#at least in my experience i was left completely alone on the internet and yes i was probably watched at a distance from my older siblings
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thetriangletattoo Ā· 4 months ago
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today my nephew asked me what an mp3 reader is I finally understand my elders
#stuff like this happens all the time#every time we talk i realise that we're growing up in two completely different times#also he moves through apps#every time i mention something a website or some other thing you can find online#he asks what app is that#and I'm like baby no#the world is not made of apps#apps in the way they exist today are younger than you#or all the streaming platforms#i looked for a (definitly legal) movie in front of him the other day and i played it to check the quality#because him and his mom wanted to watch it and couldn't find it#and all he said was On what platform did you find it#i was like I'm gonna tell you a story#āœØthe story of internet in the early 2000āœØ#listen we grew up with internet meaning that the internet has grown with us which means that we know it#we know how to be safe on it we know what to do and what not to do we understand when something is real and when something is not#the problem with all these new generations is that yes they know how to use a phone since year one but in reality they have no idea about#the internet they have no idea about what they hold in their hands they have no idea about what they can do with it#what the hell they don't even know how to access the internet#they don't know websites they don't know every app is actually a website#the same nephew once turned on a computer and was so lost and disappointed he asked me#is there YouTube on this thing?#my child! you have the world at your hands and you're asking me if there is youtube in it#and yes of course he's a child he need to be thought stuff abd you're right#but also not if it makes sense#at least in my experience i was left completely alone on the internet and yes i was probably watched at a distance from my older siblings#but i was given the space and time to explore it at some point i had my very own computer i was on socials at a very young age#most of the people my own age where#and we were way more responsible with it#idk where am i going with this i don't really have a point
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sadceline Ā· 5 months ago
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THE ENHYPEN HOST || 1
|| Reverse harem || ft. TXT, Minggyu (Seventeen) & BTS
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PAIRING: FEM OC X ENHYPEN
WARNINGS: foul language, explicit content, group sex, humiliation, sex in public, threesome, foursoome, rough sex, red flags, immoral acts, unprotected sex, morbid jealousy, comedy, parody, possessiveness, violent quarrels, arguments, betrayals, lies, femdom sometimes.
GENTRE: +18, reverse harem, comedy, enemy to lovers, friends to lovers
SUMMARY: You moved to Seoul to start over after a bad experience, and everything seems to be going well, you even manage to work for HYBE. You discover, however, that you owe them almost a billion won, money you don't have and don't know how to recover: but don't worry because Hybe itself offers you a solution.
Your body in exchange for paying off your debt.
Do you accept?
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Okay, follow me for a moment!
A little context is needed to understand the dire situation in witch I find myself.
I'm a graphic designer, I was born in Campania, Italy, but I moved very early to Bologna, still in Italy but in another region, with mom and dad who are now little more than acquaintances to me, where I spent my existence until my 22nd birthday, when I moreover found out that my idiot boyfriend was cheating on me, with his cousin.
I didn't have time to feel bad about it, because I was pretty disgusted in general. However, it wasn't that I was in love with him, I simply found myself a bit lost - with the only known relatives inhabitants of small remote little cities in the Campania hinterland, who haven't seen me in at least ten years, and a failed career as an advertising graphic designer.
Unable to maintain the hectic pace of business, not to mention the harassment and constant mansplaining I was suffering, I retreated into freelancing. By being able to manage my schedule, I could also manage me, and think about the future.
For several months I contemplated going to Spain but then one of the few friends I had left at the time, after hosting me in her house for some strange reason in Sorrento (in Campania!), always kept secret from her, proposed me to leave with her for Seoul.
It was the fashion of the moment, I had heard about it, but I was too focused on self-pity to be interested in such frivolities - as a matter of fact, while we had been planning the trip for months, I got a little obsessed myself.
She likes BTS, for me too overblown, too famous. I used to focus more on the up-and-comers, there was one band in particular, it consisted of one guy who was better looking than the other, however, not being a kpop senior yet I sometimes confused them, I couldn't even pronounce their name.
So you can imagine my excitement when, just two months after moving to Seoul, I was contacted by a Hybe agent who, after looking at my portfolio found on a website, said he was pleasantly impressed and would like something in my style, for the cover of ENYPHEN's next album, that's how he pronounced it!
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After I heard him say those words over the phone I was silent, not because I was thinking about it - of course I was speechless.
It had to be some scam, it had to be! There can be no such coincidence in real life.
The man emailed me his calling card, so I could look up the information on the Internet, and a place to meet.
At Hybe's headquarters.
Are you kidding me? Ester said thus. "Do you think I would let you go alone? What if he is a maniac?"
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I didn't speak Korean at the time, but I knew English pretty well, so, yes, I was able to get the job, but in the end, for some reason, my illustration was used for the SIDE B of the album, completely different, official but not primary concept version. I was quite hurt at first, but then I realized that it was already absurd to be able to work with them, I really had no complaints.
Of course, we never met either BTS or ENHYPEN, although once I went alone (I couldn't always go with Ester), I saw Beomgyu from TXT who I have a very heavy crush on, although he always gave me very strange vibes. I obviously didn't even get close to him and looked at him from a distance, however, he was in a hurry anyway, so it's not certain that he would stop.
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Okay, let's move on!
After the collaboration was over, I pocketed good money, we ate takeout for at least two weeks in a row, we went in clubs all the time, while every now and then I had flashbacks of my ex-boyfriend, for whom I had begun to feel a strange empathy, as if he were mentally ill. It wasn't the cousin thing as the fact that he had no need to look for a lover - we pretty much did it all the time! It was one of the few things I did well and fucking gladly!
But maybe, I wasn't good enough?
Months passed, Ester taught me Korean, which she had taught herself, and while she was having fun with a lot of guys, I had entered a new state of paralysis. After working with Hybe I expected many requests, many contacts, would come, but instead nothing. Small jobs for small activities with small monetary and psychological rewards.
I didn't do the same as Ester not because I was demure - that adjective was never a part of me - as much as because I still couldn't understand let alone speak Korean, and not everyone knew English, so sometimes it happened that I felt uncomfortable, out of place. I managed to use the time of work paralysis to engage in study, I had to have a social life too! Independently of Ester!
Eventually I decided that for ten hours a day Ester and I could communicate only in Korean, she agreed without thinking and began the experiment. After three months I was able to speak Korean almost fluently, to the point that sometimes we did not even return to speaking Italian.
I was ready to embark on enterprising and exciting multi-ethnic relationships, socializing, and trying to understand South Korea better!
I discovered that it was a terrible place.
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Not so much from the foreigner's point of view, but for the Koreans themselves, all very rigid with each other and with themselves, always competing, but also misogynistic, macho, not to mention the jokes about foreign women I heard! Terrible.
Tired of South Korea, after only a year, I talked to Ester about going back-it came out as a hypothetical, after all, I was going to do what she wanted anyway. I didn't want to be alone, and she seemed happy to live with me.
She convinced me to stay a little longer, she wanted to introduce me to her official boyfriend, a good one, really, not interested exclusively in sex! Yes, they are all like that, I had experienced it myself.
Just before I could meet him, however, the two broke up. Sad for Ester who looked devastated, but underneath happy, maybe to be able to go back to Sorrento, to breathe clean air, I consoled her for a whole night, we stayed up drinking and laughing, or crying.
Before I went to bed, in the early hours of dawn, I looked at my cell phone as usual and noticed that Hybe had texted me, again!
Sleep disappeared, I went back to Ester, who had fallen asleep on the floor in the living room, and woke her up to tell her the fantastic news, fuck, I was so excited! Who was I going to work for this time? TXT? BTS? Seventeen?
Copyright violation: that was the subject line, and oddly enough, the entire email was written completely and exclusively in Korean. I was being sued on behalf of Hybe for infringing the copyright of a Pakistan artist who had in turn sued Hybe, because of my design, and won!
What great news! I had gotten incredibly good at Korean.
"Ama, are you okay? Oh, Ama? You look pale!" Ester had said, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me.
"Hybe wants compensation of eight hundred million won," I had said, under my breath, incredulously, "that's like five hundred thousand euros."
"But you don't have it!"
"I know I don't have it."
"Then you can't give it to them, sue them!"
Yes, it would have been nice and easy but I had no idea how the law worked in Korea, and anyway I couldn't sue them because the contract I had signed had exactly one copyright clause in it. If I had in any way caused damage to the agency's image, through copyright infringement, I would have been called upon to compensate them one billion won, which however had been generously raised to eight hundred million, to make it easier for me, understand?
I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Reach Mexico? Return to Italy? Apply for a loan? And would they grant it to me? Ester advised me to talk to them directly and look for a reasonable solution, offered to accompany me, but when we arranged to meet, they told me to show up alone, or with my lawyer, although this was not necessary because we would talk about it cordially.
I knew Korean quite well now, and inside Hybe practically everyone spoke English. I'll go alone.
I met the CEO himself, a man with round glasses and a kind, smiling, serene face, Park Jiwon. He told me to make myself comfortable and congratulated me for going without a lawyer, since what he was going to propose was best heard only by me.
"Changing the illustration from SIDE A to SIDE B, that was your greatest good fortune, wasn't it?" He had said, smiling in that gentle way that was now chilling.
"I am deeply sorry Mr. Park, I have never seen-"
"I know you can't pay - he had politely interrupted me, getting up from his desk and motioning his secretary to leave. - I'm here to offer you something beneficial, in which you'll always be safe and won't have to worry about, however, it's up to you to decide whether you'd rather return the money or not."
It's called the Jyp method.
Are you curious? This is a funny story.
Korean idols, whether male or female, are people of extreme beauty. It's unthinkable that they won't touch or let anyone touch them for years on end, but that's exactly what the fans want - who feel they are in complete control of their bodies.
Creepy, I realize, but it is quite normal in some parts of Asia.
So how can these poor boys "let off steam"?
The males are given a girl to live with them, together they can have as much fun as they want but within the limits of the host's safety and preferences.
For females it is a bit different but he still wanted to explain it to me, in fact for them multiple partners are needed and these partners do not live with them, but they can make appointments, as if they were gigolos working only for them.
The reason why this is used is because of scandals, any outside relationship cannot really be monitored by the agency. If girls and boys do not need to look for a stable partner and can simply take out their sexual desires on someone, the risk of scandal decreases significantly and their popularity is safe, as are the earnings on them.
In contrast to male guests, female guests tend to be a bit more problematic, which is why only one is usually chosen.
He makes it clear up front that it is forbidden to have relationships with idols, both parties must behave respectfully, and for any complaints from the guest, the agency will take appropriate action, so it is a completely safe situation, understand?
It is called the Jyp method because it was the CEO of the music label of the same name who invented it.
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What do you care, you should do it! That's what I thought too, I mean - the band in question was really Enyphen! That way you won't have to pay for it anymore and you'll be hanging out with a lot of pretty boys! That's what you're thinking, it's obvious, really - I thought it first.
Yet to say yes, just offhand, I didn't feel like it.
Mr. Park told me to think about it calmly, giving me two days.
I talked to Ester about it; she did not give me any advice.
She just told me to read the contract well, this time, in case I wanted to accept it, but still she would not judge me, and then I could present them to her - even though I still knew nothing about how the matter was going to unfold.
Clearly I agreed, it was obvious, wasn't it? Otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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NEXT CHAPTER:
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acaseforpencils Ā· 1 year ago
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Justin Sheen.
Bio:
Justin Sheen was born in Wheeling, West Virginia in 1995. He then grew up in the suburbs, cul-de-sacs, sunflower fields, abandoned coal mines, and AIM chat rooms of Pennsylvania, with the Penn State University creamery, roadside diners, local hockey teams, high school Spanish classes, adolescent heartaches, PIAA District Cross Country Championships, piƱata contests! Fireflies! State fair carnies! Deep-fried Oreos that blacken the sink when you go to spit out toothpaste after brushing your teeth later that evening, and PNC Park one sweltering hot July 4th already a decade ago, before moving to a nondescript current location. He sold his first cartoon to The New Yorker in late 2019.
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Find this print here!
Tools of choice:
Micron 05
Xerox Bold Professional Quality Paper, 8.5ā€ x 11ā€, 24 Lb., 98 bright, 500/Ream
Completely empty desk
Completely empty mind*
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Notice how much nicer the Xerox paper (left) is compared to a normal piece of paper (right).
Tool I wish I could use better:
T square
Tool I wish existed:
Tickle T snap square
Tricks:
In your early twenties, lock yourself in a room in Philadelphia in order to submit about a yearā€™s worth of cartoons to The New Yorker with no hope, no connections, no one to sway you into sanity, or at least some minor form of peace akin to survival, but all in search of a sort of redemption, not quite for yourself, especially not for yourself, and not even a sortā€”yes, perhaps solely just a small, quiet moment will do, of an idea, or even an ideal, for some reaching out of some earnest yet desperate dream of a youth with no age, extending its hand warmly in order to be greeted and possibly shaken, into both engagement and disengagement, and at least willing to finally accept something greater than material experience could possibly hope to afford in reality. This is what weā€™ve done. This is who weā€™ll be. This is how the sudden anchor of time spreads into yet another ceaseless stream of consciousness until there are bouts of understanding and knowing of the history of our yearnings and nostalgias, our hopes and fears, and our shared confusions that one could liken, if one were willing, into happiness.
Misc.:
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My electric typewriter and abandoned novel.Ā 
The electric typewriter is nice for not constantly editing, but then I need to carefully retype everything back into the computer afterward.
Website, etc.:
Cartoons published in The New Yorker: https://condenaststore.com/art/justin+sheen
Website
Instagram: @justinsheendotcom
*When you start working, everybody is in your studioā€”the past, your friends, enemies, the art world, and above all, your own ideasā€”all are there. But as you continue painting, they start leaving, one by one, and you are left completely alone. Then, if youā€™re lucky, even you leave. (Mayer 171)
Works cited:
Mayer, Musa. ā€œNight Studio: A Memoir of Philip Guston.ā€ Alfred A. Knopf, 1988. Internet Archive, https://archive.org/details/nightstudiomemoi0000maye/page/n7/mode/2up.
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If you enjoy this blog, and would like to contribute to labor and maintenance costs, there is a Patreon, and if youā€™d like to buy me a cup of coffee, there is a Ko-Fi Ā account as well! I do this blog for free because accessible arts education is important to me, and your support helps a lot! You can also find more posts about art supplies on Caseā€™s Instagram and Twitter! Thank you!
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yoditorian Ā· 4 years ago
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close to what
frankie morales/reader
as part of @din-damn-djarinā€˜s birthday song challenge, i picked dancing under red skies by dermot kennedy. itā€™s a favourite song of mine, i think itā€™s beautiful, and i felt like it fit this idea iā€™ve had swirling around for a little bit. this fic is extremely personal to me but itā€™s also not pretty. i donā€™t want to romanticise addiction or use it as a plot device, so PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.
the support group and hospital drop-off box is drawn directly from my own experience. my inbox and ask box are always open if you need to talk, but i am by no means a professional. if you are struggling with themes of this fic a quick internet search should help you find resources local to you šŸ’›
main masterlist
word count: 3.2k // warnings: addiction, PTSD, nightmares (inc. death mentions), recovery and relapse, therapy mentions, hospital mention, references to past substance abuse, implied reader is in addiction recovery, swears probably,Ā ā€˜theyā€™ as a pronoun in reference to the reader
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Your ringtone is obnoxiously loud in the darkness of your bedroom but at least that means you donā€™t have to worry about where it is, reaching out blindly towards your nightstand where it blares by your head.
ā€œYouā€™re from the group thing, right? Heā€™s mentioned you a few times.ā€
You donā€™t recognise the voice on the other end, maybe you should have checked who it was before answering. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second and glance at the time first, 4:03am. No call at four in the morning can involve good news. But itā€™s the name on the screen that has you wide awake in a split second: Frankie.Ā 
ā€œIs he okay?ā€ You ask, putting whoever it is on speaker while you fumble for the lamp on your bedside table. An old sweater hangs over your bedpost, the logo of a sports team youā€™ve never heard of cracked and faded beyond recognition, and you tug it over your head in a panic.
ā€œI donā€™t know, heā€™s locked himself in the bathroom. I just- he wonā€™t come out. He wonā€™t listen to me, he always listens to me.ā€
Thereā€™s a stifled something and a quiet knock. But no sound from Frankie, just the shaking sigh of the man youā€™re speaking to. He tells you his name quietly, Santiago, and you remember Frankie mentioning his oldest friend. An image pops up in your mind as you wrestle your jeans on, a fuzzy picture on Frankieā€™s phone screen, passed to you over the sticky table in a diner, of two men standing knee-deep in a river. Soaked to the bone but grinning ear to ear. Popeā€™s got him, if no one else has. Thatā€™s what he told you.
You stay on the phone with Santiago on the drive over, convincing yourself it's out of concern for him instead of the anxiety churning in your stomach. Frankie still makes no sound in the bathroom, the door stays locked, and you try not to think too hard before you have all the facts.
The Santiago that meets you at Frankieā€™s front door is a far cry from the man in the photograph. He looks exhausted, on the verge of tears. Youā€™re pretty sure youā€™re not faring much better.Ā 
ā€œLast door,ā€ He breathes, ā€œDown the hall.ā€
You follow his instructions, finding the only closed door in the hallway and tapping lightly on the painted wood. Listening for a moment, you can just barely hear a shuddering breath. Thatā€™s better than nothing, at least it means heā€™s alive.
ā€œFrankie?ā€ You try, praying that heā€™ll relent when he realises itā€™s you. Santiago stands at the other end of the hall, wringing his hands together, phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder as he whispers frantically into it. He barely catches himself from crashing to his knees when the bathroom door clicks softly.Ā 
ā€œCan I come in?ā€ You have to ask him. All this has to be on his terms, he has to set the boundaries. Anything less than that is dangerous, you wonā€™t risk him hurting himself.Ā 
He says nothing, but the door pulls back just a fraction of an inch and thatā€™s all the confirmation you need. You push the door open enough to slip inside and shut it softly behind you again.Ā 
Frankieā€™s sitting on the floor, his back against the bathtub and legs stretched out in front of him. A quick look over proves heā€™s not hurt, and youā€™d breathe a sigh of relief if it werenā€™t for the little ziplock bag between his knees.Ā 
Heā€™s very pointedly not looking at it, or you, instead choosing to glare at a spot on the ceiling. You maneuver yourself to sit opposite him, against the wall with your knees tucked up against your chest.Ā 
ā€œDid you take any?ā€ It almost feels wrong to break the silence thatā€™s settled over the two of you.
You wait with bated breath until he gives the slightest shake of his head. He hasnā€™t touched it. Okay, thatā€™s the worst case scenario eliminated. Itā€™s enough to have your heart rate calm a little, it doesnā€™t make things better by a long shot, but at least itā€™s something.
ā€œDo you want to tell me what happened?ā€ You ask, picking at a loose thread of your sweatshirt.Ā 
His chin falls to his chest and he pulls his knees up towards him and youā€™re sure this is it. This is where you lose him. But Frankie takes a deep breath. And then another. And then, he musters the courage to look you in the eyes. He doesnā€™t see pity, not like he thought he would. You donā€™t look disappointed or upset or angry, the way he was so sure you would be. Youā€™re just waiting, letting him take the reins, he stores the knowledge away. In case he ever needs to dig you out.
ā€œI donā€™t know what happened,ā€ God, his throat is scratchy, ā€œI just- I had a bad night. And I called Pope, and then-ā€
He breaks off with a heart-wrenching crack in his voice and you canā€™t help but reach out to him. Just a hand, stretched across the space between you. He holds onto you like his life depends on it.
ā€œAnd I remembered I kept a bag on top of the medicine cabinet. And now youā€™re here.ā€
Itā€™s to the point, simple, methodical. Like heā€™s back in the army and giving a flight report to his CO. You wonder if thatā€™s what he needs right now, maybe spelling things out is better for him than asking what it is you can do. Itā€™s easier, sometimes, when someone just tells you whatā€™s going to happen.Ā 
ā€œDo you want to take it?ā€ You have to know, for his safety if nothing else. You need him to tell you if thereā€™s going to be a problem, if thereā€™s a risk and he needs more than you. He knows youā€™re not going to walk out the door and give up on him if he says yes.Ā 
It has to be his choice.Ā 
Frankie shakes his head again, a grimace on his face like he feels sick at the thought, and you squeeze his fingers between yours. You need him to understand that he hasnā€™t failed, that he wonā€™t fail. Tripping up and falling behind are part of the process, and you know he knows that. Heā€™s been going to the support group longer than you have. Recovery is messy and far from simple. Heā€™ll get back to where he was, one bad night isnā€™t going to ruin him.
Your lower back aches from the hardwood floor but you show no sign of discomfort, waiting until Frankie is completely back in his own head before you make any move to suggest where to go from here.
ā€œThereā€™s a drop-off box at the hospital, you fancy a drive?ā€ You keep his hand in yours, terrified that heā€™ll slip back if you let go.Ā 
God, he hates this. He hates that he canā€™t even look at you for more than a few seconds without his resolve threatening to crack. He hates that youā€™re not angry at him for any of it, not even a little bit. He deserves anger, he deserves your disappointment.
You were never supposed to see him like this, that much heā€™s sure of. Or, he convinced himself of at least. Heā€™s been going to group and therapy and heā€™s kept up his tests and heā€™s stayed far away from anything that might even tempt him a little. And that was before you even showed up. Standing awkwardly in the doorway with a nervous smile and eyes the size of dinner plates. But heā€™d been by your side in a flash, asking you to give him a hand setting up chairs, and that was it.Ā 
Frankie knows the ins and outs of recovery, you donā€™t need to tell him that he hasnā€™t failed. But he canā€™t help feeling like maybe he never really started in the first place, leaving that one bag out of sight. Life had been busy enough to preoccupy him, between everything else he kind of just forgot about it. He let it gather dust and it should have stayed that way.Ā 
And then, it felt like he was falling out of the sky. And he couldnā€™t do a thing to stop it.
Nightmares arenā€™t an unusual thing for him, or for any former soldier, but the memories they stem from seem to warp into something else entirely when heā€™s too tired to pay attention. Sometimes heā€™s alone in the helicopter, sometimes heā€™s with family, sometimes strangers. It was his team tonight. A vivid memory of a time he almost couldnā€™t save them.Ā 
The crash never happened, he knows that. Heā€™d righted the bird and got his team to safety the way he knew he could. But that knowledge doesnā€™t stop his mind from wandering, from drowning him in fear when he imagines what might have happened had he not done his job. If theyā€™d crashed in the middle of nowhere. Would any of them have died on impact? Would they have been left stranded, wounded and starving? Heā€™s woken up in a cold sweat too many times, each ending more horrific than the last.
Tonight had been the last straw. And Frankie had found himself in his bathroom, patting along the top of the medicine cabinet, before he could even realise what he was doing.
Heā€™d called Santiago, still blinking back images of his best friendā€™s bloody and lifeless face, just to hear his voice initially. But he hadnā€™t managed to explain anything past the sob lodged in his throat, and heā€™d heard the jingle of car keys before he could tell Pope he didnā€™t need to drive all the way across town at two oā€™clock in the morning.Ā 
At least nobody had called Will, because that would have meant that Benny would have shown up too. Maybe even Tom would have dragged his ass out of bed. Frankie didnā€™t need to disappoint all his friends in one night.Ā 
Santiago is bound by friendship, best and oldest, heā€™d never say anything if Frankie didnā€™t want him to. And you, youā€™re bound by- well, youā€™re not really bound by anything. You could get up off of his bathroom floor right now and never look back. Get to your feet, and walk right out of his life. But you wonā€™t.Ā 
He knows you wonā€™t because youā€™re still holding tight to his hand, even though the angle and distance has you leaned forward awkwardly. Youā€™re still looking at him like you believe in him, even though he almost threw everything heā€™s worked so hard for down the drain. Youā€™re here, despite everything. Despite only knowing him for a couple of months, despite getting a call from a stranger at four in the morning, despite everything heā€™s done to be undeserving of anything good or kind in his life.
Youā€™re here, still, looking at him like he can do anything. Thatā€™s something. Thatā€™s enough for him.
ā€œI donā€™t even want to look at it.ā€ Frankie croaks, and keeps his eyes steady on yours even as his voice wavers. To anybody else, he might sound unsure. But you hear that steely determination underneath it all, the same one thatā€™s convinced you to keep moving any time youā€™ve faltered.Ā 
ā€œThatā€™s okay, I can take it.ā€ You waste no time in snapping the little bag up in your free hand, and stuffing it in your back pocket. A phone rings in the hall, hurriedly answered, and you suddenly remember the other man waiting outside.
Frankieā€™s still looking at you, dark eyes unsteady and unsure, and you squeeze his fingers to ground him. He comes back to you, slowly, and takes a few shaky breaths.Ā 
ā€œDo you want him to come with, or?ā€ You leave the question open. His choice, entirely, the way everything tonight has been. He lost control for a moment and fought, tooth and nail, to get it back. You canā€™t take any decision about this away from him.
He shakes his head, loosens his grip on your hand, and asks you to give him a minute. It hurts, leaving him alone on his bathroom floor. But heā€™ll come out, youā€™re certain of that much.
ā€œIs-ā€ Santiago cuts himself off when you emerge and pull the door just shy of closed behind you, like heā€™s afraid to even ask the question. Let alone know the answer.
ā€œHeā€™ll be okay. Weā€™re taking his last stash to the drop-off box.ā€
Santiagoā€™s whole body sags in relief, and you canā€™t help but lean against the wall for support yourself. The little ziplock bag in your back pocket is a weight you donā€™t think youā€™ll ever stop carrying, even after itā€™s disposed of, but youā€™re more than happy to bear it when Frankie steps out of the bathroom and Santiago tugs him into a hug that almost breaks his ribs.
