourself and to make light of both the very strange and the very mundane. Moreover, a writer should be honest with themselves if they want to improve.

You can argue with reviewers. You can argue with critics. But you can’t argue with $6.50 worth of sales in a month.

I suppose that’s why I tend to be quite sympathetic to the underdog in my writing. I am one. I know what it’s like to put your heart into something and come up empty handed. I had that happen to me for years. I also know how important it is to celebrate the little wins and the small triumphs. Sometimes, they lead to bigger things, and sometimes, they’re all you have.

Well, that’s it. That’s my origin story.

It’s not exactly glorious. It’s filled with more than its fair share of failures. But it is my story. Mine. And that matters. Anyone who tells you that there isn’t some luck involved in the writing business is crazy. Luck is definitely a thing. But just being lucky isn’t enough. It takes years of hard work to become good enough to make the most of that luck, and it takes a certain level of idiocy/stubbornness to keep going despite everyone slamming doors in your face.

It’s a good thing, then, that I’m a lucky, stubborn idiot.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here. Also, just in case you missed it… The Sheep Dragon is out on Audible now! Get it here. It’s 26 and a half hours of fun, humour, and adventure!

#personal #musings #writing

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mrs-hatake · 4 years ago

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train station shenanigans (1)

A/N: Helloooooo everyone!

As promised, here’s the first chapter/intro of the aizawa x reader fic based on my work life! This is 90% Self Indulgent so just a heads up!

Anyways, enjoy! :D

Ps, not proof read!

Se no!

Demo sonnan ja dame mou sonnan ja hora.

You groaned in protest at the sound of your alarm that blared under your pillow. With your eyes still closed, you slid your hand under your pillow and fished out your phone to quickly tap the stop function. The white numbers of the clock read half past seven in the morning. You let out a whine and cursed the day you applied for a job.

Once you had convinced yourself to stay awake and ignore the sweet calls of slumber, you unlocked your phone and checked your notifications. After spending about fifteen minutes on twitter, you chucked your phone behind on your bed and pushed yourself upwards. You yawned loudly as you stretched your limbs. Lazily, you exited your bedroom and slowly went down the stairs so as to not awaken your mother and baby brother.

Today was your first day back to work after the mandatory lockdown due to the spread of the new virus. Having a break from work was wonderful as you were able to spend more time with your family. It sucked that everything was closed and you weren’t going to lie, it was stressful seeing the death tolls on the news, but you had fun at home. And now that things had finally calmed down in Japan, it was time to return to work.

Despite your whines from earlier, you were honestly looking forward to work. It was fun being at home, especially when you had so much free time to binge watch all of your favorite shows, but that could be entertaining for so long before it lost its charm.

With a soft hum of some random song, you worked on making yourself breakfast. Nothing too fancy, just some frozen waffles that you shoved down the toaster and then later drizzled caramel on top. You moaned at the fluffy texture in your mouth, and briefly, you were reminded of your days in school. When it was the first day and your mother would be up early and making breakfast for you. You missed those days. Life was much simpler back then. You wondered if your baby brother missed the lively atmosphere while getting for school or not. When you swallowed the last piece of waffle, you washed the dish and utensils that you’ve used before heading back upstairs to shower and get ready for work.

You decided to wear a simple yellow sundress for work. The best thing about the company you worked in wasn't being strict with the clothes you wore. As long as they were modest and family friendly, they found no reason to implement a strict dress code. Your senior coworkers decided to stick with the traditional attire of dark colored business suits. As much as you loved black, you didn’t want to wear the dark color every single day.

After you finished dressing up, you applied light mascara and let your dark green, almost black, curly locks gently rest on your shoulders. Spraying some lavender scented perfume, you texted your mother that you were off to work. But not before you snuck into your brother’s room, brushed back his dark green curls and pecked his forehead.

It was strange seeing the normally crowded streets of Musutafu be so desolate. The vast streets that were once filled with cars, almost resembling a parade with its colors and soft purrs of the motors, only had four or five cars on each lane. It was almost unnerving how quiet the streets of Musutafu were. But no matter, at least now you didn’t have to worry about traffic. Sure, you took the bus to work, though it was still frustrating to be trapped in the middle of traffic while freaking out over being on work on time. Not that you ever had been late. You always managed to show up at least twenty minutes earlier than the intended time.

The smell of bleach and lemon wafted through your nose once you stepped foot into the modestly sized train station. Just like the streets of Musutafu, the train station was just as desolate. The buzz of passengers sizzled out to soft mummers. The sea of people shrunk to a puddle. And the cheery atmosphere became somber. It was depressing. Though that didn’t deter you. With your head held high, you went straight to your office that you would normally share with five other people. Due to the new government rule, however, employees who weren’t supervisors, managers or ceos will take shifts and return to work every other day. Meaning you only had to work with three other people today.

“Good morning, Y/N.” Was the first thing that greeted your ears when you opened your office door.

Your boss was...unorthodox. He had long wavy hair that he would put up in a messy bun. Grey circles could be seen under his eyes and a soft stubble peppered his chin and upper lip. If you could describe your boss, then you would use the adjectives: grumpy and sleep deprived.

“Good morning, Aizawa-san.” You replied with a smile. Though, at the remembrance of wearing a mask that was way too big for you and covered most of your face, you dropped the smile. Aizawa said nothing, only nodded his head and continued to type away on his computer.

As you sanitize your workstation and logged into your computer, your supervisor Yamada Hizashi, walked in and bellowed “Gooooooood morning my little ducklings!” You heard Aizawa groan under his breath and tried not to chuckle at his misery.

Aizawa and Yamada were childhood friends and coworkers. It baffled you at first when Nemuri, your co-supervisor, had mentioned it in passing. The two were extremely different. While Yamada was the bright sun on a summer’s day that humans longed for after a long and miserable winter, Aizawa was the moon that people sung praises to with his mysterious aura and charming personality. After working with them for a month, however, you could see how the two were best friends. They balanced each other out perfectly and would always bring out the best side of the other person.

“Must you be so loud so early in the morning.” It wasn’t meant to be a question but Yamada answered anyway.

“Yes, I must bless everyone with my beautiful voice.”

If he wasn’t in a work environment, you were certain that Aizawa would have smacked his head on his desk to end his misery.

A peaceful silence settled upon you and you awkwardly shifted in your seat. Neither Aizawa nor Yamada had instructed you with anything to do and you were starting to feel antsy. Just as you were about to excuse yourself to walk around the station, maybe get some fresh air, Aizawa cleared his throat and called your name. You sat up straighter in your chair and locked your eyes with his.

“Write a letter to the Council of Train Stations to approve the extension of payment fees deadline.” Instructed Aizawa before returning to face his computer.

Blinking twice, You wrote down what he said in your notebook and began working on the letter.

You worked in the administrative department of the train station. The company you worked with, All Might Train Station Management, was infamous in maintaining and developing the station. From managing stores, adding holiday decorations to conducting safety measures and promoting the best image of the station, those were among the many things that you will deal with for the next eight months.

Once you have submitted your letter, you inform Aizawa. Who just hummed at you in return, too absorbed in his own work.

This went on for two hours. Aizawa would ask you to write a letter, you wrote it down on your note and then typed it on your computer and submitted it. Sometimes, you would have to contact other employees from other departments to forward you files that you had to attach to your letters. It was stressful, but not unmanageable.

It was around twelve in the afternoon when Aizawa excused himself to meet with the president of the company, Toshinori Yagi. Shortly afterwards, Yamada also left the office to God knows where. A habit of his that you envied but would never actually do. Yamada had been working two years at the company so he had the privilege to take a break from work and wander around. Maybe someday you could do it too, but for now, You’re stuck in your office.

Noticing that none of them were returning any time soon, You took your wallet and made your way to the mini market for a cold beverage and some snacks. You didn’t want to eat lunch at work - not that you can anyways since the staff room was under maintenance - but you were starting to get hungry and you couldn’t work to the best of your potential with an empty stomach.

When you returned to your office, you spotted Aizawa back at his desk. Yamada was nowhere in sight. Quietly, so as to not disrupt your workaholic of a boss, you sat down on your chair and opened your bag of chocolate animal crackers and stabbed the straw into your mango juice box.

“You look like you’re in elementary school.”

Your head shot upwards at Aizawa’s comment and could feel your cheeks flushing with warmth and you were positive that they had turned a bright red color.

“Would you like some?” You blurted and instantly winced. It was no secret that you were an awkward person by nature and tended to blurt things out or ramble on when nervous. You tried improving that aspect of yourself at work, not wanting to embarrass yourself at work like you did in college. You wanted to be professional and taken seriously. But it was proving to be a challenge.

Aizawa appeared to be contemplating your offer, half distracted by whatever it was displayed in front of him on his computer. “Sure, why not.” He eventually replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

Your heart beat in anticipation as you stood up and crossed the short distance between your desk and his. Your hand held out the yellow bag of animal shaped chocolate crackers and watched as Aizawa dipped his hand and fish out two crackers; a panda and an elephant. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Your reply was soft, almost a squeak. Aizawa just hummed in response and returned to type away at his keyboard. You briefly toyed with the idea of being as busy Aizawa, to the point of being unaware of your surroundings.

The rest of the day went uneventful. Aizawa didn’t ask you to write any letters and Yamada didn’t return to the office until half an hour before work ended. The loud blonde asked Aizawa if he wanted to join him for lunch later and you held your breath at what your boss was going to reply, the thought of him living a normal life outside of these four walls was almost unimaginable. “Yeah, sure.” Ah, to see Aizawa in a casual setting, a privilege that you have to work very hard for.

When it was two in the afternoon, you turned off your computer, signed your name on the attendance sheet and bid farewell to your colleagues.

“Goodbye, my little duckling!” You heard Yamada say behind you while Aizawa grunted a quiet ‘bye’.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa imagine #aizawa scenario #aizawa x you #bnha imagine #bnha x reader

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yvynyl · 4 years ago

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// Letters to YVYNYL //

Kennedy Shaw "Heaven"

/ Sometimes I get letters from right here in my hometown. Kennedy sent this one over and I think it perfectly encapsulates the feeling a lot of my readers are going through. Those of you who are struggling to make their music despite all odds, to make a life of music, to grasp on to the love they get from putting it out there. We are all in this together, our weirdo crew of misfits and hooligans who'd rather make a song that rips out our hearts and lay it out on the table for all to hear than just 'be normal.' We hear you. We hear you. Keep it going, friends.

Hi Mark,

When I think of music, I think of my grandmother singing me a song titled "don't fence me in." There's a home video of us singing it somewhere. Music to me feels no separate from myself. My mom used to listen to Tori Amos when she was pregnant with me and always told me that's why I started playing piano the minute I could.

My name is Kennedy, I'm a 21-year-old songwriter in Philly - or was in Philly - until a global pandemic interrupted my second year of college.

I'm only 21, but as far as coffeehouse music goes, I've probably seen it all. My parents used to take me to perform once or twice every weekend. They critiqued every show and were extremely supportive of how loud and passionate I was. Because of this, I know every jam band and bluegrass cover group that plays in the bookstores of the East Coast. I know which ones have AC and which ones make you pay for a meal after you perform. I have the stories of men telling me I'm "mature for my age" and taking photos of my 14-year-old legs while at the piano bench.

After I went to University, I knew a lot about basement scenes, too. I got too drunk while performing a few times, I kissed audience members during the choruses and band members during the verses. I drove off in the wrong uber twice. When the residence hall elevators shut down, I carried the keyboard, amp, stands, and book bag down 9 flights of stairs, and carried them back up at 2 or 3 AM less tired than before.

During this pandemic, and being back home in NJ, I've been asking myself why I continue pursuing music as a career, even though I never feel entirely validated or see financial gain from it. If anything actually, I see loss.

I switched my major from Music to English just before the pandemic broke in the U.S. I decided it was time to focus on a 'real career'. Then, I listened to some rough mixes of mine and decided to use all of my savings, every penny, to buy recording equipment and finish my EP in my bedroom. Clearly, I don't have any answers on why, or what's logical, or what's smart. I'm literally a crazy 21-year old girl-woman doing vocal takes in my parent's shower when they let me and finding the personal information of music bloggers and emailing demos to small labels like I'm their musical messiah. I've never filmed anything for anyone, and yet I've been dressing in vintage clothes and setting up "sets" (a bedsheet usually, chair, flowers) and recording them on my iPhone.

Even when I want to move on, the feeling of working on my music creatively is something so close to my core I don't think I can ever stop. Not because I think my music is worth listening to, or even good, I just can't stop making it. When I think of music I think of waking up from a dream and jotting down words. My dad saying to 'turn it down,' and then 'close your door'. I think of every love I had in high school giving me mixtapes, my best friend passing out on the train ride home with my amp in their lap. I think of watching strangers cry while I sing to them, basements of sweaty chances moshing, and my bandmates cans of beer. Every car ride with my parents I took for granted then, oblivious to the cost of gas and how many hours it took to get to the record shop where one person listened to half my set. I think of my younger sister listening to music to avoid new driver anxiety, and I think of my grandmother singing me songs, telling me to sing my own. I think of pausing the youtube tutorial, running from the desktop and to the piano upstairs. I'd make this hike a million times a night but never felt tired, and when I think of these things I don't have to wonder why.

Music is by far not the smartest choice as far as a career- maybe if I was smart I'd choose doctor, or scientist, or engineer, but feeling "smart" doesn't feel half as good as these memories music has given to me. "Heaven" is the first song I finished when I decided to work on rough mixes I had in my back pocket. It sounds haunting and compares heaven to a first love- the romanticization of first relationships is something that still pulls me in lyrically. I wrote it on bass, alone in my dorm room, probably crying. I hope you like it.

- Kennedy

…

Support YVYNYL, an independent music project here! Got a story to tell? Submit it to Letters to YVYNYL.

#Kennedy Shaw #Letters to YVYNYL #Philadelphia #songwriter #music #mixtapes #family #love #New Jersey #indie music

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gigslist · 3 years ago

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34+ Voiceover Roles & 3 Musician Open Calls - Work From Home - Paid

'F*cking Sober' Podcast

22 + Roles

3 Open Calls for Musicians With Their Own Music

PAID WORK FROM HOME NON UNION

Deadline : September 15, 2021 2:00 PM

Somehow9am Productions // F*cking Sober: the first 90 days Podcast

Katie Mack, coord.

