#i love how the only accurate way to draw her is either as cutie or feral bitch with no in-between

[goffilolo]

Silv and I decided to doodle together on magma, and she was working on some ideas for a Noelle drawing, so I started doodling Noelle too in solidarity.

[seijorhi]

Reminiscent

i’m (semi) back, y’all, and i come bearing a fic!! fhdjhfjdk it’s for oikawa i won’t apologise

Oikawa Tooru x female reader

TW non-con, drunk/drugged reader, forced infidelity, emotional manipulation, angst, past trauma, coercion, mild(ish?) smut, nsfw

“F-fuck, cutie! Just like – hah– just like that!”

You weren’t the clubbing type.

Not usually, at least – but exams were over and one of your friends was fresh off a bad breakup, one night letting loose wouldn’t hurt.

Walking is… difficult, your steps are sloppy – there’s an arm wrapped around your waist, your own slung over a stranger’s shoulders. Why are you outside? Where are your friends – they… they promised they wouldn’t leave you. 

“She good, dude?”

A soft, pretty laugh rumbles at your side, “Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.”

And you remember the bar, the overpriced cocktails and the saccharine sweetness of strawberry liquor on your tongue. The dizzying lights and the bass that thumped so loudly you felt it reverberate in your chest. You knew the rules; they’d been drilled into you since you were sixteen years old.

Stick together, don’t accept drinks from strangers, and watch the one in your hand like a hawk - it doesn’t leave your sight.

A tongue between the valley of your breasts, long fingers curling up inside of you. 

“You like that, huh pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?”

They wouldn’t have just abandoned you, right? Maybe you told them to go. Maybe they thought you wanted it; to go home with the handsome stranger.

You never had the guts to ask them, never spoke about that night again. Not to anyone.

Pain. Something thrusting inside of you, splitting you open while he moans and pants atop you. It hurts so much and you want it to stop. 

Please stop. Please. Please. Please.

You’re begging, at least you think you are, but the words come out jumbled and wrong, and he just laughs, hiking up your thigh so he can fuck you deeper.

Why won’t he stop?

When you wake up, bruised and sore and all alone in your bed, it feels like a bad dream. You know it’s not – not with cum still seeping from between your thighs, the scent of the stranger’s cologne clinging to your sheets.

And you scrub your skin raw in the shower, but it isn’t enough to rid you of his touch.

—

It’s nothing like what they show on tv.

There’s no sympathetic detective to pat you on your shoulder while you break down, swearing that they’ll find the man who did this and you’ll get your justice.

You don’t go to the cops because you’ll know what they’ll say. You were drunk, drugged, and even if you could remember what he looked like (his eyes were brown, you think, and there’s a flash of a smirk in your head but the moment you try to focus on it it slips away like smoke) any evidence of rape washed down the drain the moment you stepped into the steaming shower.

At least… that’s what you tell yourself. It’s easier than admitting you’re terrified of judgemental eyes. 

Or worse; pitying ones.

So you pretend that nothing happened. You show up to your classes and throw yourself into studying, make the time to get coffee with your friends, you even pick up a part time job – it’s good to keep busy. 

The nightmares are just that; nightmares.

And things are fine, until they’re not.

—

“Baby, you’re here!!”

There’s barely time to drop your bags before she’s pulling you into a warm hug. “Hi mom,” you reply, squeezing her back.

When she draws back to take you in, one hand cupping your cheek, she frowns, “You look tired sweetheart. Have you been sleeping enough?”

“Yeah, just tired from exams and stuff.”

She looks unconvinced, but mercifully doesn’t push the issue. Of course, you don’t tell her that you missed your last two exams because you’d walked past some guy wearing that same cologne and just choked – that instead of finishing off your semester strong, you’d spent the day alternating between throwing up and crying in bed.

She doesn’t need to know that, because of that, you’ll probably fail both classes and have to retake them again next semester on top of an already full course load. It’s fine; you’ll figure it out.

For now, you work on matching her enthusiasm at having you home, grabbing your bags to bring them inside and into your old room.

“Oh, wait–”

Abruptly, you pause, gazing in confusion from the doorway of your bedroom. There’s a duffle bag lying open and empty atop your bed, a tangled jump rope, some weights, an empty bottle, a sweat towel – even what looks like a spare workout tee scattered haphazardly across the sheets.

“… I didn’t take you for a gym junkie, mom.”

She stops behind you, sighing. “It’s not mine it’s– Tooru said he was going to tidy it up, sorry sweetheart.” She sweeps past you to start tidying it up, but not before you catch sight of her wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

And you can’t help the lone eyebrow that rises, falling back against the doorframe, arms folding across your chest. “Tooru, huh?” you grin, “And who might Tooru be?”

The flustered, almost guilty look she sends you makes you want to laugh – this is easy, comfortable, this you can do – but you restrain yourself. Just. “Tooru is… he’s– well, he’s the man I’m… seeing.”

She admits it like she’s confessing to a crime, eyes all wide and nervous; anticipating your reaction. And you suppose it’s not unwarranted. As far as you’re aware, she’s been alone ever since the day your dad walked out on you both – raising you was always the priority, or maybe the excuse. But you’re not fourteen anymore, you don’t need another father figure or every spare bit of her time and attention, and she doesn’t need your approval for this.

So you smile at her, “Is he nice?”

She lights up, her features – almost a mirror image of your own – softening as she beams, “He’s amazing, honey. I honestly don’t know how this whole thing really happened, or why he’s even interested in someone like me but… I lucked out with him.”

And so it goes, you prying little bits of information about the mysterious Tooru as the afternoon passes.

She tells you that they met a few months back, at the bakery she likes in town – and how she kept running into him; at the grocery store, and then at the park, and then on her way back from yoga that one night.

She tells you that he’s a terrible flirt, all smooth and charming with warm, pretty brown eyes, but he’s a good man beneath it all and she’s never met anyone like him. 

It strikes you, as you watch your mom animatedly talk about him, that you’ve never seen her look like this before. 

Happy. 

She can’t stop smiling, and when you look at her, really look, she’s almost a different person – younger somehow, a bit more care-free. It suits her, and you wonder with a slight pang in your heart how you never noticed how lonely she was before.

And she’s adamant that they’re taking things slowly, that he still has an apartment of his own in town – which to be honest, you really aren’t gonna judge her on either way – but it is kind of funny simply because whether your mom realises it or not, it’s clearly a lie.

The subtle reclaiming of your bedroom aside, there’s traces of Tooru scattered all around the house; the extra toothbrush and aftershave you’d spotted in the bathroom, the men’s  shoes and the jacket by the door, red wine in the cupboard when your mom’s only ever indulged in white.

You haven’t been into her bedroom, but at this point you’d hazard a guess that there’s at least one drawer full of Tooru’s clothes, probably half her closet cleared out for him as well.

“He’s coming for dinner, but I just wanted today to be just us,” she says, reaching across the couch to squeeze your hand. And you’re grateful for it, because you’re happy for her – you are – but you’re not so sure how you would’ve handled meeting the stranger holding your mother’s heart first thing. At least, not after the last few days.

Not when you still feel all… brittle. 

—

Tooru arrives a little after seven, and to say that he’s not entirely what you were expecting is kind of an understatement. 

She’d gushed about how tall and handsome he is – though personally, you think pretty’s the more accurate word, what with his soft, delicate features, perfect cupid’s bow lips and all. What she’d neglected to tell you was that the man in question, stepping through the front door with a faint smile on his face, has to be at least ten years younger than her, mid-thirties at most.

Suddenly, your mom’s initial reluctance to bring him up starts to make sense.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he murmurs, stopping by your mom to drop a fleeting kiss to her cheek before warm brown eyes turn to you. 

Your heart stutters.

“Sweetheart,” your mom begins, slipping an arm around his waist and relaxing into his side, “this is Tooru– Oikawa,” she corrects herself.

He smiles at you, friendly and charming, “It’s great to finally meet you, your mom’s told me so much – all good things, of course!”

You force yourself to smile in return, “Yeah, you too.” 

There’s nothing overtly wrong with Oikawa, age difference aside – your mom’s clearly head over heels in love with the guy and on a surface level he seems nice enough, but you find yourself glad for the fact that he doesn’t make a move to step closer, try to shake your hand or god forbid hug you or something like that.

He’s nothing but a gentleman as your mom steps back into the kitchen to finish off dinner, setting the table without being prompted, pouring a glass of wine for your mom and one for himself before he offers a glass to you. 

“Oh, no I’m alright, thanks.”

You don’t drink so much anymore. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal but your mom pouts at you from the kitchen. “C’mon, sweetie. We’re celebrating tonight! One drink won’t hurt.”

“We’re celebrating?” you ask.

She throws you a wink, gaze softening as she turns to glance at Oikawa, already diligently pouring you a glass, “Of course we are. It’s not every day my girl comes home, and it’s nice having you both here with me.”

Oikawa’s fingers brush against yours for a fleeting second as he passes you the glass, and you have to fight to keep yourself from ripping your hand away. It’s nothing, you just– you’re not good with strangers touching you, and as nice as he is and as much as your mom might be infatuated with him, he is still a stranger.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, a playful twinkle in his eye as he clinks his wine glass against yours. “So you’re at uni, right? What are you studying?”

Uni’s the last thing you want to be thinking about right now, but whether or not Oikawa genuinely cares, he’s obviously trying to make an effort to get to know you. For your mother’s sake, grinning innocuously in the kitchen as she adds the last little touches to dinner, you suck it up, plaster a smile across your face and ignore the twinge of discomfort in your gut.

You can handle one night of small talk.

—

You wake the following morning to the sound of voices carrying down the hall.  

Not your mother’s – both are too deep, and your mom left a few hours ago for work. Figuring that one of them at least is likely Oikawa, you pull on a thin, satin robe over your pajamas, tying the sash in a loose knot before you slip from the room.

Those suspicions are proven correct; you round the corner to find Oikawa sitting up at the kitchen counter, a warm cup of coffee in his hand. There’s another man, a touch shorter, but imposing with dark, spiky hair and olive green eyes standing on the other side, hands braced on the marble top, glaring at Oikawa.

They both look up at the sound of your hesitant approach, the stranger abruptly straightening up, while Oikawa merely grins.

“Ah, you’re up,” he observes cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee.

Your eyes flicker between him and the stranger – clearly comfortable enough in your home and with Oikawa, despite the faint, lingering irritation still visible on his face – and as your cheeks warm, you find yourself wishing you’d put actual clothes on before coming out to investigate.

“I- I heard voices…” you trail off, awkwardly folding your arms over your chest. “Is mom–”

“At work,” he supplies. “Do you want some breakfast? Coffee, maybe?”

You risk another glance at the other man, watching you now with an unreadable expression, dark eyebrows furrowed. You swallow uncomfortably, shifting slightly as you shake your head. “No, I-I’m okay.”

And in an instant, a flash, something like recognition passes through those olive eyes. 

 Oikawa chuckles smoothly, finally tearing his eyes away from you to address his friend, “Iwa, stop being so rude. You’re scaring the poor thing.”

The stranger, Iwa, just scoffs. “You’re a real piece of shit, y’know?”

If he’s bothered by the scathing insult, Oikawa doesn’t show it, merely shrugging before turning his attention back to you with a smirk. “Ignore him, he’s just pissy this morning.”

You’d have to be a complete idiot not to sense the uncomfortable tension between the two of them – and now you. This is your home, but it feels like you’re intruding, like you’ve stumbled into a conversation you have no business hearing, but even if you wanted to leave your feet are rooted to the ground. 

“Besides,” Oikawa continues, “he was just leaving anyway, weren’t you, Iwa?” It’s almost a purr, the way he speaks, but even the silken words can’t entirely mask the razor sharpness that lies beneath. 

Goosebumps prickle along your arms.

Staring at you, Iwa opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but seemingly thinks better of it, snapping it shut with an audible click. He huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

He spares you another glance on his way out, standing frozen by the hall. For a split second he slows, his scowl softening just a fraction–

“Iwa.”

It sounds like a warning, but he only rolls his eyes and huffs again. You think he’s going to walk out without another word to either of you, but he pauses once more, lingering by the entryway.

“You look a lot like your mother, anyone ever tell you that?”

He’s out the door before you can even think to reply, letting it slam shut in his wake. And you flinch at the harsh sound, something uneasy settling into the pit of your stomach–

“Hey,” Oikawa’s there by your side, his fingers entwining with yours. You hadn’t even heard him move. “Come sit, don’t worry about Iwa. He’ll get over it.”

His voice is soothing, you don’t pay attention to the words themselves, the implications there. You forget for a moment that you’re still in your pj’s, that you really don’t know him that well either, and mindlessly follow when he leads you to the couch and sits you down, taking the seat next to you.

And while your head’s still spinning, an uncomfortable feeling gnawing in the pit of your gut, Oikawa seems entirely unbothered by the turn of events, sighing contentedly as he stretches his long legs out, one arm sliding along the back of the couch behind you.

“Do your… friends usually just drop by like that?”

You don’t know where the words come from, or why that’s the first question on your mind, but when you glance over at him, Oikawa’s just watching you, an odd little half smirk playing on his lips. “Sometimes.”

His answer does little to soothe your unease. It’s really not a big deal, you know it’s not. Officially or not, this is his home too – you’re the one out of place. And if he wants to have people over when your mom’s not around, that’s fine, he can do whatever the hell he wants, but… 

You came home for peace. To hide away for a few days and pretend that everything’s just fine and you’re not one breakdown away from shattering entirely. You wanted your mom and the comfort of your old bedroom and safety and it’s fine – great, even – that she’s found somebody who makes her happy, but this– him and the weirdness with his friend and everything is just too much, and–

You don’t realise that your leg’s bouncing until Oikawa’s hand comes to rest on your bare thigh. It’s enough to make your stomach flip, an icy chill trickling down your spine as his thumb slowly strokes across the soft, plush skin. “Relax, cutie,” he coos, chuckling softly when you visibly flinch and squeeze your eyes shut.

