#just today i realized that bottom line is based on math

[nonsenseverses]

i just realized aaron and erin sound the same. im dumb and scared... what am i supposed to do with this information -young anon

1. you are not dumb 2. life is scary and that’s just how it is 3. use it to your advantage somehow and become fabulously wealthy and successful

[emy-loves-you]

The Heat Between Us

This was written for the Sanders Sides Unpopular Ships Challenge, Day 2: Intruality!

Summary: Patton doesn’t like to be touched. But maybe he’d be ok if it was Remus touching him

Pairing: Intruality

Word Count: 2225

Warnings: Severe child neglect, child abuse, drugs, touch starvation, touch repulsion, starvation (Patton has a really bad childhood)

Patton didn’t touch people.

It’s not like he didn’t want to touch people. Well, for a while it wasn’t. When Patton was little, he loved the idea of touch. He would hug his pillows and wrap himself in blankets, pretending that he was getting the bestest hug ever. He would hold his own hand and giggle, imagining that he was shaking someone else’s hand.

He would cry in bed at night, a new bruise on his cheek, wondering why he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Patton wasn’t allowed to do a lot of things. He couldn’t leave his room (“Why do you need to leave? We give you food every day, and you have your own bathroom. You don’t need more, you ungrateful brat!”), he couldn’t ask for more food (“Stop being so greedy! We fed you yesterday! Are you calling me a liar?!”), he couldn’t tell anyone anything. That last rule seemed redundant, since Patton never actually saw anyone, but he followed it anyway.

But the rule that made him sad was the no-touch rule.

Patton didn’t get to actually see people often- only when they remembered to feed him or clean his laundry- but they hated it when Patton touched them. They would scream and yell and hit him until he was begging them to go away. After a while, Patton only associated ‘touch’ with ‘pain.’

When Patton was 10, he was surprised to find someone other than them (he didn’t actually know their names, but he refused to call them his mom and dad) kick open the door. Patton vaguely recognized the thing in their hand as gun-weapon-hurt and whimpered, running to hide in the bathroom. There wasn’t a lock on the bathroom door, but the person seemed to realize that Patton was not happy right now, so they stayed outside and talked to him through the door.

After a while of one-sided talking, Patton was eventually coaxed out of the bathroom. The police officer (Patton had been panicking too much to remember their name) reached out to touch him and he flinched, already wanting to run back to the bathroom. When they asked if he was hurt, Patton shook his head (rule number 3: don’t tell them anything) and asked if they could not touch him.

Patton learned that the people who took care of him were drug dealers, and no one knew that they had a son. They had been arrested a few days ago (his painfully empty stomach agreed with that), and the officer was checking the house for any incriminating evidence when they stumbled upon Patton’s locked door.

They asked Patton a lot of questions, but Patton refused to answer. He might have broken a rule by leaving his room, but he wasn’t going to break the rest of them. And besides, he didn’t trust them with how many times they tried to touch him. They already made him get looked at by a doctor, and he was nearly sobbing in pain by the end of it. Every touch felt like he was on fire, and it hurt almost as much as getting hit.

After that, Patton was sent to some foster homes. Homes, plural, because no one seemed to want Patton for more than a few weeks before sending him back, wanting nothing to do with him. It was probably because Patton wanted nothing to do with them either. He was used to being alone, only seeing people on the cracked TV in his room. So when these people wanted him to talk to them about things he’d never heard, play games that he’d never played before, or even touch him, he didn’t give them smiles and ‘thank yous.’ Instead, he screamed and cried and ran away, finding tiny places to curl up and hide.

Eventually, he was sent to a family that understood that he didn’t want to be touched. Lydia and Samantha Heart were okay with Patton not wanting to be touched. They didn’t force him to spend time with them other than meals (so they knew he was eating enough), but they always offered him a chance to spend time with them, doing whatever he wanted. It was… baffling, to have someone understand, but Patton was happy with it. They started fostering him when he was 13 and fully adopted him when he was almost 15.

Patton eventually became used to his new life. He learned that he loved to draw, since it let him express things that he didn’t know how to write. He liked to draw things that he saw on the cracked TV in his old room, like fairies and princesses. He spent a lot of time hiding away in his room, but now he spends more time out in the living room with his new parents. He liked to call them ‘Madre’ and ‘Momma.’ Madre taught him how to make different desserts and Momma taught him how to knit and crochet. He was struggling to catch up with his ‘school’ work (he didn’t understand why he needed it, he’d never gone to ‘school’ before and most of the work seemed pointless) but they were helping him a lot through homeschooling, with Madre teaching him math and science while Momma taught him history and english.

But even after all of that, Patton didn’t want to be touched. After he started calling them his moms, he tried letting them touch him to make them happy. Casual touches made him flinch, kisses made him hiss, and hugs made him ready to cry. It was painful and he hated it. After a few weeks of trying, his moms let it drop. They weren’t going to force Patton through that. So, Patton never touched anyone. And for a long time, he was fine with that.

But then the Princes moved in next door, and suddenly everything changed.

Mr and Mrs Prince weren’t very interesting, but they were still better than most people Patton had interacted with. Mrs Prince’s smile seemed genuine, and Mr Prince didn’t get upset when Patton didn’t shake his hand. They had two children, a pair of identical twins named Roman and Remus. They were both a year older than Patton, and they went to the local highschool just under a mile away. They were both dramatic and constantly happy, loving to tell stories to anyone who would listen. Some people might say that they were impossible to tell apart, but to Patton they were easy to tell apart (or, more accurately, they were easy to tell apart when they were around Patton).

Patton wasn’t a very big fan of Roman. He was loud, and prideful, and touchy. He liked to yell and draw attention to himself, and Patton hated the second-hand attention he got from hanging out with Roman in public. Roman was also a physically affectionate person, always giving people pats on the back or pulling them into a hug. And while he understood that Patton didn’t like to be touched, physical affection was so natural for Roman that he tended to forget until he was already touching him. That doesn’t mean that Patton disliked Roman, far from it actually. He just preferred it if they weren’t in public together. And have a good amount of distance between them.

Remus was different. He was the quieter twin, for one. He didn’t yell, he didn’t like to draw attention to himself (unless he was messing with Roman), and unlike Roman, Remus understood that the world wasn’t just black and white. Roman’s stories always had a clear hero and villain, where the hero never did wrong and the villain was always irredeemable. But Remus knew that the world didn’t work that way, and the stories he told reflected that. He also understood how much it hurt Patton to be touched, but that he didn’t want people to avoid him like the plague. He always made sure to be as close as physically possible to Patton without touching him, and if he ever needed to touch something near Patton he always told him so they wouldn’t accidentally touch. Other than the one instance where Remus had to push Patton out of the way of a rogue frisbee, they had never touched before. And that was fine. Perfect, even. Until today

Right on the property line between the two houses was a large sycamore tree. Every afternoon, Remus would climb the tall tree and lay amongst its branches as if they were his throne. Patton would always sit at the base of the tree, nestled between its roots. He would look up at the older teen and try to ignore the blush on his cheeks. He was sure by now that he had a crush on Remus, but he would never tell anyone that, especially Remus. After all, who could ever love someone that doesn’t want to be touched?

So every day, Patton would sit under this tree, listening to his crush share his stories. They were dark, and disturbing, usually sad with no concise ending. Most people hated Remus’ stories, so he never told them to anyone outside of Patton. Patton loved his stories. He’d grown up without being taught about empathy or ‘good always triumphs over evil.’ Roman’s stories, like most stories, tended to assume that the audience would naturally emphathize with the characters, which Patton just couldn’t do. Remus knew this, and his stories gave Patton a reason to feel for the characters. They weren’t just random characters that did good because it was the ‘right thing.’ They did it for revenge, or love, or their own selfish goals. And to Patton, it made sense. He understood why he needed to care about these characters, and in a way, it helped him realize why he cared about the teen that came up with them.

One day, Patton was at the bottom of the tree, sketching the afternoon sun while Remus told his story, when the older boy paused. “It looks a lot better from up here.”

Patton frowned, looking up. “What does?”

Remus shrugged. “The sky. The landscape. Everything looks better from up here.” He looked down at Patton and smirked. “Wanna see for yourself?”

Patton blushed and looked away. “But I don’t know how to climb a tree.” He never had a need to climb anything before, and while he could probably climb something like a ladder, there was no way he could climb a tree without help. And ‘help’ meant ‘pull up,’ and that meant ‘touch,’ and Patton did not want to have a panic attack today.

Remus chuckled. “I’ve solved that part. Walk around the tree.” Patton got up and made his way to the back of the tree, where a blue and white rope ladder hung from its branches. “I asked Dad to set it up yesterday while you were at the doctor. Now you can climb the tree with me!”

Patton giggled and hastily climbed the rope ladder, joining Remus up in the tree’s branches. He was right; the sunset was breathtaking from up here. They sat up there for hours just talking about whatever came to mind. Patton loved having these conversations with Remus. He had been trapped alone in that room for so long, with only his thoughts to keep him company. Patton always felt bad after his first foster family told him not to share those thoughts, since they weren’t normal. They were weird, and disturbing, and Patton constantly tried to forget that they ever existed. But with Remus he didn’t have to. With Remus he could say whatever popped up in his mind without fear of being ridiculed. It was nice, and sometimes during these talks Remus would give him a smile that made his entire heart melt.

The sun was setting as they sat next to each other in the tree, laughing and telling fantastical stories. Their shoulders brushed slightly as Remus doubled over with laughter and Patton shuddered at the warmth. Usually the warmth hurt, usually it burned and made him hurt for hours afterwards. But this was different. Now, his heart was warmer than Remus’s touch, and for the first time in years, Patton wanted someone to touch him. Specifically, he wanted Remus to touch him. Remus, the person Patton trusted most in this world.

“Pat?” Patton looked up at Remus, who was still facing the sunset. “I…” He took a deep breath and turned to face Patton. If Patton had been anyone else, he was sure Remus would’ve taken his hand. “I think I love you.”

Patton’s heart both soared and shattered at the same time. “How could you love someone that you can’t touch?”

Remus chuckled. “I would gladly go a thousand years without touching anyone ever again, if it meant I could keep staring at your beautiful face for a few minutes.”

Patton blushed and looked away. Before he could second-guess himself, Patton laid his hand on top of Remus’. It burned, and Patton’s immediate instinct was to pull away, but he didn’t move, relishing in the warmth he felt. “I think I’d like to try. To touch.”

Remus smiled brightly, like Patton had just told him that he’d won a million dollars. “We’ll take it at your pace, okay? Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Patton nodded, looking off at the sunset. “Remus?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @arodynamic-enby @sanderssides-angst @whatishappeningrightnow @idont-freaking-know @cute-and-angsty-princess @artsy-enby09 @girl-who-reads @drarrymalecsolangelo @count-woe-laf

[story-collector]

The Family We Chose

Part 5

So I just realized I fucked up the ages...like I didn’t calculate something correctly because Damian is 9 when he leaves them...and he’s supposed to be 13 when they see him again but they were 16 when he left and they are supposed to be 17/18 and it doesn’t line up....

Change Damian to 10 when he leaves, they will stay 16....they will be 18 when he sees them next and he will be 12 almost 13.Fixed

???....timeskip I guess

Two years ago I left them, leaving Wayzz behind with Marinette. I glanced to the sketchbook on my desk, almost full, of drawings of my old...and new family.

When I was first brought to my father I hated every single one of his sons and him. I wanted nothing to do with them, I wanted my family, the one I chose.

Unfortunately I knew that wasn’t possible. I knew that the league wouldn’t attack them anymore with my grandfather being dead but I had no idea what my father would try to do. So I left them alone, I stayed away. They had wonderful and successful lives, they didn’t need me to get in the way.

When I became Robin I felt like I was betraying my family, like I was betraying Marinette. They had kept me from the fighting, despite how I had been raised, but they had kept me occupied and gave me things to do. My father didn’t seem like he really cared what happened and he had swept us all into his little mission against crime.

Now two years later I could see he really did love us but he just didn’t know how to express that at all. My brothers were surprisingly better at it than him and I had grown fairly close to them. Now I held them to almost the same esteem as the miraculous team. In the end I think, if given the choice, I would still chose to follow Ladybug. She was the first person that really showed me real love and real care. She had treated me as my age but still as an equal. She had been a big sister, almost like a mother to me.

I missed all of them. Sparring with the boys and patrolling with the girls. I missed their cuddles, their hugs. I missed when Max would show me things on his laptop, whether it was a funny cat video or when he taught me how to hack I still enjoyed my time with him. Adrien had taught me fencing. It had been very similar to a katana but it was more for show. He also taught me a lot about modeling. Kim loved to soar with me and taught me how to really push my personal limits in training, I still used his techniques today. Nathaniel was a fellow artists and they could have spent hours drawing together. Nath had shown him plenty of tips for drawing and I had become better with them. He had also shown me how to fully operate our tech system, from the communication system to the cameras that he had hacked into. The Batcave was actually fairly similar and I had learned the computer functions easily.

Chloe had been someone I had become suprisingly close to. Our personalities were very system but I had learned that she cared deeply from the bottom of her heart about people. When she was hurt, she would be broken for days untill she pulled herself together. I felt especially bad for leaving when I thought of her. She had taught me how to find all the good gossip and how to seem almost all knowing. I still used her technics today and because of that I was always the most informed person in the manor. Kagami really was like an older sister. She taught me sword technics I didn’t know and would spar with me. Secretly she was also a genius about animals. We bonded over that. I still carried that live for animals now. Alix was crazy. I had loved skating with her. Together we had figured out I was a natural skateboarder and she had gotten me one. Unfortunately I had to leave it behind but when I came here I got another one and had designed it similar to her hero uniform.

The two people I was probably closest to had been Luka and Marinette. Luka had taught me how to sing and play guitar. Other times he had just let me curl up next to him and he would play the guitar and sing to me for hours. He was a big brother to me and I missed him so much. I still played the guitar, but very rarely and only in private. No one in my new family knew I could play.

Marinette had been mom, or big sister. She had always been there for me. As I had lived alone in the base we had grown close. She had been the one to find me, the one to help heal me, and she was the one who came every day in the morning to see me and the one who would tuck me in at night. She had always been on call for me whenever I needed her. She was more reliable than my new family all together. I felt the worst about leaving her.

I stared out my window to the manor grounds. They were empty and it was dark, my one night off patrol a week. The sky was clear and as I looked at the moon I imagined my family was looking at it to.

In Paris

In the two years that Damian had been gone we had worked harder to finish Hawkmoth off for good but we couldn’t find out who he was. We spent hours pouring over ever single scrap of what could even be slightly considered evidence and we found nothing. Some days I found myself looking for Damian to see if he wanted to help.

Damian was brilliant, he was probably even smarter now in the years he had been away. Two years...it seemed like yesterday where he would be at the table with me as I looked over the Akumas map. I sighed and looked over it again. Still nothing.

A rattle in the ceiling made me look up to see me partner in crime, the one who was there with me when this it all started. He came down to my level and purred into the hug he gave me.

“We’ll find him one day”

I couldn’t tell If he was talking about Damian or Hawkmoth but I agreed with him fully. Chat Noir returning meant that Alix and Kim would be coming by soon to start the night patrol. That meant it was time for me to go home.

I groaned thinking about the essays I had to write and the math I needed to do at home...and the two dresses I need to make for Penny and the suit for Jagged. Oh well, coffee was a hero’s best friend after all. I said goodbye to the other hero’s, my family, and sent my yo-yo out to a nearby chimney. The sound of Chat Noirs staffed extending joined me moments later.

We traveled in silence till we made it to my parents bakery. We landed on my balcony and detransformed. We sat on the chair and just talked for another hour. We had been partners for almost 5 years now. I had just turned 18 and the others were close behind me. My business had skyrocketed and I was already looking at new places to live in and colleges to got to....after I defeated Hawkmoth.

We also talked about the school trip that we had won recently. I remember the countless hours slaving away to win this opportunity for a class who didn’t even know that I had done it. Lie-la was the apparent savior of the class for this. Whatever.

Luka would be the only one staying behind, Kagami having grabbed a spot with our class for the trip. So much planning would need to be done for this trip. We need to figure out patrols with the time difference. We had the app to alert us but other than that and Luka we would be completely blind to Paris, the news of Hawkmoth having been blocked from the rest of the world.

We had a long few months ahead of us.

Taglist:

@buginetye @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @dood-space @silvergold-swirl @toodaloo-kangaroo @moonlightstar64 @greatcatblaze



[multiharlot]

real life spencer / matthew gray gubler x reader

summary: in which matthew meets the woman who inspired the man that’s stolen the hearts of america.

masterlist

part two

third person pov

the girl walked timidly through the busy filming set, clutching her hands around the strap of her shoulder bag. she approaches the studio doors, rocking awkwardly on her white low top vans and running her hand through her hair. her yellow midi skirt swayed softly over her legs as the warm los angeles breeze floated through her white button up. the doors open suddenly and she jumps back, nearly tripping over herself. 

“you must be, y/n. i’m jeff davis, thank you for coming in today.” the man smiles, sticking his hand out to the girl. 

her mouth opens and closes before she smiles. 

“hi. sorry umm...germ thing.” she chuckled awkwardly. 

“oh. oh right i’m sorry. come in and meet the cast.” he says, wiping his hands on his pants and opening the door wider.

she stepped into the doors, tucking her hair behind her ears and waiting for jeff to lead the way. 

“we really appreciate you being here and consulting with us. we want to make this show as real as possible.” he explains as he leads her towards the writers room. 

“of course, i’m happy to help. you did decide to base a character off of me, it’s the least i can do.” she nods, the thought in her mind made her feel slightly awkward, but grateful nonetheless. 

“yes, the cast is so excited to meet you by the way. we all were. it’s not everyday you get to meet a real life genius.” he chuckles. 

“technically, passing the IQ test only determines that you have a certain IQ. a large portion of those with higher IQ’s aren’t all that smart. high IQ’s couldn’t determine your true intelligence, never mind a genius.” she shrugs, silently reveling in the fact that yet another person had called her a genius. 

she secretly hated the term genius. as complimenting as it was, the word had hung over her head her entire life. she herself never believe she was a genius, and the word alone made her feel as though she had to meet a certain quota. the idea of being a genius held her to a standard that she felt she couldn’t meet. 

“right...well i mean, you do have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. so...you’re the most genius non-genius i’ve ever met.” jeff shrugged, stopping in front of the white door. 

“yeah...” the girl trails off, stopping beside him. 

“well this is the writer’s room, and this is our cast. everyone, meet agent- sorry, dr. y/n y/l/n. doctor, i give you the criminal minds cast.” jeff smiles as he opens the door, leading the girl into the room. 

she rocked awkwardly on her sneakers, waving timidly. 

“oh you’re so cute!” kirsten squeals, wrapping her arms around the girl, making her jump back. 

“sorry. ah. i’m sorry. i just uhh...germ thing.” she chuckles, making kirsten blush. 

“oh. oh i’m so sorry. i’m just a hugger.”

“that’s okay. you know our tendency to engage in physical touch is often a product of our upbringing. those of us who’s parents weren’t as physically demonstrative tend to disengage from activities like hugging, or even something as simple as a pat on the back.” the girl rambles nervously, making everyone in the room pause. 

“although, some children tend to have the exact opposite effect, leading to a starvation for human physical interaction, which in turn actually turns them into huggers.” matthew smiles widely at the girl. 

she blushes, and a nervous chuckle escapes her lips.

“you must be dr. spencer reid, nice to meet you.” she smiles, nodding her head at the man. 

“my name is matthew. matthew gray gubler. and it’s nice to meet you too, doctor.” he smirks, looking the girl up at down. 

shemar raises his eyebrow at him, an impressed smirk growing onto his face. 

“right, well, y/n here has graciously taken the day off to help assist in our terminology and making this show as realistic as possible. so, let’s get started.” jeff smiles, closing the door behind him. 

the room buzzes with light chatter as everyone begins taking their seats. y/n stood awkwardly off to the side, unsure of where she would be going. matthew takes note of this, and smiles softly, standing from his chair and walking over to her. 

“you can come sit next to me.” he smiles. 

“o-okay.” she nods, clutching the strap of her bag tightly and following beside him. 

the cast all exchange knowing looks as they looked from each other to the pair off in their own little world. 

“so, tell me, is working in the fbi as hectic as we’re making it seem?” matthew asks, leaning his head on his hands. 

“yes and no. we’re more of a sub-unit within the national center for the analysis of violent crimes. there are a total of six different behavioral analysis units, each of us working for a different type of crime.” she explains as the writers scribbled across their notepads feverishly. 

“and which one are you on?” thomas asks, and she smiles as she looks at the man. 

“i work in analysis unit 4, which is crimes against adults and we also work hand in hand with the violent criminal apprehension program, also known as ViCap.”

“is it true you graduated high school at twelve? or did jeff just make that up?” kirsten asks, her eyes wide and curious. 

“thirteen. not twelve. and after high school, i attended Stanford, Cal Tech, and then Harvard where i was immediately recruited by the US government. i’m not supposed to tell you this, but it’s true what they say about those who take math 55.”

“how many PhD’s do you have?” aj asks as she leans onto the table.

“two. chemistry and clinical psychology. and i also have a master’s degree in neurobiology.”

“did they wave you through the academy the same way they did pretty boy, here?” shemar asks, ruffling the top of matthew’s head. 

“no they did not. i actually went through the training, same as everyone else. one thing that isn’t accurate about this show, however, is that our agents are actually required to take a certain amount of personal days per month, and there’s a mandatory 12 hours of counseling with our building psychologist that we have to complete every month.” 

“how many personal days?” matthew asks, a flirtatious smile slapped on his face causing the butterflies to go into a frenzy in y/n’s stomach. 

