#i just printed the heads to test quality since the body was printing fucked up and they might have to be seperated for better end quality

[sketchehm]

I wanna show you all the decapitated dream heads I printed but I am too tired to move....maybe tomorrow....

[curly-bangtan]

Heatwave Anniversary Drabble: i miss u like ... a lot (M)

[Heatwave // Godless // Heatwave Drabbles] <- read first! but this drabble can be read alone

Pairing: Taehyung x reader

Summary: One night until Taehyung is back from his boys’ trip but you miss him too much.

Genre: fluff, smut, kinda crack?, boyfriend/established relationship au

Warnings: unprotected sex (oc on contraception so don’t u do it), teasing over the phone, riding and grinding, just kinda vanilla i-missed-u-so-much sex, a particular selca

Word count: 5k

A/N: It was Heatwave’s one year anniversay on the 17th so I decided to write a quick(?) drabble for this. I fully intended on posting this on time, but wanted to change up some stuff so only managed to finish this now. Happy birthday to my first fic and forver my baby!

MOSTLY UNEDITED

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The absolute one thing you hate most about your boyfriend being away from you is your boyfriend being away from you.

You have never been the clingy needy type, that is more his role in this relationship, nor are you really one to show affection. In fact, you would hate for that false image to be perceived of you because all that sappy shit makes you want to throw up your dinner. But one thing you’ve learnt since Taehyung had gone away on a week-long boys’ trip down by the coast is how cold the house feels in his absence, despite being in the middle of a sizzling summer.

Everything is so eerily quiet without his random outbursts into song and fits of laughter. Having spent 3 years living together, you have gotten so used to his constant presence that you had even caught yourself several times calling out for him only to remember that he isn’t here. Waking up without his arm draped around your waist, slided up your top at some point during the night, impacts you more than you’d like to admit.

Are you glad that he’s having a great time with his friends by the beach, relaxing all day and drinking all night? Of course. Are you having a great time all by yourself over here in the absence of your boyfriend? Certainly not.

Though, of course, this isn’t something you would confess to out loud, especially to him. He doesn’t need to know how often the thought: ugh fuck, I miss Tete is crossing your mind, lest you want him to rub his smugness in your face.

It isn’t just that. Your relationship hasn’t been without its tests in the course of its years and things have only finally stabilised. It’s not that you don’t trust Taehyung to be with his ladish friends for seven days, shirtless dusk till dawn, intoxicated to the point where he calls you thinking that you’re the pizza delivery guy but…

A hammered Taehyung at a beach full of girls who are no doubt thirsting over him leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You trust him to be loyal to his core, but you don’t trust anyone else to keep their hands from copping a feel. No matter how you look at it, you would just so much rather he be at home with you right now.

You have endured this for six days. Six full days without Taehyung. Six full days with no sex, no tummy kisses, no clammy hand holding even though you’re only to get groceries. Just one more night and this torture will fucking be over, praise the lord. But you also don’t know how much more you can hold back that I miss you text because you’re combusting from the need to see him again.

It’s almost 4am. Your sleep schedule is fucked and it’s really his fault.

The bright screen of your phone offers the only luminescence at this hour. Your messages from him in the past week have not been shy of your daily dose of Taehyung - clips of the beach (always mischievously caption with something along the lines of “thinking of Mykonos ;D” where you went on your first holiday together), selfies that you dwell way too long staring at because you miss that face buried in your neck, drunk videos of the antics him and the boys get up to that you’ll definitely chastise him for when he comes back yet can’t help but laugh at. You find yourself scrolling through them every single night.

Your personal favourite: a pouty selfie he sent you after he dropped his ice cream, the picture you always go back to and the one you’re staring at right now. His hair is frizzy from the sea, lips jutted out childishly and cheeks puffy. Your chest constricts, fuck...

Just one more night, you remind yourself. And then he’s back and all yours again.

Then suddenly, the phone in your hand vibrates, short and abrupt. The bar slides down from the top of your screen reading New Message from Tete. Surprised, you scramble to open it, maybe a bit too desperately for you to be proud of.

04:11

Tete: bby

You blink at those three letters, lips pressed together because your heart is cinching.

Tete: ur prob aslep rn but

Tete: i missu

Tete: <334

The typos indicate that he is wasted, and you take a guess that he has just returned from their last night out of the holiday. The corners of your lips turn up knowing that he is thinking of you right now.

You: no im awake

Your fingers are itching to reply with i miss u too, and it takes all your willpower and stubbornness to stay true to your steadfast self. There is just something so unpleasantly moist about these kinds of texts, something that makes you cringe and gag when you read them. You refuse to be one of those people. A heart is all that you allow yourself to reply.

You: <3

You: r u drunk?

Tete: drunk in love

Tete: yes

A giggle escapes you at his god awful cheesiness - drunk, sober alike. Insufferable. But probably Taehyung’s most endearing quality.

You: did u have fun!!

Tete: yeah

Tete: but i miss u

Tete: more than i had fun

God, you feel like a teenager again, suddenly overcome with this gushing urge to roll over and scream into your pillow. You’re glad he’s merely texting this to you right now because if he had said this to you face to face, your skin would most definitely stain scarlet from neck to hairline, scalding to the touch. Even months into officially being his girlfriend, these curveballs of overwhelming affection throw you off guard.

Again, the compulsion to tell him you miss him too yanks at your heartstrings. You truly don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to say how you feel, let yourself be soft and vulnerable. You know it’s one of your flaws so it’s something that you’re working on, but you can’t say you’ve made much progress.

But just as you decide that maybe you should take the plunge, suck it up and just text him those three words, he sends you a picture.

Tete:

No, not just a picture. A selfie, of him in bed, shirtless under the covers. “Oh, fuck…”

Hand clasped over your mouth to prevent any sound from involuntarily escaping, it takes a moment for your breath to return to you and for you to stop gawking. At this hour… Really? Is he seriously doing this to you right now?

His sleepy eyes. His messy curls. And his fucking nose mole.

The undoing of your existence.

Tete: this boy misses u :]

You: bruh

You: bruhhhhhhh

You: taehyung

Tete: oui my lady :))

You: 👁👄👁

You: can u not do this to my heart

You: y did u send me this </333

You: what was the reason

Tete: coz i miss u

Tete: do u like it

Tete: :D

‘Do u like it’... Actually, you have tears in your eyes, albeit mostly due to staring at a screen for too long so late at night, but it’s certainly contributed by this selfie. You tell yourself you’re acting out because it’s been six days since you last saw him. Perhaps Taehyung Withdrawal Symptoms is the explanation behind why you want to print and frame this picture because that is definitely not a normal reaction to a picture. But this is a masterpiece.

You: taehyung my soul left my body

You: like i could weep

You: u look so soft and fluffy

You: :’(

Tete: lollll

Tete: simp

This boy has some nerve?! Simp! He called you a simp?! Laughing like a maniac, you can’t even pretend to be mad at him, not after this picture he sent anyway. So you guess you are a simp. This selfie is your kryptonite.

Tete: jkjkkkkk

You: hahahaha

You: y r u doing this to me

You: its 4am

You: u can’t send me this rn

You: i won’t be able to sleep

Tete: o yeah how come ur still up?

Tete: go to sleepppp

You: can’t sleep

Tete: aw no whyyy

Because you miss him that’s why.

You miss Kim Taehyung. You miss Tete. You miss your boyfriend, your best friend, your other half. You miss his touch, his smile, his wide eyes when he’s confused. You miss his morning snuggles and late night kisses. You miss the way he hugs you from behind as you prepare your meals. You miss the wandering hands that he can’t help when you’re out in public. You miss playing PUBG together until the sun comes out then both sleeping past noon. You miss taking baths together where bubbles would get into your mouth as your kisses get heated.

You just miss him.

It’s only been six days and you’re in this state. What has he done to you?

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you let out a great sigh and deflate. No other reason offers itself for you to be awake at this hour; he knows you cherish sleep above anything. Teeth digging into your lip, you inhale long and hard, then exhale the gust of your cowardice. It’s not that deep, stupid. Fuck it.

You: coz

You: i miss u

You: like … a lot

You: 🙄

It’s final - you guess you’ve become a mushy wet sap. Truly it is embarrassing how big of a step this is for you; but the sense of pride and accomplishment feels oddly validating. Baby steps. The eye-rolling emoji right after is subconscious because you could only betray the core of your character that much. Forgo it and taehyung might not believe that it’s you.

Tete: omg

Tete: :D

Tete: rrly?

You: *blank kissy emoji*

Tete: wow

Tete: u actually don’t know how hard i’m smiling rn

You: simp

Tete: ofc that’s my middle name

Tete: i miss u a lot too

Tete: like a lotttttt

Tete: i’ll show u how much when i’m back

Ah… Of course, the Taehyung specialty - smothering you with his affection. You freeze at the thought of his wildfire kisses and head between your thighs. Nothing screams of how much you’ve missed each other more than a good dicking down, climax after climax until you’re both panting messes of sweat and entangled limbs. The anticipation makes you squirm under the sheets, legs pressing together.

You: pls do

You: i need u

It’s uncertain what spirit has possessed you at this ungodly hour for these words to come out of you. There’s an instant flash of ickiness, but you let the self-cringing simmer and dissipate into the realisation that this is okay, this is normal. Taehyung’s your boyfriend, couples text like this. You need to grow some.

Tete: fuck baby

Tete: i’m so not used to u texting like this, it's driving me crazy

You: crazy how *cat smirk*

If you weren’t smiling before, you’re definitely grinning like an idiot now. His reaction is predictable, yet oddly still, an incredible wave of satisfaction hits you. And because you want to savour this moment, maybe give him a taste of his own medicine, you send him a picture of yourself.

Camisole strap slid off your shoulder, hair splayed out, bottom lip deep red from biting down on it too much. Just to return the favour.

Tete: y/n

Tete: call me now

-Incoming call from Tete-

Laughing to yourself, you wait a good few seconds before picking up to prolong his torture. “Yes, Taehyung?” You put your thumb between your teeth to suppress the laughter.

“Fuck.” Against the silence of the night, the low rasp of his voice permeating into you from the speaker of your phone sends tingles up your toes. You’ve fucking missed his voice more than you thought. “Y/N… You can’t do this to me.”

“I told you, I miss you. Like… a lot.” The saccharine tone in your reply is foreign to your own ears, but you like the sound of it and the deep rumble it elicits from your boyfriend.

“How much?” Taehyung eggs you on. His words are barely slurred, so you gather that he has sobered up at least for the most part by now. Yet there is still a slowness to it that suggests

“Hmm, like… I touched myself every night at the thought of you a lot.”

A sharp inhale. Then silence. But you know better so you give him a moment to gather himself.

“You shouldn’t be putting that image in my head.” Exasperation is evident in his voice, desperate and yearning. You can imagine him now, one hand on his phone, the other sliding over his pants that are getting a bit too tight for comfort. Your breath hitches.

“Then you shouldn’t have sent me that picture, Taehyung…”

“You said it was soft and fluffy. What you sent me back was not soft and fluffy.”

“Just because it’s soft doesn’t mean it doesn’t turn me on. You do things to me… okay?” Heat trapped beneath the skin of your cheeks, your grip on the phone against your ear slackening as your thighs rub together.

“Fuck, I’m getting hard, baby…” Nothing gets him going more than the knowledge that he turns you on, it’s his weakness but somewhat his strength.

“That’s… unfortunate. Are you going to do something about it?”

His gulp is audible even over the phone. “Uh…” A sigh. “Um. Maybe. Thoughts are being thought.”

“What kind of thoughts? Thoughts about me touching myself and moaning your name? Thoughts about how much I wish my fingers were your cock thrusting so deep into me that I feel it in my guts? Or are you thinking about what you’ll do to me when you’re back tomorrow? Fucking my mouth until I’m crying or filling me up with your cum first?” Your hips buckle at the filth leaving your mouth. This is more like you; you haven’t abandoned your nature after all.

“Oh, fuckkkk.” His moan resonates into your skull, not quite as if he’s here with you but good enough to fill your desire. “Y/N… I need you so badly.” Breath ragged, you hear movement of his sheets in the background as he adjusts into a more comfortable position.

“Are you stroking your cock right now?” A warm slick oozes out of your own entrance. There’s something about Taehyung masturbating to you that elevates you to a different kind of high.

“What do you think, baby?” As you listen closely, you hear the slow rhythm of his pumping, and your fingers ache to pleasure yourself. ‘The things I’ll fucking do to you when I’m back.”

“Mmm, but it’s late, Taehyung, why don’t we go to sleep.”

“Wait, what?” The stroking stops instantly and surprise in his voice releases a smug satisfaction into your veins. The equivalent of pouring a bucket of ice water over his head right now. Teasing is an old undying habit, what can you say? “You wanna end the call now?”

“Yeah, we should sleep, babe.” Grin unsuppressed, you turn over onto your side, probably a bit too pleased with yourself at your success. Taehyung is an easy victim always.

“What the fuckkk?” Your boyfriend groans. “You’re seriously going to tease me this hard then leave me high and dry?” When you offer no more response than a sly chuckle, he add, “You’re so evil.”

“Save it for tomorrow, Taehyung. Think about it, we’re one sleep away from seeing each other again.”

“Fuck, I know. But you just got me so fucking horny, bruhhh. I thought we were gonna have phone sex.” You are still laughing at his whining, basking in the victory you’re holding over him.

“Taehyung, save it for the real sex.” The idea of phone sex crossed your mind several times to be honest, but you really want to collect every single drop of desire and longing and unleash it tomorrow. Raw and pent up. Nothing to dampen the fire.

A sigh of defeat down the line. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know?” You know. “How am I supposed to sleep now though? I’m so rock hard that it hurts.”

“You can figure that out yourself, big guy.” Your cheeks ache from smiling for too long; they often do during calls with him. “One sleep away, okay?”

“Ugh, fine, you demon. I can’t believe you sometimes.” He lets out another sigh. Your heart skips at the anticipation of how he will punish you for this. “Good night, I miss you.”

“Good night, I miss you more.” There’s a sudden change of tone with these words. Because you truly mean it. Sex and physical intimacy aside, you really just missed his voice, his banter.

You fall asleep almost immediately.

