#because they want the paper version that has been written and signed by hand

[albonium]

being treated as a criminal every time i have to get my meds at the pharmacy isn't fun

[ktownshizzle]

Terms & Conditions | Chapter 5 Teaser

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

Genre: Fluff, eventual smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au

Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, I might include scootergate in a future chapter but please know it will be written sensibly imo and with so much love for our Yoongi (I just wanna protecc him at all costs even thru this silly story!), some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range

Chapter Warnings: office foreplay, lil bit of fingering, lil bit of spanking, lil bit of nipple play, may cause delusion and I’m not liable for it don't @ me, literally a teaser so don’t expect to finish lmao

Word count: 1k ish haha

Posting date: October 25, 2024

Notes: Now listen. I know I said no updates for three weeks, but here we are. This may not be the final version so I may still make some changes when the full chapter drops.

This teaser has been unlocked through this ask game. Congrats to @kam9404 and @jadestonedaeho7 for guessing correctly. Manbun Yoongi is my husband (real) and I will have his babies. Thanks also to @bangtannkook for guessing Ginger Yoongi, the only man I will leave Manbun Yoongi for. 

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Masterlist

The office has that late afternoon hush, when most people are too buried in their work to notice anything else. It’s just you and Yoongi, tucked away in the back office closet, a space that smells like old paper and dust. You’ve been here before of course—sorting files, you know, actual work—but today, when you enter, you only have one mission: you and Yoongi are about to defile the file closet.

Yoongi stands so close you can feel his breath on your neck, his hands resting just above your hips, pressing you lightly against the Ikea file cabinet you both put together weeks ago. 

“Alone at fuckin’ last,” he murmurs.

“C’mere baby,” you whisper, arms slipping around his neck. His gaze darkens, and for a moment, everything else fades.

He leans in, kissing you slow—so slow you think you might combust. You push your tongue against the seam of his lips, a little insistent, because you really can’t take your sweet time in this ancient closet. Honestly, it could be a health hazard.

Yoongi’s fingers start working the buttons of your blouse, one by one. The way his eyes trace your skin makes every hair on your body stand to attention.

But just as his hand slips inside your blouse, the door rattles.

You both freeze. Heart in your goddamn throat.

“Yoongi, you in here?” Hyun-woo’s voice pierces through the thick air. The panic kicks in fast, adrenaline flooding your veins.

Yoongi pulls back, completely calm while adjusting his eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose. How the fuck is he always so calm? He reaches out, smoothing your hair, checking that you've properly buttoned up your blouse, as if he’s done this a hundred times before. The tenderness in the gesture only makes your heart pound harder.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he calls out, voice steady, like he isn’t seconds away from getting caught with his hand halfway inside your fuckin’ blouse. “Just organizing files.”

Hyun-woo opens the door, peering in, eyes narrowing slightly.

You flash a too-bright smile. “Hi, Hyun-woo! Just teaching Yoongi with the filing. Total disaster in here.”

Hyun-woo doesn’t buy it, not completely, but the suspicion in his eyes fades as quickly as it appeared. “Right. Well, don’t take too long. That room always triggers my claustrophobia.” He pulls the neck of his shirt forward.

Yoongi replies, giving him that practiced, unbothered nod. “Just finishing up.”

As the main door to your office clicks shut, you let out a breath you’ve been holding for far too long.

“That was way too close,” you whisper, your pulse still racing.

Yoongi grins, closing the closet door again with a nudge of his foot. “Too close,” he agrees, voice low and teasing, as he leans in to steal a quick kiss. “But I’m not done yet.”

“Wha—” The question barely leaves your mouth before Yoongi’s hands are on your shoulders, turning you smoothly so that you’re facing the file cabinet.

“Remember when we were building this very cabinet?” His voice has dropped even lower now, sending a shiver down your spine.

You blink, thrown by the sudden shift. “Yeah?” Your hands are guided to grip the top corners of the cabinet, and your breath catches. What is he doing?

Yoongi doesn’t give you time to process. His voice slides closer, warm against the back of your neck. “What were you doing then?”

You frown slightly, the question catching you off guard. “Nothing?” you say, but it comes out uncertain, more like a question than an answer.

Without warning, his palm connects with your ass—firm, but playful. You gasp, more out of surprise than pain, and turn your head to find him wearing that lopsided grin that drives you crazy.

“Ddaeng,” he chimes, the word rolling off his tongue with a playful edge. “Try again.”

“I was—I was helping you,” you say, though your voice is wavering.

“Ddaeng,” he says again, the second slap sharper this time. “You did jack shit. C’mon, jagi, use your pretty little brain…”

“Fuck,” you mutter, feeling your face flush. “I was… I was looking at your hands.”

Yoongi nods approvingly, his grin deepening. “And why were you doing that, hmm?”

You hesitate, your heart thumping harder, not from nerves, but from the way he’s pushing you. You know the answer. 

“Because…” You swallow the admission heavy on your tongue, deciding to go the other way instead. “You were taking too long to build it.”

SLAP! “Ddaeng,” the third is much more deliciously painful now, your bum soothed by his large palms. “Huh, I think my jagi enjoys being spanked.” He licks the shell of your ear, making your knees buckle, and his voice comes through in a suspiciously calm tone, “lie to me again and I’m going to step out this door and leave you here dripping. I bet you’re already wet.”

“Dry as the sahara.” You jest, even as your lips tremble.

You squirm as he pins you against the cabinet, his hand making quick work of the top button of your linen pants. Things are happening so fast. His hand disappears inside, hooks your panties to the side and dips one finger shallowly at your entrance. God you wanna scream.

You squirm some more, but he’s got you pressed up, not enough to hurt you, but enough to limit your movements.

“Liar,” he chuckles darkly. In one quick motion his hand flies out of your pants and goes into his mouth, tasting you. You can literally smell the heady scent of your arousal filling the tiny space, making you needy for some relief.

“Yoongi,” you whine, trying to push your ass back against his crotch. “Baby, please…”

“Why were you looking at my hands…” he jerks back, not giving you the satisfaction, and asks again. “What do you want me to do with them?”

“I want you to put them inside me.”

“Hmm, what else…” he starts to unbutton your blouse again, not all the way, but so he can yank one of the cups of your bra to tease a nipple.

A flick from his moist finger and you’re already writhing in desperation.

“I want them stuffed in my mouth, and—shit—my pussy. I want them… choking me.”

“Naughty girl,” he tsks, pinching your nipple between his deft fingers, eliciting a moan from you. You feel his warm breath against your ear, teasing you. “Be quiet, baby. I thought we were gonna keep things professional.”

A/N: i better see y’all in the comments hahahaha ~k

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So sorry if I forgot to tag you, please remind me again in the comments or thru an ask! :)

[bardicbeetle]

hey. Hey. You got any analysis of the Lost Boys or thoughts on the movie to share? who's your favorite character in it and why??

@abalonetea

Analysis on the movie I've been many levels of obsessed with since age 14 you ask?

...this is going to end up undercut for length I can already feel it.

The Lost Boys is my comfort movie, my I-feel-like-shit-nothing-is-fixing-it movie, my I-can't-write-please-help movie and my go-to for when I am inflicting media upon a new friend. I know it backwards forwards, upside down and inside out, I own the out of print novelization written by Craig Shaw Gardener, I posted the original prequel script to fanfiction.net in the early 2010s because I found it buried in a forum post and wanted it to be easier to find, I have listened to every version of cry little sister that G Tom Mac has ever put out in addition to the entire stage musical he produced. The fic I wrote for it in 2011 is still on Wattpad and to this day for some fuck ass reason gets 1000s of hits per year. I have another fic for it on ao3 that still takes up brainspace for me on a minimum weekly basis.

I.

Honestly do not know who I am as a writer if not for this film.

It is such a huge part of who I am as both a fan of media and a vampire writer and as a horror enjoyer in general.

And it is undeniably, baked into its bones, queer as fuck.

Not just from the overt point of here is a film in the 1980s about men sharing blood, directed by an openly gay man, hands us platonic and familial and romantic interactions between male characters, who are allowed to hold one another, allowed to express emotion, allowed to exist freely and without shame I am--so very abnormal about this movie.

I'll be the first to admit it's not perfect by any means, it very much exists a time capsule of its era, but also, to momentarily put the bar on the floor, it isn't slur laden and full of take-backs for any of the emotional vulnerability like other things around then were (see: Once Bitten, which while unarguably very much more on the comedy side of horror-comedy, i'm going to put into the same category by virtue of Camp Vampire Movies of the 80s).

It hands us one of my favorite mothers of all time. Lucy Emerson is a treasure, she spends the whole movie trying her goddamn best to remember that she is stronger than anyone gives her credit for. That she chose to divorce an abusive man, pick up her two sons, and leave without more than signing the papers and getting out. She doesn't care if they're poor, she doesn't care if she could have gotten something from her ex-husband, she wants her boys safe and there is a very large implication that sticking around to do the whole song and dance would have ended badly. Lucy lives for her sons, she wants so badly to make the world easier for them than it was for her, she wants to be part of their lives and part of their interests even if she does not understand them, and I maintain that Had Max Actually Succeeded, it would not have been long before the Lost Boys themselves were Lucy's as much as her own two sons, and that would not have ended well for Max. Protecting mother, lioness, made to be underestimated so you are always caught off guard.

Edgar and Alan Frog are near and dear to my heart, these idiot vampire hunter children were just so very much what my brother and I were in terms of Making Up Games To Play--ignoring the fact that for these two it's real, not that it ever had been before the Emerson family rolled into town and Sam's brother got mixed into the Lost Boys group. Edgar wanting to be in charge of things and wanting to protect the people he cares about and the town he is too stubborn to admit he loves despite being what, 12? 14? Alan being quieter but just as absolutely ready to go "yeah we are totally experts at this" as his twin, the fact that neither of them have any idea what they are getting into. Dipping barely into the sequels territory (which...they aren't good. by any definition. but Edgar and Alan are the best part of them both) we get Edgar dealing not only with his perceived loss of Alan to half-vampirism, but his whole loss of Sam after having to kill him and I just.

Ugh.

NOW, dipping into the main event there is Michael, who spends this whole movie just trying to figure out where the hell he's supposed to belong at this point. He doesn't see any point in starting a new high school in his senior year, he doesn't want to upset his mother by just absolutely dropping off the planet, he cares deeply about his family and wants to help however he can because they are struggling for money. So what does this seventeen year old kid do? He starts picking trash up off the beach for eight hours a day. He gives that money to his mother under the guise of it being "leftover from christmas" because he doesn't want her to worry about him working. He feels so fucking lonely without the friends he left behind in Phoenix and he feels like he's too old to supplant himself into a new friend group in Santa Carla before everyone goes their separate ways after high school anyways.

Enter Star and the Lost Boys.

Yes, Michael is taken in by Star because she's beautiful and mysterious and he's a teenage boy seeing nipples through a tank top, but beyond that he sees in her, in David and the others, how self sure they all are of the decisions they've made. This group is all within his age, they're all living in a goddamn sunken hotel half claimed by the ocean, they have motorcycles like him, they smoke weed and eat chinese food and Marko keeps pigeons and Dwayne can skateboard and Paul is a music nerd and what the fuck how do they manage to seem like they have their lives more together as a group of teenage runaways than he does?

He's enamored with it, obsessed with it, the movie speeds up a timeline of something that does in fact happen over the course of a couple weeks, of him hanging out with them, slowly experiencing more and more symptoms of vampirism from the blood he drank the first night, unable to stop coming back, unable to really figure out what it is they have figured out that he doesn't, and hoping that maybe if he stays with them he will eventually feel the same confidence in his own existence that they do.

But couple that with the horrifying reality that he is becoming a monster. His younger brother is terrified of him, the family dog bites him, the horses won't go near him, he pulls a mouse out of a trap freshly dead and squeezes it like a spent juice box into his mouth, he is falling apart at the seams by the time David decides it's time to finish things. And that's what David wants, he wants Michael in a position where he is no longer lucid enough to resist once there's blood in the air.

And it almost fucking works.

I stand by my belief that the entire movie hinges on the beach party where the Lost Boys kill a whole bunch of Surf Nazis. The whole thing, the outcome of the final fight, the failure of Max's plan, all of it hangs on that one night, and whether or not Michael can actually manage not to give into the bloodlust. He does manage, obviously, he leans into the shock and fear and near throws himself out of that tree because he knows that if he doesn't, he will join the blood bath happening not ten feet away. He is starving and exhausted and everything in him is screaming that if he just gave in, it would all feel so much better.

But he doesn't.

He lays in the sand until he cannot hear any heartbeats left.

Lays there clawing his hands into the ground like if he can hold himself still enough then maybe this will stop being real.

Three of the four boys don't pay much mind to this, Dwayne Paul and Marko have slipped back into regular antics despite being coated red. Their faces have returned to normal, their eyes no longer brilliant gold rimmed red, they are laughing and shoving and having a good time.

But David is furious. He's quiet about it, he isn't loudly angry, something I think he probably absorbed from Max over the years, he tells Michael what needs to be done if he wants to stay with them, and then he and the other Lost Boys leave him there in the sand, burnt flesh and ashes drifting down to him on the breeze.

The thing about David is that he realized the night on the train bridge that he didn't care about Max's bullshit plan. He didn't care that he was originally going to feed Michael to Star. He is fixated on getting Michael to join them, not just for himself, not just to keep Star around, but also because there's a refusal to give up in this kid that has him excited, a stubbornness that he wants to break. It's the thing that eventually leads to his death.

ANYWAYS.

I think, perhaps, I have yelled enough.

Oh, shit, favorite character.

I think without any doubt it has to be David. Especially after reading the novelization, the comics, the original prequel script, he's just, he is such an interesting character and his motivations are so obvious despite how much he would appear to hold them close to his chest. He's a root character I can trace a lot of the tropes that carry over in my own antagonists to, and some of my protagonists as well.

double anyways, camp vampires from 1987 my beloved.

Thank you Katie <3

[thatfangirlofsb]

A/N: Hi, I'm back with another grishaverse fanfic. This time it will be about the zoyalai.

This one will be longer than the last one, so be prepared.

T/W: Spoilers of Rule of wolves.

"Zoya decides to fix the wedding that Nikolai and the shu decided to botch, but will she be able to do it without breaking down?"

Moya tsaritsa (I)

"And now I find it out?" The fury could be heard clearly in her voice even at the other end of the table, where Nikolai was happy to be separated from her thanks to all the people who were sitting around the long piece of wood.

Nikolai couldn't have been happier when everything went according to plan, but all that happiness crashed down when a very angry Zoya walked into the meeting room with her fists clenched.

"Over my age-wrinkled corpse, Nikolai." She said placing her palms on the table with such force that the wood trembled slightly at her touch. "And I remind you that the grisha live longer and take us a while to get old."

She was tempted to throw a blast of air at him that would put him against the wall and knock him unconscious for a few minutes, but she quickly forgot that idea. She was going to keep yelling at him, but when she felt the air gathering around her she turned and got out of there toward her room. Thanks Nikolai, today I won't be able to rest after the trip because of all the work I have to do, she thought before occupying her mind with solutions to the big problem that a certain blond had caused.

—————

"Was there a tornado or just an angry squaller?" Nikolai asked entering Zoya's room and closing the door when both of his feet had already crossed the threshold.

"Was there a stupid king or was it just you on your good days?" Zoya said, picking up all the papers that had been scattered on the cold floor after her blow of fury every time she began to write the apology letters.

She was angry, very angry. So as soon as the door of her room closed behind her, she unleashed her power without control between those four walls, causing all her order to disappear.

All because of that stupid boy with the lopsided smile that often made her want punch it away. But later, when she remembered who he was and what could happen to her, her thoughts became only dreams. Dreams that she prayed she had instead of all the nightmares that tormented her at night.