“u-um. i have a quota of three days per month. so i usually take a long weekend at the end of every month.” she smiles, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears. 

“do you carry a gun? oh! can we see your credentials?” aj gasps, almost excitedly. 

“i do. but only when i’m on the job. otherwise, i don’t like having them. and uhh..yeah sure.” y/n mumbles, rummaging through her purse and pulling out both her credentials and her identification card. 

y/n hands them to matthew and his fingers graze lightly over hers, causing a blush to form over her cheeks. he passes them along to the rest of the cast and he then looks down at the girl next to him. 

“can i draw you?”

“only if i can draw you.”

matthew chuckles, nodding his head. and the two mindlessly doodled each other as the meeting went on. y/n answered what seemed like an endless amount of questions and matthew simply stared her. her eyes, her nose, her lips. he found her absolutely beautiful, and he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away from her for longer than 2 minutes at a time. as y/n finished her one line doodle of matthew, she scribbled a quick note at the bottom of the page, and tore it out of her notebook. matthew ripped the page from his, ready to hand it to the girl when jeff interrupted them. 

“alright guys, we’ll see you tomorrow. and thank you, dr. y/l/n, for coming in. i can’t explain how informative you’ve been.”

odd choice of words, she thought. but she nodded, saying you’re welcome nonetheless. 

everyone began to exit the room and matthew called out for the doctor, stopping her in her tracks. she looks up at him only realize just how tall he really was. 

“here.” he smiled, handing over the paper. 

to: the real life spencer reid from: gatthew may bugler

she giggled as she opened the page, seeing the truly abstract drawing of herself. 

“this is actually really good.” she smiled, staring down at the page. 

“thank you. it helped to have such a beautiful model.” he says, biting his lip nervously. 

a blush covered her cheeks and her ears and she giggled nervously. 

“well umm...here.” she says, handing over her page. 

when he folds open the paper, his mouth falls open at the beautiful one-line drawing she had done of him. then, his eyes fall to the bottom of the page, and his mouth runs dry.

“umm..give me a call if you need any...character reference.” she says as she rocks back and forth on her feet. 

“can i call you even if i don’t need any character reference?”

she smiles, nodding her head. 

“would uh...would you maybe want to go grab lunch with me?” he asks, scratching nervously at the back of his neck.

she opens her mouth to say something when her phone rings out. her eyebrows furrow as she pulls her phone out of her bag, her partners name across the top. 

“sorry, this’ll just take a second- i’m on my personal time, fields.” she sighs into the phone. 

“no no i know. so am i. and i also know you’re in los angeles. wanna go check out the bureau offices?”

“sorry, i have plans.” y/n shrugs, staring up at matthew. 

“oh do you? doing what?” fields questions. 

y/n bites her lip, reaching over and grabbing matthew’s hand. 

“someone’s taking me to lunch” she smiles, pulling matthew towards the studio exit and hanging up the phone.

“so, where are we going mr. bugler?” she smiles. 

“i thought you had a germ thing.” he says, raising an eyebrow at their intertwined hands.

“i’ll make an exception for you.” she shrugs, making him smile. 

“well, how does chinese sound?”

“perfect..as long as i don’t have to use those god awful chopsticks.”

“a PhD in engineering yet you can’t use chopsticks?”

“excuse you. dr. reid is the one with the PhD in engineering. i only have PhD’s in chemistry and psychology.”

“oh. yeah. only.”

taglist:

@dreatine​ @slytherinintj13​ @mileven-reddie​ @eleventhdoctorsangel​ @haileymorelikestupid

[alolowrites]

Workout

Summary: You’re trying to finish up your job assignment, but get distracted by Shinsou’s workout routine.

Author’s note: This story was inspired by the talented @myherowritings​. It was based off her hilarious commentary of an episode during the School Festival arc. Specific post can be found here. 

Dude’s core strength is amazing because WOW I would have fell lmao. Kinda jealous since I could barely hold a one-minute plank :/

One last thing, everyone is aged-up.  

Enjoy!

~~~

You were on a tight deadline.

Furiously clicking away on the keyboard, you cursed yourself for procrastinating on your assignment until the very last minute (as always). But it was hard to break this habit. You always produced your best work when panicking at the very last second.

Pressure makes diamonds right? It’s just science, really.  

Don’t fix what’s not broken, you hummed inside your head as you took another sip of your water. Peeking at your phone, you realized it was only 3:25pm. You had until 10pm to complete the report and send it to your boss without suffering any consequences. Doing the math, you had roughly less than seven hours to write it up. Honestly, you’ve written 12-page papers in a shorter timespan during your university days. The task shouldn’t to be too bad.

As long as you stayed focused, everything will turn out to be okay.

Yup, you can surely finish this assignment and enjoy the rest of your weekend—

“Hey, babe,” Shinsou loudly called out from across the room. You blurted out a ‘yeah?’ without turning around. “I’m gonna do a quick workout by the door.”

“Yeah, don’t worry!” A hand waved in the air. “I’ll clean the floor later!”

Shinsou snorted at your answer instead of correcting you. He installed the pull-up bar on the doorway and shrugged off his sweater. As your boyfriend started his warm up, you were bobbing your head to the music blasting into your ears. You were making steady progress. Only about three more pages and you were done. There was nothing to worry about—  

Hold up…What’s he doing?

From the mirror’s reflection, you saw Shinsou’s muscular back. He was shirtless and performing wide-grip pull ups. Everything about his form mesmerized you.

Each thrust upwards rippled his toned muscles. His biceps were menacing and they grew into massive hills. You wondered how it was humanly possible for Shinsou to lift his entire body mass that weighed like the Great Pyramid of Khufu.  

The loud grunts from each pull-up easily hushed the music you were listening to. Goosebumps ran down your arms as his pants reached your ears. Your throat became dry as a desert. You hastily chugged your water and almost spilled it across your keyboard.

Dark lilac irises curiously stared at the mirror. You awkwardly averted your gaze back to the laptop.

Shit! Did he catch me staring at him?

Without thinking, you furiously typed gibberish on your keyboard. Your fingers relaxed after ten minutes passed. You debated whether or not to look, but chastised yourself for being such a chicken. He was your boyfriend! Sneaking a glance at the mirror, you almost had a heart attack.

He changed his direction.  

Greeting you were his glorious abs and tantalizing V-line. He was the personification of pure sin. You should have known better than to think Shinsou didn’t catch you drooling over him. He was extremely observant of his surroundings—today was no different.  

Shinsou’s robust arms clung to the bar as he perfectly executed his leg raises. He focused all of his tension around his core. Lifting his straight legs horizontally, he made sure to tighten his washboard abs while teasingly biting his bottom lip.

Damn himmmmm, you whined and mentally died inside. He was doing this on purpose. That man knew he was making you feel aroused. However, you didn’t give in. If you lost focus, your head was on the chopping block for not finishing the assignment. And that was not a pretty sight.

Back straight. Fingers cracked. Volume button smashed—it was time to be serious. Would the loud music damage your hearing? Yes, yes it would, but it was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

As you powered through your assignment, you momentarily forgot about Shinsou. Out of nowhere, your headphones disappeared and a large chin settled on your right shoulder.

“I caught you ogling, babe.”

Your fingers froze above the keyboard when you heard his husky voice. Grapevines slithered around your waist and trapped you on the spot.

“Eww, Hitoshi!” You unsuccessfully tried to pry away from his hold. “Get your sweaty arms off me!”

“Your words are saying one thing…” His breath traveled from your ear and down your neck. Ghostly kisses tickled your skin. “But your body is singing something else.”

Attempting to stay strong, you huffed. “I need to finish my assignment for work.”

“You’re almost done.” Shinsou glimpsed at your laptop without a care. He bit down on your neck as his magic fingers slid underneath your shirt. “Besides, you deserve to reward yourself once in a while.”

You were losing the fight as your eyes fluttered and your breath grew heavy. Still, you made one last effort. “But you’re still sweaty…”

“Guess you’re gonna have to join me in the shower.”

Fuck it.

The chair screeched against the floor as you stood up. Turning around, you locked your arms around his neck. Shinsou feverishly kissed your lips as his hands roamed down to your thighs. He hoisted you up and you clung onto him like a koala bear finding their favorite tree.

You broke away from the kiss. “You’re such a tease, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he growled with lustful eyes.

That shower was not going to leave you clean.

~~~

Sorry y’all: I can’t write smut because I’m such a wimp 😔 

As always, thanks for reading!  

[19tozier]

lookalike (bill denbrough)

request: do you write for 2017 bill denbrough? and if so could you write a fic based on lookalike by conan gray or first aid by gus dapperton for him? ty

warnings: angst, swearing, no cheating but questionable ethics in a relationship

[losers&reader are 17/18 here]

bill denbrough is an easy person to love. he is not an easy person to get over.

it’s not for lack of trying, really. god, you’ve been trying for years, ever since he helped you understand an equation in your shared math class. he’d smiled at you and you were gone.

at one time, you’d held on to a foolish hope that he would feel the same way and the two of you would start dating, but as time went on that hope dwindled. bill was constantly surrounded by different girls and would never like you back, much less love you, and that was just the way things were. you needed to accept that.

it’s partially how you find yourself dating jacob.

part of you knows it’s not right. sure, jacob is sweet and kind and treats you well, and yes, you do genuinely like him, but the reason you’d said yes when he shyly asked you on a date is because you saw bill in his smile. it’s not fair to him, but you look at him and it is bill that crosses your mind.

still, one date turns into two turns into three turns into seven, and soon you find yourself with a boyfriend.

you do your best to keep jacob away from the losers. you don’t want them to look at him and see the truth; you especially don’t want bill to look at him and connect the dots. you’re happy with jacob, happier than you think you deserve to be, but there’s a line you can’t bring yourself to cross.

the losers know you have a boyfriend, and they know who jacob is, but you’ve successfully avoided having to introduce the two. it’s surprisingly easy, as the one class you share with jacob is the one class you don’t share with the rest of the losers, and jacob doesn’t have the same lunch as you all do. you can laugh with your friends and avoid looking at bill and pretend everything’s alright.

as most things do these days, it crumbles when you least expect it.

you’re sitting in english one day, richie on your left, the two of you giggling about one thing or another. it’s just the two of you in this class, all the other losers in the other section, so it’s natural for you to joke the class away. it’s what you expect every time you walk through the door.

today, though, richie’s giggles gradually slow until he’s just grinning at you, huge and unabashed. “god, you’re a riot, doll,” he says, swinging an arm around your shoulders. “you and me, we should ride off together into the sunset, leave all the others behind.”

you snort, turning back to your worksheet. “in your dreams,” you snark back, carefully writing an answer down. “besides, i’m a taken woman, tozier.”

it’s seemingly innocuous enough, something you’re certain you’ve said in response to his flirting in the short months you and jacob have been dating. richie’s never mentioned it before, preferring to just change the subject and rile you up until you threaten to punch him.

today, though, today richie stiffens. he pulls away from you slowly, and there’s this look in his eyes that you had been trying to avoid since jacob asked you on a date. it’s uncomfortably knowing, and maybe a little sad, and all at once you’re begging the universe to speed up time until you can get out of this class.

but the universe has never listened to what you’ve wanted before and it’s not about to start now. richie sighs and says, uncharacteristically gentle, “you have to know that we’ve noticed.”

you glare down at your worksheet. your hand grips your pencil so tightly your knuckles turn white. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“oh, so you don’t want to talk about how jacob looks just like bill?”

there is a snapping sound. for a brief, wild moment, you are certain it is your heart, breaking in jagged halves down the fault lines that erupted when you realized you could never have bill the way you wanted. it is only when richie swears and reaches for your hand that you realize you have broken your pencil in two.

all at once, you want to cry. you let richie take the mangled pencil and smooth the graphite from your palm, all the while struggling to keep your tears in. you feel as if there is a bomb sitting in your chest that is about to detonate.

sometimes you forget how good of a friend richie can be. he doesn’t say anything, just digs a new pencil out of his bag and wraps his arm around your shoulder again. the silence isn’t a good look on him but you can tell he’s waiting for you to speak. if you want to talk about it, he’ll listen, but if you change the subject he won’t push you. it’s all up to you.

you decide to bite the bullet. your hand hurts and your heart hurts and you crave, suddenly, to tell someone else about your feelings.

“i don’t know what to do,” you admit quietly, staring down at the table. you are fiercely glad that you and richie have always sat in the back corner, so that there is no one to stare at you as you feel like breaking down.

richie hums. “about bill, or about jacob?”

you shrug, the heavy weight of richie’s arm making it smaller than you’d intended. “both. neither.” you smile; it is more of a grimace. “i don’t suppose you have any advice?”

richie looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “well, i’ll admit, i’ve never been in this situation before, buuuuut how about you enlighten me and i’ll see what i can do?”

you laugh softly, trying to keep it from sounding bitter. “what do you want to know?”

“why did you start dating jacob? why are you still dating jacob?” he pauses, just briefly, and murmurs, “when did you start liking bill?”

you sigh. you take the pencil richie had grabbed for you, doodling aimlessly across the bottom of your worksheet. “he asked me on a date,” you whisper. “and... i know he looks like bill, and yeah, at first that’s why i said yes, and i know that’s awful but i just... i needed to get over him, y’know? I’ve liked him since i met him. but jacob is funny and he’s sweet and i do like him. really, i do. it’s just...”

“you like bill more,” richie finishes for you.

you’re silent for a long moment, feeling your heart pound in your chest, and shakily mumble, “i don’t just like him.”

richie goes still. he, too, is quiet for a while, before he murmurs back, “you love him.”

you nod, miserably. you can’t look at richie as the tears brim in your eyes again. “i can’t get over him. i’ve tried so hard and nothing works. and i don’t want to hurt jacob but i know it isn’t fair to him. i just don’t know what to do.”

for a moment, you can tell richie must be thinking of telling you to confess your feelings to bill, but even he seems to realize how pointless that is. instead, he just hugs you closer to his side and admits, “i don’t think i’m qualified to tell you what you should do. but i’m here for you if you need anything.” then, his tone shifts into one of the ridiculous voices he does, and he crows, “you can always come here for some good ol’ tozier lovin’!”

you laugh and push him away, sliding your worksheet closer to finish it before the bell rings. you still feel heavy and upset but you’ve rewound the timer on the explosion waiting to happen and that, you think, should be enough.

the topic of jacob doesn’t get brought up by another loser for another few weeks, and when it does it’s by the loser you were desperately hoping it wouldn’t be.

it’s not the best course of action, but after your talk with richie you decide the right thing to do is to avoid bill. it is, after all, only torture for you to try and just be his friend, and maybe if you stay away from him for a bit you can get over your ridiculous feelings.

the problem with avoiding bill is that he’s everywhere you go.

it’s not enough to just avoid him outside of school because school proves to be the hardest part. your classes are almost all shared with him, and lunch comes with him always sitting across from you. every time he laughs, every time he smiles, you feel your heart clench.

you take to pairing up with other people whenever you need to get work done in the classes you share with bill, determinedly not watching his face fall. you eat your lunch in the bathroom, the one place bill cannot follow you into, and you feel hollow. the other losers recognize something is wrong and they all look as knowing as richie had before your conversation. you can’t face them either.

you throw yourself into trying to love jacob, spending as much time as you can with him outside of school. you go to the movies, you go to the arcade, you spend quiet nights on his couch. you laugh with him in the hallways and hold his hand in between classes and try not to feel like it’s fake.

you weren’t lying when you told richie that you did like jacob. he’s as perfect for you as you think you could ever get; he laughs at your jokes, he kisses you like you’re precious, he holds you as gently as possible. the problem has never been him. the problem is that you don’t want perfect. you want rough and wild and free, you want someone who isn’t afraid to challenge you and is as fierce as he is beautiful. you want bill.

now, you’re exiting the school an hour after it had gotten out. you’d been talking with a teacher, trying to understand an assignment, and you’re trying to get out as quickly as possible to meet jacob at the movies like you’d promised.

you’re in a rush, and that’s why you don’t immediately notice bill when you go to grab your bike.

you falter to a stop, staring into his eyes. he looks like he’s been waiting for you but that can’t be right. the other losers have to be with him. but you can see all of their bikes are gone, except for yours, nestled right next to silver, and the bomb in your chest gives a violent shudder.

you were wrong. the time away from bill has not dulled your feelings. if anything, they feel sharper now, burning and tearing and aching inside of you. you feel like you are a live wire under his gaze.

neither of you speak for so long that you’re certain no one will, before bill swallows and shakily says, “h-hi, (y/n).”

your pulse is roaring in your ears and your hands shake at your sides, but you somehow manage to get out, “hey, bill.”

you go silent again. you don’t know what to say to him and you don’t know why he’s here but the sight of him makes something inside of you tremble. you want nothing more than to act as if nothing is wrong but you know that would crumble your walls and all of this would be for naught. you need to get over him. maybe then you can be friends again.

when it becomes clear you won’t say anything, bill sighs, pushing off of the wall he had been sitting on. he walks towards you but stops a few paces from you. you can’t decide if you want him closer or farther away. “w-w-why are y-you a-avoiding m-m-me?”

your stomach curdles. you plaster a smile on your face. “i’m not avoiding you, big bill,” you lie. “i’ve just been busy lately.”

you’d thought it would make bill relax, but his expression tightens further. there is something dark in his tone when he says, “w-with y-your boyfriend?”

it punches straight through you. “among other things, yeah,” you say casually, as if you are not crumbling apart the longer you stand in front of him. “i’m actually supposed to meet him, so if you’ll excuse me.”

you move around him to unlock your bike from the rack. your hands are shaking still but your back is to him, so you’re hoping he won’t notice. you rush yourself, trying to get out of there as quickly as possible, but you freeze when he asks, without stuttering, “why are you dating him?”

your breathing falters. a cold rush climbs over your skin and you are suddenly deeply aware that you will not get out of this unscathed. still, you try to keep your voice steady. “what do you mean?”

he scoffs. the sound is enough to whirl you around to look at him. you’re surprised by the sneer on his face. “h-he’s n-not good e-enough f-f-for y-you, (y/n). w-what d-do you e-even see i-in h-him?”

you swallow, hoping your expression won’t give you away. “i like him. he treats me really well.”

you’re purposefully vague and you hope that it will be enough to get you out of here, but you should’ve known better. bill has always known you more than you wanted to admit and a few weeks apart has done nothing to change that.

he rolls his eyes, taking a step closer. like this, he towers over you. “n-no, y-you don’t. i-i know you d-don’t.”

your blood freezes. you are so stricken you can do nothing beyond whisper, “what?”

he’s so close you could reach out and touch him. as it is, your hands hang limply at your sides. you are aware of nothing beyond how horrified you feel and the way you want the ground to swallow you whole.

bill doesn’t stop. “y-you d-don’t like h-him, (y/n). y-you l-like m-me.”

your cheeks flame enough that you slowly begin to unthaw, instantly beginning to shake your head. it’s weak because there’s no way you can truly dispute what he’s saying but you want to try anyways. “that’s not—that’s not true, i don’t—”

“i-it’s o-okay,” bill interrupts you. there’s something manic in his eyes. “i-i l-like you t-too, y-you d-don’t need t-t-to be w-with h-him a-anymore.”

whatever you were expecting him to say, it sure as hell wasn’t that. you’re already wide-eyed by the beginning of his sentence, but when he keeps going your blood begins to boil. your voice is dangerous when you murmur, “what did you just say?”

bill smiles, incorrectly assuming you’re happy. you aren’t at all, but he barrels on with the same determination that makes all of you gravitate around him. “y-you don’t n-need t-to b-be with h-him a-anymore,” he repeats, pleased. “w-we c-can be t-together n-now.”

you are suddenly so furious that something red bleeds into the edges of your vision. you want to scream, you want to cry, you want to snap ten thousand pencils in half. your rage bleeds into your voice as you spit, “oh, since you said it, it must come true, right?”

he blinks, confused, but you can’t stop. you laugh hollowly, feeling your lips contort with your snarl. maybe it’s not fair to get so angry with him but the emotion that has been building inside of you is bubbling and spilling over. you are a powder keg about to explode.

“did you ever stop to think that maybe i’m dating jacob because i actually like him? or are you so far up your own ass that you assumed i was only dating him until you finally decided you wanted me?” your words are barbs and you intend to land them where it will hurt. “oh, of course i was just waiting for you, huh? just sitting on the sidelines until you noticed me, is that it?”

his confusion quickly gives way to anger, his gaze sparking hotly. “d-don’t p-pretend y-you w-weren’t,” he scoffs, glaring down at you. “i-i k-know y-y-you’ve liked m-me s-since we m-met.”

“so fucking what?” you hiss, stepping forward until you’re chest to chest. you are nearly vibrating with your fury. “that doesn’t matter! you’re expecting me to drop a relationship i’m happy in just because you asked me to!”

“b-bullshit,” he snaps back at you. “y-you a-aren’t h-happy and y-you k-k-know it!”

you need something to do with your hands or else you’re certain you’re going to punch him. you whirl away from him, making quick work of putting your bike lock in your backpack and roughly yanking your bike out of its slot.

“you don’t know how i feel,” you growl back at him, hands tightening around the handles of your bike. jacob is probably waiting for you by now; it adds to your anger.

bill throws up his hands, getting closer to you again. “y-yes i d-do!”

you laugh; it is a bitter sound. “and how do you know how i feel, bill?”