“P-please don’t call me that,” you choke out, fighting against the wave of nausea rising up your throat. And it’s just like last time, his cologne, notes of vanilla and cedar and spice, swirling thick and heady around you. That phantom touch, the warmth of hands gripping too tight, unwanted kisses hot and eager against your skin. 

“No?” he asks, cruel amusement dripping from his tone. “Why not? I think it suits you, cutie.”

You want him to stop, to push him away, slap him – do anything really, but you’re frozen in place, shaking as the memories you’ve fought so hard to shove down come bubbling back to the surface. You can’t think straight, not with his hand sliding between your thighs, the warmth of his body pressing too closely against yours.

“Iwa was right, you know,” Oikawa murmurs, smoldering brown eyes drinking you in as you childishly shake your head, willing him away. His other hand catches your cheek, drawing your face back to him as tears well in your eyes, stubbornly clinging to your lashes. “She does look so much like you, the same eyes even.” 

He whispers it like a secret, nuzzling his nose against yours like a lover would as he sighs sweetly, “It’s the only reason I could stand it.”

And then he’s kissing you, the tenderness of his lips belied by iron fingers digging into your jaw when you whimper and try to wrench yourself free. 

It’s not like the nightmares that startle you awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air; hazy, broken recollections that fade the moment you try to reach for them. No, every touch, every moment of his assault passes in stark clarity.

The feel of Oikawa’s mouth as it trails greedily down your neck, his hand sliding under the cotton of your sleep shorts, even his pleased little hum when he realises you’re not wearing panties. “Such a good girl for me. Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

This time there’s no drugs in your system keeping you pliant and helpless, but that doesn’t make a difference. Not when his words echo in your head, playing again and again until every awful, sickening piece falls into place.

Long, nimble fingers stroke at your folds, and you can’t help the shivery gasp that leaves you when the tip of his middle finger sweeps over your clit. 

“Please– please don’t do this,” you sniffle.

Oikawa presses another fleeting kiss to your shoulder, “Shh, none of that. Let me help you, baby.”

“N-no, I don’t, I don’t– Stop!”

Knocking away the hands that try to push him back, he hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides them down your legs, your pitifully weak struggles only making things easier for him. It’s only when Oikawa reaches for his own zipper that panic truly strikes home.

You can’t just lie here and let this happen again. You won’t.

And like a switch flipped, you start to trash like a wild thing beneath him, the scream you’ve kept buried inside of you for months ripping itself free from your throat–

Only for the fingers that had been toying with your pussy to be shoved down your throat, cutting you off with a choked gurgle. As you gag, fruitlessly try to tug yourself free, Oikawa leans in nice and close – except this time there’s no gentleness to his expression, nothing but viciousness as he grins and bares his teeth. 

“You wanna yell, pretty girl? Want the neighbours to come running, let them see me fuck you?” He grinds his hips against you, his breath shivery as he pants at the friction of his half hard cock against your side. Nausea twists at your gut, acrid and bitter – you want to be sick, to cry and beg with him to stop but with his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, his thumb digging into the soft underside of your jaw all you can manage is an unintelligible whine. He hums, kissing away the single hot tear that spills down your cheek, “You think if you cry loudly enough, mommy’ll come home and save you?”

And it’s like time stands still as he laughs, cruel eyes glinting when he presses down on your tongue, warm saliva pooling around his digits. “Such a little whore, trying to seduce her poor, innocent boyfriend the very moment her back’s turned. Tell me, cutie,” he coos, “who do you think she’d believe?”

Your breath hitches, another sob catching in your throat – even if you wanted to answer, you can’t and he knows it. “She’s in love with me, you know. It’s almost a little pathetic how easy it was to manipulate her into bed – so lonely… desperate for love, for somebody – anybody – to pay attention to her, take care of her,” he sneers, distaste curling at his lips. “Wouldn’t it just break her fragile little heart to know she’s fallen for the man who raped her baby girl?”

Another garbled cry slips past his fingers and you can only watch in frozen horror as his other hand drifts back to his zipper. “You want to protect her, don’t you?”

His grip relents just enough for you to jerk a shaky nod.

“Pretty girl, so good for me.” Another kiss pressed to your cheek as the quiet hiss of his zipper fills the air around you. “It’ll be our little secret, hmm? She doesn’t need to know just yet, let her be happy a little while longer…”

Sliding down his briefs just far enough for his cock to spring free, he strokes it for a moment with slow, leisurely movements, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he watches your eyes widen. 

And when he pulls you forward, guides your mouth towards it, pre-cum beading at the tip, withdrawing his fingers so you can quickly gasp for air, you just… let him.

The fight’s gone, as quickly as it had come. 

You let his fingers curl through your hair, use it as an anchor when your lips part to force his cock between them. And he moans, low and shivery as your tongue slides along the underside of his shaft and you try not to gag around the sudden intrusion. 

You think that there’s no room left inside of you for shame, but as his other hand creeps back between your legs, teasing at your cunt, you burn with it, clinging to the pyre of your own humiliation and disgust.

And still, you kneel on the couch, letting him fuck your mouth, letting those long, pretty fingers curl up inside of you – moaning around his cock when they stroke that perfect little spot.

“I wanted to – shit – take this slow,” he tells you as his hips jerk upwards, shuddering in breathless delight when his cock hits the back of your throat and it convulses around him. “I wanted to make you want me.”

Wet, messy, gags sound with every unwitting thrust – you’ve no choice but to swallow him down, let him fuck your throat like you’re nothing more than a toy for his pleasure. There’s saliva coating your chin, dripping down the length of his dick, pooling around his balls. You can barely breathe, a task made even harder when Oikawa decides to add his thumb into the mix, teasing your clit while he fucks you apart on his fingers.

It feels so fucking good, and you’ve never hated yourself more.

Your throat burns, hot tears stinging in the corners of your eyes, and yet he’s intent on driving you to the brink of your sanity with every calculated flick of his wrist. Something tightens in your belly, a spring coiled too tight, ready to snap, and you can’t help it when your hips chase his fingers, the needy, shameful little whimpers that leave your lips (still wrapped around his thick, twitching cock) as you search for the pleasure to temper the discomfort.

“You don’t have a clue what you do to me, do you? I could barely sleep last night–” 

You choke back a moan, your pussy clenching around his digits, sucking them deeper as white spots pepper your vision and you shudder out a moan.

“So pretty when you cum for me,” he pants, but you don’t care – can’t, not when you’re riding his fingers, tongue lolling out as he gives you a moment’s reprieve to bask in the rippling afterglow of your orgasm before everything comes crashing back down around you. 

Oikawa lets you fall back against the cushions, breathless, trembling and dazed. You’re not stupid enough to believe that’s the end of it, not when his cock’s still hard, throbbing against his toned stomach when he gives it a slow, cursory pump.

“Lie back, cutie,” he whispers, keeping his eyes fixed on you as he pushes himself up off the couch to shed the rest of his clothes.

And as you shuffle obediently downwards, heart hammering in your chest, you find you can’t tear your eyes away from him either.

Tall and handsome, she’d said, but the words truly don’t do him justice. A body corded with lean, powerful muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, a light smattering of dark hair trailing from his navel down past the well defined V of his hips… 

“See something you like?” he teases, smirking when you squeak and childishly jerk your face away, cheeks burning. “It’s okay to look, you know. I don’t mind the attention.”

It feels too soft, too intimate for what this is. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to be attractive, or to make you enjoy your own assault, and you– you’re supposed to fight it, fight him instead of just lying there and taking it… 

But when he climbs back onto the couch, easing your still trembling thighs apart to settle himself between them, his touch is nothing short of reverent, dark eyes wide and adoring as you squirm uneasily beneath him. 

With one hand braced on the cushion beside you, his cock resting just above your aching sex, he leans forward, easing your top up past your tits. “Perfect,” he murmurs.

And it’s enough to make a fresh bout of humiliated tears spring to your eyes. Your hands curl into useless fists at your side as he settles back onto his knees and takes his cock in hand, hissing in pleasure when he glides the flushed, leaking head along your slick folds.

“Fuck, cutie. I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he laughs, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches hot, fat tears slip down your cheeks. With an agonisingly slow pace, Oikawa lines himself up with your cunt and presses in – even with how wet you are, one orgasm already wrung from you, the stretch burns and you can’t stop the choked gasp that leaves you.

His eyes flutter shut, head thrown back back as inch by inch his cock sinks into your pussy until finally he bottoms out with a satisfied groan. “Perfect for me, so fucking good,” he pants, and you barely have time to drag in a breath before his hips are drawing back, another desperate, strangled mewl escaping you.

Bruising fingers dig into your waist, Oikawa cursing as your plush little cunt flutters maddeningly around him– before he eagerly slams his cock forward, stuffing you full once more.

And as you sob and whimper between every wet, obscene squelch of his dick fucking into your soaked pussy, that all too familiar, shameful heat begins to pool in your core.

“Gonna cum for me again, cutie?”

[thefanficmonster]

Phone Call Anxiety

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: When wanting to make quality merch, one needs a quality team there to produce and work on quality ideas. Great minds think alike. Great eyes see alike and great hands make alike - the three keys to the formula of creating a clothing line that will be fashionable and up to his brand. Luckily, Corpse knows just who to call.

Requested by Anon. Hi hun! Thank you so much for your wonderful request, I absolutely loved the idea! Sorry you’ve had to wait for it to be turned into a fic for so long, but I still hope you come across it and give it a read in which case I hope you enjoy it! Love, Vy ❤

He’s not a fan of phone calls. Anyone who knows him even remotely is very well informed on Corpse’s distaste for phone calls and upholding a conversation over the phone. He’d even go as far as to say talking to a person face to face is less stressful for him than that previous option.

But still, seeing as how the person he’s trying to reach lives in a different state and is rather busy all the time, arranging an IRL meeting is basically impossible at the moment, and sending her a text results in running the risk of having the text overlooked or completely lost in the sea of notifications she probably gets on the daily.

Therefore, a phone call was his only proper way of reaching her. And it’s what’s got him pacing the room with his nervousness peaking.  He doesn’t know anything about this girl, nothing concrete at least. He was referred to her by Jack who brought her up in their passing conversation when Corpse mentioned how paranoid he was regarding his upcoming merch project. He specifically stated he doesn’t want anything basic and he wants the clothes to be fashionable, suitable for anyone no matter the age or gender and to be endurable. With all the love he has for his fans, he doesn’t want to give them anything less than what they deserve - the best.

“My friend’s the person you’re looking for.“ Jack said enthusiastically and confidently, “She helped me design the latest merch line I put out and I’ve never been more satisfied with my own merch. I’m planning on offering her a position in Cloak for her birthday. Make sure not to let that one slip out if you give her a call though.“ He warned half-jokingly. 

Bottom line, with that kind of intro, Corpse couldn’t help but let his interest be piqued. And so, he asked for this girl - Y/N’s contact info from Jack before he went to surf through her social media where she thankfully posted plenty of pictures of her creations, never failing to mention specifications in the caption of each picture so the viewers would get the perfect and most detailed idea of how high the standard for her work is.

And so he’s finally managed to talk himself into dialing her number that’s been sitting in his phone for weeks now. As he paces his living room, his nerves chewing him out like a dog would with a toy, listening to the ear piercing ring of the dial waiting to get picked up by the girl he’s trying to reach. 

Just then, Corpse’s head turns so that his eyes meet the glowing red numbers on his digital clock on his desk and he damn near hangs up the call right away - it’s half an hour past midnight. Fast as lightning, he removes the phone from his ear, his thumb flying over to press the red ‘end call’ button. Just then, a faint ‘hello’ reaches his ears, coming from the phone’s speaker. She’s answered the call.

He hurries to put the phone back up to his ear.

“Hey, sorry for taking so long to pick up, I ought to clean my desk eventually cause my phone was literally BURIED under a pile of papers.“ A cheerful sing-song voice rattles his stale and sleep deprived consciousness, as if awakening him from a half-dream state. “You’re either a wrong number caller or a last minute client, aren’t you? Need something done urgently?“

Corpse is taken the hell aback by her strong and downright awing first impression. Not to mention her energy at an hour unsuitable for calls. Lord knows he wouldn’t have picked up if her were in her spot. With the intention of not wasting any more of her time than necessary, he hurries to explain his situation. “Y/N, right? Um no, I’m neither actually. I was told about you by a friend, he said you were a real miracle-doer with fashion design.” He trails off for a second, not completely sure of how to hold this conversation, “Uh, sorry for the odd timed call, I lost track of time. I’ve been meaning to call you for hours now but I...I was nervous.” He cringes the second the word leaves his lips, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he wants to leave her with a great, better than realistic impression of himself but he does and as of now he deems his attempts as ultimate failures.

He hears her giggle from her end, rifling through what sounds to be papers, “Yeah, I’m her. And boy is it refreshing to get someone who’s calling with an actual purpose.” She sighs as if a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders, “And don’t worry about the phone call anxiety. Makes two of us, to be honest.”

This catches him off-guard. The last thing he’d expect is for this girl to have phone call anxiety. In fact, she appears to be a natural, God-given talent at carrying conversations and upholding chit-chat with people. Maybe he’s a little too quick to judge - probably, considering he’s ‘known’ her for less than five minutes and knows nothing but her occupation, her name and the state she lives in - but that bubbly persona she greeted him with gave off the impression that it’s immune to any and all kinds of social anxiety - or anxiety in general. To hear such an honest and counter-to-assumptions confession on her part rattles him a tiny bit. In a good way though.

“How does that work for you? Isn’t your whole job depending on your phone conversational skills?“ He doesn’t mind that he didn’t phrase that too perfectly or that he straight up blurted it out. He knows he’ll be understood. She’s obviously a person who understands. Not just something specific, but everything. She simply understands. How he drew this conclusion and how accurate it is, he may not know until further notice.