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You don’t think you’ve heard a sweeter sound than the keys rattling at the door the next day. Practically leaping off the couch where you had been awaiting him in your Taeyhyung-less boredom, you run to the door.

As it swings open, heat courses to your chest when your eyes land on his, so full of comfort. Your boyfriend is home. Handsome as ever, much more tanned than your memory of him and much more attractive. White t-shirt and loose black shorts, a mundane outfit that only he could make look exceptional.

And as much as you want to sprint up and throw yourself onto him, your feet stay planted on the floor.

“Hey.” You barely breathe out.

Stay calm and composed, you tell yourself. It was only one week without him, it’s not like he’s returning from war.

But Taehyung doesn’t even reply, because in two long strides he is standing before you, bags tossed to the side, a sign of their insignificance in the presence of you. His arms find their home circled around you, face buried in your hair before you can utter another word. You don’t hesitate to return his embrace, holding his waist as you let yourself fall into his chest. He smells like what summer should, the ocean, sweat and young love; his familiar musk greeting you as if he never left.

Your lips meet his, strong and full of intent. He’s so unexpectedly soft when he kisses back, a timeless romantic dance like he is saviour your taste on his tongue.

With your weight leaning on him, he slowly topples back, stepping hastily until your bodies land on the couch. You fit your legs on either side of him as you burrow your nose in his neck and breathe him in, memorise him. In nothing but a large shirt, your bare thighs are exposed for his roaming.

When you pull away and face each other, you are struck by his beauty. His skin is sun-kissed and glowing, hair an effortlessly beautiful mess, the slightest hint of a stubble peeking through below his nose. Your heart belongs to him forever, you know it without a doubt.

“You smell so good. I missed you so much, baby.” And his voice… That deep baritone honey that you have taken for granted all this time - music to your ears.

“Imissedyoutoo…” You mumble, shy under his undivided attention and mercilessly unbroken eye contact.

With your chests pressed together, his chuckle rumbles into you. “What was that?”

“I missed you too… I guess.” Face flaming, you can’t bring yourself to meet his eye at your admittance, fingers twirling around his curls to preoccupy yourself.

But he cups your chin and turns your face to him, forehead pressing up to yours until your noses are touching, breaths mixing. “That’s not what you said last night.” Taehyung smirks, hands sliding down to your waist, the material of your shirt bunching up in his hands. “Do I need to remind you?”

“No…” You find yourself unable to keep your eyes open, your core pulsing mercilessly as you grind onto him. “How are you already hard, Taehyung…” And though you mean to scold him, it comes out breathless.

Lips hovering, he traces the edge of your jaw, tingling the sensitive little hairs on its way to your ear. When he reaches the shell of your ear, warm breath infiltrating so relentlessly into you, you almost lose yourself right there on his lap. “Don’t you know how much I love you?” He whispers.

“Show me.” Is all you make out.

His hands are already beneath your shirt before you even notice, palms kneading into your breasts as he takes your nipples between his two fingers and rolls. As he kisses you again, the same tenderness exchanges between your lips. It’s a different kind of desperation to be so slow and gentle, one that means so much more than sex, one that’s telling of how much you truly missed each other. Your hips roll with a mind of their own over him. One hand of his comes down to your ass, guiding the waves of your rocking. And each time his stiff clothed member digs into your clit, you whimper into his mouth.

Carefully, Taehyung rolls you over onto your back, sucking your bottom lip to keep the seal from breaking. He pulls away when he’s on top of you, and a string of glistening saliva bridges between your mouths. “Foreplay or no? Tell me what you want?” Compliant as ever.

“I need you to fill me up right now. Anything else can wait.” You watch the devotion ignite in his eyes. His fingers are in a hurry as they pull your panties off, knees spreading your legs open as he kneels between your gaping entrance. He tugs his shirt off from the collar, such smoothness in his action that your insides coil up. His newly-bronzed rich skin revealed, you can’t help but reach up and run your hands down from chest to navel, revelling in his blemishless ridges.

A low sound reverberates from the back of Taehyung’s throat as your touch travels down to unbutton his shorts. They fall loose. His hard throbbing members springs free, a glistening bead oozing from his slit. “You didn’t wear boxers?”

When you glance up, you notice his sheepish grin. He presses his mouth onto yours, still smiling, guiding you back onto your back. “I just couldn’t wait.” Taehyung whispers. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, especially since last night… Ah, fuck.” Another deep groan erupts from him as you reach down and slather that bead of precum all over his tip. His head falls onto your neck, writhing under your merciless stroking.

His tip brushing against your clit, your toes curls at the teasing of your weakness, hips jolting up involuntarily and perhaps a bit too violently. You’re so embarrassingly sensitive after this many days without Taehyung, and he notices from your breathless reaction. Smirking, he takes his shaft in his hand and runs his stiff head over your clit mercilessly. And as you roll your head back helplessly, he nibbles onto your exposed neck, faint stubble grazing your skin.

“Quit the teasing…” You whine, unable to withstand the build up of twisting pressure begging to be fulfilled between your legs. “Just put-”

Taehyung pushes himself into you so abruptly that you yelp. And there it is, that mind-melting stretch of your walls that you’ve so much missed. “Fuck, Taehyung…” Your entire core feels ablaze, so numbing that your nails dig into the leather of the couch before they find grip on his arms.

“Like that, baby?” His voice his strained, as if he’s struggling not to lose his mind as well.

Nodding because you can’t make out a word as he slowly pulls out, you grab his face and pull him up to meet your lips. You whimper into him mouth when he rams into you again, hitting your walls in full force, no mercy. His kiss doesn’t lose its sincerity despite the juxtaposition of his vigorous thrusts, though you can’t say that he is quite as gentle with as before. You pinch his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking on it as your fingers get lost in his hair.

After seven days of deprevation of his cock, your cunt is leaking with the fluid of your arousal, aiding in the ease of each plunge. You feel the stiffness of his ridges pulling you open as he slides in and out of you. “Fuck…” He pants, mouth hovering over yours.

“Let me get on top.” Taehyung’s eyes flash at your suggestion, instantly rolling onto his back. He slips out during the switch of position and the wetness of your cunt is assailed by a sudden rush of cool air.

You swing your leg over and mount him, watching him watch you pump his dick, your own liquid slathered over him sticky in your hand. Letting his member fall against his abdomen, you grind over him between your folds, hands splayed out over his chest. The friction created each time your clit would slide over the thin pinch of skin where his tip unfolded into his shaft has Taehyung a groaning mess.

He looks remarkable under you.

You push his sweat-dampened curls out of his forehead, eyes half closed in euphoria, half watching you roll your cunt so lewdly over his length. You know you could make him cum like this if you continue. But you want him to cum inside you first, you want to feel that thick hot spurt of his desire shoot again and again into you until his cock is twitching.

So slowly, lubricated by your wetness, you sink inch by inch down until the skin of your ass meets his thighs. This angle fuck with your mind; you think you feel him at your cervix. Then your hips start to do what they know best, pounding over him with a rhythm that you’re proud of.

Taehyung grabs hold of your waist, your breasts, fury in his eyes as he watches you ride him with such determination. “I love you so much.” He heaves between heavy breaths.

“I love you, I missed you more than you could imagine.” You huff, thumb running over his red swollen lips.

“I love when you admit it.” He sits up and takes the swell of your breast in his mouth, making his way to your nipples where his tongue relentlessly flickers over.

Your thighs are starting to burn, core aching because his cock is thrusting up into you so deep that you feel it in your guts. The signs are appearing - your vision is going hazy, walls squeezing tightly around him, tangle upon tangles knoting in your stomach. His are too - his head is slumped against your chest, arms crossed behind your back as he holds you close to him, whole body starting to tense as he begins to curse.

Pace quickening, you don’t let the tire of your muscles stop you from your chase. The slap of your skins ringing in your ears, you keep riding, cunt swallowing his cock whole each bounce. Taehyung breaks first. “Fuck!” He calls out into your neck. His cum squirts into you, pulse after pulse, your boyfriend’s hips jolting each thrust.

“I’m so close, babe, keep going for me.” You plead, knowing how sensitive he is right after his climax. He nods wordlessly, face still buried in you hair. The lubrication of his cum abolishes any resistance, letting you slide over him easier than sitting down. And not five thrusts later, your own coil snaps. You through your head back at the wave of pleasure that drowns you, your entire core on fire as your moans echo through the room. It takes maybe twenty seconds for your walls to stop throbbing and for the orgasm to slowly die down.

Taehyung is already growing limp inside you after his orgasm. “Thank you.” You whisper against his forehead while you dismount. His cum flows out of your slit and down the insides of your thighs, but he refuses to let go of you.

When he looks up, you are struck by an overwhelming sensationf of adoration. His long dark curls fall slightly over his eyes, in disarray but just the way you like it. His eyes are so full of genuine love and gratitude of having you that you can’t help but capture him with your lips. “No, thank you.” He mumbles against you, falling back onto the couch with you in his embrace.

After a long kiss of after-sex affection, you pull away before it leads to a second round. “I want you to know that I really missed you a lot. I can’t even call you a big baby anymore because I stared at all the pictures you sent me every night till the sun came out.”

Taehyung’s boyish smile melts your heart. You’ve missed him way too much. His smile, his goofy comments, his tender kisses. “My heart… is squeezing…” If his smile doesn’t tell how smitten he is, his eyes definitely do. “I missed you so much too. All the boys made fun of me for being such a wettie ‘coz I couldn’t shut up about you.” The thought is so endearing that you can’t help but hide your face.

“So how was your trip? Plenty of hot girls drooling after you?” Trick question of course, you know that for a fact already.

“Haha, it was good, fun. Bet you couldn’t sleep ‘coz you were trembling from jealousy.” Scoffing you land a smack on his chest. “But nah, no hot girls. Nowadays there’s only one hot girl in my eyes.”

Your own lips spread like a cheshire cat. “Shut up, cutie.”

“Rachel McAdams.”

“Let go of me. Don’t even touch me.”

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A/N: Moral of the story, never sit on their couch if you’re a guest at the Heatwave house.

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24/08/20

© Copyright 2020

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[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which Lion suffers from the consequences of being tortured. (Rating M, hella angst + some comfort, ~3.3k words) - written for @renegad3spectre​! Thank you a ton for commissioning me, I really really enjoyed this prompt, just took it and ran with it. It was a pleasure, all the love to you 🧡🧡🧡

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Horrifically, it’s his grandfather delivering the blows.

He’s got fond memories of him, of sweets smuggled into his pocket, repeated stories ever-changing from one retelling to the next, quiet banter loud enough for him to hear but muffled enough that he suppressed his own laughter. He smelled of books and wood and old people, and that must’ve been it – the building had held a heavy, stale air which probably triggered the association, unwanted as it is.

So now the creature in his head, the remnant, the ghost haunting his mind wears his grandpa’s face like it owned it, like it had absolutely any right. It hurts more this way. It hurts to be called a disgrace, worthless, useless. It hurts to be disowned, it hurts to hear I have no grandson and it hurts to be accused of killing them, you killed them, your hand held the scalpel and this particular voice coming from his grandfather’s mouth is even more disturbing.

Who do you work for, he yells, unforgiving, merciless, and now his features shift, skin discolouring and eyes sinking into their holes to make way for nothing but darkness, and soon it’s the familiar sight of a brutal, faceless monster, concealed by a mask, surrounded by others looking exactly like him, supported by clones. Where are they, they scream at him in unison, who else. And he wants to answer, wants so desperately to reply to make it stop, is willing to give up anything, everything, if only it means this unbearable noise in his head quiets down. But his thoughts are made of tar, spread slowly and directionless, impossible to wade through. Words elude him, fade like smoke whenever he attempts to grasp them, endeavours to put this horrendous suffering into a single sentence.

Not like any expression he knows would be sufficient to describe this torture.

He doesn’t know what’s real. At times, he’s losing himself in a loud beat and a steaming crowd, coloured lights sweeping overhead and music seeping into his bones, and he knows he needs to reunite with his friends to keep partying, keep the night alive. It’s convincing enough he can taste the cheap drinks in his throat and feels naked, sweaty arms brush over his own on the dance floor – and the next second a blinding light pierces his skull and there are too many people around him he doesn’t know. They sound alarmed, eyes wide, and it sparks an instant, shrieking panic: something is wrong and he has no idea what it is. The strangers refuse to let him go, hold him down, and he tries to explain while the sterile stench they exude causes his stomach to churn and turn.

.

Most of the time, his ears are filled with accusations. The source is constantly evolving but what stays is the nauseating sense of dread. His heart races against the rest of his bodily functions and easily wins every time since his senses are sluggish, his perception unreliable and his thoughts wrapped in cotton. Grimaces of fury are persistent companions, and though he can’t put a name to all of them, their familiarity cuts deep. His mother, his former friends, his father, his sister. Alexis. Claire. The guy he met in Marseille who pretended to be his friend. Doc. Thatcher. An abomination from that cursed city Lion tries so hard to forget. Doc. The masked entity, omniscient, omnipotent, terrifying. Alexis. Doc.

He understands.

Why people would betray their loved ones, their country, their morals – he understands now, and the realisation is as chilling as the experience. He begged to be able to tell them. Begged for his life, begged for his life to be taken. Begged for peace as opposed to the chaos inside him, and he knows now most people have no idea what chaos really means. They humanise it, award it positive or negative qualities yet Lion would tell them it’s neither malevolent nor merciful. It just is. Against it, he is nothing, smaller than a speck of dust, utterly inconsequential and unimportant: in the face of true chaos, he’s meaningless. All he can do is hope he survives it.

.

The room is empty, his eyes tell him, and his ears tell him the same, but his brain is convinced of someone’s presence, just out of sight. Pitiful noises fill the barren, bleak chamber and they come from him, but at least they summon another human. A human with Doc’s face, and then with a mask, and then it’s Doc’s face again. Lion buries his fingernails so deep into his arm he tastes copper on his lips and pleads for him to stay. He sounds like a broken record, this voice isn’t his, the syllables barely intelligible among the dry heaving and the sobs. Music starts playing, a loud riff reminiscent of his teenager years, signifying rebellion and freedom and the worst fucking period of his entire life, and Doc says your hand held the scalpel and he’s gone again.