“b-because y-you’re j-just dating m-m-my l-lookalike!” he screams.

your red-hot anger disappears. in its place is a rage so frigid, so savage, that you are certain it will tear you apart. there is violence simmering in your veins and you need to get out of here before you do something you regret. too bad your mouth didn’t get the memo.

you snort, pushing yourself onto your bike. your heart is frozen in your chest but you calmly meet his eyes, hoping the smile on your mouth is as saccharine sweet as it is biting. when you speak, your voice is quieter than you thought you were capable of. “you don’t get to do this to me, bill. you don’t get to string me along like one of your little play things and then decide you finally want me. you had your chance.” your smile shifts into a snarl. “jacob may look like you but he is ten times the man you will ever be.”

bill stumbles back from the venom in your voice. you want to say more but you don’t think you could say anything without sobbing, so you turn your back on him. the glide of your bike down the sidewalk isn’t loud enough to drown out the swearing behind you but you pretend it is.

tears drip down your cheeks. you were wrong when you talked to richie; the bomb that has been living inside of you hadn’t detonated then. it had been ticking down to this exact moment.

this is the explosion you thought you were ready for. you just wish it had disintegrated you, too.

(part two here)

[baepop]

Sacrifice 2

You return home, hoping to find the answers you desperately search for.

Word Count: 9.7k

Pairing: You x BTS Members

Genre: Thriller, Smut, Angst

Warnings: OC is fucked in the head basically (disturbing thoughts, actions); gore, graphic descriptions and self-harm

Part 1 | Part 2

He’s trying his hardest, but those pesky crimson marks just won’t come out. He’s tried everything he could think of, even followed a few stain removal tutorials on YouTube, but the unsightly blood stains have seeped deep into the fabric of his upholstery. He regrets neglecting the condition of the interior of his car for so long.

Even still, as he looks down at his soiled car seat, he can’t help but smile while imagining the satisfaction you might’ve felt to know he couldn’t completely erase you from his life. You had always managed to find a way to cling onto him, it seems, even now in the afterlife.

Namjoon carefully backed away from the entrance of the passenger side of his car to take a breather. He wiped the sweat off his brow and rubbed his hand on his shorts, huffing at the sight of his failure. He pursed his lips, mulling over what cleaning agents he might have left in his terribly stocked apartment that could do the trick. Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the hood of the car, overcome with emotions of regret. He allowed himself to feel for just a minute before taking a deep breath and hunching over the seat again to begin scrubbing more forcefully.

But just as he began abusing the seat once more, a tiny hand clutched at the tail of his sweater and yanked lightly a few times to get his attention. He whipped his head around only to find the neighbor’s daughter staring up at him, a bit of fear in her eyes. She was only 5, and she must’ve seen Namjoon lose his cool for a second just now, given the slight quiver in her bottom lip.

Namjoon stared at the child for a moment before backing out of the car again and picking her up. He nestled her into his side, giving her a big smile and wiggling her hand about while greeting her in a silly voice. She giggled shyly, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck.

“Mommy said to come get you.” She stated her mission matter-of-factly before burying her head in the crook of his neck as she’d done countless times before.

“Okay, then let’s go see what Mommy needs this time, shall we?” The little girl nodded as they crossed the lawn into her mother’s property. Namjoon knocked a few times before letting himself into the door ajar. The smell of overcooked chicken filled his nostrils at once.

“Um, hello?” He called out to no one in particular. He was greeted by an empty living room.

“In here!” The voice came from the kitchen where his neighbor was busy preparing an early dinner. Namjoon put the little girl down but she grabbed two of his fingers and led him into the kitchen.

“Oh, hi ma’am. Did you need something?”

The woman rolled her eyes as she blew on a piece of steaming chicken before popping it into her mouth to taste. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Yong?! Ma’am is my mother.” Namjoon blushed and hung his head in embarrassment, smiling at the ground and nodding. “You know, we’re not that different in age, only a few years apart. But I get it though, turning 30 still seems like a huge change to people in their 20’s.”

“Oh, I uh, no that’s not— I’m sorry, Yong.” Namjoon clears his throat while the older woman chuckled.

“I hope you weren’t busy, Namjoon.”

“No, no not at all!”

“It’s just that my bathroom sink is leaking, and I have no idea what’s going on! My husband won’t be home for a couple more days and—”

“Oh, it’s no issue! I’ll take a look at it, probably just a simple fix.” Namjoon smiled at her brightly and motioned towards the bathroom for permission. She beamed as he let himself further into her house.

Namjoon entered her small bathroom, immediately turning on the sink to see what the issue was. As the water trickled from the base, he opened the bottom cabinets and crouched down, sticking his head into the confined space to get a better look. He ran his fingers over the tubing, nodding to himself as he turned off the water and joined Yong and her child in the kitchen once again.

“There’s hardly a problem. Your plumbers’ putty ran dry, and it was especially thin to begin with, but it’s nothing more putty won’t fix! I actually have some to spare in my apartment, I’ll go grab it really quick.”

“No no no, sit! Dinner’s ready, you can do that after!” Namjoon parted his lips to protest but his stomach growled extra loudly. The small child giggled, pulling on his fingers to lead him to his place set at the dinner table.

Although Namjoon wanted to be polite and refuse the meal, the truth was that he wasn’t eating too well these days. You had always been over his house making him food, so his meals as of late consisted of microwaved noodles and handfuls of goldfish crackers.

Namjoon thanked the woman for the hot meal, wasting no time on stuffing his face.

“No, thank you. You’ve been such a big help around here for so long! It’s been rough this year with my husband’s enlistment,” Namjoon nodded along, making eye contact as he shoved spoonfuls of rice into his already full mouth, “and especially so this past month.”

Namjoon perked up at the ambiguous statement, “How so?”

“Well—”

“I’m getting a littwe bwother!” The small child exclaimed joyously from across the dinner table. Namjoon froze with his unchewed food on display, looking over at Yong who was embarrassed by the outburst.

“Well, it’s still too early to know the sex but, she’s really hoping for a boy.” The woman smiled at her daughter who was picking up pieces of food with her tiny fingers and attempting to feed it to her stuffed animal who also had a place at the dinner table beside her. Yong looked over at Namjoon who had not taken his eyes off her once, nor closed his mouth for that matter. She blushed, looking down and speaking in a low tone so that her child wouldn’t understand, “Don’t worry, it’s not yours.”

Namjoon’s eyes lacked emotion. What she mistook for fear and anger was simply calculation on his part. “Are you positive?”

The woman sighed then smiled again, putting a hand on his shoulder and maintaining eye contact. “Yes, I’m sure. Now, finish your dinner.”

The boy nodded, bringing his attention back to his now unappetizing plate of food. He had already done the math; the child was definitely his.

The conversation lulled, so they both hurried through eating. Once his plate was empty enough, Namjoon sprang up to his feet and announced that he’d return with some putty in just a moment.

As he let himself out into the evening air, he noticed it was finally starting to become cooler. He walked across the lawn and over to his place with his hands in his pockets, whistling his favorite tune.

The next day, he went to work as normal, driving his car across town to the grocery store he managed and parking it in a residential street since the parking lot looked full when he passed by. On his trek up the block, he noticed a bright white flier stapled to the telephone pole at the corner. As he got closer, he recognized a picture of Jin plastered front and center with the words reward if found written underneath it. Seokjin came from money, so Namjoon wasn’t surprised about the lengths his parents were going to to get their son back. Besides, he already knew they would do this since he’s the one that sent them that picture of Jin.

Namjoon ripped the flier that had threatened to bring forth his turbulent emotions to the surface once more from its staples, crumpling it up and shoving it into his pocket. Luckily, this wasn’t enough to ruin his good mood today.

“Good morning.” Namjoon nodded towards his staff members as he entered into the cool facility. Everyone greeted him back, relieved to have him in the building as there were already issues that needed solving even this early in the morning. But before they could begin hounding him for directions, one of his assistant managers pulled him to the side.

“Someone’s here to see you. I told them you wouldn’t be in until later on today, but they insisted on waiting. They’re in your office, I hope that’s okay.” Namjoon smiled at the girl and assured her everything was fine. He watched her walk away before turning down the hallway towards his office. As soon as he opened the door, a very worried Jungkook shot up from the small couch that lined the wall. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes were panicked. He gripped the flyer of Seokjin in one hand and his phone in the other.

Now this, this was enough to put Namjoon in a bad mood. He sighed and closed the door behind him.

Your eyes opened and were immediately flooded with bright white light from all directions. You shut them quickly, then reopened them little by little, trying to adjust to the setting. The first thing you noticed were curtains billowing at the foot of your bed. They were white, just like everything else in the room.

Wait, a bed?

You craned your neck to get a better look at what you were laying on, but your body was stiff, so you plopped back down and took a deep breath, letting your eyes wander instead.

The sun was shining brightly and illuminating the dreary room you’d been left in. You were definitely in a hospital, you realized, as you noticed multiple beds with curtains drawn around them.

Why am I here?

You laid there, trying to remember something, anything, but you only drew incomplete memories. You closed your eyes, trying to make sense of everything. It was all a painful haze, reels of jumping into a river, and blinding car lights at the forefront. Suddenly you recalled being shaken and yelled at, the voice sounding as if through a tunnel full of water, and the face more ambiguous still. But his grip was strong on you, bruising your shoulders with his vehemence to get you to understand.

Get it together kid!

You gasp as your eyes burst open. “Jin!” You yell out and a nurse who was most definitely not Jin rushed in.

“Ah, you’re awake!” The older woman came to your side to check how you were doing. She doesn’t know anyone by the name of Jin, much to your disappointment. “Do you remember anything about what happened to you?” She pulled up a chair by your bed with your chart in her hands. You shake your head in denial. It’s not a lie, but the little that you do remember, you want to hold onto for a bit longer in order to piece together this puzzle on your own. “What’s your name?” You hesitated, then shook your head once more. She nodded in understanding, flipping a page up before turning back to you and speaking in a soothing tone. “Miss, you were found on the side of the road a couple miles from here in critical condition. You underwent a septic miscarriage, but your body showed signs of extreme stress and battery as well. It appears you were unconscious for a couple of days before you were found and, luckily, we were able to bring your fever down and get your blood pressure back to a normal state which halted the beginnings of organ failure evident in your body.” You nodded along to everything she said, but none of it was making any sense. You just couldn’t believe she was talking about you. She had to have been looking at someone else’s chart. “You’ve been administered antibiotics to treat the infection. I have to say, though, you’re one hell of a fighter! We weren’t sure you’d wake up after the medically induced coma you were under, but here you are!” The woman smiled brightly then paused before continuing, giving you a stern look. “You were in pretty bad condition hun. So,” she reached out and placed her withered hand over your own, “the minute you remember anything, you let us know. Okay?” You nodded sullenly, just wanting to be left alone. “Now…this Jin person…”

“He wouldn’t.” You looked at her sharply, not letting her even think that he could be capable of doing something like this to you. The woman nodded and stood up.

“I’ll give you a minute to be alone.”

You watched her retreat back into the hustle and bustle of the hospital hallway as you plopped your head against the pillow. Considering the kinds of questions she was asking you and the kind of room you had woken up in, you surmised that you had been counted as another Jane Doe, placed into a room full of other unidentified people who had been dying.

Whenever you went out, you always made sure to have your ID and your phone on you, so you wondered if you had been robbed and attacked. But why was I alone and so far from home? Suddenly the face of the person you missed most popped into your head.

Namjoon.

The thought of something so awful happening to you without the love of your life by your side to comfort you was too much to bear.

You rolled over on your side and let hot tears spill from the corners of your eyes, moistening the crisp linen sheets. As the evening went on, your silent crying became more audible, your body shaking with both physical and emotional pain. You hugged yourself tightly, processing the realization that you had lost Namjoon’s baby, and you were now all alone again.

By the time night came, you had rolled over to cry while staring up at the ceiling, letting your sobs be heard now that the hospital was quiet. It always felt better to let loose while crying instead of doing it in secret, besides, everyone in your room was in a coma anyway, or so you thought.

In the middle of the night, you heard a groaning that morphed into a cry of frustration. Suddenly the curtains around the bed diagonal from yours were yanked open violently and piercing angry eyes drilled holes into your watery ones.

“I stayed quiet all day, pretending not to be awake so that you could have some privacy, but now you’ve been crying for 8 fucking hours and I’m trying to sleep. So could you please, for the love of Christ—”

“JIN!” You bolted upright then winced, mildly regretting your excitement for a second. The boy paused, furrowing his eyebrows as he watched you carefully climb out of bed and slowly hobble over to him in your billowing night gown.

Once you got to his bedside, your eyes watered again seeing him all bandaged up and staring up at you dumbfoundedly.

“What the hell happened to us…” You began crying again, leaning into him for a hug and sobbing on his chest. He groaned again, rolling his eyes and patting your back.

“Listen lady, I don’t know why you keep calling me Jin but—” You froze, backing off of him and wiping your eyes as you realized the bandages around his head must’ve been more severe than you thought.

You limped over to the foot of his bed and picked up his medical chart, reading over it quickly. You winced at the extensive list of procedures they had to operate on him once he was found. But thankfully, it was still possible for him to regain his memory one day.

Days, upwards of a year with daily physical therapy. You read the words before closing his chart with a sigh, looking back over at your friend who was regarding you warily. You couldn’t help but feel like this was all somehow his fault. Still, even if it was, you wouldn’t know for sure since neither of you remembered what happened.

“Um, that’s… I don’t think you’re supposed to look at other people’s charts…” You smiled and retook your place by his side.

“It’s okay for me to look.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’m your fiancé!” The boy cocked his head back, stunned into silence. He gave you a once over with his eyes, lifting up your left hand for inspection.

“Oh yeah? Then where’s the engagement ring?”

You pulled your hand out of his grasp. “You proposed without one…because we decided we’d go buy one together.”

Jin scoffed, “Yeah well, proposing without a ring doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

You rolled your eyes. Yeah well, proposing isn’t something you’d ever do either.

“Okay fine, I’ll prove it by telling you something only your fiancé would know.” Jin sat up, watching you curiously as you sat pensive at the edge of his bed.

“Your dick hangs a little bit to the right when it’s hard.” Jin smiled, scratching his cheek in embarrassment.

“Well, I mean…technically, a lot of girls would know that.” You rolled your eyes again, trying to think about something intimate he might’ve shared with you during your years of friendship.

“You started smoking cigarettes when you were 12 because that’s when your dad left, and the smell of smoke always made you feel close to him.” Jin dropped his hand as he looked at you with renewed curiosity. He didn’t remember saying that to anyone ever, probably because he was piss drunk when he said it to you during one of your many smoke breaks together, or because he’d lost his memory. Still, he couldn’t deny that you must’ve been someone important to him if you knew something like that about him.

“So…you’re…my fiancé?” You nodded, taking his hand and rubbing circles onto his knuckles for added effect. You watched him as he visibly processed the news. You weren’t sure what the last thing he remembered was, but it had to be from years ago since he didn’t even know who you were. “Then…what exactly happened? I heard the nurse say something about a miscarriage…”

You nodded at Jin sullenly, clutching at your abdomen as your head hung low. Tears welled in your eyes, but you quickly dabbed at any that fell. “I’m sorry.”

Jin was stricken with sadness. He didn’t feel connected to you or the situation, but the thought of him and you losing a baby, he could understand to be awful. He made space for you on his bed and pulled you onto him, hesitantly rubbing your head as you curled into his side. You two slept together side by side for the night, but you awoke at the crashing sound of thunder and lightning close by only a few hours later.

Your eyes burst open at the sound, immediately checking to see if Jin was awake too. The room was still dark even though it was very early in the morning. The rain clouds blocked much light from coming into the room as it was.

You searched Jin’s face, but he still laid peacefully asleep, so you laid back down and nestled into his side. It’d been forever since you’d cuddled someone, or even made love to anyone. Knowing there wasn’t much fabric standing in the way of your naked bodies wasn’t helping the dull ache in between your legs.

You rubbed your thighs together, letting your eyes trail his features. You’d always thought Jin was attractive, but anytime his mouth would open the illusion would crumble.

But now that his memory was gone, he was different, nice even.

You brought your hand up to his chest, hesitating before placing your palm gently over his heart. You felt it beating strong and steadily.

Your hand trailed downwards, ever so lightly over the fabric of his medical gown. You ran your fingertips over the expanse of his abs, making your way towards his pubic area until his hand clamped around your wrist, halting it from moving further down. Your heart stopped for a second, since you had been sure he was unconscious.

Suddenly you heard his groggy morning voice speaking deeply just above your head.

“Don’t start something you’re not going to be able to finish.” You looked up at Seokjin who was suddenly wide awake and regarding you curiously, a challenging glint in his eyes.

“Since you lost your memory, allow me to remind you how I always finish.” You challenged him back, smiling when he let go of your hand. You cupped his member, squeezing just a bit to earn a hiss from the handsome brunette.

It was just early enough so that the medical staff wouldn’t barge in and bother you just yet, so you decided not to waste any time. You quickly exposed his bottom half, licking your lips at the sight of the hard on that already awaited you. But as you lowered your head onto his length, you noticed all of the bruises that littered his body, and the bandages wrapped around his torso. You frowned, looking up at him with pity in your eyes.

“Jin…” You sat up fully, remembering the list of injuries from his medical chart.  

He sighed and met your eyes, “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do. I’ll be gentle, just let me know if anything hurts, okay?” He nodded, watching you as you climbed over his midsection and nestled your legs on either side of him.

You sat on his dick gingerly, your lack of clothing under your gown earning you direct skin to skin contact. You supported most of your weight but applied enough pressure to tease him in between your folds. He hissed as you looked up, wondering if you had hurt him already, but seeing his lustful eyes trained on your core told you otherwise. You swirled your hips sensually, moving the head of his dick vertically in between your legs to get it wet with your arousal. It wasn’t long before he was moving his hips to the rhythm of yours, eager to enter you already.

You obliged, sighing contentedly as you held his dick up to your entrance and sank down onto him until he bottomed out. Jin crinkled his eyes shut focusing on the feeling of you around him. He struggled to keep his breath even, not wanting to alert the staff about what was going on, but god damn you felt so good that it was proving difficult already.

You noticed how fucked out he was already and knew he wouldn’t last long at all, which was perfect for you because you were really only looking for one thing.

You began swaying your hips carefully, testing the waters to see what was enjoyable for him and what was painful. Soon you were bouncing on him up and down, determined to get him to cum. Jin gave up on being quiet, letting himself moan and grunt the more you humped him. Your hand held up the fabric of your gown above your belly, letting him get a full view of you fucking him. You smirked, thinking about how mad Jin will be when he regains his memory only to realize you finally gave him a round two, but only when he had amnesia.

Suddenly, the boy took hold of your hips and held them still, a burning look in his eyes.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorr—”

“No, just. Stop, for a second. You’re…going to be my wife. But this feels like our first time for me so, I don’t want to rush through it.” Your heart stuttered and a lump formed in your throat, not that you wanted to say anything anyway. You’d never seen him so vulnerable and tender before. Suddenly you felt guilty for lying to him, but nonetheless you let him pull you into his chest for a kiss.

It was sweet and slow. You hesitated at first, letting him part your lips and press them into yours. You closed your eyes, your heart thrumming a mile a minute as you kissed him back. He held you by the waist as his fingers rubbed at your sides. They snuck underneath your gown and began exploring your body, first feeling the curves of your waist then sliding up towards your breasts. You looked away from him, blushing furiously as his tiny touches sent shivers down your spine. To be this intimate and romantic with Seokjin was proving to be too much for you. Yet as his hands traveled around your back and downwards, giving your ass a healthy squeeze, your walls couldn’t help closing in around him. He moaned at the motion, looking up at you in time to receive your hungry lips on his once more. He brought his hands up to your face, holding it close to his own as you two made out passionately.

Your mind raced as your tongues swirled around in each other’s mouths. Kissing him felt foreign, but in a good way. Although you already knew what his dick felt like inside of you, you’d never known what his mouth on yours felt like until now. It was weird to think about who exactly was kissing you, yet not too weird, since you’d been around each other for so long now that his scent filling your nostrils was comforting instead of revolting. It was like learning something you had forgotten about. You were surprised to find how much you had actually liked it.

It wasn’t long before Jin began groaning into the kiss, feeling how wet you suddenly were and how easily he was moving inside of you without fully moving his hips. You bit your lip, feeling needier than ever with the lack of movement.

Suddenly you sat up a bit to begin bouncing again, but he grabbed you by the neck, biting his own lip as he surveyed your body. You were driving him absolutely wild and we wanted nothing more than to fuck you into the bed. But he knew he couldn’t move much for now, so he settled for fucking up into you as best he could.

Jin’s hand moved into your hair, grabbing it like a ponytail and tugging on it roughly so that more of your neck was exposed. His other hand gripped at your waist, holding you up as he began bucking his hips up into you. The combination of his tight hold on your hair and his forceful thrusts had you feeling the beginnings of an orgasm.

Your hands found his arms and held on for dear life as your walls began contracting around his cock. Sinful sounds filled the room as you lost your ability to keep quiet. His impressive length was hitting your g spot in the most delicious way and it had you keeling over him when your orgasm hit like a ton of bricks. You tightened your legs on his sides, shutting your eyes yet still seeing stars. Jin was satisfied with seeing you cum since he was already so tired that he couldn’t hold back his own climax for much longer.

“Fuck, where should I cum?” Jin spoke through gritted teeth, letting go of your hair in favor of holding your waist with both hands.

You leaned over him and kissed him deeply, then leaned in further to whisper in his ear. “Cum inside.”

Jin’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and your wish was his command. He found it so incredibly hot that he was already spilling his seed into you after a few more strokes. He grunted loudly, bucking up into you a few more times before settling down in a sweat. You sat on top of him for a few moments more, catching your breaths in unison.

The boy was spent, barely having enough energy to cover himself back up. He ended up drifting to sleep when you climbed off of him, which was better for you, since you didn’t want to have to pretend to be in love with him.

You hummed as you slowly made your way over to your bed, fetching a magazine before you climbed onto the mattress and laid down on your back. You propped your feet up on the windowsill and began flipping through the glossy decorated pages, imagining that this position would definitely increase your odds of getting pregnant.