“Well...“ she sighs as if genuinely looking to give him a proper answer, “You see, after doing it for so long and having been caught off guard quite a few times with some absolutely absurd orders, I’ve grown prepared of literally ANYTHING and I have a line prepared for anything the caller has to say. I just no longer let them catch me off guard and it’s fine. Helps avoid any possible awkward silences.“

Corpse’s eyebrows shoot up, her explanation only raising more questions rather than providing answers. But he’s not gonna be the annoying dumbass asking those questions at close to 1AM and bugging her. After all, if she agrees to this partnership, they’ll be hearing and potentially seeing a lot more of each other soon. “Impressive, honestly. You’re gonna need to teach me sometime.“ He’s unaware he’s smiling until he catches his reflection in the window. However, he doesn’t bother hiding it. This conversation is actually making him feel good, serving as a reminder that he’s not the only one who periodically goes through turmoil over small things. 

She giggles again, this time the sound manages to draw a blush out of him, coating his cheeks, “I’d typically stray for revealing my secrets to professional success, but I’m willing to make an exception for you...” she pauses for a second as though she’s just now remembered something, “Oh shoot, I don’t even know your name.”

He wheezes out a nervous laugh, realizing he never introduced him, “Oh yeah, sorry, that’s my bad. My name’s Corpse, nice to meet ya.”

“Nice to meet you too, Corpse.“ Y/N replies, sounding pleased but teasing simultaneously, “Now tell me, you didn’t call me about my phone call secrets, did you? What may be the real purpose of your call?“

Oh shoot, he himself almost forgot what he was calling for. Luckily, the reference designs displayed on his computer screen remind him. “Right, well, I’ve been thinking of launching a new merch line either this month or the next, depending on how long the procedure will take, and I needed someone great on my team to make some merch actually worth the money people are paying for it. And, as I said, I was told you were in that ‘someone great’ category.”

“Told by who, if you don’t mind me asking?“ She briefly cuts him off, her voice now giving away the fact that she’s half-absent-minded in this conversation, added evidence be the ruffling of more papers on her end.

“Jack. I mean, Sean. You know, Jacksepticeye.“ Corpse explains, contemplating whether he should’ve ratted Jack out like that. Hearing the sound of delight Y/N lets out eases his worries ASAP though.

“Oh Gosh, I haven’t seen that cutie in so long! He’s like a brother to me so a friend of Jack’s is a friend of min-“ this time she cuts herself off so abruptly Corpse thought the line was cut or she hung up on him. She doesn’t let him wonder for long though, “Wait, wait, wait....Merch? And you’re friends with Jack?“ She pauses for a second once again, once again not a long enough second for Corpse to speak up. “You’re a famous YouTuber, aren’t you?“

He was completely unaware of the fact Y/N hadn’t realized he was someone famous yet. In fact, he didn’t think of it because he thought it wouldn’t be a big deal to her considering she’s friends with Jack-fucking-septiceye! In his mind, his ranking is far lower than Jack’s - despite that mindset being absurd - so the last thing he expected was for her to have some sort of impressed reaction to have been talking to him on the phone this whole time. Hell, she doesn’t even know his full YouTube name or what kind of content he produces.

“WAIT!“ She shouts urgently, startling him a tiny bit, “You’re Corpse Husband, aren’t you? Oh my God, yes you are, how didn’t I put it together sooner? Ah crap, I really need more coffee for this.“

“No! No, you need more sleep.“ Corpse hurries to correct her but is very clearly ignored or overlapped with the many sounds that are coming from her end, “What are you doing?“

“You’re getting the first rough sketch of a design by tomorrow morning.“ She says, taking a sip of whatever beverage she’s acquired for the purpose of keeping her awake, “You go ahead and get some sleep, I know exactly what I’m doing. Don’t worry about it.“

“I’m not worried about the design.“ He hurries to say before she, God forbid, hangs up on him, “It’s 1AM, woman, you need sleep! I don’t need those designs done by tomorrow. Hell, I don’t even need them this week!“

“You don’t, but I do.“ Y/N says, sounding almost breathless because of what seems to be overwhelming excitement, “You don’t get it - I’m designing merch for Corpse fucking Husband! You have any idea how crazy that is?“

“I personally would say it’s underwhelming. I mean, I’m no Pewdiepie, after all.“ He says, now sat at his desk with his free hand rubbing his temple as he stares at the designs he’s pulled up on his screen, ones he probably won’t need given that he’s now working with a professional.

“Oh, shut it.“ She chuckles, “Shut it and get some sleep, ok? I’ll talk to you in the morning.“

“Noooo...“ He leisurely stretches the word, “Tell me, Y/N, do you have Discord?” She clicks her tongue instantly, giving him a signal that the question he’s asked is bordering into the territory of ridiculous. He playfully rolls his eyes, “Alright then, lemme find you. If we’re partnering up on this, we’re both staying up.”

“You know you can just straight up tell me you don’t fully trust me with this? Like, I won’t be offended, I get it.“ She murmurs in-thought, the sound of clicking evident on her end. 

“You know you can just straight up tell me you don’t want me bothering you and want me to leave you alone?“ He mimics her statement, smirking to himself as he pulls up Discord, knowing he’s already won.

She huffs and tells him her Discord info, quickly adding a small comment, “...but only because great minds think alike. I know we’ll be getting along on this design pretty nicely.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, sure, whatever you say.“ He laughs, “Accept my friend request and let’s drop this phone call.“

“Hey! - um, before we do that, I just wanna say a quick thank you.“ Y/N murmurs quietly, as if half-hoping he doesn’t hear her.

“For what?“ Corpse asks, his brows furrowing, unsure if they’re on the same page about this gratitude.

“For never once triggering my phone call anxiety.“ She admits, “I mean, I know I said I have lines prepared for every conversation scenario possible, but you totally caught me off-guard.“ She giggles a tiny bit, now sounding dangerously close to nervous, “But, not in a bad way, if that makes sense. Sorry if it doesn’t, I need more coffee.“

“No, no, it does!“ He hurries to reassure her, “It really does. And thank you too. Thank you for, you know, tolerating my BS at this hour. God knows I would’ve ignored your call if our roles were reversed.“

He hears her scoff and can’t help but laugh, “Huh ok, I see.“ She says, sounding greatly triggered and mock-pissed at his confession, “I’ll make sure to think of that next time you call me after midnight. Or at all, ever.“

Laughing his butt off, the only thing Corpse can think of in this moment is:

Damn, this girl and I are gonna get along

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[itsclydebitches]

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!) 

Part One---contains translations, podfic, and related works---Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

First off, people who specifically asked to see more of this nonsense may God in all Her glory bless you accordingly: 

@internet-or-sleep, @just-some-girl-on-the-internet, @readytoocomply, @vocallsama, @fellowshipofthegay, @lucky-leafeon, @alph4centauri, @sumoranges, @diaphanedreams 

Aziraphale’s profile pic is courtesy of good old Neil, found here. All others are from Creative Commons. 

Sorry it took so long to produce more stupidity. YOU ALL ROCK  🎊🎊🎊 Here, have a messy transcript. 

Abdou G. 

Have you ever walked in on a conversation and, despite clearly missing the majority of it, feel like you could reconstruct it, word for word if necessary? That happened at Fell’s today. The ‘talk’ had obviously been going on for a while, but I can give you a perfect summary here: rude fuckboy thinks he gets to say who God is, Fell was having none of it.

Best response? Turn around, walk back to your apartment (pro-tip: this only works if you’re just a few blocks away), and change your shirt. I walked back in with my I MET GOD, SHE’S BLACK tee and had the pleasure of seeing Fell do a double-take.

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

***

Doug E. 

Scout’s honor: I once saw that Crowley dude unhinge his jaw and eat a large pizza in one goddamn bite.

Update: you heathens read about this gay abomination with his dislocated jaw and what you decide to question is whether I was acTUALLY A SCOUT? 

***

Mary L. 

I came in with my four-year-old last week fully intending to keep him within sight at all times. Yes, I bought one of those kiddie leashes and no, I don’t regret a thing. You try holding down two jobs as a single mom to the bonefide antichrist. I love my boy, but the devil got to him, telling him things like, “Yes, Freddie, permanent marker would look just great on Mum’s only work jacket!”

I said as much to the owner because this mom needs to vent sometimes.  

I wish I could give this place a higher rating, but the ownership is frankly terrible. Inconsistent hours, no help when you’re trying to find a book, just basically all around bad customer service, BUT it still gets five stars because when I told the guy I was raising the antichrist?

“Oh yes. I did that myself not too long ago!”

We parents need to support one another. Otherwise the world is going to burn. So here’s a good review for you, Mr. Bookshop Guy. A part of me hopes you’re a better dad than you are a bookseller. The other part? The bigger part? It’s very aware that Ms. Pot here just met Mr. Kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Freddie just got into the flour.

***

Alfred B.

I hereby nominate Mr. Fell as the British Steve Irwin. I’ve never seen anyone handle a red bellied black snake like that. I mean yeah, they’re a chill species overall, but there’s a difference between casually handling a snake and fucking chucking one onto the chair because it’s in your way. (Okay. Maybe Irwin was a little nicer.) 

Renee K. 

whos steve irwin?

Alfred B. 

...How old are you?

Renee K. 

15

Alfred B. 

You existed on this planet for two years with him and you dare to ask me this? Go boil your head and then use google. Good god.

***

Mark F. 

overheard the owner telling his boyfriend that last they met his brother tried to set him on fire? and succeeded?? actually now that I think about it, not sure which brother they were talking about---his brother or boyfriend’s brother--but WHOEVER has the brother needs to... i don’t even know. do something about that? ring the police or go to therapy or SOMETHING. i mean maybe they already have, i’m just an eavesdropping tourist, but the idea of someone setting that bow-tie cutie on fire—DID I MENTION THAT? PERSON ARSON. MURDER—makes my blood boil

***

Shiefa N. 

People aren’t joking about overhearing weird conversations here. I walked in on two men (owner and husband? owner and escort?) debating Seven Minutes in Heaven. You know, that stupid kissing game the better looking kids got to play in middle school. It got pretty heated at one point (pun not intended), arguing about whether seven minutes of making out was divine or damning behavior. I hung out long enough to catch the segue into a lust vs. love debate and then had to skedaddle. Nice couple. I support their weird flirting habits.

***

Chang Z. 

Is it legal to visit a store for things other then what it sells? I realize that makes me sound druggie or something but I swear I’m dealing with a much healthier addiction. (Ha. Maybe.) I cosplay (yeah, yeah, move along, trolls) and Mr. Fell has an absolute wealth of historical clothing. It’s astounding! I thought they were particularly detailed costumes at first, but no. I’m majoring in Textile and Apparel Studies. I know a naturally worn piece of fabric when I see it. Mr. Fell is always cracking jokes about how he wore this frock in the 19th century, this shirt in the 17th, oh don’t you just love my old vest? (He has... so many vests...) I indulge him because anyone who lets me borrow this stuff for free deserves all my attention and fake laughter.

Yeah. You read right. Artifacts borrowed for free. He’s even let me alter some of the stuff because I’m not exactly his size. Should this stuff be in a museum somewhere? Probably. Am I calling anyone to take my personal cosplay supply away? Noooope.

***

Leah M. 

Helping to spread the word here because I’m not sure how much foot traffic this place actually gets.

I pass Fell’s every morning on my way to work and yesterday there was a new sign in the window. This might not seem very interesting to most people on here, but you’ve got to understand that Fell’s never changes. None of it. I’ve lived in Soho since I was a boy and this place has always had the same placard with his insane times listed, same stripped paint on the door he’s never gotten around to fixing, same spiderweb in the corner I absolutely swear. My dad used to pop in there when he was in college and I swear he’s taken me through the stacks, points out books that haven’t moved in 30+ years. It’s nuts and more than a little bit impressive.

So you can imagine my shock when I passed by and saw not one, but four new papers in the front window. They’re drawings and I recommend going and taking a look for yourself. I don’t think I can accurately describe the utter chaos of crayons and glitter that’s displayed there, let alone what it’s trying to depict. A dystopia? The end of the world? If so the apocalypse features a surprising number of dogs.

There’s a fifth paper off to the side, written in Fell’s messy penmanship. It just says, “My god-children drew these!” and if that’s not the cutest things you’ve ever heard get out of my face.

***

Gabriel A. 

azirfell

alzaphral

azzzzzirafal

i’m a litttle drunk but azifjkaafha’s place is good he just needs a name easier to spell

***

Aziraphale 

Dear Gabriel A,

My partner Crowley told me about this site and the many lovely well-wishes you all have left us here. I have come to express my thanks and to offer a bit of advice. You are hardly the first person to struggle with my name, dear girl! I recommend the following three step process:

A - simple, yes? + zira - a nickname I’ve adopted over the years, easy enough to recall + phale - this is admittedly more difficult as our ending, “phale,” is neither spelled in a way nor presumed to be pronounced like the “fell” sound we end up with. In truth my name is more along the lines of Azz-ear-raf-AE-el, but change is inevitable and you needn’t hear about that transformation, nor the etymology involved in getting “fell” out of “phale.” I say this not because I don’t wish to teach you, but because my partner has reminded me--in a rather rude tone I should add--that this site has a word limit. Suffice to say you should simply memorize the “phale” portion and you shall be, as the expression goes, in tip top shape!

Best regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. Nothing personal, dear boy, but I fear I’m not terribly fond of your name either. I would highly recommend changing it if you’re ever of a mind to do so. Cheerio!

[jjkpls]

crayons ‘dul’ (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 3.7k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

>Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> prior

> next

It doesn't take Mr Kim too long to find a way to meet you.