More, he implored as if anything he said would sway them, yes, please. And he looked at the needle and hated it, despised himself for craving it like this, abhorred the ones who turned him into this, and simultaneously he needed. He needed it so much. Without it, he was broken.

His throat is hoarse from screaming, so the visions morphed from atrocious to tragic until he had no more tears left to cry, and then they went for the very core of him. And this, too, he understands now: why anyone would go above God and decide existence isn’t worth it anymore. If he’s being tested, he’ll gladly fail as long as it means silence. If he’s being punished, he’s ready to receive eternal punishment for it can’t be any worse than this.

.

Someone is calling his name. The man – the men – knew it because he told them, it was one of the many things he told them, so he fights tooth and nail to continue drifting in this vegetative state, but it grows ever more insistent and strips away the layers of mud obstructing his consciousness, leaving him no choice. He can’t remember what it’s like, to have a choice, to choose.

Long words are being thrown at him. He deciphers none and yet an image forms below his eyelids, less blurry with every new description. The professional tone of voice pushes him gently back to his days of studying, a time filled with diligence and the hope to make a difference, and his despairing brain latches on to the information like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

Delirium, the familiar voice lists, agitation, seizures, anxiety, hallucinations. Too many syllables to fully absorb, and still he deconstructs them halfway. The mask wouldn’t know them. And if it did, it wouldn’t use them around him.

He’s safe.

He must be, it’s the only valid conclusion, but why does his existence still hurt this much? Why is the world shaking, why is he slowly drifting away from everything he ever held dear, from his life, this earth, himself?

.

They have Alexis. The realisation jolts through him like an electric shock. He needs to rescue him somehow, together with the people by his side, yet he can’t shoot at the maniacally cackling crowd running away from him because he’s not sure which one of them has him, and he can’t risk hitting his own son. Risk harming his most important footprint on this world. The masked grimace tells him he’ll be too late, and besides, it was his own fault anyway: Lion willingly told them about Alexis’ whereabouts in exchange for his next fix.

And he did do that. He did that. These are the consequences of his own actions, his punishment for complying with minimal resistance instead of staying strong, remembering his training. He sacrificed his son for something this trivial. Offered him up in exchange for complacency. Put himself first.

People are screaming, Claire, his colleagues, his family, and he knows he must interfere if his life is meant to be worth anything anymore, and there’s a small voice inside his head, an old companion. Full of vitriol, pulling at threads to make him come undone, scratching at scabs to cause scars, widening holes so he’s incomplete. It suggests a scenario and with petrifying speed, he’s there to live it.

He has a choice. On the one side is his son, gagged, tears in his eyes, struggling against his restraints. On the other side is –

There’s a –

.

It’s a syringe.

.

“-s alright. You’re alright. Take a breath, Flament. You’re safe, you have nothing to worry about. Do you need to throw up?”

Paying no attention to the words, Lion is flailing, sitting up abruptly and touching his legs to check whether they’re still there, touches his face and feels blind panic flare up the moment he spots the object in the crook of his arm. He’s narrowly stopped from ripping it out by an iron grip against which he struggles wildly, demanding to be let go, knocking something over and shattering it.

The vice-like grip never once wavers, and gradually his surroundings begin to sink in. He’s in a hospital, it seems, and the person by his side is none other than Doc, trusty (your hand held the scalpel) Doc who’d never let a patient suffer more than absolutely necessary. Bleeding heart Doc. Doc with his stoic face which barely contains the rage undoubtedly roaring in his chest (and is it directed at Lion?).

From one second to the next, Lion deflates and sinks back into the pillows, thoroughly fatigued. His adrenaline wears off quickly and makes way for uncomfortable nausea and the sensation of itching limbs. He needs to move, needs to shake off this horrible feeling of having slept a decade, but he doesn’t trust his body. The hand finally lets go of his wrist and leaves behind a print even lighter than Lion’s skin already is.

“Alexis is safe, too”, Doc assures him.

Lion jumps at this. How does he know? His throat closes and opens, produces a dry rasp and forces him to cough. Next to him, Doc is waiting patiently. “Where is he?”, Lion eventually gets out.

“At home. He never left.” He sounds composed despite the storm clouds visible in his expression, so Lion isn’t the intended recipient of his cold fury. “You kept calling for him, so I figured you must be worried. But there’s no need for concern.”

“What happened?”

Doc pauses for a few seconds. “We apprehended the ones responsible. Fortunately, we intercepted their outgoing messages, so what little information you gave them never reached anyone else.”

If this was true, Lion could exonerate himself. He also takes note of how Doc is silent about the before. He must guess Lion remembers being captured, remembers what they did to him. Bruises on his body are evidence for some of it, and the hellish trip tells the rest of the story. “How much did I say?”

“Doesn’t matter. We caught it.”

“How much?”

“You shouldn’t worry about -”

“Gustave!”, Lion roars, desperate to be either condemned or redeemed. He needs to know, must know so he can better assess his own mental strength. So he knows what to confess. So he can pray for forgiveness.

Doc’s lips are a thin line. “I don’t know. Grace and Mark had an agreement with Harry not to disclose any details. He says it’s standard procedure to prevent potential animosity.”

Not good enough. He’ll never be able to look Alexis in the eyes again if it turns out he did mention him. How much of his memories are real, how much were part of his nightmares? “What about my son?”, he whispers and Doc just shakes his head.

“As I said: I don’t know. Try to get some rest, Flament.”

Just as he exits the room, Lion spots the deep scratches on Doc’s forearm. Please stay, just please, he yells at Doc in his head, unable to bend his lips around the words. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me.

He starts crying again.

So weak is he that the tears won’t stop, can’t stop, a broken silhouette in the shape of a man. Fragmented, just like his thoughts. He can’t remember ever feeling this terrible, hasn’t felt this frail and fragile in forever. His body doesn’t feel like home.

No time that night is spent sleeping. Restless, he crawls out of bed, explores the room that isn’t his while dragging his IV stand along, lets his eyes wander over pages not belonging to him, books left on his nightstand on accident probably, and doesn’t absorb a single word.

.

Once his thoughts are his own again, he utilises them with newfound fervour. He requests his phone and types until his thumbs hurt, types and deletes, corrects, amends, reinvents.

This is a theme in his life, an endlessly repeating circle: arrogance begets punishment. A boastful adolescent loses his innocence by nearly terminating an unborn life, by indulging vices too great for him to understand. A reformed young man deeming himself competent is burdened with death and riddled with blame (your hand held the scalpel).

A man, feeling invincible, having repaired bridges, full of empathy, is beaten bloody and broken.

He hasn’t updated his will in years – a symptom of a much more dangerous cause. Rainbow instilled a delusion of grandeur in him, promised him a future, coloured his life vibrantly and provided a new motto. Not me. He won’t be killed in the line of duty, not with these people by his side. He’ll be fine. Whatever happens, he’ll be fine.

This was a close call. Targeted and much more efficient than Six anticipated, or else Lion never would’ve been captured in the first place. If this is a sign, it couldn’t be any clearer: he’s not only not invincible, he’s delicate. This was just one weakness they could’ve exploited, Alexis obviously being another, his family as well. He won’t be as cocky when embarking on a mission from now on, and he’ll try to convey to the others how easy it is not to return.

It’s an earth-shattering wakeup call.

And so he types until the letters blur before his eyes, and says things which needed saying years ago. And he vows that this change in perspective will be a permanent one – he’ll never open himself up like this anymore. He’ll stay alert. He’ll fend off complacency.

.

And then Montagne is by his side and says a thing too chilling to be true. He’s gone, it drips from his lips like poison, and Lion knows with absolute certainty that it’s the truth. Doc accompanied him on the mission, Lion failed him, only he was saved. Endless protest is shushed by a sad shake of the head, a head with a face so ashen Lion can tell he’s not the only one filled with sorrow at the news.

There’s so much left unsaid between them, so much admiration and respect bottled up in order to show no weakness, and now he knows it’s useless to suppress emotion due to pride. Neither of them had managed to move on and now that Lion was willing to offer introspection and the admittance of possible mistakes in the shape of good intentions and the only course of action he saw, Doc would never be able to accept any of it.

Doc would never tell him he did a good job again. He’d never show him this grim smile again, the one he wore whenever he was satisfied with Lion’s work despite the outcome, laced with pride almost – or maybe this is wishful thinking, because after all they’ve lived through, a part of Lion still craves his approval so desperately that every positive word makes him glow from the inside, only he’s gone now, and Lion will never tell him –

.

“Olivier.”

Drenched in sweat, a pounding headache and with trembling limbs, he wakes up. Still in the hospital, still with Doc by his side. Of course: his demons have been depriving him of all things positive in his life, so why not him too? Nightmares know no bounds and refuse to accept Doc is sacred.

The other man is flushed slightly, dressed immaculately as always, but most importantly: alive. His gaze is turned downward to where Lion is gripping his wrist so tightly his knuckles are white. “I’m here”, Doc says gently. “You can let go. I’m here.”

Lion considers complying, though when it registers that Doc called him by first name, all he does is loosen his grip. “I dreamt you died”, he admits, staring up at the irregular patterns on the ceiling. He couldn’t ever convey this emotionless void Doc’s death caused in him, the utter emptiness – somehow, it was as if he’d lost his life’s goal. Which is insane, because his aim is to better the world. Not win Doc over.

“I could tell”, says Doc.

He must’ve been distraught, calling out in his sleep, reaching for his colleague. A question occurs to him which he should’ve asked sooner: “Is everyone else alright?”

“Yes.” Hesitation. “Ying has a black eye. When we came, they were currently depriving you.”

Lion figured as much. “I need to apologise to her.”

“You weren’t yourself.” Doc’s eyes meet his. “That wasn’t you.”

His relief must be palpable. Hearing it from Doc’s mouth doesn’t make it true, but it drowns out that malicious voice which never fucking shuts up. Giving up their secrets, thirsting for a meritless high, attacking blindly – even himself: he’s more than that, and knowing Doc is fully aware of this causes him to fight back tears of gratitude. “No. It wasn’t.”

After a moment of silence, Doc’s arm twists around and offers his hand, which Lion immediately accepts. For now, there’s no second-guessing motives, no long deliberation as to whether Doc is helping a co-worker, a friend, someone more than that, whether he’s volunteering support or understanding or something else entirely. All he knows is: the hand is warm, so warm it spreads a soft calmness all throughout him.

“I brought you music.” Doc indicates an old iPod on the bedside table next to the stack of books (which has grown), a vase with flowers and a few cards. Lion either failed to notice them before or they’re a recent addition. “Dominic helped with the selection.”

This is good news. Lion hopes for unfamiliar bands – he’s not sure what kind of reaction the ones from his youth might trigger in this state.

“And I spoke with Harry.” The segue is too casual. Lion has become proficient at reading between the lines with Doc, and he translates it as I gave him a stern talking to. “He said to tell you the information you gave was deemed ‘insignificant’.”

The wording doesn’t escape him: there’s no certainty in what -

“And you didn’t even mention Alexis.”

Lion takes a deep breath.

Between the constant pressure against his temples, the rolling stomach and nauseating dizziness, he’s felt better, but trusting Doc’s words to be true settles something inside him. Doc wouldn’t lie about this. “Thank you”, Lion replies and hopes his earnest gratitude is audible.

There’s so much to say between them his thoughts are going haywire considering just a fraction of it. All their arguments are ultimately the same as Lion’s treason: insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Something invisible connects them and it should be time to drag it to the surface, but not now. Not when he’s barely begun to heal from his outside and inside wounds.

Instead, he asks: “Will you stay a little longer?”

This time, Doc nods and remains where he is, a bastion of calm. And when Lion squeezes his hand, Doc returns the gesture and it’s all he needs for the moment.

It’s enough.

[storiesbymads]

SHE’S A WORKING GIRL NOW ¹ ( the internship . )

Y/N just got an internship at her childhood best friend’s brother’s company. The same brother who has no idea they’ve even met before.

general warnings: smut, age gap (about 8 years), angst

add yourself to the taglist + series masterlist

You had known JJ Maybank since the first day of first grade. Funny how a teacher’s random seating chart had affected pretty much your whole life. If it hadn't been for said seating chart, you were absolutely, 100% sure that your life would’ve been on a completely different course than the one it was on now. 

JJ had been your absolute best friend for as long as you could remember. Hell, for most of your life the two of you had shared everything--including a birthday party since your birthdays were three days apart. He had been there for every scraped knee, every failed test, every breakup. The two of you graduated high school attached at the hip and started college the same way that fall. 

By the time junior year rolled around, you had both moved into a small apartment on the far side of town which, thankfully, meant no more student housing for either of you. Dorm life had been hell for you. Your roommate never seemed to fail at bringing someone new home every Friday night and would often kick you out leaving you to fend for yourself in the hallway. In all actuality, you stomped over to JJ’s dorm downstairs with your duvet wrapped around your shoulders and a scowl on your face when 2am rolled around and she still wasn’t done. 

“Good morning to you to sunshine,” he would say after you vigorously knocked on the tacky, brick colored door. You would simply push past him into the room and throw yourself onto his twin bed while his own roommate remained fast asleep. Aaron--you ended up learning his name about six months after you started regularly crashing in their dorm-- was one of the loudest snorers you think you’d ever met but at least you had a bed. 

“We’re so moving into our own place next year,” you would say as he shuffled into the bed, his feet situated where your head was and vice versa. Of course, it took you both another whole year to actually accomplish this dream but, somehow, you managed it. 

Now, it was the summer before what was supposed to be your senior year--JJ was sure he wasn’t going to be graduating this year due to the fact that he’d failed more than a couple classes and you already knew you were going stay here as long as he was--and you were days away from starting an internship at Maybank Industries. 

When you had originally applied for the internship, you had no idea it was JJ’s older brother who ran the company. You both thought it was just some funny coincidence. The fact that it was called Maybank Industries was what made JJ so adamant on you applying in the first place. Now, less than a week before your first day, you were forced to come to terms with the fact that you’d be working under the same Jesse Maybank you’d known since grade school. 

Jesse had been in high school by the time you and JJ had really gotten close. He’d already seemingly maxed out his height at 6’4 and his blond hair was shaggy and often stuck to his forehead when he got home lacrosse practice. He was the first boy you’d ever had a crush on. The 8 year age gap didn’t really phase second grade you. 