It wasn’t until the chill of October had set in that you found yourself in your hometown again.

You had missed Namjoon terribly while you were away recovering that visiting his house was the very first thing you wanted to do. You needed to see him desperately, to see if he missed you as much as you did him, and to see if he was worried sick that you had been missing for months. You’d never gotten a chance to tell him about the baby, so you were hoping he’d have a positive reaction when he saw you now. You knew he’d always wanted to be a dad, and you wanted to be the one to give him that joy, no matter what.

You walked the few blocks from your house to his, taking in the neighborhood as you did so. Even with the drastic change in temperature since you were last here, it was as if nothing had changed. Yet you couldn’t help but feel wholly changed on the inside. You’d realized just how precious life was while you laid in that hospital bed, and you didn’t want to waste another minute not being with the man you had pined over for years.

As his house came into view, you instantly knew he wasn’t home. His car wasn’t in the driveway and his lights were off. Nonetheless you knocked on the front door, waiting a few minutes before descending his front porch in disappointment. You wondered if he was at work, though you didn’t think so given the time and the day.

As you pondered on where to go next, a small red ball bounced against your foot. You bent down to pick it up, only to make eye contact with a small girl that had come running up to you. She had gorgeous tan skin and dimples with sparkling curious eyes.

“Sowwy…”

You smiled at the shy toddler, placing the ball into her tiny outstretched hands. “What’s your name?”

“My mommy says not to tawk to stwangers.”

Just then, a smiling blonde woman comes into view, rubbing the head of the toddler who hugged her leg and shielded her body from you. You looked up at her questioning eyes.

“Sorry! I always tell her not to play with her ball so close to the sidewalk!” You giggle, shaking your head to let her know the girl wasn’t bothering you. You can’t help but rake in her figure, lingering on her mid-section.

“How far along are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Ah,” the woman rubs her belly absentmindedly, “just 3 months! It’s been so hectic, nothing like the easy pregnancy I had with this little one.” She pinched the cheek of her daughter, and you don’t miss the way the girl’s almond eyes turn into crescent moons when she smiles at the comment she undoubtedly doesn’t understand.

“No kidding, I’m actually 5 months along myself!” The woman’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, congratulations! How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s not my first, but I absolutely love it. I feel like I’m glowing from the inside out.” The woman smiled, trying to contain her surprise given how young you looked. She followed your eyes as you glanced at Namjoon’s house for a second before turning back to her.

“Oh, you were looking for Namjoon? I think he went out to buy some supplies. Are you a friend of his or…” You furrowed your brow, a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach forming as you observed the slightly possessive tone in her voice. “I just, always used to see you around here, so I was wondering…”

You smiled brightly at the woman, watching her follow your hand on your stomach with her eyes. “Oh, it’s okay! He’s my boyfriend, but he’ll probably be a lot more than that now…” You smiled to yourself, looking down at your feet with satisfaction.

“Of course…” Yong tried her best to sound nonchalant, but you caught the way her voice sounded dejected, and she was suddenly looking everywhere else but at you. You looked down at her daughter, feeling a small seed of annoyance growing inside you.

“What’s your name, again?”

“Yongsun.”

“Yongsun,” You let the name hang in the air while you turned it over in your head. It left a bad taste in your mouth, “if it’s not too much trouble, can I bother you for a glass of water? The walk over here tired me out.” You both laughed half-heartedly, neither of you caring to feign friendship for much longer.

“Sure. C’mon, let’s get the nice lady something to drink!” Yong lifted her daughter onto her hip and began walking towards her home. You followed closely behind, hoping to find the answers you needed without having to engage in any more nauseating small talk.

You took in her quaint home with children’s toys strewn all about. The child ran to her play pen while the woman busied herself with finding a clean glass, leaving you with enough privacy to ogle at the pictures hanging on the wall.

You looked at a few of Yong and her daughter at the park before stopping at a family portrait that seemed to have been taken when the woman’s daughter was only a few months old. The man holding her, whom you presumed to be the woman’s husband, looked nothing like the kid.

Your mouth twisted in disgust, and you stomped out of her house before she could come back and shove her triumph over Namjoon in your face some more.

You hated her, and you hated him, and you hated their perfect little kid and their perfect little neighborly romance seeped in infidelity. You hated that you weren’t her, and you hated that he made you want to be someone other than yourself.

The annoyance you had felt when you had first laid eyes on the child had boiled into a violent rage that you couldn’t contain once you got home. You ran into your room and slammed the door, looking around for something to break. You started with the posters on the walls, tearing them down impatiently. The sounds of ripping paper made you feel better, but it still wasn’t enough, you needed more. Suddenly your hand flew across your dresser and knocked down all of your products. You shoved your lamp onto the floor too, panting and looking around wildly.

Your influx of emotions and memories brought on a headache that had you stumbling back onto your bed. You clutched at the sides of your face, balling your shaking fists as a haunting scene played inside your head like a movie. You saw her hair, flowing in the cold water, and her alabaster skin glowing in the dark. Her limbs were stiff, and her eyes were still open in the water, yet it seemed as if they still had enough life in them to stare at you accusingly. Her finger pointed in your direction as if to say you’re next.

Suddenly you saw yourself screaming silently, trekking up the side of the mountain in wet clothing, hiding in fear from your friends, walking aimlessly through the woods, trying to get home because you felt unsafe. You remembered desperately trying to put as much distance between yourself and them as possible because you needed you and your baby to live.

Now you hated them, too. They did this to you and Namjoon. They tried to drive a wedge in between you two. Maybe they were jealous. Maybe…

Maybe that’s why Namjoon was in love with someone who wasn’t you, because of them.

You punched your mattress repeatedly, feeling betrayed by the people you had called your friends for years. You tried to calm yourself down, knowing that negative emotions could negatively impact the fetus, but you suddenly felt anxious. You wanted to know why, why they would do something like this to you. You needed to see Namjoon. You needed to tell him everything and get answers from those bastards.

Suddenly, nearby giggling caught your attention for a brief moment. The sound came from outside your window. You lifted it up and peeked your head out only to find your block littered with costumed partygoers and children trick or treating.

You’d forgotten it was even a holiday today. Your favorite holiday, in fact, only because Hoseok would always throw great Halloween parties in which you’d all coordinate silly costumes.

You went into your closet and shoved hangers aside until you pulled out your old Snow White costume that would match the boys’ dwarves costumes. You tossed it aside, searching for your old go-to costume. After some rummaging in the very back, you pulled out the wrinkled black dress that you always used to wear every year. It was a nun costume, and it seemed oddly fitting for what you suddenly had planned for tonight.

You busied yourself with finding the mask that went along with it as well as a small blade you always kept handy, in case of emergencies.

The party was already out of hand by the time you arrived. More people than you’d ever seen at any of the boys’ parties were littered all throughout, crowding the hallways and even spilling out into the backyard. It was truly a sight to see, an army of goblins and ghouls and slutty princesses all congregated in a mundane family home.

You made your way through the crowds of people, shimmying and tip toeing along as you tried to spot anyone you recognized, which was already hard enough since everyone was in a costume.

But it didn’t take you long to spot the boys sitting around in the living room. Some had girls on their laps or beside them while others stood near them to listen to Yoongi’s story. They were all nursing almost-empty solo cups and their eyes were hazy with drunkenness. You shoved people aside and sat on the floor next to the man of the hour. He stopped to look at you for a second, no doubt measuring your suitability to be his next conquest for the night, before continuing his story.

You recognized his tall tale at once, because it was your story.

“So, I take my headphones out, to see if it was some creepy track playing on my phone, and the singing continues!” Nearly everyone in the room stared wide-eyed while Yoongi paused to sip on his drink. “It’s right in my ear, up close, and the woman starts crying, and I mean sobbing!”

“No fucken way! Oh my god that’s terrifying!” The young girl standing closest to Yoongi rubs the goosebumps on her arms. She’s dressed as a slutty crayon, as if you hadn’t already had enough reasons to roll your eyes into the back of your head.

You’re thankful that you’re wearing a mask, however, to hide the stabbing looks you’re sending at Yoongi and the rest of the boys who are pretending to be hearing this story for the very first time. You hated them, you hated them so much.

After everything you had went through with these guys, you had ended up being reduced to an ice breaker in the end.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your leg. It’s a soft yet determined touch, and your body instantly tenses up. You’re convinced it’s Jin, because you’d experienced this kind of thing with him so many times before, but you know it isn’t him. Still, you can’t help the way your head whips around to see who could possibly be hitting on the girl in the nun costume.

Your eyes meet a pair of disoriented doe eyes, and you realize a very drunk Jungkook is hitting on you. He shoots you a lazy crooked smile as his hand rides up on your thigh a bit. You withhold the urge to punch him as you let him feel you up a bit. You didn’t want to reveal yourself just yet. No, you wanted to exact your revenge in a way that would scar the same way you now were thanks to them.

You placed your hand over Jungkook’s and stood up, taking him with you. Without saying a word, you led him into one of the empty bedrooms in Hoseok’s house, all the while his friends whooped and hollered at the sight of their youngest friend finally getting laid at a party.

You shoved him into a room and walked in, closing the door behind you. He stumbled backwards and plopped down onto the bed, leaning back and spreading his legs while he watched you. You want so badly to wipe the cocky grin he’s wearing right off his face.

You stalk over to him, quickly climbing up on his lap. His smile grows impossibly wider, and he’s giddied at the feeling of your hands on his chest pushing him down onto the bed. He seems different, cockier and more experienced, yet he’s still slightly nervous, you note, so you can tell the Jungkook you’ve always known is still inside this douchebag of a person somewhere. His heartbeat quickened as your hands slid lower on his body, and he searched for something to say to relieve some of the tension.

“So, you’re supposed to be, what, a nun?” The boy gulped as your hands found the bottom of your dress.

“No, actually, I’m a ghost.” Jungkook looked up at you questioningly, taking in your costume again to see if there was a detail he’d missed. You decided to help him out by taking your mask off.

His body stiffened under you and he grew pale as you sat on top of him, smiling at the way his lip quivered in fear.

You reached under your dress and pulled the blade from the spandex of your underwear, turning the sharp object over in your hand and observing it in the light of the room. Jungkook cussed under his breath as he began to hyperventilate slightly. You revel in his powerlessness, wanting him to feel the way you felt because of him, so you slowly press the blade against his throat, causing him to turn his gaze up at the ceiling while muttering shit shit shit as he did so.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

“I I I I I d-don’t know he—he never showed up. H-he might be a Y-yong’s house I I I don’t know.” Jungkook shut his eyes, making sure to keep still so that you didn’t accidentally nick his throat.

You grimace, not liking what he said one bit. The way her name slipped so casually from his mouth, they all knew about her and never said anything to you. You must’ve looked like such an idiot. They probably pitied you, probably made fun of you behind your back.

Your hand at the boy’s throat began shaking, and you didn’t miss the way his fists ball up at his sides. Suddenly you turned your attention to him completely, knowing now what you had to do.

The boy was shaking underneath you, so you hummed soothingly, running your hand over his chest. You admired his body, taking note of the way his muscles protruded from the fabric. He had definitely filled out and bulked up when you weren’t paying attention to him. And he’d had such a crush on you, it was a shame he’d turned into a monster on the inside.

Your hand slid down his arm and picked up his wrist, slicing at his veins vertically for a few inches. He cried out in pain as blood began spurting everywhere. He moaned in agony, clutching at his wet arm and trying desperately to keep the wound covered with his hand.

“Kookie! Where the fuck is the beer we told you to go get an hour ago?” Hoseok’s voice chirped behind you, so you turned your head in time to see the boy bursting into the bedroom unannounced. He’d taken one quick look at you and averted his eyes. “Shit, sorry, didn’t think you were actually in here with someone.” He chuckled, stealing a look in your direction, and then another, until his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. His eyes first caught the blood stains on the bed then flew up to meet your eyes. His breath caught in his throat when he finally saw who had stolen the attention of his friend.

“Y/N…w-what are you doing?” He stepped fully into the room, coming towards you slowly.

“Well, I was in the neighborhood so, I thought I’d stop by.” You regarded him warily, gripping the blade tighter the closer he got.

As soon as the boy took a few more steps, he finally caught view of the massive wound, and his expression crumpled painfully. “Jesus Christ Y/N. What did you do?! W-Why did you do this?”

The boy tried to swipe the weapon from your hand, but you moved it out of his reach then climbed off of Jungkook and held the blade up in front of you. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me.”

“Okay, okay. Please, let’s just, talk.” His eyes were full of fear and concern, trained on you though they wandered towards Jungkook and the blade you were holding.

“Why should I talk to you? I have no reason to trust any of you. You all lied to me for so long. I SAID BACK UP!” You swung the knife as soon as Hoseok took a step towards you, causing him to stop and hold his palms up toward you warily.

“Listen, you have a right to be upset, but if there were things we never told you, it was only to protect you!”

You scoffed, “To protect me? So chasing me around the forest to the point of miscarriage was for protection? This is all your fault.” You drew in a shaky breath as the boy stared at your belly concealed by the dress.

“Y/N you’re…” Hoseok sighed, becoming antsier the longer the conversation dragged on. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath and spoke in a calm manner, “when did you stop taking your medication?”

“No…”

“Y/N, we can help you, just…” Hoseok lunged for the knife again but you quickly swung and caught his palm, slicing a line across the center. He yelped in pain, keeling forward and holding his injured hand to his chest.

You bolted out of the room and away from the house in a hurry to see Namjoon. No, no no no!

You just needed to see him, and then everything would be fine again.

You made your way to Yong’s house in a daze. You passed by countless witches and caped vigilantes who were all impressed with your commitment to scare as they took in your bloodied appearance and soiled blade in your hand. Someone even took a picture of you, but you didn’t have it in you to engage with them. You just needed to get to Namjoon and see for yourself if he had moved on from what you two had.

It didn’t take you long to reach his neighbor’s house, since Namjoon lived only a couple blocks from Hoseok.

You observed the house from the outside. It was dark, most likely to discourage trick or treaters, but not you. You circled the house, jiggling doors and pulling at windows until you finally found a way in through the kitchen. Sliding into the dimly lit household, you stood still and became part of the quiet that surrounded you, holding even your breath to see if everyone was truly asleep. You didn’t hear a peep, so you began stalking around the first floor, checking ever door.

You had stumbled upon the bathroom and two closets before you let yourself into a child’s bedroom. The walls were lavender and the shaggy rug that lined the small room was a pale pink in the night. A night light shone all kinds of aquatic figures across the walls as the child slept soundly at the center of her princess bed. You walked slowly over to her and leaned across the small bed to get a look at her tiny face burrowed into her pillow. She was adorable, and the fact that she was Namjoon’s was more than enough reason to love her, but she wasn’t yours, and you hated that. You just couldn’t get past it, no matter how cute she was. You frowned and sighed, exiting the room quietly then stopping in the middle of the living room.

You turned to look at the staircase that led upstairs when it occurred to you that they might be upstairs, sharing a bed as two parents might. Your nostrils flared and your breath quickened as you made haste to climb up one stair at a time as quietly as possible.

At the third stair, you finally heard it, a small moan, followed by another and another. Each step you climbed made the sounds more pronounced until it was undeniably the sound of Yong getting pleasured in her bedroom. You pictured Namjoon’s sweaty back, her pale hands clawing at it, her legs wrapped around his waist. Suddenly you heard a small giggle, and you pictured him peppering small kisses on her face that made her ticklish.

You clutched the blade tightly, your entire figure trembling as you reached the second floor. How dare he move on when we’re supposed to be starting a life together!?

You stormed into the bedroom, knocking the door into the adjacent wall with a bang.

“HEY DADDY!” You rubbed your belly as you stared at the lumps under the sheets.

The blonde peaked her head out and screamed as her lover pulled out and fell back onto the bed, regarding you with terrified eyes. He muttered a curse under his breath as he regarded your ghastly appearance while absentmindedly making sure the sheets were covering his genitals.

He wasn’t Namjoon.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my house!?” Yong’s husband yelled, looking at his wife and furrowing his eyebrows when he noticed the look of recognition in her eyes.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring his outburst and focusing on her. Her hands shook as they covered her breasts, her gaze wavering.

“Where is he?”

“H-he’s p-probably at the park right now. P-Please just leave. Please.” There was a different kind of fear in her eyes, and as you looked in between her and her husband, you decided to let him be the one to deliver her punishment for getting involved with Namjoon.

You exited their house as quickly as you came, walking in the direction of the park. You were tired, your anger from earlier morphing into desperation to find Namjoon and tell him how you felt.

Part of you wanted to give up and give into your defeated emotions, but you convinced yourself to focus on one step at a time, and on what you would say to him once you finally laid eyes on him.

You only thought of a few things to say before you saw him, sitting alone by the swing set. He was staring down at his feet in deep thought, so much so that he had barely registered you walking towards him. He was sad, too sad to give you a proper greeting, yet somehow his lack of reaction to seeing you hadn’t surprised you.

You decided to sit in the empty swing that hung parallel to his, kicking your feet into the gravel as you swung yourself gently with the little strength you had left.

“I keep asking myself, why didn’t she pick me, but I keep coming up short.” He sighed and buried his head in his hands dejectedly.

When you speak, the sound is so gentle it surprises even you.

“Why does it have to be her? Namjoon, I’d pick you a thousand times over.” You threw your head back and laughed lightly, looking up at the stars above, “In every life, I’d pick you. If I lived as many lives as there are specs in the night sky, it wouldn’t matter. You would always be the one.”

He shot you a melancholic smile, turning to you to take in your appearance for the first time. His gaze wandered from your far off gaze to your hands, noticing the bloodied blade and the massive wound on your wrist that had painted your arm red by now. He frowned, looking into your fading eyes. “Y/N…did you do this for me?” His voice was dripping in pain as you slumped against the chain.

“Namjoon,” You took a moment to draw in a breath but found it harder to find the strength to get your last few words out, “I’d choose you every time, no matter what. So, choose me, just please choose me this one time.”

“I did. I did choose you.” He leaned over to pick you up from the swing and cradled you against his chest as he sat down on the dirt, brushing your hair out of your face with deep sadness painting his features.

You laid against him, giving into the tiredness as you took in your fading surroundings. You looked down at your bloodied arm, seeing the wound for the first time. You brought your hand to your stomach, unable to feel the belly you had been caressing for months. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, until you looked up into the eyes that were crying over you. Jin’s beautiful face was crumpled, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

You brought your hand up weakly to caress his wet cheek. He took your hand in his and squeezed it as you gave him a tired smile. With the peace that overtook you came the answers you had been searching for all along.

You’d had it wrong all along. It was you that hadn’t chosen the right one.

Seokjin held your lifeless body close to him as he wept. He had never felt like more of a child than he had now. He had failed you continuously because he was afraid. You made him want to be brave, but when it mattered the most, he still chose to let you save him instead. As he wiped the tears from his face, he was determined to hang onto the life preserver you had unknowingly offered him.

Jin only allowed himself a few moments to grieve you before he forced himself to put you down and walk away. He knew it was only a matter of time before Namjoon would show up.

Without a backwards glance, the disoriented boy made his way to Hoseok’s house in search of the people that would deem this all worth something.

He was covered in your blood, but everyone he had passed mistook his appearance to be a lazy last-minute costume.

As he crossed the street, his mind wandered back to that fateful night in the dead of summer. He recalled what his friends did to him when he confessed to having let you escape. He could still feel the relentless blows to his body as they took turns beating him nearly half to death. Some punches and kicks were softer than others, but they didn’t stop until he was within an inch of his life. They left him for dead by the lake before going to search for you. He knew they avoided killing him on purpose, which is why he called Jungkook as soon as his memory returned. It was something they did whenever they suspected a member of betraying them, as a form of re-initiation. If you somehow survived, then you deserved a second chance.

Jin wasn’t sure he wanted the second chance, but he felt as if he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to return to life as he knew it back home.

Jungkook had gone the easiest on him, so he felt safe calling him first. He had expected the relief that flooded the younger one’s tone when he heard Jin’s voice on the other end. But what he didn’t expect, were the conditions attached to his return. After Jungkook confided in Namjoon, they decided not to make things easy for him, since he’d deliberately backstabbed them all.

He was only allowed to return home if he finished what they had started that fateful night.

Jin let himself into Hoseok’s house, dragging his feet as he made his way to the living room. The party had thinned out, but the guys remained on the couches as they nursed their drinks and waited for his arrival.

He had expected them to be in their dwarves costumes as they always were every year, but he hadn’t expected someone else to be in your Snow White costume, at least not so soon.

The bubbly princess sat on Jungkook’s lap, staring at him in adoration while he checked his phone in pure boredom.

As Jin came into view, the maknae of the group looked up and smiled serenly, something shifting in his gaze. Jin simply stared back, resisting the shiver that threatened to rack his frame at his resemblance to Namjoon in that moment.

“Did you take care of it?” The boy put his phone away as the rest of his friends turned their attention to Jin, some looking impressed while others looked skeptical.

The tall brunette smiled back at Jungkook in pure irony. He realized the evil he had vowed to dismantle from the inside could never truly be abolished, it would simply take on a new form to survive.

He was a fool for thinking he’d ever be able to win. So, he vowed instead to honor your life by preserving his own.

“Yeah, it’s done.”

[legobiwan]

Obi-wan trial ficlet (part 2)

As I was lying in bed last night - wholly unable to sleep - I was visited by the spirit of writing at 3.30am. And thus, have this not-so-little extension of the “Obi-wan on Trial” ficlet. Note, I have basically no plot plan for this whatsoever, but since my imagination was running wild on insomnia and delirium, I figured I’d at least get something from my grand total of an hour’s sleep.