Itā€™s easy to forget, when you get that low, that you have people. But theyā€™ll always show up when you call.Ā 
You leave them to their moment and shuffle back through to the main room, your car keys and phone left on the kitchen counter where youā€™d abandoned them. Youā€™re not sure why you bother checking your messages, maybe itā€™s to keep your hands busy, maybe itā€™s so you donā€™t feel like youā€™re intruding on Frankie and his oldest friend. They speak in hushed tones as your thumbnail scratches back and forth across a crack in your screen protector.Ā 
ā€œIā€™m sorry.ā€ Frankieā€™s voice is rough, muffled into the other manā€™s shoulder.Ā 
ā€œDonā€™t be,ā€ Pope squeezes him just a little tighter before pulling back far enough to look him in the eye, ā€œBe sorry you didnā€™t tell me they were so pretty.ā€Ā 
It should feel odd, the way that he speaks as though the last few hours havenā€™t even happened. How a simple, harmless joke is all it takes for Frankieā€™s heart to settle. Pope doesnā€™t hate him, couldnā€™t hate him,Ā 
ā€œDidnā€™t I?ā€ A shy, shaky smile settles on his features as Santiago stifles a yawn, ā€œCrash here tonight, youā€™re not driving anywhere on no sleep.ā€Ā 
Ever the caretaker, even in the wake of his worst moments. Itā€™s a hard habit to break after all theyā€™ve been through. Something tells Frankie, even as Pope relents and walks through to the living room to find a blanket and settle on the couch, heā€™ll still be awake once they get back.Ā 
Youā€™re quiet when he follows you out of his apartment, quiet as your footsteps echo in the stairwell, quiet when you cross the street to your car and unlock the doors. Part of him still worries that youā€™re disappointed, that youā€™re angry or upset or that heā€™s fucked up so bad that youā€™ve already decided to drop him home without a word and heā€™ll never hear from you again.
But another look at you out of the corner of his eye as you plug your seatbelt in disproves any other theory he might have. Youā€™re quiet because you know that he doesnā€™t need you to talk, that he just needs you right here beside him so he can be brave enough to take the next step.
The radio is playing some acoustic, folky sounding song that neither of you have heard before, and itā€™s comforting to just sit and absorb the peace of the night as you drive. Youā€™re conscious of Frankieā€™s eyes on you, although youā€™re sure heā€™s trying to be subtle about his staring. His seemingly unwavering attention does little to quiet the voice youā€™ve been hearing in the back of your mind for the last few weeks.
He still canā€™t quite believe it. That youā€™d wake up, in the middle of the night, and haul ass across town for him. For him. Something about it somehow makes ribcage feel like it's about to burst and cave in at the same time. But now is definitely not the time to be thinking about the tiny baby crush he may or may not be developing on you.Ā 
You donā€™t miss the way he tenses when you pull into the hospital parking lot, muscles locked so tight that a stiff breeze could shatter him into pieces. He turns to you when you say his name softly, and his eyes are wide with a terror so familiar that your heart breaks in your chest.
ā€œI canā€™t do it.ā€ He chokes the admission out like itā€™s poison, and in just four words you can hear every ounce of hatred he has for himself in this moment. He thinks heā€™s weak, because he canā€™t even throw a little plastic bag into a hatch, because he canā€™t even bring himself to move.Ā 
ā€œThatā€™s okay. Did you want me to?ā€ You offer, itā€™s plain as day on his face that he doesnā€™t know how to ask you.
Youā€™re grateful for the unusual warmth of the night when you step out of the car, comfortable enough not to need a jacket at this time of day. The sky is just starting to turn that odd shade of blue-grey, the barest hints of dawn on the horizon. Another day, just like tomorrow will be. Sometimes, the next day is all you can hope for.Ā 
The metal handle is cold when you wrap your hand around it and haul the creaky hatch open, you fish the bag out of your pocket and donā€™t even pay it a second glance as you set it on the little shelf and let the door snap shut. Gone. But you can still feel it eating away at you, you can still see how it weighs on Frankieā€™s shoulders when you shuffle across the concrete and climb back into the car.
He says heā€™s not hungry when you ask, and you donā€™t push it. Heā€™ll eat when heā€™s ready. Heā€™ll live when heā€™s ready. You donā€™t mind, youā€™ve got a better idea anyway.
ā€œWhere are we going?ā€ He asks when he realises youā€™re heading completely the opposite way from his apartment building. You shoot him a smile, turning your eyes back to the road before you can read too far into the look in his eyes.Ā 
The beach is dead, just like you thought it would be, and youā€™re grateful as you shut off the engine.Ā 
ā€œWe are gonna throw rocks in the sea.ā€ You say and part of him wonders if youā€™ve always known exactly what he needs.Ā 
If someone had told Frankie, twenty four hours ago, that heā€™d be skipping pebbles on the sea with you at sunrise, he would have laughed. But here he is, flecks of the rising sun on the sea reflecting on your face, and youā€™re smiling at him like that as a breeze ruffles his hair. Maybe this is all he needs to find the courage to stare right down the barrel of his faults. He doesnā€™t know how you do it, maybe you can do it together.
You reach over and take his hand when you spot the lone tear tracking its way down his cheek.Ā 
ā€œYouā€™ll be alright. I promise.ā€ You smile just as the sun finally breaks fully over the horizon, sky streaked with orange and pink.Ā 
ā€œYeah, I know.ā€ Frankie canā€™t help but smile back.
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TAGLIST (add yourself here):
@brothersdrxke @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean
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spencers-renaissance Ā· 4 years ago
Text
The Colour of Waiting is Purple
Summary:Ā Spencer's just trying to get home as quickly as possible when a bad decision to take a shortcut down a back alley leaves him broken and bleeding into the night. // Hotch thinks it's a new case when his phone rings at 3 in the morning. It isn't.
Tags: whump, hurt/comfort, physical assault, major character injury, hospitals, dad hotch, hurt spencer, angst with a happy ending, eventual fluff
TW: graphic descriptions of violence // physical assault (no rape/non-con)
Pairing: Gen, Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid
Word Count: 3.7k
Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo
Disclaimer: I'm sure there are some medical inaccuracies here, everything I know comes from google, whump tumblr blogs, and my embarrassing obsession with medical dramas. I also have no knowledge of the US medical system aside from what I know from the aforementioned sources so excuse any issues there.
Spencer doesnā€™t think anything of it when he leaves work at his usual time, the clock pushing midnight and the offices deserted. He packs his few personal belongings up and turns off his lamp before nodding to the janitor, the only other person to be seen, and taking the elevator down to the ground floor where thereā€™s a little more sign of human life at least.Ā 
As soon as he steps out into the crisp winter air, he feels the exhaustion of working close to 18 hours straight on far too little sleep hit him. They havenā€™t even been working a case, he just gets so caught up in his reports and consults that he doesnā€™t notice the hours whizzing by until he looks up and the bullpen is deserted, dark except for his desk lamp.Ā 
Inevitably when spending the day at the office dealing with banalities, he finds something that captures his interest. It tends to send him on a trawl through the internet ā€” or, occasionally, to another part of the building ā€” looking it up in every journal he buys a subscription to until that itch is scratched.
The others always gently touch his shoulder or call out to him as they leave, which he tends to hear about 50% of the time, and Hotch especially tries to make him leave at a more sensible time, but he canā€™t help the way his brain works. Once it latches onto something itā€™s not letting go until itā€™s satisfied.
His feet carry him to the Metro station while his brain absently thinks over his most recent fixation, and soon enough heā€™s at his stop and back in DC. The streets are slightly more lively in the city, and the noise and light snap him back to reality enough to remind him of his bone-deep fatigue. He usually walks down the main streets to get to his apartment building, occasionally catching a bus if heā€™s earlier than usual or a cab if heā€™s later, but tonight heā€™s just longing for a quick microwave meal, a shower, and his bed. So, he dips down an alleyway and takes the shortcut home.Ā 
Itā€™s stupid.Ā 
He knows pretty much every statistic there is to know about his city, and at the forefront of his brain are those concerning crime. DC has one of the highest crime rates in America, and a personā€™s chances of being a victim is 1 in 18, and although itā€™s slightly lower in Adams Morgan which is one of the safest, violent crimes are still 36% higher than the national average. This is decidedly increased when you take stupid risks like walking through the backstreets in the dead of night when youā€™re on your own.
Sadly, this does not occur to Spencer before heā€™s deep in the back streets of the city, being slammed ruthlessly against a wall by two men he didnā€™t see coming.Ā 
Heā€™s winded immediately, and before his brain can catch up with whatā€™s happening, a knife is being held dangerously close to his neck. All his self-defence training, all the moves Derek had spent hours teaching him when heā€™d first joined the BAU fly out the window and he can only breathe heavily with what he knows must be a terrified expression on his face.
ā€œWell, well, well,ā€ the man holding the knife leers, his arid breath hitting Spencerā€™s face, ā€œlook what we have here.ā€
The other man doesnā€™t speak. Heā€™s stood slightly further back, arms crossed as he stares Spencer down. Although heā€™s physically the lesser threat right now, something about him has ice pooling in Spencerā€™s stomach.
ā€œHereā€™s whatā€™s gonna happen, you fucking pansy,ā€ he continues, pushing Spencer further into the wall, pain blossoming across his body, ā€œyouā€™re gonna let us look through your gay ass purse, and weā€™re gonna take whatever we want from it. And then, youā€™re gonna let Paulie here do whatever he wants to you. Heā€™s had a real bad day, and a pathetic little queer like you is just the punching bag he needs, you hear me?ā€
Itā€™s all Spencer can do to nod his head frantically. He wants to open his mouth, to negotiate, to talk them down, but this is nothing like when heā€™s faced with the FBIā€™s most wanted. Heā€™s in control there, heā€™s on his turf, his playing field, itā€™s Ā his game and he knows every rule, every bylaw, every exception.Ā 
Right now, heā€™s completely at these menā€™s mercy.
ā€œPaulie, take his bag.ā€ The man doesnā€™t take his eyes off Spencerā€™s face, scanning his expression and body language for any sign heā€™s about to bolt, for any reason to put his knife to work.Ā 
He tries to calm himself down a little, enough to catch his breath at least. Heā€™s taken countless beatings throughout his life, he knows how to survive, justā€¦ please, donā€™t let it be anything more. Itā€™s all Spencer dares to hope for.
The other man steps forward and snatches his messenger bag, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his bag on the pavement. Spencerā€™s just grateful that he doesnā€™t have anything in there that hints towards his career. He knows this type: theyā€™re intimidating but theyā€™re easily scared. Right now, heā€™s a weak twenty-something on his way home, heā€™s not a threat to them, but who knows what theyā€™d do to him if they realised heā€™s a fed?
They take his wallet and his phone before they rummage through his pockets to find some spare cash. His badge is tucked in an inner pocket in his blazer and his Quantico ID is still hanging around his neck, hidden under his scarf, blazer, and thin overcoat; heā€™s so glad he never took it off.Ā 
An icy tear drips down his face as he stands there, pressed against the wall, awaiting his fate. All he wants right now is to be back at home. No, thatā€™s not right. All he wants right now is Ā Hotch. As soon as the thought of his father-figure crosses his mind, the tears start flowing faster, desperate to feel safe again, knowing Hotch is the only person to really let him feel that way.
The man holding the knife has turned to watch Paulie sift through his bag and rummage through his pockets, but as soon as his steely grey eyes return to Spencerā€™s face, his face splits into a shit-eating grin. ā€œAw, are you crying?ā€ he mocks, starting to laugh. ā€œAre the big bad men making you feel scared? You gonna run home to Mommy?ā€
He knows that itā€™s exactly what the man wants, but he canā€™t stop the tears from devolving into full-blown sobs at his words. The whole terrifying experience, the implications, the realisations of what might be coming for him in the next few minutes start to catch up to him and heā€™s violently shaking as he cries uncontrollably.Ā 
ā€œYouā€™re pathetic,ā€ the man spits, releasing his grip on him slightly, letting Spencerā€™s shaky legs collapse under him and send him crashing towards the ground. ā€œHeā€™s all yours, Paulie. Iā€™m gonna enjoy this.ā€
His position is quickly taken over by Paulie as the other man leans against a dumpster close by to watch the show, and Spencer looks up at the intimidating man with fear blazing in his eyes as he hangs in purgatory, knowing the hell thatā€™s about to rain down on him.Ā 
Paulie doesnā€™t take long to get started and he doesnā€™t hold back, his sturdy, black boots kicking him relentlessly in the stomach and his thighs before moving up to his chest, slamming the toe of his boots into each individual rib. Spencer can hear the other man laughing maniacally over the sound of his own bones breaking, over his own choked pleas for mercy, but itā€™s like Paulie doesnā€™t hear either of them. His face is blank as he gives Spencer the beating of his life, and it only makes him more terrifying.Ā 
He quickly gets bored of kicking Spencer and bends down to yank him up by his scarf, only to land a hard, brutal punch on his jaw, then his cheek, then his nose before dropping him down again, this time so his back is vulnerable, at the mercy of Paulieā€™s cruel feet.
The torture continues for a few more minutes, and Spencer doesnā€™t know how no-one hears his desperate cries, but theyā€™re left alone in the alley as he coughs up blood and feels his bones break under the tread of Paulieā€™s boots. Heā€™s deprived of air as his chest is stood on, as his windpipe is crushed, but finally, Ā finally itā€™s over.
ā€œIā€™m bored,ā€ Paulie grunts, giving Spencer one last brutal kick to the base of his back before walking over to the other man. They both saunter off down the alleyway, not casting a single look back at Spencer lying curled up on the ground, surrounded by his own blood.Ā 
Soon, the men have left, and heā€™s alone with only his ragged, painful breaths for company. He can hear the hoots of a bachelor party just a street over, but no-oneā€™s coming to save him. No-one else is stupid enough to venture down the backstreets of DC. Not with crime rates like those of their city. Not in the small hours of the morning. Not alone.
He doesnā€™t even have his phone to call for help.Ā 
ā­ļø
Hotch expects it to be work when he picks up the phone at 3am. By the time heā€™s sat up in bed and sliding the bar on his phone to answer it, heā€™s already half in work-mode, ready to call Jessica and drive Jack over before racing into work to beat the others on the team. He can already taste his first coffee of the day.Ā 
ā€œHello, is this Aaron Hotchner?ā€Ā 
It isnā€™t work.
ā€œUh, yes,ā€ he says hesitantly, shifting upright a little further, sleep-addled mind trying to guess who the caller could possibly be, ā€œspeaking.ā€
ā€œHi, my name is Mary Kutner, Iā€™m calling from George Washington University Hospital. I have you down as Spencer Reidā€™s emergency contact, is that correct?ā€
Hotchā€™s heart plummets, and he leaps out of bed immediately, ready to get dressed as the shock wakes him up. ā€œThatā€™s correct. Whatā€™s happened?ā€
ā€œIā€™m afraid I canā€™t divulge much information over the phone, sir, but weā€™ll need you to come to the hospital urgently.ā€Ā 
He isnā€™t usually an emotional person, but he can feel tears springing to his eyes already. Spencer is a surrogate son to him, and knowing heā€™s hurt without knowing what he can actually do about it is an atrocious feeling. Ā Please donā€™t let me watch another member of my family die, is all he can think as he tries to gain enough composure to reply to the nurse on the other end of the line.
ā€œCan you tell me his condition?ā€ he asks, somehow managing to get the words past the lump in his throat.Ā 
ā€œHeā€™s currently in theatre, sir,ā€ Mary replies as gently as one can in such a professional tone. ā€œIf you come down to the hospital and report to the ER a doctor will be able to tell you more. Iā€™ll need you to bring identification with you, please.ā€
ā€œOkay,ā€ he breathes, trying to keep as calm as possible, ā€œokay. Thank you for letting me know. Iā€™ll be right there.ā€
He throws the phone on the bed as he finishes throwing his clothes on. He packs two bags: one for him (mostly filled with things Spencer might need) and one for Jack, pulls on his coat and shoes before creeping into his sonā€™s room and lifting him out of bed gently, carrying him down to the car.Ā 
Jack is a heavy sleeper ā€” he frequently wakes up the next morning tucked in his room at Jessicaā€™s, sometimes in the car on the way ā€” and heā€™s endlessly thankful for that now. Explaining why heā€™s dashing out of the flat with a panicked look on his face to a seven-year-old is a conversation heā€™s glad to avoid.
He rings Jessica on the way who, used to his early morning calls waking her up, has no problem with looking after Jack.
Somehow, he manages to make it to the hospital only forty-five minutes later, and he didnā€™t even have to park illegally. Thank God the hospital is at least a little quieter in the dead of night.
ā€œHi, Iā€™m Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reidā€™s emergency contact,ā€ he explains shakily to the woman at the front desk, laying down his FBI identification bag down as ID. He could use his driving licence, sure, butā€¦ if knowing theyā€™re FBI agents will make any difference to Spencerā€™s care then he doesnā€™t give a damn if this could be construed in some way as abuse of his position. Heā€™d rather lose his job than lose his son.
ā€œOh, hi Agent Hotchner,ā€ the woman says with a tone of recognition, glancing at his ID before typing something into her computer, ā€œIā€™m Mary Kutner, I spoke to you on the phone. Dr Reid is still in surgery but Iā€™ll go and find a doctor who can explain the situation to you.ā€
He nods absently, face stern and pinched as furious anxiety toils inside him. He feels like the last forty-five minutes have been a daze, and now the bright lights and noisy machines and bustling action of the Emergency Department at a major trauma centre are slowly snapping him out of it, the implications of ā€˜urgentā€™ and ā€˜surgeryā€™ and it being the middle of the damn night finally catching up to him.Ā 
Some number of minutes pass by ā€” heā€™s too anxious and caught in his head to keep track of the linear passage of time right now ā€” before heā€™s approached by a young doctor, wearing a mask carefully constructed of confident professionalism and reassuring compassion.Ā 
ā€œAgent Hotchner?ā€ Sheā€™s clarifying uselessly, she knows itā€™s him. He knows she probably has to confirm for some stupid HIPAA rule, but he just wants to know what happened goddamnit.Ā 
ā€œYes,ā€ he replies shortly, ā€œwhatā€™s happened to Spencer?ā€
He doesnā€™t miss her almost perfectly concealed wince, and he feels his stomach sink further. ā€œHe was involved in an assault on his way home from work. A passer-by found him in a back road not far from the hospital and called for an ambulance. Luckily we got him into surgery quickly. Upon admissionā€™s initial assessment, he had a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, a double kidney contusion, and he suffered a pelvic fracture along with multiple broken ribs, a fractured jaw and cheekbone, and several severe breaks in his left forearm, wrist, and hand.ā€
Hotch stares at the doctor in disbelief as she lists Spencerā€™s injuries: he feels like heā€™s going into shock. How could anyone want to hurt the sweetest person heā€™s ever met? How could anyone be so brutal? Heā€™s worked with serial killers for nearly two decades and still, nothing could prepare him for this. He sits down in the seat behind him as the world spins, his brain trying to piece everything together.Ā 
ā€œAre you alright, sir?ā€ the doctor asks, sitting down in the seat next to him. ā€œDo you want a glass of water?ā€
ā€œWhat?ā€ He turns to look at her before her words sink in and he realises what she asked. ā€œOh. No, Iā€™m fineā€¦ Iā€” is he going to be okay?ā€ As soon as the first tear spills down his cheek, he canā€™t stop them from falling one after another, dripping down his face in his most public display of emotion since Haley died.
ā€œHeā€™s going to need a lot of care,ā€ she reasons, ā€œheā€™ll need to stay in hospital for at least a week depending on the outcome of the surgery, but we have every reason to believe heā€™ll make a full recovery.ā€
ā€œWhatā€™sā€” whatā€™s the surgery for?ā€ He feels like heā€™s having an out of body experience.
ā€œTheyā€™ll address the internal bleeding first by either fixing or removing the spleen and making sure we didnā€™t miss anything else on the scans. The surgeon will also assess the damage to Spencerā€™s kidneys and make sure they arenā€™t contributing to the internal bleeding. Theyā€™ll address the pelvic fractures and the collapsed lung as well. You need to understand that Spencer may need further surgery and heā€™ll definitely need very close monitoring over the coming weeks and months.ā€
ā€œWhat about his broken bones?ā€ Hotch asks. ā€œHow bad is it?ā€
She sighs. ā€œTheyā€™re bad,ā€ she admits. ā€œThe pelvic fractures are likely going to have a big impact on his mobility, and he wonā€™t have the use of his left arm for a long time. Weā€™re looking at a long recovery, Agent Hotchner. But we have every reason to believe that he Ā will eventually recover.ā€
She pats him comfortingly on the hand before getting up. ā€œSomeone will fetch you as soon as heā€™s out of surgery.ā€Ā 
Itā€™s not until sheā€™s halfway across the waiting room that he realises she never even told him her name.Ā 
Ā Itā€™s close to 8am by the time a surgeon walks over to him, still dressed in scrubs. Thereā€™s a smudge of blood on his shirt and Hotch winces at the knowledge that itā€™s Spencerā€™s.Ā 
ā€œHow is he?ā€ he asks, leaping up. He doesn't want any screwing around. He just wants to know if Spencerā€™s going to be okay.Ā 
ā€œHeā€™s stable. The surgery went well. Unfortunately, we had to conduct a full splenectomy to stop his internal bleed which does put him at risk for serious infections, but otherwise, itā€™s good news. His kidneys will need support but should heal in a timely manner, and we were able to set the rib that punctured his lung and reinflate it, although weā€™re going to keep him on oxygen to be safe. His pelvis was severely fractured but we managed to reposition the displaced bone fragments and inserted a screw and metal plate to hold them together.ā€
ā€œOh, thank God,ā€ Hotch sighs with relief. The worst, immediate threats have been dealt with, and it settles a small part of the anxiety heā€™s feeling.Ā 
ā€œHeā€™s in room 338 if youā€™d like to go and see him. He should be waking up shortly.ā€
ā­ļø
Wasting no time, he races up to Spencerā€™s floor where a nurse lets him onto the ward and leads him down to 338. He pushes the door open apprehensively, swallowing his emotion at the sight of the man he considers a son lying in a hospital bed. Heā€™s lost count of the number of times heā€™s been rushed to the hospital, but itā€™s never been like this. Itā€™s always after a case: Spencer knows the risks of the job, they all do, and he puts himself deliberately in harm's way for the sake of others.
This time, thoughā€¦ this time he was just walking home from work. This time he had no say in the matter.
His left arm is in a cast and his face is bruised and swollen, chestnut hair matted and tangled. Opening the bag he packed, he pulls out a comb and gently teases out the tangles until he can comb through the curls completely unobstructed. There are undoubtedly more knots at the back of his head, but those can wait until heā€™s woken up at least. It just makes him feel like heā€™s doing something.Ā 
Itā€™s only when he sits down in the chair by his bed that he realises itā€™s Thursday morning now; heā€™s supposed to be at work today, they both are. No-one except Jessica knows whatā€™s happened.Ā 
The first thing, he supposes, is to ring Strauss.Ā 
Once thatā€™s out of the way and she knows that neither he nor Spencer will be in today and heā€™ll inform her of the latest updates as soon as possible, he messages Rossi. Heā€™s the only one who will be able to remain objective enough to inform everyone, and heā€™s enough of a dad to the team to help manage everyoneā€™s emotional responses.Ā 
Just as he hits send on the message, his head snaps up at Spencerā€™s quiet whimpering as he comes around.
ā€œHey, hey, Spencer,ā€ he says as soothingly as possible, ā€œitā€™s okay, Iā€™m here. Youā€™re in the hospital. Are you in pain?ā€
Spencer blinks his eyes open blearily, wearing such a pained and vulnerable expression that it goes right to Hotchā€™s gut. He nods in response to his question, his good hand reaching to hold Hotchā€™s.Ā 
ā€œOkay, thereā€™s a PCA pump right here, Iā€™ll turn it up a little. Is that better?ā€
ā€œYeah,ā€ he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. Now heā€™s not in as much physical pain, Hotch knows this is pure emotion, and he thinks thatā€™s somehow worse. Spencerā€™s been through a horrifying physical ordeal, but the emotional recovery is going to be just as gruelling and last years. If thereā€™s one word heā€™d use to describe Spencer, though, itā€™s resilient.Ā 
He shushes him gently, bringing a hand to his hair and caressing it lightly. ā€œIā€™m here,ā€ he repeats. ā€œYouā€™re safe. I wonā€™t leave you, okay?ā€
Spencer nods and relaxes into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he calms down a little.Ā 
ā€œYou rest now,ā€ he murmurs. ā€œIā€™ll be here when you wake up. Everythingā€™s going to be okay.ā€
Theyā€™ll deal with the fall-out later. Theyā€™ll deal with the team coming to visit, with the paperwork for his sick leave and the frustration of government bureaucracy. Theyā€™ll manage their way through processing the trauma of what happened to him, the physical, mental, and occupational implications of the assault. Theyā€™ll stay glued at the hip while Spencerā€™s interviewed by the police, while doctors explain to him just how serious his injuries are.Ā 
Right now, though, Spencer will sleep and Hotch will sit by his bedside watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to every steady beep on the heart rate monitor, searing the living breathing proof that Spencer is alive into his mind. Spencer will sleep and Hotch will cry silently over the cruelty of the world, heā€™ll grieve for the man he said good-bye to 12 hours earlier, knowing heā€™ll never quite be the same again.Ā 
Spencer will sleep and Hotch will be there, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up again.
taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @strippersenseii @suburban--gothic @takeyourleap-of-faith
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crowtrinkets Ā· 4 years ago
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Your Weary Widow Marches
A Gender Neutral MCxFelix fic in which our dear barista educates their teacher and shows him some music from their home.
Iā€™ve never really written fanfiction before but I thought Id give it a shot. The formatting looks weird on my end so if it looks weird after posting I apologize I couldnā€™t figure it out. Hope you enjoy!
ā€”-
The crackling fire and pages being turned were the only sounds heard for the past few hours. Felix and I sat on either side of a couch placed in Anisaā€™s office silently reading our respective books. Iā€™ve been in Astraea for nearly a week and had I known that Felixā€™s teaching method would be done via reading books the size of an encyclopedia I probably would have chosen Sage or Anisa instead... probably
I glance up at Felix, heā€™s sitting with legs crossed slouching on the arm rest of the couch, glasses on and enthralled in his book. I'm leaning with my back against the arm rest facing Felix, peering at him from behind my knees. I watch as his eyes scan the pages, partially hiding behind my book so he doesnā€™t notice me stare. I rub my eyes, dry from the endless reading of Astraean history. I know plenty of history and lore from this world thanks to countless hours of playing Last Legacy and stalking forums, but I donā€™t think I couldā€™ve convinced Felix of that without having to explain what video games are let alone the internet. He thought if I were to learn magic I should at least know part of its history and itā€™s contribution to their society.Ā 
Despite spending some time with Felix I'm still amazed at the attention span he has for reading. I scan the room trying not to move too much lest I be scolded by the warden. I glance over at the high back chair across the room. The one Anisa sat me in after my jaunt through Felixā€™s portal and painfully onto Anisa's desk. My mind begins to wander.Ā 
Iā€™ve only been here a short time but I feel like Iā€™ve adjusted well. I wonder what's happening on Earth. Does time pass the same at home like how it does in this realm? World? Alternate universe? I still donā€™t exactly know how to explain my predicament. Has anyone noticed I'm gone yet? I wonder if Iā€™m on the missing persons list, someone at work will have noticed I didnā€™t show up for my shifts. I cringe slightly at that last thought, my open book now resting on my chest. Ah damn it, Iā€™m definitely fired arenā€™t I. How am I gonna pay my bills.... and my home, I miss my bed....my plants. SHIT MY PLANTS. I bring my hand to my face and cringe, my beloved house plants theyā€™re going to wither away in my absence. Fate is such a cruel mistress.