“I’m going to shoot myself on Monday. My sleep schedule is so fucked,” you groaned as you shuffled out of your bedroom to see JJ sprawled out on the love seat in your living room with a half eaten bowl of Frosted Flakes on the coffee table in front of him. You squinted as you read the digital clock on the microwave. 1:17 blinked back at you in bright red numerals. 

“Morning, sunshine,” JJ said. You didn’t know how or when it had happened but he had managed to develop healthier sleeping habits than you. Waking up before noon sounded like hell to you and he’d done it three times this week. 

“Fuck off,” you said, moving his feet so that you could sit down before setting them back on your lap. He grabbed the bowl of soggy cereal and took a bite. A shudder ran through your body as you faked a gag. 

“Oh don’t be like that. It’s not my fault I don’t shovel my Frosted Flakes down my throat at hyper speed,” he said before setting it back down. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this argument and you were sure it wasn’t going to be the last. 

“It’s how they’re supposed to be consumed. It should be considered a war crime to let them get all…” another fake gag. “Soggy.”

“Whatever. You’re just jealous because I’m able to retain the quality crunch the entire time,” you said. You focused your gaze on the small flat screen mounted to the wall to see that JJ had put on some crime drama. Probably Law & Order. 

“So, who’s the killer?” you asked after a few moments of silence passed. The rest of the day passed like this; you and JJ managed to get through 6 episodes of SVU before you decided it was probably time to get up and do something productive. And by something productive you meant get dressed enough and go out to grab take out. 

By the time your Monday morning alarm rolled around, you realized you should have attempted to regulate your sleep schedule a hell of a lot sooner than two nights before you were forced to get up at 5am. You flicked on your overhead light with a groan before starting your morning routine--well, some semblance of a morning routine since you really hadn’t done one since school ended. 

The drive to Downtown Chapel Hill wasn’t long. Well, it shouldn’t have been long but for some reason it felt like everyone and their mother was out on the interstate this morning. You were just desperately hoping you weren’t late on your first day as you tried to push your car past 25 mph. 

You couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to Jesse as you found yourself in a standstill on the roadway once again. You knew he wasn’t going to look like the boy you remembered but deep down you wish he was. Nothing could ever replace the 19 year old boy in your mind with his crystalline blue eyes and a smile that could make any girl weak in the knees.

A horn sounded behind you, pulling you from your day dream, “Fuck, sorry!”

At least you were going the posted speed limit now. 

By the time you saw the Maybank Industries building coming into view, you were ten minutes away from being on time, eleven from being late. You could feel your anxiety rising in the back of your throat as you glanced back and forth from the road to the digital clock in your car. 

“Mr. Maybank?” you asked tentatively through the frosted glass of his office door fifteen minutes later. You couldn’t help but picture that 19 year old opening the door and pulling you into a hug. That was if he even remembered you enough to pull you into a hug. And if he wasn’t pissed about his new intern being late. 

“Come in,” he said. Wow, his voice was a lot deeper than you remember it being. And raspier. 

You took in his whole office as you pushed open the door. The first thing you noticed was the gold plated nameplate with ‘Jesse Maybank’ engraved in bold letters with ‘CEO Maybank Industries’ in a finer print beneath it. Next you took in the view of downtown Chapel Hill out of the floor to ceiling windows behind his desk. 

“Good Morning,” you said in a shaky voice. Sure, he’d been good looking when he left for college all those years ago but nothing could compare to how he looked right now. His shoulders had broadened significantly since he was nineteen and he filled out the white dress shirt he had rolled up to his elbows nicely. You were sure that if you hadn’t been leaning up against the door frame your knees would’ve caved in by now. 

He hummed as he looked up from his laptop, finally making eye contact with you, “You must be my new intern.”

“Yes,” you nodded as you shifted your weight onto your other foot. He raised his eyebrows slightly, standing up to walk around the wooden desk and lean against the front of it. You couldn’t help but watch the sleeves of his shirt bulge slightly as he crossed his arms. “Oh, right. I’m Y/N.”

“You seem nervous, Y/N…” he trailed off, obviously expecting a continuation of your name. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten about you completely. You knew you looked different than when you were eleven but the name alone should’ve sparked something. 

“Y/L,” you said. At least now you could tell JJ you hadn’t been accepted in his brother’s internship program just because you were his best friend. 

“Well, Miss Y/L/C,” he said. “There’s a stack of files on my desk that need to be sorted by lunch today.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered, slowly pulling yourself off the door frame to pick up the files. You mentally cursed yourself for choosing to wear the tallest heels in your closet this morning. At least they made your legs look good. 

“I expect them on my desk before you leave,” he said. You were praising God and anyone else that was up there that you made it back to the door without tripping. 

“Yes sir,” you said as you struggled to close the door with the stack of files in your arms. You watched his frame through the frosted glass shuffle around his desk to sit down again. How the fuck were you going to make it through the summer if your heart almost fell out of your ass after one conversation?

The rest of the day passed by interminably slowly. The rest of the interns who had seemingly been at the company for a few years at this point--you didn’t understand why they chose to intern at the same company every summer if they never seemed to get a job out of it--and you felt incredibly out of the loop already. One of the interns, though, was kind enough to bring you a cup of coffee an hour or so after you had gotten there. Scout--you were sure you would forget her name in twenty minutes but she’d been nice enough to introduce herself--had apparently been with the company for the past three years with hope to become a paid intern come next month. 

“Thank you. I really needed this,” you had said with a smile. She waved it off with a smile of her own before getting situated at her desk across the small room. 

Other than that, though, the day had been boring to say the least. You didn’t know what you were expecting with this internship but sitting at a desk in an office with three other interns doing seemingly nothing for most of the day was not it. After you finished everything you’d needed to do with the files--with a lot a bit of help from the boy sitting next to you--you were forced to just sit at your desk and look like you were doing something productive. 

You only had about an hour left in the work day but the coffee Scout had brought you that morning had worn off way past the point of you just being a little sleepy. Another small cup wouldn’t hurt anything. Especially since you’d caught yourself nodding off at your desk three times already. You pushed yourself up from the semi-comfortable desk chair to go look for the break room. 

Thankfully, it was only a few doors down from the office you’d been working in all day and the door had been propped open with a door jamb. It only took you a second to realize Jesse was also in the small room. He was leaned up against one of the counter tops, stirring what you guessed was coffee in a stark white mug. 

“Looks like you had the same idea as me,” you said softly, picking up a matching mug off the tray as well as one of the many Keurig pods next to it. 

“Great minds think alike.” He lifted his mug in greeting before dropping the spoon into the sink. The low ceiling of the kitchen made him look even taller than usual. 

It was silent for a few moments while your cup brewed in the machine. You fiddled with your thumbs to pass the time. It didn’t help that you could feel Jesse’s eyes on you the whole time. You didn’t know why he was still in the room, to be honest. 

“You know,” he cleared his throat. “I can see your… uh…” 

“My what?” you asked, dropping your hands and looking down your body. You were sure you’d worn the right bra this morning. You’d even gotten JJ to check before you walked out the door. 

“Your garter belt,” he said. Sure enough, you glanced down at your pencil skirt which was hiked up to your mid thigh, a good two inches of the garter belt on your right leg on display. A rush of embarrassment flooded over you as you turned around, tugging the skirt down your legs. 

“I’m so sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” you sputtered out as you attempted to busy yourself with the tray of mugs. It would only be a few more seconds before your coffee finished and you’d be able to run back to your office. 

“It’s fine,” he chuckled. You felt your chest tighten at the sound. He exhaled slightly before you heard the rustling of him moving around behind you. You suddenly became hyper aware of just how narrow the kitchen was. His hand was pressed against your waist as he shuffled past you. The size of his hand made sense, he was an incredibly large man, but you’d be lying if you didn’t admit that the width of his hand spanning half of your torso sent shivers down your spine. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, sir?” you asked once he was fully out the door. He made a half-turn in the door frame, giving you a two finger salute in response. 

“See you in the morning, Miss Y/L/N,” he said. You muttered something incoherent as you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Shaking your head, you grabbed the coffee that had been finished brewing for a solid minute before making your way back to your office. 

tagging: @ptersparkers​ @digniteas​ @kiarascarreras​ @letsgofullkook​ @kirikaelak​ @haute-shawn​ @obx-baby​ @httpstarkey​ @x-lulu​ @obbx-tings​ @poguestyleskye​ @erraaxh​ @sunwardsss​ @katrynec​

[solastia]

Rogues And Charlatans | 4

Pairing: Yoongi x Seokjin

Word Count: 5,130

Summary: What is a gang leader supposed to do when his longtime rival shows up at his door, beaten and begging for help? Defend their honor, of course.

Warnings & Genre: Mafia!au, Fluff, and poorly attempted crack. There will be light violence, but nothing overly graphic. Maybe one person gets shot point blank. Basically, this isn’t a dark and serious mafia fic. It’s just a bunch of crooks in love, y’all.

AN: I LIED. THERE’S A SMUT SCENE! I couldn’t resist because it just happened. Like, I was typing when all of a sudden Jin just started hitting on Yoongi and I was like, “Alright. Do whatever you want then, the fuck.” So, yeah. It’s just a BJ scene, but it’s my usual fairly graphic style, so beware. 

The first thing that Yoongi noticed as he slowly drifted out of his dream was that the sun was really fucking bright in this room and he was going to have to fix that. Add some darker curtains or something. The second thing he noticed was that Seokjin was still wrapped around him like an octopus and it was actually really nice, something that he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning. Less nice was the rock hard and impressively large bulge pressed against his ass because he couldn’t do anything about it without coming off as a creep. His body trembled just knowing that Seokjin was this freaking close, with that part nestled against him like it belonged there. Just as he was contemplating if he could get away with rubbing against it at least a little and blame it on a dream, he noticed a third thing. 

There was a crunching sound near his side of the bed, followed by an irritating smacking that sounded like a noisy eater. There was the rustle of a crinkly bag as the sounds continued, annoying Yoongi to the point where he finally cracked his eyes open a little. 

Jimin, Jungkook, and their new little friend Taehyung had lined up three chairs and were currently passing a bag of chips between each other as they stared right at Yoongi like he was a zoo animal on display. Jungkook dusted his hands off and leaned forward to smirk at him once he noticed that he was awake. 

“I never took you for the small spoon,” he teased quietly, raising an eyebrow at the pair on the bed. 

Yoongi swallowed a little in an attempt to wet his sleep dried throat.“You know I sleep with a gun nearby, don’t you?” He rasped, keeping his voice quiet in an attempt to let Seokjin get a little more sleep. 

The three snickered quietly, although apparently not enough as a low whine sounded from the face buried in Yoongi’s hair. 

“Yoooongi. Make the kids go away,” Seokjin grumbled, his voice still thick and deep with slumber. 

“They’re your kids; they don’t listen to me.” 

Jungkook gave a snort of laughter. “Hey, we were just coming by like Yoongi told us to. Plus, I figured you’d want to get home to change into your own clothes and slap on your fifty face creams. I had no idea I’d walk into such a cozy scene. Yoongi, what are your intentions towards my brother?” 

“It’s hyung, you brat. And my intentions are for you to wait in the damned study like everyone else. Jesus Christ, what do I pay Namjoon for if he can’t keep the pests out?” Yoongi huffs as he sits up tiredly, ruffling his hair as he stares down the trio. 

Seokjin follows suit, shuffling up with a groan until he was sitting with his back against the headboard, sporting borrowed pj’s from Namjoon since he’d forgotten to pack any. He smiles sleepily at his brother. 

“We’ll be down in a bit. Kookie, can you round up some food and meet us in Yoongi’s study?” 

“You got it. You need help downstairs?” 

“My ribs don’t feel as bad today. I think Yoongi can handle it.” 

Jungkook raised an eyebrow as he shamelessly looked up and down Yoongi’s torso as if to say This guy? Yoongi flipped him off as Jungkook led his giggling companions out, but not before Jimin snuck his head back in the door once more to snap a photo on his phone. 

“Sorry, Min. You two just look so cute,” he cooed before dashing away. 

And just like that, they were left alone as they listened to the boys stomping and snickering their way down the stairs. Yoongi looked down at his lap, suddenly feeling incredibly shy as he finally processed that he’d just slept in the same bed as Seokjin all night, completely wrapped up in each other - and he’d loved it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept completely through the night, let alone the last time he’d actually just slept with someone. 

He peeks over, finding Seokjin already watching him, his eyes thoughtful and his sleep swollen lips gently smiling. 

“How are you feeling?” Yoongi asks quietly, turning a little to face the other. 

Seokjin hums, his gaze not wavering from Yoongi’s face. 

“I feel alright. I got a good sleep at least since you’re a great bedmate. My arm is still killing me though, and I probably can’t do much with it for a while. Which really sucks since it’s the one I use to jerk off.” 

Yoongi sputters and coughs as Seokjin giggles. 

“Why would you...what the fuck?”

“God, you’re cute when you’re flustered. It never ceases to amaze me how easy you are to rattle. It really makes me want to test how far I can go.” 

“Shut up,” Yoongi glares halfheartedly as Seokjin’s eyes darken and his smile stretches into a grin that promises nothing good. 

“For instance, I could tell you that sleeping next to you made me so hard it hurts and I would love it if you were to help me take care of it.” Yoongi gaped as the words registered and his eyes dropped to Seokjin’s still blanket covered lap. 

The other slowly pulled the blanket away, revealing his tented pajama bottoms to his view. He should look stupid with the borrowed pair of Namjoon’s pajamas sporting little red crabs all over it, but instead it seemed to compliment it - the innocent print an interesting contrast to the otherwise lewd display. It appeared to be every bit as big as it had felt against him, almost intimidatingly so. Leave it Kim Seokjin to be gorgeous and hung. Yoongi gulped and raised his eyes to Seokjin’s face, searching for any sort of sign that he wasn’t being serious. 

“What do you say, Yoongi? You wanna go lock the door and suck me off like a good boy?” Seokjin crooned, his voice suddenly taking on a husky quality that Yoongi felt go straight to his own cock. 