"Are you here to seek your death or just to work to fix it?" The grisha lifted and leaned against her desk, folding her arms as her cold gaze settled on the king. "I can make it look like an accident, so don't provoke me."

"I missed you… the whole palace missed you." His voice trembled slightly and he looked down at the ground trying to avoid his gaze. "I was wondering if..."

"If I want to blow you out of my room? Yes." She answered drily, looking over the papers she had already picked and placed on the desk for later ordering. "I'll tell you two things Nikolai. First, this wedding is going to happen and I don't care that you've had a fever and your brain has switched into some selfish version of itself. And second, you're not fleeing this room until the last letter signed by your handwriting is finished."

"Understood."

It was going to be a very long day, extremely long.

—————

"Congratulations Zoya, thanks to you now my hand will fall off."

The last letter had already been enveloped and placed on the pile to Nikolai's right. His hand was certainly tired, but not to the point of falling. Despite Zoya's words, she had also written several letters. Probably more than him, because her pile was taller than the opponent's one. But she wasn't going to complain, they were doing all of this for Ravka.

"If you hadn't messed up the wedding this wouldn't be happening." A sigh escaped her lips, and Nikolai couldn't help but notice as his gaze landed on them. "Why Nikolai?"

The blond was so engrossed looking at her that it took him a while to react. He could blame exhaustion out loud, but he actually knew that the principal point of all the trouble he had caused was a certain general standing by his side; too close.

"Can't a king mess things up?" He asked as he stood up and stretched his limbs. Most of the candles had blown out on their own, and the room was lit only by the moon and a few candles that were about to follow the same path as the others.

"Yes, but not you." Zoya turned on her own chair to look at his face, feeling her heart clench as she saw his face lighted from the side by the moon. No, she couldn't think that. Only Ravka had to be in her mind. "We both know that what you've done is bad for Ravka, and you never do anything bad for your kingdom no matter the outcome. Why?"

Why? I don't know either, but I know it has to do with you. With your beautiful blue eyes, your long black hair, your bravery, your devotion to Ravka, your mask to hide what you really feel... You, you are the culprit, Nikolai thought before shaking his head from side to side. He couldn't, he couldn't say that. Not now.

"Are you so tired that you are speechless?" Zoya's cold voice brought him back to reality, to a reality where he had to think of an answer as fast as his brain could. "Nikolai, say it or I'll have to force it out of you."

"I just was thinking." It was true, but he didn't want to tell her in what. "Zoya... have you ever wondered what you would do if you weren't you?"

"If I wasn't me?" Nikolai's question surprised her. What would do if she wasn't her? What was he talking about? Not being a grisha, not being the general of the second army, not being part of that friendship between the two of them... He could refer to so many things with those words. "I would be a very famous thief, and I would have already stolen your crown and your Lantsov emerald. I would rule Ravka with an iron fist and use you as a footrest."

Small smiles appeared on the faces of them, it seemed that Zoya's anger had largely disappeared.

"I would be honored to hold your beautiful feets, moya tsaritsa." He told her making a little bow, very dramatic for Zoya's liking.

"I could get used to that." She stretched out slightly her legs, looking at him teasingly and then crossing them over each other again.

"To what? To be queen?" He crossed his arms with his typical smirk, pulling his chair closer to her and sitting on it. "I can fix it if that's your wish."

"Are you sure? You know of any son of the queen of Shu Han who is planning to kill their entire family so he could become king?"

"Shu Han? Why?" His lips curved down, trying to appear devastated by her teasing. He hoped that her words were just that, a simple joke.

"I've had enough of the Ravkans. They are…not tolerable." Her gaze settled on him, and a slight smile with which she showed her teeths made Nikolai feel like his skin melted with that look; his heart had already succumbed long ago.

"I hope I don't have to take that accusation personally." He got up again and turned around, approaching the map that was hung on the wall. He bordered with his fingers the ravkan frontier that adjoined the shu, soon he would have to see how that country returned to bring a princess to Ravka. "I would be at sea, but then I would settle somewhere far away from the coast." He watched Zoya's smile give way to doubt, so he decided to speak. "I know you're not interested, but you could have at least asked. It's called manners."

"It wasn't that." The grisha's hands groped for the glass that rested empty next to her, only a slight aroma remained of the brandy that had been in it before. "It amazes me that you, the great Sturmhond, decide at some point in your life to settle. And far away from your beloved sea, no less. Do you have fever?"

He don't have it. But if the desire to leave everything just to be with the person he loved could be called that... yes, he has it.

"The wedding may have made me sick." He laughed as he observed Zoya's incredulous look, it was funny to see how she got annoyed with him but at the same time tried to contain herself. Playing with the death was one of his favorite hobbies.

"What wedding Nikolai? The one that did you dream about?" Her arms crossed and she blew out a small sigh before picking up the kefta from the back of her seat and got up to put it away in her closet.

"Genya and David's one." He said following her with his eyes without missing any of her movements. "It was beautiful, I would say one of the best weddings I have ever seen."

The two were silent for a long time. Although they had started with jokes and little games, remember what had happened that fatal day brought them back to reality. They stopped being Sturmhond and a queen with a human footrest and became Nikolai Lantsov and Zoya Nazyalensky again.

"Come on, it's time." She said quickly trying to change the subject so she wouldn't break down. Zoya walked briskly towards her bedroom door and placed her hand on the knob. "I have to chain a king."

"You don't know how long I was waiting for hear that."

—————

You can read the second part here.

You can read the third part here.

You can read the fourth part here.

You can read the fifth part here.

[ptrckjcne]

Alright then 📙

put a version of the book emoji in my inbox, and i'll explain the plot of a fanfic that i haven't written, but i want to write!

okay is this a very original idea? no it is not but i haven't been able to get rid of the idea, so i should actually very much get around to writing it

this is all because i genuinely love the idea of things happening in bars, and i don't think we have even close to enough bar!aus for, well, anything

ok but hear me out and if you think this sounds too much like cheers then oops [ mentions injuries, alcoholism ]

steve is still a former navy seal, but due to a traumatic brain injury and anxiety, he gets a medical discharge and is shipped back to hawaii, his title then being former navy seal. he copes poorly, turns to alcohol and copes even more poorly, and kind of on a whim, ends up buying a bar. he eventually gets help, gets clean, but holds onto the bar, and to this day he still has the bottle cap from the last bottle of beer he drank (it's a poor, worn-out longboard bottle cap)

danny never became law enforcement. instead, he kept on with the baseball track, and became the hero of major league baseball, having come through the academy of the new jersey jackals, before being signed by the yankees, nicknamed "mayday" because whenever he started on the bench, he'd come on and save the day at the mayday signal. however, a rough episode on the field and three acl surgeries later, he's had to put his career on the shelf, and has turned to working with papers about sports, specialising in baseball (naturally).

when they start a baseball history series, he is sent to hawaii on a mission to write an in-depth article about the hawaii islanders, a former hawaiian baseball team that hasn't been active since 1987, and after meeting one of the old coaches at this bar, he decides to sit there and write down elements of his article every night (though it takes him about a week to realise that maybe he's returning to the bar to keep the ruggedly handsome bartender company, more than he's interested in actually writing the article)

i quickly put together a little scene here:

"what's the story here, new guy?" steve asked, a tea towel slung over his shoulder as he sorted the clean glasses back onto the right shelves.

danny huffed, sinking down on the uncomfortable bar stool that somehow had become his over the past couple of days. "a thirsty guy walks into a bar. you finish it, barkeep."

"take it your luck with the islanders' coaches are out, then?" steve chuckled, flicking the tap on the hanalei ipa as he filled a glass, placing it in front of danny with a thud. "on the house, mayday. and do know my offer to pull some strings around here still stands."

"it's my article."

"i'm just offering to help." steve raised his hands in surrender, shrugging down the tea towel to wipe some droplets of beer from the polished surface of the bar. "when all comes to it, it's your choice."

danny chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, hand coming to wrap itself around the cool glass, the dew causing his fingertips to get slippery. "alright, you're on. what can you help me with?"

[goldrose-star]

AJ receives a strange medium package in the mail. One she was not expecting. Thinking it was possibly a mistake she checked the address, sure enough it was hers. It had been delivered to her from... Izzy! Her friend Izzy in Montana.

Inside the box was a hand written letter on some pretty starry paper:

"AJ!

Hope this package finds you well. It's been a long time since I've seen you! I've been meaning to send this to you, a few things I've picked up on my travels. I've put down roots finally in a town called Downings in Montana. I hope you like your package!

Izzy"

Aww that's so sweet of you Pin!! I'll put a cut here because this turned out longer than I thought 💖

Surprized that she received a package AJ checks the front for any sign of who the sender might be. Sure enough, on the opposite side of her own address, stands the name of her friend Izzy in her handwriting, apparently now living in Montana. The corner of her lips immediately quirk up, taking swift steps to her kitchentable, excited to see what her friend might have send her.

Opening the box carefully with a pair of sharp scissors, she takes the beautiful design of the handwritten letter in. Reading over the words her smile morphs into a grin. Joyful that her friend thought of her. Putting the letter aside the young woman starts unpacking all the items, turning it in her hands, feeling the different fabrics, admiring each one of them. Ocassionally a soft "Aww" or "Wow" escaping her lips.

Touched by the gesture AJ starts putting everything back aside, taking the package with her. Small feet take her to a adjacent room in her home, setting it on the table in the middle of the room. She has been meaning to sort through all the things she found and bought for her friends on her own travels. Walking up to the box she knows contains a few trinkets and pieces of clothing she wanted to send to Izzy she starts to rearrange the items inside.

Once she's satisfied with how the inside looks she sets down her letter writing kit, also containing a wax seal set, next to her on the table and begins writing.

"Hey Izzy!

It's good to hear from you. I'm excited to hear that you finally found a place to call your own, I'll come visit if you want me to! Your gifts are precious, I love every single one of them! I found a few of my own on my travels and hope that you will like them just as much as I did your gifts!

AJ ♡

PS: Are there any cute guys or gals in Downings? ;D"

Perfuming the letter with the scent that Izzy had complemented smelled nice the last time they met, the brunette puts the folded letter inside the already addressed envelope, sealing it with a lilac-navy-black glitter wax seal, a small version of the solar system being displayed.

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“��Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

[luxaofhesperides]

stories as a vessel for human history: an essay by lee jihye

In writing an essay for her history class, one of the first ones she's taking in university, Lee Jihye can't help but feel a little too much on the topic.

Or: You are Lee Jihye and you are trying to be a good student, but you're not sure you know how to be good, much less a student when the last time you were a student you—

also on ao3.

. . .

 Topic: Human history passed down via stories.

     …much has already been discussed about written history through personal diaries and letters. Documents that have survived from the Roman Empire are, perhaps, among the best examples, containing a glimpse into the author’s life, the culture of the time, and the language used. Writings from the Roman Empire also include quotes from plays that have been lost to time and are only known for those few remaining lines. Many works of the Ancient Greeks also survive this way.  

     There are many written documents that survive to the modern day and have been preserved physically and digitally through copying and digital archiving. What is less discussed are living stories. Stories and accounts of different periods of history passed down through people. An oral history that is shared through speaking and art. Nontraditional stories include cave paintings, preserved human footprints from early humans, embroidery and other craft arts passed down through families and sold in estate sales.  

     Pieces of the lives people have lead left behind to be found and  

 You sigh, leaning back in your chair. This is still just the introduction of your essay and it’s taken you a full hour to write. It’s not even done yet.

 University is horrible. It’s necessary for you to get a decent job in whatever field you want—something you’ll figure out later—but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it. Sure some of the offered classes are cool at all, but as a first year, all you can do is take the required classes and that includes history.

 It’s honestly shocking that you even got this far. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have ever thought about being in a school setting again, too focused on survival and nightmares and fear, but now you’re here. Trying to write a paper at midnight because it’s due in two days. Or tomorrow. Whatever.

 At least being part of the group that helped save the world gets you in without much of a fuss. There’s no way you would have made it in any other way, considering you never finished high school.

 Not that it would have changed much; you were never a good student.

 You don’t actually remember much about high school, now that you think about it. There are vague memories: walking down the hallway, getting lunch, sneaking out of gym class. All of it’s overshadowed by—

 Her pulse under your hands. You can feel it fluttering against your palms. It’s a sign of desperation, of fear, of no no don’t please I want to live but she smiled. She smiled at you and opened her mouth to

     provide an insight to what life was like in their time. We can piece together their story with the fragments they leave behind. We can learn what they wanted to say and pass that down, becoming another part of the journey of history.  

     A notable example of this unwritten history is fairytales. Stories told to children to impart lessons and warnings so that they are better prepared to survive in the world. Though many of these did eventually become written down, not all did. And if they did, different versions of the same story suggest that these stories were passed through word of mouth, changing with each person based on memory and understandability of the story. There has even been speculation the the fairytales penned by the Grimm Brothers were not original, but were instead folk tales that were passed down until they wrote those stories into a book.  

     These stories can also provide us knowledge of the time and culture they originated in. Despite being fictional, they are rooted in reality where  

 death had come for everyone, that day. Everyone but you. Alone, you had to step over their corpses, stumble out of that school, wondering if you really did survive. Maybe your corpse just hadn’t realized it yet, and when you finally did, you would drop dead and never feel so much pain again.

 But you kept going. You kept walking, blind, until the cries of monsters shook you out of your dissociative haze. From then on it was a mad scramble to survive when you had already done too much surviving. It was a man with a scowl and a black coat handing you a sword and dragging you to a train station. It was monster after monster and scared, desperate people looking to you for help because you were the only one who kept coming back alive.

 That’s a story too, but it’s not one anyone wants to talk about.

     If we go even farther back, we can look to cave paintings to understand their stories. Historians have offered theory after theory about what each could mean, why it was drawn, what purpose it serves. What most are forgetting are the basic facts: even before humans had permanent settlements and governments and written language, they had art. They created different colors, used that pigment to draw animals and people and maps, communicated with images.  

     Those walls say: humans were here. We were here and we saw the world. This is what was in it.  

     Those walls say: these hand prints are our children, who we held up because humans have been giving their kids paint and messy hands for thousands of years. These hand prints are proof of multiple people painting in a cave, sharing color, being together. This is a history of togetherness that has never left  

 alone you can’t help but think of all the ways things could be different if your roles were reversed. Would you have done that to her? Made her place her hands on your throat, made her let go of your limp and still body?

 She would have done better. Been more levelheaded, more thoughtful, more composed. Although you can’t image her getting along with Lee Gilyoung well, not with her fear of insects.

 You wonder if anyone else would have loved her as much as you did.

 You’ll never know. You can’t change the fact that you killed her.

 You’ll never change that fact that her story is only known through you. That she is only known for a murder broadcasted as both a warning and an inevitability.

 No one could escape it in the Star Stream. Even the constellations found their place in the sky with blood on their hands. There was never any other way.

     Investigating history through these nontraditional means allows us to see connections across time and culture. Humans have always been human; much of our humor stay the same. Graffiti in Pompeii contain crude jokes, including a “Your Mom” joke, references to popular culture at the time (the Aeneid), and declarations of relationships that, in the modern world, would be similar to carving names and hearts into wood.  

     Despite the distance between us and our ancestors, our defining characteristic of  

 being a crybaby. Many of your tears had been caused by stress and fear and grief, because those are the emotions that the scenarios brought out the most. Kim Dokja’s deaths have made you cry. But so has the act of Yoo Joonghyuk carrying out to safety when you were too injured to move.

 Sometimes you wonder if you had been cursed to feel everything just a little too much. To feel it endlessly.

 Even now, you live in a world where Na Bori is still dead by your hand and Kim Dokja won’t wake up and the Star Stream is gone but nothing has been fixed.

 Not really, anyways.