:"A call for artists in recovery for the 2nd Season of The Webby Award Winning Podcast Series 'F*cking Sober: the first 90 days.' We are looking for voice over talent and musicians/music producers for 'FS: Shadai.' 'F*cking Sober' is a semi-comedic mostly non-fictional narrative podcast following Shadai’s first 90 days of getting sober. Thirty-five year old Shadai is the black, queer, strong female in advertising— so what if she keeps shots in her bra for between meetings, right? But after a shitshow holiday party, a fuzzy cop encounter, and a disaster presentation with the new big account, Dry January doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Maybe Dry Forever is better. This is what it looks, acts, and feels like to get f*cking sober. This 8 episode serialized show features music by artists with their own story with recovery. F*cking Sober Season 1: Anita has received 15k downloads since it’s release in Nov 2020, and received a 2021 Webby Nomination for Best Limited Series, and a Webby Win for Best Writing for a Podcast. At this time we are only looking to work with artists who have a relationship/understanding of recovery. Please follow instructions for submitting and what to include in the cover letter to be considered! Thank you! Listen to Season 1 to get the vibe: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/f-cking-sober-the-first-90-days/id1538804959?i=1000499155627 And check out: www.fckingsoberpodcast.com @fckingsober90_podcast More information about Somehow9am Productions & Katie Mack (Producer): www.somehow9amproductions.com www.mackstage.com"

Roles

Shadai (Voiceover): Female, 18+WORK FROM HOMEproduction states: "Note: We are only accepting submissions from artists who have their own story in recovery, TY! 35 year old, black, queer, cis gender female attorney with a dry sense of humor, who has strong opinions and shares them sometimes, is a powerhouse and knows it all… until… until she doesn’t. Please note your experience with improv/comedy in your cover letter If you have writing experience or are interested in writing please note this in your cover letter. We will be giving writing credits to the right candidate who desires to contribute to the molding of this character."Required Media: Voice Reel

Other Characters (Voiceover): 20-70

"Note: We are only accepting submissions from artists who have their own story in recovery, TY! We are looking for diversity in every sense of the word, from all genders, to ages, to ethnicities, to lived experiences, to food preferences!! In short, we are looking to cast dope, interesting people. Looking to cast various characters through out the S2 Shadai, including but not limited to:

Dad (black, army veteran, a dad’s dad)

Mom (black, hyper critical, the opposite of Shadai)

Dana (any ethnicity, work enemy)

Coco (white, work bestie)

JewBoo aka Therapist (Jewish, confidant, motherly, with a special sense of humor)

Miriam (black, best friend and ex-lover who tells it like it is)

Galen (white, gay, best friend who is warm and caring and pushy)

15 other characters Please note any experience you may have with comedy/improv if any. Please submit your reel along with your cover letter."Required Media: Voice Reel, Cover Letter

Musicians (BIPOC Artists in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music from BIPOC identifying artists.

Musicians (Queer Identifying Artist in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music by Queer Artists.

Musicians (Non-BIPOC/Non-Queer Artists in Recovery) (Voiceover): 18+ music from non-BIPOC or non-Queer Identifying Artists in recovery.

"To be produced over the course of October 2021 - January 2022 Shadai’s commitment is estimated at two hrs/wk. Other characters 30mins. Musicians, all work should already exist. Please be prepared to send stems or stripped down tracks."

Compensation & Union Contract Details

Stipend: $25 - $75Production states: "Shadai (Lead Character), $550 for full season. All Other Characters: $25-$50 per episode. Musicians: $25-$75 per song per episode. Sync license contract."

Seeking talent: Nationwide (United States)

Website:http://www.fckingsoberpodcast.com

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

'Rain: Series III'

12 Voiceover Roles

PAID WORK FROM HOME NONUNION

Deadline: September 14, 2021 8:59 PM

JKPRising James Klim, filmmaker

Seeking voiceover talent for "Rain: Series III," a web-series, created in the video game Halo Reach on MCC via Xbox/PC. "This series will have a total of 13 episodes. I have many characters to cast, 12 specifically. If you wish to learn more about the show, you can check out my documentary series regarding the show. You can view the first episode here - www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlzPQvJS3og A little bit about me, I am a freelance filmmaker who actually got into film through making Halo videos as a kid when I was younger. You can check out some of my work here - www.jkprising.com/ I've always wanted to return to my roots & finish a series I was never able to before, but now I have the time to focus on it. This is a paid position. Rates depend on each character as some have more lines than others & vice versa. I am not the wealthiest person in the world, but I will to compensate each voice actor for their performance. My budget per character is between $100 - $300. This again, all varies per character. In this post, there is a video of what the character will look like in the series. I have also attached a single page from a random episode script from the show. The highlighted lines are what the character will say. There will also be non verbal lines highlighted, this is meant to be voiced kind of like an anime, where every movement usually has sounds. Typically, how would you make a sound if you did any of the following, head turn, turns around, surprised gasp, sighs, etc. Since this a paid gig, I am expecting a professional voice audition & if hired, continued professional audio. This means minimum to no background noise. The audio needs to be crisp."

Roles

Chloe Moody (Voiceover): Female, 18-35WORK FROM HOME29. Voice type: English/United Kingdom accent, polite, doesn't get mad often but when she does, she loses it, anxious, low self esteem, hopeful. Chloe Moody used to be a psychiatrist, but after the death of her soon to be husband, she spiraled into insanity. She met someone later on in life named Tom Rains, who looked exactly like her dead boyfriend. She became obsessed with him & tried to get with him, which sunk her further into a deep depression. She finally hit rock bottom, which causes her to seek out help from the very people she used to serve. Chloe meets a psychiatrist named Jennifer, who is able to help herself almost fully recover. Chloe eventually accidently runs back into Tom, which triggers Chloe to try one last time. After a final rejection, Chloe comes to the realization that she is not redeemable & decides to take her own life in front of Tom. Chloe's death, triggers a massive event for Tom Rains, which has massive ramifications for the series. Chloe is a major character and will appear in a couple episodes.Languages:

English

Accents:

British

Australian

Voice Styles:

Soft

Softspoken

Crazy

Compassionate

Sad

Angry

Required Media: Voice Reel

Dark Daryl (Voiceover): Male, 18-40WORK FROM HOME

32, voice type: Very dark presence, evil. sadistic, look at examples like Yami Marik from the Original Yu-Gi-Oh - www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xaa_ycud6o, manic, darkness. Dark Daryl is the darkness of his original persona, Daryl. Daryl accidentally acquired a powerful technology known as an imperium. This caused Daryl to lose himself to it at some point & was taken over by an alternate personality named, The Professor, which caused tons of damage. When Daryl came back to his senses, the damage had been done & others abandoned him, which caused him to grow angry at something that he didn't consciously do. Daryl once again loses himself to the imperium, which turns into Dark Daryl, a representation of all the anger & hatred he endured over the course of his past uncontrollable actions. Dark Daryl is very aggressive, sadistic & wants to destroy the people who wronged him in the past. Eventually, he comes face to face with Daryl & fights to stay as the one who remains in control, even if that means killing Daryl & anyone who gets in his way. Dark Daryl is a character who appears in the second half of the show, & becomes the series main villain. He will appear in many episodes.

Languages:

English

Voice Styles:

Aggressive

Angry

Evil

Commanding

Straightforward

Scary

Dangerous

Intimidating

Demonic

Required Media: Voice Reel

Nikki (Voiceover): Female, 18-35 WORK FROM HOME

25. Voice type: Energetic, passionate, caring, open-minded, loving, positive, independent, fighter. Nikki used to date Tom Rains. She didn't really have much going for her, as she had no ambition at all during that time of her life. After Tom broke up with her, this was quite the shock to Nikki. It caused her to really dive deep within herself & from that moment, she tried to learn more about herself. She discovered a love for storytelling, & so went into journalism. Nikki is now dating Jennifer & they have been together for almost a year. Nikki eventually gets wrapped up in a major conspiracy, which drags many of her friends in with her. She is in for the story of her entire career. Nikki is a major character and will appear in many episodes.

Languages:

English

Voice Styles:

Comforting

Compassionate

Caring

Amusing

Animated

Brave

Heroic

Required Media: Voice Reel

Talent works remotely with professional recording equipment.

Professional Pay: $100 - $300Pays between $100-$300 depending on character.

Nationwide (United States)

Additional Materials

Website: https://www.jkprising.com/

Nikki Audition.pdf - https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/7f95c65b-ab53-43d3-a66b-9e59d1041acb.pdf

Dark Daryl Audition.pdf - https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/00cfdf46-84c1-4da6-9dee-91c7bcdeed3d.pdf

Chloe Moody Audition.pdf https://d26oc3sg82pgk3.cloudfront.net/files/media/uploads/casting_call/186cbe9e-9c7e-4ce5-bcbe-2407a9dec00b.pdf

#voiceover casting calls #work from home voice over work #music wanted online #jobs for musicians #remote jobs for musicians #music writer jobs #gigs for recovering addicts

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the-magnus-backlogs · 4 years ago

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Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare? I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

#submission #the magnus archives #corruption #cw #body horror #insects #obsession #death

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offbrandmercyplates · 4 years ago

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Okay I Have a Title This Time You Ready? Hear Me Out: Shenani-wings (Badum-tish!)

Heard you hurt your back and legs while trying to make the pattern for that cool sounding 50s dress you were talking about (at least, I think that’s what “drafting the pattern” means; I sewed a pillow shut once, I’m sure you can tell), so I decided to post this. Hope it makes you feel a little better!

Guess who’s back? It’s me, Yours The Author, coming to you with another fanfiction and something of a request of my own. I’ll state my request here so you can make a decision before the story begins: I don’t have a Tumblr, but I do have a fanfiction.net account that I’m fairly active on. Only if it’s okay with you, I would like to ask permission to post this story and the previous one I submitted on my account, with credit to you for the characters and AUs, of course (if you have a title in mind for that first fic, I’d be more than willing to hear it, because otherwise it would take me a while to come up with one of my own). If you’d rather I didn’t, that’s perfectly fine! I’m more than satisfied being featured on your Tumblr, so I won’t fret if you say no. Anyway, the fanfiction. Yes.

I don’t know where chapter two of the main story will start—right where we ended the first? Sometime/distance later? Who knows? —but this scenario of shenanigans with wings (get it? Get it?) popped into my mind one morning as I was slowly preparing to get up for the day, and I’d like to give it a shot. Let me know what you think! It’s a little more comedic than my last one, but I guess I just tend to default to comedy sometimes; hope that’s okay!

Trigger Warning (if it can be called that): mild action, awkward socializing, and a blatant Looney Tunes reference.

***

Shenani-wings

It was awkwardly silent as Emmibee and Gaster stood in the elevator that went from New Home to The Core. Gaster had watched her quietly as she looked with awe at the Capital’s city scape around the corner from Asgore’s house, but now that they were in an enclosed space with nothing but the shiny buttons and each other to look at, he seemed very interested in those buttons.

“…Nice weather, huh?” She said. She then proceeded to stare intensely at the corner of the elevator as Gaster stared just as intensely at her.

“The weather is always the same. Also, technically, there is no weather. We’re under a mountain,” he replied.

“…Oh yeah.”

The awkwardness cut deeper.

Emmi practically leapt out of the elevator when the doors opened, Gaster following more calmly after her. She looked around, once again amazed by the world she had inserted herself into. She had played and watched play-throughs of Undertale enough times to know the basic colors of the world, but there was only so much detail that could be shown via Earthbound-style graphics.

The dark blue walls were polished enough to reflect her face when she stood a foot away, and when she reached out to touch the wall, she felt a warm, thrumming energy zing through her fingertips. The lighter blue floor was also shiny, but not slippery. The traction was great, (there was no need to worry about slipping and falling off a crosswalk and being erased from existence haha what?) and she could feel another energy, this one a bit colder, thrumming through her legs from the floor. It was bizarre and exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once. Perhaps it was because she was technically a new SOUL, physically in the strange world she had come to love via a video game. She wanted to run, jump, fly—could she fly? She—

“If you’ve finished examining the wall, we should probably move along,” Gaster’s voice cut in impatiently.

Emmi blinked and gave an apologetic smile to the skeleton before making a “lead the way” gesture.

They continued through The Core, Gaster leading the way and keeping Emmi from wandering into the wrong rooms out of curiosity. Eventually they reached another elevator, this one leading to a path that was a gradient of blue to orange. They were approaching Hotland.

Emmi looked up and saw a tall building with a pair of glass doors leading into a room lit with a golden light. Gaster paused here. “There are people in here,” he said.

“I would hope so,” Emmi replied.

“I’d rather not deal with introducing you to everyone at the moment, so keep your head down.”

“What’s the magic word?” Gaster slowly turned and looked at her. Emmi stared back. They might have stood there for a while if Emmi hadn’t decided to let him win this round. “Please. The word was please,” she said quietly as she opened the doors and kept her eyes on the floor. Gaster followed after a second.

She would have loved to look at all lights and colors, architecture and people around her, but she was a woman of her word, so down her head stayed. Most of the monsters that were in the building must have been busy with their own thing, though, since no one seemed to call out to her or the doctor.

Then they were out of the building, and Emmi took the opportunity to whirl around and gaze up at the MTT Resort front. Like the Core, it was just like it was in the game, but also… more. The shiny gold letters above the doors glittered, as if there were lights hidden in the surface that twinkled. A humid breeze (?) rustled the bushes adorning the sides of the doors. She could hear chittering laughter coming from one of the alleys beside the building; Catty and Bratty, most likely.

Gaster cleared his throat (? Again?) and Emmi quickly snapped to attention and followed him away from the Resort, deep into Hotland. True to its name, it was hot. She wiped sweat from her forehead multiple times, and the hot steam puzzles didn’t help matters (turns out such puzzles are a lot harder to do when you can’t see all the launch platforms from above). Gaster wasn’t of much help either, but he sighed with what Emmi hoped was a bit of relief and a smidgen of pride when she landed on the other side of the final puzzle.

After wandering along the craggy orange paths for what felt like another half hour, they reached the Lab. “Air conditioning!” Emmi breathed.

Gaster glanced at her. “Only for less than a minute.”

“It’s all I need.” The doors opened, and Emmi sped walked into the cool air, taking deep, sighing breaths and smiling up at the ceiling.

“Dramatic,” Gaster muttered, shaking his head. From the corner of her eye, it looked like Gaster had a slightly amused smile on his teeth. Probably the best interaction she had had with him yet.

The first thing Emmi noticed about the Lab was how… clean everything was. There were no trash bins full of ramen noodle cups or crumpled up papers, no tables covered in anime figurines and more papers, and the big computer that she recalled Alphys using to monitor the player was gone. It almost looked empty without it all. Emmi thought to ask about it, but figured questions were probably better saved for once they reached Snowdin.

Once back outside the Lab, Gaster led her down a flight of stairs to the river. The stone floor changed from orange-y red to a deep blue, and the cooling sound of rushing water eased Emmi’s nerves in a way she hadn’t noticed she needed.

And there, as if they had been waiting for the two of them, was the Riverman (or River woman? It didn’t matter). “Tra la la. More than one new chapter is about to begin. Would you like to ride on my boat?”

“Hmm. Haven’t heard that one before,” Gaster said, more to himself than to Emmi, but he stepped onto the boat and sat on the seat directly behind the Riverperson. Emmi carefully sat opposite him, slinging off the back pack Asgore had given her and putting it under her seat. “Snowdin,” Gaster requested.

“Please,” Emmi finished, rolling her shoulders and arching her back a bit. Her wings (yes, she reminded herself for the twentieth time, she had wings now) weren’t super sensitive, but the pressure of having a relatively heavy backpack press into them for an hour felt… weird. Out of curiosity she tried to flutter her wings a bit. Nothing happened. It was like trying to tell you hand to move, the way you tell yourself what to have for breakfast: it just doesn’t work that way.

“Please and thank you. Magic words, indeed,” The Riverperson said. Suddenly, the boat rose above the surface of the water. Emmibee gasped in surprise and clung to the seat with her hands.

Gaster raised a bone brow at her. “I had assumed you knew that this happened sometimes,” he said. There was that barest trace of what Emmi could only hope was amusement.

“Seeing it happen is different from actually being there,” she explained, easing her grip.

“Tra la la. Look, it likes you.”