ā€œBored of reading are we?ā€ I slightly jump at Felixā€™s comment. I bring my hand down and look at him. Staring at me through his glasses a smirk on his lips. I flush slightly and close my book.
ā€œNo I just, got to thinking about Earth, and my life, I guess Iā€™m just a little home sick,ā€ I mumble out those last words. I want to be honest with Felix but I donā€™t want him beating himself up for my situation. I mean yes he is the reason Iā€™m stuck here but I don't hate him for it. Felix frowns and closes his own book.
ā€œAh... I am sorry about that, I-ā€œ I sit up interrupting him.
ā€œNo no no, I'm not mad at you, Iā€™m actually quite enjoying my time here. I mean I donā€™t have to make drinks for annoying customers everyday here,ā€ I force a laugh but it comes out awkwardly. Felix gives me a quizzical look. I then realize, with the amount of times he calls ā€œdear baristaā€ I just assumed he knew what it meant. ā€œYknow, my job? A barista?ā€ Felix flushes and avoids looking at me.
ā€œI must admit.. I do not actually know what that is,ā€ I cant help but chuckle, the great necromancer Felix, is embarrassed to not know something.
ā€œWell my dear teacher," I emphasize the word teacher mimicking the way he calls me, "allow me to educate you on some Earth information,ā€ I sit cross legged and scoot closer to him book in my lap. Felix adjusts to face me properly and removes his glasses. I clear my throat and smile at him. ā€œMy part time occupation of being a Barista, requires me to make drinks for customers and sell them, more often I make coffee but sometimes people order tea. We sell pastries as well,ā€ Felix gives me yet another confused look.
ā€œAll you do is prepare drinks and flakey confectioneries?ā€ I nod in response with a smile, I can only imagine what he assumed a Barista was. Felix chuckles and runs a hand through his hair, ā€œAll this time I thought it was something more complicated, you described your customers as being annoying? I am assuming you do not like this particular job?ā€
ā€œWell, I don't hate it but the customers can get a little rude and for the dumbest reasons too. One time a woman threw her drink at me claiming I added 3 1/2 shots of espresso and rather than 3,ā€ I laugh to my self looking back at the memory, chuckling more when I see Felixā€™s horrified expression.
ā€œA woman... threw a drink at you? Because she deemed it made incorrectly? I did not except Earth customs to be so. . . Barbaric,ā€ Felix looks at me astonished and confused but all I can do is laugh. ā€œAnd why are you laughing? Are you alright did she hit your head when she assaulted you with a beverage?ā€ Felix is now standing while I clutch my stomach in pain, the combination of the story and Felixā€™s confusion is too much to bare. After a minute I manage to calm down enough to speak.
ā€œNo no, she did not hit me in the head, Iā€™m just laughing cause it was funny, well at the time it wasnā€™t but my co workers took pictures and I looked ridiculous. I can laugh about it now,ā€ I wipe a stray tear from my eye as I recount the experience. Thank god her drink was iced.Ā 
ā€œPicture?ā€ Felix chimes in. I try to think of how to explain how photography works but I come up with an idea.
ā€œWhy donā€™t I show you?ā€ I stand handing Felix my book and I jaunt over to Anisaā€™s desk. I let her peruse my backpack because she seemed so interested in my ā€œEarthly itemsā€ as she called them. I walked back over and sit on the floor, patting the ground next to me so Felix can join.Ā 
ā€œYou known there is a perfectly good sofa right next to you, I donā€™t understand why you wish to sit on the ground like we are mere children,ā€ but despite his protests Felix sits next to me still clutching our books. I rummage through my back tossing the other items to the side. My wallet, a flyer, a jacket, that granola bar which has definitely crumbled to pieces in its package. Until I finally find it, my phone. My first night here I instinctively tried to use it, forgetting I am now stuck in a world without wifi or cell towers. In an effort to hopefully conserve its battery I hard shut off my phone I did not think I would need it but now is an opportunity for me to educate Felix about my world rather than his and tell him a little about myself. Really I just want a reason to prolong my time from reading anymore history. I hold the power button and silently pray. Please have some battery left, please please. Felix is leaning towards me, his face inching closer to mine, I glance at him studying his expression. He looks confused, and curious at the same time, there's a slight scrunch in his brow like heā€™s trying to seem like he understands what Iā€™m doing, but I know he doesnā€™t. In that moment his eyes meet mine, I turn my head to fully face him, a blush creeps up his face and I can feel mine begin to warm as well. ā€œFelix-ā€œ
BING
We both jump at the sound of my phone turning on. Damn phone, well I guess I kinda asked for that. Felix sits back and clears his throat.
ā€œUm, what, what is that?ā€ His voice wavers slightly but I choose to ignore it to save him some dignity.
ā€œIts my phone, on Earth nearly everyone has one of these. You can use it to communicate with other people, take pictures, look things up, and listen to music.ā€ I begin to unlock it and open my photo album.
ā€œYou can communicate with other people? On this... this flat brick?ā€ Felix points accusatory at my phone the scrunch in his eyebrows have intensified creating deep crevices on his forehead. I nod while I scroll through trying to find the photo.Ā 
ā€œYup and take pictures, such as this one,ā€ I turn my phone to face Felix revealing the image documenting the after affects of being assaulted with coffee. He leans over to get a better look. In the picture I'm standing by the cash register, soaked through my clothes in an extra large coffee's amount of liquid. The brown liquid stains my apron and the parts on my white shirt poking out from underneath. There's smeared whipped cream going across my shoulder up my neck and partially along my jaw, and the scowl on my face could kill a man. The instant I show the picture to Felix he plants a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. He turns away in an attempt to hide his amusement but I know he wont last.
ā€œIm-I must apologize I did not mean to laugh but, but the look on your face is hilarious,ā€ Felix faces me again trying to hide his smile with the back of his hand. I start to chuckle, I turn the phone back to me and swipe to the next picture. Its a similar picture but in this one my co worker put whipped cream on top of my head, something about it ā€œcompleting the lookā€. When I show this picture to Felix it breaks his terrible attempt of remaining poise. He laughs loudly, and itā€™s extremely contagious. I laugh along with him reminiscing in his beautiful laugh. Every once in a while we calm down until we look at the picture and we start up again. After a bit Iā€™m able to calm down enough to speak.
ā€œDonā€™t feel bad for laughing, at the time I was pissed but my co workers cheered me up and now I have these memories to laugh at,ā€ I start to look through my album again as Felix calms down from his laughing high. I find more pictures to show him. Some are of me at work with my co workers, one picture of me laughing as I held a dog that jumped through the drive through window. I show him more pictures, some are of earth sunsets which Felix claimed to look like they belong in a painting. I also show him a picture of some Geese I saw while on a walk, and then a picture of said Geese chasing me. This gets Felix to laugh again but not as hard.
ā€œYou lead an interesting life on Earth, it seems similar to Sage you are also prone to provoke others into attacking you,ā€ I roll my eyes at Felixā€™s joke and give him a friendly shoulder bump. Its at this moment I realize how close heā€™s sitting. Our books set aside and Felix is leaning on one arm politely looking over my shoulder at my phone, I can tell he doesnā€™t really understand how it works but it seems heā€™s enjoying this moment to much to ask. In an attempt to keep the sweet moment I change the subject.
ā€œHey do you want to listen to some Earth music?ā€ With a nod from Felix I close the app and instinctively go to press my streaming app. Damn no Internet. I think for a second and remember I have some music I bought in times before streaming apps existed. I find the app and open it. Dear god my taste was cringey. I scroll through the songs until I stumble across a less than embarrassing song. ā€œThis is a classic where I come from, everyone has heard this song at least once. I lay back onto the floor so I can properly listen to the music. Felix looks at me and awkwardly lays down as well, I click on the song allowing it to play.
Just a small town girl
Livin' in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin' anywhere
Just a city boy
Born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train goin' anywhere
Felix gives me a puzzled look but I just shrug and look up at the ceiling. I close my eyes and take in the song as it plays. If I concentrate hard enough I can imagine my self back on Earth. Sitting in my room listening to 80s music while I do laundry or cook my dinner. I start to feel nostalgic again but I try not let my emotions take over. The song ends and I pause it before it plays the next song. I roll onto my side and rest my head on my hand.
ā€œSo whatā€™d you think?ā€ I beam at Felix, I genuinely want to know what he thinks of Earth music, and more specifically a song that I am quite fond of. Felix is laying flat on his back, he ankles crossed and his hands laying on his chest. He looks nervous to be laying on the ground next to me but has made no attempts to leave.
ā€œI thought it was... interesting to say the least. It had quite a captivating story although I was confused when the subject changed multiple times, and what exactly are they trying to ā€œnot stop believingā€ inā€ Felix does air quotes and seems genuinely enthralled in the ā€œstoryā€ of the song. I smile and start to look for another song.Ā 
ā€œHow about you choose the next one?ā€ I tilt my phone towards him. Felix sits up at my question.
ā€œI dont feel very well versed in Earth music though,ā€ He mumbles. I shrug at his comment.
ā€œJust pick one with a name that sounds interesting to youā€ I show Felix how to use the phone and hand it to him laying back down. I peek at Felix, heā€™s holding the phone in one hand and is scrolling with the other, heā€™s holding it like an old man. I watch his face, heā€™s thoroughly looking at every single song title and determining whether they are interesting or not. I find it... cute, his concentration face is cute. Oh if he caught me staring I know he would become a blubbering blushing mess, I mean I would be too. I close my eyes again as I wait for him to pick.Ā 
ā€œThis one seems interesting,ā€ I hum in response, but when Felix says the title out-loud and panic seizes through me. I sit up and shout WAIT but I'm too late. He already pressed it. And then I hear it.
That dreaded, infamous G note. Felix turns towards me surprised and hastily hands the phone to me, I pause it before another note can play.
ā€œHells MC what will that song make my head explode or something??? You nearly made my heart stop.ā€ Felix takes a deep breath with his hand on his chest.
ā€œI'm sorry, that song its kind of embarrassing actually,ā€ I can feel myself flushing, I look away in embarrassment at the fact that I had that song downloaded and the fact that I nearly sent my teacher into cardiac arrest.
ā€œEmbarrassing how?ā€ Felix looks at me puzzled. I open my mouth to speak but then stop. Hold on a second, Felix doesnā€™t know this band, let alone what an emo phase is. Well judging by his raven skull necklace he does but not in the way I do. I guess it wouldnā€™t be so bad if we listened to it. I do still like their music. But god did it HAVE to be this song. I clear my throat and look back at Felix.
ā€œNothing, itā€™s nothing I was just being dramatic,ā€ I stifle a laugh. ā€œWe can listen to it, I actually quite like this band,ā€ Felix nods and turns to face my direction, were now both sitting cross legged and I press play on the song. I smile a little as the song plays and close my eyes again. I cant even remember the last time I listened to this song. My mind begins to wander again, to my younger years when I first heard this song.
Ā I was such a try hard back then, wanting so badly to ā€œbe differentā€ but also to mend the emotional pain I was going through, and this band really helped me through it. This song is a little more narrative than the last one so I hope Felix would like it. I canā€™t believe I freaked out like I did god he must think I'm crazy, or maybe that lady really did hit my head when she threw that drink at me. As the song plays I silently hum to it, quiet enough so that Felix might not hear. I drink in the lyrics and instruments and it feels like I'm listening to it again for the first time.Ā 
The song ends and I open my eyes again to pause the music before it plays another one.
ā€œSo what did you think of tha-ā€œ before I can continue I'm stopped by the sight of Felixā€™s face. His eyes are misty and his nose is colored pink. Was he... was he crying? Felix looks at me and his eyes go wide. He quickly turns away and rubs at his face.
ā€œThere-there is quite a lot of dust on this floor, honestly you would think Annie would have any sense to clean in here every once in a while,ā€ I cant help but smile, wow he really is a goth child.Ā 
ā€œItā€™s ok Felix, this song makes me cry sometimes too,ā€ Felix side eyes me and sniffles.
ā€œI-I was not crying, yes I admit the song was... moving to say the leastā€¦. But, but I will not be mocked by you for my emotions,ā€ Felix turns to face me again refusing to meet my eyes, his voice turning accusatory. I scoot closer to Felix and place a hand on his shoulder. He looks at me astonished and slightly flushed, either from the contact or the crying, I mean dust, I will never know.
ā€œCongratulationsā€ I say with a smile. Felixā€™s puzzled look twists even more.
ā€œWhat ever are you talking about,ā€ Felix questions.
ā€œYouā€™re emo now,ā€
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kiruuuuu Ā· 4 years ago
Text
Smoke/Mute in which ten cups of coffee change Muteā€™s life. (Rating T, slice of life/fluff/budding romance, ~5.8k words) - written for none other than @nutbrainā€‹ for being a remarkable human being and an even better friend šŸ’– Please enjoy!
.
Mark eyes the shopfront before him with suspicion. His safe haven apparently gone, a flashier version has taken its place some time during the semester break, keeping nothing but the location and the proffered goods. Instead of the old-fashioned, thick-cushioned chairs and dim lighting, the new cafĆ© shines with an open-floor concept, simple wooden furniture and an overall dark look with specks of gold to brighten it up. Leo Coffee, reads the sign next to a golden logo displaying a roaring lion. What big cats have to do with coffee isnā€™t obvious to Mark, but he overcomes his initial distaste and steps inside nonetheless.
As visible from outside, the place is deserted. The previous coffee shop was frequented by businesspeople and students alike, located halfway between the campus and Markā€™s dorm ā€“ on rainy days, people often took public transport and bought their coffee elsewhere, but even on those occasions, itā€™s never been as empty as this.
Not that Mark is complaining. If the coffee is good, heā€™ll continue frequenting the new shop, and being able to work in peace would be an added bonus. He is quite fond of Julien and Timur, but even so, theyā€™re not theā€¦ easiest to live with. To say the least. A quiet place would be very welcome.
He sets his books down on the table furthest away from the counter, slings his bag over the back of a chair and approaches the empty void where an employee should be standing. This is when he notices another curiosity: thereā€™s no menu board. There isnā€™t even a menu card by the counter or anywhere, really, only a glass case with a handful of baked goods inside, most of which look like a child made them. So far, the only redeeming quality is the delicious dark smell of roasted coffee beans lingering in the air.
After another minute, still nobody has appeared, so Mark checks his phone for reviews. If the place has less than four stars ā€“ alright, three, heā€™s giving them the benefit of the doubt purely because of their convenient location and quietness ā€“, then heā€™s out of here. He canā€™t even remember the last time he had to wait this long to -
ā€œAre you going to order or what?ā€
Nearly dropping his phone in the process, Mark jumps at the sudden gruff voice and looks up to find himself face to face with a grizzled man. The black apron is all that betrays him as an employee as the unimpressed glare and casual attire do nothing in his favour. ā€œUhā€, he replies eloquently and vows that heā€™ll never set foot in this place again if this is how heā€™s going to get treated.
The old manā€™s expression melts into friendliness. ā€œIā€™m sorry, I just wasnā€™t expecting anyone. Welcome to CafĆ© Leo ā€“ itā€™s your first time here, so have a loyalty card, lad.ā€
Mark accepts the piece of paper without thinking, still thrown off by the blokeā€™s sudden appearance (how does he move completely silent like that), and at least has the presence of mind to inspect it. Its contents are so absurd that he forgets to ask how the man opposite him knew he hadnā€™t been to the shop yet. ā€œā€˜After 10 coffee purchases, youā€™re eligible for a free wishā€™ā€, he mumbles, reading the text printed white on black aloud. ā€œā€˜This offer is not transferable.ā€™ Whatā€™s that supposed to mean?ā€
ā€œIt means that only you can redeem your reward, not anyone else. Would you like some coffee?ā€
He blinks at the bearded man, trying to ascertain whether heā€™s being serious, and is met with an almost bored stare. Weighing his options, the scales are only slightly tipped in favour of staying, but only because he knows Julien has a ā€˜visitorā€™ over today and thereā€™s no other place he can study ā€“ the library is overrun by frantic procrastinators who left finishing their coursework assigned over the break to the absolute last minute, and Manu is coming back tomorrow. Apart from her and his roommates, thereā€™s no one with whom heā€™s comfortable enough to invite himself over.
Especially not him. God knows why Mark even considered him for a brief second.
Looks like heā€™ll have to deal with this awkwardness if he wants to get any work done whatsoever. ā€œAlright then. What do you sell?ā€
ā€œCoffeeā€, comes the curt answer.
Mark rubs his eyes in exhaustion. Heā€™s beginning to understand why thereā€™s no other customers here. ā€œSure. Yes. A coffee, then.ā€
ā€œThatā€™ll beā€¦ā€ The employee trails off while frowning down at his wristwatch. ā€œā€¦um, about Ā£7.92.ā€
ā€œFor one coffee?ā€
ā€œItā€™s free refills, son.ā€
Oh, so maybe this is an American chain. That would explain quite a bit. Mark considers whether heā€™s staying long enough to get the most out of his money, but seeing as the bloke doesnā€™t seem the chattiest type and heā€™s unlikely to get interrupted, he decides itā€™s worth it. Still, thereā€™s something he simply canā€™t let go. ā€œā€¦ what do you mean, ā€˜aboutā€™ Ā£7.92?ā€
ā€œAre you paying cash or card?ā€
Alright then.
The next ultimatum: if the coffee turns out dogshite, heā€™s never coming back. Heā€™d rather travel an increased distance to a normal coffee shop than to have to deal with this nonsense. Wordlessly, he sets down a Ā£10 note and scoops the change into his wallet before watching the obviously American guy (and maybe the chain imports all their workers, who knows) pour a cup of the darkest coffee heā€™s ever seen. He unceremoniously sets it down in front of him and makes no indication of mentioning neither cream nor sugar. Heā€™s lucky Mark prefers his energy supply as-is.
ā€œTaā€, Mark mutters and scurries away, glad to escape that hard stare. To make sure heā€™s not being scammed, he takes a quick sip of the fragrant liquid and is surprised at how pleasant the taste is. Minimal bitterness, a gentle, almost floral note, and just strong enough to satisfy his craving.
Well, crap.
Looks like heā€™ll have to come back after all.
.
~*~
.
ā€œDid you guys know the old coffee shop closed?ā€, Mark voices his thoughts into the middle of a medium-sized food war between Manu and Timur involving entirely too many packets of salt.
ā€œThe one on campus?ā€, Manu asks and accidentally elbows Julien in the ribs, causing him to actually look up from his phone for once.
ā€œNo, the one halfway to our dorm.ā€
ā€œI was there last weekā€, Timur pipes up, making him furrow his brows. A week canā€™t be enough to refurnish the entire cafĆ©, let alone switch owners completely. ā€œIs it closed now?ā€
ā€œThereā€™s a different one instead. It was dead when I went, but the coffeeā€™s good. The bloke serving me was weird.ā€
ā€œLook at you, stringing multiple sentences togetherā€, Julien chimes in, grinning. ā€œSomething novel mustā€™ve happened for you to even bring it up. Was the dude hot?ā€
ā€œBecause thatā€™s the only reason anyone would ever get excited about anythingā€, says Manu drily. ā€œWe can check it out if itā€™s good, even if the employees suck. Not like we have to socialise with them.ā€
Mark shrugs and regrets mentioning the cafĆ© in the first place ā€“ it feels somehow personal, whether itā€™s to do with the odd experience overall or the fact that he ended up staying more than three hours. His productivity was through the roof, the calm atmosphere helped immensely and the thought of his loud friends ā€“ as much as he appreciates them ā€“ invading his newfound hideout isnā€™t one he particularly enjoys.
It turned out that the employee wasnā€™t so bad after all: as soon as Mark considered asking for more coffee, he appeared right by his side and filled his mug again, without bothering him at all. Still, Julien would complain about him and Timur might agree and Manu is likely to judge his impolite manner, and Mark wouldnā€™t be able to defend him. Even if he doesnā€™t mind the silent company.
For the moment, he neednā€™t bother with these thoughts as his friends are wholly occupied with arguing over some internet memes (and Mark remembers vividly how they all had to talk Julien down from nibbling at their laundry detergent pods), so nothing could be further from their minds than sitting down and actually studying for their degrees.
Not that theyā€™re bad students, quite the opposite, theyā€™re just not asā€¦ ambitious as Mark. Some have called him obsessed, yes, and he canā€™t quite refute it, but he prefers to call it ā€˜determinedā€™. There have been few who are able to keep up with him, which is probably partly the reason why heā€™s made friends with people from completely different departments. He tends to be a loner in most classes, which suits him just fine.
Well. Most classes.
.
ā€œI would give my left bollock for you.ā€
Mark certainly doesnā€™t appreciate the imagery. He hands over the photocopied sheet to the bloke nearly bouncing in delight before shuffling after his fellow students into the lecture hall. Closely followed, of course. ā€œMake sure to change enough detailsā€, he repeats the reminder, earning a scoff.
ā€œIā€™ll make it illegible, babe, donā€™t worry.ā€ James plops down next to him, stretching and taking up too much space. ā€œYouā€™re the only reason Iā€™ll actually get credit for this course.ā€
Oh, Mark is very aware of this fact. He lets his seat neighbour prattle on as he takes out his materials, lines up his pens, and waits for the lecture to start. If he were pressed to explain how he ended up in this position, with a chatterbox glued to his side too lazy to do any of the coursework, he wouldnā€™t have a concise answer. Other than his inability to say no.
The problem is that James knows exactly who to befriend. Mark is naturally drawn to the overachievers in each class and carefully selects his group for projects, going by people who do put the time and work in to get a good grade ā€“ anything where students are meant to collaborate is 30% actual work and 70% politics. The right people tend to listen to him whenever he knows better, because theyā€™re interested in improving and learning, they tend to go along with his division of tasks, because he distributes them fairly and suited to everyoneā€™s skills, and they tend to work best independently, so they can get it done even without excessive communication.
And James? He follows the same strategy as Mark, except that heā€™s a leech. He latches onto the teacherā€™s pets, chooses the easiest tasks, always volunteers for presentations (meaning heā€™ll just have to regurgitate what his group produced), and bribes his groupmates so they donā€™t throw him out. Whether itā€™s snacks or drinks after class, whether itā€™s attention and compliments, or playing matchmaker: he knows how to make himself useful in all aspects other than his studies.
Heā€™s a clown. He makes everyone laugh and worms his way into their hearts so they would feel bad about calling him out. Not having to do any work is his reward for asking questions everyoneā€™s thinking but doesnā€™t dare ask for fear of looking stupid in front of the prof.
Obviously, James has latched onto him ever since they crossed paths in chem last semester, and Mark considered dropping the current class when he found out that he was in it as well. Even worse, James began asking him for homework, giving excuses like having had no time, not being able to write it down concisely, and so on ā€“ and though Mark initially refused, classmates approached him and gently nudged him towards sharing his results with James. Just to be nice. Just to help him. Heā€™s such a good guy after all.
So Markā€™s homework gets copied and passed along. And Jamesā€™ fondness of him only grows.
During the long, meaningless rant interspersed with an impressive amount of curse words, he perks up at a quiet: ā€œWait, this one doesnā€™t make any sense.ā€
His pride wonā€™t let him ignore it. ā€œWhich one?ā€
James points at one of Markā€™s answers, a complicated equation. ā€œShouldnā€™t that be on top?ā€
ā€œThe denominator?ā€
An uncertain glance. He points again. ā€œThis.ā€
ā€œYou mean the bottom fraction? Thatā€™s the denominator, yes. And it is where it should be.ā€
James frowns, indubitably not content with the reply but possibly unsure how to voice his dissatisfaction.
ā€œTrust me, itā€™s correct. Just copy it.ā€
ā€œBut I want to understand it.ā€
Fat chance. No way did he get any of the previous homework without having engaged with the subject matter at all, so itā€™s impossible for him to work it out, even if Mark explained it. Which he doesnā€™t want to. Because he figures itā€™d be like explaining string theory to a brick wall. Heā€™s saved by the profā€™s entry, knowing James at least has the decency to shut up during class, and hopes he can simply slip away afterwards.
It turns out, however, James is fully aware of his biggest weakness. ā€œDo you have a bit of time after? You think you can explain it to me? Please?ā€
Yikes.
Not only is Mark burning to show him how wrong he is, heā€™s also entirely unable to refuse a plea for help. And thereā€™s no doubt James knows this. He canā€™t keep getting away with it, heā€™s exploiting Mark enough as it is without offering much ā€“ if anything ā€“ in return, plus itā€™s obvious the endeavour is futile and doomed from the start. And this is disregarding the possibility of James suggesting more meetings in the future. So, like the reasonable adult he is, Mark replies: ā€œSure.ā€
And has never wanted to kick himself more.
.
If this bloke really is the only employee they have, itā€™s no wonder the place is dead yet again. They stare at each other, unblinking, and seem equally dismayed about each otherā€™s presence. ā€œHiā€, says Mark after a few seconds of tense silence.
The old man is wearing the same clothes as last time, apron and jeans ā€“ even his disinterested expression hasnā€™t changed. ā€œIā€™m Samā€, he offers completely out of the blue, surprising Mark with how unexpected the introduction is. ā€œI figured you shouldnā€™t have to keep calling me ā€˜this blokeā€™ in your head.ā€
ā€œā€¦ Markā€, he responds hesitantly.
ā€œIs that a threat?ā€ Sam barks out a brief, mirthless laugh. ā€œI know. You wrote it on your loyalty card.ā€
He most certainly did not, but only because the card is solid black with white text. ā€œLook, Iā€™m just here to buy coffee.ā€
ā€œYou brought a friend.ā€ Sam indicates James who already sat down by a window and is absorbed in his phone for the time being ā€“ and for all his faults, Mark has to admit that at least his (limited) attention is always on the person heā€™s talking to; heā€™s never seen his fellow student even checking for messages during a conversation.
ā€œNot reallyā€, he says nonetheless and is reasonably sure theyā€™re out of earshot. ā€œWe just have chem together.ā€
ā€œYou have chemistry, hm?ā€
He wonders if itā€™s possible to set someone on fire with a hard look alone. ā€œJust sell me the bloody coffee.ā€
ā€œFor the both of you?ā€ Sam turns around and studies the clock on the wall behind him, whispering to himself for a few seconds before announcing: ā€œThatā€™ll be roughly Ā£15.84.ā€
ā€œFine.ā€ He holds out a card, scowling when Sam makes no move to take it.