Without saying a word, he slipped out of the covers and slowly walked towards the door, trying not to give away how utterly desperate he felt. He gently closed it and turned the lock before laying his forehead against the door, trying to breathe for a moment. His skin felt tingly, like ants were crawling all over him - a sure sign that his anxiety was acting up - but he was determined not to let it get the better of him. He exhaled shakily then pushed away from the door, striding towards the bed with his own erection obvious. 

He crawled onto the bed and in between Seokjin’s legs quickly, determined to get to work before either he chickened out or Seokjin changed his mind. Just as he got his hand on the waistband of the other’s pants, Seokjin’s hand settled over Yoongi’s to stop him, using it to guide him until he was sitting on his thighs face to face with each other instead. 

“Kiss me?” Seokjin asked, reaching out to cradle Yoongi’s jaw with his uninjured hand. 

“Morning breath,” Yoongi grumbled, blushing under Seokjin’s intense stare.

“I don’t care if you don’t.” 

Fuck it

Yoongi shot forward and smashed his lips onto the other, closing his eyes and grabbing Seokjin’s firm shoulders to steady himself. He knew that he was basically kissing him like he was a terrified middle schooler, but he was so nervous. He didn’t really care though, because Seokjin’s lips were as soft as they looked. He knew that if he asked how they were so soft he would be told the names of twenty different products, so instead of saying anything he simply moaned quietly against them. 

Emboldened by Yoongi’s obvious enjoyment, Seokjin threaded his hand through his hair and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss and lightly trailing his tongue across Yoongi’s bottom lip. He opened up for Seokjin to enter and caress his tongue with his own, neither of them giving a damn that it wasn’t the freshest. Seokjin pulled away slightly to suck Yoongi’s bottom lip into his mouth, nibbling gently before releasing it was a teasing pop. Yoongi was nearly breathless just from the kiss but managed a ragged whine when Seokjin pulled away. His only consolation was that Seokjin looked as fucked out as he felt. 

“No whining, baby. You wanna play more, right? We need to finish up before the brats come looking for us. We can’t take our time today.” 

Yoongi knew he was right, but he also wanted to say fuck them. This was his house and he could do whatever he damn well pleased. 

“Then hurry up and let me suck you,” he growled, reaching a hand down to tug at the other’s pants. 

Seokjin grinned and traced over Yoongi’s pouting lips. 

“You know that you are so sexy like this, right? To the rest of the world, you are this badass and heartless mafia boss whose goons are basically ninjas. The whole city is terrified of you. Yet whenever you're around me you are always stuttering and blushing, and now I have you whining and basically begging for my cock in your throat. I’ve wanted you for so long.” 

Yoongi is stunned, because he’d thought that surely this was just a spur of the moment thing. There was no way that Kim Seokjin could actually like him...

“Get to work, baby boy.”

Seokjin pushes a shoulder down gently and Yoongi rushes to comply, tapping the other to get him to lift up while Yoongi pulled his ridiculous borrowed pajama pants down to mid thigh. Seokjin’s cock slapped against his stomach when he was released from the pants confines, and Yoongi could practically feel his own jaw drop to the floor. 

When he’d felt it earlier, he’d known that Seokjin would be big, but he was easily the largest that Yoongi had ever seen in real life. He wasn’t thick enough to terrify him, but he was very long and already dripping. Yoongi followed the path as a single bead of precum fell from the tip, licking his lips in anticipation. 

Seokjin caught the motion and groaned, grabbing his dick and angling it towards Yoongi. 

“All for you, baby. Come clean me up.” 

Yoongi decided to lie down on his stomach to save his tired muscles then lapped at the offered head. Cum wasn’t the greatest tasting thing, but the fact that this was Seokjin made Yoongi decide this was pure ambrosia. 

He groaned and wrapped his lips around it, hollowing his cheeks as he traveled up and down the length to get it wet. It felt so good in his mouth, heavy and warm against his tongue, so good that he wanted him deeper. He slid down until his nose was nearly buried in Seokjin’s stomach. Once the tip hit the back of his throat, he paused and let it just sit there, surprised he’d managed to get that much without gagging and enjoying the feel of having Seokjin in him. He closed his eyes and groaned, swallowing a little since he knew how good that felt.  

Seokjin hummed and threaded a hand through Yoongi’s hair, stroking softly for a moment before he tugged a bit. 

“Look up at me.” 

Yoongi glanced up and wanted to cum on the spot. Seokjin’s face was steadily growing red, as were the wet lips that had obviously been chewed up while Yoongi had been exploring. His dark eyes were locked with his, pupils blown and heavy with lust. Yoongi hadn’t thought it was possible for Seokjin to be more beautiful, but he’d been proven wrong. In the throes of passion, he was breathtaking. 

“God, you are so pretty like this. I can see my dick bulging out of your throat, and you just look like you belong there. My pretty baby boy loves my dick that much?” 

Yoongi blushes but nods firmly, pulling up a little to grab some air. 

“I’m nearly there, sweetheart. I’m too excited. I’m going to fuck your face a little, okay?” Seokjin asked as the hand in Yoongi’s hair tightened. 

Yoongi quivered with excitement and whined, relaxing his jaw as his eyes pleaded with Seokjin to do whatever he wanted. 

“Pinch me if it gets to be too much.” 

With that said, Seokjin pushed back into Yoongi’s throat, his breathing growing loud and shakey with every shallow thrust. 

Yoongi’s gaze was transfixed on Seokjin’s face, finding he couldn’t look away from the glorious sight. He memorized every bead of sweat, every hushed swear, the way Seokjin’s head feel back in open-mouthed wonder as he grew closer to the end. He loved the way Seokjin was struggling so hard to be quiet, knowing that he was responsible for the way the other was falling apart. 

Yoongi reached underneath himself to clutch at his own erection tightly, trying hard to stave off the climax that was threatening to rise. There was no way he was going to cum just from a blowjob like some amateur. 

“I’m gonna cum, baby. Where do you want me?” Seokjin groaned. Yoongi whined desperately and clutched at Seokjin’s thighs, trying to draw him even deeper into him. 

“Fuck, want it bad, huh? Okay, swallow it all like a good boy.” 

Seokjin’s hand held Yoongi down, but not forcefully enough that he couldn’t get away if he wanted to. He moaned loudly as his head fell back against the headboard, so loud that Yoongi wondered if the other’s had been able to hear. 

Yoongi felt Seokjin slowly spilling down his throat, a bit touching his tongue. As soon as he got a taste, his own body started gently shaking, his stomach tightening as he found himself humping the bed under him. He dug his nails into Seokjin’s thigh and came right into his pants, cringing even as pleasure racked his body. 

He pulled off of Seokjin and breathed heavily he tried to get air back into his abused throat, then buried his face into the blankets in embarrassment. He seriously hadn’t done that since high school. 

“Baby, if you want me to take care of you, then you need to sit up for me.” 

Yoongi mumbled an answer into the blankets, forcing Seokjin to reach over and tug his head to the side. 

“What?”

Yoongi cleared his throat, his face bright red. “No need.” 

Seokjin’s face showed his confusion, furrowing his brows at him. 

“What do you mean no need? You don’t want me to...oh.” 

Seokjin’s frown quickly transformed into a cocky smirk. 

“I see. You are so cute,” Seokjin giggled and played with Yoongi’s ruffled hair. 

“Shut up,” Yoongi grumbled as he sat up on his thighs, trying to wipe the drool on his chin sneakily. 

“In that case, we should probably get down there before they start freaking out.” 

“Yeah, I gotta...uh, take a quick stop,” Yoongi stammered as he slid off the bed and reached out to help Seokjin stand up as the other stuffed himself back into his pants. 

Seokjin grinned cheekily at him, obviously extraordinarily pleased that he’d make Yoongi cream his pants like a teenager. 

“Okay. Go change your pants. I’ll wait for you at the top of the stairs. I don’t trust myself to walk down one-handed.” 

Yoongi huffed but nodded in agreement. They left the room together and Yoongi ran to his own, pulling out a pair of sweat pants and throwing them on with lightning speed. When he rejoined Seokjin, the other looked down at Yoongi’s pants and sighed, as if bemoaning the loss of evidence of his prowess. 

Yoongi rolled his eyes and laced his arm through the other’s to lead him down. Seokjin tugged his closer and pecked his lips, giggling over Yoongi’s shocked expression. 

“Thank you,” Seokjin murmured, tenderly kissing him again. “Also, your mouth tastes like cum so you might want to drink something before talking to the kids.” 

“Oh my god, whose fault is that?” Yoongi grumbled, tugging the other to finally get him walking. Seokjin laughed and finally let Yoongi lead him down without any other delays. Even as they reached the bottom of the stairs and strode over to the study, they didn’t let go of each other. 

As soon as they walked into the study he settled Seokjin into one of his plush armchairs and accepted the steaming coffee that Namjoon had ready and waiting for him. He took a huge gulp, almost sad to lose the evidence that what he’d just done with Seokjin was real. He smacked his lips and sighed dramatically as he settled into his own chair to drink the rest. 

The rest of the boys are all scattered around his office, with the three youngest cozied up together on a couch in the corner of the room and Namjoon sitting in his desk chair with Hoseok on his lap. It was probably the most domestic thing that had ever happened in Yoongi’s entire house, and he felt a twinge of longing as he studied everyone. This was nice, having a room full of people that were just drinking his whole imported coffee supply instead of trying to kill him. People that he actually liked and admired - for the most part. Taehyung was still iffy, but judging by the hickies gracing his throat and the way that Jimin and Jungkook couldn’t keep their hands off of him, he was probably here to stay. 

“So why are we here, Yoongi?” Jungkook finally asks. 

Yoongi is happy that everyone seems ready to get to business instead of the teasing he’d been sure he’d have to listen to. There was no way they hadn’t heard something. 

Yoongi scoffed, “Technically, I only told Jimin and Namjoon to be here. The rest of you invited yourselves.” 

Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. “Sounded important.” 

Yoongi sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I wanted to propose a partnership. Park, you were calm under pressure, ruthless, and followed directions well. And Taehyung, with your brother gone, any remaining men will be coming to you for leadership.” Yoongi silently chuckled at the obvious cringe Taehyung made over that. He kinda figured the other wasn’t the gang leader type. 

"As you saw, we were able to decimate that gang in no time at all because they were new and untrained, without much in the way of backup or allies. Neither of you seem like the type to thirst for power, so there’s no real reason for you to be trying to run such small gangs all on your own. It would be better to come work with me or Seokjin and have all of our resources and power at your disposal.” 

“Actually,” Seokjin interrupts. “I was thinking of retiring so you’d be working for Jungkook if you didn’t work for Yoongi.” 

Everyone paused at that bit of information, turning to Seokjin curiously. He shrugged and smiled shyly. 

“I’ll still consult when needed, but I have tons of money and I’ve never gotten to do anything fun with it. I was thinking about a couple months out on a yacht. Maybe a little trip around Europe that has less crime and more sightseeing. I’m man enough to admit that nearly dying made me rethink a few things.” 

The reminder of Seokjin’s close call upset Yoongi, but soon enough it was overshadowed by the image of Seokjin on a yacht. His skin sunkissed and practically bared to the entire world since he would probably wear the tiniest scrap of fabric if he wore anything at all. He’d love to see Seokjin traveling too;  could easily picture him happily eating his way all over the world and attending the finest spas they could find. They? Sure enough, Yoongi found himself imagining standing right next to Seokjin through all of it. He wanted to take Seokjin clothes shopping in Paris, buy him pizza in Rome, cover him in jewelry from Dubai. 

He was so in love. 

“I was thinking of taking a break too. Last night exhausted me. I’ve gotten too used to hanging out in my office instead of being out there. It’s better to have a leader that it out there in people’s faces. I’d rather work behind the scenes.” 

“I don’t want to lead the gang though, Jin. I’m happy being the muscle.” 

Taehyung and Jimin both cooed and began groping the now smirking Junkook’s arms as the rest of the room rolled their eyes. 

“Well, if Seokjin is going to be away for however long, and Yoongi and Jungkook don’t want to lead, what are we proposing here?” Namjoon finally says after a few moments of silence. 

Yoongi turns to study his best friend, raising an eyebrow and stroking his chin thoughtfully. 

“I propose we all come together as one huge empire with Namjoon as our leader,” Yoongi finally states, smirking as Namjoon’s jaw drops. The rest of the room is filled with excited rumbling as the rest agree. 

“What? Me? Yoongi, no. I’m not good enough for that,” Namjoon protests, waving his hand around like the very thought was preposterous. 

Yoongi shook his head. “Joon, you’re perfect. You’ve been at my side since the beginning and I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. You already do most of the boss duties anyway while I work in the comfort of this room. I believe in you. Besides, I’m still going to be around. I just prefer to work in the shadows.” 

“Ohhh, I’ll be a mafia wife. I wonder if I can get on that TV show,” Hoseok croons as he kisses Namjoon’s blushing cheek. 

Seokjin snorts, “I’m certain you have to be married to get on there. I’ve tried.” 

“Oh, that’s not a problem since we are.” 

The room stilled as every head turned to Hoseok. 

“What?” Yoongi asked, gaze flickering between the two, 

“Mmm, yeah. Going on two years now, right babe?” Hoseok snickered. 

Yoongi sighed as Namjoon sheepishly grinned. “Yeah. We, uh...decided to keep it quiet for Hoseok’s safety. Boss, you knew. You were there.” 

Yoongi wracked his memory for a clue. There was that one...no...that couldn’t be it. 

“Wait, you mean that time we went to a music festival and that goth chick wrapped your arms in a rope? I thought you were just being weird and kinky.” 

Hoseok cackled, “No, we just got to talking and it turned out she was ordained so she talked us into letting her do it right there, then we did all the paperwork when we got home. You were drinking that weird strawberry cocktail pretty heavily, so I’m not surprised it’s a little hard to remember. You even signed as a witness.” 

“See,” Yoongi groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t even know what’s going on in my own home.” 

“I for one think this is a great idea.” Seokjin smiled at the couple. “Namjoon is fantastic at what he does, and I always admired your work. If my Jungkookie is happier to merge than lead, then you’ll have my support as well. I’ll still want to work and expect my usual cuts, but I’m happy to hand over leadership to you.”

Namjoon observes the group in awe. He turns to the young group on the couch. 