“What?” Emmi and Gaster turned to the front of the boat. The head of the boat was shaped like a dog/cat hybrid, and it seemed to have turned its head to smile at her. Emmi found herself rising to her feet and reaching towards it; to give it a head pat or hug, she wasn’t sure. “Aww…” she cooed. She was so focused on the doggy-kitty, she barely heard the fluttering sound behind her, like brand new sheets of cellophane flapping in the wind at high speed. She also didn’t notice Gaster looking over her shoulder with something akin to wonder.

“We are off,” The Riverperson said.

…Huh?

The boat jerked forward and bounded across the surface of the water. Emmi probably would have fallen back onto her seat under other circumstances, but the flapping sound stopped with a snap, and she looked behind her just in time to see her wings spread out like a sail before the sudden burst of air flowing by sent her flying back off of the boat. “AAAAAAA—!”

PING!

Something blue flashed in her vision and she felt a pair of hands scoop under her arms and pull her back to the boat. One second later, her face was in a warm fabric surface and there was a wheezing sound in her ear.

It was easy enough to put two and two together: her wings, acting on their own accord, went kite-mode and sent her airborne. Gaster had summoned magical hands to grab her before she went too far, and now she was in his arms. She couldn’t pinpoint what the wheezing sound was, though.

She peeked up at the skeleton and saw him staring down at her, both eyes glowing a mix of yellow and pink. The wheezing sound was coming from between his clenched teeth. Apparently, if you startled a skeleton enough, they’d start wheezing. They stared at each other for all of five seconds. Emmi broke the silence with the first thing that came to mind:

“Ehhh… What’s up, Doc?” Then she smacked her face back into Gaster’s chest to suppress her hysteric laughter.

“Tro lo lo,” the Riverperson laughed. Gaster did not seem to see the humor of the situation.

“DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!” He cried with what was so obviously worry and concern, Emmi was now wheezing herself, trying to stop laughing. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I’D DO IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO YOU?!”

Emmi sobered quickly at that. She looked up at him again. “What would you do?” she asked.

“…” Gaster opened his jaw, then shut it again, desperately trying to come up with something clever and witty and aloof. “…I don’t know,” he finally said. “Just… don’t do that again.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Dr. Gaster,” Emmi replied, even though she technically hadn’t meant to do any of this.

“A bee in the hand is worth two bushes,” the Riverperson quipped.

“What does that even mean?” Gaster groaned.

“We’ve arrived. Tra la la, both of you.” The boat dropped like a rock onto the surface and Emmi yelped, clinging tightly to Gaster. She hadn’t noticed it had gotten colder until she was no longer about to fall off the boat, but looking out to the side, she saw a pretty layer of white snow covering the ground next to the river.

Gaster quickly stood, grabbed a strap of Emmi’s back pack, and got off the boat, crunching the snow underfoot. The boat got back up on its legs, turned around, and ran back the way it came.

Gaster and Emmi stood there for a few seconds. Or rather, Gaster stood. He had yet to put Emmi down, and as much Emmi would have liked to stay near his warm, beating SOUL, she knew he’d never forgive her if she let him walk into the town with her like this. “You can put me down now, doctor,” she said.

Gaster blinked and scrambled to put her down without actually throwing her tiny body onto the snow, shoving the backpack into her arms when he had accomplished this. He straightened his lab coat and cleared his throat. “Ahem. Yes. Well, my house is less than a minute away. You should probably put on your coat.”

Emma made to reach into her bag, then paused and shook her head. “I can handle it.”

“…What?”

“I can handle it for a bit. Let’s go.”

“There is literal ice on the ground.”

“I kind of like the cold.”

“Your wings could freeze off.”

“Then we should move quickly, huh?”

“…Fine.” Emmi grinned up at him, pleased she had claimed her first verbal victory. Gaster adjusted his glasses, then blinked again and forced his hands to his sides. His eyes were still glowing, though they were much more pink than yellow now. “Let’s go. We have much to discuss—”

“Um, doctor?”

“What is it?”

“Your eyes,” she gestured to his face. “You might want to—”

Gaster put his hand to his good eye and seemed to notice the pink light reflecting on his bones. He blushed and blinked rapidly until the light went away. Yep, Emmi thought. This is the man I’m going to care for along with his children for the rest of my life. So fine.

“Let’s go,” Gaster repeated, pointing down the path. “And… thank you, for… that.”

“You’re welcome, Dr. Gaster.”

***

I can’t help but feel I have a tendency to start the story way ahead of the action, which fills the beginning with unrelated details, but maybe that’s part of the charm? I wouldn’t know, I don’t get a lot of feedback these days on my stories. But anyway, yeah.

I imagine suddenly having wings, even if they’re technically nonfunctional (at this point), could present some… unique situations. Emmi’s wings flutter when she’s excited (and Gaster thinks it’s cute), so I imagine they might react to other emotions, such as sticking out when startled, drooping when sad, etc. (What’s that? Emmi’s wings are technically under her new shirt she got from Asgore? And therefore this scenario couldn’t happen? And also her wings might not be strong enough to lift her whole body like this? … Shhh…)

I don’t know if all people notice these things when looking around, but I always love to look at as much of the lights, colors, and architecture in a new place as possible: big cities and rolling valleys of trees especially. People are kind of just there, unless I’m at an anime convention; then people are put into that first group, too.

*Bites a carrot* Ehhh… What’s up, Doc? I have no idea if Emmibee would be the type to quip in a situation as sudden as the one seen here (clearly, I have been watching too much Real Time Fandub Games), but minds do weird things sometimes; something I’m all too familiar with myself. Why Looney Tunes? I don’t know, I couldn’t think of a better quote that mentions a doctor (wait, here’s one: I’m a doctor, not an escalator!) Also I like comedy. Sue me. (Please do not.)

I had to use a lot of maps of the Underground for this chapter. I kind of forgot about the steam puzzles and where each elevator went until after I saw it and I was like “Oh. Welp.” I’m not actually sure how you would solve the steam puzzles if you weren’t able to visually map out your every move. Gaster has probably done this five hundred times and knows the right way by heart (or soul, I guess), but Emmi has never seen the puzzle from this perspective, and I’d be very surprised if she had taken the time to memorize each puzzle in the game before going into the world. Even then, perspective can change a lot.

Skeleton Eye Glowing! Pink and yellow, based on the correlating emotions on Zarla’s eye color chart. Yellow usually means fear or stress (and is also Gaster’s natural color), and pink means surprise or embarrassment. Gaster becomes more embarrassed once he realizes he’s been holding Emmi like a teddy bee to himself for half a boat ride, and it takes a second for him to return to his stoic, cool-guy persona. He really does appreciate Emmi looking out for his dignity, though.

I actually loved writing the Riverperson more than I thought I would? They’re just so cryptic while also being straightforward, but in a way that I? Like? Get? And understand? It’s like they’re speaking in poetry while also screwing with their patrons, and I’m just down for that. I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone, but the line “More than one chapter is about to begin” refers to the meta of the story’s literal next chapter beginning soon, as well as the chapter in the life of Emmi, the life of Gaster, the life of the boys, and the life of them all as a family. Also, “A bee in the hands is worth two bushes” is a play on “an apple in the hand is worth two bushes” (See Veggietales: Larry Boy and the Bad Apple [which I don’t own]), which is a play on the actual phrase “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”. Technically, this phrase means “you should be content with what you have instead of losing it all to get more”, but I’ve always read it as “a small amount of something hard to get brings more joy than a lot of somethings you could see any day of the week.“ In this instance in the story, the Riverperson is referring to the latter, and is also just commenting on how rare it is for Gaster to be holding any person, and especially a special bee that got to him through special means.

Emmibee’s favorite part of the Underground is Snowdin, “no contest”. I would assume this is not only for aesthetic reasons (who can resist a snow-covered Gyftmas village?) but also for preference reasons. Emmibee was very immediate in her response to where in the Underground she wanted to live (Snowdin), which may have been so she’d be near Gaster, but I think it would make sense if she preferred snowier places anyway. Hence, she appreciates brisk, cooler temperatures to warmer ones, though a balance is always important. Freezing cold for a short amount of time could be exhilarating. Would her wings freeze off? Dragonflies survive the winter through some means, why can’t a bee monster? (Also, the whole monster thing; weather may not be as applicable to wing safety.)