ā€œNo complaint?ā€
ā€œIs it gonna be cheaper if I do? Besides, heā€™s paying. So I donā€™t care.ā€
ā€œOh. Then itā€™ll be Ā£22.43.ā€
ā€œWhy is it -ā€ As quickly as his annoyance spikes, it ebbs again. Itā€™s obvious thereā€™s no logic behind all this nonsense, yet he still tries: ā€œIf itā€™s cheaper for me, Iā€™ll pay and get the money back from him.ā€
ā€œThatā€™s illegal. Youā€™ve already told me heā€™s paying.ā€
ā€œIā€™m not trying to buy liquor, why would it -ā€ Deep breaths. He already told James about how good the coffee is, and if they go anywhere else, someone else might see them. Heā€™s strongly incentivised to stay. ā€œFine. Here.ā€
Sam runs the card and, as last time, pours two very unimpressive mugs before, to Markā€™s horror, reaching into the display case and pulling out two slices of cakes on their own respective plates. The chocolate one is drooping and threatening to fall over if anyone looked at it wrong, and the sponge cake seems suspiciously wet. Thereā€™s no telling how long theyā€™ve been sitting there. ā€œItā€™s on the houseā€, Sam says, almost begrudgingly, as if he was the inconvenienced one.
Mark considers asking for forks or napkins but decides that the shorter their interaction, the healthier his sanity. ā€œTa, mate. Do you need my loyalty card?ā€
ā€œNo need.ā€
Fair enough, though heā€™s not sure what the point of it is, then. He carries the coffees and cakes over in two trips and wonders how heā€™ll get rid of the sickly-looking bakeware without Sam noticing. When James eventually tries his piece and doesnā€™t keel over immediately though, Mark gives his own a try.
Itā€™s the best chocolate cake heā€™s ever had. And heā€™s never been madder in his life.
.
~*~
.
At some point, it turns into stubbornness. Thereā€™s a few mannerisms, the odd hobby and some of his preferences which started out as either ironic, as guilty pleasures or as things he actively disliked, but the more he engaged, the more he developed the attitude of: you know what? This is mine and I donā€™t care what anyone says about it.
Heā€™s starting to adopt Leo Coffee. The awkward vibe about it, the indecipherable employee, the delicious food and drinks ā€“ it holds its own charm in a way, and heā€™s stopped wondering about being the only patron. Itā€™s perfect for studying or unwinding, and does wonders for his stressed soul. Heā€™s been returning regularly now, about once a week, and even brought James with him a second time to argue about yet another homework he criticised. The atmosphere renders Mark calmer, more patient, and so he endured the other manā€™s presence for much longer than he wouldā€™ve thought possible. They stayed for almost three hours the first time, even longer the second.
Just to make sure heā€™s not being a nuisance, he tried to check the coffee shopā€™s opening hours and wasnā€™t even sure what he expected to find. Theyā€™re listed nowhere, of course, and Sam switched topics the instant he brought it up.
So now the only people he has to drag in here are his friends, who have somehow evaded his efforts so far ā€“ but not today. Timur and Julien promised to come even though Manu has to go to some recital or other, meaning sheā€™s excused. For now.
Eyes idly following pedestrians outside, heā€™s resting his chin in his palm and waiting. Being the only punctual one has always meant boredom, so heā€™s lucky his mind is imaginative enough to keep him occupied in the meantime. His train of thought meanders through all the topics occupying his brain recently, how the new guy Julien is seeing is basically moving into their apartment, how Timur keeps hanging around the wrong crowd, how unfair it is that Manu aces all her courses with so little effort, how he happened to run into James during his break today and almost suggested spending it together -
His phone buzzes, interrupting his aimless daydreaming and prompting him to check the colourful screen.
I got ambushed, writes Julien and itā€™s unclear whether heā€™s being cryptic on purpose. Mark sends a question mark and has to wait a minute or two for the explanation: Sudden date night, looks like Netflix & chill boys ;) sry for ditching you but the shop isnā€™t gonna go anywhere right?
An eye roll later, Mark responds with a simple TMI.
I donā€™t think Iā€™ll make it either, adds Timur, a friend wants to yarn bomb the stature by City Hall and they need me as lookout.
This one gets points for creativity at least. He sighs and reassures them with a quick sure, no problem before commending himself for not going home first to drop his bag off. Now he can just study instead. Woohoo.
Another brief vibration, this notification from a completely different group chat, one Mark apparently forgot to leave once the project was done: @Mark: are there carrots in carrot cake?
The number is translated to ā€˜GirthControlā€™, so thereā€™s just one person this could be. He stares at his screen. Is that a trick question? Yes, he feels confident enough to affirm to James.
Ah okay. Thanks babe.
This is when it occurs to him: Wait, why did you only ask me?
Silence. Whatever quest James is currently on, it apparently required Markā€™s input and Markā€™s input only.
He canā€™t help but laugh at the absurdity and suddenly feels a lot less abandoned. In the grand scheme of things, it doesnā€™t matter whether his friends donā€™t rank him at the top of their priority list as long as heā€™s on it somewhere. And knowing that heā€™s left a lasting impression on James beyond being the lad who supplies him with homework is oddly reassuring.
When he approaches the counter, Sam once again materialising out of nowhere (at least thatā€™s what it feels like ā€“ heā€™s always there when Mark needs him and never at any other time), heā€™s decided to not get weirded out by anything today. ā€œA coffeeā€, he orders confidently and inspects the haphazardly thrown together bagels featured prominently in the infamous display case. ā€œAnd a bagel.ā€ He doesnā€™t bother specifying, Sam will choose for him anyway.
After peering at the digital alarm clock on the counter, Sam announces the approximate value of the aforementioned items and then squints at him. ā€œWerenā€™t you going to meet with somebody?ā€
Mark half-shrugs. ā€œKinda. Theyā€™re busy though.ā€
ā€œMind if I join you?ā€ He must notice Markā€™s surprise because he adds: ā€œItā€™s your ninth time here. Would be a shame if we didnā€™t get to talk before youā€™ve filled up your loyalty card, donā€™t you think?ā€
ā€œAlrightā€, he agrees and waits until Sam has poured himself a mug as well before they sit down at Markā€™s usual table ā€“ tucked away in a corner but close enough to the windows to be able to do people-watching if his eyes need a rest from staring at textbooks or screens all day long. Itā€™s the first time he examines the man opposite him more closely: the distinguished features, greying beard, wild mane of hair. He looks tooā€¦ important to be working in a coffee shop, like he was destined for greatness. Mark canā€™t picture him angry even if he exudes a bitter, cynical aura which heā€™s likely to hide behind sarcasm.
ā€œHow did you end up here?ā€, he wants to know, genuinely curious.
ā€œGood question.ā€ Sam takes a few sips of his excellent coffee as he ponders how to reply. ā€œItā€™s a temporary thing, thatā€™s for sure.ā€ He leaves it at that. ā€œWhat do you study?ā€
Mark eyes the disorganised heap of books keeping his bagel company and sighs. ā€œAt this point, I donā€™t even know anymore.ā€
ā€œSounds fun.ā€
ā€œIt isā€, he emphasises. ā€œI love studying.ā€
ā€œWhereā€™s the problem then?ā€
There is none, he wants to say yet his mouth refuses to comply. He stares into the dark liquid, running his thumb over even porcelain and then decides to sod it ā€“ he asked, right? And somehow, itā€™s always easier to unload on a complete stranger. ā€œI feel like itā€™s all Iā€™m doing.ā€
ā€œYou keep others at a distance on purpose.ā€ He nods, even though it wasnā€™t a question. ā€œSo donā€™t be surprised if they do the same.ā€
ā€œIā€™m not.ā€ The warmth seeps into his palms as he wraps his hands around the mug, providing as much comfort as Samā€™s gentle tone. ā€œI just want it to be different.ā€
ā€œMake an effort. Itā€™s never to late to change. Iā€™m sure your friends will appreciate it. Put some trust in them, theyā€™re your friends for a reason.ā€ He nods again, lost in thought. ā€œHave you figured out what youā€™re going to wish for next time?ā€
He scoffs, amused. There isnā€™t a single thing he can imagine himself wanting from the old man before him, so heā€™s unlikely to wish for anything at all. ā€œNo. Not yet.ā€
ā€œWell, think about it. I believe in you, son.ā€ With that, Sam downs the last of his own coffee and gets up, ready to walk back behind the counter and only stops when Mark calls his name.
ā€œIs there someone you care about?ā€
Itā€™s the first time he sees Sam smile. ā€œYes. There were two, but I lost one ā€“ so I keep the other one twice as close without trying to be suffocating. Itā€™s hard. But remember, Mark, itā€™s never too late to tell the people in your life how you really feel.ā€ And then heā€™s gone, disappeared into the back, leaving behind a faint nostalgia tinted with hope.
Thereā€™s no challenge from which Mark has shied away in his life, and this one isnā€™t going to be his first.
.
~*~
.
The word fuck on his lips, Mark bursts into the cafĆ© like a panicked chicken. Heā€™s juggling two bags and his phone, his frantic typing only interrupted by the need to breathe now and then, and nearly drops it when he slams his book bag to the ground at the counter. ā€œSorry, one secā€, he addresses an unimpressed-looking Sam as he dials a number and curses once more when itā€™s not immediately picked up. ā€œCan I get a coffee to go?ā€, he asks, out of breath, as the dial tone beeps in his ear.
ā€œI donā€™t serve people who are on the phoneā€, Sam replies, as calm as ever.
Mark mentally increases the number of people whoā€™d be dead if his looks could kill by one. ā€œThis is the worst thing to ever happen to meā€, he says gravely and hangs up after thirty seconds have passed. ā€œIā€™m gonna fail this class.ā€
ā€œAn event without precedence, I assume?ā€
ā€œYou have no bloody idea. But yes, a coffee please, I need to go back to the library and get an entire semesterā€™s worth of material because Iā€™m too fucking dumb to read a syllabus correctly. This has never happened to me, I have one day to write this assignment and Iā€™m lacking so much -ā€
ā€œCan you give me the time?ā€, Sam interrupts him nonchalantly and stares at the screen of Markā€™s phone as he holds it up for him to read. ā€œThanks. Letā€™s say Ā£2.63.ā€
ā€œAnd I canā€™t study at home because Timur has his friends over, and Manu is in a panic herself, and I know the library is going to be overrun by people who treat the study rooms like their social media accounts by loudly oversharing all the time, and I have no idea how Iā€™m supposed to do this. Maybe Iā€™ll just accept fate and fail. No clue how Iā€™m gonna tell my parents.ā€
ā€œYour loyalty card.ā€
Distracted, Mark fishes it out of his wallet and puts it on the counter. ā€œAnd the other people in chem arenā€™t answering or are no help at all, I donā€™t get it, Iā€™ve done group projects with them and still they donā€™t have the courtesy to help me out in this. It was a genuine mistake, as stupid as it is, and Iā€™m just -ā€
ā€œYou need to write it down.ā€
Heā€™s briefly interrupted in his rant to frown at the black paper card. ā€œWrite what?ā€
ā€œYour wish.ā€
ā€œBut you wonā€™t be able to read it. I only have black or blue pens.ā€
ā€œDoesnā€™t matter. Write it down.ā€
With an irritated sigh, Mark takes out a pen and thinks for a second, the majority of his attention elsewhere still. Eventually, he scribbles someone who cares, not that itā€™d be legible in any way, and hands it to Sam. ā€œThatā€™s it? Iā€™m not sure this reward system is going to pay off in the long term, you know.ā€
Sam holds the card up to the light as if he was inspecting a bank note and nods, apparently satisfied. ā€œYouā€™re all set. Good luck.ā€
ā€œTa, Iā€™m gonna need it.ā€ Mark shoves all his belongings in various pockets, hoping heā€™ll remember where he put them, and grabs the to-go cup. And then, without so much as a goodbye, he storms back out, steeling himself for an all-nighter certain to mess up sleep schedule for days, if not weeks.
He ascribes it to his flustered state that he doesnā€™t look up as he exits the coffee shop, and promptly runs into someone, collides with what feels like a solid wall. His coffee gets squished and sloshes over, soaking the front of his clothes ā€“ fortunately, itā€™s not hot at all, more like lukewarm which is odd in and of itself. He swears again, yanking his phone out of his pocket before it gets wet also and itā€™s only due to another hand grabbing the device that it doesnā€™t plummet to the ground straightaway.
ā€œOh bollocks, Iā€™m so sorryā€, says the wall he ran into which turns out to be none other than James. Of all people. ā€œAre you alright? Is it hot?ā€
ā€œNo, no, Iā€™m fineā€, Mark presses through clenched teeth, the stress slowly overwhelming him. ā€œBut now I have to go home and change before I can start on this stupid fucking -ā€
ā€œBabe. Calm down. Whatā€™s wrong?ā€
He takes a deep breath and ignores the quickly cooling wet patches on his clothes for the moment. ā€œI still have to do the report. I didnā€™t realise we were meant to -ā€
ā€œOh, you havenā€™t done it? At all?ā€
ā€œNo! No, I didnā€™t, and everyone else is partnered up so I canā€™t just join someone else, so Iā€™ll have to -ā€
ā€œIā€™m not paired up.ā€
ā€œSure, once Iā€™m done Iā€™ll put your name on there, whatever, but that doesnā€™t -ā€
ā€œBabe. Mark. Listen to me.ā€ James waves in front of his face with a slight grin. ā€œI did it. Itā€™s almost done. Iā€™ll put down that we did it together and youā€™re good.ā€
He stares at James, mouth open, for several unflattering seconds. ā€œWait ā€“ youā€¦ how?ā€
ā€œI can show you, but itā€™s at my place. My roommate is around your height, he can lend you some clothes. Letā€™s go.ā€
And yet again, Mark finds himself unable to refuse. He drinks whatā€™s left of his coffee in one go (and it really is tepid, he mustā€™ve gotten really lucky), tosses the cup in the nearest bin and leaves Leo Coffee behind without a single glance back.
.
Jamesā€™ flat looks exactly like Mark wouldā€™ve imagined it, only louder. Double bass and epic vocals are permeating every room, and all available horizontal surfaces are littered with stuff. The walls are plastered with posters, some funny, some pretty, some morbid, and it reeks of weed.
A small part of Mark feels right at home, oddly enough.
ā€œTurn the fucking music down!ā€, James yells at the top of his lungs, throwing him an apologetic look, clearly uncomfortable with the state of it all and ignorant as to Markā€™s growing amusement.
Somewhere, a door opens and the shrill guitars become clearer. ā€œWhot?ā€, someone replies just as loudly.
ā€œExactly!ā€, is Jamesā€™ deafening reply, and a few seconds later, the melodies decrease to a reasonable level. Another bloke joins them, tall and well-built with an unkempt beard and a band shirt as well as no socks.
ā€œWhoā€™s that? Is he allowed to be here?ā€, asks Jamesā€™ roommate and regards Mark with suspicion.
ā€œThat was Sabaton, wasnā€™t it?ā€, Mark inquires back. ā€œPrimo Victoria?ā€
The dudeā€™s entire face lights up like a Christmas tree. ā€œOh, a connoisseur. He can stay, James, I like him already.ā€
And while the two of them exchange more words, Mark goes exploring. He ends up in what must be Jamesā€™ room which is covered in paper, be it books or hand-written notes, and most of it seems related to chemistry in some way. Curious, Mark looks around until he finds a spiral-bound notepad titled with the name of the course theyā€™re sharing this semester. Contrary to his expectations, itā€™s far from empty ā€“ not only does it contain copious lecture notes, it also features every assignment theyā€™d been given since the start of the course.
Solved differently from Markā€™s own answers.
Confused, he checks more closely and finds a recurring pattern: equations that are struck-through, calculations lacking several steps in between which wouldnā€™t be accepted by the prof this way, and very little text. It looks like the writings of someone who certainly understands the material but simply has a hard time putting his thoughts in order, putting his ideas into neat writing.
Heā€™s been immersed for several minutes when James finally joins him, and when he does, Mark holds up his notes and greets him with a simple: ā€œWhat the fuck?ā€
James doesnā€™t seem to realise where Markā€™s problem lies and shrugs. ā€œYeah, Iā€™m a hopeless case, I know.ā€
ā€œNo. No, youā€™re really not. This is ā€“ look here, if you just shift this around, you end up with the correct result. Youā€™re like 95% of the way there, you just didnā€™t finish it.ā€
ā€œOh.ā€ James blinks at him. ā€œI guess. Itā€™s kinda like that with the report. I was hoping you could help me write the conclusion, Iā€™ve got the rest, but -ā€
ā€œSure. Yes.ā€ Markā€™s agreeableness seems to astonish his host. ā€œThatā€™ll take an hour, maybe two. And I wonā€™t have to pull an all-nighter. James, you have no idea how much you saved me.ā€
And James, bless his soul, is blushing. ā€œWell. No problem. I owe you anyway. Right?ā€ He suddenly remembers heā€™s holding spare clothing and vaguely gestures in Markā€™s direction. ā€œYou, uh, you can change in the bathroom. Donā€™t mind the cat, she just loves staring at naked people. Dom found out the hard way.ā€
Twenty minutes later, Mark is reading through Jamesā€™ report with a ball of fur purring on his lap, faint metal playing in the background. Thereā€™s a lot of grammar and spelling to be fixed, as well as phrasing, but content-wise, itā€™s near flawless. Heā€™s smiling to himself, enjoying the way James turns almost bashful whenever he compliments his work, and remembers Samā€™s words from the second-to-last time he visited the cafĆ©: itā€™s never too late.
Heā€™s definitely treating James to dinner after heā€™s saved his arse like this.
.
The next time Mark passes by that familiar spot, the next time Mark develops a craving for caffeine and some peace and quiet, the next time he plans to go to Leo Coffee, all he finds is the same coffee shop which has been here for years already, the afternoon crowd populating the tables and several diligent employees taking care of the customers.
Somehow, Mark isnā€™t the least bit surprised.
39 notes Ā· View notes
marshmallow-phd Ā· 4 years ago
Text
Nine Little Letters
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Genre: College AU, Fake Dating AU, To All the Boys Iā€™ve Loved Before AU
Inspired By: This graphic made by @rcse-tvlerā€‹
Pairing: EXO x Reader
Summary: Just when you thought life was done shoving you down, it got much, much worse. After finding out that your latest crush was already in a relationship, you did what you always did when emotions ran high: you wrote a letter. Signed and sealed, you put it away with the eight other letters youā€™d written to past one-sided loves, never to be seen again. That is, until a mix up accidentally sends those letters out to their respective recipients and you find yourself in the middle of one confusing web of love. With fake relationships, insecurities, and revelations swirling around, things are bound to get a little messy.
Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5Ā I 6Ā I 7Ā I 8Ā I 9Ā I 10Ā I 11
**
You were walking on eggshells. Every time you turned around, you were sure you would be confronted by another past crush. The muscles in your neck were aching from constantly looking over your shoulder. The corner of your eye was haunted by cute boys ready to confront you on your deepest thoughts. For a whole day, you were able to avoid any of them. It was a nice Thursday. Then Friday came.Ā 
If you were to list the boys in an order of most to least wanting to evade, Junmyeon would be at the very top. Hence, you avoided the math building. Easy enough, you thought, since you only had one class there about twice a week. You made sure to get to Thursdayā€™s class with only a minute or two to spare so you would have the excuse that you needed to hurry, then you hightailed it out of there to your next class. But your focus had been a little too honed in. While you were taking extra precautions to avoid your former tutor, you forgot to make good escape plans for the others.Ā 
ā€œHey, (y/n).ā€
You squeezed your eyes tight as you heard the seat across from you at the library table scrape across the thin, frayed carpet.Ā 
ā€œI guess you know why Iā€™m here then,ā€ Jongdae said empathetically.Ā 
Slowly, you opened your eyes. Jongdaeā€™s hands were folded on the tableā€™s surface and the slightest crooked smile sat in the corner of his mouth. His hair was wet, either from a recent swim or a shower. The black strands were curled against his forehead. Smiling, he ran a hand through his hair, tiny little droplets splattering against the blonde wooden table top.Ā 
ā€œIā€™m really sorry,ā€ you mumbled, unable to hold eye contact for long.Ā 
Jongdae laughed. But it wasnā€™t an ā€œat-youā€ kind of laugh. That was nice, at least. ā€œI donā€™t know why you would be sorry. It was flattering. It's nice to be looked at as a hero, even though I didnā€™t really do anything.ā€
ā€œHigh school brain tends to over exaggerate things.ā€
ā€œI get that. I actually just wanted to say thank you and that it was sweet.ā€
ā€œYou werenā€™t supposed to see that.ā€ Your go-to response these days. Like when the doctor hit your knee, it was reflex. ā€œI left a pile of private letters out and my mom mailed them on accident. Itā€™s like having your diary read into a microphone in front of an audience.ā€
Jongdae nodded. ā€œI had a feeling. After the first few sentences, I figured I shouldnā€™t have gotten it, but I couldnā€™t stop reading. Itā€™s been a while since someone confessed to me. Few years, actually.ā€
Your jaw dropped. ā€œWhat? No. I canā€™t believe that.ā€
ā€œItā€™s true, unfortunately.ā€
ā€œWell, Iā€™m sure youā€™ll get another confession in the future.ā€
ā€œHopefully.ā€ He looked around aimlessly before coming back to you. ā€œWell, Iā€™ll see you around. It was good to see you. Again.ā€
ā€œYou, too.ā€
You breathed deeply as soon as he was gone. Okay. That one went well. Three out of four were good odds. You were hoping to get out of this with at least a ā€œBā€. If Yixing ever wrote back you could simplyā€¦ not open the letter. And if you avoided the others, youā€™d be in the clear. Yeah, this wasnā€™t so bad. You were still alive, at least, and with your true identity intact.Ā 
You felt a little lighter as you went home. Funny how it could feel like the world was falling apart but the sun still shined and the breeze still blew. As you dropped your bag on your bed, you got a text.Ā 
Get online.Ā 
Oh crap. Youā€™d forgotten about Sehun. He knew you didnā€™t like talking on the phone, but you could talk to him over the headset. Donā€™t ask what the difference was, not even your irrational mind could come up with a reason. Sitting down in your chair, you turned on your console and connected to the internet.Ā 
ā€œThere you are.ā€
ā€œIā€™m not in the mood to play today.ā€
ā€œThat's fine. You donā€™t have to play.ā€ He killed your character as it stood around aimlessly as if to make a point.
You rolled your eyes even though he couldnā€™t see it. ā€œYou are such a jerk.ā€
ā€œThatā€™s not what you said in the letter.ā€Ā 
ā€œAnd there it is!ā€ You couldnā€™t hold back the whimper echoing through the headset microphone. ā€œI should have never done that. Writing love letters like Iā€™m an Edwardian heroineā€¦ Because Iā€™m not, obviously. But I donā€™t even know what I am instead.ā€Ā 
ā€œSad, lonely, pathetic?ā€ There was a pause. ā€œYes, I said that out loud.ā€Ā 
You sat there, completely abashed. ā€œOkay, I take back everything I said in that letter. You are such a jerk. I must have been hallucinating back then.ā€Ā Ā 
ā€œDonā€™t get so touchy,ā€ Sehun said. ā€œI thought about it once, too. Thatā€™s why Iā€™d let you win every once in a while.ā€Ā 
ā€œReally?ā€ Well, that was a first. None of the others had mentioned possibly liking you back.Ā 
ā€œYeah, but then I thought about it some more. I like being your friend and didnā€™t want to experiment with that.ā€Ā 
And then you deflated like a bouncy castle. ā€œI donā€™t know whether to feel flattered or insulted.ā€Ā 
ā€œHow about neither and I just send you the letter back?ā€Ā 
Okay. A compromise you could live with. And having that letter back would give you a small piece of mind. ā€œI think I like that better.ā€ The doorbell rang like a savior. ā€œI got to go. But thanks for not making this a big deal.ā€
ā€œNot a problem.ā€
You logged off and headed downstairs. Your mother, who you hadnā€™t realized was home, answered the door. You stayed on the staircase, out of sight but within earshot.Ā 
ā€œUm, hi. Is (y/n) home?ā€
Your eyes widened and you nearly choked on the air in your throat. Chanyeol?
ā€œI think so. (y/n)!ā€
Nope, nope, nope. You ran. Quietly. Like a mouse scurrying away before it could be seen by the resident cat. You went through the kitchen to the sliding glass door, opening it slowly so it didnā€™t make too much noise. Once through, you closed it behind you, barely hearing your mother call out for you again.Ā 
ā€œFunny. I thought I heard her come home.ā€
Now what?
Your brain looked to the fence that separated your yard from your neighborā€™s. That was your option. Keeping an eye on the back door, you climbed over the wooden fence, dropping down on the grass. You sat there figuring five minutes or so would be enough time for him to leave. Eyes closed, you leaned your head back against the wooden barrier. Apparently, you werenā€™t as brave as you thought you were. Even with the easy confrontations, you still ran like a coward the first chance you got.Ā 
ā€œWhat are you doing?ā€
Your eyes snapped open. Crap. Youā€™d momentarily forgotten who your neighbor was. ā€œSorry!ā€
Kyungsoo huffed from the porch. He leaned on the railing, forearms exposed from his rolled up sleeves. He was frowning at you again, but this time it didnā€™t seem to be from a place of annoyance as much as confusion. ā€œYou say that a lot.ā€
ā€œI know,ā€ you agreed. ā€œIā€™m sorry.ā€ You flinched. Nice one.Ā 
A few seconds went by before he came down the porch steps. He crouched down in front of you. ā€œIf this is about the letterā€¦.ā€
ā€œIt's not! Well, not about your letter.ā€
ā€œYou sent out more than one?ā€ You nodded. He smirked. ā€œWell, that makes me feel a little better.ā€
It made him feel better? Like your letter had made himā€¦ upset? He didnā€™t seem to be worried about you at all when he gave it back. ā€œIā€™m just waiting for him to leave,ā€ you explained. ā€œIā€™ll get out of your hair soon.ā€
The expected response was that he would simply shrug and leave you alone. But instead he sat down across you, knees up with his elbows resting on them. It was odd. Even before he and Yeonhee broke up, he didnā€™t have one on one conversations with you like this. ā€œWhy did you write the letter?ā€
You blinked. ā€œExcuse me?ā€
ā€œWhy did you bother writing it if I was dating Yeonhee?ā€
ā€œIā€¦.ā€ You threw your hands up as if you could suddenly catch the answer. ā€œItā€™s how I work out my feelings. When I found out the two of you were dating, I wasā€¦ confused, scrambled. Some people journal to figure things out, Iā€¦ write a letter. A letter that was never meant to go out in the first place. All it was supposed to do was help me work through my thoughts, help me understand my feelings when theyā€™re too strong for me to grasp.ā€
ā€œIf you felt that way about me, why didn't you say anything before Yeonhee?ā€
ā€œI think it goes without saying that I'm not good at verbally expressing my feelings,ā€ you stated flatly. ā€œBesides, I thought I had time. You know, to figure out what it was I was actually feeling. I didnā€™t realize why I enjoyed seeing you until it was too late. I never suspected that the two of you liked each other.ā€
ā€œReally?ā€
ā€œI'm kind of oblivious to things like that.ā€
A short laugh. ā€œThatā€™s true.ā€
You heard a car door shut and then an engine roar to life before fading away. Part of you didnā€™t want to leave, but being here, alone with Kyungsoo and talking to him like this, was dangerous. ā€œI think the coast is clear.ā€ You stood up and Kyungsoo followed through. ā€œThanks for, um, letting me hide out here.ā€
ā€œSure.ā€
You turned to the fence, examining how you could get back over.