 In all honesty, you’re not sure you know to live in the world anymore. A world without the Star Stream, a world at peace, a normal world.

 You’re trying, but it feels like playing pretend. What’s normal is going to college and studying and figuring out what career you want. But you never really thought you’d have any of that, and now that it’s being handed to you, it feels like a joke with no punchline.

 You wish Kim Dokja would wake up. Surely he’d know what to say to help you figure out what to do next, how to

     create textiles and houses and families. These are also unconventional histories; they are deeply personal and rooted more in the context of family than of time. Consider a technique for creating something that only one family knows, and thus is passed down from generation to generation. Consider the recipe book of a great-great-great-great grandmother and how ingredients have changed so much it’s impossible to accurately recreate any of the foods listed. Consider the way names are passed down alongside material objects.  

     Consider the stories we keep passing down, the ones that have stayed with us since our ancestors gathered around a fire and  

 lied to her about how her story ends.

 That’s not to say Kim Dokja is a bad liar. He’s too good at it, actually. But once you got to know him better, it was easy to see the tells, to hear it in his voice.

 He promised you a happy ending then told you to leave him behind when your camp was attacked. He promised that he would be fine, but that was a lie too. You were prepared to die with him, right then and there.

 That was part of his plan, too.

 It got the attention of the forgotten people of the scenario, and they taught you so much about what stories are. About why they’re important. About why they’re alive.

 You wonder what happened to them, those reincarnators, after the Final Wall fell and the Star Stream was destroyed. You wonder if anyone remembers them, gave them

     gravestones depicting beloved children taken too soon, clay tablets stamped with baby footprints paired with names, notches in a wooden beam to track the height of children we’ll never know; all this is history. All this is a story that says in the same voice: we do this because we love each other enough to make a physical memory.  

     History is a collection of stories. Each story is a remnant of someone declaring “I was here. I was not alone. This is the world I live in.”  

     There is no other way history can be passed down. There’s a reason for this, for all the stories and words and artifacts: we don’t want to forget each other.  

 You push your laptop away from you, letting out a breath. All that’s left is a page for sources and to add in footnotes to cite your research, then editing and restructuring and...

 You pick up your phone to check your notifications. There is no phone charm on it.

 It hurt too much, seeing it dangle from your phone as if nothing had changed at all. As if she might walk into a classroom one day and playfully push you until there was enough space for her to sit, for the two of you to share a chair. As if you’re back in Taepung and no one is dead except the girl you used to be.

 Instead, you keep her charm tucked safely in your pocket, your palm, your wallet. Anywhere you can hold it to always bring a memento of her with you.

 You can’t forget.

 You won’t.

 This is your story: to hold onto your past so your ghosts never leave you. It starts and ends with your hands.

[lovelybarnes]

restless- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, mentions of natasha romanoff, sam wilson, and steve rogers warnings: mentions of nightmares and clingy bucky but it’s mostly fluff about: bucky can’t sleep without y/n a/n: i was going to post this yesterday but i fell asleep :| my computer was literally open and nearly dead when i woke up lmao

today marks one week that you’ve been gone, and with it, the official shortest amount of sleep that bucky has gotten in a week. he supposes it’s sightly pathetic that he can’t sleep well- or, really, at all- without you, but you continuously tell him you chase his nightmares away for him, and without you there to make them disappear, where else will they go but deep into the crevices of his mind, where they’ll hide long enough for him to let his guard down and lull himself to sleep, only to wake up with the ugly memories of things he hoped he’d forgotten. he’s constantly told that his attachment to you is overbearing- not by you, though. never by you- because it must be, with how much he clings to your side, always touching some part of you so that he’s sure that, yes, you’re there. not a dream or an illusion, although you’re good enough to be one.

he misses every part of you; your fingers and the way they run through his hair, trace his features with such tenderness he nearly believes he is what you see, your voice and its ability to transform the most mundane words into the greatest poetry, sing soft songs into his skin until he’s fallen asleep, your eyes and how they examine him in the best way possible, glowing when they meet his.

he longs for you, but he can only imagine your smile, the bitter reminder that you’re probably showing it to some psychopath for the mission you’re on. he hates steve every time the memory is evoked, the panic that comes with your being used as bait for some of the most screwed up villains in the world only returning stronger. he’s tempted to go get you himself, uncaring if he screws up the mission because at least he’ll have you.

stark will call him pathetic, then go to bed with the love of his life, so bucky prefers keeping his thoughts about you to himself, much like he’d like to keep you. you’ve told him you can handle yourself, and bucky never doubts it, having been victim to the using of your skills when he first encountered you as the winter soldier. you kicked his ass then, and you kick any and all ass now.

it doesn’t help his sleeping schedule, though your calls do. he swears you’re an angel because there’s no way a normal human could glow like that through a screen, but you always laugh off his words and simply tell him to turn his brightness down. however, you haven’t taught him that yet, so he greets you with the same sentence every time. his smile is always brighter after your calls, the dark bruises under his eyes reduced as if he got a full night’s rest. it’s your effect on him, and as much as everyone teases you both for it, they appreciate it.

you’re due to come back in a week or two, but bucky is unsure he can wait that long, and judging from your chirpier-than-usual voice in your latest interaction, you’ve finished early, like you always do. he likes to imagine it’s because of him, behind the deprecating voice that screams at him why would it be? (the answer is that you love him and hate every second you’re away from him)

sam scoffs when he overhears him telling that to steve, sitting down next to bucky, “man, there is no way you can tell that from a phone call. even if you could, i know she’s good, but to shave two weeks off mission time? natasha hasn’t even been able to do that.” a proud smile grows on bucky’s face without his permission as he shrugs, “she’s that good,” he brags, choosing to ignore the fake gag sam sends his way.

you frown when he tells you what he thinks on your call a few hours later, lips puckering into a small pout, “how did you know? i wanted it to be a surprise!” you ask through a crackled voice. so much for state of the art technology, bucky thinks, but is glad nonetheless to hear your voice. “i know you too well, doll. you’re really coming back today?”

you nod excitedly, biting your bottom lip. “mhm! i missed you and my bed too much to stay here a moment longer. villains are such pervs,” you complain, nose scrunching. bucky’s jaw sets when he hears your words, immediately thinking the worst. “but, i’m coming back today, so it’s fine. what do you want to do when i get back?”

bucky shrugs, “be with you,” he answers simply, making you laugh. “other than that, dummy. we could watch a movie, have a little date night to make up for the one i missed while i was gone.” bucky grins at this, remembering his plans for that night. “okay,” he agrees, “we’ll watch one of those movies on my list. although sam put some weird ones.”

you concur through chuckles that pass through the phone, reminding him how much you love him. he swears an oath to never let you go again and bites back a yawn that you see right through. “you’re sleeping the moment i get back,” you instruct, and bucky nods with your words, even when the sole idea of your being within arm’s reach is obviously too enticing to pass up for sleep. “whatever you want, doll. as long as you’re here.” he replies, thinking about spending the night pressing kisses to your hair and checking for any injuries you may have withheld from him.

the sentence is dishonest and you both know it, but you leave it at that, missing him too much and sure he’ll rest with how exhausted he must be. you say goodbye without the actual words, only giving a blown kiss and a “see you later.”

bucky spends the rest of the hours without you thinking of you, skimming through the words written in the little blue notebook you got him to replace his old one. that one sits on his dresser, the disuse proven by the layer of dust that covers it. the names he spent hours agonizing over, tracing his fingers over the indents made by the pen, are hidden by its cover. they never fade from his mind, though. only half of the pages of the one you gave him are blank now, and the ones that aren’t are bright and white, inviting him to drop his pen on the lines and jot whatever reference he didn’t understand but wants to. he eyes the names of the movies and shows, some accompanied by quotes that refer to them. “new girl: nick miller,” he reads, remembering how one of your friends said he was the avenger version of the character. “friends: ‘joey doesn’t share food,” sam told him that one when he didn’t let him have any of his chips. he looks at clueless, recalling the way all of his teammates stare at scott whenever the movie comes up. there are a couple pages like this, some of them recommendations and others titles he kept hearing. tonight, he decides on starting a new show, but he leaves the actual show up to you to decide.

you arrive a couple hours later, when stars have littered the darkness that bled through the sky. it’s all very rom-com-filmesque, the way you light up when you see his face- even through how tired you clearly are- and how you jump into his arms, ignoring the ache in your muscles because the way his arms wrap around you seems to make it disappear. he gathers you in his arms and kisses everywhere on your face, treasuring your laugh and the feeling of your lips pressing to his shoulder when you hug him again.

even when you pull away, he doesn’t let go of your hand, flesh fingers tracing small circles into your skin. you don’t complain, even when steve shoves papers in front of you and asks you to sign them with a sheepish look. sam comes by and teases bucky lightheartedly, hounding bucky to let you have both your hands. you chuckle at his request and squeeze bucky’s fingers, kissing the back of his hand, “oh, no, he better not,” you half-joke. he smiles, red tinting his cheeks as he gently draws you closer.

you don’t feel like driving at the moment, and you need to water your plants, completely sure that wanda forgot to do it, so you end up going to your room, even though you spend most of your time at his own room or your apartment outside the compound. you can tell how little the room has been used by the spotless counters and floors, furniture clean of any of the knickknacks you usually leave. you only sleep here when bucky leaves for long missions, his absence is overly blatant when he’s gone, and your plants keep you from feeling too alone.

you usher bucky inside, tugging open your drawers to search for something for him to wear. you grin at the soft fabric under the pads of your fingertips, recalling the memory of stealing them from bucky’s closet to soak in his scent when you couldn’t have the real thing. the considerable use has washed away all traces of him, and you decide that needs to be fixed, picking out clothing for him.

you change into one of his old shirts and make tea while he changes, smiling when you feel his arms wrapping around your waist and kissing your jaw. “what do you want to watch tonight?” he asks, and you contemplate it while you pour your drinks, shoveling spoons of sugar into each one to make it as sweet as possible- his favorite. “new girl, i think you’ll like it,” you reply after a moment.

he unravels his arms from around you, taking the mugs from the counter and following you to your room after you peck his cheek in thanks. “okay, i want to see what this nick miller is all about,” bucky says, making you laugh softly. “c’mon,” he urges, opening his arms for you after setting the cups down. you cuddle up to his side after you grab your computer, setting up netflix and choosing the show.

halfway through the first episode, bucky feels the fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks, hours of missed sleep catching up to him now that he’s finally relaxed and comfortable. keeping his eyes open is a job all on its own, and the sweet smell of your hair combined with the way your fingers move on his chest, softly writing letters and drawing shapes, is too much to resist.

you barely notice when he shuts his eyes, the evening of his breathing alerting you he’s succumbed to his tiredness. you stop the video and quietly shut your laptop, placing it on the bedside table while moving as little as possible. he feels you shift through your efforts, pulling you closer in his sleep. you chase away his nightmares like you always do, letting him sleep his first full night since you left.

he wakes up rejuvenated and embarrassed, sputtering out embarrassed apologies that you shush with kind reassurances and tender kisses. he’s reminded of how wonderful you are when you turn, arms extending to reach into your bag and carrying out a small stuffed animal that you say reminded you of him.

[clubatsumu]

i got my heart broken lately and ive been thinking about how the word /heartbreak/ does the experience no justice. no justice at all. it’s like this all encompassing form of a constant ache

For Ushijima Wakatoshi, loneliness manifests itself in physical ailments.

He is weaving bereavement into his daily routine; it comes in the most unobtrusive amount, barely trickling water off the bathroom faucet. The way he packs his lunch is a mournful affair, clinically detached in its efficiency. The way he clutches his chopsticks and measures his rice leaves no room for extra movement. Too big hands and too small things, wrapped in a sorrow that hangs over his form.

Sprinkled in between: A headache. A strain of a jaw clenched too tight. Pressure at the back of his neck.

Still not enough to cause alarm. Still — as it always is — unobtrusive.

It says, tap, tap, tap, before washing away down the drain.

.

You dream about knee protectors and rug burns, the stinging ache of a volleyball being slapped by the middle of the palm, stadium lights, meals spent alone, a television program playing in another room, Iwaizumi Hajime – you don’t know who he is, only his name and the unmistakable red circle of the flag on his chest – talking about meal plans. In the middle of it all: the empty swell of chest with something missing, aching and tugging and consuming a person whole, but still so very contained to one corner it suffocates itself, folding in like a collapsing star.

The dream stretches, warps, making a minute and an hour indistinguishable from each other.

Sometime later – or maybe in no time at all – when the pain becomes too deep, a sob rips from your chest, waking you up.

How very typical, you scoff, waking up and feeling one the verge of tears, here amidst the sprawling vineyards of a secluded Italian village where the vision of Wakatoshi is haunting you and your mind is plaguing you with fictionalized versions of his pain being written a world away.

How very typical that Toshi is still this way, you think even though it can’t be true — he can’t be hurting more than you are. Your hair is a tangled nest, and on your neck is a sheen of sweat. Your ear hurts from where it folded in your sleep, soldiering the strait between your pillow and your head. Wakatoshi, you know, is too single-minded to care.

.

Ushijima becomes reticent after he has won the biggest achievement of his career. He is hailed as Japan’s canon after he finishes his first Olympic games, but what he is is a scared man barely halfway through twenty.

The psychiatrist says there is nothing wrong with him. It’s a diagnosis consisting of scattered symptoms that are incohesive. He admits to having trouble sleeping, so he gets a prescription for sleeping pills. He admits to feeling an ache in his chest sometimes, nothing big, just a slight squeeze every once in a while. The results of the echocardiogram come back normal. There are too many voices. Dominant among them is his mother’s, next is his grandmother’s, then -- there among the sea of drifting sirens in a pitch black lake -- is his own.

When all roads are blocked, and there is no diagnosis to come to, the doctor finally recommends he see a therapist and gives him the address on a slip of torn paper.

“Something…” he starts, knowing he has not the affinity with words everyone wants him to have, knowing he cannot say what he means, knowing he never has. “Something is wrong. Missing.”

The doctor gives him a look of sympathy. It’s the first sign of emotion in the hour he’s been sitting in her office, and it is revealing that she thinks of him as some sort of broken object. “Hmm,” she hums in agreement – she can hardly do anything else, he thinks – eyes flitting to the pad of paper. “You already know what it is. Or have an idea.”

It’s not a question.

If someone asked Wakatoshi about the duality of the human condition, he’d tell them that it’s true — that there indeed exists a better half. It’s true because he is like that: he is himself, and you are yourself, and there is a cleaved ether on his left side matching the one on your right. With you leaving, all he has is the company of the more unfortunate piece.

Wakatoshi takes a beat to answer, words clotting in their pathway.

.

There is a wedding band hidden in the third drawer of his desk, untouched and as good as new, worn for less than a year before it was stashed away. Much like your marriage, it is put aside — not necessarily discarded, no, simply… put on hold.

Ushijima likes to think it’s put on hold. He doesn’t know what you think of it; if you still wear yours or if you already threw it away. It’s easy enough to divorce, he knows all too well. It’s easy enough to find someone better. It’s easy enough — moving forward, moving on, forgetting. Moving is easy, motion is inevitable.

What’s hard is staying at an impasse, waiting for something to happen when nothing will. Water cannot be still: the human condition cannot remain unmoving. What’s hard is this. The ring, sitting untouched, unworn. The marriage ripped at the seams with only a few choice threads keeping two fabrics from completely tearing. What’s hard is maintaining equilibrium while the world is falling apart.

He’ll find out soon — your opinion on the ring — whether he wants to or not. He slips the band in his gym bag before he leaves the house that morning, then slips it into his finger after conditioning that afternoon.

It fits.

Much like you did, some lifetime ago. When you were sixteen on a schoolyard, eighteen on the cool stain of the bleachers, twenty in the corner of a living room party. Twenty-one in the departure lounge.