A week or so later, Adrianne is handing you a little post-it where her curvy cursive spells his name, with his phone number and a time. He says he'll bring Jimmy early to school in two days, to contact him if it doesn't work for you and that he cannot wait to talk to you again. This last part you wouldn't bet on the accuracy. Adrianne says he stuttered his way through a mumbo jumbo of English and another language she didn't recognize, apologizing because he didn't know how to express what he meant but from what she could gather, he was excited to have this meeting about Jimmy.

He arrives two days later, right on time. Not a minute early nor late, perfectly on time and if you don't point it out loud, you still notice it with a discreet smile.

They both look perfectly relaxed, smiling for the man and rather calm for the boy. It's funny to see him now. Mr Kim looks pretty much nothing like the first time you saw him, with the worry, the low-key panicked, agitated state he came bursting in your classroom. He looks a few years younger, with an easy grin stretching full rosy lips, dimples digging deep in his roundish honey cheeks -almost the same as his son's, you notice with delight- wearing a straight maroon coat, this time well adjusted, that's making him even taller and more elongated if possible and of which the shade compliments his complexion endearingly so.

"Hi. It's really nice to see you." You end up greeting him first, as warmly as you can.

You've been pondering over this meeting for so long, time feeling like it never ceased to stretch out and felt dreading, dreading, dreading. It was never coming soon enough and you were terrified, even if you had no reason to doubt Mr Kim's honesty, that he'd bail on you for whatever reason.

But here he is, seemingly so open to discuss and after installing Jimmy at his desk with the same tools as last time (a pile of white sheets waiting to be filled and your set of crayons) you join him a few tables away (far enough for Jimmy not to be exposed to the conversation but close enough to keep an eye on him, or more accurately, for him to keep an eye on his guardian), pressing your hands together and against your bosom to try to contain my excitement.

"As I told you last time, Jimmy is a very sweet boy. He's not doing bad with the exercises and activities, it's quite surprising -in a great way!- since from my understanding English is not his first language, right?"

"Yeah, no, it's uh- it's Korean. We just moved from Korea a few months ago, well, right before he started school. But we- my- her mother and I would try to talk to him a bit of English at home to have him pick up on the basis..."

"Oh, that's nice! Children that young do learn languages particularly easily, it's definitely beneficial for him. I can already tell."

Namjoon sends a glance his way, a fond, dad's proud one lingering on his tiny figure hunched over the desk. You can't quite tell from where you sit but it does look like he's started drawing.

"Had you planned moving here for a long time? I mean, was it the plan from the start, that's why you wanted to teach him English?"

"No, not really." The mood feels different. It switches from rather tranquil and cheerful into a very heavy, uneasy silence his deep voice hardly disturbs. There's a glint in his eyes. It's not an easy one to look at and your heart stings as the glint takes over his whole gaze hovering over his son. You understand it's something sad. Probably painful and hard to carry even for such a strong-looking, shoulder-broad grown man.

You don't want to push it. You're curious, as one gets, but too decent and you know yourself to be too soft-hearted and sensitive, for you to be snooping through sad people's luggage. But you think back about Jimmy, whose curious eyes, beautiful but wide with something reflecting like a perfect mirror what you can now find in his dad's, and you're certain that his odd behaviour must come from that.

"Mr Kim, the reason I wanted to see you," You start, voice quieter. He's startled for a second, redirecting his attention back on you, and he looks a bit guilty. As if he highly suspects, if not already know full well, where this is going. "I do meet all the parents of my students, as I told you. But in the case of Jimmy, if I was so insistent, it's that I'm really concerned about him."

His eyes draw downwards, staring at his hands. Long slender fingers fidgeting with one another, pinching and twisting a bit. I wonder if like his son, he might start crying.

"He's lovely but he cannot- he has had a really hard time uh- how could I put it?" You don't want to sound too alarmist. You know parents have the tendency to freak the fuck out for the misinterpretation of one single word. Sometimes an onomatopoeia, misplaced, send them into a raging spiral of anxiety over what terrible condition their kid might be dealing with. Not all parents are insane or simply too quick to jump to conclusions -or plain stupid. Some understand, whatever words you use. The father sitting in front of you seems worried and pained enough you wish you could protect him but you need him to understand that his situation is serious, and how important it is for Jimmy to have the tools to change now, while he still can, before he gets too old and start to take all those unfortunate coping mechanisms as lifelong terrible habits. "He's had a hard time simply being a kid." Namjoon sighs deeply. "He doesn't speak to anyone, not even me. Hardly looks at his classmates, never approaches them. I've noticed also that talking is not the only issue, any form of expression, if not made to do because it's in the course and all the other children are doing it too, he simply won't do." Mr Kim has raised his head enough for you to see him. He's troubled, upset, worried. But he seems to want to show himself more involved and you can tell he is, you can tell he cares as he listens so carefully as you explain in great details the odd incident with the papers and the crayons he refused to play with, even without a soul to watch over his shoulder.

"I feel it's a bit more than simple timidity. Or that at least, there's something significant behind this timidity. I can understand that it might be sensitive to you," You do, his eyes are screaming at you and you can't ignore them. Sort of begging for something, you're not quite sure what, you're not quite sure they, themselves, know either. It's a terrible case of a grown adult, an apparent composed grown man with a mighty balanced life, not a child anymore, actually, a dad, appearing so vulnerable and broken. It's a horrid vision. You've never been able to handle those.

"But it's in Jimmy's interest that I know a bit more. It's quite concerning. He's at an age where he's supposed to develop those skills. If we just let him be, leave him in this... unease, whatever it is, he might adopt it for a very long time until the time comes when it's become an exhausting challenge, almost impossible, to overcome.”

"I understand what you're saying." Mr Kim starts, voice low and tiny I can hardly pick up on the words. "I noticed- I mean, he's not changed that much with me. He's never been a very loud, boisterous boy, you know? But lately, he's been a bit quieter. I can see it at home, he's a bit stoic, less... expressive." You lose the man for a second. He's staring at his son longly and you don't want to abruptly bring him back to the conversation. Eventually, he does come back on his own, clearing his throat and scratching his neck. "That's- ridiculous but I even told myself the other day that I miss his tantrums. He didn't use to throw a lot of fits but sometimes he would, for more candies or something stupid like that. But he hasn't in a while."

You can't count how many times you heard overwhelmed parents jokingly wish that their kid would just turn off, stop causing scenes, stop demanding, screaming and crying out ridiculous tantrums. You remember Adrienne, saying more than once, to chastise the behaviour of one too agitated child to take a look at Jimmy, learn to be more like him, and why can't they be like him.

The thing is, a child is not supposed to be quiet.

A child should be problematic, testing, challenging. Loud and cheerful and agitated because children are like that. They are little humans just starting this whole insane experience that is Life, trying to figure themselves out, trying to figure out the people around them and the whole world along with it. They're meant to be a mess.

They're not meant to be quiet and tranquil, and bathing in a sort of slow, stoic haze. They're certainly not meant to have this expression on their face. The one Jimmy is wearing. Of deep, deep sadness. Like he's been somewhere, he's felt something, he's lost something that has left him misplaced forever. As if he's not really part of this world, this Life, or doesn't care or know why he's in it. Just letting himself float about. Embarrassed and denying all impulse that could potentially shape him and his existence.

He's only five.

"Do you have any inclination as to why his behaviour has turned into this?"

You see the gears going into labour in his head. He looks pensive, lost in a pit of thoughts he doesn't know if he can nor should share. There's a tremble to his lips, to his fingers, a telling frown to his eyebrows as his eyes very obviously decide to avoid you. The question seems to seize him like an earthquake but somehow, it's a good one. A disturbing but potentially lucky one. One that would invite him to experience something hard but liberating, something that he really needs.

Not long after you've asked the question to which you already know half of the answer, he pauses to think it over and then decides to talk. You notice the way his body slump over himself instantly, along with an abyssal years-old sigh and he starts to talk.

"5 months ago, my- his mom passed away." You hate yourself for the way you gasp, eyes wide and already blurry as if it's appropriate, as if you're allowed when you can't even imagine the beginning of their pain. It all starts making sense and you're heartbroken. You wish you didn't show yourself so reckless, sensitive but somehow naive and unhelpful.

You mouth a silent apology and condolence you notice he accepts from the way he nods, not wanting to cut him off. He's already breathless and you wonder how many more words he has in stock before the resources shut down, right before he loses it and breaks the strong persona he has to keep straight and steady for his son. How exhausting it must be. "It was hard already in Korea but I thought -naively- that if we moved here, close to her family, maybe, being around them would ease- everything out a bit. I don't know. It was stupid." He shakes his head from left to right, scoffing to himself, a hand raised to his forehead, hiding his eyes.

"It wasn't, Mr Kim. It's very honorable of you to quit everything for your son." Your words have no effect whatsoever. Unfortunately, it's blatantly obvious, he's made up his mind already. He's guilty, he messed up, and he holds a grudge against himself for this decision and nothing a dumb teacher, sensitive and half-weeping, would say could change that opinion, as destructive and inaccurate as it may be.

"It really was. It's so different here, I thought after some time it would be worth it but I think he hates it. I think he's very confused and I don't know if he's too young to feel like that, I'm not sure, but he looks like he's embarrassed about being a foreigner. Like not speaking properly. I can't even tell if he understands well or if he doesn't get it at all when people speak to him in English since he just- he can't really communicate. Even with his cousins, it's-"

Oh.

"Oh." Now that you hear him say that, it lights a small bulb hidden at the back of your head. It shines upon a whole roof-tall shelf holding all of those awkward, disagreeable memories you tend to forget actively because even reflecting on them decades later still sends a thrill of disgust the length of your spin.

It's those moments of pure embarrassment, of horrid dreading feelings that you used to be overwhelmed with as a child and this until you were not much more of a child anymore, and those memories paired with their emotions simply faded into shadows of scenes that you can only wonder if they ever were real.

You used to be filled with stupid insecurities based on very confused, distant, impossible to decipher pretend truths, sometimes, you would just feel stupid. Completely idiotic, ignorant, and unlovable. In those moments, you just couldn't dare open your mouth to pronounce a word that would give you away. Because if you did, somehow, you would end up messing up and people would laugh and make fun of you and hate you because there are so many reasons to and of course you deserved it.

Images of the little boy, hiding obviously in a corner but longingly observing his peers. Obviously terrified but curious, and most definitely desiring.

Because of course, he'd want to. Talk to them, be with them but how could he when he's not even sure he could speak the way they do.

"Mr Kim, I can tell he wants to. Even if he can't let anyone approach him, I can tell he'd like to be part of the group. That being said his fears or as you said, maybe his insecurities, don't allow him to."

"Should I- Should I seek for a therapist? He had one in Korea but I don't think he was ready for it. He just reacts very badly to strangers, especially when they try to, you know, sink into your brain and- now that we're here, I can hardly picture how that would go."

"Well, therapy is never a bad idea. It can only be beneficial for him... for anyone." You're not sure how appropriate it is for you to add this but you owe to say it. Sometimes, parents don't realize, but a child's deepest wounds are born from seeing and feeling their guardians'.

"I'd seen someone already." He explains without needing you to insist further. Seems like you're not as subtle as you thought yourself to be. "I did because- I had to. His mom and I had been separated for a while before her passing, it'd always been complicated between us and I can't lie, I did feel terribly guilty... I thought it might hurt him somehow. Maybe he could feel it and experience it too. I had to for the both of us. It fixed me but not him, so I suppose, it didn't come from that."

"Grief is... It's very complex. It comes along with a plethora of confusing, untamed emotions as an adult but for a child... It must manifest in a way we can't even imagine. I'm sorry, you don't need me to tell you that." You're a mess of stutters. Words are running away from you, the smart ones are even flying, making sure there's no way you'd catch them by the tip of the tail. You just want to ease this father's struggles, somehow. You don't know him much but you know his son, a little, and you, for reasons you don't care much to look into, deeper than simply you having a saviour complex, need to help it all resolve. They don't deserve any of it all. No one does.

It might be silly. But the thought of Jimmy, that sweet, lovely child, sensitive and precious as he is, must have a father quite special himself to have been brought up this way.

"No, it's fine. You're right." A heavy silence settles in between you. In the background, faintly, you can hear the soft rustling of the tip of a crayon against paper. You open your mouth, the fantastic memory of the other day, when he arrived late to pick Jimmy up and something you still, a week later, recalling itself back to you. He opens his at the exact same time and before you're able to utter any word, he's the one starting, "Actually, I really appreciate it. Being able to talk about it like that with someone. Since my therapist, I don't think I was able to. People only have enough tolerance for other's pain. Which I understand, it's just- hard and well, I'm thankful for you."

He stammers saying that, seemingly scrambling with his own words. The compliment is so heartfelt, like a shot from his heart directly into yours. Most of the emotions it rises probably coming from his choice of wording, maybe an error of translation, a lack of exactitude that doesn’t come smoothly. You've never heard anyone said those words to you and somehow, so unprepared for it, you can hardly handle the overwhelming burst of gratitude.

With the greatest pleasure, you jump on the occasion to bring something good to him, what you meant to say when he started first, the story about last time and how confident you are that better days are yet to come.

It brings an evident brush of light to his expression. The youthful sense he gave off when he just walked in, made of warm colours and smiles, is back. As if a weight has been lifted. As if he trusts you with his son, now wearing his hopefulness and trust and appreciation on this soft face of his, and you feel yourself blush in delight.

It’s precisely why you do what you do. Most of the times, those moments come in more subtle, almost dubious manifestations. It’s a drawing made ‘only for you, Miss’ or a kid you haven’t seen in a few years recognising you from across a hallway and beaming all his teeth your way; or maybe a present too nicely picked out and wrapped up too well to be the product of a kid’s, handed to you at the end of the year.

It's a wonderful feeling you're experiencing.