---

Cody glanced at his chrono for the fifth time in as many minutes. According to the General’s plan - which was disturbingly short on details - they were going to rendezvous here at approximately 1700 hours. Another fifteen minutes, give or take.

Already Cody’s gut was twisting with anxiety. Approximately and give or take weren’t standard vocabulary in the General’s lexicon, at least not when it came to missions, which Obi-wan usually had plotted down to the millisecond. But earlier today, the General had waved off Cody’s concerns with a breezy smile, promising that everything would make sense later on and that time on Coruscant was a far more flexible matter due to the proclivities of certain indolent politicians. 

In any other circumstance, the minor sleight would have set off alarm klaxons in Cody’s mind. The General, while as human as anyone else once one peeled through the many layers of reserve and Jedi stoicism, did not openly scorn other sentients, at least not without good reason. There are as many truths, as many realities, as there are points of view in this galaxy, he had once told Cody on a rare diplomatic mission. 

Politicians, however - Coruscanti politicians, to be precise - seemed to be exempt from that axiom. 

Not that Cody could blame Obi-wan, especially given the events of the past few days.

That Commander Tano had been implicated in the bombing of the Jedi Temple, that she had been arrested, twice by his fellow vod - Cody shook his head, still in disbelief. It was insanity. Commander Tano could no more kill innocents than Cody could dance the Dha Werda Verda with Count Dooku. 

And somehow, that event had led him here on the General’s mysterious orders, Commander Tano having been dragged away to some secret trial in the Jedi Temple, Rex, Cody, and the rest of the men not having seen nor heard anything from her since her recapture and imprisonment.

Impossible. She was innocent, the General would make sure of it. 

Still, that didn’t explain why he was stuck in the bowels of the Senate Judiciary wing, armed with a small artillery of grenades along with his standard blaster, an unregistered speeder sitting in the delivery bay just past the loading dock entrance. 

All part of the plan, Obi-wan had said. 

Cody had a bad feeling about this.

A minuscule change in the vent airflow caught his attention, and Cody glanced up, peering into the faraway flat-bottom discs that rose tall into the main chamber of the High Republic courtroom. Years on the frontlines of the war had honed his already well-engineered senses, which were attuned to the slightest crunch of a leaf or the faint odor of lubricant, all small clues that could be the difference between life and death, of victory and defeat. Not that he was expecting a battalion of battle droids to come stomping through the Senate, but if Obi-wan had him on guard duty down here, it had to be for a reason.

That reason, Cody realized with growing horror, was a speck plummeting through the narrow chasm of support beams and ventilation ducts. “Incoming 270, point-oh-eight vertical, approximately 80 kilograms, projectile type unknown,” he muttered to himself, drawing his blaster, his left arm bent at his chest, weapon perched on his forearm as he lined up the shot...

Damn! he cursed as the figure twirled out of range, swallowed by the long shadows of the podium base. Again, Cody did some quick math, calculating the likely trajectory of what he belatedly realized wasn’t a weapon, but a sentient. Sure enough in his estimate, the clone ran to the support spire, flattening himself along the opposite side of where he thought the figure would land. It was too dim to get a full visual on the being, but Cody had held the best record in the GAR’s echolocation target practice for three years running, and didn’t need to see his mark to hit his mark.

Taking a deep breath, the clone swung around, gripping his blaster with two hands, arms extended in front of his chest. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me, Cody.”

His blaster faltered, barrel drooping towards the floor. Cody’s eyes went wide as moons.

“Sir?”

Obi-wan Kenobi brushed off the front of his tunics, adjusting his utility belt before pushing a few loose bangs behind his ear. "There will be plenty of time to be shot at later," he explained. The Jedi made a "follow me" gesture, striding past Cody, making towards the exit with long, hurried steps. 

Cody felt as if he were glued to the floor.  

"Ahh...is everything okay, sir?" he asked, his earlier anxiety returning with a sickening flourish. Obi-wan spun around, placing his hands on his hips. 

"It won't be if we don't get moving," he snapped, his face folding in uncharacteristic open irritation bordering on outright anger. Cody's stomach swooped downwards. Okay, really not good, whatever this is.

"I trust you were able to acquire the speeder?" Obi-wan asked, glancing behind Cody. Checking for enemies, the clone assumed.

Cody jogged to catch up with the impatient-looking Jedi. 

"Yes, sir," the clone replied, defaulting to a standard, no-nonsense military tone. He would ask the General what was going on later, after the danger had passed. For now, they - he, at least - would to stick to the safety of military protocol and communication.

Obi-wan gave a slight nod. In the light, Cody could see the man was exhausted, his eyes bruised with fatigue, his face drawn. Still, there was something different about the way the General was holding himself, something in the sharp blade of his voice, an edge of danger Cody didn't think he had ever heard before. 

Distant echoes of frenzied shouting and hectic orders rang above them, followed by the familiar thunder of bootsteps. Obi-wan swore under his breath as the airflow shifted yet again, heralding the arrival of at least one, if not two newcomers. 

"Let's go," he said, breaking into a full run. 

Minutes later, they were in the borrowed speeder, catapulting through Coruscant's skylanes like a hyperactive Kowakian monkey. Cody gripped the side of the vehicle as Obi-wan made another ninety-degree turn, powering into the capital's main thoroughfare, nearly taking off the heads of at least three other drivers as he cut in front of a luxury-length rec speeder, tossing in a rude hand gesture as a bonus.

"Sir?" Cody yelped, wrenching his gaze to Obi-wan in astonishment. The Jedi's brow was furrowed in intense concentration, the momentary aberration in his  behavior already forgotten. 

"Get those detonators ready," Obi-wan ordered, terse. "On my signal."

Oookay, then, the clone took a deep inhale, giving a minute shake of his head as he fished out the explosives. This was definitely not the time to talk about whatever was going on, but once they had achieved their mission objective - whatever it's supposed to be, Cody thought sourly - he was going to have words with the General. 

Up ahead, the twin spires of the Republic holding facility came into view. A drab, depressing building notable only for its multivariate shades of grey and permanently smog-stained transparisteel windows - General Skywalker had once described it as being "like a Hutt vomited twenty years ago and no one cared enough to clean it up."

Beyond its charming aesthetics, however, the Republic holding facility was also notable in that it served as a transitionary custody space for those awaiting sentencing from the High Republic Courts. Cody's throat went dry. They wouldn't have put Commander Tano in there, would they? No, that was ridiculous. If Commander Tano were being held here, it would mean she had been found guilty, that she was only waiting to hear what her prison sentence would be. Or worse, Cody shivered. No, he refused to believe the Commander would commit such a heinous act and doubly refused to believe the General would allow her to be convicted of false charges.

They were nearly parallel the building now, Obi-wan bringing the speeder almost flush against the high, electro-barbed walls, sending sparks of energy flying as the Jedi inched the edge of the vehicle dangerously close to the barrier.

"Now, Cody!" 

All clones knew they had been bred for this war, to fight, to serve the Republic. While the clones themselves exhibited the same level of variation of personalities, of likes and dislikes as any general populace, all clones also knew that above all, they were bound by loyalty and duty. To their fellow vod. To the Republic. And to the Jedi they served under. 

Which was why Cody didn't think twice before lobbing a fistful of high-output grenades straight into the Republic holding facility's main generator on Obi-wan's command. 

Cody watched in stunned silence as there was a cataclysmic burst of light, the electro-barbs racing to a sharp peak before fizzling out, grimy stains rendered invisible as every bit of energy and electricity around not only the building, but the entire sector died out with a pathetic whine. 

What the kriff? Cody gaped.

The clone whipped around to demand an answer, to know why he had just bombed a Republic prison facility on the orders of a Jedi, of a High General. Of my friend, Cody grit, betrayal stabbing deep into his lower abdomen. 

But his furious storm of words died on his lips as Cody stared down the wrong end of his own blaster, muzzle only centimeters from his forehead. It didn't escape the clone's attention that the setting had been switched to "kill."

"I am very sorry, Cody," Obi-wan apologized, his voice almost preternaturally calm. "But for both our sakes, this needs to look convincing."

Cody froze, his brain refusing to process the visual input, the aural evidence, the logical conclusion that should have drawn from the situation. He was in a speeder. He had just bombed a Republic prison on Obi-wan's orders. Obi-wan was pointing a lethal weapon at him. And...Cody stretched his ears, not daring to take his eyes off the apparently insane Jedi in the next seat.

Those are CSF sirens, he realized, stomach sinking. Nu draar...dini'la jetti haar'chak! This wasn't a Republic-sanctioned mission, probably wasn't even a Jedi-sanctioned mission. This was...

Cody had no idea what this was.

He briefly considered taking a chance, throwing himself on Obi-wan to attempt to wrest control of both the blaster and the speeder from crazed Jedi. But a single flinty glare from Obi-wan stopped that plan in its tracks. On a normal day, the General was far more dangerous than many people gave him credit for. Cody didn't want to find out what he was like when that self-imposed restraint was dropped.

The next few moments passed in bizarre silence, Obi-wan weaving through skylanes, blaster never wavering from Cody's forehead. At one point, he slowed in front of an official city surveillance droid, letting the little machine take a good, long look at the bizarre drama unfolding in the front seat of the speeder. Obi-wan then gave the camera a slanted grin and jaunty salute before hitting the accelerator, pulling back on the yoke, sending the speeder plummeting down at least twenty levels. When Cody's stomach had made it back to his abdomen from his throat, he noticed the blaster was gone.

"Did I ever tell you," Obi-wan began conversationally, "about the time I flew a small transport through the corridors of a mining spaceship?"

Cody gawked at the other man. He truly had gone insane. 

"It was quite the mission, on Pijal. I must have been, oh, sixteen, seventeen at the time. I swore off flying forever, although Qui-gon never let me actually make good on that promise." Obi-wan shook his head. “Typical.”

The sirens, which had been gaining a dangerous amount of ground on their escape vehicle, were no longer audible, their wails having blurred into the usual, busy hum of Coruscant's normal traffic.

Normal, Cody almost laughed. Wouldn't that be a thing?

They were probably at least five hundred levels down now, maybe even more, the sky long since having disappeared from view, neon lights and the bright ends of spice sticks offering a cheap, counterfeit sun. 

Obi-wan swung the speeder into a narrow alley, cutting the engine with a satisfied sigh. 

"The thing about that mission, Cody,” he said after a moment, “was that it was my first real experience with the sticky, ambiguous substances that grease the wheels of the Republic. I, of course, acted in accordance with the Jedi, and thus the Republic government, earning myself only the ire of my Master, the betrayal of a monarchy, and nearly costing me my life," Obi-wan chuckled, a dark, cynical sound that set Cody's teeth on edge. What was going on? 

Obi-wan hopped out of the speeder, giving a small grin as he shrugged out of his out Jedi tunic. "How times change, I suppose."

Cody didn't move to follow, didn't say a word in response. He sat, staring at this person who was, on the surface, Obi-wan Kenobi, but in no way resembled the man he had come to know. Or, at least, thought he had come to know. 

His agitation must have been visible, probably the equivalent of a Gungan marching band in Force, as Obi-wan paused, a dark blue, long-sleeved tunic with a high collar pulled halfway over his head. He stared at Cody for a moment before finishing the movement, smoothing out the material of the unfamiliar garment over his chest. 

Obi-wan stepped forward with a small sigh. "And now Cody, I suppose I owe you an explanation."

The half-apology - words that sounded like Obi-wan, even if they came from a man who didn't resemble him at all - pulled Cody from his emotional stupor, fires of disbelief stoking somewhere deep in his chest. In one smooth movement, he hopped out of the speeder, striding to Obi-wan, fists clenched, teeth grit, his face so close to other man's Cody could feel the Jedi's hot exhales on his nose.

Obi-wan regarded him with muted curiosity. "Do you intend on striking me?" he asked. 

"I'm really tempted to," Cody grit. "Sir," he added, not quite able to break the habit.

"Then let me offer you a compromise, of sorts. We should be safe here, for the time being, at least long enough for me to provide what I hope is an explanation of today's turn of events. I do not expect you to like it, nor to necessarily agree with it, but certain circumstances have pushed me into a situation where a decision - a monumental decision, I may add - had to be made."

"If, after hearing me out, you wish to strike me, you are most welcome to, as I do believe you have earned that right. You will also be free to leave and return to the 212th at that point. That little stunt with the security camera should serve as more than enough evidence that you were coerced by a renegade Jedi and I am certain you will be welcomed back into the GAR with open arms."

"However," Obi-wan’s expression darkened, the drawled word imbued with an almost sensuous promise. "If, after hearing me out, you find yourself - " he cocked his head back and forth, pretending to be searching for the right language. "Sympathetic to my plight, then I would welcome your expertise, skills, and company."

Cody took a small step back. That...kind of sounded more like the General - the negotiation, the smooth justification. Certainly, Cody hoped Obi-wan had a reason for all of this, that he hadn't completely snapped or worse, gone dark. He didn't seem like Ventress, or Dooku, but Cody didn't know enough about the Sith or the dark side to make any kind of real judgment call.

But even with the promise of finally getting some kind of explanation, there was another question that had been niggling at the back of Cody's mind since this all began, brought forward by Obi-wan's sudden invitation. 

"Why me, sir?"

The inquiry apparently took the Jedi by surprise, his eyebrows rising in some odd combination of amusement and approval. "Because, Cody - I trust you. And I hope you will feel the same way after I explain just what has happened in the past few weeks."

[melissart]

Date Night

Terry x Korvo Solar Opposites fanfiction!

Rating: M

Warnings: Alien sex stuff, Korvo cries during sex a lot, NSF*W

Genre: romance, comedy, hurt/comfort

Words: 3,852

Summary: “Couples go to scheduled fancy dinners to help keep their relationship alive.“

Korvo paced around the backyard with his Element Detector.

Beep… beep… beep… 

Nothing. 

There were no useful elements on Earth! Of all the 118 elements that Earth discovered, everything just had to be carbon-based. Korvo had enough carbon to last the destruction of five planets. What he needed was the isotope Megeon-166--or as it’s called on Earth, Erbium. He needed at least 15 moles to repair the ship and, of course, nobody was helping him. What was the point in being mad, anymore? He knew nobody would help him but it never got any less frustrating. 

Terry slid open the back door while cradling a tray of Starbucks™ frappuccinos in one arm. “Korvo!” he called out. “Got your favorite--matcha frappuccino!” 

No, that’s not right--Terry did help. Just in a different way. Only Terry knew how to get everyone’s Starbucks™ drinks right. 

Korvo tossed the Element Detector over his shoulder and took his frappuccino. Oh, the first sip was always the best. The whipped cream was at the bottom just the way he liked it. 

Terry just… stood there and watched him drink the frappuccino. He wasn’t even going to sip his own untouched pink drink. He was waiting for a specific response from Korvo. Probably one that was two words and began with a “T”. 

Korvo sighed. He had to relent. “Thank y--” 

“--Do you know what day it is today?” Terry quickly blurted out. He was unusually excited. 

Korvo paused for a second. The effects of the Dumb Ray still hadn’t subsided completely. “Friday?”  Was he forgetting something? It couldn’t possibly be their anniversary. 

“That’s right! It’s the first Friday of the month! That means it’s date night!” 

“That is ridiculous. Every night occurs on a date.”

 Terry laughed and put his hand on Korvo’s shoulder. Everything was a joke to him. “That gets funnier every time!”

Korvo brushes Terry’s hand off of him. It seems that Korvo has forgotten what “date night” was. Ten blasts of a Dumb Ray does that to you. “Explain it to me again.” 

“Couples go to scheduled fancy dinners to help keep their relationship alive.” 

Evidently, Terry has explained this concept multiple times. There were no side tangents, no movie references, and no headaches. “I am satisfied with our relationship.” Korvo sunk into himself and slightly turned away. “Are… you… not satisfied?” 

Terry erupted into an even louder bout of laughter and slapped his knee. “Hah! That gets funnier every time, too! It’s for fun, Korvo. I already made reservations at your favorite restaurant for 8PM.” 

“But, I--” 

Terry was already heading back inside to give Jesse and Yumyulack their drinks. “Make sure you wear something nice this time!” 

Korvo racked his mind for any memories of going on a date night with Terry, but there was nothing. Korvo didn’t realize how harsh the effects of the Dumb Ray were. He felt like an idiot. Maybe it was like the NBC show Dateline. He had some researching to do. If Terry found out Korvo’s memory was still foggy, Korvo would surely get locked up again. 

Terry was about to go on the best date night of his short, pathetic life. 

--- 

It was 7:50 PM, Terry was already dressed in his favorite pink button-up with the top button unbuttoned and jeans, and Korvo was nowhere to be found. To make things worse, Korvo took the car so Terry couldn’t even go to the nearest Jack in the Box to drown his sorrows in a $5 munchie meal. It was uncharacteristic of Korvo to forget about date night, especially when he reminded Korvo just earlier. Perhaps, he wondered, the Dumb Ray effects had not subsided yet.

He went into the replicants’ bedroom to ask them if they knew where Korvo was, but they were gone. That’s right, they were at a party and said they wouldn’t be back home until midnight. Terry was alone at the house. Bored. Bored in the house and in the house bored--just as how that TikTok prophesied. 

There were three loud knocks on the front door. Terry groaned. “Coming!” He wasn’t in the mood to entertain the neighbors. 

Terry opened the door to find a bouquet of a dozen red roses being shoved into his face. It was Korvo, all dressed up in a tuxedo as if he was about to get married. 

“I have arrived to date night you,” Korvo declared. 

Terry happily accepted the bouquet. “Sick plants, dude! I didn’t know they came in red.” 

“Red means love.” 

“Cool! Should I plant them?” 

“No, you put them in a vase with water.” 

“Hmm…” Terry stared at the stems. “I don’t know, Korvo, don’t plants need dirt?” 

“Why would I--” Korvo stopped himself and took a deep breath. He had to be charismatic. “You put them in a vase, you look at them for a couple days, and then they die.” 

“Aww…” Now Terry was bummed out. He hated reminders of his planned obsolescence and inevitable death. “What’s the point of it, then?” 

“Because they’re red, Terry!” Korvo’s fury was quick to resurface. “Red means love!” 

“Okay, fine, but you don’t have to yell!” 

Korvo hated himself. Stupid. He was already ruining their date night. 

----

Jazz music played softly in the background. It would have been relaxing if it weren’t avant-garde jazz. It was times like these that made Korvo pray for the Pupa to eat everyone and terraform the planet, already. He had no idea how the cacophony he was hearing could possibly be classified as music. There was no discernible key signature, no rhythm, no melody, no dynamics--it was literally just a collection of instruments blasting away and competing with each other to see who could best resemble a dying animal. 

“What the hell is this?” he grumbled. 

Terry was busy looking through the menu. “‘Om’ by John Coltrane.” 

Korvo was taken aback by the answer. He didn’t know Terry listened to this kind of noise. Even TV static sounded more harmonious. “What’s the point of it?” The thought of someone sitting in a recording studio and blasting terrible screeches into a microphone was enough to make someone gloober. 

“Uh, to piss off people like you, duh!” Terry scoffed. “Just relax a little, okay, Korvy?” He reached across the table to put his hand over Korvo’s. 

Korvo stared down at Terry’s hand and pondered for a moment. He curled his fingers over Terry’s hand. “I see… So what you’re saying is that music acts as a medium not only to organize patterns and produce a conventionally pleasing aesthetic, but also to defy those same standards and redefine the purpose of music through an ironic lens?” 

“That’s jazz, baby!” For emphasis, Terry does jazz hands with his free hand. 

Korvo leaned in and clasped his other hand over Terry’s. “You know a lot about music,” he comments. A loving smile curled the corners of his mouth upwards. 

Terry smirked. “Well, I did major in music when we went to community college… Remember when we did that? That was fun.” 

Korvo’s smile dropped. “You did?” He had no idea. 

“Yeah, I majored in percussion performance. I was trying to get into a drumline, like in the movie Whiplash. Don’t you remember? I even invited you to my winter and spring recital.” 

Korvo genuinely could not recall anything after Terry referencing Whiplash. This wasn’t on the Dumb Ray, this was clearly on his own negligence. “Oh.” Now that he thought about it, Terry was really good at drumming. 

Terry withdrew his hand and crossed his arms. He sighed, slumped into his seat, and looked away forlornly. “It’s okay, you were probably busy working on the ship… The mission is always the highest priority.” He was already conditioned to expect disappointment when telling Korvo anything about his personal ambitions. It was Wetzel’s Pretzels all over again. 

“It is...” Korvo agreed. 

Terry felt his heart sink. 

“... but you’re a high priority to me, too.” 

Before Terry could respond, their waiter interrupted to take their orders. “Seafood platter for him, fettuccine chicken alfredo pasta for me, and your biggest bottle of wine.” 

“Of course, sir.” The waiter took their menus away and left to relay the orders to the kitchen. 

Fuck, Korvo loved it when Terry ordered for the both of them. It made him feel slightly lesser. He tugged at his neck collar. 

“You know… I didn’t actually want to be a Pupa Specialist,” Terry quietly confessed. “I wish I could’ve been a music major on Shlorp.” 

“You could’ve,” Korvo reminded him, “but you’d be dead.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know...” 

Korvo watched Terry slump further into his seat. He was blowing it. Again. Discreetly, he took out his phone on his lap and pulled up a Wikihow article he had bookmarked on Safari: “How to Get Guys to Like You More when You Go on a date”. He skipped to step 3, “Be conversational.” Korvo cleared his throat. “Um… I wanted to be a biologist on Shlorp.” 

“Aren’t you already a biologist?” Terry argued. “Science is like, your whole gimmick.” 

“I’m an electrical engineer. I work with technology. I only got to take a few biology courses but my schedule was so loaded since I was a math/physics/engineering triple major, so I had no time to declare a minor in biology.” 