“Leaving early?” Hoshiumi asks, towel on his shoulder and about to head to the showers. “The managers said they’re taking us out to dinner.”

“Hmm.” He packs his bag, mind listless, not really on anything he can see. “I need to fetch someone at the airport.”

Hoshiumi is well-meaning, but he is as abrasive as an untrained dog without a leash. “Who’s it? Anyone I know?”

“No.” Wakatoshi swallows, pries the word from the roof of his mouth and the bottom of his chest, wondering all the while if it’s still true. “It’s my wife.”

.

You arrive in Sendai with a single suitcase, large to an obscene degree, its handle outstretched and your hand guiding it as it’s dragged through the airport upright.

The white-gold metal band makes a sound as your fingers shift to grip the handle.

tbc

[mypoisonedvine]

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (chapter 10 - FINALE)

series masterlist

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind.  you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 6k

warnings: implied smut, angst, fluff, romcom tropes, lots of swearing, pregnancy mention/minor breeding kink

note: click the asterisk for a hyperlink to a translation when the time comes

Six months later...

“It’s good!” she beamed, setting down the last chunk of pages and taking off her reading glasses. “Oh man, that ending hurt, but it’s really, really good!”

You leaned back into the plush chair and sighed with relief. “You think so?”

“It’s best-seller material,” she assured. “With some editing, of course. God, I can’t believe you were sitting on this for so long.”

“What are the biggest changes you want to make?” you asked.

“Well, I’m thinking we’ll cut the romantic subplot,” she mentioned in passing, like it was no big deal. “It’s distracting.

“Distracing?” you repeated. “Nia, it’s the story. It’s a romance.”

“I thought it was a thriller,” she frowned.

“A romance disguised as a thriller,” you corrected.

“Listen, I get what you mean, but I didn’t get this—” she tapped the nameplate on her desk: ‘NIA BROWN, HEAD PUBLISHER’ in shiny letters— “for nothing. I know what I’m talking about, and I know what your readers want. Violence, gore, drama!”

“It has all that!” you defended. “But it’s all there to talk about the real love he finds in her!”

“What do you mean ‘real love’?” she pressed flatly.

“I mean…” you pondered. “I mean love where you feel like a version of yourself that you actually like. Love where you feel unjudged, no precedents or caveats or back-up plans. Love that fucking hurts because you never wanted to rely on anything or anybody. Love that lives in silence because you don’t even need words.”

She furrowed her brow. “That… sounds nice, I guess, but I don’t think anybody really has that. Everybody needs a back-up plan. Everybody needs words— a writer should know that.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” you groaned, your face falling into your hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, I’m a moron.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I had that! I had that, and I let it go! I’m the dumbest bitch on the fucking face of the Earth.”

“Don’t say that,” she soothed, but you were already standing up.

“No, I need to find him,” you decided as you grabbed your coat and briefcase. “I need to go back and try to fix this. I love him, I’ve never— I didn’t know I could love like that, I didn’t know I could be loved like that… oh my god, I need to find him. It isn’t over.”

“It isn’t over?” she repeated incredulously. “You said Michael signed the papers!”

“It’s not Michael,” you rolled your eyes as you stormed out of the office. “It was never Michael.”

You ran into the first telephone box you could find, slamming the door shut as you searched your purse for the business card that probably wasn't even in there.

After a moment, you gasped with delight when you pulled it from a very bottom pocket and began punching in the number as fast as possible with shivering hands, long-distance charges be damned.

“Hello?” the confused voice on the other end answered.

“Mrs. Alberti, hi— does Sebastian still work for you?” you asked hastily.

“No, dear," she sighed, apparently recognizing you by just your voice (and likely your request), "he quit recently, and moved away.”

“Moved?" you repeated with a wrinkled brow. "Where?!”

“I assume back home, sweetheart; to Bucharest.”

“Shit,” you sighed. “Shit!”

“Are you having your ‘run through the airport’ moment, sweetheart?” she realized.

“Yes, I think so— do you have his address?”

“Well, no, but I’ll see what I can find.”

You waited rather impatiently as she shuffled through papers in the background, mumbling to herself as she apparently searched for information that could help you.

“All I’ve got is the address of a previous employer… a carpenter,” she finally explained, breaking the silence. “It was his only reference when he came to work here," she explained.

"Wow, you really did just hire him for his looks," you blurted out.

"He was desperate for work, that boy had nowhere else to go,” she defended.

“Right, well, I guess if that’s my only lead then I’ve gotta go for it,” you decided. “Thank you, Mrs. Alberti.”

“I told you to call me when that book was a hit. Did it happen yet?” she piped up.

“It’s not published yet,” you explained. “It needs some more work… but I think it’s almost ready.”

“I think so, too, dear.”

Learn Romanian in 10 Weeks! A practical language guide.

Week 1, Day 1: Greetings

Hello                      Salut

Goodbye                La revedere

Thank you              Mulțumesc

You’re welcome      Cu plăcere

Good morning         Bună dimineata

Good afternoon       Bună ziua

Good evening          Bună seara

Good night               Noapte bună

You brushed your hair back out of your face with a sigh, turning the page as you mumbled the phrases to yourself. Broken Hungarian and your high school education in Latin were not getting you as far with this as you had been hoping.

How are you?          Ce mai faci

I love you                 Te iubesc

“Te iubesc, te iubesc, te iubesc,” you repeated over and over in a whisper.

Each day you had a new routine: practice Romanian for an hour, check flight prices online (or call the airline), research what you knew about Sebastian and the address Mrs. Alberti had given you, and then get back to practicing Romanian again.

Oh, and occasionally you worked on the edits Nia wanted for your manuscript. You were focusing on the minor changes— grammar errors, rearranging sentences— and putting off her big request for the removal and replacement of the romantic aspects. More than ever, they seemed like the most important thing the book had to offer.

You had a small apartment, just a place to sleep and shower really; much too small to fit everything you’d already taken from Michael’s house (you know, the one that used to be your house) along with what he’d shipped to you that you forgot before. He included a letter in the package as well. You threw it out, unopened.

Truthfully, you never really fully unpacked. As much as you realized you probably should, in order to really feel like you had a real home, you couldn’t bring yourself to empty your suitcases when you knew you’d be packing them again any day now.

You also realized how outrageous this all was. Ignoring the unlikelihood of even finding him in the first place, Sebastian probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you broke his heart, left, and then randomly tracked him down after over half a year. But to be totally transparent, you weren’t really doing this to get him back, necessarily. You knew that was probably never going to happen. You were doing this because you needed to try. You needed to go there, and get hurt, and come back knowing you did everything you could: you’d never be able to live with yourself if you did anything less than that.

You couldn’t start your new life until you had put everything else to bed. And if that meant being 100%, painfully certain that you and Sebastian could never be together, then that was just how it needed to be.

After two weeks of looking, there still weren’t any reasonable flights to Bucharest, so you booked another trip by train, figuring you could use the three day trip to brush up on the key Romanian phrases you were going to need as well as prepare your speech.

Yes, your plan was a speech. You didn’t have a back-up plan. You didn’t even have a return ticket back to London yet.

A passage by Yeats came to mind; But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

In all your life, you’d never understood before why someone would want to only have their dreams. But now, here you were… and yes, it felt terrifying and vulnerable and uncomfortably naked, but it felt pretty damn good, too.

With a sigh, you scribbled out the last sentence you’d written, tossing the trash paper aside. You looked up out the window at the scenery flying by in a blur, worried that if you didn’t look out from the train every once in a while you’d get motion sickness.

The sun was beginning to set already, the green of hills and trees tinted orange. You only indulged in it for a moment, though, before getting back to this god-forsaken speech you were deadset on finishing before you arrived in Bucharest tomorrow. At first, you’d figured the translating would be the most difficult part… but writing in English wasn’t exactly a piece of cake, either. You had so much to say, and suddenly so few words for any of it.

You’d probably done more editing on this than any of your novels combined; the crumpled up pages spilling out of your wastebasket were proof enough of that.

“And I’m a fucking writer!” you groaned aloud, to no one in particular. “How is anybody else supposed to be able to do this, if I can’t?”

Other people aren’t as emotionally constipated as you, the voice of your inner critic reminded you plainly, making you roll your eyes at yourself.

A rap at your door made you sit up straighter and turn around. A stewardess slid open the frosted glass slightly to give you a friendly smile. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

Your brows furrowed at the sound of her accent. “Is that a Romanian accent?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she nodded.

“So you’re fluent in Romanian and English,” you concluded.

“And Portuguese, yes ma’am,” she agreed.

“Could you come in here for a moment and help me translate something?”

She seemed slightly confused at the request but stepped forward, sliding the door most of the way shut behind her. Leaning beside you on the desk, she picked up your handwritten letter and blinked her wide, brown eyes a few times. You felt slightly embarrassed knowing she was reading such intimate thoughts, but that was how it felt the first time someone read anything you wrote so you were pretty much used to it by now.

“I usually ask the passengers what brings them to Bucharest,” she mumbled after a moment. “This is the most interesting thing so far. Am I reading this correctly, that you intend to confess your love to someone you met—” she scanned the page quickly— “during a vacation in Hungary?”

“Yup,” you smiled awkwardly, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“And he doesn’t speak English?” she assumed; you nodded. “And… you don’t speak Romanian?”

You nodded again, and she breathed in and out quickly, sitting beside you as she stared at the letter.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she explained.

“Sorry for sucking you into the entropic vortex that is my life,” you chuckled.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she sighed, setting the letter down, and you laughed a little internally at the idea that she was worried about prying when she just read the most personal piece of writing you’d ever put to the page, “but do you think this is… enough? I mean, to build a relationship on?”

You just gave her a shrug. “I have no idea. But, you know, I spent my whole life worrying about stuff like that. I dated my husband for seven years before we got married, because I wanted to be sure. I was initially interested in him because he was successful and ambitious, and it made me feel like this was a really secure relationship that I could rely on. I double majored in English and Computer Science because I wanted a more stable career to fall back on in case being a writer didn’t work out, and even though it did, I’ve spent most of my career publishing what I thought people wanted to read instead of what I wanted to write, so I’d have a better shot at a good paycheck. I grew up thinking the best thing I could ever have was security. And now I’m divorced, watching my royalties shrink every month, more insecure in every way than I’ve ever been, and I’m realizing that the choices I made didn’t give me what I wanted. I gave up so much in the name of safety, and I let the one good thing I’d ever found go, so I could go back to being the same person I always was. I’m ready to settle again, if this doesn’t work… I’m ready to accept that this is just the way life goes, and be thankful that I got a taste of the kind of stuff I thought only existed in the sort of books I’d read but never write.”

She swallowed as she looked at you, and you felt your eyes water as you stared out the window towards the dimming scenery one more time, smiling at the sight of a distant village, a church with a steeple, vineyards and farms. Someone’s whole life is in that little town, you imagined, and they’re just watching your train go by like they see every other day.

“Sebastian gave me more security than I’d ever had before, even though the whole thing was such a ridiculous little whirlwind, and nothing like I ever imagined my life could be. But he made me want to be honest and raw and write sappy letters like the one you just read. He doesn’t have any money, at least as far as I know, and I haven’t known him for seven years, and on paper it makes no sense… but you would understand if you knew him. If you felt that joy that he radiates, if you saw him live his simple little life like it’s the best thing in the world. You would understand if you knew how much I needed this. You would understand if you had been just as miserable being who I’ve been for so long, and finally had a chance to be somebody you think you were maybe meant to be the whole time. So, if I never see him again, I hope I just get to thank him.”

You waited for her to say something, but furrowed your brow at the long moment of silence, looking back from the window finally and finding her staring at you with a tear running down her cheek. When you met her gaze, she quickly wiped it away with a sniffle and looked down at your desk again. “Let’s get to translating, shall we?” she announced with a half-smile.

You noticed the way the other passengers looked at you as everyone was in line to deboard from the train car; you stuck out like a sore thumb, since everybody else was carrying heavy luggage and all you had was a backpack.

In your defense, you really had no idea how to pack for a trip where you knew neither the duration nor the true final destination. So, it was mainly filled with your essentials, a few clothes for any kind of weather, and enough leu to buy anything else you needed along the way.

The stewardess was waving goodbye to everyone as they shuffled out into the train station, occasionally stopping to shake a hand or give directions to nearby destinations. When you were just about to pass by, though, she pulled you into a tight hug.

“Good luck,” she whispered, holding you just a moment too long before pulling back and giving you an encouraging look. “If he doesn’t take you back, feel free to blame my translation… because if he knows what’s in your heart, I know he’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part isn’t it?” you laughed weakly. “Thank you for your help. I guess if I come back alone for the return trip tonight, you’ll know how bad it went.”

“Then I hope I don’t see you again,” she winked.

It being a major train station and all, cabs were waiting around every corner so it was pretty easy to grab one and give them the address you already had written down for this exact purpose.

“This is pretty far,” the driver explained, “on the edge of town. Not a tourist spot.”

“Good, because I’m not a tourist,” you nodded, already only giving him half your attention as you pulled out the translated speech to practice.

“And you can afford this?” he pressed. You sighed and dug through your bag, pulling out a haphazard stack of bills and handing them through the plastic partition.

“Is this enough?” you asked, and he didn’t answer, just taking the money and starting the car as you smiled and leaned back in your seat.

As much as you had tried to convince yourself to not get your hopes up, the butterflies in your stomach felt more like whole birds at this point, demanding to break free as you practiced the words hand-written on the page over and over again, committing it all to memory.

“What are you reading?” the cab driver asked after several minutes.

“Oh, nothing,” you mumbled, “sorry if I’m bothering you, you can turn on the radio.”

“No, it’s not bothering me, but what you are saying… it’s very odd. It sounds like something from a play, or movie,” he explained.

“Um, it’s not,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “But does it sound like it’s from a good movie? Like, if you heard a character say this to another character, would you think they should get together?”

“I… don’t know,” he answered, sounding confused. “I mean, it depends on what happened, right? How they met, how well they get along…”

So, you told him the whole story, as succinctly as possible (which is not very succinct at all). By the end, he was actually giving commentary as you spoke.

“Why the hell did you leave?” he interjected, clearly irritated with you. “You loved him!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes love isn’t enough! I loved my husband too, and look how that turned out,” you defended.

“But that’s different. That was love for all the wrong reasons.”

“I promise, it felt very real at the time,” you shrugged.

“And now?” he countered. “You realize that this man— Sebastian, right?— is real.”

“I hope I’m right this time,” you offered. “But even if I am, he may not agree.”

The driver scoffed, taking a hand off the wheel to wave dismissively. “If he’s anything like you said, then he will still be completely in love with you. After all, you still feel the same way after all this time apart, don’t you?”

“If anything, I love him more every day,” you admitted, your heart beating quickly just to say it aloud.

“You know, when I met my wife, she was engaged to another man. He was rich, good-looking, and he wasn’t even a bad guy unlike this husband you describe. He was a good man, but he wasn’t right for her. They were… content together, but she wasn’t truly happy. Every night I would come to her window and beg her to marry me, because I knew that she knew we were meant for each other, but she was scared because her family wouldn’t approve and she would be a poor man’s wife.”

“How did you convince her to marry you instead?” you asked eagerly, sucked into the story already.

“I didn’t. On the day of the wedding, some people told me to go and break it up but I didn’t. I thought it would be wrong, to try to ruin her happiness and take it for myself by making a scene at the wedding. I realized she was her own woman and if she wanted to choose him, I had to let her. I had locked myself in my house, not wanting to see anyone that day, and she appeared at my door. I didn’t need to convince her because she knew the truth in her heart, and called off the wedding herself.”

“Wow,” you smiled.