Until it turns sort of awkward. You mean, from a third party, maybe from Jimmy's eyes, it’s definitely awkward. It doesn’t exactly feel this way for you though. You're just kind of staring at each other, grinning obnoxiously. Delighted by the turns of events -even more so with the start of the conversation, which brought difficult painful shocks to an already sensitive soul, the benevolence and mutual understanding feel all the more pleasant.

Conquered by each other in a way you probably won’t be able to express very well with words if any of you tried. You see in him an ally -which is always such a wonderful feeling because as curious as it is, all parents are not always reliable allies to you, teachers- and you think he does too.

It’s just that it lasts for quite a bit. Probably too long. Until finally, the rummage going on outside brings you back to earth and school that is about to start in a few reminds itself to you.

Quickly he thanks me again, in between the bursting in of a loud, chatty-feeling Riley Donovan, and a Charlotte dragging her feet in discontent. He says something about meeting again before he’s rushing to Jimmy, whose calm demeanour has wavered when his classmates starting walking in.

It’s as heartwarming as last time. The way Mr Kim just has to lean forward to wrap his arms around Jimmy to have him melt onto his chest, face burying in his neck and tiny hands squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until the chubby fingers turn white against his dad’s neck. There’s an exchange of secret words and of gazes, special ones that wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, you believe on the moment, until Mr Kim needs to depart and does so.

The gaze Jimmy had for his dad doesn’t disappear right as the later leaves. It remains and is directed solely on you in a very peculiar way, so notable that your heart starts racing when you notice.

Jimmy who usually avoids eye contact, sometimes would look at you, if you're addressing directly to him for example and those looks are systematically made of bewilderment, maybe fear, definite insecurity. Like a prey caught in a predator's radar.

But now those eyes, the round, dark wonders are lingering with something utterly different. A stillness that hits so differently. You're not sure if you are seeing things, if it’s wishful thinking. If it’s you now watching through the lens of someone beyond enchanted, purely content from the newfound trust and confidence and inspiration.

When you free your class for recess, you have confirmation that something has changed. You have no idea how he did it without you noticing but as you turn your back to the door to face your desk -and your chair, which your legs are dreading to have you throw yourself on- you see the perfect tidy pile of your crayons laid carefully on top of it. A few papers are sitting next to it, less than you gave him.

It’s ridiculous, embarrassing to an extent you would never tell that moment out loud but you end up jumping on the balls of your feet, clapping your hands together like a stupid seal, squealing before grabbing the stack of crayons and pressing it to your heart.

A/N : thanks so much for having waited for me so patiently; as always, lots of love send your way, thanks so much for reading, i hope you enjoy it :)

[takingcourage]

Additions: Part 5

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 3,600

Summary: The adoption is finalized and everything seems to be settling into place, but what surprises wait in the new year?

February, 2028

The studio feels quiet.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, Arden knew today wasn’t any different from the usual. 

There was the ordinary hubbub as their team of writers chatted through overnight developments and new stories that had broken since their broadcast the day before. In the distance, Ellen was delivering a stern warning to one of the interns -- probably another reminder not to turn in work without proofreading. Errors had been running rampant over the past two weeks.

Arden sat up just a bit straighter in her chair as the coffeemaker beeped from the next room over. Her on-air coffee never tasted anywhere near as good as the first cup of the day, but she craved it all the same.  

Feeling Maggie’s brush strokes slow, she questioned when it was that the bustling studio had started to feel so calm. Probably around June of last year, she considered, allowing herself to relax back into the seat.

After the unpredictability of their household, work had become comparatively tame. At home, there were always footsteps rushing up and down the staircase or the strains of Sophia’s flute drifting through the house at odd intervals. Then there were Will’s uninhibited concerts in the shower, Opie’s claws tapping across the hardwood floors as he tried to keep up with all of the action, the quiet, unsteady rhythm of Alex sketching pictures on every scrap of paper he could find...

It was a special brand of mayhem that only families with three children could understand: families like theirs.

“Good day yesterday?”

Arden opened both eyes to see Maggie’s knowing smile. Noting the tiny brush in the other woman’s hand, she pressed them shut just as quickly. “It was wonderful. When you’re done, I’ll show you some pictures.”

Maggie started on her eyeliner. “I’d love to see them! That Will is such a cutie. I think we really hit it off when you brought him into the studio last week...You all must be so excited.”

“We are,” she confirmed, holding off her instinctive smile so the muscles of her face could remain as stable as possible.

When her makeup was finished, Arden swiped through the images on her phone before settling on the one lucky shot where no one had blinked or forgotten to smile. She and Jaime stood on the steps of the courthouse, Sophia and Alex leaning in from either side. Will was situated between them on the step below, back almost arched in his attempt to stand tall.

Even a day later, Arden had to check her emotions to keep Maggie’s work intact. It was incredible that she still had any tears left to cry after the waterworks that had taken place at the hearing, but she still felt the unmistakable prickle in the corners of both eyes. 

“It’s the first official Lewis Family photo!”

Maggie was right. Anyone who looked at the picture would know immediately that they were a family, even with the obvious differences in appearance. Their smiles, the way that Jaime’s arm was wrapped around Alex’s waist, the confidence in Sophia’s bearing -- all spoke of the connections that had been formed over the course of the past eight months.  

It was one of the most beautiful photos she’d ever seen. 

Still, if she’d gone a single picture to the left, the other woman would have seen another image -- one that was equally precious in Arden’s mind.

Sometime between putting on their pajamas and brushing teeth the night before, a folded page from Alex’s sketch pad had appeared under the door to the bedroom she and Jaime shared.

The outside of the paper read simply:

To: Jaime and Arden

From: Alex

Curious, they’d unfolded the thick paper, eyes welling again at the inner contents. There had been so few times in her adult life that Arden had truly been surprised, but this discovery caught both of them off guard. 

Beneath the short inscription, Thanks for taking care of us, they found a carefully arranged portrait. 

People weren’t Alex’s specialty -- he’d had much more experience with drawing dragons and other supernatural beings than he had with human features. Still, it had been obvious to both of them that the five figures he’d committed to paper represented the five members of their family.

Practiced or not, it had been enough to start another round of crying. Their son’s sketch was more than just a picture of a family -- it was their family. And it was starting to feel like something close to perfect.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

_____

June, 2028

The first sign Arden noticed was an acute tenderness in her breasts. It’s nothing, she reasoned, just a sign that my period is on its way.

When a full week passed and her cycle still hadn’t arrived, she began to be concerned. Looking back, she couldn’t say with certainty that it had come the month before either. May had been busy – going to Sophia’s band concert and Alex’s fifth-grade graduation, starting Will in a summer soccer league, covering all of school-related news items that always cropped up at that time of the year...

Until now, a forgotten period had hardly merited a second thought.

She nibbled the side of her thumb and stared at the plastic stick resting on the edge of the bathroom counter. Unsure as she was about the reliability of pregnancy tests, every instinct she had told her that the little plus sign staring back at her was accurate.

It wasn’t that she and Jaime had never thought about having a baby. They’d talked about it plenty during their first years of marriage. But they hadn’t talked about it lately. Since they’d started the adoption process, the whole subject had sort of fallen off their radar. 

Arden lowered her hand and pinched the test between her fingers. Holding it to the light, she fought another swell of trepidation when the intersecting lines remained unchanged. 

After the intentional, very deliberate way that the other three had come into their lives, an accidental pregnancy was blindsiding. And with a soon-to-be eighth grader, sixth grader, and fourth grader, it was just about the last thing she’d expected. 

A fourth child certainly hadn’t factored into the renovations they’d completed on the house little more than a year before. Or her career plans. Or the trip they’d just booked for Disney World over next year’s Spring Break.

With a mounting sense of panic, Arden wondered if a baby could really fit into their lives at all. They were a family of five.

A cold sweat broke over her forehead as she set the stick back down on the bathroom sink. Catching sight of her disheveled appearance in the mirror, she  raised a shaky hand to scrape the dampening hair from her brow.

She left the room, walking halls her feet had memorized years before. As she walked, she counted every room and every door -- desperate for some forgotten space that could be repurposed as a nursery. There was none, of course. 

Building projects took forever. Furnishing a nursery, sorting out things like maternity leave and childcare, getting used to the idea of starting over from scratch with a new baby -- each required the luxury of time. 

A luxury they didn’t really have. 

Her pulse spiked at the thought of the baby’s imminent arrival. She didn’t even know how long she’d been pregnant, but they had seven months, at most, before their world was turned upside down.

Half of her was determined to march into her office and begin shopping for baby furniture. Thankfully, the other side of her was more reasonable. 

I’ve got to tell Jaime. 

Last she’d known, her husband was collecting materials in the garage, hard at work on the summer project he and Alex had started the week before. In a true feat of creative genius, Jaime had turned the boy’s rough sketch into plans for an actual treehouse in their backyard. They’d been working on it almost every morning since. 

As Arden passed through the lower level of the house, she heard Opie pawing at the front door. Finding the garage empty, she made her way across the yard to her husband’s workshop. The whining tablesaw confirmed their presence long before the cloud of dust that assaulted her as she stepped inside. 

Neither occupant looked up at her entry, but that didn’t come as much surprise. The saw drowned out all other sound. Giving them several feet of clearance, she stood on the blank floor before them.

Jaime’s gaze flickered and he motioned for Alex to pause before handing him the next board. He finished with the piece of wood that was already on the saw, laying it aside as he allowed the noise to fade to a dull hum.

“Alex,” Arden began, speaking a few decibels louder than usual. The saw whirred to a halt. “Would you please take the dog out for me? I need to talk with your dad for a minute.”

She didn’t need her powers to know that he was counting to five and considering the consequences of refusal.

“Yeah.”

Arden wasn’t crazy about the edge in her son’s tone, but at least he hadn’t pushed the issue.

“Is everything okay?” Jaime stepped back from the machine, flipping up his safety glasses to reveal a furrowed brow. 

Arden nodded, bringing the pad of her thumb to her lips and biting down on the skin slowly. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, afraid that the fear in her own would transfer.

This isn’t like you, Arden. Tell me what’s wrong.

She looked up from the concrete floor with resolve, but still couldn’t bring herself to go any higher than his chest. “I'm freaking out and I needed to come talk to you before it got any worse.”

“Babe,” he interrupted. He took her by the shoulders, uncertainty swiftly turning to concern as he saw the tears in her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Finally meeting his gaze, she shared the worry that was foremost in her mind. “We’re gonna have to add onto the house again.”

Jaime stared at her, aghast. For a moment, he struggled with the strange expression, fumbling for meaning beneath her vagaries. Finally, he landed on the only necessary change he could imagine. “Did something happen with the boys? I thought they wanted to keep sharing a room...”

“Not for the boys,” she corrected, breath stuttering as she worked up the courage for her next words. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Deep brown eyes grew wide before dropping to her stomach. “Are you serious?” His hands clenched her shoulders a little too tightly, but she was grateful for the reality of his firm grasp. Her mind still swimming with fears and questions, it was a relief to have something stable to hold onto. 

"Uh-huh,” she confirmed with a sullen nod.

“You’re pregnant?”

Another nod. “The test says so, and I was pretty sure even before I took it -- but still. I don’t know what happened -- a mix-up with my birth control or something? I mean, it was an accident. We haven’t talked about babies or-”

Before she could finish the statement, Jaime’s lips were pressed to her forehead, his hands gently cradling her face. Tears flooded Arden’s eyes again at the tender promises in his touch, and her whole body was light with reassurance. Secrets between them had always been a burden.

“Arden,” he started slowly, swallowing against the onslaught of his own emotions. “If it’s an accident, then it’s the happiest accident of my life.”

“You’re sure?” Even in her momentary peace, it was impossible not to think of how much this accident – happy or not – was going to change everything.

He pulled back to see her, but still supported her face with both hands. “I’m positive. Try me. My mind’s an open book.” His eyes were still poring over her with the most intense look of adoration she’d ever known. But as he continued watching, that love turned to concern. “You’re not happy?”

“I’m too shocked right now to feel anything else. The past couple of years, I really hadn’t even thought about the possibility. I sure didn’t expect for it to happen without us planning for it first.”

“But it did.”

“Yeah,” she told him weakly, voice wavering as he combed the sweaty hair from her eyes. 

“Sweetheart, just because we haven’t talked about this baby doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Sure, life’s going to be a little more complicated, but how could I not want to have a baby with you?”

Catching her lower lip with her teeth to keep from crying, Arden ventured  to ask, “We’ll make it work?”

His certainty told her that the question didn’t even bear asking. “You know we will. It’ll be just like it was with the other three – we won’t know how we ever lived without this one.”

She laughed in spite of the tears that still ran down both cheeks. “You’re probably right.”

Jaime gathered her into his arms again, long fingers weaving into her hair. “I know I am. I don’t even care if it means adding onto the house again.” 

“I love you,” she mumbled into his shoulder, holding tightly to the man who seemed to anchor her in any storm. 

“I love you too.” 

Several seconds later, she pushed away with a thought. “I should probably go. Alex will be back any minute and I don’t want them finding out like this.” 

“Good thinking.” Jaime pulled her back for a quick kiss. “But one more thing before you leave.”

She paused, looking to him expectantly. 

“I know I’ve always said it didn’t matter how we got our kids -- I’d love them whether they were ours from the start or not. That’s still true, but Arden? Having a baby with you is going to be pretty damn amazing.”

“It is,” she answered, finally holding back the tears as she attempted a smile. With a nod, she left him alone in the workshop, her hand resting against her stomach as she made her way back to the house. You’ll fit, little one. I promise. I don’t know how, but we’re going to make this work.

_____

Father’s Day, 2028

Melinda Gale had always loved babies. For as long as Arden could remember, her mother would coo at them in grocery store aisles, offer to hold them for family friends or relatives, and spend ages staring at them every time they attended a baby shower.

Arden had never had any such compulsions.