Terry laughed. “You sure dodged a bullet! Pupa Specialists had to take a shitton of bio classes, and let me tell you, the only silver lining is the sex unit.”

“There’s a sex unit?” 

“Yeah! Meiosis, DNA, best positions, tongue stuff… Jesse was conceived during that unit!” Terry smiled fondly, as if it were a normal sweet memory to be nostalgic of. “Ooh, ooh, how was Yumyulack conceived?” 

“With my right hand and a magazine at a lab.” Korvo didn’t realize there was anything more to it than that. “Tell me more about this unit,” he demanded. 

“Okay, so on the first day of class, our lab experiment for the day is to analyze genetic fluids, but wait! Our old tree professor forgot to order enough sample genetic fluids for the entire class! But, it turns out that collecting genetic fluids is the real lab experiment! Of course, I’m just sitting there with my lifemate, confused as hell, while the TA’s start to unbutton their robes…” 

------

Terry and Korvo laughed as they stumbled out of the restaurant together, holding hands and swinging it between them. When Terry asked for their biggest bottle of wine, they sure did deliver. Behind them, the warm glow of the restaurant faded away as they searched for their car. 

Terry wiped away tears of mirth with the back of his hand. “So I said, ‘You wouldn’t know one if you saw one!’” 

Korvo dropped the car keys as he erupted in more laughter. “Hohoheehoihoiheehoihoi! You sure told him! That was something that you told him, alright!” 

Korvo and Terry crouched down to reach for the car keys at the same time. They both groped around the spinning ground until their hands met. They looked up at each other with the same dazed, lovesick look in their eyes. 

Within seconds, they were sloppily making out. Terry had so much to drink that he couldn’t even feel where his body started and Korvo’s ended. All he could taste was wine and seafood. He felt Korvo topple over, putting Terry on top of him, straddling Korvo’s hips between his legs. Their tongues swirled around each other as Korvo moaned and dug his fingers onto the back of Terry’s shirt. The sidewalk was cold, but their bodies were hot enough to compensate. 

Terry pulled away and fumbled to unbutton his shirt. 

“Woah, woah, woah--I think we should, should go home first.” Korvo slowly sat himself up. 

“You can’t even drive!” 

“Of course I can!” Korvo declared, unintentionally flicking specks of saliva onto Terry’s face as he spoke. “W-We’re aliens! Our bodies… they got high tolerance… Alcohol sharpens our senses!” He pushed Terry off of him and crawled over to the car keys. 

Terry helped him up. “That doesn’t sound so right, but I don’t know enough to argue with that!” 

Korvo waved the car key fob in the air and pressed the lock button repeatedly, struggling to hear where their car was. “Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!” he called out, as if it were a dog that could respond and come running over. “Fuck, where’d I park?” 

Terry turned Korvo around to face their car. 

“Oh shiiit, found it!” 

Korvo clicked the unlock button a few dozen times, then they let themselves in. Neither of them bothered to strap in their seatbelts.

-----

As soon as their bedroom door was shut and locked, Korvo and Terry started hurriedly undressing each other. Terry kissed Korvo’s neck as he loosened his bowtie while Korvo yanked Terry’s shorts down and began unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Fuuuck, Terry,” Korvo raspily moaned out. “I-I want you to dominate me! Dominate me, Terry! Make me your slut!” 

“Yeah, you’re a little slut, huh?” Terry palmed Korvo’s mound. “My fucking whore needs to be taught a lesson?” 

Korvo bucked his hips into Terry’s hand. “Yes, Terry!” he groaned. “Teach me a lesson!” 

Terry swept Korvo off his feet in one motion and carried him to the bed. As soon as he dropped him, he crawled on top of Korvo and tugged Korvo’s dress pants down. Korvo’s rootstalk was eager to be exposed, wriggling out of its hole to meet Terry’s tongue. Terry gave the thick root one long, slobbering, lick up the shaft and to the tip. “Alright, Korvy, pop quiz--what’s the powerhouse of the cell?” 

Korvo didn’t respond. 

“Wait, Korvo, you do know what the powerhouse of the cell is, don’t you?” Terry heard a small sob. He looked up at Korvo, who was covering his blushing face, wet and shiny from fresh tears. Terry crawled away from between Korvo’s legs and to his side. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he whispered gently. He coaxed Korvo’s hands away from his face. 

Of course, being asked what was wrong only made Korvo cry harder and curl away. “I-I-I forgot!” he wailed. “I f-forgot what the powerhouse of the cell is! W-What is it? I have no f-f-fucking clue!”

Terry hugged him from behind. “It’s okay, baby, it doesn’t matter! It’s just the mitochondria.” 

“I-I just… I just feel so dumb. I’ve been waiting weeks for my intelligence to fully recover ever since you hit me with the Dumb Ray, but… but that’s it. This is as smart as I ever was before! And I’m fucking s-s-st-stu-stupid!” 

Terry squeezed him harder while he sobbed and wailed and gooblered all over the both of them. “There, there, Korvo.” He knew the drill. Korvo cried during sex all the time--something about the physical release of his genetic fluids seemed to trigger an emotional catharsis in him. This time was unusually early, though. They hadn’t even finished foreplay. “Do you want some ice cream?” 

“N-No, let’s continue having sex,” Korvo insists. 

“But you’re crying--” 

“--Well, I’m still horny!” He tried to dry his eyes, but it was a Sisyphean task. 

“Alright, fine, but talk about your feelings while I’m sucking you off.” Terry crawled back over to Korvo’s crotch and continued where he left off--licking the thick root all over, from bottom to top. He began sucking the tip of it, which wriggled slightly as it grew more. 

Korvo panted heavily. “O-O-Oh my g-god…” Hot pleasure took over him. “Well, I wanted to be a biologist on Shlorp, but…” He interrupted himself with a loud moan when Terry started deep-throating his root. “Hohhhmygod! Oh, Terry! Fuck, it feels so good!” He felt his root lengthening more and wriggle down Terry’s throat. “Terry, Terry, Terry… I’m gonna--ohhh, fuck…” 

Terry gave a small grunt of surprise when Korvo’s genetic fluids began squirting down his throat. He could just barely taste the sweet, floral nectar as he swallowed. There was so much to swallow down. Korvo was always so repressed--he was always too busy studying repair manuals to jerk off every now and then. 

Korvo felt dizzy from the waves of pleasure still crashing over him after his release. “Terry, I love y--”

“--What happened?” Terry interrupted. 

“Huh?” 

“What happened to being a biologist?” Terry asked again. “I mean, you could’ve just not majored in so many majors in the first place, right?” 

Korvo grabbed a spare pillow and put it over his face. “It’s not important anymore, never mind,” he said, muffled. 

“Korvo, c’mon, I won’t tell you my secret sex techniques if you don’t tell me your tragic backstory.” 

Korvo uncovered his face. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“You first!” 

Korvo took a moment to decide if it was truly worth opening up about his deepest, darkest insecurities just for sex. It was a very short moment. “I got a B+ in Intro to Biology my first year.” 

Terry waited for further explanation, but there was nothing more. “B+ isn’t a bad grade?” 

“I know!” Korvo snapped. “But I-I freaked out! That was my first B in a class, ever! And now we’re stuck on Earth and the Pupa could destroy us all any second and it’ll be all my fault because I wasn’t smart enough to fix the ship! And I’m not even smart enough to understand why the Pupa is 670C because I got freaked out over a B! And now we’re all going to die!” Gooblers danced all over their bedsheets. 

“Korvo, baby, relax!” He wiped away Korvo’s tears. “Even if you quadruple-majored in biology/math/physics/engineering, we’d still be on Earth because you couldn’t fix the ship. It doesn’t matter!” 

Korvo buried his face into Terry’s chest and gave out a strangled scream. 

Terry laughed to himself. “I mean, what’s the point of studying so much if you can’t even fix the ship?” He stroked the back of Korvo’s head lovingly. “I was able to fix a lavatic reactor in just a few minutes of reading one of your dumb manuals!” One of the gooblers popped straight into his eye. “Ow! Okay, I’m sorry! I guess the point is, uh… I’ll help you fix the ship. How does that sound?” 

The gooblers finally came to a stop. “You will?” 

“Anything to get you to stop crying during sex…” Terry grumbled.

Korvo began showering Terry with kisses. “Oh, Terry! Thank you! Mwah, mwah! Thank you so much! There’s so much I still have yet to diagnose in the ship--the catalytic nasprober, the psionic cholecystosanitizer, the carcino-fibrillator, the hexylgraph, the blinkers--” 

The list went on and on and on and on and on. Terry didn’t realize how much was wrong with the ship until now. He started to understand why Korvo was so stressed out all the time. Korvo had spent hours every day working on the ship for over a year, and this entire time Terry assumed that Korvo was just bad at repairing. 

There had to be an end to this. Terry slowly crawled back over to Korvo’s root, still wet with saliva and nectar genetic fluids, and began sucking at it again. It was only a matter of seconds until Korvo was back to being a squirming, moaning mess.

Korvo rested his hand on Terry’s head. “T-T-Terry, T-Terry! Oh, Terry!” 

After Terry deemed it wet enough, he finally gave his mouth a break. “Okay, don’t freak out,” he warned Korvo. 

“Why should I not freak out?” Korvo asked, freaking out already. 

“I’m gonna try a special Shlorpian sex technique on you.” 

Korvo has only ever had sex with Terry the traditional way--humping and twisting their roots around each other. “It won’t hurt, will it?” 

“Hmm--well--um---I wouldn’t say hurt?” 

“I do not like your hesitance.” 

“Okay, okay, okay! So, you twist up your partner’s root into a spiral-cone-thing, tuck that into their root-hole, and fuck it like a pussy, basically.” 

The image of it was vivid in Korvo’s head. It sounded so… demeaning and aggressive. “Okay.” 

Terry kissed him. “I love you!” He licks Korvo’s root and tries to coat as much saliva as he can on it before twisting the root as tight as he can. This, of course, is not the part where it hurts because their roots do not have pain receptors. With his other hand, he gently pries open Korvo’s root hole. 

Korvo groaned. He felt so violated in a way he had never felt before. It felt so lewd to have Terry stretch his root hole open. He bites his tongue when Terry starts fingering him. “Mmghh…!” It hurt so good. 

“Damn, Korvo, you’re so tight. Tighter than Honey Boo Boo’s training bra!” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Seriously, you make Terri look like a corner street hooker! Because you’re so tight, get it?” 

“Yes, Terry. I get it.” 

Terry lapped at Korvo’s hole, then stuck the tip of his tongue in. Breathy moans spilled out of Korvo as he clencher himself around Terry’s tongue. Terry went back to sucking on Korvo’s root while slowly pushing his finger inside of Korvo’s hole. Korvo’s moans crescendoed with every millimeter Terry pushed in. Terry tried to wriggle his finger and stretch out Korvo’s hole as much as he could before squeezing in another one. 

“Ahh… Ahh! T-Terry! Oh my god--Terry! Mmphh!” Korvo grinded his hips against Terry’s fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! T-Th-That feels s-so good!” He was close to cumming all over again. 

Terry took his mouth off of Korvo’s root and began twirling the root around his finger. He wasn’t one to brag, but it was known that he had the best root-twirling technique in his class. Korvo’s root was, thankfully, very flexible and easily conformed to the twirled form. Terry quickly shoved the root as deep into Korvo’s hole as possible. There was a soft squelch underneath Korvo’s grunts. Terry got on top of Korvo, pinned Korvo’s arms over his head, and kissed him as he gently pushed his root inside of Korvo. 

Korvo wrapped his legs around Terry’s hips. He finally understood the human concept of “heaven” and it was Terry holding him down and jack-hammering away at his hole. Within seconds, he was already cumming. His root clenched hard around Terry’s and squirted more lubrication for Terry to penetrate even deeper and harder. 

It wasn’t long until Terry cummed, too. His hot nectar filled Korvo up and leaked all over both of their groins. He slowed down, then eventually paused. This was usually around the time when Korvo started to cry again. He rested his sweaty forehead against Korvo’s. “Korvo?” 

The waterworks came back. “Terry, I love you so much! I-I-I’m sorry I keep crying d-during s-s-sex!” 

“It’s okay, I love you too.” He accepted more tear-stained kisses. “Do you wanna keep going?” 

Korvo shook his head no. 

Terry got off of Korvo and hugged Korvo and patted his back while he cried. “It’s okay, Korvy… I love you a lot, too! We have a house and replicants and a cute little Pupa--we really nailed this whole family thing, huh?” 

All in all, Terry would say that it was a very successful date night. 

[snarkystjames]

Listen To Your Heart || St. Berry

Date: December 13th. Late afternoon

Location: McKinley High School & Rachel’s house

Starring: Rachel Berry @starberrycupcake & Jesse St. James

Notes:  Jesse shows up at McKinley after hearing Rachel is banned from seeing her boyfriend. He offers to help her study.

Warnings: partial song fic bc it’s glee (gross)

Rachel Berry: 

Rachel had begun the year determined and not distracted by anything and now here she was, almost the end of the first semester of her senior year completely consumed with something other than the future. It had felt so good to be so focused on Hunter and absolutely nothing else but now that she was grounded until her grades were up, she was frustrated with herself. She didn’t regret being with Hunter in the least bit. She’d had the best, most wild three months of her entire life and she wasn’t about to regret any of it because of school. She would just have to pull herself together and quickly get her grades up and she and Hunter would be off to starting their future in no time. 

Her teachers were seemingly exasperated with her constant requests for extra credit and make-up work so she could hopefully pull her grade up before her GPA dropped significantly. Though reluctant, they still gave her a much needed chance and she knew that if she could just get it all done she would be set and she could see Hunter on her birthday without having to sneak around. It had only been a couple of days but knowing she couldn’t see Hunter made her want to see him even more.

Rachel was just finishing up glee club when she sent a text to her boyfriend, letting him know she was finally out of class and was thinking of him when she bumped into a familiar face right outside the door, almost knocking her phone out of her hand. “Oh! Jesse!” She glanced around to make sure her glee peers were nowhere to be found. “If any of the New Directions see you, they’re going to flip out on me.” She let her eyes trail up to his face, her demeanor softening a bit. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

Jesse St. James:

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to see you, of course,” Jesse replied with his usual confident demeanor. He had been waiting right outside and as soon as he’d seen Rachel come out of the room, he was right in front of her. He didn’t care whether or not any of the other New Directions’ kids would’ve spotted him. “I’m not here to spy but you were amazing in that last number-- someone might want to tell Finn that he was a little pitchy on the last refrain because he probably doesn’t even realize.”

Jesse smoothed out the front of his jacket, playing with the ends of his chiffon scarf for just a moment before smiling at Rachel. “Vocal Adrenaline is taking a break from rehearsals today-- a rarity-- so I thought it'd be the perfect opportunity to see you. Is your boyfriend going to mind if I'm here to see you?"

Rachel Berry:

Rachel felt a little apprehensive about seeing Jesse at all much less alone, especially considering the smile that involuntary spread across her face at the way he told her he was there for her. Their history was complicated and Jesse had a great track record of making her feel on top of the world and then ripping the rug out from under her. For some reason, however, she trusted him each time. Even now despite her apprehension she could feel the trust. 

Rachel chuckled, shaking her head. “Finn was fine, he’ll be ready by competition. We did win Sectionals after all.” A cheeky grin spread across her face as she looked at her former lover but it quickly faded when he mentioned Hunter. She felt mildly uncomfortable in that moment, thinking she should maybe tell Hunter about this little run in. “I’m sure Hunter wouldn’t be thrilled to know you’re here, especially considering that I’m grounded and not even allowed to see him.”

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Rachel glances around again before sighing. He had come all this way to see her. “I can’t really hang out too long because my dads will be home in a couple of hours and I’m supposed to be home when they get there…” she offered, letting him know that if he wanted, she could make the time for him.

Jesse St. James:

“Congratulations on the Sectionals win, by the way. It’ll be fun to see you and your boyfriend go head-to-head at Regionals; I’m sure we’ll be seeing you at Nationals again this year,” Jesse grinned. Upon hearing that she and Hunter were banned from seeing each other due to her being grounded, an idea popped into his head. Any time an opportunity presented itself to Jesse, he was raring to grasp it at first chance. 

“So let’s go to your house,” Jesse suggested, completely unbothered with the fact that he just invited himself over to Rachel’s house. “I’m sure your dads will be supportive of you getting homework help from me; I did go to college, after all.” Of course he intentionally left out the fact that he’d dropped out because he didn’t actually go to his classes. But that wasn’t a necessary detail right now.

Rachel Berry:

“Thank you,” Rachel grinned. “It will be a lot of fun because he’s as competitive as I am. That is if the Warblers even let him stay long enough.” She rolled her eyes, sighing as she thought of all the drama that Hunter had been through so far this year. “Of course I’ll be at Nationals. I have to win, it’s crucial to my reputation-- if I can start out in the Broadway scene as a national show choir champion it’ll be extremely helpful in getting the respect that I deserve.” 

Rachel raised her eyebrows at how forward Jesse was, though it shouldn’t have come as such a shock. “Jes, what makes you think I can have anyone over if I can’t have my boyfriend over?” She asked him, nodding her head towards the way she would begin to walk. “Wait, you want to help me with my homework?” She giggled. “Do you even know anything about Trigonometry?” Rachel couldn’t remember the last time - if there was ever a time - that Jesse even talked about homework or anything that wasn’t related to show choir or Broadway.  “I have some make-up homework- I actually could use help on it.” She said as she approached her locker, opening it up to grab the homework she needed to take home. “I had thought about sneaking out to Westerville but I don’t really have a way to get there and back before LeRoy and Hiram get home so..” She shrugged. 

Jesse St. James:

As Rachel walked towards her locker, Jesse accompanied her and met her pace. “Yeah, I’m great at math,” he boasted, though he honestly couldn’t say what he knew what trigonometry even looked like. “It’s just like, adding and subtracting stuff, right? How hard could it be?” At the mention of her going off to Westerville, Jesse nibbled on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say something about how that was a bad idea and Hunter was causing her to neglect her studies but he thought it wiser to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, before I forget,” he spoke up as she rummaged through her locker for her things. He pulled out a slim jewelry gift box, held closed by a simple gold ribbon. “I brought you your birthday present in case we don’t see each other before then. I figured you could use the pick-me-up after being grounded, too.” He handed off the box, giving her an expectant look for her to open it now. He looked happy and hopeful as she opened it to reveal a necklace with a small gold star charm.

Rachel Berry:

Rachel shook her head as a giggle fell from her lips. She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not but she was among towards him being serious which was no help to her. Still, it would be nice to have the company for a little bit. She was about to speak again when Jesse interrupted her by pulling out the small jewelry box. 

“What’s this?” A grin spread from ear to ear as she closed her locker and took the gift from him. When she opened it up to reveal the golden star, Rachel’s stomach flipped. “Oh, Jes…” her grin faltered a little bit as the weight of the gift settled in her. It was incredibly sweet and it made her heart skip a beat. “You shouldn’t have, I can’t accept this..” she tried weakly to deny his thoughtful gift. “It’s too much.” Her brown eyes looked up to meet his, her voice soft. 

Jesse St. James: 

“Stop it, it’s your birthday gift,” Jesse pushed, taking the gift box from her and stepping behind her. “A girl such as yourself should have the best accessories to accentuate your beauty and talent.” He helped to put it around her neck and once he was done, he returned to stand in front of her to get a good look. “See? It looks perfect.” You look perfect.

So it was probably pretty obvious to everyone that Jesse still had feelings for Rachel but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do nice things for her-- especially since the gift was for her birthday. With Hunter out of the way for the time being, he knew this was his chance to get back in Rachel’s good graces and establish himself as her close friend. “So? Are we going back to your place to study?”

Rachel Warbler:

Rachel bit down on her lip as Jesse moved to slip the necklace around her neck, placing her hand on the small gold star that now rested on the base of her neck. It was the sweetest gift anyone had ever given her. When he came back to get a look at her, a blush painted her cheeks at his words. Shaking her head gently, Rachel smiled at him. “Thanks, Jesse. I really love it.” She felt the warmth in her cheeks spreading down her neck, the effect he had on her was obvious and she was regrettably transparent. 

When Jesse suggested going to her house, she let out a soft sigh, checking the time. “I suppose, but you have to leave at five. You can’t be there when my dads get home, I’m walking a fine line and I don’t want to not see Hunter until we graduate.” She explained as she gathered her things, closing up her locker for the day. Hunter. She again felt compelled to let Hunter know that Jesse had showed up. “And you have to help me with my homework to some extent- no distractions.” Rachel pulled out her phone as she led the way to leave the school, sending a text to Hunter to give him the heads up that Jesse showed up at McKinley and was giving her a ride home. “Can I get a ride home?” She asked Jesse, glancing over at him. “My dads dropped me off and I’m supposed to get a ride from Kurt but there’s no need for him to go out of his way since you’re here.” She smiled.

Jesse St. James:

Jesse grinned ear to ear when Rachel finally agreed to him coming over. Even if it was a few hours, he’d take what he could get. “Yeah, of course. My Range Rover is parked right over here,” he gestured in the direction of his car once they were outside. “I promise I won’t do anything to distract you but I also wouldn’t be opposed to singing with you if you wanted; it’s been a while since we’ve had a duet together. You know our voices sound phenomenal together.”

When they both got into the car, Jesse’s phone connected via bluetooth and he scrolled through his music, looking for the perfect song for such an occasion. He knew the Rachel Berry he loved-- who also loved him-- was in there somewhere… He just needed to coax her out. The opening melody of Roxette’s Listen To Your Heart started playing over the speakers as Jesse started driving out of the parking lot and towards Rachel’s home.