“She was still in her dress!” he recalled with a hearty laugh. “She looked like an angel. We were married just a few days later. And next month will be thirty years,” he added as he lifted his left hand to show the golden band on his finger.

“Thirty years, that’s… a long time,” you sighed.

“It wasn’t always easy,” he admitted. “But it was always worth it.”

Just as you wondered what you could possibly say to that, you felt the car slow down to a stop.

“This is the address you gave me, this is it,” he explained, pointing out his passenger-side window. You leaned up against the glass and gasped in dawning fear as you saw the storefront dark and empty inside.

“No, nonono,” you whispered rapidly to yourself as you swung open the door and hopped out, pressing your face against the glass to try to get a look inside and finding what was undeniably a closed carpentry business. There was a note on the door, taped on the inside of the glass, and you knew enough Romanian to know it said something about a vacation and three months.

“Shit!” you yelped, holding your face in your hands, wondering if your journey had come to an end before it really began.

“Are you alright?” the driver asked, rolling down his window to speak to you.

“This was my only lead, I don’t have his real address,” you explained. “He used to work here, I thought maybe someone would know him…”

He sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “Get back in, we can search nearby. You came too far to give in yet.”

But getting back in the car felt like giving in, too, which you realized as you looked back at the note taped to the carpenter's door. This was the closest you'd gotten, and it felt wasteful to leave with nothing.

Just as you were ready to hop in the passenger seat and start searching aimlessly through suburban Bucharest, or maybe look around for a Romanian yellow pages, you heard a noise from behind you, across the street; a laugh. His laugh. But it couldn’t be because it was too good to be true… and yet you found yourself whipping your head around and hoping beyond all reason that it was Sebastian.

Across the street was a restaurant, with a large patio where patrons were dining and chatting as they sat at wrought iron tables, and your eyes searched the crowd for any signs of him.

And then your gaze landed on a head of thick brunette hair, red and gold highlights so obvious now when the sunlight hit it this way. Broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-up shirt. He was facing away from you but he was looking to the side so you could see his face; he was smiling, laughing at something someone had said. And it was his smile that you recognized; it was like everything else faded away, and in that moment you thought maybe you could almost be happy with just this, just seeing him be happy even if it had nothing to do with you.

“Sebastian,” you called out to him, but he didn’t react. “Sebastian!”

His whole body turned, his eyes met yours, and you couldn't help but let the tears well in your eyes as you ran across the road to him.

He looked, understandably, stunned, and you realized he was actually waiting on a table at the moment; he said something to them, apparently excusing himself, and stepped closer to you.

But he stopped walking, not coming any closer, not exactly dragging you into his arms like you might've preferred, but with a breath to try to soothe your racing mind, you summoned your memories of the practiced letter and began. *

“Când am venit în Ungaria…” you started slowly, doing your best to remember the words and hoping your pronunciation wasn’t too awful, “nu căutam dragoste. Căutam spațiu, claritate și poate o idee de carte de un milion de dolari. În schimb, am găsit tot ce am căutat toată viața mea…”

You did your best to bite back tears, especially when his expression was nearly unreadable and you had no idea how well this was going.

“Ești tu, Sebastian, bineînțeles că ești tu,” you sighed, laughing slightly. “Ai fost acolo pentru mine când nici nu știam ce vreau de la nimeni. Ai fost prietenul meu fără să spui vreodată un cuvânt - cel puțin nu un cuvânt pe care l-am înțeles. M-ai iubit și nu știam ce să fac cu asta, pentru că uitasem cu mult timp în urmă cum se simțea să fii iubit. Și ce simțeai să iubești cu adevărat pe cineva. Dar te iubesc. Și am fost prost să te las să pleci, atât de neconceput de prost. Vreau să fim noi, Sebastian. Lasă-mă să te iubesc, mai dă-mi o șansă și îți promit că nu te voi mai lăsa să pleci niciodată.

The first thing he said was your name, and just the way he said it made you fall in love with him all over again.

“I… I dream that you would come back,” he shakily replied. “But now I cannot believe. You are my dream.”

Tears were openly flowing at this point and you wanted to run into his arms, but you tried to stay calm and hear him out. He stepped closer, almost hesitant, like you would run away if he got too close too fast.

“I love you, very much that I am sure I am insane person,” he explained with a grin, and you giggled. “We will live anywhere, do anything you would like— be my wife.”

You gasped as he pulled you into him, gripping your arms tightly as his desperation became apparent.

“Marry me?” he asked softly.

“Da,” you nodded, “yes, of course, anything—”

He kissed you suddenly, but gently, and it said more than any words in any language could.

It was a small wedding, in the Hungarian countryside by the lake. You could remember diving into that lake for lost pages of your manuscript; you could remember looking out over the water and dreaming of this moment you were living right now, thinking it was impossible.

He didn’t have much family, but they welcomed you with open arms.

Your family, well, they were too busy with planning another wedding, for your ex-husband and your ex-sister. A few of them sent cards but the rest were suspiciously quiet. You honestly didn’t even notice… you had a new family to attend to, anyhow. And it wasn’t like you didn’t have any guests, since you were able to track down and invite a stewardess named Maria, and a cab driver named Andrei and his wife, Paola.

Sebastian’s cousins weaved flowers into your hair and his grandmother tailored her dress to fit you like a glove. A picture of his parents was hung nearby in tribute; he told you they would’ve wanted to see him get married but that he felt, in some way, they were able to even if they had passed away quite some time ago.

You realized you’d never seen him in anything even mildly formal before; in fact, the suit he wore was rather casual, all things considered, but he looked so painfully cute in it. Sometimes you thought he actually looked a bit out of place wearing a shirt, though, especially one that was buttoned up all the way.

Luckily, the shirt was halfway unbuttoned about ten minutes into the reception.

Mrs. Alberti cooked a massive dinner for everyone, and even grew the flowers that you carried down the cobblestone aisle.

And wow, can Romanians drink. You had to be careful not to try to keep up with them, because if you had you would’ve been blacked out halfway into the night and the last thing you wanted was to forget even a moment of this.

As the night started to wind down to a close, you and your new husband retired to the lakehouse, running up the stairs and finding them as creaky as always.

He wrapped his arms around you in the hall and kissed you eagerly as you stumbled back into the bedroom, tripping over the doorway and falling onto the bed together.

It felt so right to have his weight on top of you, to feel his smile against your lips, to wrap your arms around his neck.

“This room,” he mumbled into the kiss. “Do you remember first time?”

“Yes,” you nodded, “da, I remember, how could I forget?”

He grinned and moved his lips down to your neck. "I thought of you every day… I love you,” he whispered.

“Te iubesc,” you whispered back.

It was almost like the first time in so many ways: passionate, yet oddly hesitant as you rediscovered each other. It was comfortable, though… you couldn’t think of any other person you felt so comfortable with, somebody who finally got you out of your own head and who made you want to experience everything life had to offer.

You were sure you’d never gone so long without worrying about something in all your life.

“My wife,” he whispered against your skin. “This is all I had wanted… from seeing you in very beginning.”

“You’re all I ever wanted,” you sighed in return, “ești tot ce mi-am dorit vreodată, Sebastian.”

Life with Sebastian was beautifully simple. You spent most of the day writing, usually, while he built furniture to sell and occasionally gardened with his spare time. You could always tell how busy you’d been with a new novel lately by how perfectly groomed the hydrangea bushes were.

You’d told him once that you’d come to Hungary looking for a million-dollar book idea. A Killer in Disguise performed alright, but not anywhere near that. The Language of Love, on the other hand, was definitely a million-dollar idea… about eleven times over. Sebastian didn’t seem to worry too much about how much money you made, though; he was just proud to say that he was the inspiration for your hit novel. You secretly suspected that he was more proud of your work reaching enough international notoriety to be translated into Romanian.

His English still needed some work, but you found it endearing. He was determined to get better and spent at least a half-hour each day practicing, but you hoped he wouldn’t get too perfect because you would miss the silly little mistakes he made. At least you could be sure he’d keep the accent forever… damn, that accent; and he knew exactly what it did to you, too.

In fact, you were crossing through the hall in your robe one evening when your husband’s voice stopped you.

“Darling wife,” you heard Sebastian call from the bedroom in a playful sing-song.

“What is it, Seba?” you asked with a smirk.

“Come in here, please…”

You opened the bedroom door to find most of the room covered in rose petals: most of all the bed, which was surrounded by candles, and topped with a shirtless (as per usual) Sebastian, laid on his side seductively with a long-stemmed rose (one you recognized from his very own garden) between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” you laughed. “Is this some sort of special occasion I’ve forgotten?”

You were already searching your mind for what it could be, but your two-year anniversary had passed a few months ago already and since it was spring it couldn’t be the anniversary of when you first met since that was late in the summer.

“Iss not quite a thpecial occathion yeth,” he answered before taking the rose from his mouth so he actually made sense. “I was considering it could be a special occasion, when we’re done…”

You smirked and climbed over the candles and into bed with him, taking the opportunity to run your hands over his chest. “And what occasion would that be?”

“A year from now, it could be the anniversary of when our child was conceived,” he answered.

Your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to a whisper of surprise. “Seba—”

“If you’re not ready, I will be understand,” he instantly added, stern yet soft. “Only if you want this, I just thought that maybe—”

You silenced him with a kiss, lacing your fingers into his hair and letting him roll you onto your back. He pulled back just enough to let you answer, but your noses were still bumping into each other and you smiled.

“I’m ready, Sebastian. More than ready,” you whispered.

He grinned and kissed you again, deeper and slower as he held your face with one hand and gripped your waist with the other. As his lips trailed down to your neck, you were interrupted with one pressing thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He popped up and looked down at you with a smile. “Sure!”

“Why are you wearing ratty old jeans?” you laughed.

“Hey, these worked on you the first time,” he defended.

You gasped. “You don’t mean those are the jeans—”

“Yes,” he nodded, “the jeans that I had been wearing when I was working on Mrs. Alberti’s cottage. And, truly, when I was finding an excuse to work outside your window.”

“Wait,” you sat up, “did you actually work outside my window on purpose?”

He laughed, hanging his head quickly before looking back at you again with a sparkle in his eye. “You are very smart, my love, except for those times when you are— how do you say? Oblivious.”

You chuckled, unfortunately very aware that he was right.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why I was building a window frame, nearly a dozen metres away from the window it was for?”

You thought for a moment before dropping your face into your hands and laughing. “No, I didn’t notice that. I was too busy giving you a thorough eye-fuck,” you recalled.

“Yes, because I was not wearing a shirt and this distracted you,” he pondered, sounding suddenly like a scientist explaining a theorem or something. “See, that’s the beauty of wearing the jeans and no shirt. The body distracts you while the jeans seduce you.”

“How about you take the jeans off and put that body on me, capisce?” you pleaded; not that you didn’t love his humor or anything, but maybe his funny bone wasn’t exactly the bone you were interested in at the moment.

He grinned devilishly and suddenly pulled your legs apart, settling his body between them as he kissed your neck again, nipping at your jawline and ear. “You’re being impatient, dragă,” he purred. “You want to have my baby that badly?”

You whined involuntarily, arching your back as his hands roamed your body and finally began to untie your robe and push the silk out of the way. “Yes, Sebastian, please—”

“Let’s just say, theoretically, I wanted to have more than one? Would you have another of my children?” he asked softly as he reached up and palmed at your breasts, teasing your nipples which were already much too hard and sensitive for how little he’d touched you. The rough denim rubbing against the inside of your thighs was oddly arousing— maybe it was the sensation itself, or maybe it was just that this was almost like the first thing you imagined when you saw Sebastian all those years ago.

“Yes,” you moaned out your answer, “yes, you know I’d do anything for you.”

“What if I wanted a big family?” he pressed. “Really big? Like, Catholic big?”

“We can have our own fuckin’ Brady Bunch, Seb, I just need you right now,” you begged, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a hot and desperate kiss.

He decided to wait until afterwards to ask what a ‘Brady Bunch’ was. You decided to wait until afterwards to ask when he’d learned how to use the word ‘theoretically’.

sfarsit; the end

[supernovafics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇

pairing: dylan o’brien x best friend fem!reader

summary: in which dylan has been your best friend for as long as you could remember. your busy lives and schedules may have pushed both of your lives in vastly different directions as you’d gotten older, but somehow you two would always be led back to your hometown, and each other, during the holidays. however, one moment causes all of that to change. 

warnings: angst (what else is new), some fluffiness, mentions of past trauma (the maze runner incident), existential crises, explicit language

word count: 3.6k words

author’s note: idk why i decided to write something christmas related in the summer but it happened lmao (also i feel like it’s slightly important to mention that this takes place in 2016)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The rocks being thrown at your window were not what woke you up. Instead, you had been lying awake for hours; getting little to no sleep was something that you had become used to at this point.

However, on this specific night— or morning, depending on how one looked at it— you were glad that your sleep had been restless once again because it made it easy for you to get out of bed and walk to your window when the rocks began hitting it.

There was really no need for you to push open the curtains and check who was doing the throwing because, of course, it was Dylan. Ever since he moved onto your street in Hermosa Beach in middle school and the two of you easily became friends, he was the only person that would ever wake you up in the middle of the night with the soft pings of rocks, especially on this specific day at this specific time.

You waved at him and gestured that you would be down in a moment. You slipped on a random pair of sweatpants along with a hoodie and then placed the Christmas gift that you bought for him in the pocket. The item was small enough to fit in the not too big pocket of your hoodie; however, it did awkwardly protrude a bit.

All of this was a sort of unspoken tradition that the pair of you had developed over the many years you’d known each other. Meeting at five in the morning on Christmas day, walking to the beach that was only a few blocks away from your respective childhood homes, and exchanging Christmas gifts with each other as you both watched the sunrise. It started when you were in ninth grade, and you hadn't missed a year since, not even when the ending of high school pushed your lives in vastly different directions, especially since Dylan graduated a year before you and was almost immediately thrust into his acting career.

But, it didn't matter that Dylan's career took off, and you eventually decided to go to college in Santa Barbara, because, no matter what, you both would always come back for the holidays.

When you opened your front door and saw Dylan lingering by the sidewalk no more than ten feet away, you were quick to go toward him and pull him in for a tight embrace. It actually hadn't been too long since you’d last seen him, maybe only five or six months, but for some reason, it still felt as if the last time he was in front of you was last December.

"Hey," Dylan breathed out in a short greeting, his arms wounding around your waist.

“Hey to you too," You responded, a small smile gracing your features when you both pulled away, and you looked up at him. "How have you been?"

It was quiet for a few moments as you waited for him to answer the question, but eventually, you were met with no verbal response, and instead, Dylan simply shrugged. The short action made your heart constrict in the most painful way, and it was then that you noticed the light remnants of a scar peeking out from behind his dark hair that covered the majority of his forehead. You were quick to peel your eyes away from the scar and instead cast them down at your Converse-covered feet, but that didn't stop the memories from quickly coming back.

The Maze Runner accident had happened back in March, but to you, and you knew to Dylan as well, it felt as if it was just yesterday, especially considering the fact that he was still dealing with the unavoidable repercussions from it.

"Wanna walk?" You asked, finally looking up at him once again.

Dylan nodded. "Yeah."

A silence that could only be deemed as comfortable lingered between them as the two of you took the five-minute walk to the beach and sat down side by side on one of the random empty benches.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N," Dylan said as he handed a present over to you. The present was messily wrapped, something that was not at all uncommon when receiving gifts from Dylan, and the sight of it made you smile.

Before you unwrapped the gift, you pulled out the one you had for him and handed it over. "Merry Christmas, Dyl."

The nostalgic sound of wrapping paper ripping could be heard as you tore into your gift. A simultaneous shocked and happy yelp emitted from your lips when you held up a Harry Potter t-shirt. But, it wasn't just any Harry Potter t-shirt; it was one with a version of the Goblet of Fire movie poster on it, which was your all-time favorite movie in the series.