ā€œ(y/n)?ā€
"Yeah?ā€
ā€œYou could just go this way." Kyungsoo opened the gate that led to the front yard.
ā€œRight. Probably the better idea.ā€ Once out of the backyard, you looked at Kyungsoo. Your heart was beating hard in your chest. ā€œHave a goodnight.ā€
ā€œYou, too.ā€
Back inside, you didnā€™t bother to be quiet or sneaky. Your mother was sitting at the table, papers spread out all over the surface in an order that only she could understand.Ā 
ā€œHi, sweetie!ā€ she greeted. ā€œA classmate stopped by for you. Chanyeol, I think?ā€
ā€œOh, okay. Iā€™ll give him a call.ā€ An absolute lie, butā€¦ whatever. You headed up the stairs and grabbed your bag. You needed to get away for a few hours.
**
The ice rink was your mindful place. Well, your second mindful place, that is. The first was the library. Whenever you needed to not think for a while, you went there to find a new book to lose yourself in. Whenever you did need to work through your less extreme thoughts, you came here, to the rink. The cold made you hyper aware of your surrenders and of yourself. Your feet did all the work while your mind was free to problem solve. Given the time of day, there werenā€™t too many people here. Good. That meant the ice wouldnā€™t be too crowded. Only a few divots and scratches decorated the white surface. You zipped up your jacket and started lacing up your boot.Ā 
ā€œI wouldnā€™t really have suspected you to come to a place like this.ā€
Your head snapped up.Ā 
Leaning up against the railing that separated the bleachers from the walkway around the rink, Kim Minseok smiled up at you.
Captain of the soccer team, he was a bit of a hero around the university. A handful of last-minute wins were taken because of him. How many championships had he led the team to? You wouldnā€™t necessarily say that people at school fawned over him as he walked the halls. It was too large a campus for that. Not to mention, he wasnā€™t extremely tall and there were certainly others that could be considered more handsome. There were, however, several large posters around the stadium and halls that featured the team, Minseok front and center. An image that didnā€™t fit what you saw. He mostly wore clothes that said he could have just left the gym or be on his way there. His laid back attitude on his elevated status was part of what led him to being letter number seven.Ā 
The thing about that letter was the fact that there was no one incident that led to your need to write it. He was always simplyā€¦ nice to you. He knew your name from a shared history class your first year of college. In passing, if he saw you, heā€™d wave before going back to whatever conversation heā€™d been having before. You werenā€™t quite invisible to him, but you certainly rotated on the very outskirts of his vision.Ā 
ā€œWhy do you say that?ā€ you asked as you straightened up.Ā 
He shrugged, hands still hanging lazily over the rail. ā€œYou never seemed like the athletic type.ā€
ā€œI didnā€™t realize that people had to look a certain type to ice skate.ā€
ā€œHey, I didnā€™t mean anything by it.ā€ Climbing over the rail with a smoothness that was inhuman, he ran up the steps and took a seat next to you. You stared at him with confusion. ā€œDonā€™t be like that. We both know why Iā€™m here.ā€
ā€œHow did you even know I was here?ā€
ā€œYour mom told me.ā€
Traitor. ā€œIā€™m getting real sick and tired of being confronted by this. I never should have left those stupid letters out.ā€ You never should have written them in the first place. You wished you could go back to your younger self and warn her. Hopefully, she would take your advice.Ā 
ā€œIā€™m not surprised that Iā€™m not the only one who came to talk to you. Although, Iā€™ll admit, when your mom mentioned the fact that I was the second guy to show up at your house today, my ego took a little hit.ā€
You gave him an unimpressed side-eye. ā€œI think youā€™ll survive.ā€
ā€œSo, which one do you actually like?ā€ he asked suddenly.Ā 
You blinked at him. ā€œWhat?ā€Ā 
ā€œJongdae explained everything to me. He said you mentioned a pile of letters so I figured it was more than just me and him.ā€
ā€œJongdae told you everything?ā€ Why would he do that?
ā€œYeah. Heā€™s my best friend so we donā€™t really keep secrets. Although, I didnā€™t tell him that I was a little jealous that he got a letter for pulling you out of a pool. Much more romantic than mine was.ā€
Groaning in frustration, you dropped your face into your hands in a pathetic attempt to hide. It was either that or wack this boy who was showing a new side of himself to you with the rubber cover of your skate. You figured the latter option would be a bad example for the small kids running around.Ā 
Minseok patted your back. ā€œHey, it's okay. Donā€™t be so embarrassed. I am still curious, though. Of all the people you sent letters out to, who do you actually like?ā€Ā 
ā€œNo one.ā€ You werenā€™t going to spill your guts to Kim Minseok. You had Baekhyun for that. Soccer star had no business knowing your heartache over your neighbor.Ā 
ā€œNo one? Interesting.ā€Ā 
You lifted your head to look at him with narrowed eyes. ā€œWhat do you mean interesting?ā€
ā€œWell, that was kind of the answer I was hoping for. Sort of.ā€
This was not how you pictured this conversation going. You figured it would be like the rest. A simple ā€œthank you but no thank youā€ had been the typical response. None of the others cared if you liked the other recipients. ā€œWhy is that?ā€Ā 
ā€œI have a proposal.ā€
ā€œOh-kayā€¦.ā€
Minseok turned towards you. ā€œHear me out. So, I was seeing this girl, Libby. But we broke up. Well, I broke up with her.. And now sheā€™s seeing someone else.ā€
ā€œSo, you suddenly want her again?ā€ Typical. Why did couples always try to make the other one jealous? It sounded like a teen drama you wanted to steer clear from.Ā 
ā€œNo. The opposite. Sheā€™s only dating this guy to try and make me jealous. Sheā€™s always flaunting him in front of me, as if that would actually work.ā€
Okayā€¦. Now you were even more confused. ā€œI donā€™t see how I come into play.ā€
Minseok cringed. ā€œDonā€™t freak out, okay?ā€
Oh, no. ā€œI make no promises.ā€
ā€œShe knows that you had a crush on me.ā€
ā€œWHAT!ā€ Oh, you were dead. So dead. Cause: humiliation. Perhaps you could walk around the campus with a disguise on? Surely the security guards wouldnā€™t mind. There was always the witness protection option. Now it seemed even more appropriate. ā€œShe knows about the letters?ā€
ā€œNo, not about the letters,ā€ he reassured you with a hand on your thigh. You quickly shoved it away. ā€œSorry. No, she just overheard Jongdae and I talking about the liking me part. Still made her mad because she thought I might like you back. So I started thinking, if she thinks that Iā€™ve moved on, eventually sheā€™ll leave me alone.ā€ He looked at you like all of that should have made sense.
ā€œI still donā€™t get it.ā€
He sighed. ā€œIā€™m asking you to be my fake girlfriend.ā€
The snort could not be contained. ā€œWhat are we? In high school? Tell her to back off! Or avoid her. You donā€™t have to make up a relationship to be a grownup about this.ā€
ā€œI have. It hasnā€™t worked. Please? It would only be for a short time.ā€
You mulled the offer over in your head. It didnā€™t sound too bad. On paper, that is. Putting on a show that you were someoneā€™s girlfriend shouldnā€™t be hard. And, maybe it would help you forget about your troubles. Butā€¦ you didnā€™t want your first relationship to be fake.Ā 
ā€œNo,ā€ you answered. ā€œIā€™m not interested. Sorry.ā€
That was not the answer he was expecting. ā€œCome on. If word gets out that weā€™re dating, then the other guys you wrote letters to might back off.ā€
ā€œIā€™ve already talked to most of them,ā€ you said. ā€œItā€™s not that big of a deal.ā€ Lie. But he didnā€™t need to know that. ā€œGood luck with your ex.ā€Ā 
You went to stand on your skates, reaching out in front to hold on to the railing. Your mind, however, was in a hundred different places, which set your balance off. You wobbled and nearly fell back onto the bench. Minseok caught you before that could happen, saving your butt a world of hurt. He chuckled as he helped you regain your balance.Ā 
ā€œIf you change your mind, you know where to find me.ā€ He sent you a wink and left you leaning against the railing. You scoffed to yourself as you watched him walk towards the exit.Ā 
Staying where you were, you tried to wrap your head around Minseokā€™s proposal. How he could have even come to that kind of solution to his own problem was beyond you. What sense did that make? You shook your head and carefully stepped onto the floor. You needed this time now more than ever. Men were so confusing.
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bxllafanficc Ā· 4 years ago
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Ā”Skate/sing your hearts out! (Yuri Plizetsky x reader)
(Part three)
Part one. Part two. Part four part five Masterlist
Summary: After last year's cancellation of Figure Skating Grand Prix, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself unable to bring out his inner skater after a year of doing nothing but enjoy life like a regular teenager. That's when you enter the picture; We Are Voice Grand Awards's currently hottest competitive vocalist come first place two years in a row. Just like the other competitors of Grand Prix, it turns out that Victor and Yuuri faces the same issue. With an arrangement between Victor and Yakov, they agree to travel to Japan and hire you as a mutual coach for Yuri and Yuuri to help bring back the emotion into their performances like before, maybe even more intense than ever. Yuri however, who's never experienced issues with his coaches before, for some reason finds this one particularly difficult to coexist along with in their (reasonably) odd partnership. Warnings: mentions of minor injury, tsundere Yuri
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*Yuri's POV*
"Do it again. This time slow down and think every turn through before you start over."
It's worse than he anticipated. How many practices did he cancel exactly? The sweat is pooling at the base of his hairline and he can feel a nerve in his pinky twitch uncontrollably after using his hand to save him from a particularly bad fall after attempting a rushed series of jumps ending in a loop. The all too pleasant sound of the blades of his skates cutting up fresh ice from the surface is mixed with grunts of frustration and rapid panting. His mind tells him to repeat repeat repeat from the start if he gets something wrong. Repeat until he gets it right and then move on.
Yakov is visibly in a bad mood after seeing how much training they had to get done before moving to his sessions with (Y/n). That means hiring her longer than expected and that's something both him and Yakov wants to avoid. Not because they don't have the money, but because she'll be wandering around without a purpose in Japan, waiting for Yuri to get back in shape.
Another fall. Yuri attempts to use his other hand for support and spring on his feet again but the balance fails him since it's the wrong hand and the inner edge of his right skate bends outwards. He stumble for a second but gets right onto repeating the combination. Deadset to move on as fast as possible.
He knew that Yakov said they would be starting tomorrow morning with his time at the rink. Though,Ā  Yuri had a feeling he would need all the extra time he could get.
(Y/n). The aftermath of his first meeting with the all too famous singer started kicking in. All he could do was thinking about it. His harsh behavior and the disappointment in her response. 'Your voice isn't that special'. Why did he say that when she's literally gold winner of the hottest contest in current time? Even worse, why did he say that when until today he had been following her journey through We Are Voice with a great interest? He especially remember the shock of entire Russian population when she chose to compete with 'Scream' by Sergey Lazarev. That song got sent as Russia's participating song in Eurovision Song Contest. The music contest arranged by the European countries each year. Even though it only came in 3rd place that year it certainly felt like we had won with such a legendary cover. Her presence glowing on stage like that with one of the prides of Russia certainly exploded all over the internet.
But now? It felt too surreal to stand in the same room as the (y/n) (l/n) from that performance. Like he shouldn't know stuff like what shampoo she uses or her off-camera personality. It was almost too intimate in a way and Yuri wasn't sure that he wanted to get to know her. And certainly not as his coach. That just felt like some sense of mockery to him. 'Hey, let's pic the girl who won gold for her intense stage-presence because Yuri is that sucky on feeling stuff.' Was the stuff people surely would be saying about him as soon as media got hold on the news. No, not that he cared about what other's said. It was partly true.
Each jump more rushed than the other, his ears tuned out the sound of Yakov's irritated voice at the end of the rink. The only sound he heard was the sound of his skates clashing and his own breath. Somewhere a door opened and he heard quiet voices at the entrance.
Great. An audience. He decided to stop with the combination for one moment and went with a basic camel spin, slowly fading into an upright spin, hoping into a salchow. The intention was to gain some of his dignity back before he would have to go back falling on his face again. But when the rotation of the salchow was off, anger burned up inside him. Now he was determined to get the jump right followed by the combined spins.
"Yuri, you still have to..." Yakov said to him somewhere to his left but he didn't hear much of it. Or was it right? No, behind him. Where was he located again? Doesn't matter, just keep moving.
Where are the walls of the rink? No, just do it.
It's just camel, upright and salcho-
*smack*
A heavy impact to his head and startled gasps somewhere. He was on the ground now, clutching his forehead in his hand. After one look of the object causing the impact he groaned and stood up in a haze. That damned wall. Was he really that caught up in his thoughts that he didn't realize his balance was completely off even before the finishing jump?
He looked around on the people inside the room. Yakov with his furrowed brows and a girl and a man running into a lounge. That must be the piglet's friends. And beside Yakov a few turns away-
(Y/n). Of course she had to see that. After her stern words at dinner time, Yuri had no intention of causing a further scolding from her. Yakov he could handle but her, just ridiculous.
The old man flailed his arms for a motion for Yuri to continue practicing.
"Don't stop now! You haven't gotten it right yet!"
R-right, he stopped moving and ended up staring at the people around him. Even if he didn't get to catch his breath, he still was too far behind to call it a day now. 'This time I'll have to get it right.' He thought and proceeded to finish the camel/upright spin and then-
Yes! He landed on the outer edge with his right foot like expected and took a little skip to finish it off more aesthetically pleasing.
He tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears as he went back to the previous combination. But once again the loop faltered and the muscles in his hand hissed underneath the ice as he held himself upright.
"Hey, Yuri! You go take a breather, don't ya? And come here while you do."
It was (Y/n) who rested her arms against the edge of the rink. But a confused cough from Yakov made him hesitate and he stood still, waiting for the two of them to decide for him. He should probably keep going-
"But he just got it right!"
"I can tell when someone's on the verge of collapsing. It's very clear that he won't get anything done if you keep it at this rate. Hell, he might even get seriously injured if his limbs don't follow instructions, Yakov. At least grant him a break." The smile (Y/n) gave the man was a sign to say 'no hard feelings' but the tone of her voice said otherwise. After a moment of silence he nodded and waved at Yuri to get off the ice towards (Y/n). But Yuri didn't really want to be alone with her so he went to the opposite side of where she was waiting for him. He earned a questioning look from her but just waved it off with his own hand.
His fingers were cold and stale. It was hard getting a good grip on the shoelaces and getting the blades in its sheathing. He grunted and leaned back against his seat, the skates still on his feet and his hands turned to fists.
"I know you don't need my help." The boy gazes up at the girl beside him. His new coach looks down at him from where he's sitting and takes a seat beside him. A first aid kit and a blanket rests in her lap.
He sits up properly and turns his head away from her, continuing to untie his skates.
"You're right, I don't."
"You're very consistent. I personally think you did a grea-"
"Why are you here anyway? Aren't you supposed to meet your fans or something?" Yuri knew it was risky to cut your coach off mid-sentence but the words came anyway. Besides, is she really a coach if she has zero experience how to teach others? She's just playing like Victor did two years ago and kept doing so. Even if she's no coach, her (h/c) eyes still feels like they are piercing his soul and there no way to shield himself from her. He feels like an open book for her to abuse so... Maybe she's just good at reading emotions and not actually teaching them. How does one teach emotions? What will she be doing exactly?
"That ended hours ago. You weren't at Hot Springs when I returned so Victor figured you'd be here."
Stupid Victor. Couldn't he tell that Yuri didn't want her near?
(Y/n) opened up the first aid kit and Yuri eyed it carefully. She handed him the blanket with an extended arm but he just swatted it away. It fell on the floor and she stared at it blankly. Then she bent forwards and picked it back up, forcefully wrapping it around the skater burrito style.
"Wha- stop it!" He pouted and shot daggers at her once again. This time, he only earned a grin of satisfaction from her as she took a cotton pad and drenched it in hydrogen peroxide.
"You earned a pretty nasty wound when you headbanged the wall, you know." He knew. Blood was dripping into his left eye and made his vision turn red. He started thrashing and trying to eel his way away from her. That caused her to take a steady grip of both of his cheeks and hold him still. The look she gave him said 'don't you dare move again' and she put the drenched cotton against his forehead. Sharp pain exploded from the wound and he hissed. When the pad was removed, a wet tissue swept up the blood on his cheek and on his eyelid. The touch was cool against his hot skin. Some of his vision turned back and he released a small sigh of relief. Lastly a bandaid was put over the wound. He saw (Y/n) judging her work carefully and then she nodded to herself.
He jolted slightly when he felt her grab his hand with careful manners. Her hands spread is fingers cautiously and he felt her thumb swipe over his still twitching pinky.
"You feel this, right? Does it hurt badly?" Her voice was soft like a breeze and it startled him slightly. A moment ago she was rough and stern and now she's soft and tender? And for the record, yes. Yes he does feel that. And he doesn't even want to begin to think of how soft her hands are-
"No... It's nothing." He lied. But what else what he supposed to say anyway. His hand was swollen but he can't skate with a bandage. But depending on the unimpressed look she gave him, he knew she wasn't buying any of his bullshit.
"Then how come your face looks like that when I touch this spot?" She spoke and applied the slightest of pressure in between the joints of his knuckles. He let out a forced 'owowow' at the action and yanked his hand out of her grip.
"Fine! But you don't have to hurt me further then!"
"Then only one hurting you here, is yourself."
She picked up the rolled bandage and grabbed his hand once again. He took a moment to linger his attention on what she said. How is he hurting himself? He's just doing what needs to be done!
Yakov returned to the two of them and stood slightly off to the side. Yuri saw the dismay in his eyes when he saw the bandage (Y/n) held.
"Kid, we're done for today. Take the rest of the day to gain back your energy for tomorrow's practice."
Yuri nodded and kept watching (Y/n) wrap the bandage. Meanwhile, he couldn't help but catch the mild scent of peach and wild berries. But there was something else. Probably (f/c) (favorite scent) and it smelled fantastic for some reason.
"You know, you should probably get settled into your room immediately when we return." (Y/n) spoke up and flashed Yuri a smile.
"I'll help you." She continued but he shook his head.
"No, that won't be necessary!"
"Oh right, there is one more thing I forgot to mention earlier." Yakov leaned against the walls of the rink as (Y/n) finished wrapping Yuri's hand with the bandage. It felt better with the comforting pressure onto his swollen hand. Jokes aside, maybe he could actually find something to enjoy at his stay here.
"Hot Springs and the hotels in Japan are currently all occupied. You will be staying in (Y/n)'s room thought your stay, as roommates."
...
Nevermind, scratch that thought.
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siancore Ā· 4 years ago
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My Captain America Part 1 - {Dark!Sam Wilson x Female Reader}
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Rating: Explicit
Summary: Everyone said it, whispered it in hushed tones when they thought he was not listening: Sam Wilson was a changed man. You could not know either way how drastically, having just met the new Captain America, but you were about to find out in the most deviously delightful way.
Words:Ā 3,006
Tags: @scotchandwhiteliesā€‹ @lesbians-love-samwilsonā€‹ @thatdamndonjulioā€‹Ā 
Content: Dubcon; language; unprotected sex; rough sex; masturbation; power play; light bondage; blink and youā€™ll miss it military kink.
Samuel Thomas Wilson. Captain America. He is a real hero and you donā€™t need to be told twice. The news outlets have been singing his praises around the clock; your social media timeline has been focused on him almost perpetually since he took up the mantle. He is a hero and you need no further convincing. After all, he did save you.
He is sitting next to you at the conference room table and flashing his blinding smile at the journalist who is just about to finish the interview with you both. It was all very professional and straightforward: They asked questions about the night you were abducted and then saved by Captain America. You talk about how you felt scared. About how you felt helpless. You answer as best you can, but he does most of the talking. The journalist is more interested in what he has to say, anyway.
You just sit there, wringing your hands together nervously and trying to keep yourself calm. He notices your anxiousness during the last part of the questioning, and places a firm, steady hand to you shaking leg. You freeze and cease the bouncing of your knee. Your skin burns as he snakes his palm a little higher until it finds its way under the hem of your skirt. Youā€™re shocked by the gesture, but heā€™s Captain America and he saved you, if he wants to touch you, then who are you to say he canā€™t?
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Everyone said it, whispered it in hushed tones when they thought he was not listening: Sam Wilson had changed. He had come back different. At first, he was quiet and sullen. That was understandable. No one really knows what happened to the people who had disappeared during the Blip. No one knows if they were dead or suspended or being constantly tortured. It was not something you were very comfortable in asking people you had known well, so there was no way in hell you were going to ask Captain America about it. About his experiences while he was gone.
You didnā€™t really know what to say to him in the first place, and after everyone had left the two of you alone, you were excited but still slightly nervous. The media coverage did not do him justice. He was even more gorgeous up close and in the flesh. You remember that time you did an internet search for ā€˜Sam Wilson before he was an Avengerā€™ and seeing him in his USAF uniform did something for you. You remember fingering yourself in the dark as Sam Wilsonā€™s face lit up your phone screen.
Youā€™ve got yourself a little crush, but that is all it is: A crush. A crush that has you nervous all day. Yet, there is something there between the two of you. A subtle tension that has you hyper aware of his proximity. It has you noticing how he leans in close to you; how he takes liberties with touching you. How it feels as if the slight tension is indeed sexual. How his scent makes you want to moan out loud; how his voice has set a steady throbbing between your legs; how you swear it looks as if he has an erection straining against his pants.
Maybe youā€™re projecting. Maybe your attraction to the man, the celebrity, the hero is clouding your judgement. Maybe he is just being nice and you are the one whose body is responding in ways it shouldnā€™t. You should be respectful, not stealing glances at his crotch whenever you can and trying to picture what heā€™s working with.
He is always respectful in the presence of others, but there is something behind his eyes. People who knew him would often remark that the warmth that used to be there is gone. Yet it isnā€™t that his gaze is now cold, but quite the opposite: It looks like flames are burning behind the pretty brown irises framed by long lashes. You canā€™t deny he is an attractive man.Ā You know you are lucky that he came to your rescue; you know you are lucky to be with him now in the small conference room.
After he is done bidding the journalist and cameraperson goodbye, he locks the door and turns to cast his gaze at you.
ā€œYou did well,ā€ he says, his voice is smooth and rich; that throbbing grows stronger and you feel as if you just might melt.
He presses a button on the wall and the blinds of the large windows close automatically.
ā€œThank you,ā€ you offer in a coy manner.
The first time he looks directly into your eyes, you feel as if your knees are about to give out. When he trails his gaze over your form and smiles at you, you swear youā€™ve ruined your panties.
ā€œThat was kind of exciting,ā€ you say you with a smile.
ā€œDid you like the attention?ā€
He says it and then offers you a crooked grin before licking his lip.
ā€œNah, I mean, Iā€™m not the hero here. Itā€™s all you. You deserve all the attention and thanks.ā€
ā€œHmm,ā€ he replies, as he makes his way over to the small couch and sits down. ā€œYou done thanking me for saving you?ā€
ā€œI donā€™t think Iā€™ll ever be done.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re that grateful, uh?ā€
ā€œYes, Sir.ā€
He smirks and then says, ā€œWell, why donā€™t you come over here and show me just how grateful you are?ā€
ā€œWhat do you mean?ā€ you ask, and you sound kind of naĆÆve to your own ears.
Sam rubs himself through the fabric of his pants while keeping his eyes on you. Your heart almost ceases beating in your chest.
ā€œYou always play dumb, eh?ā€
ā€œIā€™m, I donā€™t ā€“ Iā€™m not play anything,ā€ you stammer as your gaze dips to where he keeps rubbing at his growing erection. Your heart threatens to jump from your chest. Is this really happening? It canā€™t be. Sam Wilson would never do this, would he?
ā€œAre you acting shy or are you really this naĆÆve?ā€
ā€œI donā€™t know. I just. Iā€™m just. I mean, damn. Youā€™re touching yourself, Cap.ā€
ā€œNo shit,ā€ he says with a laugh. ā€œYou know what I want, donā€™t you? You know what I need as a thank you for saving you, donā€™t you?ā€
ā€œYes. I mean, I think so.ā€
ā€œWell, give it to me, pretty girl,ā€ he says while holding your gaze. ā€œGive me what I want.ā€
ā€œI ā€” Iā€™m not sure I should ā€”ā€
ā€œYou should. You fuckinā€™ owe me. I saved your life. The least you could do is play with my dick for a little while.ā€
He undoes his zipper and draws his pants down slightly. Soon, he reaches inside of his boxers. Ā You watch as he frees his hardness and it springs forward, standing firm and defiant. He runs his hand up and down his length while you stand there with your mouth agape salivating at the sight of his big, hard dick. It is long and thick, a shade darker than the rest of him, with a smooth, pink tip.Ā Itā€™s almost as pretty as he is.
He jerks himself slowly as you take in the display before you. You are frozen in place, but you canā€™t take your eyes off of him. Captain America unashamedly stroking his cock. He thumbs his slit and spreads the wetness over his tip, causing it to glisten before working his hand up and down his shaft once more.Ā 
ā€œYouā€™re grateful that I saved you?ā€ he asks again, his voice is deep with arousal.
ā€œYes, Sir,ā€ you reply, your eyes darting from his hooded gaze to where heā€™s strumming his impossibly hard cock.
ā€œWhy donā€™t you come over here and show your Captain how grateful you are?ā€
You hesitate a moment before willing yourself to move toward him. He smiles at you and leans back as he thrusts his hips upwards and pumps into his own hand.
You can see the precum dripping from his crown. You lick your lips instinctively.