Rachel Berry:

A smile spread across Rachel’s face when Jesse suggested singing with her. It had been a bit since they’d had the pleasure of singing together and she would be lying to herself and everyone else if she said they didn’t fit together vocally. He was the only person that could ever keep up with her talent. That is, until she met Hunter. “I suppose a harmless duet wouldn’t hurt.” She said as she got into his car, settling in and buckling her seatbelt. 

When she heard the first note of the song flow through the speakers, her stomach clenched and she glanced over at Jesse, a small grin tugging at her lips. She knew the song and she knew it well, obviously. His choice of song wasn’t lost on her and she knew that she shouldn’t lead him on-- but she also couldn’t resist a chance to belt out one of her most favorite classics.  Shifting in her seat a little, she folded her hands in her lap, closing her eyes.

I know there's something in the wake of your smile I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yeah You've built a love but that love falls apart Your little piece of Heaven turns too dark

Jesse St. James:

Jesse had known that Rachel couldn’t resist this song. When she started singing in that crystal-clear voice that Jesse adored so much, he couldn’t help but to smile and nod his head. He kept his eyes on the road but glanced over to her whenever he had the chance. These days, it was rare for him to hear Rachel singing unless it was at a competition. Singing with her was an even rarer occurrence.

When the next verse started, he sang along with her. Just like the first time they sang Hello together in the music library those years ago, their voices melted together beautifully.

Listen to your heart

When he's calling for you

Listen to your heart

There's nothing else you can do

While stopped at a red light, Jesse looked over to her and when he caught her gaze, smiled brightly at them. Regardless if on a big stage, in the choir room, or doing a little karaoke in the car, Jesse always enjoyed singing with her.

Rachel Berry:

When Jesse’s voice melted with hers during the chorus, Rachel couldn’t stop the smile that appeared on her face, looking over to Jesse to catch his eye when they were stopped. 

Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile

The precious moments are all lost in the tide, yeah

They're swept away and nothing is what is seems

The feeling of belonging to your dreams

She kept her eyes on Jesse as she sang with him, giving it her all as usual. She could feel something crawling up from the depths of her heart, something that was supposed to be shoved deep down to never be touched again. It felt good to sing with Jesse but for a brief moment as she looked to the man next to her she saw Hunter- the mirage taking her breath for a split second. Rachel shook her head, she sang with other people all of the time, it didn’t mean anything because it was Jesse.

The only man who’d ever come close to knowing her as much as Hunter did.

Jesse St. James:

Jesse was in high spirits as they continued to harmonize through the song. He liked the way she looked at him when they sang to each other. After the song eventually came to an end, Jesse turned down the volume as the next track played.

“Still as amazing as always; it’s a wonder why you’re not already on the fast track to Broadway,” he said to her. They were just a few blocks away from her house by now. “It’s too bad you can’t pass all your classes by just singing… You’d be valedictorian.”

When they pulled up to the house, Jesse parked his car in the driveway. It’d been a little while since he’d been over to her house-- not since when they were still dating each other. It almost felt like stepping into a timewarp, into the past.

Rachel Berry:

Rachel blushed again for the second time that day when Jesse complimented her, giggling softly. “That’s really sweet.” She said, looking over at him as he parked. “What about you, though? You’re equally as talented as I am...if not more so. You shouldn’t be here in Ohio-- you should be in New York already.” She shook her head, her tone serious. “I know Vocal Adrenaline is important to you...but they’re holding you back.” 

She knew from the times they’d spoken that Jesse wasn’t back solely for Vocal Adrenaline-- but for her. “You can’t let anything-- including me-- hold you back.” Nibbling on her bottom lip, she grinned a little, reaching over to place her hand on his. “You’re too good for this place, Jes.” Rachel gave his hand a gentle squeeze before moving to take off her seatbelt. 

Jesse St. James:

Jesse was quiet for a moment after Rachel told him that he shouldn’t let anything hold him back. It was nice that someone believed in him-- that he was destined for bigger and better things than Ohio. He squeezed her hand back and smiled at her. “This is just a temporary gig-- another credit I can list on my growing résumé,” he insisted, knowing that he couldn’t be confined to such “small picture” ventures.

When they exited the vehicle, Jesse let Rachel lead the way up the path towards the front door. “But for the record, it isn’t you that’s holding me back,” Jesse clarified, pausing for a moment to clear his throat, “New York is still my future. You’re part of that future, too.”

Rachel Berry:

Rachel paused briefly with her keys in the door as Jesse reiterated that she would be part of that future. It was sort of flattering that Jesse was so adamant. She may be part of his future career-wise but romantically she just couldn’t do it. Anytime the thought tried to crawl out from the back of her mind all she could see was Hunter. “We will take over the Broadway scene,” she chuckled, opening the door to let them in. “Our names will be in everyone’s mouth.” She dreamed for a moment about her and Jesse being friends and being a powerful force in New York together. 

“You and Hunter getting along is crucial, though, or it’ll never work.” Rachel cleared her throat as she led him into the dining room, placing her things on the table. She was suddenly very aware that she was alone with Jesse and it made her palms a little sweaty. “So, uh, trigonometry…”

Jesse St. James: 

"Oh, definitely. The first time you have a leading role, you and I will win for Best Actress and Best Actor; we'll do so much press as the two ingenues from Podunk, Ohio who made names for themselves-- together." Jesse followed Rachel into her home, also acutely aware that with her parents not present it made them very much alone. He took the time to take a look around, familiarizing himself with how things looked similar to the last time he was here. Nostalgia washed over him, picturing his teenage self with a doe-eyed sixteen year old Rachel Berry singing duets together around the piano in the living room.

Jesse forced himself to step away from the past, aware that he needed to put himself in the present to continue being part of Rachel's life. "So what's Hunter's plans? College in New York? He probably wants to do something boring like being an accountant, right?"

Rachel Berry:

Rachel chuckled to herself as she took a seat at the table, noticing the way Jesse skirted around her prompt for the homework help that he’d come for. She should’ve known better-- Jesse couldn’t actually help her with her homework. He just wanted to spend time with her and if she were being honest, she did, too. She wanted to spend time with him without Hunter around so she could assess Jesse’s actual intentions and feelings and if he could actually handle just being her friend.

“I told you, we’re moving to New York. He’s wanting to go to Cornell- which, admittedly, isn’t ideal because it puts two more hours between us than we have now but it’s not like we can’t make it work. We’ll meet halfway most times, I’m sure.” She said, having not given much thought to their future other than the fact that they were going into it together, even if it meant being apart for a few more years. “His father wants him to go into the Navy, follow in his footsteps. But we haven’t talked about that much, though.” Nibbling on her lip, Rachel tried to push the thought from her mind as she usually did. She hoped that when the time came, Hunter would choose her over the Navy without prompt and she didn’t have to be that girl.

Jesse St. James:

“Navy?” Jesse murmured to himself, wondering how that would impact Rachel’s future. “So he’ll be on a boat somewhere? Like a sailor out to sea for weeks and weeks at a time..? Doesn’t sound like fun.” He finished perusing through the living room before returning to Rachel’s side at the dining room table. Her books were spread out on the table and when Rachel opened up the math book, his eyes became wide like saucers. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was looking at, but he wasn’t about to make that apparent.

“A sailor and a broadway superstar don’t really mix, do they? It’s not exactly the ‘Broadway power couple’ I envision when I see you walking down the red carpet at events.” Jesse flipped through the pages of the trigonometry book, eyes scanning the content to see if there was even a little bit of something he understood so he could help.

Rachel Berry:

Rachel sighed, looking down at the table as Jesse mentioned Hunter being away for long periods of time out in the middle of the ocean. She really hadn’t taken a moment to sit alone with those thoughts and really assess. She thought being grounded from Hunter was bad, but what about when he was shipped off somewhere and she couldn’t speak to him every single day whenever she pleased? She suddenly felt nauseous.

“M-maybe it’s not ideal. But it’s what he wants...he doesn’t hold me back from what I want.” She was trying to convince herself rather than Jesse. “If...if the Navy is what he wants to do then I can’t stop him.” Rachel trailed off, thinking of the first date she’d gone on with Hunter when they had discussed their lives. “Though...I don’t really think it’s what he wants really. I think his dad is more or less pressuring him into it.” As these thoughts began to nibble at her anxiety ridden brain, she wasn’t so much focused on getting to her homework. Glancing over at Jesse, Rachel shook her head. “Do you know anything about the Navy? Do they, like, go to actual war?” She realized then she had little to no knowledge of any military branch.  

Jesse St. James:

Upon hearing that Rachel wasn’t especially supportive of Hunter’s decision to join the Navy, Jesse thought to himself that perhaps he found the fracture in their seemingly perfect relationship. It would be cruel to manipulate Rachel, but honesty was the best policy… Being upfront with her about his opinion of the military wasn’t the wrong thing to do, right? “Oh, I’m pretty sure people in the Navy go to war,” he answered, leaning back in his chair a little. “I mean, I only know from television but there’s a bunch of ships and submarines in the ocean watching the Koreans, right? It’s like, an island, right? So it’s surrounded by water. Isn’t the US. on the brink of a war with them right now?”

He backed off a little when he realized he might be scaring Rachel. “Maybe you can convince him not to join the military. The guy’s in show choir too, right? I mean, there’s no way he can get into NYADA but lots of actors hack it in New York without an education. He could totally get an ensemble role.”

Rachel Berry:

“War?” Rachel asked, looking at Jesse with her forehead wrinkled, the nausea turning her stomach again. “L-like, war?” She shook her head, imagining the worst case scenario. There was a vivid image in her mind of her in New York, alone. And then another of her coming backstage from curtain call of one of her shows to a phone call letting her know that Hunter was dead and never coming back. She took a shaky breath, closing her eyes and shaking her head as she tried to calm the anxiety that was rapidly building in her chest. 

“Uh, yeah,” She cleared her through, pressing her lips together as she looked down. “He’s extremely talented. He’s better than me, even. Well...at least just as talented.” Rachel explained, rubbing her hands over her face, taking another breath. “I just don’t…” She tried to get the images out of her head again, sighing. “Maybe...maybe he won’t go. Maybe he’ll change his mind and realize that it’s not his dream and he’ll find something else. Y-yeah...maybe.” Rachel placed her hands down on the table, sitting up a little straighter, visibly uncomfortable, anxious. She didn’t want to think about this anymore, it was scaring her and she didn’t have Hunter there to comfort her and talk it through. She didn’t want to have an anxiety attack in front of Jesse, either, regardless of whether or not he’d seen it before.

Jesse St. James: 

Jesse mentally kicked himself when he realized Rachel was on the verge of an anxiety attack, clearly caused by him. “If anyone can convince someone into doing something, it’s you. If he really likes performing as much as either of us you can convince him to do something else with his life. Besides, who goes to college just to waste it in the military? That’s just dumb…” Maybe he would talk to Hunter too; it was the least he could do after making Rachel unnecessarily worry. “I mean, weren’t you just talking about Ohio and Vocal Adrenaline holding me back? Don’t be surprised to run into me this time next year because I am definitely going to New York, too. Even if I have to bus tables while I go to every audition out there, I’m going.” 

His tone about New York was much more self-assured than before and it was all thanks to Rachel’s words. She had an innate ability to cheer anyone on, right beside them. Even if Rachel wasn’t actually doing anything, she really was a driving force for Jesse to find his place. He just hoped that when he landed on his own two feet Rachel would be standing right beside him.

Rachel Berry:

Rachel just nodded her head as Jesse tried to talk her down from the looming anxiety attack. “I guess. I...I don’t even really want to think about it anymore.” She tried to get the jarring images to leave her mind as she took a deep breath, appreciating the way Jesse changed the subject. 

“Y-yeah...I know you’ll be there. I don’t doubt that.” She looked over to Jesse, placing her hand on his. “That’s why it’s important to me that we all get along. We’re going to be in each other’s professional lives at the very least.” She said, giving him a gentle smile. “It’ll be really nice to have a familiar face to work with, I’m glad it’ll be you. I mean that.”

Jesse St. James:

Jesse nodded a bit when she agreed that they’d all be in New York together. At least while Hunter was in college figuring his future out, Jesse would be the third wheel; he had that much guaranteed for him and he was completely fine playing the slow game. Rachel had almost gone back to him once before, so it was only a matter of time. “Right? The three of us will be bonafide New Yorkers in no-time. Now c’mon, I promised to help you with your math homework so tell me what chapter you’re on and I’ll look up the answers on my phone.”

He was satisfied that he managed to talk her down a bit and she was smiling, so he took it as a good sign. Her worries were obviously still there because a matter like that wasn’t going to be overlooked; Jesse knew her too well to know that he’d inadvertently planted a seed of anxiety somewhere in Rachel’s brain. One thing was certain to him, however: if Hunter was going to commit to the military, things might not work out for him and Rachel. That was the golden opportunity Jesse had been waiting for.

[facepalming-since-chernobyl]

State of the pilots, ABC, TSE, etc.

I didn’t even realize today was the day of you know who and you know what till just now.  I’d imagine everyone in both “camps” is going to be severely on edge today so we could all use a distraction.  The discussion about the TSE pilot is brewing so I thought this is a good time to talk about a few things.

Disclaimer: First off, I want to say like all of us here, I wish nothing but amazing things for Chris in his career.  Anything I say here is not because I want him or his show to fail or wish he were back for karamel endgame or to play Kai or anything like that.  Everything I’m going to discuss is just the facts and how things go.

Like I said before, ABC has a few pilots in contention this season and a few guaranteed vacated timeslots and the possibility of more.  Here’s a list of all its shows in a table to look at just for reference:

https://www.spoilertv.com/2019/09/spoilertv-broadcast-cancellation.html

To address these comments from Peggy and chelsea before I continue:

“TSE is a drama script, it will fight against other dramas not comedies” - not true, ABC doesn’t have two different networks, one for comedies, one for dramas, it is all one network and regardless of the type of shows it picks up, there are limited timeslots so all the pilots are in the same boat and competing against each other.  Whether it’s drama or comedy doesn’t necessarily matter except to affect what time length of timeslot it’ll take up.

“I know revivals are hit or miss but this has so much going for it, it’s hard to imagine it not being successful.” - right now, the first stage of this show, or any new show, isn’t ratings or performance success, it’s getting beyond the pilot stage and making it on the air.  That’s where TSE actually is at the moment.

Some background on how the process works because I think people got caught up reading the news about Chris and thought the show is all ready to go.  It may be and we don’t know it yet, but formally, this is not the case.  Here’s how the process works behind the scenes the few months up to a show actually getting or not getting on the air:

1. Each network buys hundreds of pilot scripts a year.  They go through as many as possible, and the ones that look most promising are pared down to only a handful.

2. Of those handful, the network tells the people behind those properties to make a pilot episode (the stage TSE is in).  They’re told to make an actual episode of what the show would be like.  It’s like seeing recipes on a menu for a start-up restaurant and one of them is made into the actual dish.  If they like what they get, they can order more, if not, they can pass on it.

3. Of the pilots that are made into actual episodes, the networks go through them.  They watch them and sometimes have them shown to test audiences and gauge their feedback which is necessary to see how the people actually watching will react.  Do the audiences hate/love a particular actor/character?  Storyline, something else?  All this is good to know if the reviews are mixed and the network really likes the idea/creators/etc. and want to keep the show but need to make changes to get people to like it or like it more.  Sometimes this means casting changes too - the original Charmed series recast Lori Rom with Alyssa Milano for the character of Phoebe.

4. Depending on the availability of timeslots due to ending/cancelled shows, they’ll order the necessary number of shows to series.  One thing about this: if they love something enough from the get-go for a particular reason, they’ll forego the pilot process above and order it straight to series.  Example: the Walker pilot (Jared Padalecki) and Superman one, easy to see why CW didn’t bother with the pilot for those and just gave a series order to both.  ABC also has one of these this season which is guaranteed a timeslot and chance to air, a thriller based on a book series starring respected producer David E. Kelley who was behind The Practice.

So here’s my concern.  There are many shows on ABC already, ones that have been there for years with varying guarantees of renewal.  There are only so many scheduling hours on a broadcast network so it can’t pick up everything.  Here are the current guaranteed shows ending this season:

1. How to Get Away With Murder

2. Fresh off the Boat

3. Modern Family

4. Agents of Shield

I don’t know about the comedies, but Emergence (*SOB*) is also definitely cancelled and Stumptown could be too according to the TV Grim Reaper is also reporting the ratings have been dropping of late: https://www.tvgrimreaper.com/2020/02/10/predictions-week-21-stumptown-is-likely-to-be-canceled/5226/

Okay, so let’s say they’re both cancelled.  That vacates I would say about close to 6 hours of vacant scheduling time ABC must account for in the fall/spring season.  I’m not going to include other shows that could also be cancelled and other shows not on the list because that makes it too complicated for now.  I’ll be generous and say ABC has 5-6 hours to fill.

Here are ABC’s pilots in contention so far according to Deadline, one of them is already ordered to series and guaranteed a timeslot this fall:

https://deadline.com/pilot/2020-abc-pilots-series-orders/

Thus far, it’s 6 shows in contention to make it to air though I’ve read stories in other places saying ABC has also picked up two more comedies.  If my math is correct or at least reasonably close, I would say at most ABC can order maybe 3 of the drama pilots and 1-2 of the comedies or something else depending on the drama/comedy ratio.  

Here’s my wild guess of what will happen/hope happens based on the loglines only: ABC orders Rebel, TSE, and The Brides and whatever comedies it wants and the rest of them get a pass.  Here’s why I think so: 

Rebel - based on the life of Erin Brockovich and has cast Katey Segal as the lead character, I’m sure they’re clamoring to bring in fans of the movie/Julia Roberts and Katey Segal is probably in demand too

The Brides - premise sounds completely ill-fitting for an ABC show to me but everyone wants to work with Berlanti nowadays, he’s the new Shonda on steroids and produces like ½ the shows on tv now and he has a history with ABC, produced the very successful Brothers and Sisters which coincidentally the Olins worked on as did several Arrowverse actors including Calista Flockhart

TSE - I’ve said enough about it of late, Karey Burke was a fan of the original, supposedly they’ve been given the green light to set up a writers’ room though no official overtures of it being ordered to series - I am optimistic, I think the only real concerns I have other than the lack of space is how good not only this pilot is but the others are

So here’s what going to happen now and in the near future.  The TSE pilot is shooting next month.  From news I’m seeing on Deadline and the trades, the others have been casting and are probably getting ready to shoot too or shooting already.  Sometime between the time the pilot is finished and network upfronts in May, ABC will screen all of them and make decisions on each: which to order to series as is, which to order on the contingency they make changes (like recasting if needed) and which to just pass on.  These made a pilot episode but they will most likely never see the light of day though it can be shopped to other networks/outlets.  

Once the cast is done shooting, they’ll be placed on holds for another 2 months in case the show goes to series, they’re not committed to other projects and the network doesn’t have to go through the time/expense of recasting that role.  Once the decision is made - whatever is picked up to series will be presented at upfronts - they all gather in early fall to begin shooting the show.

Basically, we’re in a waiting game now for the next few months to hope the show is picked up and sending good thoughts that once it is, it’ll do well in the ratings, a whole other topic entirely I think is too soon to comment on.  I know the news we’ve gotten so far is very promising that it could be successful, sure, but it is a waiting game till it’s announced at May upfronts, if it is.  Bottom line being?  Everyone keep your fingers crossed still.  And if you don’t mind reading through all the scripts, let me know how good/bad they are.  I know I made my predictions for what I think will be picked up and passed on but the reality is no one will know for sure till the dust settles.  For all we know, the pilots I think get chosen are terrible and the ones I think will get passes are fantastic.  You can just never know.  