Anyway, I think that’s all of the after thoughts I have. Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom! Maybe one day I’ll write another story for this AU. It’s a lot of fun! The AU, I mean. And also writing for the AU. Anyway, I’ll see you around. Until then!

~~~

okay #1: this is ADORABLE AND I LOVE IT SO MUCH

#2: it does make me feel better!!

#3: You’re correct in that “drafting a pattern” means making one! I’m using vintage drafting instructions for a vintage dress pattern, which is very exciting.

#4: I wouldn’t mind at all if you posted your stories, as long as you link them back to my and Zarla’s blogs! I would prefer if you posted on AO3, but since you’re already active on FF that’s just fine too. Send me the link when you post them and I’ll give you a promo!

#5: As far as names go, ah.... I’m no good at names either, honestly. It depends on what you want to emphasize in the story. What do you consider the crux of that particular chapter? Seeing Emma, her relationship with her father, Wings’ conversation with ZD or his mother? Maybe family relationships in general? That might be a good angle since that was the majority of the story.

#6: This particular chapter is such an interesting take on the next leg of the story! You really captured Emmi’s excitement in being in the Underground for the first time, as well as her gentle teasing but caring attitude toward Gaster. “Yep, I’m gonna have this man’s babies.” OKAY NOT REALLY WHAT SHE SAID BUT THAT ENERGY THO

#7: I dont like to stomp on headcanons so I won’t address most of them, but I do want to comment on Emmi’s favorite place in the underground being Snowdin since that directly relates to me: My favorite place is Snowdin because it’s the only place in the Underground that truly feels like home. I actually hate the cold, haha. But the fact that the skelebros/Gaster live there, the music is lovely, and there’s Grillby’s and the librarby and gentle furry folk, it really speaks to my small-town-girl heart. Emmi’s main reason for requesting to go to Snowdin is definitely because of Gaster, but it’s a special place to me because it feels like home.

#8: The comedy is great, the fluff is great, I’m just. I love this and I love you and you do great work

#fanfic #OBMPfanfic #yourstheauthor #i feel warm fuzzies #thank you so much #submission

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jincherie · 5 years ago

Text

fox rain | four

• ☽ — pairing: bts x reader • ☽ — genre: crack, fluff, angst, college/uni au • ☽ — words: 13.9k+ • ☽ — rating: sfw • ☽ — warnings: stop one on the angst train express!!! conflict, crying, hurt feelings and perhaps a little bit of a complex... also someone gets slapped (rightfully). what a chapter! • ☽ — notes: two months late LETS GET IT FOOOXXX RRAAAIIINNN !!! this shit HURTED. for maximum owies, I advise reading a particular intermission before this one uwu

— posted; 08.09.2019

When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

— • masterpost | prev. | four | next • —

Never in your life, have you ever truly entertained the thought of killing someone before now.

As though your stormy mood is a thick fog permeating the air and rendering it unbreathable, the students moving past you in the hall hasten to give you a wide berth. You’d appreciate it, if you weren’t so caught up in your half-baked murder plans that you didn’t even notice.

You’re a nice enough person, right? You’ve never gone out of your way to be mean, or bullied anyone—hell, sometimes you feel so bad about the current state of the earth that you walk around the park looking for litter to pick up. Being the stellar example to humanity that you are, you’ve managed to steer clear of—for the most part, also not counting these very stressful past few weeks—drama. In high school you managed to dodge the drama entailed by school dances, juvenile love triangles, and pretty much anything pubescent you can think of. You did your own thing, and generally most people took enough pity on your poor excuse of an existence that they became oddly endeared and protective of you, like they were adopting a small alien ball of slime that fell from the heavens and wheezed painfully with each breath. You’ve never had to face the cold, agonizing frostbite of betrayal, and you didn’t really ever expect to.

But now for the first time ever you have, and god does it suck. You woke up this morning like you had a hangover, head throbbing as though an iron ball was rolling from one side of your skull to the other in uneven laps, and your eyes were somehow a combination of dry and tight, swollen and moist— admittedly, you still kind of feel like that to a degree. You woke up sad, and angry and hurt, but thankfully Karma isn’t one to leave you stewing in any one emotion too long. What a benevolent queen you find yourself ruled by.

As soon as you settled down this morning with your flavoured coffee (the last sachet from your “depression days” emergency stash on the top shelf of the cupboard—you feel as though with all you’ve been through, you deserve it) and opened your phone like a fool to pass the time while your waffle (another comfort food from your stash) cooked in the kitchen, you were met with a very sudden and very stark change in emotional stasis. No longer were you a moody, depressed and sad sack of mouldy mashed potato—now you were a fucking livid sack of mouldy, mashed potato, who nearly snapped her fork in half from the sheer strength of her tight grip.

After all you’d learnt of Sera the afternoon previous, you shouldn’t have been as surprised to wake up to what you did. And yet, the second you laid eyes on that damn post it had taken you so off guard you’d nearly flown into a blind rage on the spot.

The gall, the absolute audacity of her to plead and proclaim that she was going to “fix this”, only to turn around and plunge another knife into your back by publicly announcing on the university forum she used to start all this that she is the author. This entire ordeal was already such a convoluted mess that even before this, she never could have truly fixed it—but she could have lessened it, made it more bearable. Yet she didn’t. And with her blatant choice to not only do the opposite but essentially plagiarise your damn poem and steal your unwanted, unintentional fame—you’ve never been so fucking furious in your life.

You’ve never considered murder before now either but you have to admit, the further onto campus you get and the more whispering and gossiping you catch about the “development” in the mystery moon poem drama, the more appealing it seems.

All day, you have put up with this shit. All day, as you sit through class and then move from one session to another, you have heard people gasp and chatter and rant and rave about how Sera is the supposed author to the poem. You’ve heard them wax poetic about her and her “skills” that she doesn’t deserve and aren’t really for her, flattering comments about her ‘humble’, ‘sweet’, ‘sensitive soul’ character that you now know couldn’t be further from the truth. The combination of her betrayal and the injustice of the situation as you now find yourself in it are almost enough to break you into a soggy, emotional mess, but it seems the pure, unadulterated rage will be enough to feed your fire and keep you going for now.

You’ve been in such a state all day that you can hardly remember what it was like before you were angry. Depression? What depression? You’ve never heard of her. This must be what it feels like to be an Aries, you think. You almost feel invincible, and would if it weren’t for the looming cloud above you that rained angry droplets on your parade.

By the time you drag yourself through the day and your first tutoring session arrives, you feel a strange combination of emotionally exhausted and absolutely fucking wired. You’re still seething, of course, but it’s less of an in-your-face anger and more of a crazed undertone at this point. You attempt a smile when you enter the library and see Hoseok, but you mustn’t be very close to achieving it because a brief expression of fear flits across his features and he straightens in his seat. Oops, you forgot Hoseok is a scaredy cat. It seems you’ve accidentally activated his deeply ingrained and well-exercised fight or flight response.

“H-hey, y/n…. are you okay?” His concern for your wellbeing has seemed to override his initial fear response, and you feel a little touched amongst the angry bubbling of your insides. You try again to flash a smile, and this one appears to be a closer approximation than the last as some of the tension leaves Hoseok’s form.

“It’s a lovely day,” you say, fighting a twitch that’s trying to make itself known in your left eye. “But enough about that, let’s talk about you. What are we going over today?”

Hoseok is hesitant, pausing a moment as his eyes survey your seated form like he’s assessing whether it’s worth it to probe a little more. He seems to reach a decision and turns to his bag, pulling out his things. They hit the table with a tentative thunk, even the sound seeming cautious. He is treating you like a bomb that could go off at any moment and to be honest… you can’t blame him.

“I need your help brainstorming for a project that’s due in a few weeks,” he says, most of the fear having left his voice. “But I was wondering if we could practice essay writing some more, maybe timed? One of my exams is an essay.”

You wince for him, but nod and reach for your phone, unlocking it carelessly and trying to shove down the hot spark of anger that ignites down your spine at the post being the last thing you were looking at. With a little more anger than necessary, you flick that screen away and pull up the timer app. “Yeah, we can do that. We’ll split the session in half, I’ll start the timer.”

When you turn back to Hoseok, his gaze is on your phone as his brows draw together in a pensive sort of expression. Something you can’t decipher washes over his face in the next second, his eyes flitting to you and then to your phone before he’s sitting back, covering his momentary lapse with a bright smile. You’re a little bit suspicious but not bothered enough to really be wondering about whatever is going through his head.

You start the session, and given how previous ones have gone you’re kind of expecting him to fall into the same serious, broody mood as he has been. To your complete and utter surprise, however, Hoseok begins acting in his usual dumbass antics right off the bat. He’s more animated than you’ve seen him in weeks, making weird Hoseok Noises™ and laughing loudly, even poking you playfully every now and then.

You still feel a little stormy, but the longer the session goes on the more he has a smile fighting to be set free. It’s Hoseok, so of course that resistance doesn’t last long. By the time his session is drawing to a close he has you chuckling, a small smile on your face. He appears accomplished, grinning brightly himself before he catches sight of the time and it falters slightly. You wonder what could have incurred such a reaction before the realisation smacks you and suddenly the inklings of sunlight peeking through the clouds above your head are swallowed up again. Right, the whole thing with Jimin.

With the events of yesterday and this morning still fresh in your mind, the slight parallel hits a little closer to home than you’d like.

You don’t have to wonder if Hoseok has noticed the backtrack in your mood, because the expression of slight regret playing across his features tells you he has. He gives you a somewhat strained smile as he hastens to pack his things away, almost hesitating once done as though he wants to stay despite a deeper desire to avoid Jimin.

“I’m gonna head now, avoid some of the traffic on the way home,” he rambles, seemingly torn between meeting your eyes so he can smile and avoiding them since he’s fibbing and he knows you know. You squint at him.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Wouldn’t want you stuck in traffic,” you say, staring him dead in the eyes. “You live so far away after all.”

He lets out a nervous-sounding laugh, most likely at the way you’re looking at him, and slings his overstuffed bag over his shoulder. “Ahah… yeah.”

He lives about ten minutes away, the little turd.

You roll your eyes, giving the boy a brief smile. “See you on Friday, Hoseok.”

Somewhat relieved you’re not too mad, Hoseok grins and salutes, returning the sentiment before he’s hightailing it out of there faster than you can say “emotional constipation”. Well, now that you’re left to your own devices for the next eight or so minutes, you’re not really sure what to do. For a moment you sit there, staring in a somewhat disassociating manner at the dark, matte grey surface of the library table. It’s a little quieter than usual this afternoon, and it really allows you to zone out more.

You don’t really want to look at your phone, lest it appear like a request for more suffering to the powers that be. The last thing you want is them thinking you’re hungry for more shitty luck and going out of their way to give you more. So with your phone out of the question, you’re left with nothing to do for the next few minutes except sit and stare at nothing, and maybe transcend the mortal plane a bit while you’re at it. Which is what you do, and do so thoroughly that when a voice sounds next to you, you nearly scream and shit yourself.

“Uh, excuse me…”

“HOLYFUCK!” A strangled noise escapes you, body spinning to face whoever almost scared you to death. “DUDE, you can’t just—oh, hey Jungkook.”

The tall boy flushes as your face softens upon seeing him, the anger that resulted from your scare quickly fizzling away. Jungkook has a face that you’ve always found impossible to be angry at. It feels like being angry at a baby, or a puppy, or a little sugar glider with their big ol’ eyes and tiny paws. You just… can’t do it. You’re lucky he’s not aware of his power or else, like any other bastard adolescent male, he might use it to get up to no good.

“Oh, sorry! Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you, I- I just saw this on the ground and came to give it to you. I think… I think one of you dropped it. I don’t know if it was you or Hoseok.” Jungkook does his best to meet your eyes, voice soft as he stumbles ever so slightly over his words. He can’t manage to hold your gaze for long however, before his is flying away and straying to the floor, and the ceiling, anywhere but you really. One of his hands rises to sweep through his long, inky curls and rub the back of his neck, the other occupied with gripping a notebook by his side.

You examine the object a little closer, quickly coming to the conclusion you’ve never seen it before in your life. “I don’t recognise it. Could be Hoseok’s though. I’ll keep it for him in case it is his. Thank you, Jungkook.”

The male freezes, completely disarmed for a moment as you flash him a grateful smile. He is so completely still in the seconds following that you can’t help but worry—did you look so bad just then that you shocked him into a coma? Do you have a pimple you don’t know about, glaring at him from somewhere humiliatingly obvious on your face? Is there something in your teeth??

"O-oh," Jungkook clears his throat, blinking twice and then giving his head a little shake as though to clear it. "It's no— It's no problem! I mean I kind of work here so... it would be irresponsible of me to leave it? I mean, not that I would, I—"

You can't help the brief chuckle that wrestles its way from your chest to escape unbidden, your hands reaching to take the notebook that he'd begun holding out for you not long after he started talking. In the process your fingertips brush his own and Jungkook lets out a sound that rings suspiciously like a squeak, hands yanking back so suddenly you almost drop the book before you can adjust your own grasp.

"Oop," he says, the tips of his ears beginning to glow pink beneath the tan of his skin. "Sorry, your next session is probably about to start. I'll leave you be."

Then, as abruptly as he'd arrived, he departs— for a second your wired brain almost tricks you into seeing a cloud of dust form behind him from how fast he flees, reminiscent of the cartoon characters from your childhood.

Well, certainly not the strangest interaction you’ve ever had with Jungkook.

Blinking, you adjust your grip on the book, fingers feeling like they’re slipping against the back for a moment before they finally stop sliding and the notebook remains firm in your hold. Weird, you think, but quickly dismiss it as nothing more than sweaty butterfingers—something you’re prone to getting when stressed. Which, lately, seems to be all the damn time.

You slip the book into your bag, setting a mental reminder to bring it next time you have a session with Hoseok so that you can ask if it’s his. You don’t actually remember what his notebooks look like (you’ve never really made it a point to burn them into your memory) so there’s a fair chance it could be his. In which case, you’re going to make fun of him for being a dumb doo-doo and dropping his book without even realising.

Considering Hoseok left before his session could even end, you were kind of expecting at least a few minutes of peace to yourself where you sit and dissociate by staring at the table again. You’re mistaken however, it seems, and you barely get to blink before there is a familiar set of footsteps making their way to your table and the subsequent light, melodic voice that sounds as they announce themselves loudly and clearly, as they usually do.

“y/n! Honey, I’m here!”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. He seems to be in a good mood. May the lord give you strength.

Jimin’s footfalls change and you look up just in time to catch him begin skipping over to where you’re seated at the table, arms swinging and a bright grin overtaking his face, almost making his eyes disappear. You stare at him, caught off-guard by his sudden sunny disposition (the past few sessions haven’t been awesome to him, after all), but he doesn’t stop grinning at you the whole way over. You think you catch Jungkook giving him a dubious look from the front desk, but can’t be sure before Jimin is right in front of you and blocking your view of anything else with his midsection.

“Hi y/n!” he greets again, body swaying slightly where he stands before he slings his bag off and moves to plop in the chair. “Isn’t it such a lovely day tod—oh? Oh!”

Torn from your inner musings of whether or not you should be concerned at Jimin’s sudden mood shift, your eyes whip to his hand where it’s reaching for the chair seat, plucking something from the surface before he suddenly turns and flops down as originally intended.

Jimin’s face has morphed into a picturesque expression of curiosity as he holds up what was between him and his seat; a piece of paper, barely a slip, folded neatly in half. The nosy male is quick to open it, clearly enunciating the words that are apparently scrawled across the inside.

“’You look pretty today’… Aw, y/n, you shouldn’t have !”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost feel the nerve pinch inside your skull. Jimin, of course, knows that you didn’t leave the note for him, but apparently today is one of the days he delights in your suffering.

You almost contemplate the effort of giving a response before realising that you don’t even need one; the male has quickly lost interest in the paper, leaving it discarded on the table top, and is now staring somewhat wistfully out the window with a slightly dazed grin. Okay, what? When he’d first rocked up, he seemed like he was buzzed and brighter than the sun, in one of those energetic top-of-the-world moods. Now… you’re rethinking that observation. If anything, he seems a little distracted.

And as your session with Jimin begins and proceeds, you quickly realise just how true this is.

Initially, you’d been slightly worried about Jimin rocking up with the same knowledge everyone else on this damn campus no doubt possesses after this morning. However, the further into the session you get, the more it becomes apparent that he’s far too off in space to have picked up anything like that. Not to mention, the more you think about it, the more you realise that you’re not even sure if Jimin even goes here. So would he know about all the latest campus gossip and drama? He is friends with Taehyung…