She enjoyed them, sure. They were cute and sweet, and she understood the desire to care for them. Holding them was fun, on occasion, though she’d always found it easy to look away when they were in the room.

But on this afternoon, keeping her eyes from straying to the small face in the infant carrier was impossible. They’d encountered the couple with the baby twice during their hike -- once at the bottom of the trail where they’d stopped for lunch, and now crossing paths again as they rambled upward through the hills. Both times, the pull had been magnetic, uncovering a desire that she hadn’t known existed. 

With a quick check of her husband’s face, she knew that he was met with equal difficulty. Though he was several steps ahead, he tossed a wink over his shoulder once the small family was out of sight. 

I can’t believe we get to have one of those.

Arden glowed at the excitement in Jaime’s thought. He’d been taking everything in stride, his positivity keeping her spirits up even on the days when all she could think of were the ways that having a baby was going to interfere with their plans. Despite her worries, his happiness was contagious.

For now, the new baby was still a secret between the two of them. They’d been hoping to wait for just a little bit longer -- at least until Family Day had passed. They’d agreed without much deliberation that it was best for this news not to overshadow the anniversary of the kids’ arrival.

Earlier in the week, they’d walked out of her first ultrasound appointment with a grainy picture and a projected due date for the middle of January. The car ride home had alternated between thoughtful silences and fits of giggles -- each of them still trying to wrap their minds around the fact that they would soon be a family of six. 

Smile growing as she matched Alex’s pace, Arden remembered the conversation that had followed. 

While Jaime put their lunch leftovers in the fridge, she gathered up the load of clean clothes that had finished in the dryer several hours before. She’d barely started folding before she sensed his familiar presence behind her. 

“You can’t feel anything yet,” Arden reminded as his hand settled low on her belly. 

“Neither can you, but that hasn’t stopped you from touching your stomach every time you think no one’s looking.” 

“Touché,” she relented, shying away from the tickle of his lips at her throat. “Although I’m fairly certain that I’ll be the first one to feel something. And I’ll let you in on it as soon as it happens.” 

“Still, if there’s any chance she can feel it, then...”

“Jaime...” Arden turned toward him, brushing her thumb over the stubble on his cheek. Though his lips were still curved into a smile, his eyes had turned serious. 

“This baby is never ever going wonder whether she’s loved.”

“No, she’s not,” she agreed as she tucked a wisp of hair behind his ear. “There’s absolutely no danger of that happening. But we don’t know that it’s a she. We could be having a boy...”

Arden turned back to the laundry, snagging a pair of boxers for emphasis. He grinned fully and joined her in folding. 

“I can’t help it. I keep imagining it’s a mini-you inside of there. A tiny little girl with your hair and your nose. Your narrow little feet...”  

“It doesn’t always work that way.”

“It did with you and your mom.”

They shared a look, hesitant to delve any deeper into that line of thought. The day had been too full of joy for them to sully it with reminders of sorrow.

“Even if it is a girl,” she continued, “I hope she gets your eyebrows and your smile -- probably your height too.”

Jaime grew silent, slowing in his efforts to shake one of Will’s socks the right side out. Both of his eyes narrowed to slits.

“It’s not selfish,” she assured in answer to his unspoken thought. “You’re not selfish to want someone else in the world who shares your DNA. It’s an instinct you share with most of humanity.”

“Yeah, but it’s been years since any of that mattered. I don’t know why I care again all of a sudden.”

Her own motions ceased. “Because we’re talking about an actual baby now. It’s not a hypothetical,” she suggested, trying to keep her tone light. “And it’s a baby who's going to have things in common with you.”

“I hope she only gets the good parts.”

“All of your parts are good, Jaime. Honestly, I almost wonder if this baby is some divine way of showing that the world needs more of you.”

With a snicker, he shook his head at her assessment. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You've known that for a while now.”

“I married you anyway.”

She raised her lips for the kiss that always followed such conversations, and they quickly found themselves getting carried away with something other than the laundry on the couch.

“Mom! There’s a rock in my shoe!”

The announcement startled Arden from her reminiscing, the flush of heat at the base of her neck the only sign of her wandering mind. 

Will was several yards ahead, continuing to limp along despite his obvious discomfort. Grateful that the brim of her hat cast a shadow over her rolling eyes, Arden lengthened her stride and caught up to her youngest son. “Let’s find a seat, buddy.”

“I can get it myself,” he insisted, still pressing forward.

“Then why’d you call for me?”

He shrugged, plopping onto a rock and yanking off one tennis shoe. Will offered no further explanation as she continued watching, too distracted with his inspection of the small piece of gravel that came from shoe’s heel.

Arden glanced up to see that the other three had stopped to wait for them. Alex had wandered a few steps ahead and was walking across a fallen log with his arms outstretched for balance. Jaime and Sophia were still talking animatedly about something, but Arden had lost the thread of their conversation long ago. As she watched, her husband nodded as if to encourage them to take their time. 

“Can I double knot it?” Will’s fingers were already poised to loop the laces a second time.

“As long as you do it loosely.” 

Will let out a disgruntled sigh before pulling the ties into a second knot. Finished, he hopped up and ran ahead with a sudden burst of energy. Arden hung behind a moment longer, considering the sight in front of her. 

Just days from now, they’d pass the first anniversary of bringing these kids into their home. Life ever since had been full of give and take. Challenging, but fulfilling. Busy, but fun. Heartbreaking, but rewarding.

These kids had turned their lives upside down in all the best ways, and Jaime was right: it was impossible to imagine where they’d be without them. 

Surely they could make it with one more.

[thefigureinthecorner]

tbs art playlist dump

i want to share my playlists but a) don’t feel like making covers for all of them just yet and b) don’t wanna inundate my blog with playlist posts, but they are relevant to my art cause they help with Drawing Emotions n stuff so i’m still posting them on this blog

i’ll stick the links under the cut so i can keep adding to them, since i make them as i find more songs that fit and clicking a read more conveniently always links back to the original post, so 👌 

also there are some notes bc thought processes are fun

am archives stuff

this playlist is p much just all the music that gets me in the Sad AM Archives Mood for drawing anything in like. the latter half-ish of the episodes. lyrically there isn’t a whole lot of relevance it just gets me in the right headspace for drawing The Emotions (edit: a lot of these songs have become lyrically relevant since i made this post. i’m crying all the time over every song i listen to. goddammit.)

also there is one song (not on this playlist anymore) that i put on loop for drawing specifically Helen and that’s The Mind Electric-- again, more mood relevance than lyrical relevance, though the title is. oddly accurate

honorable mention: black pear tree by the mountain goats and kaki king cause it’s not on spotify but hot damn

joan/owen

it’s just a lot of sad, pine-y love songs. honestly it’s mostly from owen’s perspective cause there’s been a lot of that lately, and as far as i can tell owen’s where most of the love was coming from in this relationship anyway

share your address- ben platt: frankly, almost all of ben platt’s music gives me strong owen vibes, with a few exceptions. this one’s just owen being super in love. that’s the whole thing.

flaws- bastille: there’s a lot about this song that’s perfect for these two but two sections in particular: “When all of your flaws and all of my flaws/Are laid out one by one/The wonderful part of the mess that we made/We pick ourselves undone” and “All of your flaws and all of my flaws/When they have been exhumed/We'll see that we need them to be who we are/Without them we'd be doomed”

the first bit because of everything with Mark, and the second bit because of the last few episodes and the whole “maybe making the mistakes we have makes us uniquely suited to do better in the future” thing

quiet light- the national: owen, post-breakup, probably. the whole thing is good, but “Between you and me/I still fall apart at the thought of your voice” is the part that convinced me to put it here.

title and registration- death cab for cutie: i had this one stuck in my head while drawing owen at one point i think, and then it kinda just. hit me how well it worked. “There's no blame for how our love did slowly fade/And now that it's gone, it's like it wasn't there at all/And here I rest where disappointment and regret collide/Lying awake at night”

better- ben platt: yeah it’s ben platt again and i can’t even point to specific lyrics it’s just the whole song. this one’s on owen’s main playlist too but it had to be here

you can do better than me- death cab for cutie: not sure about the first verse, but the rest of the song?? fuck

tompkins square park- mumford and sons: also a song that’s on owen’s main playlist, but it’s on this playlist because after am archives 15 it’s destroying me.

i don’t wanna love somebody else- a great big world: gonna let the lyrics speak for themselves: Oh, we left it all unspoken/Oh, we buried it alive/And now it's screaming in my head/Oh, I shouldn't go on hoping/Oh, that you will change your mind/And one day we could start again/Well I don't care if loneliness kills me/I don't wanna love somebody else

like. excuse me.

this whole song just straight up is his conversation with Sam in am archives 13 huh

owen

i know i’ve linked to this one before on my blog (the notes are here if you want them) but i’m sticking it in the masterpost anyway

this one exists cause a) i draw him a lot and b) there wasn’t a playlist for owen, which is a decision i respect, but also the one song we do have for him kind of. doesn’t help me draw him. i feel like it makes it harder for me to draw him? the song suits him, lyrics-wise, and i understand why it’s his song, but also there’s a lot tone-wise that just takes me out of drawing him a bit. idk why. anyway here’s a playlist

mark

i made this one cause the official mark playlist was Happy Mark Songs, which is great and i’m glad he gets happy songs, but also i very rarely draw him happy (sorry mark i swear ily) and i needed a playlist of Sad Mark Songs. side note: i probably could have added like half the radical face discography to this playlist

paint’s peeling- rilo kiley: there’s a lot about this song that fits, but one line specifically that put this song on the playlist: And, oh, I'm not going back to the assholes that made me

i hate u, i love u- gnash (ft. olivia brian): see damien’s notes on this song, i wrote those before i wrote mark’s and it’s on both playlists for the same reasons

hard of hearing- radical face: holy shit

dead ends- radical face: also holy shit

personal giants (alternate reality version)- radical face: stop me if you’ve heard this before, but: holy shit. also this is totally a mark and joan song. maybe mark and sam also. just mark looking up to all the people who have ever loved him in any way

something good can work- two door cinema club: took this one from his official playlist; i love two door cinema club so i felt like i had to

a better son/daughter- rilo kiley: added this one after episode 14 of the am archives cause i re-discovered rilo kiley like right before that episode came out and aaaaaaaaa

older- ben platt: it’s sad in a Mark Way. idk how else to describe it.

mistakes we knew we were making- straylight run: i know i say this a lot but like......... it’s the whole song. look at the lyrics and try to tell me this isn’t a mark song.

stage 4 fear of trying- frank iero: “and i found some scars in places i have never shown to anyone/i don't know why it took so long to get back home/"if you could hear the dreams i've had my dear..."/yeah i know you've heard that line before/but if i had the chance to scream all the things i've underlined”

still feel- half alive: yeah ok so this is a more upbeat one but it needed to be here. again, a lot about this song works, but like. “Trying to recognize myself when I feel I've been replaced” is the line that got it here

ok ok- half alive: the lyrics kinda work, but honestly, it just Felt Like A Mark Song to me.

damien

it’s either this playlist or, just, The Entire Bastille Discography, cause for some reason their music really suits him imo. this one and the owen one are the ones i consider closest to being complete.

bloody shirt- to kill a king: idk where to even start with this song tbh like i think the lyrics are just his entire post-safehouse arc so it’s definitely something i’ve listened to a lot while drawing him

blame- bastille: another post-safehouse one but this one very specifically links back to the Get The Hell Out conversation him and mark have; fall upon your knees, saying, "this is my body and soul here"/fall and begging, pleading, "you've got the power and control"/don't pin it all on me

reaper man- mother mother: this one’s from the Official Playlist™ and it’s here for p much the same reasons it’s on the official one, with the addition of it helps me draw him. it’s also the only one that i think does from that playlist? which isn’t me bad-mouthing the playlist, i feel like the songs definitely suit him, but again: suiting him and helping me draw him are two very different things

gold- imagine dragons: yeah again it’s just the whole damn song

look what you made me do- our last night (cover): i think lauren shippen posted about this being a damien song on either her blog or the bright sessions blog at one point? and shortly after that this cover showed up in my recommended videos so that’s how that happened

birthright- celldweller: i don’t even remember how i thought of this song while i was making the playlist given it’d been literal years since i listened to celldweller but it worked and it’s here

the hearse- matt maeson: the stripped version of this song is on owen’s playlist because it sounded kind of sad/apologetic; this one doesn’t. this one is still kinda sad but it’s angrier. it’s leaning more towards mark/damien territory; i stuck a couple of those songs on this playlist because a) i don’t draw mark/damien much and b) in the rare cases i do, the official playlist works for me

i hate u, i love u- gnash (ft. olivia brian)- another mark/damien one and also another official playlist song cause i heard it the first time and went oh shit so it’s here now

current works in progress

no links, but i have a lot of songs in mind for these ones that i just haven’t put together into playlists yet:

sam

sam/mark

joan

joan and mark

[lumsel]

TF2 is a cutting parody of Overwatch and I can prove it

And when I say parody, I don’t mean it as in one of those “Minecraft Parodies” you see on the youtubes where they switch some lyrics around and call it a day without really commenting on the source material, I mean it as in TF2 is a biting deconstruction of Overwatch and everything it represents. Now I’m sure you have all sorts of questions involving release dates and, I dunno, logic, but bear with me here for a moment because this shit runs deep:

Overwatch’s characters have a diverse range of origins and personalities, presented as the best of the best from all over the world. Artists, Innovators, Heroes, Overwatch lets you play as great people who fight for great causes. Granted, there’s a bit of some weird dissonance between how they act and how they play, we’ve all made jokes about how weirdly cheerful Mei is about killing people, but overall they’re just a bunch of lovable goofs. Hell, even the so-called bad guys are impossible to hate, because they just have so much personality baked into them.