"Holy shit."

"It's the original merch that was sold when the movie came out," Dylan told you. He hadn't opened his gift yet, and instead, he was playing with the green bow placed on top of it; he always liked to see your reaction first.

You looked at Dylan and then back down at the shirt as you processed his words. "Wow, double holy shit. I would put it on if it wasn't freezing right now."

Dylan laughed a bit. "Very understandable."

“Why haven't you opened yours yet? I'm dying to see what you think of it," You said. You were now holding the t-shirt to your chest, genuinely feeling like a little kid on Christmas morning again.

Dylan finally began unwrapping your gift to him, and when all of the paper was peeled off, there was a square box. "Aw, a plain white box. Thank you so much. This is what I've always wanted."

You rolled your eyes and playfully bumped him with your shoulder. "Ha ha. Please save all of these bad jokes for your stand-up act; I can't wait to boo you off the stage along with everyone else."

"So, what I'm hearing is you don't think that becoming a comedian is going to be the next best career move for me?" Dylan asked. He attempted to make the question sound as serious as possible, but there was a joking undertone to his words.

You bit back your laughter. "Please just open the box already so I don't have to hurt your feelings by truthfully answering that question."

"Okay, we'll circle back to that topic later," Dylan smiled and then finally opened the white box to reveal a slightly faded baseball. When he picked it up, he ran his thumb over the black signature written on it. "Now it's my turn to say holy shit."

You could feel yourself smiling at his awestruck reaction, and you wondered if that was what you looked like when you saw the Harry Potter shirt. The baseball was signed by one of the players of the New York Mets that had been Dylan's favorite player when he was younger, and he'd even caught a ball hit by him when he went to a game before he moved to California.

"I've had this idea for years, but I could never find a baseball signed by him," You began explaining, the excitement clear in your voice. "But, last month, someone named Paul Todd posted this on eBay and I immediately bought it. God bless that old man. It's completely authentic and everything."

Dylan was quiet for a few moments as he simply looked at the baseball in his hands, a small joyful smile on his face, and it made you happy to see him so genuinely elated with the present.

"This just made my gift look like shit," He finally said, a light laugh falling from his lips.

"I have always been the superior gift giver. I think that's my hidden talent," You responded with a playful smirk.

Dylan placed the baseball back in its box and then looked at you. "Next year you will receive the best gift ever from me. It will completely top everything that you have ever given me."

"You're saying that as if I should feel upset about receiving a trip to Italy as a Christmas gift."

"A trip to Italy?"

"In my strong opinion, that would be the best gift ever," You said with a smile and then looked down at the t-shirt, which was now in your lap. "But, anyway, I don't think this gift is shit. I'm in love with this shirt already."

Dylan let out a joking, overexaggerated sigh in relief. "Phew, okay, since you think this gift is great, that means I don't have to do the trip to Italy next year."

"What? Did I say I like this t-shirt? I hate it! Harry Potter actually su— Fuck, I can't say this with a straight face," You laughed, and Dylan was quick to join in with you.

The joking statements leading up to the laughter hadn't even been the funniest things ever, but it didn't matter because this was probably the hardest you had laughed in a while, and you were both glad and unsurprised that it was with one of your favorite people in the entire world.

You missed joking around and laughing with him. You missed simply being with him.

Eventually, the laughter died off, but there was still a smile planted firmly on your face. You looked ahead at the darkness in front of you and the ocean that looked completely black; it was still kind of early, so the sun hadn't begun to rise just yet. Your back pressed against the wooden bench, and you let out a small sigh, your head finding Dylan's shoulder as you leaned against him.

"How have you been?" You asked him, your words coming out both soft and slightly quiet, and before the mood became too serious with your question that was nothing but serious, you attempted to lighten it. "And please no shrugs as a response this time. I don't wanna get a headache due to my head bouncing off your shoulder."

Dylan let out a breath of a laugh at your final statements but refrained from answering the question for a few moments.  

After what felt like forever, he sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I honestly don't know. My mind has felt so fucked lately, thinking about everything. I swear I've been feeling every feeling known to man these past months."

"What are you feeling right now? In this moment?"

"I'm really happy with you. This is probably the only normal and familiar thing I've experienced in a while. But, of course, there's still that confused feeling in the back of my mind revolving around everything else." He paused for a brief moment before continuing, his next words came out quieter. "I don't even know if I want to go back to acting."

You lifted your head off his shoulder and looked at him as you pulled his hand into yours and gave it a light, reassuring squeeze.

"No matter what you decide. I'll be right there to support you," You told him and then added a "bro" at the end of her sentence along with a small smile. Whenever things became too deep in a conversation you two were having, one of you would always throw a "bro" or "dude" in there to bring some playfulness to the mood.

The corners of Dylan's perked up a bit. "So, you'll support me when I decide to become a comedian?"

You were unable to stifle your light laughter. "Yes, fine, fuck it. I'll be the loudest one laughing at all of your shows."

Dylan squeezed your hand back because he knew exactly how reluctantly true your words were. "Don't worry, I promise not to put you through that."

"Thank you."

"So, how have you been?"

"No."

"Oh, come on," Dylan said as he playfully poked your side. "I'm not gonna be the only one exposing my feelings."

You sighed and then hesitantly nodded. "Okay, okay."

The truth was you had been far from good lately. Your life was moving, but for some reason, you felt like you weren’t moving with it.

You felt stuck.

Stuck in a confusing mindset where you had absolutely no idea what you wanted to do with your life. You thought that identity crises usually happened in high school, but apparently, yours had come five years late. But, you knew that this delayed identity crisis had been your own doing because you had convinced herself that you would figure everything out once you were in college; and you were both lucky and smart enough to receive a full ride to UCSB.

And although you were finishing up your Master's degree in Creative Writing and had a TA job at the university with the department, which was the reason behind why you could even pay for the Master's program, something in your "should be great" life simply did not feel right.

However, you felt absolutely terrified to say any of that out loud because admitting it would only finally make that statement a wholehearted truth, instead of just a spiraling thought in your mind. And even though Dylan was your best friend and you knew you could tell him anything and not receive any sort of judgment, it still felt hard to let the words leave your lips.

You thought about the way to perfectly word everything, but nothing felt right. You pulled your hand away from Dylan's and covered your face as you let out an exasperated breath. "I can't figure how to say it all."

Dylan placed an arm around you and then mimicked the same question you had asked him not too long ago. "What are you feeling right now? In this moment?"

You would have both laughed and smiled at the fact that he was using your exact words if the current circumstances were different.

"Scared," You finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what the fuck I wanna do anymore, and actually, I don't think I really ever did. I only went to college because of the scholarship, and I convinced myself that I would figure my life out when I got there. And for a while, things felt right because I found creative writing and genuinely enjoyed it, but something doesn't feel right anymore. And I actually do like school. Because it's stable, and I am doing things, even if it's taking a dumbass test. But, it's about to be over soon, and I have no idea what I'm gonna do."

Your words were coming out like vomit, and nothing could stop it because finally, everything you had been feeling for so long was out of your head and put into the open.

"And don't get me wrong, I do love to write, but I don't know, I just can't see myself doing it for the rest of my life," You admitted and then let your next words come out quietly. "Honestly, I can't see myself doing anything. I'm so unhappy here."

You did not say it aloud, but you didn't think you were ever fully content there. Aside from Dylan and your parents, you never truly liked California. You had grown up there all your life, and although there were millions of people that adored the state, you felt the exact way someone from a state like Wyoming probably felt.

Dylan did not verbally respond to your long confession at first; instead, he simply pulled your confused and stressed self in for a hug, and you let out the simultaneous sigh and breath that you had been metaphorically holding in for years at this point.

"Maybe you should take a break," Dylan finally said; his arms were still around you, an action that made you feel completely comforted. "Right after high school, you went straight to college, and I don't think you've ever really taken a break to really think about what you actually want. Like, maybe, it's becoming a zookeeper."

Your laugh was slightly muffled by the fact that your face was pressed into the warmth of Dylan's chest. "Zookeeper?"

"I don't know," He laughed too. "You said you would support me in whatever the fuck I decide to do, and I'll do the exact same for you."

Somehow a smile found its way on your face. "A zookeeper and a comedian. What a fucking dream team."

Another laugh fell from Dylan's lips. "The best fucking dream team."

"But, honestly, I wish I could've known sooner that this is how you've been feeling. I would've been telling you to slow down so long ago, but you seemed content with everything," Dylan told you and gave you another light squeeze. "Please take a break and don't stress yourself out over the future when your next semester is over. Just relax for the first time. You can even come stay with me in LA for a little bit if that's where you wanna take your break. I'll be here for you, Y/N. Always."

Something about his words hit you hard. The wholehearted honesty and sincerity behind his statement shouldn't have surprised you, but it did. And the worry he had for you resembled the same concern you had for him when the accident happened. You two were best friends, so it should not have been a shock that you would worry about each other, but still, in that moment and for you, it was shocking because it felt like so much more than just that.

"Me too," You whispered, finally responding to his previous statement.

The long embrace came to an end with you being the one to pull away; however, you did not pull away far enough for you both to become completely detached from one another. Dylan's arms were still around your waist, and yours were still around the nape of his neck, and your faces were dangerously close. Your hand somehow took on a mind of its own as it reached around and cupped Dylan's cheek. The miniscule confusion and tickle of panic that began to prick at the back of your mind because of the action were not enough to make you pull away.

The slight way that Dylan leaned into your soft touch was the catalyst for you to take the leap and lean in the tiniest bit to close the small distance between the two of you, your lips almost too easily finding his. The inward sigh of contentment you emitted when Dylan almost immediately kissed you back made you realize that kissing him was the one thing currently happening in your life that actually felt right.

Later, when thinking back to that specific moment, you would wonder if that "rightness" had always been there between you both.

However, that right feeling, which was both comfortable and familiar, was quickly replaced with dread and angst, at least on your part. Your mind was beginning to fully catch up with your actions, and it immediately told you that the current action was both bad and stupid, and there were many, many reasons that proved that.

Maybe there were moments where a younger, and even present-day, you did want more to happen between you and Dylan, but you would always push that thought away because you knew that your and Dylan's friendship was so much more valuable.

And then it was the fact that your lives were nothing alike. Even though you were immensely confused about where your life was going, you could say for certain that it wasn't going in the same direction as Dylan's; an acting career that he genuinely loved and enjoyed too much to truly give up. Something deep down told you that, and you could feel the truthfulness behind the thought. The holidays were the only time your lives would truly intersect.

You abruptly pulled away, not just from the kiss but from Dylan's body entirely, moving to the edge of the bench you were on. Your hands covered your face in nothing but pure embarrassment and regret, and you wished that you could take back the last minute and a half of your life. And you also absolutely hated that you couldn't help but notice how much colder your body felt now that it was away from Dylan's.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. Fuck. That kiss— it was a mistake. I'm really sorry." Your words came out rushed and fumbled, and it probably did not make much sense, but you just hoped that there was at least a little bit of coherency with them.

As much as you wanted to look at Dylan, you refused to do so because you knew that you would only see the regret you were feeling written clear across his face.

"Hey, it's okay, Y/N. Everything's fine. Don't worry," You heard him say but could hear the uncertainty in his voice as if he really didn't know if everything truly was fine. And you knew that it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

The holidays were the only time your lives would truly intersect, and you had just completely ruined that.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know your thoughts <3

((((already potentially thinking about doing a part 2 to this….. but idk…))))

[rubysunnday]

your song | c.b

Summary: Being in love with Colin Bridgerton is hard when the man keeps running off to different continents for months at a time. But the letters he writes and the songs he sends keep the romance alive.

It had been six, long months since Y/N had last seen Colin Bridgerton.

He had gone off travelling again, disappearing off one night with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek goodbye and a promise to write.

The romance between Y/N and Colin had struck out of nowhere. One night they'd been dancing as nothing more than friends and the next moment, there was something more. The way his hands tightened on her waist whenever Cressida said something mean felt different. The way he wrote her notes with every bunch of flowers he sent read differently.

The way he took her hand as she stepped out a carriage, his fingers gently entwining with hers, felt different.

Y/N had fallen head over heels for a man who hated staying in the same place for more than a week. And it was annoying.

He'd written to her more than he had his own family. He wrote to her everyday, judging from the dates on his letters and they arrived in bundles from the postman, all tied with a ribbon that somehow managed to match the dress she was wearing that day.

In the dozens of letters Colin had sent her, he wrote down every detail of the place he was in from the sunsets to the colour of the postboxes. The friends he was traveling with were both music students, desperate for either a career break or to find a new purpose in life.

One of them, Freddy, has been teaching me about the beauty of song writing and how all great pieces of music begin. I'm nowhere near the grandure of Mozart or the beauty of Beethoven or any musicale we've ever attended, but I'm enjoying it nonetheless.

I've found that in my writings there's always one thing I can never quite describe correctly. I search through books for the right words that could even begin to do you justice, my dear Y/N, but I find none. There's no word for describing the way you watch a musicale, or the way you talk about art and reading. There's no word on earth that could do you justice.

So, I hope this poor man's attempt at a song, written under strict guidance and a watchful eye, will begin to convey, just how much I love you.

Y/N had read the letter over and over, her eyes scouring each and every line, taking in the sloppy slant of Colin's handwriting and how he smudged the ink in his desperation to write and write and write.

She pulled out the final sheet of the letter and let out a small surprised gasp. It was a piece of music, the notes written precisely and intricately, the lyrics written messily and scrunched up underneath it. It was obvious which part Colin had been trusted with.

To Y/N

Your Song - by Colin Bridgerton

Y/N stood up from her desk and walked over to the pianoforte that sat in the corner of her room, covered in a thin layer of dust. Y/N wasn't an expert on the pianoforte, her and Colin had bonded over their failed attempts at playing. Colin could sing, though. And as Y/N read through the lyrics, tentatively playing a couple of notes on her dust keys, she could hear him singing it, his hand in her hair as they watched the sunset from the garden bench at Bridgerton House.

Their romance had been kept quiet. The ton was used to the two being openly affectionate with each other, constantly hugging or holding hands and none of them realised when it turned from friendship to romance.

Y/N and Colin had sat in the rose garden of Aubrey Hall one summer night, the sounds of the ball drifting over to them along the gentle breeze. Colin had quietly begun singing along to the song, his hands gently tracing a dance on Y/N's bare arm as she rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes shut.

Colin's singing voice was beautiful. And as Y/N played the song he'd written for her, she could imagine him sitting beside her and singing along, his hands over hers as she slowly played the notes.

Attending the opera without him felt bizarre. They'd begun a routine of sitting next to each other in the box, sharing the opera glasses and softly commenting on the music, the costumes, the lighting.

Y/N sat down in the box, scooting her chair close to the balcony. Her mother sat down next to her and sighed happily as she took in the view.

"Isn't this lovely?" She asked, picking up her opera glasses and looking through them at the stage. "I do love a concert."

Y/N said nothing, merely nodded. She kept thinking back to Colin's letter, of his promised return home in time for the concert. In time for him to sit down next to her, take her hand, and whisper about the music.

Y/N glanced up at the box the Bridgerton's sat in and tried not to let out a defeated sigh - still no Colin. Francesca caught her looking and gave her a sympathetic smile along with a shake of her head and Y/N turned back to the stage, trying not to let the disappointment sink in.

The orchestra began warming up, the music notes blending in with the quiet chatter of the audience. Y/N couldn't stop her eyes from constantly scanning the audience, the stage, the boxes, for any sign of Colin.

An excited whisper went over the audience as the lights were dimmed and the lights on the stage that illuminated the thick, red curtain were turned on.

For a minute there was silence. And then the orchestra began playing as the curtain flew up, revealing the actors on the stage.