Ultimately you’re unsure, but cautiously optimistic that Jimin hasn’t seen anything to do with the poem or the post that was released this morning. You also figure that, given how distracted he currently is, he probably wouldn’t have had a chance to pick up on the gossip running through the halls anyway— you’re glad that you don’t have to worry about Jimin pitching in his two cents as to who the author is, but honestly? A small part of you kind of wishes that he knew, if only so you could see who he supported in this scenario, like whether he would defend your honour or whether he would betray you and stomp all over your friendship garden by falling for Sera's propaganda.

You suppose there's no way to know, since you're definitely not going to inform him about everything just to find out. No, this peace and calm that comes from how simply detached he feels from the current messy climate of your life is nice and you don't really want to throw that away just yet. For now, you're content to just sit and let it be. It's actually helping a little more of your anger fizzle out, so that's a definitely plus as well.

Content as you may be to let Jimin stay oblivious and wrapped up in his own little world as he currently is, you can't help but wonder what on earth has him so out of it in the first place. You don't think you've ever seen him like this, all spacey and distracted, dreamy smiles sent into the air where his eyes stare, half-lidded and dazed. You'd almost worry he's high on something were it not the brief moments of clarity where he checks back in to be a little shit and tease you.

Today's session for Jimin consists of a few worksheets he's brought for you to assist him with— two of which are similar enough and the third nothing to do with the others— and you do your best to guide him through them. Usually Jimin isn't that hard to tutor. You figured out early on that he's motivated by positive reinforcement more than anything else, and praise is what tickles him most. With this little hack up your sleeve, you never usually have an issue with guiding him along in sessions. Today, however, not even praise seems to be enough to bring him back to the present long enough to pay attention and actually make a dent in the work.

You like to think you're a pretty patient person, but even you have limits and they're reached about two thirds of the way into the session when Jimin gets distracted once more mid-sentence and leaves you sitting in place waiting for him, for a solid three or so minutes.

"Hey, Park," you bark sharply, hoping that if you sound enough like Hoseok then maybe it will startle him fully out of his reverie. "What's going on with you today? What the hell has you so distracted?"

Jimin jumps in his seat at your sudden tone, and turns to you now with wide eyes. It takes a moment for your words to sink in through the shock, but as soon as they register he sags in his seat and the tension leaves his form. His eyes flick to the right, a shy, lazy smile tugging his lips as his thoughts clearly go somewhere else. Seriously? Just how easily distracted is he right now? You only just got his attention, for crying out loud!

Just when you feel about ready to reach over and strangle an answer out of him, the crimson-haired male speaks and halts your violent thoughts in place.

"It's, um..." Jimin rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, using both hands to fiddle with his decorative ice-cream pen, a sundae with chocolate and cherries sitting cutely on the end. "Say, do you..."

Great, you can't help but think, looks like you're in this for the long haul.

"Do I...?" you prompt him, when you decide he's dawdled long enough in giving you an answer.

"Do you... you know... uh." Jimin rakes a hand through his hair, a button on the sleeve of his light denim jacket almost catching on the strands. He pauses, taking a deep breath, and then turns to meet your eyes— wait, is he blushing? "y/n... you know Lee Sera, right?"

Your entire brain seems to halt, the tip of your pen hitting the tabletop despondently. There's something funny about the way he looks right now, something odd and niggling at the back of your mind, but you can't quite place it because you're sitting there with a mild case of whiplash. What. "What?"

Jimin lets out a noise that is somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle, and shifts his gaze down to the paper on the table before him. Fiddling with the ice-cream pen once more, he bites his lip to hide a shy smile— oh, you realise what it is now. He looks like a school girl talking about her crush.

Two beats pass before that thought really sinks in —oh. no— and it's just in time for Jimin's continuation to sucker punch you in the face.

"Do you know if she... likes anyone?"

You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain decides to pitch in, the words mere millimetres from your lips, 'Give me one reason why I shouldn't just kill you right now—'

You just barely hold the words back. The noise you make instead doesn't really sound human, nor does it constitute an actual response of any sort, yet it's all the male gets and still, he's not deterred. It's as though he hasn't noticed the steam currently beginning to spill from the surface of your head, coiling tendrils betraying your current fuming state. What kind of cruel injustice is this? No, you almost want to plead to the heavens and appeal the cruelty currently taking place on this earth— please no.

“Y-you’re asking me if… if she…” You can’t seem to get the words out, the sounds choking in your throat. Jimin does seem to notice this, taking a moment to send you a somewhat concerned expression. It’s brief, though, and he’s soon off in his thoughts once again.

“Yeah,” he says, appearing bashful for a moment. “Although, that’s kind of silly of me, isn’t it. I mean, it’s Sera. Of course she has someone special, right?”

For one thing, you’re wondering just how you’ve managed to get this far in your tutoring sessions without finding out about Jimin’s evident crush on your ex-best friend. Like, is this a recent thing? Or is it more of a slow-burn, consistent for a long period of time thing? And on the other hand, given the context of the situation (despite full details being privy only to you), you can’t help but marvel at Jimin’s apparent poor taste in suitors.

Really, of all the people he could happen to have a crush on, it has to be her?!

“Nggh…” you choke down the words that attempt to rise to your lips, suddenly very uncomfortable in your seat. A barrage of thoughts rain upon your brain, overloading your mind.

Does he know? Does he know about the whole mystery poem ordeal that has so far worked to ruin your life in more than one way? Has he seen the posts? Especially the one that Sera made this morning? It’s hard to pinpoint, but when Jimin doesn’t elaborate further and simply resorts to doodling on his paper as he disappears with the fairies once more, you muse that maybe he hasn’t. If he’d seen it, surely he’d be mentioning it as he spoke of her? Bitterly, you recall that no one today could seem to pass up the opportunity to praise her with every fibre of their being. Just the memory makes hot flames of anger lick at your chest, and you do your best to cool them before Jimin picks up on the Big Kill Energy beginning to emanate from your general direction.

Somewhat thankfully, it’s at this moment that the timer on your phone goes off, signifying the end of the session. A long breath of relief escapes you as you reach for the device, sliding your thumb across the screen to dismiss the timer. The sound seems to have brought Jimin back to the present too, as he’s begun packing away his things in an indolent manner, humming softly to himself. He pulls his phone out, skimming through his feed distractedly as he does so. You decide you may as well do the same, beginning to pack up while he does. There’s no rush, so you actually take your time packing your things away instead of hastily cramming them all in your backpack at once like you usually are inclined to do.

You almost zone out yourself before a sharp gasp breaks you from whatever reverie you were about to get stuck in. Your eyes whip up to Jimin and, immediately after seeing the expression on his face, a feeling of dread begins to creep into your gut.

“Oh my god…” he murmurs, hushed, eyes wide and glued to the screen of his phone. A beat passes before he scrambles to take it into his hold, ring-adorned finger whipping across the screen as he rapidly reads whatever is on there. You don’t like the way he seems to glow with each moment more that passes.

“y/n!” he exclaims very suddenly and very, very loudly. You jump in a combination of fright and tension. “y/n! She— she’s—!”

Oh, god. You wish you could sink into the earth and never resurface. He’s seen it.

Cramming the last few items in your bag, you make use of the fact that Jimin is still staring at his phone and pretend that you don’t hear him, rising from your chair and beginning to walk towards the library doors. Jimin scrambles to his feet, following after you like a puppy, or a child wishing to show their parent something important. “y/n!”

“Hm?” You throw the noise over your shoulder half-heartedly, looking hastily for the best escape route that Jimin isn’t likely to follow you down. Unfortunately this isn’t downtown, this is the second-biggest library on your campus, and there is nowhere you can go that Jimin wouldn’t be able to follow you.

“I— y/n! Do you know that whole mystery poem author thing? I heard something about it a while ago but I just— I only just read about it and! y/n!” Jimin reaches out to grasp you by the sleeve, effectively halting you for a moment. “It’s just been found that Lee Sera is the author!”

Lord give you strength, you absolutely want to die.

“O-oh?” The utterance is literally ground through your teeth, but Jimin seems to be in such a state of euphoria that he doesn’t even notice. Of course.

“I mean, this is such a shock but… I’m not surprised.” The male is positively beaming with pride, looking down at his phone fondly. You think you’re going to be sick. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? And she’s so humble to have kept quiet about the whole thing, too. Wah, she’s so….”

You don’t know whether you’re going to implode from anger or frustration, or maybe a dangerous cocktail of both. It’s as though there are live wires beneath your skin, nerves abuzz and wrought with the urge to strangle someone (preferably a certain someone) or hit something (preferably your head, against a desk).

“She sure is something,” you say, the toothy smile you slap on completely juxtaposing the bitter note to your voice. Jimin again, bless him, completely misses it.

You’re so close to the doors, but not close enough. Please… you just want to go home and angry cry into your pillow.

“I never really paid it much attention, but now that I’m rereading the poem… she’s so talented,” Jimin’s tone is full of awe, and you know that you felt murderous this morning but now you feel that and incredibly done. When will karma finish rawing you? Have you not suffered enough? Was everyday living not torture enough? Jimin’s lovestruck babbling stops for no man, “It’s no wonder it blew up so much, she’s such a gifted—”

“Who’s such a gifted what?”

You jump slightly at the sound of a new voice, eyes whipping over to catch sight of Kim Taehyung as he slips into the library through the widening gap in the doors and makes his way over. It seems he’s donned a loose white shirt and black pants ensemble today, something you notice because of the way they flow as he walks. His question was directed at Jimin, but his eyes seem to be surveying your expression to get a read on the situation.

Regrettably, you can feel that the face you’re currently pulling… really isn’t a good one.

The second he sees him, Jimin changes targets and latches onto his friend’s arm instead. “Tae! The author of that poem you’re always raging about—oofft—”

You don’t quite catch it, but you swear you glimpse Taehyung— whose cheeks seem to have taken on a flushed tone— deliver a powerful elbow to Jimin’s ribs, who grunts but nonetheless continues, undeterred. You’ve really gotta give him points for his determination and perseverance at this stage.

“The author of the poem, it’s Lee Sera! I know I always ignored you when you talked about it, but now that I think about it, it makes so much sense!” Jimin’s gushing again, and you really think you might be sick sometime soon. Is it possible to be so angry that you become nauseous? You suppose you’re about to find out. “She’s one of the best in her class, isn’t she? Of course she’s able to make such a beautiful poem that goes viral the second it’s released— it’s her!”

Taehyung’s eyes had been trained upon Jimin the whole time he spoke, but now they’re sweeping to you and for some reason, you find yourself freezing in place under their weight. The dark cocoa of his iris’ swim with something indecipherable, a curious tilt to the corner of his heart-shaped mouth. It’s as though he’s watching for your reaction to something. His gaze doesn’t leave you for the entire moment that he answers his friend, “Uh huh. Is that so?”

You’re unnerved— or maybe it’s just a very sudden, very potent overload of your senses. You’re angry, you’re upset and hurt; you’re frustrated now more than ever at the injustice of the situation and how much of an absolutely helpless position you have found yourself in. You want to leave, and you know that if you don’t soon, you’re probably going to start angry crying in the middle of the library and that is a mess you absolutely do not want to experience handling. Besides, you don’t think poor Jungkook at the reception is really equipped to handle those sorts of breakdowns. You really wouldn’t want to put him through it either.

“Right, well I really have to go. I have a bunch of readings to do, so… better get started on those,” you announce loudly, cutting Jimin off before he can start again and drive you any further towards insanity than he already has. “Finish those sheets, Jimin. Don’t make me chase you up.”

Jimin whips his hand to his forehead in a salute, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Already turning on your heel, you make your escape while you can and wave goodbye. “Okay, see you! Have fun doing whatever it is you’re about to do!”

And then you absolutely yeet yourself out the library doors and all but bolt home.

Alright. You have a date with your pillow and some tears, and you’re not about to miss it. May the gods of fortune guide you home without anymore incidents that make you want to slam your head against a brick wall, please and thank you.

x x x x

“— I just, sort of like, you know, write whatever comes to my head. Like, whatever I feel comes from the heart—”

She follows you like the plague, bits and pieces of her and oh-so-casual reminders that she exists and is tormenting you, everywhere you go, and it takes every inch of your willpower to block her out and keep walking as you have every other time you encountered her preaching to admirers in the public spaces you frequent on campus. Sometimes Sera sees you, and you think that if she weren’t surrounded by half a hundred people sucking her toes then she might chase after you. You’ve been screening her calls, after all, and there have been a lot of them.

You regret to say, that in the days following that cursed announcement, things don’t begin to die down nearly as much as you hope they would. People are still talking, still whispering about it, and instead of it becoming old news it’s as though instead it’s a rampant forest fire, feeding ravenously on the hot gossip passed between peers at brunch, posts typed out meticulously on various media and dramatic recounts told by the friends of those that, wisely, seem to live under a rock.

You, of course, couldn’t be any less pleased with how the situation is panning out.

Your hot, scalding, unadulterated cauldron of bubbling rage has since settled down to a reluctant simmer. This is partly because you realised it is kind of unhealthy to be that angry so constantly, and partly because you’re not a fan of the constipation that results from being so tense with anger. You lose some, you lose some, you suppose. It’s lose-lose these days, babey!

The climate at university isn’t looking good for you, and each day passes with great testament to your willpower and determination not to purchase an automated vehicle and run yourself over. You still go to classes, and attend even the stupidest of lectures and tutorials (you’ve had to suffer through experiencing Seokjin more often than you’d like, but he seems to have toned himself down a little the past few times you’ve seen him— perhaps he’s caught wind of that [redacted] post and actually feels sorry for you?... No, he’s probably just got the flu and doesn’t want to use his voice up to torment you all at once). To be honest, you even kind of forgot about Jimin and his apparent crush for a while— probably would have continued forgetting if it weren’t for your sudden recollection approximately three minutes before his session on Friday.

With Hoseok gone, early as usual these days, you’re left to stew in your own thoughts and it’s barely a few minutes into dissociating that you remember Jimin’s last session and the knowledge that unfolded towards the end of it.

True to your luck and arguably a few minutes early to being right on time, you hear Jimin’s patent patter of footsteps and fight the urge to sink in your seat. You really need to get it together because this is ridiculous, you’re not prepared for anything and everything is out to ruin your day one way or another. You’re well on your way to crashing and burning in some sort of way but you still have no idea when exactly it’s gonna go down. An absolute travesty. You’re a mess waiting to get even messier at barely a moment’s notice.

“Afternoon, y/n!” Jimin crows in greeting as he nears you, a skip in his step and three books in his arms on topics that have absolutely nothing to do with each other. Does he even go here? You really wonder sometimes. “The sun says hello!”

You’re unsure whether he’s referring to himself, or the fact that the sun has indeed just peeked out from behind the clouds that have obscured it since early this morning, but either way the best you can manage is a strained smile in returned greeting. You can’t really bring yourself to look at him the same. Have you lost respect for Jimin after finding out that he has a massive crush on Sera, the person single-handedly responsible for ruining your life the most it has ever been ruined before and then going to ruin it further after you confronted her about it? Absolutely. Can you tell him without sounding like an absolute asshole because evidently to everyone but you Sera has managed to keep up a stellar appearance and benevolent persona? No, no you cannot and it’s probably going to end up making you drink questionable fluids later.

Somewhat stupidly optimistic, a small part of you hopes that maybe it was a brief crush, a spur of the moment affection erection, and that this Jimin in front of you now has realised the error of his ways and has moved on from this blight in his romantic record.

Of course, this is not to be, and the second there’s a lull in conversation after he’s begun working on the task you set him, he begins chattering away as he scribbles his half-hearted answers on the paper. If he starts dotting his I’s with hearts, you really might k-word yourself.

The topic of his vocal musings is, of course, one Lee Sera. You manage to sit there as he waxes the usual poetic, the stuff you heard last session and the things you’ve heard floating in the halls, with minimal incidence. While he’s talking about Sera, you’re constructing a little zen garden in the depths of your mind and it’s taking all of your brain power. Well, almost all of it— you do catch one little tidbit that makes you halt in your mental raking of sand.

“-- and I mean, I know it’s dumb, but I just can’t stop thinking about all those conspiracy posts on the forum, and, like… well, now they know who the author is, but they haven’t discovered the muse, you know? So like…”

The implication of his words hits you like a freight train, and the anger sizzling in your abdomen cooling suddenly into an odd sense of dread. Oh, oh no.

“I don’t think it is, but what if it really is me she wrote it about…?”

It seems, that Jimin— bless his pure, naive heart— has begun to hope. Learning that “Sera” is the author of a poem he’s suspected to be starred in seems to have crumbled the floodgate keeping the bulk of his feelings at bay. As he continues to mutter and ramble, pausing in his writing every so often to doodle a heart, or a tree with a heart and initials on it, you realise just how deep he seems to be in this little infatuation.