ā€œWhy donā€™t you come a little closer, pretty baby.ā€
You move forward until you are standing right in front of him. He glances up a you while he continues to work his hand over his shaft. He places his free hand firmly to your bare thigh. You donā€™t stop him. How could you? Heā€™s Captain America. He saved you. You need to repay him. He should get to have you however he likes, shouldnā€™t he?
ā€œYou see how hard this dick is for you?ā€
ā€œYes.ā€
ā€œYes what?ā€
ā€œYes, Sir.ā€
ā€œHow does it make you feel knowing Captain Americaā€™s dick is so hard for you?ā€
ā€œI feel good.ā€
ā€œWhere?ā€
ā€œAll over?ā€
ā€œIf that pussy wet?ā€
His words cause a shiver to snake through you.
ā€œYes, Sir.ā€
ā€œHow wet?ā€
ā€œIf ā€“ if I didnā€™t have panties on it would be running down my legs, Cap.ā€
ā€œFuck,ā€ he moans as he strums his dick harder. ā€œShow me, baby.ā€
You bite your lip and then slowly lift the hem of your skirt.
ā€œTurn around,ā€ he orders, and you do so. You feel both of his hands on your hips a moment. Soon, one is snaking between your legs and the other is running up your spine.
ā€œPut your hands behind your back,ā€ he commands, and you do so; you feel his strong grip on your wrists as his large hands easily engulf you.
He then pushes you forward while holding you by the arms and using his free hand to part your thighs.
ā€œSpread those legs and let me see,ā€ he says while manhandling you into position.
He holds you in place as his eyes fall to where you soaked through your panties.
ā€œHmmm,ā€ Sam says as he runs a finger over the wet spot; the light brushing causes you to quake. ā€œYouā€™re drenched for me, arenā€™t you sweetie?ā€
He doesnā€™t wait for an answer before he slips his fingers inside of your sodden underwear. He doesnā€™t slide his fingers inside of your pulsing center, but rubs the knuckles over the length of your slit. Then, without warning, he tries to rip your underwear from your body. It doesnā€™t come away completely. The fabric leaves a mark against your skin, but you donā€™t have time to concern yourself with that because Sam is on his feet and as you pressed against the conference table in the blink of an eye.
He still has both of your hands behind your back as he uses his knee to part your legs again.
ā€œDonā€™t move,ā€ he warns as he lets go of where he is holding you. You feel him tear your ruined panties roughly from your body; soon he is using the damaged garment to tie your wrists behind your back. You try to lift your upper body from off of the cold, hard table, but Sam pushes you down once more.
ā€œI wanted to fuck you when I first saw you,ā€ he admits. ā€œWith your hair all messy and your face all dirty. You looked so helpless and all I wanted to do was get this dick inside you. Fuck you until you werenā€™t scared of those men who abducted you. Shit, thereā€™re scarier men out there than them, men like me. Did they fuck you while you were there?ā€
ā€œNo. No one touched me.ā€
He rubs his smooth crown over your pussy and says, ā€œYou sound disappointed, pretty girl. Is that what you like? Bad men touching you? Fucking you? Did you want them to?ā€
ā€œNo.ā€
He inches the tip of his cock between your swollen lips and your breath hitches.
ā€œWhy not?ā€ he asks as he pushes you down onto the table harder.
ā€œI knew you were coming,ā€ you say breathlessly.
He laughs. Captain America has you bent over a boardroom table with the head of his dick inside of you, and he laughs. You feel like your skin is on fire.
ā€œYou think Iā€™m a good guy? You think Iā€™m not like them?ā€
ā€œYouā€™re ā€“ shit,ā€ he inches inside of you a little more. ā€œYouā€™re better than them.ā€
ā€œAm I really?ā€ he asks as he slides his hardness into your tightness. ā€œYou think Iā€™m a good guy?ā€
ā€œHmm.ā€
Another laugh escapes his lips as he grabs your hair and turns your head so youā€™re looking back at him.
ā€œWould a good guy do this?ā€
He drives his cock into you without warning; you let out a high-pitched whimper. He withdraws it just enough so that the head is still between your folds.
ā€œWould a good guy have you bent over a table ready to fuck your sweet little cunt?ā€
You let out a moan at his words before answering with a weak but heady, ā€œNo.ā€
He lets go of your hair and you close your eyes. You canā€™t see Sam smiling as he rams his dick into you once again. He lets out an obscene moan when he finally bottoms out. You find yourself holding your breath as you squirm a little to accommodate his size. He withdraws his length slowly, before ramming himself back inside.
ā€œFuck, you feel good,ā€ he all but cries as he tightens his grip on your wrists and begins to thrust. He sets a steady rhythm as she pumps into you quickly, hurriedly. He is chasing his release and you have the vague feeling that he is going to want to find it as fast as he can. If the way he is fucking you in a frenzied manner is any indication, youā€™ll both be a quivering mess sooner than later.
Never in your wildest imaginings would you have thought Captain America would be cursing filthy words as he takes you from behind. The discomfort from the angle at which he has you bent is washed away by the sheer pleasure of his skilful dick impaling you. He fucks you without restraint. He fucks you fervently and brutally. He continues to fuck you even when your traitorous little pussy comes too soon all over his dick. He fucks you through your orgasm, watching as his veiny cock is glistening wet from your juices. He fucks you until your gushing pussy starts to cream all over his shaft. He fucks you until your pulsing pussy clenches around him and draws out his climax; he fucks you until he pulls out and comes on your ass.
ā€œFuck,ā€ he manages, as he collapses on top of you.
Your entire body is shaking. You fight to catch your breath as you feel another orgasm threatening to ripple through you.
ā€œOh god,ā€ you murmur. ā€œOh my god.ā€
Sam pushes you down as he lifts himself up. After a moment of trying to find some composure, he undoes your binds. He uses the destroyed garment to clean his dick before he tosses the torn panties at you and says, ā€œHere, wipe that mess between your legs and on your ass. Thereā€™s a bathroom just through that door.ā€
You straighten yourself and stand with much difficultly. You try to walk, but your legs are weak. He notices and smirks at you. You straighten your clothing and go to clean yourself up, glancing back at him before you exit the room. When you return, Sam Wilson is already gone, and a young man is there looking slightly awkward.
ā€œHey,ā€ he says as you try to walk properly.
ā€œHi, umm ā€“ā€
ā€œYeah, so heā€™s gone to his next appointment,ā€ the man proffers, anticipating what you were going to ask.
ā€œOkay, can I leave?ā€
ā€œOf course. Just need you to sign this,ā€ he says while holding out a tablet with some kind of document on the screen.
ā€œWhat is it?ā€
ā€œNon-disclosure agreement,ā€ he says in a matter-of-fact way. ā€œJust to say that you wonā€™t talk about whatever happened here today between you and Mr Wilson.ā€
ā€œOh, I ā€“ah ā€“ā€
ā€œYou donā€™t need to explain to me,ā€ he says, almost sympathetically. ā€œJust sign at the bottom and donā€™t go talking about anything with the media or your friends and family.ā€
ā€œOkay,ā€ you say as you skim the document quickly and then scribble your name at the bottom, wondering if youā€™ll ever get to see Captain America again.
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A day later, you watch the interview on your phone. You cringe a little when you are on the screen, but find yourself mesmerized by Sam Wilson just like you were when you met him. You think about what it felt like to have him inside of you; you recall the filthy things he said to you. You shift on your bed as your body responds to the memories while you watch him. You wonder about him. You wonder if he was always like that. You wonder if heā€™s doing the same thing to some other girl he saved, and you canā€™t help the little pang of jealousy that swirls in the pit of your stomach. You continue to watch the interview, fixating on Sam.
You notice something and have to go back a few seconds. You replay it a couple of times as you feel a throbbing between your legs. Itā€™s the part of the interview thatā€™s not focused on Sam, but on you. It is the exact moment something changes behind his eyes; where the brown turns fiery: It is when you tell the interviewer how helpless you felt.
Thatā€™s when you realize itā€™s what turned him on, knowing how helpless you were while being held captive by those bad men. As you slip your hand into your shorts and dip your fingers between your slick lips, you admit to yourself it turns you on, too. As you trail your juices up to your clit and begin to massage it, you admit that knowing Sam Wilson wanted to fuck you because you were powerless makes you horny. This new discovery causes you to smile. Who would have thought that it makes you wet, being at the mercy of powerful men? Who would have thought you would come so hard, being at the mercy of Captain America?
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dancing-the-hellfire-rumba Ā· 4 years ago
Text
Seen āœ“ - 4
Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: a bit of angst and confusion. Nothing much, Word Count: 2,222Ā  Series Summary:Ā On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Sorry for delaying this. I realized a mistake about the story and tried to find a way to fix it without having to rewrite the entire story.Time to see how she reacts huh?Ā 
Part 1 - Ā Part 2Ā - Part 3 Masterlist
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Chapter 4: iĀ think sheā€™s keeping ME around
Y/n | Sam
i know it doesnā€™t seem likely but i really can explain.
Oh, you mean how youā€™ve been charged with kidnapping, GRAVE desecration (which, what the FUCK dude) and FIRST DEGREE MURDER THREE FUCKING TIMES?
People say we should be careful, strangers might be murderers or rapists but who wouldā€™ve fucking thought of THIS.
I donā€™t know why Iā€™m even still talking to you.
y/n wait give me five minutes.
ā€œI just canā€™t fucking believe it.ā€ Y/n shakes her head, looking back at her sisterā€™s concerned features. ā€œI meet one guy, one fucking guy, that I like, that I enjoy talking to, and he has the worst criminal record Iā€™ve ever fucking seen. TV shows included.ā€
ā€œWhatā€™d he-ā€œ
ā€œAnd itā€™s not like- Credit card fraud is bad, sure, but armed robbery? What the fuck does grave desecration even fucking mean?!ā€ she throws her hands in the air. ā€œItā€™s not like heā€™s been caught with small theft or something, this- first degree murder? Three times?!ā€ Y/nā€™s eyes well with tears, horrified at the thought sheā€™s been talking to a possibly psychopathic serial killer for the past couple weeks. Fuckā€™s sake, she was dreaming of dating the guy, all the while putting herself down in comparison to him. God.
ā€œWhatā€™d he tell you?ā€
Y/n looks at the multiple messages on her screen, popping up one by one, and reads them out loud.
y/n?
look iā€™ll do my best to explain and hope you havenā€™t blocked me yet.
and if you donā€™t answer iā€™ll take the hint and never contact you again i promise.
the family business i told you about? yeah. my brother and i drive around the States killing monsters.
we hunt things like ghosts (remember our conversation?) vampires werewolves demons ghouls witches just about everything you can think of.
i know how ridiculous this sounds i promise and i wish i didnā€™t have to tell you about this part of my life but i swear to you itā€™s all real.
the reason why i have a mugshot roaming around the internet is because very few people know monsters exist and as you can probably tell hunting them is ugly and awful and it entails digging up graves or killing things that resemble humans.
the cops obviously donā€™t know about any of it they think weā€™re psychopaths much like you probably do.
ā€œHe says he hunts monsters?!ā€ Emilyā€™s eyebrows have skyrocketed half way up her forehead. A scoff. ā€œThatā€™s his excuse?!ā€
ā€œWait.ā€ Y/nā€™s eyebrows furrow. The cogs in her brain strain with the effort to make sense of all of this.
ā€œYou canā€™t tell me youā€™re even remotely considering it,ā€ her younger sister states incredulously.
You hunt demons?
oh thank God.
yeah. i do.
What do they look like?
ā€œDude,ā€ Emily slaps her sisterā€™s shoulder. ā€œWhat the fuck-ā€œ
ā€œShut up for a second.ā€
well human mostly? they possess people in the form of black smoke. they have black eyes and leave behind traces of sulfur.
not that iā€™m not ecstatic but why the hell are you still talking to me?
I believe you.
wait you do?
ā€œYou what?!ā€ Emilyā€™s voice grabs Y/nā€™s attention away from her screen. ā€œWhy the hell do you believe him?!ā€
oh shit.
youā€™ve seen one havenā€™t you?
My dad was killed by a demon.
I spent a lot of time with him in his antique shop, and two women with black eyes walked in one day and demanded him give them this old ass necklace that looked priceless. Dad refused because they werenā€™t threatening with weapons or anything. He thought they were fucking around
They threw him on the wall and strangled him without even touching him.
I was hidden behind a back door.
I found sulfur everywhere afterwards. I Googled it.
iā€™m so sorry you had to go through that
both my parents were killed by the same demon.
I guess weā€™re more alike than we thought.
i guess we are.
ā€œDude,ā€ Emily grips Y/nā€™s bicep. ā€œAre you high?!ā€
Y/n shakes her head. ā€œHeā€™s telling the truth, Em.ā€ The younger girlā€™s eyes widen and she shakes her head.
ā€œIā€™m sorry- what?ā€ Y/n sighs. ā€œYouā€™re nuts.ā€
ā€œDonā€™t talk to me like that.ā€
ā€œBut-ā€œ
ā€œYeah, I realize how crazy this all looks like to you, but I swear to you, heā€™s telling the truth, and so am I. If you canā€™t trust him, then please, trust me.ā€ Coffee brown eyes bore into hers and Y/n doesnā€™t drop her stare. She just waits for Emilyā€™s reaction, knowing the girl is simply processing whatā€™s happening.
ā€œSo you mean to tell me the thing with dad is true?ā€ Her shoulder slump. ā€œYouā€™re not fucking around to like, not upset him in case heā€™s a psychopath or something?ā€ Y/nā€™s chest is weighing about twenty pounds more than it is usually. Itā€™s not a memory she enjoys revisiting and when she told the cops exactly what had happened, they told her she was probably in shock and had imagined everything. They chose not to explain the sulfur. ā€œMonsters- theyā€™re real?ā€
ā€œYeah,ā€ Y/n nods. ā€œApparently? I didnā€™t know about the rest of them to be honest.
I know how crazy it sounds. But I was there, when dad died, and I know what I saw.ā€ She knows sheā€™s right. Every time the memory resurfaces, Y/n sees the same thing, knows for a fact the women were standing near the entrance of the shop, across which dad was tossed. The impact from his body, an impact that required superhuman strength, shattered one of his glass displays inside the shop into millions of crystal shards. Y/n tried not to scream while watching her dad glance toward her and turn all shades of blue, eventually falling limp and no longer struggling mid-air.
She knows what she saw. The women never touched her father, yet he was hurled around like a ragdoll and killed effortlessly.
Emily is silent.
ā€œPlease donā€™t think Iā€™m crazy. I have no other reason to believe this kid.ā€ Eyebrows stitched together, pursed pink lips thoughtfully caged between her teeth, Emily breathes out loudly.
ā€œI, uh,ā€ She licks her lips. ā€œIā€™m notā€¦ invalidating your experience,ā€ bless her, Y/n thinks. Bless her for being such a kind, incredible sister. Iā€™m so lucky. She couldā€™ve scoffed and called her crazy. And here she is, even without believing her, reassuring that sheā€™s willing to listen. ā€œBut you have to understand, this is difficult for me to believe.ā€ Words carefully picked and offered. Sheā€™s not shutting the door. Y/n couldnā€™t ask for anything more.
ā€œI do. Understand.ā€ The eldest sister toys with the strings of her sweatpants. ā€œAnd if you want to talk about it, we can.ā€ Emily shuts her eyes.
ā€œI donā€™t really uhā€¦ā€ a hand running through her hair. ā€œI donā€™t really think I can handle that conversation right now.ā€ Y/n nods. ā€œI uhm,ā€ a second of silence. ā€œI trust you though.ā€
ā€œOkay,ā€ she reassures, ā€œThank you.ā€ Her instinct wants to lay a hand on her sisterā€™s knee in comfort, but Emily isnā€™t a particularly affectionate person, so she chooses not to. ā€œDo you want toā€¦ stay here? Keep watching Game of Thrones?ā€ Emily, as if reminded of what they had been doing, looks up at the screen, Jon Snowā€™s screaming face zoomed in and bloody, sitting still on their small laptop. She breathes out.
ā€œYeah okay.ā€
Y/n thinks theyā€™re done talking for tonight. She sits back and lets her sister press play on the episode, then stiffly try to relax back on the couch. Thereā€™s a blanket of awkwardness, another layer of thick tension that lays around them. But then Emily speaks one last time. ā€œAt least John Snowā€™s still hot,ā€ she sighs and Y/n barks out a loud laugh. Yeah. Theyā€™re gonna be alright.
-
so weā€™re okay, right?
The text feels heavy. When the girls restarted watching the episode from where theyā€™d left off, Y/n chose to ignore her phone completely, not allowing the subject to continue at all and giving her sister space from it. But now, under her covers, alone and in absolute silence, Y/n canā€™t seem to ignore it.
Demons? Sure, sheā€™s seen them, sheā€™s had time to digest it. But thereā€™s so much more to it, so many supernatural beings out there, and it feels akin, to discovering a new genre of music; completely overwhelming. Where does she start? Does she even want to know about it? Does she get involved? It feels selfish to idly sit around, being one of the few people that are aware, while people die by this unknown threat.
And what happens with Sam? Are they okay? Why does she so badly want to say yes? A normal person wouldā€™ve run for the hills. Whether or not supernatural beings actually existed, does she really want to get involved with that world? It sounds so dangerous.
She hasnā€™t known Sam for long. Thereā€™s no harm in giving him another chance, right? He doesnā€™t know much about her, so theoretically she can walk away unscathed at any point at all. That thought comforts her enough to reply to him.
Yeah, weā€™re good.
His reply is so fast, and her heart gives a little flutter.
iā€™m really glad.
you didnā€™t reply and i thought you decided iā€™m crazy after all.
not that iā€™d blame you for that iā€™m still surprised youā€™re sticking around.
Yeah. Sorry about that, I had to talk some things through with my sister.
We watched Game of Thrones afterwards, and I turned off my phone.
no no itā€™s okay.
i have a confession to make.
I donā€™t know how many confessions I can handle tonight Sam. Does it have anything to do with the supernatural or any criminal activity at all?
hahah no not even close.
i just wanted to say iā€™m genuinely so glad you chose not to. stop talking to me i mean. right now talking to you has been the happiest part of my life.
Y/n damn near gasps. Her chest feels inflated, butterflies flapping wildly inside her. Stupid sweet talker, heā€™s got her wrapped around his finger.
i just
i forget how everything is falling apart around me when i talk to you.
and now that you know the truth about myā€¦ job i donā€™t have to lie to you either. i can be myself. thatā€™s a welcome change.
I get that.
I can be myself around you too. Youā€™re a bit like
A welcome break from this awful, stupid fast pace my life has. I genuinely need that.
:)
:)
Theyā€™re okay. Right? It feels like it. Her head hurts, but she wants to talk to him more. Pretend everythingā€™s okay, pretend nothingā€™s happened.
So.
Whatcha up to.
research
?
my idiot brother got involved in something.
iā€™m trying to figure it out.
Supernatural something or just something?
supernatural something.
Ah.
Well thank God your daily entertainment is here to save the day.
what a blessing.
Aww, Sam, knew you had the hots for me ;)
donā€™t be so full of yourself Daily Entertainment.
Youā€™re hilarious.
i know.
Some time passes.
Hey, Sam?
yeah?
Tell me more about you?
hang on i need a moment of introspection. a guyā€™s gotta prepare his speech.
Again. Hilarious.
again. i know.
Go on, old man. Stop stalling, I need to hear that speech.
ā€¦
Oh Iā€™m sorry, is Sam Winchester offended?
do you wanna hear the damn speech?
Haha yeah, please, be my guest.
This feels good, familiar. In such a short amount of time, Sam has left a taste in her mouth, and itā€™s honey-like and sweet. Ā This banter reminds her he hasnā€™t changed; itā€™s still the same person sheā€™s been talking to, the same guy.
well iā€™m sam winchester. my pre-law studies failed miserably. i havenā€™t slept in the same bed twice in like a month. currently my life can only be described as a train wreck. oh and i have a brother Dean whom youā€™re painfully aware of and is certainly not trying to stop being a pain in my ass.
am i forgetting anything?
oh yes of course. iā€™m talking to this really sweet girl whoā€™s made my life a little less shitty.
A line has been crossed tonight. Sam feels it and so does she. And it doesnā€™t seem like either are willing to go back. Y/nā€™s nerves are being held taught, breath caught in the back of her throat, and every time he compliments her, she breathes a little shallower.
Damn, she sounds like a catch. Maybe you should keep her around.
i think sheā€™s keeping ME around.
what about you? have you prepared a speech?
No but Iā€™m relatively okay at improv.
oh well iā€™m listening then.
Well Iā€™m Y/n Andrews. My lifeā€™s a different kind of wreck. My job is painfully boring, college is frustrating as all hell, and expensive enough that Iā€™m considering dropping out. And Iā€™m also talking to this guy that travels a lot and has to do really hard and scary things, from what I hear. He also talks very highly of me, which I genuinely donā€™t understand.
y/n, youā€™re amazing you know that?
So you keep telling me
well itā€™s true.
listen Deanā€™s back. i really have to go. sorry
Donā€™t worry, I should catch some sleep anyways.
Weā€™ll talk tomorrow?
of course
Goodnight Sam :)
sleep tight Y/n :)
-
A/n 2: How did you like this chapter? Feedback is important to me, let me know what you think :)
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modern-inheritance Ā· 4 years ago
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Modern Inheritance: Night Terrors, pt. 2
WARNING: While there are no torture flashbacks in this section, Pt. 2 continues to deal with PTSD, as well as some phantom pain and a character who lost a limb in combat. If you are uncomfortable with this, please do not read, as I do not wish to offend anyone. I understand that PTSD and phantom pain are very real issues that many have to deal with, and I have no first hand or even second hand experience with PTSD, only night terrors, and I am getting all my information regarding how someone might react during a PTSD flashback episode, how to help them during one and phantom pain from the internet.
Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.
(Secondary reminder that this is part of my first stories for the current iteration of Modern Inheritance, and Iā€™ve learned a lot since this about war trauma, PTSD and post-war life and difficulties. I tried my best to be respectful and sensitive.)
Part 1 // PART 2
~~~
Glenwing jerked, tearing himself from his waking dreams. He had heard the thunderstorm long before, and had not been bothered by it, but a new sound was echoing through his home. It was uniquely different from the storm outside, and the difference unsettled him.
Beneath the rumble of the thunder and the crash of the lightning he heard a faint ā€˜thudthudthudā€™ from his living area.
ā€œWho the hellā€¦ā€ Concerned, the elf tossed off his sheets and pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxers. After more than seven months of learning how to do simple tasks both with and without his prosthetic, Glen managed to get the pants on only a few seconds slower than he would have with the prosthesis. He deftly pulled on a plain white t-shirt to cover the end of his scar covered shoulder, the prosthetic on its stand beside his bed, and made his way to the front door.
Instead of the louder bangs that he had heard earlier, the only sound emitting from the door now were a series of soft, regular 'thunkā€¦thunkā€¦thunkā€™ noises. He frowned, confused, and peered out the viewer into the night.
It took him a long moment. He first only saw rain and brief flashes of lightning. Then he saw a sword lying in the mud, a shaking hand holding it in a death grip. A new sound, soft and pleading, reached his ears now that he was closer, and with a shock he threw the door open to the raging storm.
Arya tumbled into his home, drenched with rain water from head to toe and clothed in her casual, day-to-day combat gear. There was blood and mud on the side of her face, the red liquid gushing from where she had been repeatedly hitting her head on the door. Besides the cut she looked physically sound to him, so he crouched low to the ground and slipped his remaining arm under both of hers in a cross chest carry and gently pulled her fully inside the house.
Once she was inside Glenwing returned to a crouch and, supporting the womanā€™s weight with his chest, slipped his head under one of her arms as shifted his grip to her opposite side. ā€œHey, can you hear me? Arya?ā€
ā€œLet me dieā€¦.ā€ The womanā€™s head lolled against his shoulder, eyes half open. ā€œIt hurtsā€¦canā€™t do it againā€¦.ā€
ā€œNot going to happen, Cee-Oh. Youā€™re a tough lilā€™ spitfire of a lady, so weā€™re going to stand on three, okay? One, two, three!ā€ Glen heaved them both up, staggering as the added weight on his uninjured side nearly unbalanced him. He managed to get to the couch and fall backwards, wincing as his former commanderā€™s elbow dug into his stomach. ā€œGood job, Ari. Good job.ā€ A flicker passed through Aryaā€™s eyes at the words.
ā€œIt hurtsā€¦ā€ The woman gripped his shirt, appearing a little more aware of her surroundings. ā€œGlenā€¦I canā€™t do thisā€¦.ā€
ā€œTake it easy, Arya. Donā€™t worry, youā€™re not alone. Can I take your jacket off? Youā€™re soaking wet.ā€ Arya shook her head, looking terrified at the very idea. ā€œOkay, thatā€™s okay. Can we at least get you washed up, rinse out that cut on your heā€“ā€
ā€œNO!ā€ The shout came both verbally and mentally, a short spike of terror that left a sizable dent in his mental defenses. Glenwing leapt off the couch and away from his friend as a pistol suddenly appeared between them, torn from the belt slung haphazardly from shoulder to hip. ā€œNo water!ā€ She shouted at him, a mixture of fury and pure fear on her blood streaked face.
Then the gun slipped from her fingers, the color draining from her skin as she wrapped her arms around her middle. ā€œ'Think ā€™m gonna be sick.ā€
Glen carefully moved behind couch and to the kitchen and snatched up the bucket he used for cleaning. He came back around and set it in Aryaā€™s lap, grabbing the pistol and unlatching the belt as he did so. She didnā€™t comment, only slid to the floor and dry heaved into the small bucket, coughing and sputtering as nothing came up.
When she finished, shakily curling into a half ball on her side, Glen sat cross legged next to her on the floor and leaned against the couch. ā€œYou okay?ā€
Arya shook her head. ā€œIt hurts.ā€
ā€œYour stomach?ā€
ā€œBack. Head. Everything.ā€
Glen nodded. Her difficulty speaking and combat ready attire had already clued him in on what was happening, feeling an ache in his chest as he watched her try to fight the flashbacks and phantoms in her head.
ā€œCan I touch your shoulder?ā€ He asked softly. The woman nodded, and when the male elf gently set his remaining hand on her arm she grabbed it and held onto it as if seeking a lifeline back into the present.
They sat like that for a long time, the rain pounding on the roof and the thunder rumbling through the forest.