“You’re all alright with this? Even you, Jimin?” 

Jimin shrugs, grinning at Namjoon. 

“It sounds like a great idea. I was struggling on my own. I knew I’d never be able to really go up against either of them, and I’d have to if I wanted to expand.  With the power of all of us together, we’d be unstoppable. Just know that if anyone tries to fuck me over or mess with TaeTae or Kookie, I will bury a bullet in their brain. Got it?” 

Yoongi had a feeling that if he wasn’t so whipped for Seokjin, he’d be incredibly into Park Jimin. It would take a strong man not to be. 

He grinned and nodded at Jimin. “Understood.” 

Yoongi stood up and strode over to the desk, reaching his hand out. 

“Congratulations...boss.” 

Namjoon laughed and accepted the handshake, pumping it enthusiastically as Hoseok slid off him and stood proudly at his side. 

“I’m not dumb enough to think you won’t still be ordering me around.” 

“Eh, I’m old and set in my ways.” Yoongi shrugs, grinning as he sinks back into his seat. 

“Now that this is settled, we should head out. We can work through more details and things later, but I really want to get home to shower and put on my own clothing,” Seokjin sighed as he stood up, the others quickly following suit. 

Yoongi’s heart dropped to his stomach. He was just going to leave without talking about what happened earlier? 

He walked silently with everyone else as they strode towards the entryway. Jungkook gathered Seokjin’s bag and herded his two whatever-they-were towards the car. Hoseok and Namjoon went with them, chattering away. 

Seokjin stood on the final step, sunlight lending him a glow as he smiled tenderly up at Yoongi’s sullen form. He clenched the doorframe tightly, refusing to make more of a fool of himself and run to Seokjin to demand answers and beg for him to love him back. 

“Thank you for everything, Yoongi. You are amazing. I’ll see you later.” Seokjin says softly, blowing him a hand kiss before he turns and joins his brother. 

Hoseok and Namjoon are yelling goodbye and waving off the car while Yoongi stares in silence, watching it disappear from view before he heads back to his study. He slams and locks the door before breaking out a bottle of his favorite whisky and he stays in there for the rest of the day. 

⁑

By the time Yoongi finally breaks, it’s been two days since he’d last seen Seokjin. He’d left him alone the previous day knowing he’d want a chance to sleep in his own bed and maybe go to the hospital. But it was now on day two and Yoongi was suffering. 

He missed Seokjin. He missed taking care of him and sleeping with him and knowing he was okay. He’d even taken to sleeping in the bed he’d used, hoping the scent of him that clung to the sheets would help him sleep. 

He’d gotten a single text from the man letting him know that he’d arrived home safely and that was the last he heard anything. Not even Jungkook has answered any texts. 

Seokjin had certainly hinted that he liked Yoongi, right? He couldn’t have been so pathetic to have dreamed that shit up. 

Yoongi growled and kicked his desk, yelping in pain as his ankle caught the side of it and scratched the skin. Namjoon and Hoseok came running, demanding to know if he was alright, but Yoongi simply stared at the slight wound with an idea forming. 

He grabbed his leather jacket and keys, striding out of the door with steely eyes as he ignores the other two. 

⁑

Kim Seokjin’s front door is an ostentatious windowed wooden thing that looks like it was made for a castle, because of course it is. Yoongi rings the doorbell then bangs on it forcefully, in no mood to be patient. When it’s opened by none other than Seokjin himself, Yoongi’s breath hitches because he’s beautiful and he missed him so fucking much. He’s also really fucking annoyed and the knowing grin that Seokjin is aiming at him isn’t making it better. 

“So I hurt my ankle and I need it looked at, and you ate my food and slept in my house so I figured this would be the perfect time to pay me back and...”

“Yoongi,” Seokjin interrupts with tender eyes and a soft grin. “I missed you too. I was just waiting until I was off the pain meds so you’d believe anything I had to say.” 

Yoongi scoffs, despite the blush heating his cheeks. 

“Now come inside. I can’t let the man I love die from an injured ankle.” 

Yoongi stares at Seokjin in awe, his heart beating wildly as he slowly registers what he’d just heard.

He loves him. Kim Seokjin loves Min Yoongi. 

Seokjin simply watches, an understanding grin growing as he observes Yoongi. He finally takes mercy on the stunned man, lacing his hand in Yoongi’s and ushering him inside the house. 

“I know, baby boy. You love me too. Now, should we go to Italy or France first?” 

⁑

And there you have it. The End...for now. Someday I’d like to add to this universe. Maybe a chapter Namseok and Vminkook. Maybe some drabbles about their travels and the Namseok wedding. Maybe a full-on Yoonjin smut scene. We’ll see how this goes and what you guys say you want. I hope you enjoyed this! 

[reedusdixonfictionaddiction]

The Summer in Georgia

Chapter 14. Calvin Klein and Chicken Fried Steak

It took about 45 minutes to get to the mall. On the way, Daryl pointed out things of interest. He showed her the one Starbuck’s in town, the movie house, the fairgrounds, his favorite gas station and the city park. They passed an establishment up on a hill with a sign that read, ‘Darby’s Drink Hole.’

“Is that your bar, Daryl?” She asked. “Is that where you used to get into all the fights?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He answered. “Whatta’ ya’ mean used to?” He laughed.

“My mistake.” She laughed back. She wanted so badly to ask him about his ‘reputation’. Charlie was clearly poking fun at Daryl and she was dying to know what was so funny. She figured it might be a hot topic, so she decided to test the waters and ask him something else.

“So why do you say I should stay away from Charlie.” She asked innocently.

“Cuz, he’s a player. He only goes out with girls fer one thing. Don’t get me wrong, he’s one a my best friends, he’s just… Well, a nice girl like you, ain’t got no business with a guy like him. He’s got all kinds a girls. Just steer clear, that’s all I’m sayin’.” He stated firmly.

Isabella thought about this for a minute. She could take this a couple different ways. 1) Was he saying that she wasn’t good enough for Charlie to actually like, so obviously, he’d only want to use her or 2) He was worried that Charlie did like her and he was jealous, so he fed her this line of BS. She hoped it was the latter. Another thing that crossed her mind was the fact that Daryl was calling Charlie a player and said he only wanted one thing from a girl, but Charlie basically said the same thing about Daryl. He told her that Daryl had had his fair share of women and then some. One nighters, mostly. That’s what he said. It was like the pot calling the kettle black. She thought this was interesting. She wanted to press the topic, but decided to hold off for now.

“Note taken. Thanks for the heads up.” She said. “He wouldn’t have a chance with me anyway.” She added. “He’s cute, but not at all my type. Definitely not interested.”

“Good.” Was all he said back, but inside he was high fiving himself. Charlie was taken care of. He smiled to himself.

They pulled into the mall lot and parked. It was hot and humid, so she was glad he found a parking spot up close. There was a Starbuck’s on the right as they walked in. Isabella commented that there was actually two Starbuck’s in town. He told her this one didn’t count because technically it was a different town. He asked her if she wanted anything. She told him she’d only had Starbuck’s once. Her professor had taken her out to lunch once and they got a coffee afterward. She said she’d like to have another one, but didn’t know what to order. He told her he’d order for her, something cold, since it was so hot outside. He ordered two venti, iced, vanilla breve lattes. She took one sip and fell in love.

Daryl looked at the time on his phone and realized it was after 1:00 pm. He thought Isabella might be hungry now, so he suggested they eat something from the food court now and go to the diner for dinner. She agreed. They both wanted Panda Express, so they ordered and found a place to sit down. Isabella ate with chop sticks and Daryl thought this was fascinating. She told him she’d teach him how to use them too. Isabella finished first, so she just sat there watching Daryl eat his sweet and sour pork. He was so handsome. Her heart fluttered whenever she looked at him. He had a mole on the left side of his face, just above the corner of his mouth and it was incredibly sexy. If anyone deserved a beauty mark, it was this man.

“You have beautiful eyes.” She said out of the blue. “They’re almost hypnotizing.”

His face turned red and he rolled his eyes. “Nah! You got nice eyes. They’re big and bright. Mine are all squinty.” He said.

“Well, thank you for the compliment, but I still say yours are gorgeous.” She answered. He smiled and rolled his eyes again. Then he paused for a moment and looked straight into her baby blues. Her eyes were so alive, twinkly, happy. His heart skipped a beat before he snapped out of his trance. He got up and threw out their trash. As they walked, Isabella reached out and grabbed his arm. She tugged on him lightly, when he turned to look at her, she smiled sweetly at him and thanked him for lunch and the latte. He smiled back and said ‘anytime.’

They went into a few different stores, but Isabella didn’t find anything she liked. They finally came to a store called, ‘Bikini Island’. So, they went in. The suits were beautiful and she saw half a dozen she would have loved, but they were way out of her price range. She was getting ready to tell Daryl they should move on when he held up a suit and said.

“This one. It’s blue and it matches yer eyes. It’s this one.” He held the suit out to her.

She loved it, but knew it would be way too expensive.

“It’s $80.00, Daryl. I don’t have enough. Let’s go somewhere else. If we can’t find anything in the mall, I can always go to Walmart.” She said, handing the suit back to him.

He didn’t pay any attention to what she said. Instead he called the sales girl over and told her that Isabella wanted to try on that suit. Isabella argued and Daryl told her not to worry about the price. That was the suit and she was going to get it. Reluctantly she agreed. The sales girl found her size and showed Isabella to the dressing room. Daryl hollered after them and told Isabella that he wanted to see it after she had it on. Isabella put on the suit and it was perfect. It was a light blue, crocheted, string bikini. It was very high quality and it fit her perfectly. She hadn’t had a bathing suit since she was 9 and her body had sure changed since then. She felt beautiful and sexy, but she was embarrassed to model it in front of Daryl. She stood there for a minute and then got her nerve. She walked out to show him the suit. He tried to act cool, but he felt like one of those cartoon dogs, the one that sees the sexy girl and his eyes bug out and his tongue rolls out of his mouth. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. ‘Fuck Victoria’s Secret Models.’ He thought. She was perfection.

He cleared his throat and hoarsely said, “Yeah! Yeah! That’s the one. It looks real good. Whatta ya’ think? Do ya’ like it?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Ok rabbit, looks like ya’ got a suit. I found this towel and flip flops that match it.” He said, handing the stuff to the sales girl. Isabella was overwhelmed. She didn’t know what to say. Nobody had ever been that generous with her in her life. It was almost uncomfortable. Daryl paid with a credit card and they left the store. She grabbed his arm again and this time she turned him around and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. She thanked him repeatedly. He told he didn’t have anything else to spend his money on, so she was doing him a favor by helping him to get rid of some. She laughed and hugged him again. This time he hugged her back. She took note.

“Now it your turn.” Isabella said happily.

“I gotta’ get some new drawers too. Do they gotta’ a Walmart here?” He asked looking around.

“If you want to get rid of some of your money, you’re not getting underwear at Walmart. Come on.” She said taking him by the hand. “I’ll show you the underwear you should buy.” She pulled him towards Macy’s. They walked through the doors and Daryl looked around suspiciously.

“This is one them fancy stores. I ain’t buyin’ any of them silk, leopard print, bikini drawers. That’s for damn sure.” He said still holding on to her hand.

Isabella turned to him laughing and shaking her head. “I can’t really picture you in those. Don’t worry.”

“So, yer pitchurin’ me in my underwear? How do I look?” He said coyly, immediately realizing he was flirting. His face flushed, but he shook it off.

Isabella blushed and laughed nervously. “You look good, Daryl. You always look good. Come on.” She said still holding his hand. She asked a salesman where the men’s department was and he pointed them in the right direction. She saw what she was looking for and pulled him over to the display.

“These are what you need.” She said, grabbing a package of Calvin Klein boxer briefs and showing it to him. “This is it when it comes to men’s underwear. You can’t go wrong.”

“How do ya’ know what’s it in men’s underwear. Ya’ gotta’ husband I don’t know about?” He asked jokingly.

“I live in New York City, silly. These bill boards are up everywhere. You can’t go downtown without seeing them plastered all over Times Square.” She explained.

Daryl checked out the package. He was impressed. He played stupid, but he knew about Calvin Klein boxer briefs. The guy on the package looked alright and Daryl knew he was way better looking than him, so he agreed and grabbed half a dozen packages. Isabella was pleased with herself. She then pictured him in the underwear and swallowed hard. She spotted the men’s swim trunks across the aisle, she pulled Daryl over there and they picked out a pair of black and grey board shorts and headed to the cash register. Daryl stopped when he saw the beach towels. He grabbed a grey one and then detoured over into men’s shoes. He spotted a pair of black Nike slides, he found his size and grabbed the box. Isabella smiled and guided him to the check out. Daryl paid and they left the store.

He kept taking the boxer’s package out of the bag and looking at it. ‘Hmm?’ He thought. ‘Check me out.’

As they headed toward the exit they passed a Claire’s Boutique. Isabella slowed down and looked, then sped up again. Daryl asked her if she wanted to go in. He commented that the store looked like it had a bunch of shit that girls would like in there. He pointed at a rack of earrings and raised his eyebrows. Isabella told him that she didn’t have her ears pierced. He asked her why and she explained that no one ever took her down to do it and she was afraid to do it by herself. He then insisted that she get it done right then. Isabella reluctantly agreed. After it was over, Daryl beat her to the cash register and paid the bill. She thanked him again and took his hand in hers.

“Let’s get out of here, big spender.” She said walking him towards the exit. Isabella was thrilled. This had been the best day of her life. She had said that two days ago when she first met Rick and Daryl, but each day just got better and better. It wasn’t the fact that he was spending money on her, although she was completely overwhelmed by it. It was the fact that he spending time with her and that’s what thrilled her beyond words. Isabella was falling fast for Daryl, she wanted to spend every minute with him. She squeezed his hand and they headed outside.

Half way out to the truck, the fact that they were still holding hands finally dawned on Daryl. ‘Did she realize that?’ he wondered. Could she like him, like him or maybe holding hands is something just friends do too. He had no idea. He couldn’t remember ever holding a girl’s hand before. He’d never been that close with anyone. He suddenly panicked. ‘Wait a minute.’ He thought. ‘I ain’t gettin’ pulled into this shit. I need ta’ pump the brakes on whatever this is. Sure, she’s beautiful, sure she’s sexy and nice and sweet and she smells good and she has soft hands…” he lost his train of thought. He was supposed to be arguing with himself against this situation, but it wasn’t working out that well. He came to his senses and dropped her hand. She turned and looked at him. He quickly lit a cigarette and smiled, so he didn’t hurt her feelings. She smiled back and all was well.