My gift is my song, and this one's for you

And you can tell everybody

Y/N felt her heart do a bizarre skip. She recognised those words. She'd read them over and over again each night before she went to sleep. The piece of paper they had arrived on was now well worn and creased and she'd meticulously copied out the notes and the lyrics for fear of loosing them.

She scanned the audience again and felt her heart stop. The concert faded away as she focused on the man standing in the corner near the side door, a tiny smile on his face.

Colin Bridgerton stood with his hands behind his back, smiling up at her, his chin covered in the stubble of a beard. He was tanner then before and his hair had gotten lighter but it was still Colin.

Her Colin.

You see I've forgotten, if they're green or they're blue Anyway the thing is, what I really mean Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

Y/N giggled and felt a smile appear on her face as she gave Colin the smallest wave possible, not wanting to attract attention. Colin waved back and nodded to the door that led to the auditorium. Y/N nodded in return and watched Colin disappear out the side door.

"Go on, then," Y/N's mother said, tapping her daughter's knee. "Go find him."

Y/N quietly slipped from her seat and pushed open the curtain, blinking at the bright lights in the corridor.

As she made her way down to the auditorium, she could hear angry voices that were trying not to yell. She rounded the corner and saw Anthony, Violet and Benedict Bridgerton all standing in front of a bemused looking Colin.

"You said you'd be back by the concert!" Anthony hissed, clearly irritated by Colin's lateness.

"It's hardly my fault the train got stuck by a tree, is it, Anthony?" Colin asked, sighing. "I'm here now, however, am I not? Stop fussing."

Anthony went off again, flailing his limbs around as he tried to knock some sense into Colin, his mother trying to be the peace maker between the two as Benedict tried, and failed, not to laugh.

"This isn't funny, Benedict!" Anthony snapped, turning to face his other brother as he snorted.

Benedict's smirk faded as he realised he was about to be on the end of Anthony's rant. He sighed and crossed his arms, physically bracing himself as Anthony went off again.

Colin, looking both bemused and annoyed at his family, turned and spotted Y/N, hovering at the stop of the stairs. His face fell from an annoyed smirk into a stunned smile as he stared up at her.

"They're actually both," Y/N said to Colin, her voice quiet enough that the three other Bridgerton's present had yet to realise she was there.

"What are?" Colin asked, walking up to meet her, taking each step slowly.

"My eyes," Y/N replied, smiling, dropping the skirt of her dress. "They're both colours."

Colin chuckled and looked like he was blushing. "I told you I wasn't good at song writing."

"Everyone else seemed to enjoy it," she replied as she heard the audience applaud loudly.

"Because Freddy worked on it for months until tonight," Colin replied. "Even then he wasn't sure about performing it. If he'd performed the version I'd written the ton would be complaining. I'm not very good at it."

"I think you're better at it than you believe, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said as she continued walking down until they were both on the large step that broke up the stairs. "I'm not sure about the beard, however."

"Why?" Colin asked, a hand subconsciously flying to his chin and running across the stubble.

"Well, it just means that every time I go to kiss you, I will have to be tickled and scratched by it," she replied, her hand covering the one resting on his chin. She entwined her fingers with his. "But I can live with that."

Colin laughed and leant forward, kissing Y/N with the passion and desperation of not seeing her for six months. His hand rested on the back of her head, carefully minding her hair as his thumb stroked her skin.

"I think I'm going to stay here for now," Colin said softly, breaking apart from her, resting his forehead on hers. "Stay with you."

Y/N looked up at him, feeling his breath on her cheeks. "Colin Bridgerton, are you -"

"Yes," Colin said, cutting her off. "I am. Because it took being apart from you for six months to realise what I was missing. To realise that I travel the world searching for purpose and reason, when, in reality, my reason is you. The purpose of my entire being is you.

"Without you, I'm half a man. Without you, the travelling begins to feel like running away and I don't want to run from you. I want to take your hand and run with you. Forever if we wanted. I can run until you can't run anymore. And when you can't run anymore, I'll carry you."

Y/N smiled, pressing her lips together as she savoured the taste of his kiss. "Words are your forte, Mr Bridgerton," she said softly, stroking the side of his head, threading her fingers through his curls. "I'll run with you to the end of the world and back again. I'll take your hand in mine and I will never let you go. Not again."

Colin pressed his lips to her and Y/N smiled against his lips before returning the kiss. He smelt of his cologne, the sweet caramel biscuits he loved and, somehow, the floral, homely scent of Bridgerton House

He smelt of home. He was her home. Simply being in his arms was enough.

"I've just realised something," Colin whispered in her ear.

Y/N looked up at him, staring into his eyes. "What?"

"My family is watching us."

Y/N glanced behind him and saw the three Bridgerton's pretending to occupy themselves with anything else. Benedict was investigating a painting, Anthony was admiring the ceiling and Violet had been reading the program but glanced up at them with a smile.

And despite it all, Y/N let out a snort of laughter and dropped her head on to Colin's shoulder. "Of course they are."

Colin giggled, actually giggled, and rested his head on top of hers. "Better get used to it, love, I doubt they'll ever stop staring."

[becomewings]

BTS Universe Timeline

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TIMELINE GUIDE

Content warning: contains references to death, suicide, suicidal ideation, child abuse, domestic violence, blood, homicide, depression, trauma, PTSD

This guide contains major spoilers from all BU media

Revisions and additions will be made as necessary, so please visit the original post for the most up-to-date version (update log is included at bottom of post)

All names are provided as fully as known

Bracketed dates are inferred or calculated from references in the text

While the timeline is presented here as objectively as possible, I acknowledge that there is a level of subjectivity in choosing which information is significant enough for inclusion and in certain connections drawn between entries

Please inform me of any suspected errors; I will investigate and correct them

Do not repost, copy, or quote without permission

School Years: Together & Apart

    - March Year 19 through 10 April Year 22 -

2 March Year 19 Notes 1 (SJ)

Ten days after returning from the U.S., SeokJin and his father visit the principal’s office at his new school. SeokJin learns that he will start one grade lower due to the different education systems. SeokJin’s father grips his shoulder while the principal explains that school is a “dangerous place” that needs to be “tightly controlled.” He asks: “You know you have to keep me informed, right? You’ll be a good student, right?” SeokJin squeezes out a “yes” and his father lets go. Both ChangJun and the principal laugh. SeokJin looks down at their shining shoes, wondering from where the light is coming.

Note: SeokJin’s 25 June Year 19 entry in Notes 1 specifies that his father attended the same high school. JiMin’s 23 July Year 22 entry in Notes 2 reveals that, according to a comment he finds on an online news article, ChangJun and the principal were in school at the same time and fought with each other “as if it would only end when one of them dropped dead,” but they appeared to get along later due to politics.

3 March Year 19 BTS Universe Story: The Boy on the Threshold, ep.1

On the first day of school at Songju Jeil High School, the Dean of Students berates the six latecomers lined up outside: SeokJin, NamJoon, HoSeok, JiMin, TaeHyung, and JungKook. YoonGi arrives even later. The Dean assigns them one month of community service as punishment. When he notices SeokJin, he clears his throat and says he is letting them off because it’s the first day: they must all assemble after classes to clean the annex, a classroom turned into a storage room. This room becomes their meeting place and hideout even after their punishment is finished.

Note: Their punishment for being late is referenced in JiMin’s 12 March Year 19 entry in Notes 1, when he escapes to the old classroom again and finds the others already there. He observes that it feels as though they’ve been “hanging out together forever.” The punishment scene is also similar to a moment in the BTS Begins Middle Scene VCR. Although it includes a few extra students and cannot be confirmed as BU content, it does mirror the canonical detail of YoonGi arriving last.

28 May Year 19 Notes: Answer

In the classroom hideout, JungKook asks everyone what their dreams are because he has to write a paper about future hopes. SeokJin wants to become a good person, and YoonGi says it’s okay to have no dream. TaeHyung poses on a chair and says he’s going to be a superhero. HoSeok scolds him and adds that he wants to find his mom and live happily. JiMin asks him if he is unhappy now, and HoSeok pulls an exaggeratedly worried expression. “Is that how it works?” JiMin is flustered when HoSeok asks what his dream is and remembers that when he was in preschool he wanted to be president, but didn’t know what he wanted after that. Everyone looks at NamJoon, who shrugs and confesses that while he wants to say something nice, he doesn’t have a dream either and just wishes that his part-time job pays more. JungKook looks down at his assignment, divided into sections for “student” and “parent,” and wonders what he hopes to become. He can’t think of anything to write.

12 June Year 19 — The Sea Notes 1

YoonGi’s entry:

All seven boys cut school and decide to go to the sea. They have little money between them, so they must walk to the train station. As they leave, YoonGi almost bumps into JiMin and realizes that he is standing frozen with a trembling face. JiMin stares at a sign that reads “2.1km to Grass Flower Arboretum.” YoonGi flatly tells him that it’s too hot to go to the arboretum. He has an “instinctive feeling” that they should avoid it. He observes that JiMin walks away like a little kid, head bent and shoulders hunched.

JungKook’s entry:

The boys arrive at the beach. They hang around under a torn parasol until HoSeok holds up a discovery on his phone: a large rock that is supposed to grant your dream if you stand atop it and shout your dream out to the sea. TaeHyung encourages them to go. While they grumble in the heat on the long trek, JungKook reflects on how he had recently asked the others what their dreams were. (See 28 May Year 19.) None of them really have a dream to pursue.

YoonGi tells JungKook to stop biting his nails or else they’ll become like his. Then he asks JungKook what his dream is. Having never thought about it, JungKook doesn’t know. He hesitates and then asks what a dream is. HoSeok rattles off a few definitions from his phone. YoonGi questions, “How can something that you want to achieve most in your life and something that is unlikely to come true both be called a dream? … Don’t ever try to have a dream.” JungKook asks why. At his glance, YoonGi stops biting his nails and puts his hands in his pockets. “Because it’s tough having one.” JungKook is curious about why YoonGi bites his nails but doesn’t ask. He recalls that it has been a habit since his childhood to hurt himself. He remembers cutting his finger on a knife badly enough that his mom took him to the hospital, but she didn’t take care of him after they went home. His wound healed slowly because he kept pressing it; the pain helped him feel awake. Even now, he sometimes feels hollow.

TaeHyung asks how much longer they have to walk. HoSeok is puzzled, saying they should be close. They gaze around the empty, pebbled beach. JiMin sighs and reads aloud from an article on his phone. A resort will be built on this beach, and the construction company blew up the rock. They notice the cordoned off construction zone. They try to reassure each other to remain positive, but they all feel the disappointment of walking all that way for nothing. JungKook notices YoonGi biting his nails again and tries to stop him, but he is interrupted by a loud drilling noise. JungKook looks past him at the sea and all that remains of the dream-granting rock, the pebbles under their feet. “Is the world tough for you, too?” he asks, but YoonGi can’t hear him. JungKook screams again. “Do you want to give up on this world, too?” HoSeok and TaeHyung laugh at their mimed conversation. They all look out to the sea and shout their dreams. The drilling is so loud that they can’t hear each other. JungKook cannot even hear his own dream. When the noise stops, they cut off abruptly and laugh. SeokJin suggests that they take a photo. He sets the timer and runs to join their row, the sea behind them. They walk back to the train station. JungKook asks if he can keep the photo. SeokJin writes “June 12” on the back and gives it to him, telling him that his dream will come true. JungKook asks if SeokJin knows what he shouted to the sea, and SeokJin merely taps his shoulder and strides ahead.

BTS Universe Story : The Boy on the Threshold, ep.3

JungKook’s memory of the beach trip follows a similar structure to the scene in Notes 1, plus a notable addition. After they fail to find the dream-granting boulder, JungKook climbs up on the pier railing. He thinks: “I’ve always liked walking on the edge of walls or on top of lines. Focusing on centering my gravity means that I don’t really think of anything else, and the boundary—not quite a part of either place—always felt like where I should be.” Someone grabs his arm while he precariously balances. YoonGi tells him not to do that, and JungKook assures him that he won’t fall.

“YoonGi would often grab my arm when I walked on railings. The others would look after me, too, after seeing him do that. I liked their helping hands. It felt like they were telling me that I should go to them. That this wasn’t my place. Maybe their hands were why I walked on the railings.”

25 June Year 19 Notes 1 (SJ)

Alone in the classroom hideout, SeokJin finds a plant by the window. He takes pictures with his phone but doesn’t think they capture what the human eye sees. He notices that “HoSeok’s plant” is scribbled on the floor beneath the pot and then realizes that the window sills, walls, and ceiling are covered with graffiti and drawings, messages left behind by the students who once passed through that room. He wonders if there were past teachers who used violence and endless tests or students like him who ratted out their friends to the principal. Since his father also attended that high school, SeokJin looks for his name on the walls and finds it with a phrase written underneath: “Everything started from here.”

Note: TaeHyung, JiMin, NamJoon, and YoonGi discover several other familiar names near Kim ChangJun (SeokJin’s father) on the classroom wall in TaeHyung’s 23 July Year 22 entry from 7’s album Notes and the extended version in Notes 2.

30 August Year 19 Notes: Her

JiMin plays in HoSeok’s shadow while he is on the phone, reflecting on how HoSeok has accompanied him on the two-hour walk home since the beginning of the school semester. JiMin eventually realized that HoSeok didn’t live in the same direction but never questioned him, simply hoping that their time walking together would stretch the day out a little longer. HoSeok finishes on the phone and chases after him while the cicadas sing and their ice creams melt. Suddenly, JiMin is afraid, wondering how many of these days are left.

20 March Year 20 Notes 1 (TH)

TaeHyung sneaks up on NamJoon in the hallway by their classroom hideout. He stops when he hears SeokJin’s voice inside, apparently informing the principal about how TaeHyung and YoonGi had ditched school and got in a fight over the past few days. SeokJin throws open the door, phone in hand, and looks flustered to see NamJoon standing there. TaeHyung hides in a corner and is shocked to hear NamJoon assure him, “It’s OK. There must’ve been a good reason.” HoSeok and JiMin find TaeHyung in the hallway, and HoSeok pulls him into the classroom. NamJoon beams at TaeHyung as though nothing strange has happened. Believing that NamJoon ���must have his reasons” because he is more intelligent and mature, TaeHyung decides not to tell anyone about the conversation he overheard.

15 May Year 20 Notes 1 (NJ)

NamJoon visits the classroom hideout on his last day of school. Two weeks prior, his family decided that they needed to move due to complications with his father’s health and their overdue rent. NamJoon tries to write a message on a piece of paper. He scribbles “I must survive” before the pencil lead snaps. He crumples the paper and writes in the dust on the window instead.

“No farewell message would be enough to let the others know how I felt. At the same time, no farewell message was needed to make myself understood. ‘See you again.’ It was a wish, rather than a promise.”

Note: “I must survive” is a recurring message tied to NamJoon in the BU MVs. See also 17 December Year 21.

7 June Year 20 Notes: Persona

TaeHyung’s two month old puppy Dubu slips out of the leash and disappears while he is distracted on his phone. TaeHyung runs around the neighborhood looking for him, first angry at the puppy and then blaming himself. When Dubu returns on his own, TaeHyung is filled with the unfamiliar feeling that he is someone who can be relied on.

11 June Year 20 BTS Universe Story: The Boy on the Threshold, ep.5 Everyone’s Place

In the classroom hideout, JungKook listens to YoonGi playing the piano. The sound of the music makes him feel as if YoonGi understands how he feels and is trying to console him. The Dean of Students forces the door open, demanding why they are there. He berates and slaps JungKook, knocking him to the floor. YoonGi steps between them and shoves the teacher’s shoulder. The dean warns him that he had better be prepared for the consequences of putting his hands on a teacher and then leaves. Despite his throbbing cheek, JungKook smiles because it is the first time someone has protected him, and the feeling of getting closer to YoonGi makes him giddy. For the next two weeks, YoonGi does not come to school.