The very prospect of there being a chance his feelings aren’t unrequited? He can’t help but cling to it, and the more you hear tumble from his mouth the more you realise this tomato-haired crackhead is actually a hopeless romantic, and literally cannot stop himself from hoping, from feeding that fantasy he has.

Sitting there and listening to him, as the person knowing who the poem is really about and where Sera’s fixation doesn’t lie, you begin to feel a little guilty. You can’t tell him, can’t inform him of the reality because it would compromise you— not only that, he’s so taken with Sera and caught up in the romantic glow of the situation as he sees it that you doubt he’d believe you. That saddens you a little, that realisation. You’ve been friends with Jimin for months now, you’ve tutored him and even had a few impromptu therapy sessions when he rocks up a mess; but not once have you ever seen him or Sera so much as glance at each other, not once has his name passed her lips, and yet… if you were to confess to him, right here and right now, that you are the real author of the poem… would he believe you?

A part of you suspects the answer, and it makes your heart sink.

You can’t bring yourself to say anything to him. The rest of his session is spent stewing internally in your own perplexing cocktail of guilt and hurt, and you realise only as it ends and you watch him leave through the door that you never even had a chance to convince him that he’s not the muse. It feels cruel, thinking of doing such a thing when you now know how attached he is to the possibility of being the muse with Sera as the author. It would be an awful thing for you to do, to stomp on the morsels of hope that have bloomed within him for his crush. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are the original author, and you know who the poem was really written about— is it not the morally right thing to do, to tell him the truth?

Do you protect his feelings, or do you hurt them for a greater good?

You don’t know which is the right thing to do in this situation, and when you eventually pack your things up and exit the library, it’s with a sick feeling in your stomach and a foreboding tingling of your sixth sense that tells you this… isn’t going to end well.

x x x x x x

VVVVVBBT. VVVVVVVBT. VVVVVVVBT. VVVVVBT.

It seems to take longer for the ringing to end this time, you note, as you somewhat despondently watch the phone vibrate and move across the table slightly from the force of it. Then again, it could just be the thousands of calls you’ve screened over the weekend that have you feeling so weary. Most would get the message that your continued silence and refusal to answer indicate, but apparently not Sera. You’ve always known she’s stubborn, and determined, but this is borderline crazy and you’re having trouble wrapping your head around the emergence of all these facets you never knew about or even noticed before now.

The weekend just gone, the two days that are meant to be your one time of reprieve and sanctuary from the messy shithole your world has become lately, had been desecrated. Not even in the safety of your own home could you pretend your anxieties didn’t exist, the tell-tale vibrations of your phone and the occasional, persistent series of dings that alert you to a new message were ceaseless. It’s a little concerning, her dogged dedication to attempting to contact you, but at this point you’re not even interested in psycho-analysing it. You just want a break, and for the “block call” function on your phone to maybe actually work for once.

Actually, you’ve been (unfortunately, regrettably) given a lot of insight into sides of Sera you’d never witnessed before, faces she’d kept hidden behind a carefully prepared facade and the persona she wanted to present to the world for the duration of your friendship. The messages she sends you come in groups, and more often than not in completely contradicting tones. Begging, pleading, empty apologies, anger, spite— you’ve seen them all, sometimes in the same message. For the most part, they’re shameless pleas and begs for you to talk to her, to answer her calls and listen to what she has to say. Some of them, though, give you a massive whiplash when you read them.

One such text from mid-Sunday reads from the notification bar, “i’m doing what you wanted, what the fuck is your problem? why are you so mad? honestly, at this point it’s a little selfish of you, i’m sacrificing so damn much just to…”

Another, barely an hour after that one, was quick to backtrack, “llisten y/n, i’m sso fuckiggn sorry for that last tesct. it was so uncalled for im so sorry. i’m trying so hrard but you wont evenn anser my callss, and im jsut, imr realluy having g scucjh a hard time with all of this stuff goigng on adn…”

You didn’t click on the notification or open them, so you don’t actually know what she says in the latter half of her messages. You don’t think you want to though, if the start of some of them are any indication as to what the rest will hold.

As if your phone being constantly lit up in some way or another due to her wasn’t enough, you also had to bear witness to the rest of the bullshit manifesting at her hands. In actuality, it was largely this that is responsible for relighting your rage pit and getting you back on the “incredibly pissed and absolutely unimpressed” track.

Contrary to the texts and voicemails Sera left you over the course of the weekend, she is simultaneously active on the cursed forum that she used to start all this, and the posts you've been seeing only serve to fuel your anger. At one point you got so mad you nearly threw your phone into your pot of noodles, the only thing stopping you being that you’re better than that and you’d rather throw yourself off the bank into the nearby river than let her get one up on you in any way.

Pleading and begging she would be in your inbox, and then she’d turn and press send on a post in the forum that completely contradicts whatever crap she bawled at you in her messages. The forum is currently an absolute mess of shipping posts (no longer starring you, but her) with varying suspected muses, the odd conspiracy post, and questions directed her as the ‘author’ that she answered in full character. You could deal with the shipping posts (well, all but one. That one made your blood boil and your stomach twist into an ugly pit of warped envy), but her impersonating you as the author and answering questions about your work as though she wrote it herself? You’re ready to spill blood.

The most common question, of course, in all its variations is something best encapsulated by this particular gem that shows up late Sunday evening: ‘omg, i love love love moonlight sonata! the second i read it i couldn’t help but fall in love, whether with you or the poem idk yet! I just wanted to know, like probably everyone does, who was the muse?’

That [redacted]’s response to this is probably the one that gets your blood boiling the most too.

‘hi, thank you so so much for all the love! its so strange since this was never meant to get out and i never really get such response to my works,, but i’m getting more used to it and im so so grateful!! haha! its actually funny you say that,, it was so embarrassing at the time but i once had a teacher say that they thought i could make someone fall in love with me with a poem alone >< hehe i guess they were right! and i did write moonlight sonata for someone, but i’m not sure if i should reveal that just yet… you’ll have to wait and see!’

Murder is illegal and so is manslaughter. Again, with more feeling. Murder is illegal, and so is manslaughter. There. You take in a deep breath, attempting desperately to find some zen after recalling all the forum posts you’d seen over the duration of the weekend. You suppose the only silver lining you’re going to be able to find in this is the fact that Sera doesn’t actually know who you wrote the poem for. Well, she might have a suspicion, but you’ve never told her. And even so, there would be no point in her ‘revealing’ who your muse is, since she’s claimed she is the author and ‘confessing’ someone would lead to circumstances she’d likely rather avoid.

But, now that you think about it, shouldn’t that mean that she’d try and avoid mentioning it altogether? If so, why is she feeding it every chance she gets…?

You don’t get to spare that train of thought much time, since despite how long the weekend drags on, the next day arrives very quickly. Before you know it, almost the entire day is gone and you’re zipping through your tutoring session with Hoseok, helping the somewhat frantic boy with a last-minute assessment he’d completely forgotten about. You’ve spent the whole day successfully avoiding anything to do with Sera and that stupid poem, and you’re actually feeling quite good at this point, in comparison to how you’ve been feeling the past, well, the past month or so. The hour passes quicker than you’d like and before long you’re packing your things up and helping Hoseok with his own bulging assortment of textbooks and notepads before they all go tumbling to the floor. You swear you see some receipts with hasty scribbles littering the bottom of his bag but you try not to look since you don’t want to ruin your progress and stress yourself out. You’re in such an oddly peaceful mood you’re actually thinking of asking Jimin if he wants to spend the session outside under the trees in the new garden the university brought in. Uncharacteristic, you know, but what is the human experience if not getting so stressed and exceeding your emotional capacity so extensively that you transcend all planes of feeling and feel contrarily at peace?

It’s as you’re exiting the library after your session with Hoseok, carrying some of his things for him while he fixes his bag, that the universe decides to remind you of your place and the fact that you can never truly avoid your problems in life. Apparently, they’re prone to chasing you down and sniffing you out like a bloodhound, and like a particularly nasty yeast infection they never truly go away until you seek professional help and purchase an antibiotic restraining order for that shit.

You barely get the words, ‘See you on Wednesday, Hoseok’, out of your mouth before you hear another familiar sound, much sooner than you anticipated. Hoseok returns the farewell and turns away, still cramming the rest of his things in his bag as he begins to move off. A laugh, light and airy and very familiar, brushes your ears and you turn with a slight smile on your face. Excellent, given he doesn’t see Hoseok making his quick escape, then he’ll probably still be in a good enough mood to agree to studying outside with you.

You turn, greeting already on the tip of your tongue, and promptly feel the words die in your throat and the smile on your lips drop completely. Oh, for the love of fuck.

Jimin is smiling, laughing, as he comes down the hallway, cheeks flushed pink and eyes disappearing into gleeful crescents— it’s a sight that would made you smile if it weren’t for the fact that he’s not alone.

The woman of the hour, the source of your suffering for the past month or so, is striding along next to the oblivious male, like the scorpion perched on the frog’s back. She’s placed her hand on the back of his arm as they walk, smiling at something he’s said as he chatters away, resembling an eager puppy as he does so. You recognise the move as one of her favourite lightly flirty ones.

Somewhat belatedly, your flight response kicks in, and you go to move and leave while you can— but its not before Sera turns and notices you standing there, mid-movement.

The shift is instantaneous. You might have thought that the interested expression she was directing at Jimin was genuine, if it weren’t for the way her entire demeanour changes the second she catches sight of you. Your first instinct is to be angry that she’d managed to find her way to Jimin, and that he’d probably fall for whatever bullshit spouted from her mouth about being the author, but as you see the slight, victorious flicker pass through her gaze, you become angry for another reason entirely. The suspicion weighing heavy in your gut makes your blood boil as Sera straightens, angling her body away from Jimin completely and all but non-verbally dismissing him, as though he’s no longer even there.

Jimin halts, brows drawing together as he takes in the change in Sera’s behaviour, confusion colouring his puppy-like features as he looks around for anything that could have triggered it. His eyes fall on you and they light in recognition, smile returning to his face as he waves at you, some of his crimson locks falling across his forehead from the movement. “Oh, y/n! Hey! I was just on my way to the session!”

Something churns in your gut, a foreboding feeling that feels far too icky to touch.

He takes a step closer, but pauses when Sera moves forward. Your entire body is tense with the conflicting urges to run and sock her in the face, limbs coiled and ready to spring you away. You’re going to have a massive crick in your neck after this. She begins stepping closer, hand stretching out as though to touch your arm, her brows drawing together in as close an approximation as she can get to regretful.

“y/n, I’ve been trying to talk to you all day,” she says, tone having adopted an edge you’re very familiar with. Is she stupid? You know all her manipulation tactics, what is the point in employing them now? You think you know, though, and the thought only serves to stoke the bubbling pit of molten rage in your stomach.

Her hand reaches for your arm, trying to touch it, and you move it out of the way before she can, taking a few firm steps back. “Don’t touch me,” you warn, unable to help the glare that your features are pulled into. “I’m not interested in talking to you. I don’t want to.”

She’s really pushing it. You’re a patient woman, but even you have a limit and she’s fast approaching it.

A flicker of irritation flashes across Sera’s features before she masks it with her go-to ‘kicked puppy’ look. From the corner of your eye, you see Jimin flounder in confusion, probably because he has absolutely no idea what happened between you.

“y/n,” Sera whimpers, and when you see Jimin shift in concern behind her you realise why she’s acting the way she is. She’s using him as collateral, and she used him for land development to actually lock you down. Seems she doesn’t take being avoided very well. “Why are you being so harsh? I— I’m doing what you asked, why are you still so mad?”

You can’t help the venomous response that rips itself off your tongue, glare deepening. “Cut the shit. You know exactly why I’m pissed— it’s the same fucking reason I was pissed last week, except now it’s worse because you’ve made it worse. How could you possibly think any of what you’ve been doing is what I asked?”

You can only be glad that Hoseok has already left and the hallway is mostly deserted, the sole witness being Jimin to the spectacle beginning to unfold as Sera places a hand to her chest, sniffing and throwing her other hand out for emphasis. “Please, y/n, what do I have to do to fix this? I really have been doing what you asked, I’ve been—”

It’s as though something snaps within you, almost an entire week of her bullshit placing you at your wits end. You’re fuming, practically spitting flames, and it’s just barely that you hold yourself back from wrapping your hands around her throat. “You’ve been doing nothing but make things worse for me! You started this whole thing, you continued feeding into it even though you knew what it would mean for me— there is no fixing this!”

“y/n,” Sera’s eyes have begun to water, and you’re so enraged you don’t even see Jimin taking a few alarmed steps closer. “Please, I-I’m so sorry, I’ve said it a thousand times that I am s-so sorry—”

“Don’t you dare come to me and tell me you’re sorry. You’re not sorry, you were never sorry, and you clearly don’t regret a thing because the entire time since last Wednesday all you’ve been doing as parading around and proclaiming yourself as the author of that stupid poem when we both know it isn’t you!”

Sera flinches back, a visible clash of hurt and rage whipping across her features. It seems she settles on the latter emotion, face dropping into a glare and mouth opening to hurl a response back. The front she has put up is falling apart the longer this goes on. “I’ve told you so many times how much I regret what I did, how can you say—”

“y/n, what the hell?” Jimin’s voice has a sharp edge you don’t think you’ve ever heard before as he steps forward suddenly, looking incredulous and angry at once as he suddenly reminds you of his presence. “She’s the author, stop being so horrible. Isn’t she your friend? How could you doubt her? Is it so hard to believe that she’d want to write a poem for the person she likes?”

You’re momentarily stunned by his words, confused as to why he’s stepping in to defend her so avidly even with his little crush. It takes a moment, but it clicks eventually— dread fills the pit of your stomach as you realise that the idealistic hopes Jimin had revealed to you last session about being the subject of the poem have been exploited by a scorpion wishing to cross the pond.

“Shut up, this doesn’t concern you.”

Torn violently from your thoughts by the harsh, unexpected words, your gaze whips back to Sera, eyes wide. Jimin flinches, a soft noise of shock and surprise escaping him as his own wide-eyed gaze centers on her and hurt floods his deep chocolate irises. “Wh-what? But you said—?”

“Shut. Up,” she grinds out through teeth clenched so tight that part of you thinks they might shatter beneath the pressure.

Jimin fumbles, his confusion urging him to continue when he probably shouldn’t. “When we were walking here you said that you… that I was—”

Sera explodes, like a bomb with faulty wires and a timer that went off too soon. “I LIED! I’m not the author, and even if I was, that poem would never be about YOU!”

In the seconds that follow her booming exclamation, her words ring in the absolute silence of the hall. For a moment, it’s still. Then your eyes flick to Jimin’s face and you see how it falls, and all of a sudden it hits you— the realisation of what she just said, and who she said it to. How awful Jimin must feel, to hear those things directed at him. Now, for a moment, you see red, and you feel it slowly climb up your body from your toes to your fingertips and to your chest. You aren’t even aware of moving until you’re barely a foot away from Sera and your arm is whipping through the air, body apparently more in control than your brain.

You’ve never slapped anyone before, didn’t ever think that you really would, but the motion comes easily and the harsh impact of your hand against Sera’s cheek is satisfying in an odd, sickening way. Apparently you pack quite a punch when absolutely fucking livid, because her head turns from the force of your blow, her eyes shooting wide. You’ve left a mark in her foundation. Jimin’s crushed expression crosses your mind’s eye once more and suddenly the satisfaction you felt prior isn’t enough. You go to move again.

You get barely a split second into the movement before arms are looping under your armpits, your body being hauled away and out of hitting range. You’re so angry you barely pay attention to who it is, your focus on the piece of work in front of you and the absolute spitting rage that has swallowed you whole at the sight of her.

“How dare you—” you seethe, the words spilling like acid from your tongue faster than you can think them. “How could you say that to him—”

Everything suddenly hastens into movement from the stillness that had possessed it before. Distantly, you realise the person restraining you has stopped moving backwards and is attempting to calm you, but that doesn’t carry much weight when you hear a choked noise and your gaze is drawn suddenly to the side.

Jimin has taken a step back, almost stumbling in his leather boots, his hands trembling and brows drawn together, expression nothing short of crestfallen. You swear you catch his bottom lip quiver, and then your attention is taken by the way his dark eyes begin to water right in front of you. You’re almost rooted to the spot in shock as they begin to fill with tears, but you don’t get to see them fall because before they can, Jimin turns on his heel and begins walking away, pace quick and hurried.

“y/n.” The red has cleared from your vision enough that you now realise the person restraining you is Hoseok, his voice sounding close to your ear. He speaks again and you freeze because it’s with a tone you’ve never heard come from him before. It’s fury, but quiet and controlled unlike your hot spark of rage, and it makes you snap back into your senses instantly, spine straightening. “Go after him. He’s hurting.”