Arya slowly seemed to relax slightly. Her grip on Glenā€™s hand never released, but she moved closer to him, her upper back lightly brushing the outside of his leg. He took it as a sign that she was feeling a bit more grounded and asked, ā€œCan I heal your head?ā€
ā€œYes.ā€ She mumbled, exhausted and pale. Whatever she had seen and felt had ripped through what little progress in sleep she had made, and it left her cold and shaking. ā€œPlease.ā€
ā€œI might need my kit.ā€ Glen told her softly, squeezing her shoulder. ā€œI need to get up and get it. Will you be okay?ā€
ā€œā€¦Maybe.ā€
ā€œDo you want to hold on to something? Dog tags? A pillow?ā€ The medic smiled as his former CO reached up and dragged one of the small pillows off the couch and released him. With her free hand she clutched at the dog tags around her neck, running her thumb over the raised letters of each. ā€œOkay. Iā€™ll be right back.ā€
Using slow movements Glenwing pushed himself up, grabbing the couch armrest for support. His knees and his lower back popped as he came out of the hunched position, and he rolled his neck as he retrieved his prosthetic from his room. The ruddy orange and white streaked limb locked on with a familiar click and hiss and the medic flexed his metal fingers, touching to tip of each one to his thumb in the now automatic check on the link to his nerves.
Satisfied with his findings, Glen opened his closet and pulled out a dusty backpack similar to the one Arya had in her room. He unlocked it with the thumb scanner and dug out his belt and the attached medkit, then grabbed an armful of towels. He was about to return to the living room, stepping out into the short hall, when the closed door across from his room caught his eye.
'That might actually help.ā€™
A few moments later he was back at the couch, setting his collected items down. ā€œIā€™m back.ā€ Arya nodded a little and Glen sat, patting his leg. The woman scooted closer and rested her head on the offered knee, familiar with the methods heā€™d had for caring for head wounds she or FƤolin would acquire in the field. ā€œIā€™m going to ask you a question that might scare you. Thereā€™s all sorts of debris in this cut. I can rinse it out with cleaning solution or I can clear it with magic.ā€
Glenwing saw the other elfā€™s throat convulse, and for a moment he was afraid she would slip back into her memories or start gagging again. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she gripped her tags in a white knuckled grip as she shook her head. ā€œNoā€¦water. No water.ā€
ā€œClear it with magic, then?ā€
ā€œā€¦Magic.ā€
As Glen gently moved her mud caked hair away from the still trickling wound, his mind reverted back to that of the battlefield medic and bodyguard he had been before that night months ago. The cut wasnā€™t deep, but like all head wounds it had bled profusely. The mud had helped stop the bleeding somewhat as it dried, and with a light touch he gently brushed the larger pieces of dirt away before breaching the flow of magic in his mind and murmuring a spell to remove the debris from the gash. Once it was clear, he set about healing it completely.
ā€œThere.ā€ Glen set his hand on Aryaā€™s arm as the last bit of skin flowed together. ā€œAll healed up.ā€ To his confusion, Arya shook her head. ā€œAre you hurt somewhere else?ā€ She nodded. ā€œTell me.ā€
The woman hugged the pillow closer to her chest and buried her face into it, pulling away from her friend. ā€œBackā€¦Backā€™s open again.ā€
Glenwing felt a tingle shoot down his metal arm. There would be much more blood if the scars on her back had opened. He almost asked ā€™are you sure?ā€™ before he caught himself, one of his own memories giving him pause.
He sat in Rhunƶnā€™s shop, remaining hand clenched at his hip as he screamed at the sky ā€œIt still hurts!ā€ Then the wizened blacksmith had marched out from her forge, interrupted from shaping the plates of his prosthetic, and slapped him across the face hard, shouting for him to unclench his fingers. When he finally did she seized his hand and slapped it on the end of his stump, her rough fingers holding his in place.
ā€œFeel that?ā€ Rhunƶn had snapped. ā€œItā€™s gone! You have no nerves down there anymore. It hurts, I know. But you have to make your brain remember that it is gone.ā€ Glen had shivered and tears streamed down his face as he did as she told him, rubbing the thick pink scars that marked where his shoulder now ended.
And the pain had eased.
If it felt real to her, he had to show her that the past was not lingering in the present.
ā€œAlright. Then we need to take your jacket off.ā€ Arya shivered but still eased herself up from the floor and pulled her arms from the sleeves, shedding the garment by tugging the hem on the back so that it fell from her shoulders.
Just as he had suspected, Glen saw no blood on her shirt as he moved to sit on the couch behind her. The wet olive green fabric was darkened by rainwater but showed no telltale, pitch-black patches where blood would have seeped through.
ā€œArya, Iā€™m going to pull the back of your shirt up, okay?ā€ Glenwing warned her as he brushed her loosened braid over her shoulder. When she gave a shaky nod of approval, he carefully pulled the cloth up until it was midway up her back and held out his hand by her side. ā€œGive me your hand.ā€ When she paused, Glen touched two fingers where he knew the YawĆ« was inked into her skin. ā€œVae hĆ”vr yawĆ«, fyrn-darmthral.ā€
She relaxed, the undeniable truth of his words putting her more at ease, and let him take her hand.
Slowly, gently, Glenwing guided Aryaā€™s hand to the exposed skin of her back. She flinched when her fingers first brushed it, then sucked in a breath when he ran her hand over the first scar, the burns that raked her side. When she didnā€™t react beyond that, he continued, letting her fingertips glide over the healed rents in her skin.
Finally, he touched her palm flat against the center of her lower back. Her fingers felt blindly for open wounds but only found scar tissue. Glenwing released his hold on her hand and let her feel along a nearly inch wide hypertrophic scar that reached to her hip, checking under her own control that what she felt was real.
After a long moment, Arya spoke, her voice no longer strained with pain but slightly disbelieving and oddly awed. ā€œThey never opened.ā€
ā€œThey never opened.ā€ Glenwing confirmed, again abandoning his spot on the couch to sit next to her on the floor. ā€œHow do you feel?ā€
Arya was silent, then she grunted, ā€œSore as all hell.ā€
ā€œThatā€™s expected. You headbutted my door hard enough to make a Kull proud.ā€
ā€œI probably woke up half of TildarĆ­ hall.ā€ The woman groaned and put her face in her hands, mortified, then pulled back with a mildly surprised expression. ā€œIā€™m covered in mud.ā€
Glen couldnā€™t help but grin a little. ā€œYes. Yes, you are. You wouldnā€™t let me clean you up. You, my friend, are in desperate need of a shower.ā€
Arya shuddered from head to toe and her eyes flicked to the window, where rain continued to pour down from the heavens. ā€œI donā€™t want to be near water for a while.ā€ She rubbed her upper arms as goose bumps flared over her damp skin.
ā€œHere.ā€ Glenwing picked up the jacket he had retrieved from the closed room.
His friend accepted it gratefully and pulled it on, then froze. Her pupils first contracted then dilated in a split second, and for a moment Glen feared his action had triggered another attack. Then Arya hugged her sides and tugged the hood over her shoulder, inhaling a scent that Glenwing couldnā€™t detect and smiled slightly.
ā€œThis is FƤolinā€™s, isnā€™t it?ā€ She didnā€™t look at him with any anger or accusation, only a strange relief as if the scent of her lost love had chased away the final demon lingering in her mind.
ā€œYeah.ā€ Glenwing gently grinned back at her. ā€œI figured you could use something familiar.ā€
ā€œThank you, Glen.ā€ They sat together in comfortable silence, the fluffy towels bunched around them on the floor seeped in their body heat. ā€œWhat time is it?ā€
Glen checked the digital readout on his arm. ā€œAh, almost Oh-Four-Hundred.ā€ Arya started to stand, apologizing profusely for waking him up in the middle of the night. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. ā€œHey, hey, stay! Iā€™m not letting you out of my sight for a while. You nearly beat my door in with your head, so I need to watch you for signs of a concussion.ā€ He chuckled. ā€œIā€™ll need your help fixing the dent you put in the paneling when morning comes, too.ā€
Arya paused, considering it. It was still raining, and she didnā€™t want to risk triggering another episode by going out in the deluge. Plus, she very well couldnā€™t go back home until she had washed up, which might be some time in coming as the very thought of even wiping her face with a wet washcloth made her throat tighten. She could change clothes from the go bag she kept in FƤolinā€™s room and just tell IslanzadĆ­ that Glen had called her over early in the morning for another lesson on how to repair his prosthetic. If she even asked.
ā€œOkay, fine. Can I take the couch?ā€ A flicker of confusion flashed across Glenwingā€™s face, and he started to gesture back towards the closed room in the hallway. ā€œI don'tā€¦I donā€™t want to sleep in his bed without him.ā€ Arya murmered, jamming her fists into the pockets of FƤolinā€™s jacket.
Glenā€™s face softened. ā€œYeah. Yeah, I get that. You can take the couch. You know where everything is, right?ā€ She nodded. ā€œOkay. Iā€™ll keep my door open, so if anything happens all you need to do is call me and Iā€™ll be out here in a heartbeat. All set? Okay.ā€ He smiled and stood, patting his former commander on the head while she swatted his arm in good natured retaliation. ā€œGood night, Arya.ā€
ā€œGlen, wait.ā€ He turned to see Arya leaning with her arms folded over the back of the couch. She touched her first two fingers to her lips. ā€œElrun ono, Glenwing-Vor, fyrn-darmthrell.ā€ And she added in the common elvish tongue, ā€œFor everything. You pulled me out of a second hell.ā€
Glenwing bowed with his orange fist twisted on his chest. ā€œOnr astorĆ­, Arya, fyrn-darmthral.ā€ He straightened and moved into his room with a tired wave. ā€œSleep well.ā€
And for the first time in weeks, she did.
Translations
(Most of these are very rough and cobbled together from words that are similar to what I was trying to convey with a few alterations, so it is not exact.)
Vae hĆ”vr yawĆ«, fyrn-darmthralā€“ 'You can trust me, war-sister.ā€™ Literally translates to 'We have a bond of trust, war sister.ā€™
Elrun ono, Glenwing-Vor, fyrn-darmthrellā€“ 'Thank you, Glenwing, war-brother.ā€™ Vor is an honorific for a close male friend
Onr astorĆ­, Arya, fyrn darmthralā€“ 'Youā€™re welcome, Arya, war-sister.ā€™
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shikantazaart Ā· 4 years ago
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Shikantaza Creativity Interview III - SPARTALIEN
At Shikantaza we are not content to just create art. We want to understand art. We want to understand the people who make art. Into the act of creation. Who are the people behind the art work? What motivates them? Where do they find their inspiration?
No two people think and act alike, so it is even less likely to find two artists who think and act alike. Yet, there will be crossovers, shared thoughts and shared experiences. Where do we adjoin and where do we diverge?
Our series of interviews with artists and creators aims to answer these questions.
In interview number three we speak to multimedia experimenter SPARTALIEN. You can find his creations hereĀ https://spartalien.com/visualĀ as well as a collection of his work in the Shikantaza gallery.
1 - Starting with the most important question - Who is Memoria?
Memoria is Latin and means, when translated, memory / remembrance.
I named the merchandise for the album "2358" Memoria instead of Memory, because the main track titles are also translated into Latin.
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I see my merchandise as small memories/artefacts. Not only because they are very rare, but because I can never go back to that time.
ā€œMemory is the treasury and guardian of all thingsā€ - Cicero
2 - You work across different mediums. Do you have any preference for a specific form? When did you first find the format that wasĀ ā€œyouā€?
I became really infected with the digital virus around in the late 90s when I built my first computer. A year or two later I started taking photos and manipulating them digitally. I also had a few printed, which allowed me to bring the digital into the real world. Then I discovered IRC and started learning a little bit of TCL. Since I had fun coding, I decided to learn the basics of web development because I needed a website to show my pictures to other people. In general, I was fascinated by the flow of information on the Internet. That distance is no longer a real hurdle when it comes to data transmission.
I've always loved music as a listener and small collector. I was then and still am one of those people who never go out of the house for long periods of time without a Walkman. Music production came into play when a couple of friends set up a small studio where they produced Techno/Psy. When I was there for the first time, I knew immediately that I wanted to try it too. A few old tracks from back then are still available on my website.
From then on, many of my projects have developed in the direction of music.Ā  The input for a program was often music metadata or it was a website that was about music in some way or another. But since I was still at the very beginning of my learning process, I kept discarding practically everything in order to improve it or to learn new things. Around 2001, I started a web radio with friends, which was online for several years. The music was mainly Downtempo, Trip-Hop, IDM and Ambient. Promos from unknown artists from around the world were also broadcasted.
The atmosphere, the feeling I got from this time - how the music finds me and not the other way around, how it can change people's thoughts - has never left me since then.
3 - Do you feel that each medium allows you to express yourself differently from the others? How do you choose which medium you work in any given moment?
Yes. But I think you can convey the same feelings with any medium. The question is how direct it is. For example, pain can be expressed with fire but also with a chair in an empty room. At the end of the day, in my opinion, it's not about the artist's intention but about the perception of the viewer and his or her subsequent thoughts and actions. For example, imagine you make a dark ambient track that you experience as sad and heavy, but someone else tells you that it helped to relax and develop thoughts.
In addition to all of this, each medium also has advantages and disadvantages when it comes to technical implementation. So, sometimes the choice can also purely depend on skill or resources.
We all have ideas and often out ambitions outweigh our resources. Sometimes we need more resources, but more often than not we need to chip away at our ideas until our ambitions and resources align.
4 - Do you seek different sources of inspiration for your music than you would for your visual creations?
It's everything in the world around me that inspires me. Everything I perceive and feel, so to speak. Most of the time I don't have a melody or a picture in my head. It is more of a feeling and then I look for the right tone or shape for it, so to speak.
5 - How closely are your creations connected to each other?
Very close one could say - through my thoughts that I have wrapped in it. I always had a bit of a problem putting my thoughts into words. I tend to stray through various topics when I talk about something. With music and visuals, it feels lighter and more natural to get to the point. The "message" doesn't always get through, but being able to do so is liberating and invaluable to me.
6 - If you were to direct people to a specific piece of work that you feel really nails what you are aiming for with your creations, which would it be?
This is a hard question.Ā Maybe I would ask you to sit down and listen to the album "FLOATING HIGH" in one sitting. Since it felt like coming home to me while making it. The music is less intrusive and not as precise in its message as the previous releases. Like its cover art, where the clouds could be seen as opening or closing. I wanted to create tracks that leave more room for thought while still telling a story.
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7 - You haveĀ ā€œX minutes of peaceā€ on your site. Why is this needed? Was this made for you or for others?
For others but also for myself. For me it is self-reflection that allows me to understand myself better. But since I have problems with "just switching off my head", the moments in which I just sit quietly and let the recording device do its work are very valuable. In moments like these I can really switch off and think about something very carefully. Asking questions even though I feel like I don't have an answer. Or simply enjoying the precious fresh air and sounds of nature.
Unfortunately, too many people don't have time for that kind of peace. Too much pressure is on them. They either get this or that, or they can't survive. It's so sad how the system works. I simply think that if everyone would have more inner-peace, the world would be a better place. But then again, what do I know living under a rock between mountains?
The videos should allow us to find peace for a few minutes, no matter where we are. So that new and hopefully useful thoughts can develop.
The seriesĀ  Let It All GoĀ is actually the same thing, just with music.
For the really dark hours there is BRAIN I/O. From time to time I prefer to embrace the pressure. Difficult to describe. The concept is basically: don't think, just feel and record it. It's about things that I personally want to leave behind or at least want to learn to accept (not necessarily being okay with) them if I can't change them.
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Peace is an issue for me. When I briefly find it only points the way to the next act. This is fantastic but self defeating. Why canā€™t we just stay in peace?
8 - When inspiration has left the building where do you look to find it?
I'm not really actively looking for inspiration. Somehow it doesn't work that way for me. So variety is important to me. That is why I usually have several side projects going on in the areas that I do not much publicize. Much of it never leaves my hard drive and is mainly intended to free my mind and get on to new ideas in the process. Coding, graphics, drawing, etc. But the music production is and remains the main focus.
9 - These are the questions I am asking all the interviewees. Why do you create? What is it that pushes you to keep creating?
The inner child is just too strong. I've been living for a while and I know exactly nothing. It kind of feels like that. So many things that you can create with the computer alone. I'm stuck in that loop where you just love to create things and learn - and use the new knowledge to create new things. Things!
10 - What would most assist you to create more works? Is there an ultimate goal for your creations?
More time and resources for sure. but most important to me is the feeling that my loved ones are safe. When I have to worry about their future because the system is going the way it is, it feels like a pile of stones in my head.
The creative / social goal of my art is relatively simple and based on my own experience. Art has helped me tremendously when I felt lost - or when I was just "bored". Taking time to really listen to or look at something can be very liberating.
My short-term financial goal is to generate a more or less regular income through art. But since I never released anything commercially before 2016, this world is still new to me.
My dream goal is to hear my music in film and games and to generate an income that supports my family.
Nonetheless, I think goals are here to create an initial path, not necessarily motivation.
I do not know of a single soul who has not been lost. Some never find their way back. Some donā€™t need to find their way back, they are happier in the place they found.
11 - If you were to offer a creator any advice what would it be?
Based on my own experience in no particular order:
Stay curious and open minded for different viewpoints.
Tutorials can limit your creativity. Sure, learn the basics, but explore as much as you can on your own and never be afraid to fail. It's a process, not a game.
On projects that take longer than a day to complete, set yourself a deadline when you want to have it completed. Not important if it takes longer, but in general that helps to stay more focused.
Very few things are easy when you start.
Limitations are not necessarily bad.
Don't wait for motivation to create. It will kick in usually a few minutes after you've started. Therefore keep your tools ready and organized so you can start creating at any time.
You can always turn off the internet.
Be open for constructive criticism.
Especially for the digital crowd, backup your stuff!
(All images and works by SPARTALIEN)
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adl-reborn Ā· 3 years ago
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I just realized I forgot to post this here...
Tales of Metroville: Thought Experiments
Aston hadn't slept in 3 days. He had been researching non-stop to discover the ailment from which his friend, Phoenix, was currently suffering. You see, they both were invited to dinner by the president. In theory they both were to be debriefed about current affairs and of any unusual goings on that the two most powerful known mutants on the planet might be needed for. Aston, however, had no need of it - his clairvoyance had alerted him both to the topics of discussion and of all such events including many not on the agenda. Meanwhile, the normally quite outgoing Phoenix barely ate and didn't speak at all, and when they both returned home he locked himself in the master bedroom to do who knows what.
If ever there was a good time for Aston's comprehensive ability to read peoples' minds, this would be a good one, but it isn't so simple with Phoenix. Try as he might, Aston could never do this with Phoenix. Even after years of trying, Aston could only ever manage to read vague emotional states, but that only told him the obvious. Distracted by this, so too was he unable to clearly see the path ahead. And so his research continued. Depression, Anxiety, MPD, and many others. He read through the DSM5 until he reached the chapter on autism.
At this point he paused as his sleep deprived mind called back to his childhood. His odd behavior as a preteen had prompted a visit to the psychiatrist - a visit which he left with a diagnosis of "Asperger's Syndrome". It was described as a milder form of Autism - one which could lie undetected in many. Needless to say he was familiar with it and had recognized much of himself deep within Phoenix's personality, but ultimately the DSM did not help beyond providing a starting point...
Luckily Aston did not need to look far to find his answers. Where official medical documentation failed actually autistic people filled the void, and crucially the true nature of a meltdown and a new concept - burnout, were introduced to him. Additionally, Aston found himself unable to read many of the individuals presenting their point - a correlation which Aston surmised was due to a radically different mind, but finding that out for sure wouldn't be easy...
The only way Aston knew to read minds of a type he had never read before was through a technique he dubbed a "mental fusion". It's theory of operation was similar in principle to what many Trekkies call a mind meld. This was a technique Aston had only ever done once - by accident, he did this to his father on the day he ran away - a fight had broken out between the two and they had inadvertently fused for but a few seconds. In that time they could feel each other's thoughts as one, and Aston gained a roadmap of the human mind, but Aston was overwhelmed by this and ran off into the forest. It was an ability he had sworn to never use again...but his friend was in danger and he knew it.
Slowly Aston opened the door - inside was Phoenix, sitting in the fetal position rocking to soothe his frayed nerves. He held his legs tight against his belly and did not speak to greet Aston. Where Phoenix once stood a timid child remained. As Aston approached Phoenix turned and looked apprehensively in his direction. Aston could see in Phoenix's eyes that his distress was great. As Aston sat down close to Phoenix he was apprehensive at first, but a calming touch from Aston soothed him enough to stay. They sat like this for a while - Aston holding an obviously distressed Phoenix, but he knew what he must do and that it would be uncomfortable.
Slowly Aston moved his right hand to Phoenix's right temple. Phoenix became agitated for a moment and started shaking his arms but Aston calmed him with the left. Once positioned, he waited for Phoenix to calm down and gently positioned his left hand. With his hands in position a faint blue glow began to appear, glowing brighter with every second. Phoenix let out a yell..."I'm sorry..." Said Aston. They both yelled in unison as their minds became one. In an instant they both found themselves unconscious
One hour later...
Aston awoke but not in reality. His fusion was more complete than he had anticipated - he surmised he must be in a shared dream as they both were extremely exhausted. Aston, being a proficient lucid dreamer realized this straight away, but he knew if he could recognize this that the dream is important in some way. In the distance he hears a cry.
It is Phoenix - crying out for help. Alone in the distance. In this dark void he can see nothing, and conjuring a flashlight nor a vehicle has no effect. He continues to run in the direction of the yelling but to no avail - Phoenix remains out of reach. Aston calls out to Phoenix but there was no response........
2 hours later
Aston awakens once again - this time in the house but in his bedroom. Objects are not in their designated places so here too this is a dream. Aston proceeds to navigate to Phoenix's room. He lies on the bed staring at the ceiling unresponsive. As Aston approaches Phoenix apparates into a standing position and then runs up to Aston crying to which they both share embraces...
2 hours later
The sound of screaming pierces in Aaron's ear once again waking him. Again he is in Phoenix's dream - the same one as the first time. Aston remembered well how he failed to handle this dream the last time so he tries a different tactic. He calms his mind and senses Phoenix's precise location. Though they can not see each other, Aston knows he and him are now together. Aston sits down next to Phoenix.
"It's alright...I am here to comfort you." Stated Aston. What was once a cry became a whimper, and the once dark void is now illuminated by a dim yellow radiance. "I am here for you Phoenix, no matter your darkest hour nor your worst fears." The yellow radiance grows in illumination from Phoenix's chest. The two mutants once again embrace one another, and the once dark void is now pierced by a blinding light. "Do you mean it?" Replied Phoenix. "I'll let the actions do the talking..." Aston returned...
2 hours later
"So you finally found it"
Aston awoke once again - this time in a peaceful garden surrounded by a lake with small gentle waves. A fog obscures any view beyond.
"Welcome to my world" stated Phoenix to the now slowly arousing Aston. "I never thought I would see you here, but I figured one day you might show up." "What...is this place?" replied Aston, "it seems peaceful, relaxing even."
"This is my comfort zone" replied Phoenix, "I come here to escape the demands of the world when they become too much to bear." "I couldn't come here for far too long - we were too busy saving the world." continued Phoenix, "I thought I had lost it forever - in its place I only found darkness."
"That was your first dream, and the third. What about the second?" Replied Aston. "The house is where we always go when we're done for the day." Phoenix stated, "I thought maybe I could relax there." "It didn't work out as I had hoped...but at least you were there." Phoenix continued, "If I had been alone in there I don't think it would have done anything. I was just laying there, worrying about all of the drone strikes, supervillains, contingencies, space nukes. You know, all that crazy stuff they brought up at the meeting."
"It's all so stressful you know! And, it's kind of hard to explain, but the lights...they felt blinding, and the klinking of so much silverware on porcelain didn't help either. It felt like I was expending every last drop of my being to not explode from all of the stress!" "I...had no idea." Replied Aston, "I was just sitting next to you. I already knew everything they had to say but since you had said nothing I didn't know what to expect! Even now after fusing I still struggle to comprehend the sheer depth of your thoughts. To be honest the buzz from the busted TV was starting to get on my nerves though...you don't think..."
"I know what you're going to say - I was diagnosed with ADHD, not Asperger's." quipped Phoenix. "Since when have I ever lied to anyone let alone you?" Replied Aston. "I just spent 72 hours straight tearing the internet apart to figure out why you locked yourself in a room. Not because I wanted to get back to saving the world - we both know it doesn't need saving right now. I did that because I knew you were deeply distressed...but I couldn't understand why until now." "This is not a place for argument." Aston continued, "This is a place to escape to when the going gets tough. Just as I can sort of read your thoughts now you should be able to read mine. Look, and see I am not wrong. All you need to do is look at me, focus, and visualize my mind inside yours."
Phoenix was skeptical, but did as asked. To his surprise it worked - all of the research Aston had done up until the point of fusion was laid plain to see. Every disorder in the DSM5. All of the documentaries, YouTube videos, and articles read. So too was Aston's past - all of the struggle he had to endure. He had a fake ID in high school - not so he could drink, but to rent an apartment of his own away from his father's prying eyes in Metroville - far from anywhere he would think to look. His Asperger's was plain to see - a similar but less intense mirror of Phoenix's own past.
As he came out of the vision Phoenix embraced Aston. "Thank you, Aston..." He finally said, "I think you saved me...from my own mind." "It's no sweat, that's what friends do am I right? Sometimes the heroes of the story need saving too." They both stood up, and the dream ended.
Aston awoke holding Phoenix in his embrace. So too did Phoenix not long after. Aston now could see some of Phoenix's thoughts, but Phoenix still remained an enigma - further refinement would be needed to fully understand his mind. "Did you sleep well?" Aston inquired? "Yes...or at least better than I have in the past few months." Replied Phoenix. "I'm glad...seems you needed it." Aston stated. "No kidding...I guess I needed to not feel completely alone for once." Said Phoenix, "Say...that technique you used to get inside my head...I thought you couldn't get inside my head." "That's what I thought too...until I figured out just how different your mind is wired compared to the norm." Replied Aston, "I took an educated guess that you were Autistic - that led me to find out that your brain is almost 100x more complicated than a normal human, and I daresay probably more complicated than mine." "Does that mean I have the same abilities you do then?" Phoenix inquired, now intrigued. "Maybe..." Replied Aston, "You want to find out?" "Sure, but I bought pizza the last time we trained so it's on you this time." Stated Phoenix. "Gladly!" Replied Aston, "I think this will be fun!"
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apterydek Ā· 5 years ago
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After a year of jockhood
A year of jockhood came and went, daily workouts, buzzed head, sweaty gym shorts. Though you were stronger and more comfortable than ever, you missed being preppy. Looking back at the old photos from when you wore chinos and polos instead, you remembered how you felt then: disappointed you werenā€™t living the jock life.