25 June Year 20 Notes 1

JungKook’s entry:

JungKook tries to play the piano in the classroom hideout, unable to make it sound like YoonGi did. He reflects on the rumor that YoonGi was expelled after the events of 11 June and wonders if YoonGi would still be here playing the piano if JungKook had not been there that day when the teacher appeared.

YoonGi’s entry:

Breathing hard, YoonGi arrives at his bedroom, removes a half-burned piano key from an envelope in his desk drawer, and throws it into the trash can. He remembers a day four years ago when he returned to their burned down home and found a skeleton of the piano where his mother’s room used to stand. He noticed several piano keys on the ground and took one of them, wondering what note it was and how many times her fingers touched it. In the present, YoonGi thinks how unbearable living under his father’s rule is and recalls what happened that day: he is officially expelled from school. He picks up the piano key again and hurls it out the window.

“I couldn’t hear the piano key hit the ground. Now I’d never know what note it made. It’d never make a sound again. I’d never play the piano again.”

17 July Year 20 Notes 1 (SJ)

At the end of the last school day before summer vacation, SeokJin tries to leave quickly but is hailed by HoSeok and JiMin. No one knows that he was pressured by the principal and revealed their hideout, which led to JungKook and YoonGi being discovered (11 June) and the latter’s expulsion (25 June). HoSeok wishes SeokJin a good vacation and to keep in touch, but he can’t reply.

“My first day at this school crossed my mind as I passed through the school gate. We were all late and got punished. But we were together, so we could laugh together. I had ruined all those memories we shared.”

Note: Variations of the sentiment “we can laugh when we’re together” recur throughout BU.

15 September Year 20 Notes 1 (HS)

In the hospital emergency room, HoSeok wants to explain how JiMin had a seizure at the bus stop to his mother, Sim SeonMi. When the doctors wheel JiMin’s bed out, HoSeok begins to follow until SeonMi thanks him and touches his shoulder. He feels like she has drawn a line between them that he cannot cross. He falls to the floor, and when he looks up, JiMin’s bed is gone.

Note: The name of JiMin’s mother is specified in his BTS Universe Story arc, Stopped Time. JiMin’s 11 May Year 22 entry in Notes 1 reflects that he blacked out at the bus stop after seeing the window of the Grass Flower Arboretum shuttle bus open. His 12 August Year 22 entry in Notes 2 reveals the real cause of JiMin’s seizure at the bus stop: he sees the boy that he left behind at the arboretum warehouse on 6 April Year 11. Though the boy’s empty eyes no longer speak to JiMin, this chance encounter awakens his memories of that day.

28 September Year 20 Notes: Her and Smeraldo Books Twitter

JiMin, heavily medicated, has lost track of how long he has been back in the hospital. But he considers this a special day because he lies to the doctor for the first time about not remembering anything.

Note: He is lying about not remembering what triggered his seizure at the bus stop on 15 September and/or what happened at the Grass Flower Arboretum when he was a kid (see Notes 2 comments above). This lie is also referenced in his 11 May Year 22 entry in Notes 1.

30 September Year 20 Notes 1 (JK)

A teacher hits JungKook with an attendance book when he refuses to admit that he still visits the classroom hideout, reminding him of when YoonGi was beaten. Later, JungKook stands outside the room and imagines that the others are waiting for him on the other side. He opens the door to only find HoSeok, clearing out what remains of their belongings. HoSeok walks him out, and JungKook realizes that those days are gone and will never come again.

25 February Year 21 Notes: Her (HS)

HoSeok watches himself dance in the mirror. He has danced since he was around twelve and discovered an ecstasy that came from inside himself. Outside of the mirror, HoSeok is a person who collapses everywhere and takes medicine he doesn’t need, who smiles even when he hates it and isn’t happy. But when he dances, he truly becomes himself, casting away all that weighs him down and feeling that he can become happy.

2 May Year 21 Notes: Persona (JK)

Biking along the Yangjicheon riverbank, JungKook thinks about how his friends left him one by one and that no one at home or in the world smiles at him anymore. He stops in the shadows under a bridge. Nobody comes to this kind of ruined place, and maybe that is the reason no one comes to him either. He feels most comfortable alone in the complete darkness where no one will look for him and wants the moment to never end.

9 August Year 21 Notes: Persona (SJ)

SeokJin walks along a Los Angeles beach and photographs the ocean. It has been a year since he fled Songju and moved to his mother’s family’s home, where he grew up as a child. He doesn’t photograph people anymore and didn’t bring any photos from high school with him, afraid to remember who he was at that time or to wonder about how his friends are doing and whether they still think of him.

17 December Year 21 Notes 1 (NJ)

This lengthy entry details events that transpired since the autumn of Year 20 when NamJoon’s family moved to the village, framed by moments on 17 December itself as NamJoon leaves on his own. His family chooses this village because it has a nearby hospital for his ailing father and employers who will hire someone without a high school diploma. NamJoon serves as a delivery boy for an eatery, competing for work with the other local boys. They grow a strange sense of solidarity, and he privately dubs one of them “TaeHyung,” even though the boy’s discontent, outward behavior is more akin to YoonGi’s. (Quotation marks added to the name here for clarity.) Competition slackens when snow falls in winter. NamJoon and “TaeHyung” are the only ones poor enough to risk the road up to the mountain town’s rest area when orders are phoned to the village below. On an afternoon forecast to have heavy snowfall, the restaurant owner dismisses “TaeHyung” due to his bruised face and gives the deliveries to NamJoon. The old delivery scooter fishtails on NamJoon’s third trip down the mountain, throwing him off. More anxious about the scratched scooter than his cut ankle and aching body, NamJoon finally gets it to restart and returns to the eatery. “TaeHyung,” who has been hanging around this whole time, approaches and asks for a favor. Before he can answer, NamJoon receives a call from his mother relaying that his father went outside alone and fell, requiring a trip to the hospital. NamJoon understands that his father was only trying to keep his dignity but is still frustrated because he can’t earn any more much-needed money this day. He hands “TaeHyung” the keys and leaves to take his father to the hospital.

The next day, NamJoon learns that “TaeHyung” was in a fatal accident during one of the deliveries up the mountain. The police officer blames him for being a poor driver and not wearing a helmet. NamJoon does not speak up that he has never seen the helmet the owner now has placed out on the counter. He visits the scene of the accident, thinking that the white outline on the road could be his if he was the one to make the next delivery—just as it could be his family mourning in the village instead of “TaeHyung’s” mother. On a later trip carrying his father home from the bus stop, NamJoon pretends not to hear his father’s frail voice over the noise of barking dogs. A week after that, NamJoon is making steady deliveries up the mountain. During what is ultimately his last delivery, he speaks with a stranger at the rest area, who cautions him to take care. “Do you know what’s really dangerous? Calcium chloride and wet leaves, not the snow itself,” the stranger blurts as NamJoon departs. NamJoon drives carefully back, not looking at the scene of the accident. This is not out of safety, as he tries to convince himself, but guilt: guilt for surviving, for his relief of being the one alive, for not defending “TaeHyung’s” driving skills. He also wonders if he is “a hypocrite pretending to have a guilty conscience.” Because he scattered wet leaves and sprinkled calcium chloride to prevent the road from icing over where he fell that afternoon, believing that he would be making the next delivery. If he did not do both those things, would “TaeHyung” be alive?

Mind and body numb, NamJoon makes it home from the delivery detached from the world around him. The barking dogs snap him out of the daze, and he remembers his father’s words that he pretended not to hear and dwelled on daily despite trying not to think about them: “Go, NamJoon. You must survive.” The next morning (17 December), NamJoon sneaks away to the bus stop. He is running away from his family’s misfortunes, from his own resignation to his fate, from poverty. The bus is scheduled to arrive in Songju in a few hours—the city he left with no notice and is returning to once more with the same. NamJoon wonders if his old friends still live there and how they are doing. On the frosted window, he writes with his finger: “I must survive.”

Note: The village boy’s real name is JongHun according to NamJoon’s 12 June Year 22 entry in Notes 2, which also reveals that he visited JongHun’s home to give his condolences before he left town.

1 February Year 22 Notes: 7 (SJ)

Summoned by his father without explanation, SeokJin flies back to Korea from Los Angeles. Although he has addresses in both LA and Songju, neither place feels like his home.

———————————————————

Update Log

Posted May 5, 2021

Do not repost.

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Fixated

A/N: I can’t explain how I am feeling, so I am going to let fic do it instead. This is entirely written without edits, without a read through.  Overworked!Scott

Edit: Okay I did a read through. Remaining mistakes are mine

-----

Virgil is the first to notice. Maybe because he’s Virgil, and possibly because he’s the only one who can call Scott his immediate older brother, so there’s something in their closeness in age, having navigated childhood together almost as equals, that sets his Scott-sense apart from that of his younger siblings.

When Scott was thirteen and Virgil was eleven, Scott was in the eighth grade and had to write a research report on the Wright Brothers, the pioneers of modern aviation. And that was all well and good, because Scott was going to start training for his pilot’s license right when he turned sixteen. The report became not just a chronicle of the historical figures’ lives, but also of flight, of the first airplane itself and the prototypes before it, of physics, and aerodynamics. He researched in a way he never had before because it was a subject he was passionate about.

He obsessed.

Like John but different.

John absorbed the search for knowledge into the fiber of his being, his fingertips always itching to take a deeper dive through archives when he heard a word he didn’t know or a concept he couldn’t explain fully. Research was as much a part of John as music was for Virgil, or swimming was for Gordon. It was a companion he could always revisit later, and so like all of them with hobbies that mattered, John knew how to catalog  and save for a better time, and turn the itch aside when he needed to. He knew when to stop.

Scott didn’t. Scott defined the turn of phrase “down the rabbit hole.” Alice caught and enraptured by the not yet known or understood.

When he cared, he obsessed.  

That project got finished with an A+, but resulted in anxious shaking that didn’t alleviate until a few days after the grades came back. Scott had lost weight, skipped his extra curriculars, and Virgil hadn’t seen him for two whole weeks while he worked. The younger ones likely didn’t remember.

But Virgil did. And he knew the signs. Forgetting to eat, falling asleep at his computer or on his books, waking up earlier than normal to get a head start to whatever imaginary goals he created for himself that day.

So, the day Virgil notices, it’s because Scott missed lunch. Grandma had made hot wings, which was one of his favorites, so the smell of char in the air would’ve been enough to set his stomach rumbling. With Scott absent when he definitely shouldn’t be, Virgil decides to make him a plate, six hot wings with ranch on the side, and some celery.

He finds Scott at their father’s his work desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard, intently scanning the files behind the screen.

“Hey, I brought you lunch.”

No answer.

Virgil steps closer to the desk, sure that once Scott catches him in his periphery, he’d acknowledge his presence. But Scott doesn’t appear to have a periphery when he’s focused like that.

“Scott?” There’s a little room on the desk, so he nudges a few papers to the side and slides the plate down. “Scooter?” He looks tense. He can see knots forming, so he drops a hand on Scott’s shoulder, and –

“FU—”

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin, his hands fly up, catching the side of the plate which clatters, sending ranch and hot sauce all over the floor. Even MAX scurries away with a low beep at the sudden sound, and Virgil flinched in a sudden panic when the dish slipped through his fingers.

“Sorry, sorry! I just meant to help.” Virgil is already kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up what he can with his hands, knowing he needs a wet rag. Maybe a mop.

The little cup that held the ranch slid a ways. Gross.

“Ah. Thanks, Virg,” Scott says. And he means it, Virgil knows that. But he can also see the gears in Scott’s head still working, still thinking about whatever he had been focused on, not quite fully present. “Umm. Do you have this? I’m under a deadline.” He looks at his watch. “Ugh. A rough one. I’d help if I could.”

“No, I got this! Sorry, Scott.” He picks up the dirty hot wings, placing them on a plate for their compost pile. “Is there anything else I can get you instead? These were the last of them.”

But Scott doesn’t answer. He’s already back to his computer.

~*~

Gordon is next.

He may not have the same Scott-sense as Virgil, may not have picked up on it as quickly, but he and Scott both share early morning routines, meeting in the kitchen at 5:00, Scott dressed in a tank and his running shorts, Gordon in his swimsuit, a towel around his shoulders. Coffee is too heavy to start the day, but Scott usually would begin the brew for when they returned (and in case Virgil woke up) while Gordon filled their respective water bottles. Whoever finished first chose the energy boost of choice – sometimes just a snack bar, sometimes a shake. On weekends, it might be oatmeal or toast.

Out by the pool by 5:15. Stretching was important.

Scott began his run. Gordon began his laps. They went about their day. Rinse, repeat.

Occasionally a rescue might come in and affect their sleep cycle just a bit, but Scott and Gordon were both military. If they weren’t rising before the sun, it was too late and they lost half their day already.

So Gordon is next, because Scott doesn’t meet him in the kitchen. He’s not sure he knows how to make smoothies for one – hasn’t in a long time – so he proportions his ingredients for two, fills a second cup for Scott when he wakes, and sticks it in the refrigerator so it will stay cold.

He pushes himself during his exercise. He was long past chasing times, but he still raced himself. Seconds could save a life, and so he exercised for speed, for longevity sometimes. For survival.

It’s a longevity day, so he’s abandons speed for energy conservation, which makes it a long morning.

His muscles are tired and sore when he returns to the kitchen and opens the fridge for a drink to boost his electrolytes. He is not in the mood for coffee today, but sees the pot is half full, so someone is up. But it’s not Scott.

Because the smoothie is still in the fridge, untouched.

He tells himself he needs to check in on Scott once he finishes his research down at the dock today. He’s been tracking a pod of dolphins near Mateo and has been needing to collect the latest data captured by his little research vessel.

He’ll catch him later. Figure out what’s going on.

~*~

Then it’s Alan.

Alan admires Scott, has been practically raised by him since Dad disappeared. Scott is everything Alan wants to be… just the John version of him. Take Scott’s courage and bravery, John’s love of space, you get Alan. Eyes on the horizon, but looking beyond it into stratosphere, exosphere, the space between stars itself.

He’s a hell of a pilot. He knows that. He wouldn’t be the pilot of Thunderbird Three otherwise. But a part of him will always seek the approval of his older siblings. He wants to make Scott proud.

Scott hasn’t had the time for him lately. He’s been working on… oh he doesn’t know. They don’t tell him. Something for Tracy Industries.

His final quarter grades have come out, and he aced all his classes.  It had been a hard semester and juggling his courses between rescues had been tough. He’d needed to call on his brothers’ expertise a few times.

He knows Scott has his file somewhere in his email, but he likely hasn’t gotten to it yet because he hasn’t said anything to him. It’s been a few days. So Alan pulls up his grades on his datapad and strolls past the center of the lounge over to Scott.

The first time he says Scott’s name, he doesn’t answer.

Nor the second.

The thirdfourthfifth time, because that’s how he called for him, the name running together like that, Scott irritably gives him a low grumble of “What do you want, Alan?” He doesn’t glance up, and the smile falters from Alan’s face.

“Oh, I, uh—” This was silly. It’s not important, really. Scott will get to it eventually.  “My grades came through. When you get a chance.”

He grumbles in response. “I’ll look later,” he says. “I need to…”

But he trails off, back to his computer, and Alan still doesn’t know what project stole his brother away.

~*~

John’s the last.

He’s called to check in. He’s definitely connected, but....

Scott is slumped at his desk, and John’s calls are not working.

“Scott!”

No answer. The figure at the desk doesn’t budge. So John opens a channel to the rest of his brothers, his feet already sending him toward the space elevator as he calls out. “I can’t wake Scott!”