TF2′s cast is comprised of foolish, incompetent mercenaries, who are explicitly not the best of the best but rather a bunch of idiots the Administrator got to fight her pointless battles without any motivations beyond the money they earn. They aren’t lovable; entertaining to be sure, but they aren’t exactly the kinds of folks you’d sit down and have a beer with. Examining them at an individual level reveals further criticisms:

The Soldier’s name is a clear reference to the Overwatch hero Soldier 76, and further comparisons can be made from there. Soldier 76 is a disgraced war vet who takes the world into his own hands, travelling the world to fight evils and save people. The Soldier amps it up to 11; a mentally ill civilian who becomes convinced he is fighting Nazis in a war that ended years ago, and is in actuality blowing up innocents. No one man can understand the complexities of worldly conflicts enough to actively fight for the “right side” without screwing everything up, and the Soldier personifies this notion to an extreme, portrayed as not only insane but also highly jingoistic, alluding to an undercurrent of american exceptionalism that exists in 76′s All-American Hero stylings.

Pyro is a take on Bastion. They’re both unintelligible and gender-indeterminate cuties who retain their innocence in a cruel and brutal environment. Of course, Bastion’s dissonance between its purpose and its personality is played for drama, for how tragic it is that this adorable robot is built only to kill. The Pyro, by contrast, portrays innocence in spite of violence as twisted. Compare their promotional shorts: Bastion’s ends with it deciding against its original purpose (and the purpose it serves in gameplay) and exiling itself to the forest to care for a cute bird, while the Pyro’s portrays the violence and innocence as a symbiotic relationship, showing that they hallucinate the carnage they cause as spreading love and cheer. TF2 tells us that the innocence of a DPS character in a shooter is not endearing but terrifying, because the two aspects cannot coexist without extreme cognitive dissonance. The Pyro can delight in violence because, in their limited understanding of the world, they see violence as delightful.

The Medic lampoons Mercy and to a lesser extent every support character in Overwatch. There is something faintly hypocritical about a character claiming to want to help people as they serve as an accomplice to a violent, bloody war effort. Mercy may rarely score any kills herself, but she enables the continued destruction caused by every combatant she heals. The Medic puts up no such pretense of being a good person, he loves the pain and violence perhaps more than his compatriots who actively dole it out. He is no harmless doctor, he is as great a threat as the men with guns, if not even more dangerous - and he doesn’t even have a damage boost on his medigun. The Medic's habit of experimenting on his teammates for shits and giggles is, too, a joke about Mercy, this time referring to her canon involvement in turning Genji and Reaper into killing machines. 

The Sniper is, like Roadhog, an Australian who is actually a New Zealander who sounds like nothing like either. I don’t have anything insightful to say here, I just think it’s funny.

But the one thing that binds them - the one thing they have in common? They are all sadistic assholes. Every character has a cackling, evil laugh they let out when they’re on a kill streak, they all bask in the glory of slaughter unashamedly and unabashedly - they are guns for hire, after all. In a way, they aren’t so different to the Overwatch cast in this respect; even the bright and peppy tracer has a host of voicelines cheerily mocking the people she has just murdered with her twin pistols. But what TF2 does differently is make this obvious. The nine classes have no purpose in gameplay beyond causing and enabling murder, and rather than distract you from this fact with charming personalities, it lets you pity them as the mean, cruel bastards that they are. These are no “heroes” to be looked up to, they are the waste product of a world better than them.

Overwatch’s map design is beautiful, to be sure, with a clean, futuristic aesthetic and a wide diversity of metropolitan locales to explore. But when you think about it, the levels don’t make a whole lot of sense. The payload maps are all cities that tend to have only one road in them, they’re peppered with hazardous falls despite being mostly innocuous metropolitan areas, and the architecture is often questionable at best. While some maps have a clear goal that the two teams are fighting over, i.e. Volskaya’s factory, some are just places where a fight is happening for no reason. Illios is the perfect example, you go to a well, a lighthouse and an excavation site but there’s nothing to be won in any of the areas. Of course, asking “why are we fighting here” was a mug’s game to begin with - the gameplay in is non-canon, after all.

TF2′s map design is specifically engineered to draw attention to its own senselessness.  The payload tracks aren’t roads, they’re literal tracks, on the ground, which just happen to lead directly to the enemy team’s giant stockpile of explosive barrels. Control points aren’t just game abstractions, they’re giant metal discs on the ground, marked out with hazard tape and set up to display a giant holographic team emblem. One place where they differ is TF2 is not content to allow a map to have no valuable resource in it to be fighting over, even when said dedication raises more questions than it answers. That granary isn’t just a granary, it’s actually concealing a secret spy base. The lumberyard? Secret spy base. Hydroelectric plant, which actually might be tactically advantageous to own? ALSO A SECRET SPY BASE! “Secret spy base” is the punchline to every map’s visual narrative, and serves as a challenge to the philosophy of Overwatch’s design, by implying that those innocuous locales you visit, all those wells and lighthouses, they were actually just secret spy bases this whole time.

Even the art direction in OW’s fascination with a vaguely utopic golden age is reflected in TF2′s usage of idealised 60′s-ea illustration as a clear inspiration. The visual language utilised by a people who were proud of the world that they shaped, despite the festering problems lurking deep within it, is perfect for the ugliness of the TF2 universe. The painterly, illustrative style isn’t used for white picket fences and well-kept lawns, but ramshackle shacks, industrial monstrosities and machines of war. This is no better time nor a better place, it is a war. It is blood and gore and fire and pain and all the worst parts of humanity condensed into bite sized 10 minute matches.

And the war they fight is pointless. Not pointless in the sense that it is non-canon, but that it is canon and yet it still means nothing. It’s a pitiable battle between two brothers over their ancient, useless gravel estate, with all the lasers and rockets only existing to claim more useless gravel. The fights don’t mean anything, the story isn’t important, and the resources aren’t world-changing, they’re just pointless bloodshed for pointless rewards, a hauntingly accurate summation of the philosophy of a competitive shooter.

Overwatch’s world is one like our own, but... different. Set in a fantastic and wonderful future, it portrays a world coming off of the heels of a great robot war. It is populated by robots called omnics, who are either a metaphor for all marginalised groups ever or evil badguy robots depending on the what the writers need right now. In addition, Overwatch likes to add it’s own additional spice to real world locales: South Korea is threatened by a giant badguy robot and has hired professional gamers to fight it, Australia has been devastated in a nuclear holocaust and is now a desolate wasteland, and The Moon has recently been overthrown by sentient gorillas(?) who now rule its colonies. It’s all a bit silly, to be sure, but it’s made with love, and it’s all just so earnest you can’t help but love it back.

In the TF2 community, there is some debate over whether or not Abraham Lincoln inventing stairs as an alternative to the rocket jump is canon information or not. What is definitely canon, however, is that spaceflight was invented in 1900, New Zealand is a once legendary sunken metropolis destroyed by an incompetent scientist, and Amelia Earhart was a hotdog mascot. The world isn’t just quirky, it’s gonzo, with ghosts and charismatic war profiteers and rocks that radiate pure intelligence all being mentioned in the same sentence with nary a wink. 

You can tell TF2′s lead, Robin Walker, was an Australian man angry about the nation’s treatment in Overwatch, because in TF2 Australia is a world leader inventing all of the major technologies in the setting and is the main catalyst for most of the world’s politics. Tellingly, you never actually go to Australia in-game, because the conflict that TF2 portrays is as stated earlier completely removed from anything remotely important in the setting. Of course, Australia is also said to be populated entirely by idiots who get in barfights all the time and choose their king by boxing with kangaroos because if there’s one thing that TF2 avoids like the plague it’s the genuine idealism that Overwatch so loves.

And Overwatch’s incredible technology levels, showing the world of 60 years from now being populated by megastructures, holograms and hovercars, is parodied with the setting of TF2 having all the same, but 60 years into the past. Because Australium, you see. The quaint interpretation of global politics is now extended into full-on alternate history wherein the Space Race was just the US and Russia feebly attempting to measure up to Australia’s impossible standards and Musician Tom Jones is murdered by the Soldier for being his wizard ex-roommate’s new best friend. It shows the inherent arrogance OW painting its own picture of what the world is like by painting that picture onto the past instead of the future, allowing us to immediately understand the contrast between how the authors portray the world and how it actually was - and letting us laugh at just how different the two really are.

This theory would be completely perfect with no holes in it whatsoever, were it not for one key issue: TF2 came out seven years before Overwatch was announced.

There is only one explanation for this: this is a case of analogous evolution where the Overwatch team made many of the same gameplay decisions as the TF2 team but TF2 understood the absurdity of said gameplay and decided to emphasise it whereas Overwatch elected to ignore it and justify its fiction through supplemental material, combined with TF2 actively parodying tropes that predate both games that Overwatch somewhat coincidentally indulges in due to the developers of one intending a dark satirical tone and the developers of the other trying for something more optimistic TF2 was engineered by Valve at some point in the future and sent back in time like a videogame terminator to destroy Overwatch before it was ever born in order to ensure CSGO’s dominance in the competitive PC shooter field. Valve failed to take the key moral lesson away from the first Terminator movie, however - any endeavor involving time travel is doomed to fail from the start, as whatever action you take has always been taken and the past cannot be changed. Just like Robot Arnold Schwarzenegger, TF2 not only failed to prevent Overwatch’s existence, it ultimately proved instrumental in the game’s conception when the spark of inspiration (here representing Kyle Reese) made sweet, sweet love to Jeff Kaplan’s brain before dying in a dynamite explosion. For shame, Valve. I thought you would have learned from Skynet’s mistakes.

[jjkpls]

crayons ‘net’ (finale) (PG)

> genre : fluffy fluff, light angst, comedy

> pairing : kim namjoon x reader

> words : 4k

> warnings : none (except a rusty quill)

>Y/N, a primary school teacher, is way too soft for the quiet, timid new child in her class. Little did she know, the adult version, who engendered this cutie, is even more charming.

> prior

Time heals every wound.

Even the deepest, bloodiest ones, alike the ones inflicted to the ego. 

It felt like you wouldn’t ever get over how embarrassed you'd felt but you did, to a certain degree, get over it. The fact that Mr Kim didn’t appear before you for a few weeks helped a little, and the one that Jimmy was doing great -way better than you had expected, somehow, after overcoming the very first difficult step, he’s been able to improve profusely, consistently- helped immensely.

You felt like you've done your part regarding him and his overall situation at home. You helped as you could, you pushed the buttons just waiting to be pushed, needing that little extra help, and on his own, progressively, Jimmy’s found himself influenced by his environment and naturally, has been learning to adapt to it.

You shouldn’t interfere anymore is what you keep telling yourself. But for the past week and a half, after the class has been long dismissed, you've been seeing his little backpack, with the two bear ears decorating the top, skimming through the hallway as Jimmy's little legs shuffle to keep up with Adrianne‘s energetic walk. If you don’t see them, you hear them, or more accurately you hear her, talking to him, or mostly to herself, out loud as she furnishes the quietness of the corridors after all the children have left. 

The curiosity is eating you alive. You resist for as long as you can until you break, grabbing your mug in one hand and your dustbin in the other, not sure which one is a better excuse to be bursting in her way, and you catch them exiting one of the adjacent classrooms. Adrianne seems shocked, startles, and you mimic her as well as you can, feigning a coincidence. 

“What are you doing with this? You know I was going to take care of it.” 

“Oh, you know...” And you see that she doesn’t know but you don’t either and you have no idea what to add. Therefore simply you drop the subject altogether and start with what you're interested in. “Jimmy, why are you still here?” You ask kindly, tending a finger forward to swipe back one of his lock falling on his face. He doesn’t flinch nor winces at the gesture. You internally smile. Only half committed to answering, he looks back at you simply shrugging, pouty mouth twisting a bit. 

“His daddy is always late. I think they don’t have a nanny anymore.” 

“Oh is that right?”

“Hm. So little Jimmy keeps me company while I clean the rooms. I have to do the rooms, even if it can't be too fun for a little boy. Is it fun, Jimmy?” 

And Jimmy nods, quite eagerly even though he can’t possibly be sincere. Especially given the fact that if Adrienne is a lovely respectable woman that you appreciate dearly, you can’t deny that her boisterous voice with her tendency to go on and on no matter the lack of encouragement from the other end, can’t be too pleasing, especially after a full day of working the brain. You're guilty of sometimes closing your door when you stay late in your class to quiet down her ranting to herself as she goes from room to room to tidy up.

“Do you want to leave him with me? It’d be more convenient for you.” You're not exactly sure what motivates you as you suggest it. You can tell, from the line her eyebrows are drawing, that even if she won’t express it in front of him, having to watch over him and take him along on her route is not the most practical, definitely must make her waste time and efficiency. Still, you're not even sure why you propose to relieve her.

You just like the kid, you suppose. 

You ask yourself the question, actively, as Jimmy and you silently stroll back to your classroom. It’s only when you take a seat, him at his desk and you at yours, that you see the pile of today's writing exercises the kids submitted to you that an idea occurs. 

You're not sure of the ways your brain works. It seems to be working backwards recently. 

You decide you could teach him. Jimmy, if he’s not lost behind his other classmates, is still lacking a bit. Having started life in a whole different culture, being suddenly thrown in this new one, having to learn a new language on top of another drastically different one, while being lost in a sea of other children, the same age as him, but somehow way ahead of him, all of this is, you suspect, one of the main reasons why he doesn’t like to participate. His father had a point on that. And you want to give him the tools, the confidence to simply try. 

But it’s not like you can work over basis the other children mastered subconsciously, effortlessly, already long ago the few years of their lives. 

Here comes an opportunity though. Late afternoon classes, while waiting for his dad, assuming his schedule will keep allowing you the time.

“Thanks a lot. I’m sorry again, I’ve had a little issue with the lady who took care of him and-“

“It’s fine. Don’t apologise. Have a nice evening. I see you tomorrow Jimmy?”