ā€œIā€™m not sure what to do,ā€ you confess to Sir. Heā€™s the one putting you through your paces, holding you to your meal plan. He was the one who gave you your first buzz, clippers set to 1. ā€œThough Iā€™m living my fantasy, and I feel confident, I keep feeling like Iā€™m missing out on all the other versions of me. This was supposed to be my final transformation, and despite all the mental training, I just canā€™t stick with it. Iā€™m sorry Sir, I fear Iā€™ve disappointed you. I know youā€™ve put so much effort into training me.ā€
Sir isnā€™t angry, nor let down. Heā€™s pensive, eyes out of focus, forehead furrowed. Then, with a sudden smile, he starts: ā€œBoy, itā€™s no problem. Iā€™ve seen this before. Sensed that it might happen. Itā€™s just that I wanted you to have the full jock experience you were so dedicated to when we first started. I know just what to do. Another year of trainingā€”ā€
ā€œAnother year?ā€ you blurt in disbelief.
ā€œShush, boy,ā€ he continues, stern now. ā€œThis year will be unlike the last year. Rather than get you deep into one identity, weā€™ll change things up every month. Weā€™ll explore all the different versions of you. Then decide what to do next. Who knows, maybe youā€™ll be begging to go back to jock mode.ā€
Your mouth is open. ā€œW..wellā€¦ā€ you say, processing what Sirā€™s suggesting. It tingles, excitement gripping you, and you decide to comply. ā€œYes Sir!ā€ you shout. Heā€™s already thinking of what youā€™ll become, and within the week, youā€™re given your first identity.
January you kept your hoodies and trainers, but grew out your hair slightly on top even as the sides were shaved. You wore a steel necklace and a tracksuit. Manspreading, walking with a swagger. Drinking and cursing. Watching porn. Sir would catch you by surprise and pin you against the wall, getting his pleasure from you. You loved the sudden lack of discipline, the spontaneity, the cockiness.
February your hair was long enough to part and slick. Your wardrobe was entirely replaced with white briefs and singlets, gray and blue dress shirts, smart slacks, knee socks, shined shoes and even a pair of short elasticated wool shorts for home. You tucked in your shirt every day, followed a structured schedule, and learned the basics of piano and French every evening. Sir would spank you for the smallest transgressions. You came to enjoy his discipline, the way your energy was controlled and focused on learning.
March your hair kept growing. You returned to sporty shorts with matching silky shirts. Leg day every day. Running, endurance. Sir had chosen only two outfits for you to wear. It made decisions easy. He chose your food carefully for energy. By the end of all the workouts youā€™d be ready to head to bed, but you were quizzed on football stats every day from the games you spent hours watching. You lived through your teamā€™s performance, trained hard to emulate your favorite players. Sport, sport, sport. The month passed quickly.
April you didnā€™t get a haircut, just put a little hair gel in it. Polos and khakis or bright, short shorts. Boat shoes. You started to drink again. Spent lots of time on social media, taking lots of selfies with vapid pearly smiles. A lot of them involved golf, which you were now taking up. Sir got you invited to a party on a yacht. Little discipline again, just spending money, and enjoying the money others spent, and the respect everyone gave you.
May you used a straight iron and bobby pins. Pink crop tops and pink high tops. Became a go-go dancer, shaking your butt every time someone slipped a sweaty dollar bill down the waistband of your glittery hot pants. Pumped your nips every night and morning. Sir worked your hole every morning until you could take a plug, then a thick dildo, then a fist. Sometimes, after your shows, youā€™d get the chance to fit other guysā€™ hands up your hole too. It felt good to be desired, great to be a slut, and utterly fabulous to be so flamboyant.
June you got a cut in front and a trim in the back. Button-ups with the snaps, tucked into tight Wranglers and secured with a massive belt buckle. You listened to country music the entire time you were awake. Spent time hunting and fishing, dressed in camo and/or waders. Beaten-up T-shirts and trucker caps half the time. Cowboy hats the other half. It was relaxing getting back into nature, relaxing listening to repetitive songs, relaxing to slip completely into this identity and hear the voices of anxiety silenced. Some time every day, Sir gave you hearty pats on the back, and butt, and you embraced him, totally at ease.
July you awoke in briefs and a singlet again. An extra-large polo shirt, sweater vest, and loose polyester dress pants were stuffed over you, and you were taken to a barbershop and given a tight waxed horseshoe flattop with a white, shiny, wide landing strip. Glasses for good measure too. The only fun you had was DnD, but mostly you were too busy reading academic papers, solving logic puzzles, and arguing with strangers on Quora to spend much time on the DnD sessions. Sir would turn the Internet off at 9 every night, though, and youā€™d have to wake up early the next day to catch up on your online pursuits. It felt good to know more than anyone else...except Sir, of course.
August you got tired of feeling like other guys were about to bully you and became the bully instead. Buzzed again, gym shorts, tank tops, lifting, protein shakes and meal plans: all the things youā€™d gotten tired of six months ago, but which seemed so comfortable and natural now. You almost didnā€™t want to continue the cycle of transformations. Begged Sir, naked and on your knees, your prominent pecs quivering slightly. Sir denied you. You needed still more discipline.
September you were to follow a detailed schedule to the minute. Your buzz was shaved daily on the back and sides, clippered to a 0.5 on top. You were issued one set of clothes for PT, and one set of clothes for day-to-day wear: a polo and cargo pants with stiff black boots that gave you blisters. There was a final set of clothing for dinners and special outings: a dress shirt secured with shirt stays, immaculately creased trousers, mirror-shined black shoes. Punishments were severe and severely boring: standing at attention for hours, endless sets of push-ups, and marches in circles with the sun beating on your shorn head. Despite the unpleasantness, you felt proud to be held to such a strict standard, and to comply with it at least most of the time. Sir would occasionally reward your compliance with a treat like a single ice cream bar or 20 minutes of free time.
October you asked again to become a jock, or a frat boy, again, but Sir, tight-lipped, shook his head. You hadnā€™t learned your lesson. Stripped of all clothing, you winced as you were shaved head to toe, and a chastity cage was forced on and locked. You were rubbed with lube before being covered in a thick black rubber suit that covered your entire body, zips held closed with a dozen miniature padlocks. You were let out of rubber only for your brief, intense workoutsā€”for public matters, a thinner rubber suit that left your arms and legs exposed was fastened on you, after which you donned a plain black T-shirt, black jeans, black Converses and a black snapback. Half the time, a large plug was shoved up your ass. You didnā€™t have a strict schedule any more, but the punishments more than made up for it. Perhaps your entire existence was one punishment. You were beaten, forced into painful positions, your balls stretched, made to drink piss and eat from the floor. You slept in a large dog cage. Slowly, you got used to it, hastened by Sirā€™s hypnosis and brainwashing sessions. You realized how much effort Sir was putting into the training and resolved not to disappoint him again. The border between pain and pleasure disappeared, and you grew content in the moment, constant intense sensations forcing your attention on the present. For Halloween you were paraded out in your full rubber suit, a collar and leash around your neck.
November you knelt, bound, ready for the next layer of intensity, for a fresh round of humiliation and torture. You accepted whatever Sir might inflict upon you. But he untied you, let you out, gently cleaned you in the bathtub, and had you lie on a towel. It was only when you felt a soft, pillowy sensation enveloping your chastity cage that you realized what heā€™d planned. You had a large wardrobe of brightly colored T-shirts and pants and a full rack of chunky sneakers. There were rules, of course, particularly around bedtime, screen time, and getting your diaper changed, but you were otherwise free to play as you wished. The lack of punishment initially seemed wrong, like cheating, but you settled into your new pampered lifestyle as Sir gently encouraged you and occasionally told you life stories to learn from. By the end of the month, you were making cucumber sandwiches like a pro, wearing a cartoon sandwich T-shirt and overalls.
December Sir trimmed the sides and back of your head, undressed you, unlocked you from chastity, and showed you to yet another set of clothing. You couldnā€™t make heads or tails of it, but he didnā€™t tell you what you were supposed to become, just smiled and walked out of the room. No kinky gear or implements anywhere, just a fleshlight in the back of the drawer, behind the boxer shorts and miscellaneous patterned shirts and jeans. Sir just kind of...left you alone, not telling you when to wake up or what any consequences of anything would be. With the horniness from the previous months of chastity and discipline built up, you started to jerk off at least three times a day. Sitting at the dinner table with Sir eating pizza, you asked him what this was all about. It felt so wrong.
ā€œBoy, this month Iā€™m showing you what you havenā€™t had for several years: a ā€˜normalā€™ lifestyle. No control, no schedule, no denial, no punishments, just...freedom. You shouldnā€™t forget, I can give you any transformation I desire, and this month I want you to be a regular guy. Whatā€™s light without shadow, a vessel without the internal emptiness, a crisp autumn day without the muggy summer before it?ā€
Almost crying at this point, you nodded. Youā€™d taken all this kinky artifice for granted, assumed that last month was Sirā€™s way of letting you off easy even though you were in diapers. You had gotten so accustomed to Sirā€™s control that youā€™d let yourself get tired of living your deepest fantasies as a prep and a jock.
You stood up. ā€œSir,ā€ you started, about to apologize, about to thank him, about to tell him how much you loved him, but you pushed your face into his and gave him a deep kiss, inserting your tongue, feeling his warm mouth relax in pleasure. You hugged him tight, and he hugged you tighter, and you were together, equals now. Wait, equals? That didnā€™t feel right.
You pulled his arms behind his back and scowled. ā€œI love you. Thatā€™s why Iā€™m going to do to you what you did to me. Weā€™ll start with you as a jock.ā€ Sirā€™s eyes widened. You kept your face stern, but worried heā€™d find some way to punish you. Suddenly, Sir sat up and straightened his shoulders. ā€œSir, yes Sir!ā€ he yelled. And so, another year began, with a Sir and boy playing through various transformations, except the Sir and boy were reversed this time, and a few times, for a month at a stretch, theyā€™d stop and live as equals, just to appreciate what they had. Appreciate each other they most certainly did.
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jarienn972 Ā· 4 years ago
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La Sirena - Chapter Three
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Captain Swan Supernatural Summer
My intent had been to post this latest chapter update for @cssnsā€‹ yesterday, but neither Tumblr nor my internet at home wanted to cooperate so Chapter Three was a little bit delayed. I decided with this chapter to jump a few days ahead so that Killian was partially recuperated and able to start exploring his new surroundings.Ā  Heā€™s discovered that his ā€œangelā€ is a mysterious, lonely woman who has been stranded on this stretch of shore for a very long time and he wants to learn more about her.Ā  Will he get more than he bargained for though?
I have to say thanks again to @courtorderedcakeā€‹ for her beautiful artwork featured here and to @kmomof4ā€‹ for being an amazing beta reader!
The first two chapters can be found on AO3 and FF.net or here: OneĀ  Two
Chapter Three: A Glimpse of the Unknown
By the third sunrise since arriving on this distant cove, Killian was at last feeling recuperated enough to venture beyond the protected thicket. He'd been gratefully accepting Emma's offered sustenance and had enjoyed the few, brief conversations they'd shared. The fruits she'd brought had served to nourish his weakened body, especially after a week or so subsisting on the unidentifiable gruel the pirates had shoved at him. More so, her pleasant words may have been few, but they had helped ease his troubled mind and he hoped to entice her into talking more now that he had recovered enough to carry on an intelligent discourse.
What had brought her here to such a seemingly lonely place? Was she truly alone here or were there others living nearby? He had no inkling whether she'd answer him, but with little else to do, he'd relish the challenge.
For now, he was anxious to stretch his legs and discover a bit more of the isle he'd landed upon. Using a nearby palm tree stump to aid in keeping his balance, Killian found his footing and pushed himself fully upright for the first time since he'd escaped the doomed pirate ship. He'd crawled about the clearing as needed and he'd of course been able to sit cross-legged in the sand to eat, but standing suddenly felt foreign. His legs protested the exertion, although not nearly as much as his throbbing head. He had to pause for a few seconds to allow the dizziness to pass, but he pressed forward despite the realization that he'd likely underestimated the severity of the blow he'd taken from the ship's rigging.
It was also at this moment that it dawned on him what a fright he must look. His uniform had been torn to shreds in battle, made worse during his imprisonment, and now hung in tatters on his gaunt form. The relentless waves had shredded the fabric even further but had barely touched the dark stains. His current state was completely unbecoming of an officer but he was a long way from a tailor so he'd have to make due. He was determined to do one thing to improve his outward appearance - bathe. He'd not bathed properly since he'd departed Liam's ship nor had he shaved. His chin itched of several days' growth of whiskers and he found himself idly wondering if his lovely companion might have soap or better yet - a straight razor - in her possession.
Taking each step slowly and deliberately, he followed a narrow, well-trodden path through the patch of cycads, emerging onto a pristine expanse of shoreline. The sand squishing between and beneath his toes was warm, but not uncomfortable as he trudged toward the water's edge. He'd not yet seen Emma this morning. Perhaps he'd risen before her? He was tempted to turn back towards the rocks and search for her, but he knew she'd come find him in time. Right now, he was eager to wade into the crystal clear bay that stretched out before him as far as the eye could see and allow the seawater to wash away the grime and ease the aches in his joints.
And if the fair maiden wasn't around to see him, he could shed his torn, bloodstained linen shirt and the stiff, uncomfortable wool uniform trousers. A least for a few minutesā€¦
The scratchy trousers were the first to go, followed quickly by his shirt. He'd not even bothered undoing all of the buttons as several were already missing. By the time he reached the water, he'd left a trail of clothing behind but as long as he was still alone on the beach, his dignity remained intact.
He waded into the surf, noting that the shallows extended only a short distance from the shore before dropping into unknown depths. At least the waves were calm as they broke against his legs. He dared only to venture in waist deep, not prepared to test his swimming ability so soon lest Emma need to rescue him again. As he bent his knees to lower his torso into the cool, salty water, he watched the little fish darting around. He cupped water in his open palms and splashed it onto his face, careful to avoid the gash on his forehead as he scrubbed away layers of grime. His wound still stung enough without introducing more saltwater to it.
He wasn't normally a contemplative person but even he had to recognize how recent events had altered his perspective. For days in captivity, he'd had nothing but time to think about those he'd failed. His crew. His brother. Himself. Maybe he lacked the necessary skills to be a proper leader. He'd sailed his crew into certain death and yet, here he was - left to wallow in guilt. Liam would have fought harder. He wouldn't have allowed his crew to be taken prisoner.
And yet Liam was the one who'd given the order to scout the uncharted island. The order had come from him. He was the Captain. Liam had imparted this fate upon them with his orderā€¦
Killian squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, willing himself to banish those thoughts. No, Liam was a good captain. He would never knowingly endanger his crew, especially not with his younger brother leading the expedition. It had been an unfortunate series of events that Killian alone had survived to lament. Fortune had intervened and spared his life, bringing him here to another uncharted, idyllic locale. The cove and its beguiling inhabitant were both ripe with beauty and intrigue.
At some point, his senses became aware that he was no longer alone. He didn't know how long she'd been watching him but he couldn't halt the flush of embarrassment from darkening his cheeks as he splashed an abrupt about-face in the water.
"Apologies," she shouted from the shore. "I didn't intend to startle you."
"'Tis alright," he replied, stupidly arguing with himself as to whether he should cover himself.
"I followed your trail from the grove," she began, waving an arm in the direction of his discarded clothing littering the beach. "If I had known you wished to bathe, I would have recommended the spring-fed pool inside the cavern as being more preferableā€¦"
He chuckled to himself as he gave his head a little shake. Of course, it would have beenā€¦ "I'll remember that for future reference."
"I am pleased to see that you're feeling stronger today," she smiled while a breezy tradewind fluttered the hem of her tunic, giving him a glimpse of her pale but enticingly shapely legs.
"Yes," he gulped, suddenly even more aware of his current state of undress. "I am feeling much better this morningā€¦"
"That is wonderful. I've refilled the carafe for you back at the grove and brought you some fresh fruit. Is there anything else you might need?"
"You wouldn't happen to know where a man might get some new clothing and perhaps a straight razor around these parts? Is there a town or village nearby where I might find such things? My former uniform is rather an unacceptable mess at the present."
"I'm afraid that the nearest place you'd call a village is more than a day's trek up the peninsula from here and it's certainly not a place where you'd find such goods."
"Ah, pity. We truly are quite isolated here, are we not?"
"Afraid so, but you might be surprised by what this bountiful cove can provide. I believe I may be able to locate some clothing for you and perhaps some personal implements as well. Come join me in the cavern and we can take a look?"
"Ehhā€¦," he stammered, blushing an even deeper shade of crimson. He'd not thought of himself as a prudish person but he was far from a brash braggart who would dare reveal his nudity to an innocent maiden yet. "That sounds like a wonderful ideaā€¦"
She seemed a tad confused when he didn't exit the water but after a moment, she understood his hesitation. "Ah - I am truly sorryā€¦ I have had little need for modesty in my solitude. I'll leave you be and meet you back beneath the trees in a few minutes."
"Much appreciated," he responded as she turned toward the swaying palms, all the time hearing the ghostly echo of Liam's laughter ringing in his ears.
**********
After ensuring that the coast was clear of prying eyes, Killian padded self-consciously out of the sea. He collected the remnants of his threadbare shirt and used it to give himself a precursory drying off as he fetched his trousers. He would have preferred to burn them rather than don them yet again, but with no other option for clothing presently available, he'd have to suffer and make due. He didn't have the foggiest notion of what Emma had meant when she spoke of the provisions of this bountiful cove, but he had to trust her. He was the outsider here and even though he still knew little about her, he doubted she would have mentioned anything if she couldn't be of assistance.
He chose not to bother putting what remained of his shirt back on as he followed her footprints back into the cycad grove where he'd spent nearly every waking moment since being marooned on this shore. The canopy had provided shade and shelter to him, although he was thankful the skies had been fair. He'd spent the past decade and a half aboard various ships, his leave in port usually brief so this was an unfamiliar experience for the seasoned mariner.
Not necessarily an unpleasant one though, he thought to himself as he arrived to find Emma kneeling in the sand, splitting apart a fig. She silently offered him one half as she bit into the other. Killian accepted it with a nod, popping it into his mouth before realizing she was staring at him with her intense green eyes.
"Have I done something wrong?" he queried with a furrowed brow, concerned he had offended his host with either his actions or his partially clothed form.
"No, noā€¦" she assured him, averting her eyes with a hint of shame. "I was just admiring your peltā€¦" Her face scrunched in disgust at her errant choice of words. "No, that's not the right wordā€¦" She shook her head, trying desperately to come up with the proper term as Killian looked on in confused amusement. "I was drawn to the dark hair that covers your limbs and your torsoā€¦ The males of my people, they simply do not possess body hair in such patterns."
"Your people don't have body hair?" he asked, incredulously, lifting a curious eyebrow as he wondered how they'd gotten to this conversation.
"Not to the extent of yoursā€¦ They are able to grow facial hair but only fine, pale hairs adorn their bodiesā€¦" Her attempt to explain what she meant only began to exacerbate her awkwardness. "A thick coat of fur is not needed for warmth in our land so I have never seen anyone with such an impressive display of hairā€¦"
"Well, it isn't really for warmth where I come from either. I inherited it from my grandfather, I believeā€¦," he realized he was blushing while he rambled on, suddenly wishing he had something to cover his bare chest.
"Please - do not be embarrassed. I had no intention of shaming you and I should not have been staring - it's not polite - but it has been a very long time since I've been this close to anyone."
"How long?" he caught himself asking, cringing immediately as he blurted out the insensitive question. "Forgive me, please. That wasn't proper for me to be asking."
"It's no matter. We've both made our blunders, have we not?" She mused with a shy grin, the first time he'd truly noticed her smile. It was only visible for a split-second as she abruptly changed the subject, reverting back to her stoic front. "You should come with me to the cavern now. I believe you shall find some of what you seek there."
"Inside the cave?" There was a heavy dose of disbelief in his voice. What on earth would be inside that cavern that would be of use to him?
"Please, just follow me. You will see."
He might have still been skeptical but he was also of the opinion that if a beautiful woman asked you to follow her, you followed her. He'd be damned if he wasn't going to do as requested.
The mouth of the cavern was deeply recessed into the jagged outcrop, making it virtually invisible from the bay. It was dark and uninviting but as they made their way over the ridge and passed into the void, Killian was pleasantly surprised to learn that the interior was relatively well illuminated. Streams of sunlight filtered in through cracks in the cavern's ceiling and he also recognized the acrid scent of smoke lingering in the tempered air, likely residue from the series of torches and lanterns lining the rock walls that Emma used to navigate the tunnels.
With Emma leading the way, they rounded a shadowy corner in a dim passageway that became ablaze with light as they neared. Emma was only a few steps ahead of him, but suddenly there were torches roaring to life. He'd not seen her stop to light the flames, but he shook it off as a trick of his weary head. His injury must be toying with his imagination.
The chamber they'd now entered was clearly Emma's living quarters and Killian swallowed back a swell of unease at invading her private dwelling, although she didn't appear fazed. He noted its simple furnishings as they passed, this not being her intended destination. Tucked away in an alcove, he saw only a mattress fashioned from woven raffia grasses and a series of colorful ceramic carafes like those she'd used to bring water to him. She seemed to have little need for creature comforts or material goods, so different from the women he'd encountered in various ports around the realm.
"Just a bit further," she stated, drawing his attention away from her dwelling and back to the passage. He noted the trickle of water off in the distance, likely a stream or brook formed from the spring she'd mentioned earlier. They pressed forward into another chamber that again seemed to illuminate as they drew closer. The experience was a tad disconcerting to Killian but he was determined to keep his mouth shut - at least until his jaw fell slack by the revelation of stunning wonders all around him.
The narrow corridor weaving through the rock opened into a broad, expansive subterranean room, awash in brilliance from its own natural skylight which opened directly above a sparkling pool. Faint tendrils of steam arose from the surface. This must be the spring Emma had recommended for bathing and it looked incredibly inviting.
"This is the spring you spoke of earlier?" he queried.
"One of them. This is the mineral hot spring. There is also a cool, sweet water spring around the bend. It feeds into this pool as well as one deeper into the cavern," she advised.
"This cavernā€¦ I've seen others similar on my many adventures. It's an old lava tube, is it not?"
"Very astute and yes, this entire cove was formed by an ancient lava flow."
"It is quite a lovely place and I see now many of its provisions, but I still fail to see what assistance this is to be for meā€¦"
"It was not the cavern itself that I was referring to. This happens to be where I have stored some unusual items that originated in your world."
"My world?" he asked, confused as she lowered herself to her knees and lit a lantern conveniently sitting at her feet. When she raised the lamp, he could now make out the objects she'd been so cryptically taunting him with - four large marine chests in varying states of decay.
"Are these not from your world?" She brought the lantern closer to the nearest chest. It was covered in faded, cracked leather and decorated with ornate brass fittings and latches that were marred with heavy patina. He surmised that there was once a matching padlock that was lost to time but there was no evidence that it had been removed by force. The whole thing had seen better days, bearing extensive visible water damage. Depending on how well it had been constructed and the quality of the leather casing, it could potentially still be watertight. "I find these washed up on the shore from time to time."
"They appear to be merchant chests, used for transporting goods. We had many like these on my ship, although these appear to be much older."
"I assume they came from ships that have sunk in the treacherous waters surrounding this land."
"Around this placid bay?" he scoffed. "These waters are far too tranquil. These must have traveled here from afarā€¦"
"Do not allow the tranquility of this cove to fool you. These waters are teeming with untold dangers. Your very survival was nothing short of miraculous!" Even in the half-light cast off by the flickering lantern, he noted the stern admonishment that spoiled her visage before she hastily turned her face away from his view. She paused with a haunting silence as she calmed herself before continuing with the prior topic. "These chests, I have searched through them, though they contain little to serve my needs, save for the bits of fabric and notions. I do believe that you will find objects that will conform to your needs so please, feel free to peruse their contents at your leisure. I am going to return to the bay so I may find some shellfish for our next meal. If you need my assistance, just shout. Voices carry well in this cavern and I have excellent hearing."
She extended her arm towards him, offering him the lantern she held. She wouldn't require it to make her way out of the cave. He took hold of the handle as she pushed herself back to stand. Emma paused momentarily as Killian crouched, flipping open the latch on the first chest to uncover the hidden treasures beneath.
"Thank you. This was not at all what I expectedā€¦" he said as he poured over goods that had survived their journey well. He glanced over his shoulder with a wide grin crossing his lips, one that instantly faded when he discovered she'd already departed.
How? He'd barely averted his attention for a minute or twoā€¦ How had she vanished so rapidly and so stealthily? One more mystery to add to his growing listā€¦
When he emerged from the cavern, he sported a billowy black silken tunic featuring tiny mother-of-pearl buttons and linen trousers that were the color of the sand. He'd needed to draw the laces quite tight to prevent them from sliding off of his slender hips, but they were exceedingly more comfortable than what was left of his woolen uniform pants. He'd fretted over not finding a razor in any of the chests although he did locate a short-bladed cutlass within a chest full of treasure, likely once the property of a long-dead pirate. It didn't sit as comfortably in his grip as his service rapier but it was a solid, capable weapon. It would certainly prove useful to split a coconut or filet a fish.
He tucked the blade back into its scabbard as he caught sight of Emma on the horizon. He was prepared to thank her for the clothing he'd found, but there was something about the expression on her faceā€¦ She looked worried, even frightened and she was running toward him.
"Emma? You look vexed, loveā€¦"
"Get back inside the cave!" she ordered. "There's a storm coming. It isn't safe hereā€¦"
Killian's brow lifted in confusion as he glanced skyward, seeing only a few sparse, puffy clouds against the azure backdrop of the heavens. There was no foul wind blowing to indicate an impending storm. Whatever was she talking about?
"What storm? There's no sign of rain clouds aboveā€¦"
"Killianā€¦," she pleaded, catching his arm as she hurried past him and tugging him back to the shelter of the cave. "Don't argue with me. Just return to the cavern, back to the pools. You can not be caught up in thisā€¦"
"In what?" he pressed for more information while trusting her judgement and retreating beneath the rocky overhang. He expected that she would remain here with him for the duration of this coming storm but once he was safely out of the elements, she released her grasp and scrambled back toward the ridge. "Emma? Where are you going? I thought you said there was a storm coming? That it wasn't safe?"
She stopped at the crest of the ridge and lowered her head. He wasn't sure what to make of her body language or the consternation etched into her face as she glanced over her shoulder.
"It isn't safe for you," she replied sternly. "but this storm - it's here for me."
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