The brain cell rattling around in your brain reserved for mortal combat might be telling you to finish Sera off while you can, but Jimin is your friend and the reason you want to kill her in the first place is because she did hurt him. And the look on his face… you’ve never seen it on him before and you never want to again. For whatever reason, her careless words seem to have cut him deep, and you need to go and make sure he’s okay.

Without a second thought, you slip out of Hoseok’s arms and he lets you go. You begin in the direction that Jimin is going, footsteps hastening in an attempt to close the distance. You forget about Sera in favour of chasing more pressing things. “Jimin—”

The call had slipped out of your lips unwittingly, but the sound of it seems to set Jimin off. He quickens his pace further, and his legs aren’t that much longer than yours but the muscles are clearly more developed since you’re eating his dust even more than before. He disappears around the corner, and you just barely catch sight of his behind before you have to push to glimpse him once more.

Whether he doesn’t want to be followed by anyone, or whether he— heaven forbid— thinks it’s Sera coming after him, Jimin does his best to try and lose you. Around twists and turns, down hallways that you didn’t even know this building had, you chase him for what feels like forever and you can’t pinpoint where but somewhere in that time the two of you transitioned to almost running, Jimin’s light jog-speedwalk fusion easily getting the better of your own weak attempt.

Despite the heaviness of the situation, you can’t help but marvel that he really didn’t successfully streak across the university sports field for nothing— he’s super fast, and the only reason you’re able to keep up somewhat is through the temporary rush of adrenaline that slapping Sera gave you and the sheer determination not to lose him. You don’t normally have this much stamina, after all, but you don’t think Jimin is going to be running out on the other hand either. If he takes you up one more flight of stairs it’s game over for you.

“Jimin, wait—” you attempt to call out once or twice, but he never turns around, and each time you do so just results in him moving faster. You get the message quickly, but still have to bite your tongue to quell the natural urge to call out that rises.

The longer he goes, the more frantic he seems. Once or twice you think you see his shoulders shake, but can’t tell if it’s him or the rattling of your vision from your jerky movements. Jimin can’t evade you forever though, and this building and its hallways aren’t endless. Eventually you reach a dead-end, and the red-haired male gives up. He stumbles a little, making it through the doorway before he moves to the wall, his back to you.

Slowing down from your jog, you feel the tax of the exercise catch up with you as your breathing works to compensate the uncharacteristic energy use. You pause as you make your way towards him, somewhat tentative now he’s backed in a corner. Well, corner might not be the right word for it. Somehow, in all his evading, Jimin has managed to lead the two of you to the small balcony on the top floor of the building, barely anything more than a little alcove to overlook the horizon. It faces the direction that the sun sets, and you receive a view of that now, the soft reds, pinks and oranges a contrast to the light blue of Jimin’s denim jacket but a compliment to the scarlet of his hair.

Despite the fact you chased him this far, wanting to comfort him, now that you’re here… you feel kind of bad for intruding. Still, you didn’t tail him through the entire building for nothing. Tentatively, you make your way over to where he is. You’re not very loud, but he seems to sense your arrival when you step out onto the balcony with him, back still to you. You take another step closer, going to peer around his shoulder, but he flinches, bringing his hand up over the side of his face and using the other to wipe under his nose.

“Don’t look,” he sniffs. “This is humiliating.”

At his words, you feel your heart sink right down to your feet. The resulting sensation is an empty ache in your chest, something you think you can best describe as empathy that is a little too deeply rooted. Suddenly you realise that, in a way, this is your fault. You wrote the poem that ended up hurting him, and even though you weren’t the one who said those things to him, you’re the one that provided the fodder.

You don’t know what to say, so much was on the tip of your tongue trying to burst forth before, but now it’s as though your voice is stuck in your throat. You swallow, shuffling the slightest bit closer, and attempt to pull something meaningful from the dredges of your mind.

“It’s okay. Everyone looks a little bit ugly when they cry, you know.” Not what you intend to come out, but it comes out anyway.

It pulls an unwitting laugh from Jimin though, the sound tinged with the echo of a sob. He turns and presses his back to the wall, covering his face with both hands, and slides down until he’s seated on the floor, knees drawn up. You watch him for a moment, the way his form trembles slightly and he sniffs, before you’re carefully placing yourself down next to him, trying not to be too obnoxious in your movements.

You wait a moment, partly because you want to see if he is going to say anything and partly because you, yourself, have no idea where to start. It occurs to you, though, that maybe what he wants isn’t comfort in the form of words. When he doesn’t speak, and the moment still doesn’t feel right to say anything, you ease a little closer and, when he doesn’t protest or shift away, you do the only thing you can think might comfort him in this moment.

Silently, you move your arm up and around, slipping it over his shoulders and pulling him close to you into a half-embrace, feeling somewhat like a mother hen sheltering her chick from the harshness of the world. Jimin stills for a second, frozen in your arms, but then he lets himself fall into you and it seems the proverbial dam holding his tears at bay breaks.

He lets himself sob now, hands still over his face and his body shaking against your side as he curls up into you and draws his knees closer to his body. His tears flood his hands, some escaping to drip down onto your legs and shirt. Your heart aches at the sounds escaping him— trust Sera to unintentionally pinpoint someone’s deeply hidden trauma when insulting them. The only thing stronger than the dislike you feel for her right now is the regret that you allowed the circumstances of your own situation to spill out and affect other innocent people in your life, like Jimin.

You spend some time simply sitting there, letting Jimin cry out the hurt against you at the cost of your shirt and jeans, running your hand soothingly along his back and arm. You place your other hand on the knee closest to you, not much but another small symbol of comfort you hope he receives. He’s in a state for a while, sobbing and hiccuping until his voice grows a little hoarse and thick from the snot congesting his nose. Eventually, he calms enough that his body no longer shakes with his weeping, and after a period of silence broken only by a few sniffles here and there, the male pulls away so that he’s no longer leaning on you like the tower of Piza.

You let him slip out of your hold, simply sitting and waiting for him to speak— you could sense the intention in the way he wipes his face and swallows, readying himself. You don’t have to wait long.

“This is probably the one thing I’m most afraid of in life, you know,” he croaks softly, a humourless laugh tacked onto the end. Your heart gives a painful throb, but you bite your tongue from comforting him just yet. You can feel there’s more to come.

Jimin seems to finally manage to wipe his face somewhat clean, at last letting his hands drop onto his lap and allowing his head to fall back softly against the wall. His profile is illuminated by the last reaches of the sun, casting him in a soft pink glow that almost disguises the redness around his eyes and nose.

Watching him so keenly as you are, it doesn’t escape you when he opens his mouth to speak again and his chin wobbles, his gaze directed to the ceiling of the alcove. His voice wavers, growing strained as he vocalises the thoughts weighing him down so.

“It’s kind of stupid, isn’t it?” he says softly, still looking upwards. “Everyone’s afraid of rejection, but for me… I can’t— I can’t… handle it.”

“It’s stupid, to be crying over this,” he sniffles, eyes watering but no tears falling as he attempts to hold them back. “It’s stupid, but it just— it just hurts, you know? It fuckin’ hurts. All the people I admire, and the people I have admired in my life…”

Jimin blinks, a single tear slipping down over his cheekbone of its own accord. He lets it go, not bothering to wipe it. You’re caught frozen in your spot, watching with wide eyes as he reveals the most hidden part of himself and entrusts it to you. From just your usual interactions, you’d never have garnered that this side of him even exists. He takes a deep breath, a shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter who they are, what they are to me, it never seems to change. Either they don’t want me from the beginning, or they— they find something more important to them than me and they leave.”

“A-and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but think,” he chokes a little, voice growing thicker and wobbling dangerously. He blinks rapidly, fresh tears burning his eyes. His voice cracks on the last of his words. “I can’t help but think, w-what if that’s what is meant for me? W-what if there’s no one who will stay?... What if no one will want me, y/n?”

His words are a boot crushing your heart beneath its sole, and you swear even with all you’ve been through in the past month or so you have never felt as gutted before as you feel now for him. The last question to leave his mouth seems to bring the rest of his feelings to the surface, his eyes closing as a soft sob slips from his lips once more. He brings his hands to his face again, elbows resting on the top of his knees, and you’re so busy trying to squash down your own tears for him that for a moment, you can only sit there and listen to him. You feel a bit lost.

What could you ever possibly do to even begin healing a wound that seems to run that deep?

You know, realistically, there isn’t anything you can do, and it’s not your place nor wound to heal. But still, you know there is something you can do to ease it a little in this moment, you just need to figure it out. It’s at that thought that suddenly, you receive a stroke of genius, an idea that honestly is a little embarrassing but definitely better than nothing coming to mind.

Already feeling somewhat humiliated in advance, you reach for your bag and open it enough to stick your hand in and rifle through it for the familiarly shaped object. Jimin has shown you one of the most vulnerable parts of him, so you can live with the embarrassment this once. Your hand finally locates what it’s looking for, pulling out the beaten-up A5 spiral notebook that has lived in your backpack for the past two years. Jimin either doesn’t hear you or doesn’t care enough at the moment to pay attention to whatever the shuffling sound is, which you’re kind of thankful for because you need a minute or two to actually follow through with your idea.

You slip your hand back into your bag as you open the notebook with the other, performing a lucky-dip of sorts into the risky depths of your bag one more in search of a pen. You find one and pull it out without discrimination— god, alright, it’s the rainbow ink gel pen with a crystal cat on the end that you bought on a whim at the dollar store. Guess that’s the hill you’re dying on this afternoon.

Peeking to the side to make sure Jimin isn’t watching— he’s still crying into his hands, something you probably shouldn’t be slightly relieved about in the moment— you try and flick through the book as quietly as possible, eyes scanning the messy scribbles on each page.

This, is your little rough idea scrapbook. The only thing that’s in a state anywhere near as chaotic and messy as this is your phone notes, and you really don’t want to think about those right now. In this old, beaten notebook that surprisingly hasn’t run out of pages yet, is where you usually scribble your ideas for writings, or poems. You’re looking for one of the latter currently, a rough draft that came to you in a fever dream and you copied onto paper in a haze, before never touching again. It’s incomplete, but you’re finally about to give it the ending it deserves.

Finally, you catch sight of it on one of the pages to the back, the words “softer than the embrace of the moon” jumping out at you. Ah, this is it. The rough draft of Moonlight Sonata, the poem that ended up turning your life on it’s head and leaving you for dead in the dust from the upheaval.

Making sure Jimin is still not focusing on you, you uncap the stupid, glittery pen and hastily put it to paper, throwing down whatever enters your head that makes sense and feels right. You don’t think you’ve ever written anything this fast that wasn’t a heap of absolute trash, but perhaps it’s the emotional potency of the moment that has you scrawling lines across paper with ease.

You only take a few minutes, and after which you somehow simultaneously feel the cathartic effects of creating a poem and the embarrassment of the fact someone else is about to see it. Well, it’s not Moonlight Sonata in any way, but this little abridged creation… it’s not too bad.

Quietly as you can so you don’t prematurely disturb his weeping, you tear the page from the book and make sure there’s nothing on the back and the old title is scribbled out before you fold it in half, turning to Jimin at last.

Gently, you reach and brush some of the dyed strands from his forehead, successfully catching his attention. Jimin peels his hands from his face, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot but containing a curious glint as they turn to you.

You opt not to say anything just yet, pulling one hand towards you and placing the folded piece of paper onto his palm. Confused, he stares at it for a moment before bringing it back towards him and tentatively unfolding it. You wait until he begins to scan the page before you speak.

“Just because you weren’t the subject of that poem, doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of being the subject of any.”

His head whips to you as your soft words catch in his ears, eyes wide and glistening slightly, full lips parted and mouth slightly ajar. You can feel your face beginning to burn, but you ignore it for the sake of Jimin. You’ve come this far, you need to say it and he needs to hear it.

“There are many things about you to fall in love with, Jimin, and even if the author didn’t, I know someone will,” your voice shakes slightly as you speak, a small smile touching your lips. Something pops into your mind before you can call it quits, and you feel the rest of your face light on fire in anticipation. Right. Just do it, pussy. It was embarrassing when done to you, and it’s embarrassing to be the one doing it, too.

This is so humiliating, but you’ll do it… for him. Fuck this whole friendship thing, man.

Taking another deep breath, you reach for the hand closest to you and take it into your grasp, pulling it closer. “And I know it hurts, right now, a lot… and it might hurt for a while, and that’s okay.” You swallow your embarrassment and bring his palm to your lips, placing a soft kiss there, before moving his hand back and placing it over his heart. “But my mother always said kisses take the pain away, so I hope this can ease it, even a little.”

In the moments following your little spiel, it’s silent, and Jimin stares at you in a mixture of shock, appreciation, and something else you’re not quite emotionally equipped to decipher. The stillness breaks in the next second when his eyes water once more and he lets out a long whine that sounds suspiciously like your name, and to save face you let out a loud groan as you reach and pull him into a hug again, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Hopeless,” you say, shuffling you both so you’re facing the sunset and watching the last of it slip past the horizon. “If you keep crying, how are we going to explain your face after? I know I told you everyone is a little ugly when they cry but you’re really— ow!”

Jimin chokes a sobbed laugh into your shoulder, retracing his fingers from where they jabbed your ribs. You glance from the corner of your eye and can’t help the smile that rises when you see he’s clutching the scribbled poem you finished for him to his chest.

“Shut up and let me commit the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me to memory and watch the sunset before I push you over the railing,” he grumbles, smile evident in his voice. You roll your eyes again, face still warm from your embarrassment. You relax into each other, soaking up the last of the sun’s warmth while it’s there.

Backtalk, after you willingly humiliated yourself to make him feel better? Fuck this friendship thing, bro. Gremlins have rights, too.

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fortheloveoffanfic · 5 years ago

Text

You

Young! Keanu Reeves x Reader. Requested (A/n-buckle up friends, it’s a long one. Seriously, I only realized that it should have been split in two when I was almost done. Sorry not sorry. Even this note is long. Also, to the person who requested this months ago, sorry it took so long, but if you’re still here, I hope you can forgive me and that you like it) (Since the beginning is weird, I’ll just drop a very vague summary- Follow Y/n and Keanu’s growth from childhood friends to adulthood as they navigate life and their feelings)

Summer, 1970 A pink hair bow haphazardly placed by chubby, clumsy fingers. A dress two sizes bigger that her sister had long cast to the dress-up chest. And finally, a pair of mismatched heels that she had managed to swipe from her busy mother’s closet.

Next to her, in the drying, muddy back yard, stood Keanu, just about her height though one year older, dressed in a combination of his stepfather’s and her brother’s clothes. Most of it mismatched. A plaid tie that was too long, a suit jacket that seemed to swallow him up, socks, but no shoes and a ridiculous hat that he had found when they were looking for their ‘fancy clothes.’

Mr. Snubbs, Y/n’s cat doubled at the trusty, though rather silent officiant, his only words being the occasional ‘meow.’ They had asked his younger sister, but she had quickly lost interest, opting to play tea party with their neighbors down the street.

In her hands, Y/n held a small bunch of wildflowers from her mother’s garden, the petals a little bruised from the manner in which they had been picked by an over excited Keanu for his ‘bride-to-be.’ At that point, they should have long been married, considering they had played the game dozens of times, always marrying each other. It was sort of second nature, that every time one of them suggested it, they would play the parts of the couple.

“I think it’s time to say our vows,” Y/n giggled and Mr. Snubbs licked his paw, very disinterested in the ceremony before him. How foolish of them to hire such an incompetent feline!

“Okay,” Keanu beamed, turning to Y/n, wild hair falling in his face. His mother was always trying to take him for a hair cut, and it always ended in a fit of angry tears. “Do you want to go first? Mrs. Mena in school always says ladies first.”

“Yeah,” Y/n smiled, trying to jump in her place, though, her mother’s shoes almost fell right off, tripping her. “Keanu,” she began cheerily, “I promise to always be here for you. I’ll always give you half of my cheese sandwich and I think your hair looks great!”

Keanu’s smile widened and he prepared to recite his own ‘vows’, “Y/n, I promise to always be your best friend, we’ll always have sleep-overs and I’ll never cut my hair!” He giggled wildly.

Y/n laughed too, and just realizing that she had forgotten something, interjected; “Oh! And I’ll always be your best friend too.” Their wedding ended with cheek pecks and long hugs while Mr. Subbs submitted to a high noon nap and Y/n’s mother called them in for a snack.