When they got to the diner, they were both starving. When they walked in the lady behind the counter got a great big smile on her face.

“There he is.” She said. “We were gettin’ worried you wasn’t commin’ in today, Doll Face. I was beginin’ to wonder how I was gonna’ get through my week without seein’ your smilin’ face.”

Daryl smiled a little embarrassed.

“Leave him be, old lady.” A voice said from inside the kitchen. “You know he’s never gonna’ be yours.”

Isabella looked at Daryl. He shook his head and smiled and let her to the booth closest to the kitchen. They sat down.

“Well, who do we have here?” the lady said looking at Isabella with a wide grin. “You’re a beauty, yes, you are.” She turned toward the kitchen window and hollered, “James, come and look at this gorgeous girl Daryl’s got with him.” She turned to Daryl and said, “Well, ain’t ya’ gonna’ introduce me? You’ve gone and replaced me, I at least deserve to know her name.” She winked at Isabella and Isabella smiled.

Just as Daryl was getting ready to introduce them, an older man in an apron and chef’s hat came through the kitchen door.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Did you say, Daryl’s gotta’ girl with him?” He said walking towards the table.

“Yes, I did and she’s a beaut.” The waitress answered.

“Well, hello there, missy.” James said to Isabella. “What’s yer name?”

Daryl spoke up and introduced everyone.

“This is Isabella.” He said to them. “Isabella, this is James and Nancy. They own the place.” He said to her.

“Please to meet ya’ darlin’.” Nancy said.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Isabella said.

James turned to Daryl and asked. “Where ya’ been hidin’ this one, you old dog you?”

Daryl turned red and answered with a nervous laugh, “Nowhere. She’s workin’ for Rick this summer. I’m just showin’ her around.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. Showin’ her around, you say? Is that what they call it now a days?” James said laughing.

Daryl and Isabella both blushed and smiled shyly at each other and then at them.

“Oh, you ignore him.” Nancy said to Isabella. “Old fool, don’t have no sense.”

Just then a family of 4 came through the door and took a seat over by the window. Nancy greeted them and told them she’d be right with them. They smiled and took their seats.

“Get back in the kitchen, old man.” Nancy said to James, kicking at him.

Before he left he grabbed Isabella’s hand and kissed it.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, my dear and welcome. Any friend of Daryl’s is a friend of ours.” And he headed back through the kitchen door.

“Usual, right doll?” Nancy asked Daryl.

“Yes, Mam.” Daryl answered politely. “She’s gonna’ have the same.” He said, pointing at Isabella.

“Alright! I love a girl with an appetite. You want mashed or fries tonight?” She asked.

Isabella looked at Daryl.

“Mashed, please and two blackberry cobblers with ice cream.” He told Nancy, then turned to Isabella and asked her what she wanted to drink.

Nancy told them she’d be back in a jiff and went off to get their drinks.

10 minutes later, she brought out their food and told them to enjoy. She refilled their drinks and returned to the kitchen. Another waitress came in and it was a good thing. The place was starting to fill up. Daryl and Isabella finished their meals and dessert. Isabella patted her belly and told Daryl she had never been so full in her life. She then proceeded to him that she wanted to come there every Sunday with him, because chicken fried steak was now her most favorite dish. He told her it was a date and they both got up to leave. Daryl paid the bill and left a $20.00 tip on the table.

“See ya’ later, James” he hollered through the kitchen window.

“Hey, now you take care there, Daryl and you bring that pretty little girl in with ya’ next Sunday.” James answered back, then he peaked out the window and said to Isabella “It was nice to meet you little lady, you take care of our boy Daryl now, ya’ hear? Come back and see us.” Isabella smiled and waved.

Nancy kissed Daryl on the cheek and gave Isabella a hug.

“You come back and see us, ok darlin’?” She said.

“I will. Thank you for everything, Nancy.” Isabella answered and they left.

Isabella told Daryl that she loved that diner. She thought James and Nancy were the greatest and commented that they sure thought a lot of him. He said, they’d always been good to him and treated him special. He’d had lunch or dinner in that diner every Sunday for 8 years, except for holidays. It was the one constant in his life, besides Rick. As they drove to Rick’s, Daryl felt happy. He was proud that his friends had made such a fuss over Isabella and he was equally pleased that Isabella could appreciate how great they were. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. Daryl lit up a smoke and laughed.

“We never went swimmin’ today. All day long shoppin’ for suits and we never went in the water.”

“We have all summer, Daryl.” Isabella reassured him. He thought about that for a minute. They did, they had all summer. There could be lots of Sundays like this one to come and this made Daryl nervous.

[acyborgkitty]

Just went back through my posts to see when it was that I was feeling optimistic. May 19. About three weeks ago. I still can't get a doctor's appointment. My partner has been calling every day for the past week, and is starting to understand just the smallest portion of my medical trauma. No one will help us. When he called the first time, when I was feeling optimistic because it is a new region, and having someone who seemed to really understand and be able to help doing the calls for me... We had just changed my address, and they said it sometimes took up to two weeks to show me in the new region's system. But the person he spoke to offered to keep checking and call when I was there. It was the first time anyone had offered that kind of help. It felt good. Now, three plus weeks later, I'm STILL not showing up in the system. He called the state, and I'm registered correctly there, so it's something with the health care system. And just because of that, I cant get a doctor's appointment. Computer says no.

Ablebodied privledge is not feeling like your survival is at the mercy of technology. Of strangers. Of doctors who have no time for you. Of doctors who tell you to just learn to live like this, unable to stand for more than 2 minutes, unable to walk for more than 300 meters.

I don't remember if I wrote about that appointment or not. It was the last time I saw a doctor, but he wasn't "my" doctor, I paid out of pocket to go to a private doctor because I needed to get a medical certificate saying I was capable of driving so I could get my license transferred before it expired. I'd been hoping to go to my doctor for that, but couldn't even find out how to make an appointment in the larger city regional care center. I was running out of time, and I needed a prescription renewed for my inhaler too, so I did the math and figured I could manage the $300 to go to the private doctor for the moment better than the driver's license test I'd have to re-take if I let my license expire. Disability calculus. Disability tax.

At the appointment, the doctor seemed friendly enough so I asked about a referral to the fatigue clinic, where they can actually help patients like me (according to the other ME/CFS patients in my FB group).

My BP shot to 110 while sitting, writing this. Stress. I crash at 110, so I immediately had to stop, tuck my feet up so my legs were squished against my chest, and deep breathe with my eyes closed for five minutes. I'm in a cafe, and the abled body people probably think I have cancer and am going through chemo, since my head is recently shaved (I can no longer lift my arms long enough to wash hair), I'm using a cane, and am visibly unsteady. I'm only in a cafe because I had to come to the city today to see a therapist who wouldn't have a phone meeting. The appointment was cancelled, last-minute, but I had already arranged my whole day, including my partner scheduling a job in the city so he could drive me. Last-minute changes don't work for me anymore.

Anyway, I asked about this referral, and the doctor said that he would consider it, but that I'd have to really convince him, because I could be some crazy person who just wants a bunch of pointless tests done. And after reviewing my medical history, which I had printed out and handed to him, he said "If you were my sister I would tell you to just work on acceptance." Acceptance. Does that mean giving up hope for management? For support? Am I supposed to accept that no one cares, that no one will ever help me? Why should I have to accept that?

Disability justice would say fuck acceptance like that. I accept that I'm disabled. I accept that there is no cure, and no treatment, for ME/CFS. But I do not accept that I have to spend over half of my extremely limited energy fighting against institutions that should be caring for me and supporting me. I know people have improved with ME/CFS wiht the right care. I can feel it in my body, that if I got some of my symptoms (like the orthostatic intolerance) under control, my quality of life would improve. I've already found supplements that have helped me improve my brain fog to the point where I can write again for the first time in five years. I know that improvement is possible.

But I still feel so hopeless. Yesterday and today especially. Because I'm constantly running up against people and systems that literally don't care.

[poemsbyjosh-blog]

Victim's Remorse

This is the tale of the most necessary element of every murder. A piece so vital, even the grim reaper itself becomes obsessive.

In spite of morning rays on the horizon, the apartment remained dark until noon. The remnants of another lost night in the life Angeline Adams remain cast across the bachelorette layout of her one bedroom house. The couch was littered with school work and job applications, residing there long enough to grow forgotten or irrelevant. The table was covered in empty take-out boxes and empty cans of drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic. The trash can was full, the kitchen counter displayed a week’s share of junk-mail, and the rest of the house was scattered with piles of laundry, assorted by levels of cleanliness. The only noise that could be heard broadcasted from the lone bedroom.

“It appears to be another strangulation,” spoke the monotonous police officer with the voice so familiar, “and possible rape. This fits the M.O. of our killer. That would make four murders this week. Do we have any idea how he broke in?”

“One of our men spoke with a neighbor,” the female cop spoke up, “said she liked to sleep with the window by the fire escape cracked. I will check for prints. ID’d the body yet?”

At that moment, the noise halted. “Guess I fell asleep with the TV on again.” Spoke Angelina, rolling out of bed. “Fuck. It’s noon. I have class in less than an hour; I guess I’ll be grabbing coffee on the go, again.” After showering, she changed clothes from the laundry pile nearest her bed and threw her hair into a ponytail. She grabbed her phone and was out the door, dashing towards the nearest Starbucks. During her trip, she checked her phone; she had three missed calls from her mother and 7 unread text messages. She called her mom back first.

“Angie,” her mom answered without a formal greeting, “why are you just now replying. Did you sleep until noon?”

“No, mom,” Angelina replied, still possessing the angst in her voice she developed in high school, “I’ve been up studying for my calculus test today and left my phone in my room.”

“Oh well, that’s good,” Mrs. Adams replied in the most motherly of voices, “are your grades better now that you have ridded yourself of that leech?”

“Brian had nothing to do with my grades,” Angelina replied, “but yes, I feel like I’m doing much better this semester.”

“Good,” her mother answered, “Your father and I worry if you’re ok being so far away from home or if the stress is too much for you. I know it must be difficult with the apartment and job hunt.”

Now was the moment that culminated from every conversation between Angie and her mother; the time for Angelina to decide whether to ask her mother her reason for calling and creating an unnecessary with negative effects on both Angie’s stress levels and her mother’s concerns, or to assure her that everything was smooth sailing in Columbus and relive the unsettling numbness that haunted her every day. Today, timeliness answered the question for her.

“Everything is fine mom,” Angelina answered, “Sorry I can’t talk, but I have to run. I’m late for class already. Thanks for calling, hope to see you soon. Tell dad how much I miss you two.” She then hung up the phone without waiting for a response and was off to her class. She dreaded the day her mother learned to send text messages. Avoiding these conversations would become much more difficult.

Once Angelina settled into her seat at the back of the classroom, she checked her text messages. Five were from an assortment of friends asking her to come out with them for the night. All of Angelina’s “freshmen friends” as she called them were always concerned that she worried too much about life and constantly tried to cure her of concerns with a night of drinking. Angelina hardly ever relaxed at this type of scene and the anxiety of knowing she had lost hours of valuable time to something non-productive only made these situations worse. But her friends were resilient, so she often ignored these messages, telling them the next day that she had misplaced her phone.

The other two messages were from her ex-boyfriend, Brian. Both were essentially the same message, just carefully reworded. “Lina, how have you been? I miss you and was wondering if you were still at OSU. I know we aren’t as close as we once were, but I still care about you and want to be friends. I understand if you still don’t feel comfortable around me, but I will do what I can to make it easy on you. I know I can make this work. Just text me sometime this week, I will make time.”

She received messages like this almost bi-nightly ever since she finally raised the courage to end their tumultuous relationship six months ago. Each time she would compose a snarky, venomous reply that read almost exactly as the one she typed today: “Listen Brian, I know you have trouble accepting you’re not in control of a situation, but neither I nor life is going to create a circumstance in which we reconnect. You are incapable of “making this work” because it isn’t your situation to work, it’s mine. I was the one that left you, after years of obeying to your passive-aggressive, sly demands. The sacrifices I made for you are still affecting my life daily and I have no intention of delaying my life any more than I already have for someone as selfish and heartless as yourself. Nothing you can say is going to bring me back under your moralist, 1950’s reign of power. You will have to find another naïve, insecure girl to control, because I can’t be your graveyard anymore.”

Just as had happened with every occurrence, she never pushed send on the message. Unlike every other time, however, this time it was out of her control. The professor had spotted her and asked her to close her phone and not disrespect his class anymore. Angelina did promptly, deleting the message, but that did not suffice the irritated professor who then dismissed Angelina from the class. As Angelina walked out she began to cry. Life was finally starting to hit her. It’s strange how when problems start to appear, you just keep moving, hoping to stay ahead of the problems, not unlike a supersonic jet outracing sound against all logical conceptualization. But just like with the jet, eventually the sound and the fury will catch up with you; and if the problems have multiplied enough, then the sonic boom will be earth-shattering and catastrophic. The crash happening to Angelina was going to create a disaster zone.

She was able to make it to the bathroom before the tears rushed to the surface. She sat by the sink, staring down herself and a thousand problems. As her psychiatrist had taught her to do, she closed her eyes and imagined back to a time before any of these problems existed. She closed her eyes and was back in the eighth grade, passing notes to the latest crush. That night, the only concern she would face was that life wouldn’t change for the better. What a wonderful blessing that was; to never worry about the quality of life declining, always only the chance of improvement. This particular boy would, in fact, disappear from her life, leaving her in the same carefree spirits she already possessed, and creating opportunities for an onset of possibilities life hadn’t even presented yet. Now, Angelina Adams was at peace with the world.

She opened her eyes, now immune to the dried makeup and tears that covered her face and began phase two of her recovery. She made a list of all of the current problems that confronted her.