You're all smiles and soft words but you don’t give Mr Kim much attention. Not meeting his eyes, facing towards Jimmy instead of him. You're not being petty. It’s simply the warmth who started spreading along your neck and cheeks as soon as you heard the opening of the main hall door from the distance, highly uncomfortable and impossible to ignore. You thought you were over it but clearly, you were wrong. Not seeing him directly for those few weeks of resting was entirely misleading. 

He is now standing in front of you and you have this awful feeling again, the one that’s making you feel like you regret every single life choice ever made by your own stupid self, any swipe of a butterfly’s wings that led to this moment. 

You're effective though. Not wasting any spare moment, as gently as possible, yet firmly, you intimate their way out.

This is how it goes.

Somehow he allows it to happen. From his stalling around, the way his lips open slightly full of intention but nothing ever coming out, he means to say something. He feels the awkwardness, the tension. He perhaps wishes to diffuse it but as polite and agreeable as you naturally show yourself to be, you're able to show yourself cold and distant.

You've given up on this anyway.

You don't know what this is, precisely. And you do not care to figure it out. You know it's not something reasonable, something you want to spend time thinking about. It's something that won't lead you anywhere, it's something that had never started yet made you do dumb craps and feel awful. So, screw this.

Carefully, meticulously, you apply the same routine to every single day. Mr Kim's schedule does happen to allow those extra courses. For a while, it's simply how it goes.

Until embarrassment -this bitchy disease- seems to grow on his side. You're not sure where it comes from, maybe he misinterprets your attitude, take it too personally. In any case, he grows weary of the time and energy he seems to believe he's making you waste on them.

He starts arriving, forehead soaked from how hard he runs to get to the school not too late. Sometimes he manages to be right on time and Jimmy doesn't even get to come back to you, escorted by Adrienne, for a quick reading of a short story or a low, very discreet recitation of a short poetry you've learned together before. In those cases, you're annoyed, and so is Jimmy -you can tell, from the puff of his cheeks and even sometimes, from the way he refuses to raise his eyes from whatever you're working on, purposefully ignoring the loudness of his dad appearing before you two, not ready as he is to go home yet.

Therefore, naturally, you have to talk to him.

It's not a pleasant thought. You're not enthused at the idea, you don't even know what to tell him incisively but you know, you have to talk to him.

It's all ridiculous. Jimmy has made progress even you didn't imagine possible. He's almost good to go and expend his freedom born from a tiny, shy but very much existing newfound confidence. But you like your late afternoon classes. And you know he does too. Also, he doesn't have much interaction with anyone besides his father. From what the later told you, even talking with his cousins is a challenge he struggles to submit himself to.

And there's his mom, gone, never to come back. Your heart aches each time you think about it. It's not your place, you have to remind yourself constantly. Yet, you can't help it. Because somehow maybe it is. You're not sure what that place is but maybe there's one for you. One that is a strange, coincidental, sort of fated little space for you to fill, for a little while, that will mark him enough to help him through this awful test Life had for him and possibly, even, later on in life.

Life is strange. It's filled with curious encounters with strangers that leave a trace within you, that you'll carry forever. They can hurt and engrave a nasty scar that'll affect you forever or the opposite, they can help heal, help bloom hope, inspire friendship and love and benevolence.

Somehow, even throughout your constant reminding yourself that you should not get too involved, you should not care so much as to let it affect your everyday life and state of mind and emotions, you've done exactly that. You don't exactly regret it.

It's a thing, so stupid and useless, that makes it feel like you regret it.

Because now, you have to talk to his dad and explain to him, fully, with sentences and blanks for him to answer and probably looks to spare his way for polite measures, what you've been doing and how it's more than fine that he's late after the classes end because it allows you time to spend together and work on a lot of different essential things.

"You had something to say to me?"

God. You don't want to talk to him.

You've been dreading this moment so hard for the past week that your steeping anxiety turned into deep aggravation and you can't stand looking at him. Just seeing him makes you angry.

"Mr Kim, I've told you multiple times before not to worry when you're late." He frowns a little, looking back at your severe gaze, confused. He nods slowly, not saying anything, and you assume it's because he isn't really in capacity of speaking right now. Not when his breath is so ragged and his brain probably dizzy from the race he submitted himself to from his office. "Yet you keep running in my class every day, all dishevelled and- and all-"

"But. But I shouldn't bother you-"

"Mr Kim. You are bothering me by not listening. What I've tried to tell you is that Jimmy and I can take advantage of your schedule.” Deep breathing in and out to calm down and slow the high ladder your voice naturally wants to climb, and you start again, only slightly less on edge. “If you're late, we can work on things we can't do during the day with his classmates. Haven't you noticed his improvements?"

"I- I did but-"

"But what?" You're plain rude. Arms crossed tight on your chest, eyebrows low above your eyes, sighing and almost tapping your foot on the floor. You look like a cartoonish version of an angry teacher. In other words, you look ridiculous. It's not justified whatsoever. Or more like, the reasons you're so mad are ridiculous and absolutely not related to his being thoughtful of the time he might be stealing from you by letting you, sort of, babysit his kid after your official work hours. You'll be embarrassed by it later.

He's cartoonish too. With his helpless "but-" and sheepish looks. Until he's not anymore. He has the shadow of a grin creeping on one corner of his lips.

"Feels like you're scolding me, Miss ___." He bites back a smile. His forehead has softened out, his gaze gentler and calmer, he doesn't seem to take personally your attack. Which he should but whatever. It's even more annoying because smiles look really nice on him and it's hard to stay as mad as you'd been when the dimples coupled with them are hinting their way on his honey cheeks.

"Precisely. I wouldn't have to if you'd just do what I'm asking of you." He beams blatantly now, having decided that somehow you're not mad anymore. As you said, staying angry when the softest looking dimples you've ever seen on anyone dig their way in his cheeks is an impossible task. And Your frown progressively turns into a barely upset pout.

A ridiculous, childish pout of a stupid child who's upset about being teased and flustered.

"You really like your students that much?" He asks, tone sweeter, not in a rush to obtain an answer. You're thankful for it because you wouldn't know how to express how you feel.

You do like your students “that much”. You like people. You want the best for them and you know how those couple of first years living in the world, experiencing it and its beings populating it are determining. You're not too crazy about all of them because some, unfortunately, have already been rubbed with distasteful attitudes by distasteful parents. But for the most part, you do love them a whole lot.

Also, you really like Jimmy Kim, for some reasons. He just directly affects your heartstrings and you simply can not help it. If you just wish the best for anyone, and especially for your students, for Jimmy, you wish even more. You wish only happy days and wonderful experiences and people. Maybe it's the sadness you read for months since you first met him in your class, reinforced by the newly glint of joy and excitement you've been catching recently.

It's all very abstract and confusing and hardly decipherable. So much so that simply trying to figure out your emotions, to convey them into an answer for him, you feel yourself getting emotional. You think he even notices. Therefore, simply, you settle for not much,

"Jimmy is a really sweet kid."

"I'm grateful for you noticing it." Mr Kim starts before taking a deep breath. "I just feel like you're too nice to us. I don't know if- I mean, maybe that's what you do for every family and if it's the case, it's- it's wonderful, very kind of you. But- I mean, don't you, I don't know, you must have your life to get back to. After work, even if I like my job, all I want is leave and you know, get back to my life."

"My job is my life, Mr Kim. I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to."

"It can't be all of it. You- you must- I don't know, want to go home to your boyfriend and go out with your friends and unwind and do fun things and I'm just trapping you here to care for-" You're ticking at that. Bold of him to assume that you have a boyfriend. Fortunately for you, you've learned from your mistakes and you know better, this time, than to correct him. You're not falling into that trap again.

"Mr Kim-"

"Namjoon." You raise an eyebrow, searching your brain for an explanation you missed. "My name. Sorry. You keep calling me Mr Kim and it feels weird."

"I-" It takes you a second to compose yourself. The firepit of rage has a little blaze threatening to bring the whole back to life and consume your whole gut. "Listen. You expressed your concerns. I listened to them. From that, I said that not only did I not mind, I wanted to take this opportunity. So now, the reasonable thing to do is to simply accept what I said. I'm not deceiving you but even if I were, it's my problem, you don't have to worry anymore, do you understand?" How can someone so concerned about making you waste your time can also waste it so expertly and your energy and sanity along with it? He, Namjoon, just stares for a second. His eyes then fall upon his son, a couple of meters away. You're both standing in the hallway while the boy sits patiently at his table, in the back, far enough for him not to hear a simple conversation but given your tendency to heat up for no proper reasons, you're worried he catches bits of the friction. He seems pretty engrossed in the book he's looking at though.

You observe his dad, watching over him, frowning. "Except if you have a problem with me." As on a reflex, his head spins around for his wide eyes to face you. "You do, don't you? You have a problem with me and that's why you're being so difficult!" He gasps, looking awfully offended but you can't even trust it. It'd make way more sense. It's all making sense. "Well, fine, but just say it then, instead of-"

"I don't have a problem with you!"

"Yes, you do. It's obvious. I don't even know how I haven't noticed before..."

"I don't have a problem with you, Miss ___!" Jimmy has definitely noticed now. He's watching you from his seat, four rows away. Curiously, he doesn't seem too fazed. He seems intrigued by the noise but not that concerned. "You're doing so much for us and I feel burdened because I want to give back to you but there's no way- I don't- nothing seems appropriate and I don't know what to do."

"You don't owe me anything, Mr Kim."

"I want to. Can't you be reasonable and accept that?" On his side, the fury has diminished, only a fading shadow remains, colouring his words into something more animated than his usual way of talking. "I really like you, I don't have a problem with you. I'm so thankful for you just entering our lives, sincerely. I'm sorry if I gave a wrong impression." Here comes the awkward tingle that has no right to be appearing. You have to chastise yourself, to rationalize, loud and clear to your delusional all-over-the-place heart, that his thoughts got lost and distorted by translation. He can't mean what he said no matter how much, apparently, your heart would like it.

"Well, ok, then." It's lame. Not very eloquent, pretty self-reflecting. But this man is a rollercoaster. It's hard to adapt and honestly, it's a miracle he hasn't thrown you out of the circuit. You don't know how to react. How to come back down from your suspicious accusations, from your childish outburst, from your giddy excitement at the words he didn't really mean the way you heard them.

That will do anyway. Deciding that most of your issue has been settled and that probably, by continuing this conversation, you're taking the risk to lose it again and possibly traumatized innocent Jimmy this time, you conclude, on a common agreement, the impromptu meeting. Mr Kim goes to help Jimmy pack up his stuff and slip his vest on.

They express goodbye to you, Jimmy waving quickly a hand half-hidden by his sleeve, Mr Kim nodding his head, lips tight as if not meaning to take the risk of saying something wrong.

"Have a nice weekend. See you on Monday, Jimmy."

Then Mr Kim stops in his track, his son bumping into his leg and almost falling to the ground if it were not for the strong grip keeping him upward by the hand. They were just about to reach the entry doors, a few steps away only from them. Mr Kim crouches to his son's height, says something to him, one of his hand cupping the side of his face, fingers brushing his cheek before he stands up, trotting quickly to you, still standing in the doorway of your classroom.

"Miss ___." He's slightly out of breath, weirdly enough for a man who keeps in shape, at least, with the daily runs he makes from his work to his son's school.

"Do you like running that much?" He smiles a bright, wide grin that makes your heart skips a bit.

"I don't actually." He stops and throws a look over his shoulder, towards his son. "There's something I meant to ask but as I said, I feel it might be too inappropriate."

"Ask away."

"If it is, please just say so and ignore me and let's just pretend I've never said anything, ok?"

"Fine. Ask your scandalous question." He looks boyish for a second. Swallowing hard, Adam's apple bobbing obnoxiously along his throat, glancing one more time to Jimmy before he finally gets to it.

"Would you allow me to treat you to a restaurant some time?" You can't deny it, the flutter from earlier is back, stronger than ever. You're so enchanted, feeling tickly all over, like a fucking fifteen-year-old being asked on a date for the first time. It's absurd. Because you're not even sure that's what he means, again. This time, even if you're frustrated and flustered and you want to get mad at him for putting you through this, you can't because the unfamous butterflies are too excited, celebrating the sudden blooming of a garden full of flowers in the pit of your stomach.

"Like a... 'thanks for being the best teacher for my kid' type of diner?"

"Maybe." He has a pout on his mouth his teeth bite on. His eyes are smiling at the corner, but they hold a sheepish hesitation. You don't know if you can trust your perception. He does look like you imagine yourself to look like right now. You wonder if he feels the same way too. Or if, once again, you're imagining a lot of things that are not there.

"Ok. With great pleasure."

You're a coward. You know that. But it's ok, you decide. Because if it turns out to be a date, surely you'll figure it out, won't you?

There's a little stalling moment. A short instant where eyes discuss silently. They're better at speaking then your mouths are. Not arguing, meeting somewhere they understand each other and you have an evident sense of comfort there you're scared to lean in, but that screams at you that there's something very soft and gentle and deeper than simple politeness floating around. He nods, smiling to you or to himself, until he waves you goodbye, quite alike Jimmy did earlier and then he's trotting again, this time back to his son.

It feels like you're walking on some sort of stilts, jumpy, giddy, too excited to just saunter back in your classroom. On your table there's a drawing you've never seen before, sitting next to the neat pile of your documents. It's an adorable, colourful illustration of a girl. With the blue hair and the purple eyes, you hesitate for a second, but after further observation -the similar dress and hairstyle help- you conclude it's a portrait of you. A lovely portrait of you Jimmy has made, while his father and you discussed, that he left on your desk for you to find.

A/N: what an abrupt ending lmao; sorry i couldn’t figure something better out. I really hope you liked it, thank you SO MUCH for reading :) kisses & hugz