Summer 1983 “England.....” Keanu breathed. They were sat on the hood of his car, drinking beer that they had managed to steal of her parents before driving out to the beach, just an hour away from where Y/n still lived. Keanu had moved several times since they were children, but they always stayed in contact. And now that he had a car, though at times it was quiet unreliable, he’d still drive out to see her. His best friend from a small town in Canada. His arm was draped around her as they stared out at the waves in the darkness, but neither of them thought much of it. They had been friends for almost as long as they had been alive, close contact like that was as normal as breathing for the two.

Y/n slipped the letter back into her bag, taking a swing of her beer, “Yeah.” She smiled widely, just as she had when they were kids, but this these days, she looked different. When she smiled, Keanu no longer just saw the pig-tailed girl he grew up with, he saw a young woman with big dreams, who wanted a penthouse in a big city and a corner office.

“That’s far away,” Keanu mused, playing with a loose thread on her favorite sweater, “Are you sure you want that?”

“Are you sure you want to move to Los Angeles?” Her question wasn’t a sarcastic jab or anything of the sort, it was just a reminder that she wanted to realize her dreams, just as he did his. “This is everything that I’ve been working for Ke, I have to go.”

“Okay,” he determined, “Well, I support you. No matter what. And I can’t wait to see you walk across that stage at Oxford.”

“Thank you,” Y/n turned in his embrace, pulling Keanu into a hug. They lingered in each other’s arms and when they pulled away a little, she found herself almost drowning in familiar chocolate pools. Fifteen years of familiarity, comfort and something else, something that grew inside of her when she had given up dolls for make-up. Something that she had felt for other boys, like Jimmy Kent from English, but strongest for Keanu. Her best friend, the boy who she’d traded lunch with, her first phone call when she was crowned Homecoming queen, as if it were the greatest honor. Her closet confidant, her everything.

Keanu stared back at her, lips slightly parted, breathing her sweet scent of jasmine mixing with the salty sea breeze. Her pink lips stood out against her wind blown skin and Keanu cocked a lop-sided smile as he brushed away an escaped strand of hair. It would have been so easy to just lean forward and kiss her, see if she tasted like beer, the popcorn they had had at the movie earlier or something entirely different. It would have been easy, but for some reason, the thought didn’t even reach the front of his mind. She was his friend and probably didn’t even see him as anything more and besides, they would be separated by the end of the year, for months, probably years.

That night, they broke apart, feeling like something was missing as Keanu drove them back to her place, he was sleeping over, except that night, like every other night since they were twelve, he slept in the spare room, dry wall between them. As they laid in bed, they tried to decipher what had changed while they sat on the beach, but neither of them could figure it out. So instead, they just laid on their backs, thinking until finally losing the battle to sleep.

1991 “I watched it last night!” Y/n squealed, covering the mouth of the phone as she sat in her small office at a law firm in San Francisco. It had been eight years since that night at the beach, though neither Keanu nor Y/n had managed to figure out what was missing that night. Since then, when ever they saw each other, there were always little self-contained moments much like that one, but they had somehow managed to keep brushing it off. They had also managed to remain close despite the distance, often exchanging long phone calls and meeting when schedules allowed it. Just a couple months ago, he had flown to the city for her birthday.

“Yeah?” Keanu asked, smile audible even if he were miles away, “And what did you think?”

“What do you think I thought?” Y/n exclaimed, hoping the person in the other office wouldn’t hear her, “It was amazing. Though Swayze gives you a run for your money. You’re gonna have to step up you game Reeves, or I’m going to replace that poster of you in my living room.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he scoffed, trying to suppress his laughter.

“Don’t test me,” she warned playfully, “You know I’ve loved him since Dirty Dancing.”

“No one puts baby in a corner,” he quoted with her, finally bursting into an episode of loud laughter.

As Y/n started laughing too, a senior attorney stuck his head in her office, offering her a pointed glare. Grimacing, she quickly contained herself, offering Keanu a hurried good bye, “I have to go,” she whispered, “Duty calls, petty criminals to defend, you know how it goes. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

“Okay. Later,” Keanu smiled sadly on his end, wishing she didn’t have to go that soon, “Love you too.”

1997 Countless successful movies and even more court cases later, found Keanu and Y/n still just as close, though finding less and less time for each other. She had just been the youngest woman to make partner at the firm and he was traveling the world again, promoting another movie. This one had peaked Y/n’s interest just a tad more than the others and when Keanu had first gotten the script, she was his first phone call. It was a supernatural mystery with it’s protagonist as a lawyer.

They had tried to make time for each other, they really had, but things kept getting in the way. Y/n was supposed to visit him in L.A a few weeks before, but ended up cancelling her fight because of an emergency hearing. And when Keanu was due to drop by her place while waiting for a connecting to somewhere in Europe, he had gotten caught up with an impromptu press event at the airport and had only been able to offer a quick call to her assistant’s desk as cancellation.

San Francisco..... Y/n sat on her sofa, curled up, clutching a glass of wine as she stared at the television. All the lights were off but a glow from the streetlights and the full moon washed her hardwood floors in a wide pool through the French windows on both sides of her living room. There was a thick blanket draped over her legs and an old sitcom played on the screen. Y/n had seen the episode several times before, thus no longer finding it humorous.

Most of her free nights went that way. Her routine revolved around work, home and sometimes, when the circumstances allowed it, working from home. By then, nearing her mid-thirties, long nights out with friends had become rare. Most of her work friends were in relationships or were already married with kids which meant that they were long past days of partying. Y/n herself was usually so wrapped up in work that she hardly made time for anything else. And the only person she was willing to make time for, didn’t have time for her. It was ironic, even if it wasn’t really ironic.

She missed him. In the truest sense of the word. Y/n knew that they were still just as close as they were twenty years ago, that she could still call him, for anything, even if was just to vent about an upsetting day. But it didn’t feel like that, by then, she had started to feel the effect of distance and equally busy lives. Taking a long drag of her wine, she sighed quietly, snatching up he remote, hoping to dig herself out of self pity with the rest of her wine and an interesting television show. She maintained pressure on the channel button, stations changing quickly, only stopping when she noticed a familiar movie. She had seen it before, obviously. Once after it’s initial release at the cinema and then after she had bought it on tape. Still, Y/n stopped channel surfing, favoring to watch a younger version of Keanu on television, even if it just made her miss him more.

He was one half of the lead, and unlike that the sitcom that played before, this never failed to make her laugh. Though, even the laughs and seeing him in the early days of his career, playing air guitar without a care in the world wasn’t enough to ease the hollowness in her heart. Sighing, Y/n pulled on a little metal chain to turn on the lamp on the end table next to her, picking up the framed photo that sat beneath it. It was one from her graduation; as promised, he had made it to England, cheering as loud as her parents as she crossed the stage to collect her degree. And afterwards, her father had taken that picture of them, on the steps of the university. Keanu’s arm was draped proudly over her shoulders and her head rested on his shoulders. People had thought she was his girlfriend. She had dismissed them with a playful wave, ignoring a pang of disappointment in the lowest pits of her stomach.

Maybe that’s what the feeling was. The one she had every time they were together. The reason she measured past boyfriends to Keanu. The feeling she got when they were together, the kind of comfort that buzzed with undertones of something she couldn’t recognize. Y/n was in love with her best friend. The question was; did he feel the same?

France... Keanu stumbled into his hotel room, more tired than he had been in a while. It was just past midnight, and his eyes were heavy as was his body, a gnarly combination of jet lag and plain ‘ole tire leaving him completely drained.

With and audible sigh that sounded more like a groan, Keanu slapped his hand against the switch, turning on the lights as he dumped his bags to the floor. He couldn’t even be bothered to ensure that they had made it to his bedroom safely. In fact, all he wanted was a hot shower and to flop face down in bed.

It might be better if Y/n were here.

What?

He had no idea where the thought came from, though the minute it entered his brain, he couldn’t get it out. She always made things better, her smile, they way she never let things bother her, her jokes that he poorly pretended to hate. She was his best friend.

But could she be more?

With furrowed brows, Keanu dragged himself to the shower, tossing articles of clothing to places that would leaving him searching when he was ready to pack up in a few days. Just about fifteen minutes later, he was dropping into bed clad in only a pair of sweats, ready to submit to dreamland, or black nothingness for the next five hours. Whatever came first or at all.

Unfortunately, neither of it came, and an hour later, Keanu still laid in bed wide eyed. There was no real issue, but thoughts of Y/n kept him awake. Nothing in particular, it was more like a jumble of everything over the past two decades. Well three, kind of. Twenty nine was the exact number. They had met when she was three and he was four, at a park in the town they had grown up in. He was the new kid and she was the girl who had been nice enough to be his friend. They had been inseparable since then.

And now they were thousands of miles apart and she was all he could think about.

Without thinking much of it, Keanu turned on his side, grabbed the phone and without caring about excess charges or the time, he dialed the number for her apartment.

It rang for a while and the disappointingly went to voicemail. He huffed and frown. Then it really hit his sleep-deprived mind; the time difference! After checking the old-fashioned alarm clock and some quick calculations, Keanu found that it was probably just around four pm, which either meant she was still at her office or in her car, on her way home. And for the sake of being able to fall asleep soon, he hoped it was the former.

Quickly, he punched in the numbers and waited for her secretary to pick up, hurriedly asking to be put through to her office, neglecting to provide his name. “Hello?”

“Y/n, hey,” he smiled at the sound of her voice, just that was enough to make the make the night better.

“Keanu!” Y/n greeted with a little more enthusiasm, “Wait, isn’t it like one in the morning there? What the hell are you doing up?”

Keanu laughed quietly at her concern, “It’s quarter to two,” he corrected, “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Thankfully he wasn’t there to see it when Y/n blushed, “Well aren’t you sweet?”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, he didn’t even feel tired as he fell into easy conversation with her, “Like you didn’t already know.”

She hummed, searching for a witty come back, “Well, even if I did, we haven’t spoken in so long that it’s easy to forget.”

“Ouch,” Keanu feigned offence, slapping his hand to his bare chest, “Twenty-nine years and I’m still forgettable.”

“Oh shut up,” Y/n playfully dismissed with a giggle. Her tone sobered when she asked, “It really has been that long, hasn’t it?”

“It has. I can’t believe we still like each other. You put cream in your coffee,” he noted with mock disgust.

Y/n rolled her eyes, “Okay Mr. Four-Sugars.” The line went silent or a while and Y/n thought that he might have fallen asleep on her, picturing him with the phone forgotten in his lap as he slouched down, lashes fanning over his cheeks as soft snores controlled his even breathing. “You still there?” She probed quietly.

“Yeah,” Keanu breathed, “Just thinking.”

“About?” Y/n’s voice was musical and soothing and Keanu itched to tell her how he really felt. The only thing holding him back was the feeling that he should do it in person instead of over the phone. That and the worrisome thought that she might not feel the same.

Despite the debate going on his head, his confession almost left his lips, I’m in love with you. Almost. He missed the moment by a hair and Y/n hurriedly blurted out, “I have to go! One of my clients just got arrested. Again,” before she could even finish, it sounded like she was packing up to leave.

“Is everything okay?” Keanu asked, worry edging his tone.

“Yeah,” Y/n searched under a stack of papers for her car keys, “It’s just, you know, he’s one of our biggest clients. And I’m his lawyer. And the IRS has been investigating him. So you know, no big deal or whatever.”

“It sounds like a big deal Y/n. Are you going to be okay?”

Y/n huffed on her end, finally taking a breath, almost swooning at Keanu’s concern, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I have to go, but thanks for calling. Bye.”

“Bye,” the line clicked dead and Keanu replaced the receiver and leaned back into the headboard with a defeated sigh.

Opportunity; missed.

1998 Months after his missed opportunity over the phone; Keanu still hadn’t confessed his feelings. After that, the moment never seemed right. There was always an interruption or too many people around. Too quiet or too loud. It was never really right. Worst yet, Y/n seemed oblivious to the whole thing. She kept going on dates, rambling on about that one guy from accounting. Keanu didn’t admit it, but it kind of stung.

Even as he stood outside of her front door, Keanu tried to think of the right moment, a way to get her alone. It was the night of her thirty-third birthday party. He had helped her plan it, mostly over the phone, listening to her get excited over music and decorations. Keanu had listened for an uncountable amount of hours, and he would again if it meant spending time with her.

Letting out a shaking breath, Keanu tried the knob, eyes widening at the amount of people filling her living room and kitchen. After a few minutes of searching, Keanu found her near the drinks table with a cup in hand, surrounded by female friends, “Y/n,” he smiled, trying to integrate himself without drawing too much attention.

“Keanu!” Y/n’s face lit up and she pulled him into a hug, “You’re here!”

“Of course,” he laughed, giving her an affectionate squeeze, ignoring the stares of her friends, “It’s your birthday. Happy birthday Y/n.” When they broke, he held out a bouquet of flowers, the little card reading, ‘Wishing the greatest girl the happiest of birthdays’. The words were scribbled in his handwriting. “It’s the worst card, I know,” he dismissed.

Y/n dropped her shoulders, “I love it. Thank you,” she kissed his cheek, “I’m going to put these in water. And away from the drunk people. Come with?”

“Sure,” Keanu followed her to her crowded kitchen, offering a quick hello to her family. Then, he trailed behind her as she headed for her bedroom, placing the glass vase near her bedside.

Then it hit him; they were alone, tucked safely away from intrusive eyes and ears. There couldn’t have been a better moment.

She was already near the door when he tried to stall, “You changed the color,” Keanu gestured to the walls.

“Uhh, nope. Just had a fresh coat put on. When powder blue starts looking like grey, you know it’s time to repaint,’ Y/n smiled, already turning around.

“Wait!” He called, probably louder than he needed to.

“Alright,“ Y/n seemed confused, but she had entertained stranger moments with him, “Everything okay Ke?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Can we sit?”

“I don’t see why not,” Y/n was first to plop onto the bed, patting the spot next to her. He hesitated, but finally sat so their knees were touching. “Are you gonna say something or....”

“I am. I want to,” he rambled, suddenly more nervous than he had ever been, “Y/n,” he began with a deep breath. There he was, going to lay it all on the table, hoping he might be in good enough graces so she’d feel the same. If she didn’t, then he might lose his best friend, his rock for the past thirty years. His one constant, the woman who had gone from just a girl down the street who he’d have lunch with every day, despite the teases that he was friends with someone a grade younger, to his home. That’s what she was, four letters encompassing everything that Y/n was. Home. “Y/n,” he said again, “I think......I think I might be in love with you.”

Y/n pulled her lower lip between her teeth, tiling her head as she shifted to regard him curiously, keeping her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She felt the same, she had for a long time, but Y/n never expected that she’d get a moment like that. One where he confessed his feelings. In fact, for almost a year, she had thought that something like it could only exist in her fantasies, but there they were.

Her mind raced, recalling memories, him telling her about other women he was interested in; she had been privy to the retelling of secret dates and the times where he’d tell her that it wasn’t going to work between them, that he didn’t want to hurt anyone but he didn’t see things going anywhere. Or worst yet, when they had broken up with him. God, she had hated seeing him heart broken. Not moping really, but putting up a façade that was only dropped around her. The little despondent frown that he’d wear for a few weeks, the long talks on the phone where she’d tell him that it was their loss, that he was great, that any woman would be lucky to be in his life. That she’d take all the heartbreak away if she could. Keanu would just chuckle sadly and say that he was just glad he hadn’t lost his favorite girl.

“Y/n,” he interrupted her thoughts, “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Can we just go back and pretend it didn’t happen?”

Y/n scoffed a quiet laugh, “That would be a waste wouldn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” His brows furrowed, half with worry half with confusion.

“Well,” Y/n’s hand rose to cup Kean’s face, her thumb caressing his cheek, “I‘m in love with you too.”

“I......” Keanu trailed off. Of all the scenarios he had cooked up in his head, they all ended in rejection of some sort. In fact, he hadn’t come up with one version where Y/n had returned his feelings, “I...don’t know what to say.....”

“Then, maybe kiss me?” She giggled and suddenly it was the best sound in the world.

“Okay,” Keanu leaned in, but as they were nose to nose, he paused again, “For the record, I thought you were gonna-”

He didn’t finish as Y/n pressed her lips to his, fingers sliding to curl in his hair. Their slow, sweet kiss felt different to everything that either of them had ever experienced. If felt filled with love, passion, decades worth of it. When they broke for air, Y/n laughed quietly, pressing her forehead to his, “You know, for a man of few words, you talk a lot.”

“Shut up,” he teased, caressing the back of her neck, “Can we do that again?”

“I’d hope so,” with that, he pulled Y/n back in, his lips moving against hers.

And just like that, two kids from Canada found that maybe, just maybe, all those summer afternoons spent playing ‘wedding’ might turn into something that wasn’t just a game. Maybe, even if it had taken thirty years, they could spend the next three decades and counting becoming what they had dreamed of.

(Another) A/n-Soooo......I loved doing this, a lot. Would you guys be interested in a drabble or, dare I say, a fic on their lives some years after? I might write that *shrugs in indecision*.

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