1. Brian is still a hindrance to my progress in life.

2. I haven’t found a job to replace the waitressing job I just quit.

3. My bills are due soon. I may have enough for one more month’s payments.

4. I need to ace about 80% of my remaining exams to not be placed on academic probation.

5. I cannot imagine that 20% of my remaining exams are ace-able.

6. I can’t survive without dependence or at least co-dependence on someone else. I need accompaniment.

The tears began to form again beneath her eyelids, the telling sign that her list was complete. “If what you have down so far is enough to overwhelm you,” she recalls her psychiatrist telling her, “then it is enough on your plate so far.” So Angelina read over the list and realized the magnitude of her issues. This was much bigger than the high school crushes that once kept her awake at night. Her problems now don’t keep her awake at all; Angelina just wants to sleep, and escape the problems for eternity. But Angelina remembered her tattoo and looked on the underside of her wrist. Bend but do not break. The lowest lows only create the highest climbs. She gathered herself and headed for the cafeteria.

To further test her belief in resiliency, as if she honestly needed it, the first person she encountered when she entered the cafeteria was none other than Brian. Angelina spotted his candid, shallow smile from the other side of open room. She tried to avoid his sight, but to no avail.

“Lina,” Brian shouted, as if they were lifelong friends happening upon each other, “How have you been? I tried texting you.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Angelina mumbled almost incoherently, “And I have noticed the texts I am just really busy with school.”

“Anything I could help with, Lina?” Brian asked. Brian was a year ahead of Angie and Angie loathed that more than almost anything about him. Brian had always previously experienced Angie’s college problems or had already taken her classes, and therefore always knew the correct line of action or at least new enough to belittle her issues.

“No, thank you,” she replied angrily, “your aide in previous semesters did not benefit me very greatly and I already asked you once, do not call me that.”

“I’ve always called you that,” Brian retorted, “you can’t change how I address you to justify hiding yourself from me. You’re disguising yourself behind a very thin veil.”

“No, I was once disguised behind a veil,” Angelina shouted, no longer worrisome of who heard, “I was once hidden behind the veil of your beliefs and your opinions. I even accepted a name that I loathed. After spending two decades writing my initials as “AA” you wanted to call me by a name beginning with “L” because you thought it was cute. Well I hated it, and this may sound like an innocuous offense to you, but to me it was one more damaging blow in your repertoire to anonymize me and recreate me as a clone of yourself. As much fun as you may consider having another you present, I would much prefer the rawest version of myself. Brian, you are no longer a part of my life and more importantly, not a piece of my future plans. If you could please make the egotistical compromise to treat yourself as such for my well-being, it would be much appreciated. If not, then I hope you are at least clear-headed enough to recognize why it is unhealthy for me to be a part of this charade you label life.”

Before she could even hear his robot-like retort that he always had, the one that always made her feel weak for having to display emotion to construe a point, she stomped off. The fact of the matter is Angelina Adams had spent many hours of every night for countless months erecting that statement in the most precise, truthful manner possibly conveyed. Because of that, she couldn’t stand there and let Brian potentially bring it down. She refused to lose even this to him after all that had already been sacrificed.

As she marched across campus, purposefully but without direction, her path was interrupted by a “freshmen friend,” Caroline Thomas.

“I watched what just happened back there,” she said, “and I am so proud of you for standing up to that sleazebag. How have you been?”

Angelina breathed in deeply, and with her exhale and a feign smile, she replied “Good, in my own apartment, now and trying to get through my degree and onto the real world. You?” She forced the fake laugh and displayed unreal optimism as she had so many times since freshmen year. That seemed so long ago, now. She was in her third year, but still a sophomore with the failed classes. Her academic struggles coincided with Brian to push her away from her friends, but she had realized recently that a self-empathy prevented her from being that happy now.

“I have no idea how you do it, Angie. I struggle every day to pay bills, keep my grades up, and stay social and you seem to do it as if it is the simplest task,” Caroline replied, “I wish you could show me your ways.”

At that moment, Angelina remembered why she liked Caroline more than her other friends. She was always so complimentary of Angelina. Angelina had longed for the support garnered from such a loyal companion, especially in the wake of the psychological warfare recently endured from Brian. Angelina genuinely liked, honestly appreciated, Caroline. Which is why for the first time in weeks, she accepted an invitation to an evening of interaction, in spite of the mountainous responsibilities she would be neglecting.

Angelina decided to skip her one remaining class to go back by her apartment to pay the water bill, seeing as it would be turned off tomorrow otherwise. On the three block walk home, she had the inexplicable impulse to call her mother. She couldn’t recall the last time she had placed a call to her mother and not in response to a missed call. But with all of the stresses of life culminating, the refuge of her mother’s voice sounded attractive to Angelina.

“Hey Angie,” her mother answered with a surprised tone, “everything ok?”

“Yeah, mom,” Angelina answered, exhaling before she continued, “I was just calling to vent, really. I ran into Brian today and exploded on him. I let him know exactly how I felt.”

“I know that must be hard,” Mrs. Adams answered reassuringly, “and that you feel like it was undeserved. Trust me, though, whatever you said was only a slight punishment for the way he treated you. You are a beautiful human being and as your mother, all I want is to see you blossom into a bold, beautiful, independent young woman. I will never forgive him for his impedance of that. I am so proud of you for standing your ground and being the self-sufficient woman I always knew you were capable of becoming and I love you very much.”

“Thanks mom,” Angelina answered, feeling the oncoming rush of emotions building, “but I am not as self-serving as you would’ve hoped I would be.”

“What are you talking about,” Angie’s mother replied, “you are 21 years old, living alone in a hardly familiar city battling through the hardest years of education at a prestigious university. Few people have ever been so accomplished at such a young age. I wish I had been.”

“But I’m not succeeding at this,” Angelina said, now sobbing, speaking through the tears, “I can’t find a job, or make myself even want to look. I am slowly falling behind on another semester of school. I can’t keep up with anything necessary to live independently. And now I am realizing I have pushed all of my friends away to the point that I am lonely. I have failed, at pretty much all of this.”

“Angelina Bethany Adams,” her mother replied sharply and unwavering, “failure means you have lost the chance to succeed. If you were to curb your educational progress and pace yourself to graduate at 25, would that make you a failure?”

“No,” Angelina managed to say through deep draws of much needed oxygen. Angelina never understood how her mother held together so well. If Angie could possess any superpower, it would be her mother’s unbreakable composure.

“And you also don’t think you can live alone,” her mother continued, “not many people can. I know I wouldn’t survive a weekend without your father. I would call 911 the first time a pipe busted. We aren’t independent creatures, Angie, you need to find someone supportive and not destructive to become a codependent. Fortunately, college is the perfect place to find people just like that. And you say you are a recluse now but I’m sure all of your pre-Brian friends would welcome you back with open arms. You guys were so close just a year ago. Have you reconnected with any since you returned to campus?”

“Yes,” Angelina answered matter-of-factly. A mother would always be able to reduce me to tears, and then dry up the same tears in a matter of minutes. “I just talked to Caroline. We are going out tonight. She was always the best communicator anyway.”

“See,” Mrs. Adams spoke, now with a sense of optimism, “just today you have ridded yourself of the ghosts of Brian and reconnected with your former best friend. Soon, school will be your only concern, and at that point you will be able to conquer it as well. As for your employment situation, find something once you can handle. Your father and I can always be your monetary safety-net. We can’t think of anything we would rather spend our cash on than an investment in your future.”

“Thank you mom,” she spoke, walking up the stairs to her apartment now, “for always believing in me, even when I ignore your calls, only to call you crying. I really do love you and appreciate this more than I could ever show you.”

“Honey,” Angelina’s mom said in the nurturing tone of a seasoned parent, “You showed enough gratitude the first month you were home to make any sacrifices you ever made worth it. One day you will understand this. The first time that your daughter stops crying simply because she is in your arms, you will have all the inspiration to give until your daughter is 21 and on the phone needing help, and for many years beyond that. I promise you have always been worthwhile, and always will be. I love you.”

When her mom gets sentimental, Angelina knows that it is intended more for herself than Angelina. But this time, Angelina needed to hear that more than ever in her life. The overwhelming anxiety was replaced by a sense of joyous bliss. All Angelina could manage to say was “Thanks, mom,” and hung up the phone. She sat down on her couch and stared out her window, basking in realization. “What a view,” she thought to herself, an epiphany that hadn’t really occurred since the day she moved into the place.

It is strange how hypnotic thought only occurs for some people in times of melancholy. If Angelina remained busy, she also remained distracted. When she was distracted, issues didn’t weigh on her and she maintained positivity about life. If Angelina was optimistic, then she was also fervent about opportunities surrounding her. This sense of enthusiasm kept her impervious to the negatives of the world and so the cycle began and continued. Hanging above Angelina’s was a quote from Albert Einstein: “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” This could not possibly be truer than in this moment of Angelina’s journey.

The entire night with Caroline was forgettable, in the best way possible. They enjoyed drinks and food, caught up with each other’s life and enjoyed the other’s presence. Angelina found herself returning to the bad habit of distorting the facts of her recent struggles to make herself sound much more successful. One day soon, however, Angelina hoped to not have to falsify her accomplishments. The fact that Angelina felt she would take no memories home from this night was a positive, because she hadn’t dwelled on a single issue, even when the conversation turned to vulnerable discussion points.

“I don’t know, Angie,” Caroline said, “sometimes I feel like we were invincible as freshmen and took on every responsibility we could. I look back on that like I was either idiotic or delusional. Now I can hardly handle the responsibilities necessary for survival.”

“I think our optimism,” answered Angelina, “made us invincible. When life finally punched back we were unprepared. But the important thing is we staggered but never fell. Now we have given ourselves the chance to fight back. Luckily for us, the past few years have us hardened. The world doesn’t stand a chance.”

Caroline extended her glass and they toasted to that statement. Caroline suggested watching movies like they did each Tuesday as freshmen. Angelina thought this idea was the perfect end to the night and invited Caroline over to her place. They stopped to grab movies on the way, ‘classics’ as they called them, when truthfully they were just movies with positive memories attached. Angelina felt an oncoming headache and slight dizziness on the way home, probably from the alcohol. Angelina argued that she was fine, considering the number of drinks she can usually consume, she should have been right.

They arrived at Angelina’s apartment, and Angie turned to Carrie (Angelina decided to start calling Caroline this because she never received a shortened name like Angelina had freshmen year) to warn her that it was a mess. When she turned however, all Angelina could remember was the sharp pain of a bright light and falling to the ground. When she woke up, she was tied to a kitchen chair with Caroline a few feet from her face, flipping through the pile of documents Angelina had stowed away on her couch.

“For miss successful,” Caroline said, without looking up, “you sure seem to have failed to handle your responsibilities lately.” Angelina struggled with each end of the chair but was unable to budge the rope. She still felt weak, perhaps she was in shock from whatever was occurring, or maybe Caroline had drugged her. Angie was attempting to piece it all together. Caroline continued now, “I’m sure you are shocked to find one of your sweet ‘sheeple’ attacking you like this, you ignorant bitch. You seem to think the world has revolved around you. It looks like your world has hardly extended past these walls. What’s wrong? Was it too hard to face a reality with imperfections?”

Angelina began to panic, wondering what she could do and what all of this meant. She closed her eyes and tried to figure out an escape. All of her attempts seemed in vain. Now, the last epiphany was occurring in the mind of Angie Adams, she was going to die a 21 year old college student. Anxiety overwhelmed her and depression crushed her. The adolescent dreamer never envisioned life without marriage, college degrees, or employment. She was going to perish at the lowest point of her existence. Her breaths quickened, then became heavier. She resorted to the only refuge she knew. Close her eyes and return to the most unbreakable moment of happiness.

She struggled, thinking deep and hard to drown out the berating of Caroline. She heard her say “you left me staggering, but I never fell. Now I have a chance to fight back and unfortunately for you, I’ve been much more hardened than you, and you don’t stand a chance.” Angelina found it silly how Caroline felt that murdering a human being made her some sort of literary genius. Why would society even want to delve into the minds of a killer anyway? The action is a culmination of the greatest achievements in immaturity meeting the highest ignorance of responsibilities. Angeline wondered to herself why she would even care what Caroline had to say. Did she hope to invoke victim’s remorse? Does she realize how silly that sounds? What could she possibly be grasping about human understanding by ending a human’s ability to understand? How misguided could one be, thought Angelina.

The postulation had eased Angelina’s worries enough to allow her to escape reality and into her “zen zone” as she knew it. Completely unaware of her current surroundings, Angelina envisioned the one time she recalled where the world made perfect sense and life couldn’t defeat her. On the stillness of the street, she heard the all too familiar voice:

“I promise you have always been worthwhile, and always will be. I love you.”

Angelina whispered to herself, “Thanks, mom” then attempted to open her eyes, though she had grown too weak. Amidst Caroline’s babbling she thought she remembered hearing something about poison. Perhaps this was her method of execution. Angelina felt disoriented physically, but her mind remained as available as ever. Angelina was on to phase 2 of her process of psychological healing. She listed each of the problems that confronted her. And Angelina dwelled on this for moments before coming to the realization that with the end occurring, she had zero worries clogging her mind. What could possibly concern her now? What was done was done, and nothing could ever change who she was?

This spun into a different theological idea. What legacy had she produced? She was the all-American girl throughout high school and freshmen year. Each night, until the last, at least two people cared enough about her to call her uncontrollably. Even though Brian was the stick in the spokes that threw her off the bicycle of life, he had loved her enough to be part of her journey and would certainly love her in memoriam. Angelina would leave behind the unwavering love of a certainly crushed mother. Hundreds of friends would mourn her untimely loss, some to a much greater severity, but one fact now would be forever true; Angelina Adams was on a path to great success and because she refused to venture from the path, the loss of such a brilliant person is also the loss of a life of good and important work. In imagining that work, Angelina Adams is forever the success story she had dreamed of since the first time she donned a princess dress in front of a mirror.

As the poison infiltrated her mind and the light grew sharper in her sight, one thought stuck with Angelina in her waning moments, and she tried to mutter it as she died. “I will forever be the girl too good to die. Now, you’ll always be the girl who was a waste of a life.”

Angelina Adams died at 11:23 pm with a smile and a dream.

The most intriguing parts of any story, especially the ones involving death, are the ones we never hear.