EVERYONE send out plenty of good thoughts for Chris and Odette!!!!  Thanks for coming to another overly long TED talk.  ;)

***

Wow, thanks for submitting it :)

[umbillicalnoose]

i think that you would think im pretty and would like my poetry and i want to share it with you. im shy.

to be honest, im very apathetic these days. im not the nice “cutesy baby flower petal boy” i used to be. a lot has happened & im bitter & sullen & all in all, a pretty shitty friend/person to know. i used to possess some redeeming qualities, believe it or not, even if they were construed by the subconscious in an attempt to be likeable - a facade, even tho its only a facade, is still tangible, still there, is still something, even if not authentic. is poorer character forgivable in the name of presenting more authentically? but nah. that makes it sound like im putting effort into being a better person, which im not. im just sort of fried & done. its been a very long time since i played the role i built for myself on here of the “small fawn boy who wants to help girls” lmaooo. how embarrassing. altho, i was just a kid, & i guess, if you had a tumblr as a teenager, you went thru some cringe (i know the use of that word has fallen in on itself & adopted its own definition but for lack of a better one) ass phases, whether it was kinning or malingering mental illness or oh fucking christ, all that gender bullshit, etc etc. from what ive observed, tho, loosely following kids im still casually friends with that i met on here, i think we’ve all managed to Grow The Fuck Up, at least a little. most of us have jobs or r in school or have partners - growing up & moving on is a very surreal experience to watch/go thru. im moving at my own pace & ive accepted that - im still currently using & starving myself & concocting a suicide plan every day but at least i use clean needles as much as possible, i actively & honestly do strive for the bare minimum calorically, & um able to work with the mentality of “well ill have this when i need it but todays not that day” a lot more readily, in relation to suicide shit. ive finally found a therapist who Really Gets It, is a frontrunner internationally on ritual & extreme abuse & mind control. its pretty incredible what a few years with a good therapist can do. anyways. im sorry, i know you didnt ask for all this & im not even sure why i divulged. i guess, what tipped me off, was your attempt at sounsing “cute” - dude, cut that shit out, i promise youll be a lot better off. & i know everyone interchanges aspects of their personality based on who theyre talking to/who they percieve themselves to be talking to, but i feel like not a lot of people give enough credence to the internet & its hand in shaping/molding young people, kids, vulnerable dumbasses, especially tumblr (tho, i get that its a relatively new phenomenon) - u get a bunch of the “weird”, “alternative”, ““ostracized” kids together on a website, of course its gonna nurture a culture of hypervalidatoon & pretending to be sick in order to fit in to the point that its not an act anymore & exacerbation of symptoms & basically, just sucking each others dicks, sitting in ur own shit, & never ending coddling. & then, you have the older group of kids, who have played this game before but instead of helping or ignoring the Dumbshit kids, they indulge their own normally-buried-but-unleashed-by-internet-anonymity sadism/human instinct to just be fucking dicks & so now you have this vicious cycle of anger & hatred & fucking melodrama up the urethra. im sorry, i know im comig off as/am being harsh but god fuckin dammit yknow? also, this isnt directed at you, specifically, more of a generalized thing, @ myself included. so uh. i mean, if u still wanna share it with me after reading all this, id be happy to read ur poetry. i used to be over the top nice & then reverted to Major Asshole & am now trying to find that sweet middle spot - honoring & allowing myself to share my pain without putting it on others. which is really hard!! cuz becoming a Dick was difficult in that it forced me to be more honest with my true self & as such, more vulnerable - now in trying to become Kinda Nice again because despite being a pulsating scrotom, ive had the intense desire for friendship & human interaction, while simultaneously doing things that i was consciously aware was pushing others away - but then, if i pretend to be nice, where does that authenticity i worked for & was so scared of go? & i dont mean telling someone their new haircut looks nice even when it doesnt - thats just not being a dick. but i guess, those r the normal trials & tribulations of any relationship & adolescent developing identity. which is weird too - dealing with “normal” issues, i mean. whats the point if your life/limbs/breaking point arent at risk? whats the point when your best friends already dead. im sick of people calling "survivors” (despise that word, so fucking female-originated & overdramatic) “brave” & “strong” - surviving is not brave or strong. its just survival. you wouldnt call an animal brave for running for its life from a predator but you would call a dog courageous for going into a burning building to save its owner. premeditated action on the notion that you are probably going to be hurt is brave. being subjected to pain with no choice is not. theres no “silver lining” or anything “good” to be drawn from it either - sure it may have made x a more compassionate person or made y more introspective & gentle but you know what would have been even fucking better??? if the shit hadnt happened in the first place! let x be an asshole & y be self absorbed - the “benefits”, so to speak, do not outweigh the cost, not by a long fucking shot. its not only patronizing to hear garbage like that, but a slap in the face to know that anyone could possibly see anything good coming from that nightmare & that the characteristics, good or bad, you developed either in response to or as a result of, are worth praise. dont tell me im strong for doing what i had to to escape a torture chamber - tell me im perseverant for studying my ass off & passing that test last week. in the words of one of my dearest & most fucking brilliant friends, “pain doesnt owe me/you purpose - the need to intellectualize & assign meaning to pain & death is not only futile, but harmful.” & honestly, i think that it stems from weakness (in most cases - i realize theres a plethora of other reasons such as those who r just desperate for something to hold on to or r hyperintellectual & analytical or who have been pressured by external “support” systems to find the “good” etc etc) - while the majority of people view the person who “can find the good in everything” (strictly speaking only in relation to trauma/tragedy here & more in denunciation of those that celebrate this trait as opposed to vilifying “survivors” who respond this way, though in my experience, its very very very rarely the “survivor” that perpetrates this ideology ) as strong, i sort of see it as a weakness - their inability to sit with & absorb their own pain or that of others is so strong that not only do they have to frantically pull rainbows out of the teeth of a meat cleaver, they also have to exist within this strange (tho, not malicious - more subconscious) superiority complex. like, nah, dude, some times shit is just awful. you cant tell me anything fucking good came out of a four year old girl being kidnapped, gangraped, & tortured for two years, before being impaled & left to die on a stake. her mom opened a non profit organization? oh well thank fucking god for that!!! those that believe the latter to be more “enlightened” or whatever the fuck r the same people who say shit like “dying is easy - living is harder” & i get that that its supposed to be interpreted metaphorically for the most part - giving up is easy, trying isnt (which also.....isnt true??? admitting defeat & fully accepting the fact that ur fucking helpless is beyond hard lmao???) - but pretend youre somewhere, anywhere outside ur sunny little fucking yoga studio full of white women whos biggest issues r the pta & johnny whos failing math, & lets say your life is in real, imminent danger, a gun is to your head & i want you to not scream or cry or beg for ur life since dying is “easier”. if dying is so easy, why do the majority of ppl cling to it with such desperation - why is suicide illegal? why do some ppl go thru 100s of chemo treatments even tho the doctors say theyre just prolonging the inevitable, ppl who cut off a diseased arm so it wont spread, those who walk dozens of miles every day for food & water, etc? & i know & understand the survival instinct better than anyone, even when i wanted to die more than anything, my natural instincts would kick in with no conscious neural input & id do what i had to do. im not condemning those who cling to life (ok - a little. ur wasting resources out of ur own fear. but i also realize thats just me being a Fucking Asshole As Always cuz technically, im doing the same thing tho its more due to lack of opportunity rather than fear. i just think, societally, death should be more normalized, discussed, & not made out to be so unknown & scary), instead just reprimanding those who say shit like that (inspirational facebook quotes). especially cuz most of the ppl who do spew that shit have never gone thru anything even remotely difficult - their worst nightmare is a Big Scary Black Man grabbing them on the street, mugging them, & touching their tits. & i also know that these stupid ass sayings are to be applied to bullshit like exercise & fitness (“no pain no gain” is another one of my Favorites) & not fucking torture or even just ur run of the mill rape, even that would probably smash the rose tinted banana republic shades off their beverly hills tanned faces. but ive heard the no pain no gain one a handful of times in the last few weeks, specifically from doctors performing procedures in preparation for my bottom surgery. & i know its supposed to be encouraging & they have no way of knowing, but its just like, buddy, u have no idea who youre fucking talking to. & im starting to understand what THEY mean when they say it - pain with a reward is infinitely more tolerable than pain just for the sake of pain; like, a tattoo, it hurts, but u know, when its done, its gonna be sick as fuck. when u r able to fall back on the idea that its for something u rlly want, its A Lot easier to handle as opposed to pain thats Just Pain - theres no reward for it except, i guess, that the more u experience it, the closer u r to the end of it lmao. i mean, i still hate when ppl say it cuz for most of my life, pain was just pain, & the “reward” was the opportunity to go home at the end & so whenever ppl say that, my mind just immediately resorts back to that & im just like haha fuck u. but im trying to remember my experiences r definitely not universal & im starting to sorta understand what they mean i think. but, flipping gears here, & going back to the sentiment of “everything happens for a reason”, the base philosophy of psuedo deep Fuckwads - a girls dad didnt fuck her “for a reason”, everything doesnt happen “for a reason”. like ok, hypothetically, the kid he impregnated her with & that she was forced to have at 12 may surpass all odds & not become a homeless junkie & instead become a world renowned doctor who finds the cure for cancer. but she wasnt raped repeatedly from the age of six for that “reason”, no matter what anyone says & honestly, the liberation of the masses does not justify the suffering of one, especially a child. in my eyes at least. but again, im a bitter asshole. sorry i just Went The Fuck Off here oh my god.....if u read all this, thanks, pal. if not, thats cool too. but yea, send me ur stuff, id totally be down to read it. as for me potentially thinking ur cute, i have to look at my disgusting shitstain of a “face” every goddamn day so everyone else to me is fuckin aphrodite. but im also tryin to not put so much worth into physical appearance- its not something that should be complimented cuz its just smth a person was born with which is the same reason it shouldnt be insulted. this is gonna sound gay & stupid but i personally find that a persons essence & personality really permeates. you can meet someone who, objectively, isnt all that great looking, but once u get to know them, u really see their beauty - how the sun catches in their hair, their dilated pupils looking up at u from under long eyelashes in the dark, the birthmark on their right shoulder that they despise but that is so Them, the gap in their teeth, etc. & idk how to phrase this without it sounding like “well ur ugly but at least ur a good person”, cuz that only reiterates the societally indoctrinated emphasis on appearance & my kneejerk reaction to assure the person in question that thats not what im saying is only another result of that!!! its inescapable!!! but no, really, its not just a matter of “its on the inside that counts” - physically, they change or maybe, actually this is more likely, when i first meet them, my “default” eyes r just looking for features that i know im immediately attracted to (tall, blonde, sickly as in sunken eyes sticklike pale but still looks like she could & will beat the shit out of me) but as i fall in love or get to know them better, my eyes adjust & i notice & adore the beauty that was there all along. so uh. idk if ill think ur “cute”. but probably, yes, ill think ur an angel.

[zmediaoutlet]

side two, track two

this is a continuation of my previous fic ‘side two, track one’ -- the thought wasn’t entirely complete, it felt like, so here’s a little fic-coda

(read on AO3)

Somewhere on I-25 with the night curling up in misty frost against the windows, Sam falls asleep. Hardly anyone on the road, the occasional semi coming southbound to fill the Impala’s cabin with light. Anymore it’s hard for Dean to choose between trying to handle his crap alone and trying to distract himself, try to focus on anything else that isn’t the drumming thud of an archangel trying to break free of the barely adequate prison he’s making of himself. Feels most of the time like not splintering apart is about the best he can do. The road hums along below the tires and the engine’s rumbling up her usual steady growl, and he’s lost in thought when he realizes the tape ran out who knows how long ago, and he glances across the bench seat to find Sam tipped in, relaxed. He’s slumped down, his arms crossed over his belly, his knees bent toward Dean. His face is slack, soft.

Dean chews his lip, looks a minute longer. Absolutely no one on the road, can’t hurt anything. Sometimes when Sam’s sleeping he looks about ten years old—and what does that say, that it’s the first thing Dean thinks of?

His head hurts. He shifts, on the seat, drives. They said they were going to find a motel, and Dean’s going to, but as long as Sammy’s sleeping he’s got time to think, in the quiet. The almost-quiet. His passenger doesn’t stop rattling inside him, but he’s almost, sort of starting to get a handle on that. Feels—stronger, after today, after yesterday. Turns out there’s something he wants that’s greater than being free of a pissant, whiny archangel, and that all by itself is something that feels a little too big to get his arms around, without some quality road time.

Road rolls under the car, the world all black outside the halo of the headlights. Black fields, black hills. Dead grass barely lit to pale lifeless gold before it rolls out into nothing, until there’s white sparking back and there’s snow on the ground, and he finally gives in to the way his eyes are burning and pulls off for Casper and a motel he remembers that’s decent, or close enough for their purposes.

Freezing, here. North maybe wasn’t the right direction to pick, but he’d felt like a spinning compass, unmoored from any kind of magnet that wasn’t right there in the passenger seat. Here they are, anyway, and he rolls through the crunching snow into a black-ice parking lot, bright neon cutting blue and sharp over everything that reflects, nothing warm left. Alien planet.

He parks right in front of the lobby door and Sam finally wakes up when the engine cuts, starting bolt upright with a shocked breath through his teeth. “What,” he says, and Dean says, “Morning, princess,” and his voice is all road-gravel, unused. “Getting a room.”

Sam shakes his head, touches Dean’s jacket-sleeve, and Dean stops with his hand on the door handle, teeth sunk into the inside of his lip. “Jeez, it’s like—midnight?” Sam drags a hand down his face, eyebrows all a knot like he’s doing math problems. “Wyoming?”

“The Friendly Ghost,” Dean confirms, and Sam snorts, licks his lips, looks at him. “You want to get the room, or should I?”

“You,” Sam says, and sits back into his corner of the seat. The neon light slips over his hair, his skin, turns him blue-silver. His eyes, impossible to see. He bites his bottom lip, blue teeth, and the breath he takes puts an unavoidable beat before the smile he tries to put into his voice. “You can handle it, right?”

He rolls his eyes, even if Sam can’t see it, and makes sure to leave the door open enough for the zero-degree air to get all over all that blue skin before he slams it shut again. Like he doesn’t know it’s a test. They’ve been together long enough, he knows when Sam’s joshing him for real and when he’s covering for something. Even if sometimes he doesn’t know what he’s covering for. Even if, sometimes, there’s something real and blinding that’s right in front of both of them, and they just don’t see it. Well, fair enough, Dean thinks, stamping snow off his boots in the entryway. It was blinding. What did they expect.

When he comes out he’s got a butter mint tucked in his cheek and Sam’s pulling his coat on, standing shivering by the car flank. “Is frostbite one of your kinks?” Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, wrapping the coat around his skinny too-long torso, says, “What room?”

107, hardly far enough away to justify moving the car, but Dean does. Sam walks, for some reason, and so Dean’s alone again in the silent cabin, and he rolls the big black bulk of her over to sit in front of their room, and watches in the rearview as Sam’s narrow black shadow crosses the blue-white landscape. That neon sign is ridiculous, see-it-from-space big. Under the wash of it, there’s enough light for Sam to catch the room key when Dean tosses it to him, and Dean grabs their bags and lets Sam open up the door, and turn on the lamps, and in the bright gold triangle that spills out over the sidewalk Dean sees the second Sam clocks the king bed, and the sees too the look Sam sends back over his shoulder.

Bags on the table, and Dean rolls his shoulders. Fuck, he’s tired and wired at the same time. Nearly one in the morning and sleep wasn’t great the night before. Not that it ever is. Now, of course, there’s this.

“Yeah?” Sam says, closing the door behind them both. Dean blows out a long, chest-deflating breath, and when he turns Sam’s looking at him, shoulder against the door. He flicks the deadbolt closed, tosses the key onto the table past Dean’s hip. Doesn’t come closer. That cut’s still obvious, right across the bridge of his nose, the skin around his eye still purple-red. Doesn't look ten anymore, that's for sure. He's this—man. Familiar, except how he's not. Dean can still feel his hands, and if it was hard to think through in the huge empty night of driving, it's no easier with a closed door between them and anyone who could see, a big waiting mattress behind Dean's back. Sam frowns, lifts his chin. "Okay?"

Dean drops his head. "You keep asking that, like there's a good answer," he says, and he doesn't want to be looking at Sam's face when he says it. Still. Dean's the one who chose the damn room, chose the damn bed. Looked the clerk in the eye when he asked for it and saw how the guy didn't blink. Dean peels his jacket off, dumps it onto the pile of bags on the table, and it's just warm enough in here. Enough to block out the ice planet Hoth on the other side of the window. Not warm enough to prickle sweat in his hairline, on his back—Sam takes care of that, when he sways forward. Dean stays put, keeps his eyes open. He's making a choice. He made one. For Sammy, he's not going to go back on his word.

Sam puts his thumb on the scabbed-over cut on Dean's lip, tracks real careful down over the tender skin below it. His reflex is to cringe away, and for a split second he does, and then he stands still and lets Sam touch him. His body doesn't know what to do with this. Brain caught between yes and can't, and all his muscles and nerves trapped and tense. Sam's eyes jump from his mouth when he feels the flinch, but he doesn't pull back, either. A beat and there's a determined flex to his jaw, his fingers dragging along Dean's midnight o'clock shadow, pausing at the hinge there just below his ear before he steps forward, and Dean has to tip his head back to keep meeting his eyes. "I'm going to kiss you," Sam says, like it's just—information. There's a ghost in Biloxi, there's road work on I-10. Just so you know.

"It's not any less weird if you telegraph it, dude," Dean says, but he stays right where he is with his pulse hammering in what feels like the base of his gut. Sam shrugs, and tips down the three—four—however many inches, and it's the same utterly insane shocky burst of sensation it was that afternoon. Sam's familiar smell—hot breath—lips, and lips aren't all that different from person to person, Dean's kissed he doesn't even know how many people over his tangled up mess of a lifetime, and it shouldn't be anything new except for how it, fuck, is. Sam's fingers are long and hot and tip his jaw up, because for once in his life he has to tilt up to kiss, and he drags in a breath and puts a hand on Sam's waist, a little ballast against how the whole universe seems to have spun off into a Dorothy-style tornado. They sure as shit aren't in Kansas anymore.

When Sam pulls back, he doesn't do it all at once. More information Dean probably didn't need, even if it's turning his bones to melting heavy gold to know it. Sam nibbles at Dean's lower lip, and it hurts but Dean only shivers for it, and his nose brushes Dean's, and he hangs there breathing in Dean's air, and when Dean opens his eyes Sam's right there, still close and still tipping everything ass-over-teakettle. "Hm," Sam says, skating his fingers along Dean's hairline. "Still weird?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean says, in his absolute best you dork tone, and his best is real good. Doesn't matter; Sam's mouth hitches up, dimples peeking, and Dean swallows because it's been—a long time. A long, long time, since they were pointed his way, and Sam seemed… happy. He licks his lips, tastes Sam. Shrugs, and squeezes Sam's waist where he hasn't been able to make himself let go. "Guess weird's okay with me."

"That's because you're a freak," Sam says, soft like it's a secret, and he actually grins for real when Dean shoves him, and—yeah. It's ridiculous, crazy, maybe the stupidest thing they ever did. Stupidest ain't the same as worst, though, and it turns out, somehow, it's not in Dean to regret it.

He takes a shower. "You're not invited," he says, just in case he needs to make it clear, and Sam raises his eyebrows but—there's a line, even in this. Too much, too soon. His head throbbing, fists pounding inside his skull. The shower's quick, anyway, and Dean's not up for the vagaries of wet neck-breaking sex with this little sleep under his belt. Motel bathtubs and easily detachable curtains and two big guys—no. Maybe, though. Back home. The shower room's big, and they've showered together there once or twice before, when both of them needed to get the monster-grime off right away. Not looking at each other, even in all that light, although—Dean wasn't looking, except how sometimes, sure, he'd catch a glimpse, and things got filed away in the back of his head. He never caught Sam doing the same, but it doesn't mean Sam wasn't doing it.

He comes out in his boxer-briefs still rubbing his hair dry, to find just one of the bedside lamps on and Sam sitting in a thin undershirt, pajama pants, braced on the side of the mattress. Waiting. Ain't that a kick in the teeth. "Answer a question for me," Dean says.

Sam frowns at him, even if his eyes sweep quick from top to bottom. "What?"

That look. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, tosses his towel over his shoulder to land—wherever. Sam huffs, and it's so their-whole-lives Sammy that something clicks, settles. "Relax," Dean says, even though he knows that winds Sam up, and sure enough Sam's frown swoops lower and Dean rolls his eyes, even if he's biting back a smile. Can't let Sam know how endearing his pissy-face is. Wouldn't be nearly as satisfying to drag out, otherwise. Dean touches his shoulder, though, and the look fractures and dissolves, Sam looking up at him and the new thing between them hovers practically solid in the air.

Dean's too tired, though, and one revelation a day is maybe enough. Sam's fingers wrap around his wrist. "So," Dean says. "Sharing?"

Sam lifts a shoulder. "You're the one who got the king," he says, but he knows what Dean's asking. His mouth tilts, acknowledgment. The strangeness doesn't stop, even if they're looking at it head-on.

They climb into bed, and it's a big bed but they're big guys, and there's not as much space between them as Dean would've thought when he turns onto his side, curls his arm under his head. Sam mirrors him, and his knee bumps just under Dean's in the warm soft cave they're making, the snow heavy outside. Years, since they've shared a bed. More than a decade. "You remember—" Dean starts, and Sam grins before he can even finish it.

"That ghoul job in Kennewick," Sam says. "Man, that sucked."

It did, and hard. A spare room in a creepy house, and neither of them would take the floor because rats there were the least of the nasty crap that might've crawled out. Salt around the bed and they climbed in and fought for space, but it was warm, and they managed a few hours, kneeing each other and fighting for the blanket. Nothing fraught, like there is now, and even so they woke up pressed together, back to back. "Wasn't that bad," Dean says, now, and Sam's grin is softer, and his hand slips across the little space between them and touches Dean's arm.

"You kick, though," Sam says.

"You kick," Dean says. "And you're a blanket hog."

"Says the human burrito." Sam shakes his head, but his hand circles around Dean's arm. "Yeah, no answer to that one."

"Not dignifying it with a response," Dean says, but he's—distracted.

Clamor, inside his head, and it must be visible somehow on his face because Sam's expression changes. God, Dean wishes he could be done with this. Then again—he tried wishing for that, and look where it got him. Sam's looking at him, right up close, and the soft jokey smiling's all gone now, a frown in its place. Dean sighs, pauses a moment. Envisions himself full up to the brim with cold iron, sigils carved in and burning like with holy fire. A solid, impenetrable thing, a prison of him. It works. The throbbing stops, and it's quiet, and he doesn't really realize he's closed his eyes until Sam's pulling at him, bringing him closer. Dean scoots in, and even through the pajamas Sam's body is a warm shock. He takes a deep breath, slow. Lets it out slower. Says, "I'm tired of this," and he didn't really mean to be honest, but if now's not the time—and Sam doesn't say anything, but he slides his arm around Dean's waist, and it's weird. It's so, so goddamn weird. No reason for it to feel as good as it does.

Heart's desire. That's what the pearl was supposed to do. Dean made a wish, in words, and it wasn't granted. He got something else—something crazy, mind-bending. He got the opportunity to make a choice and, more than that, to watch Sam make one. Thing is: Dean's answer was only ever going to be the one he gave. What a life they've had, that when Sam said the same, it didn't feel like a surprise as much as… yes. Of course. That old promise, offered and accepted, all over again.

"What was the question?" Sam says. Dean starts. He's drifting off, even with the lamp still on. Sam's warm all over his front, the weight of his arm heavy on Dean's side. "Dean? You were going to ask me a question."

"Yeah," Dean says, muzzy. He pushes in closer, tips his weight in. A hand on Sam's hip. Little anchors. The question already got an answer. At least, the answer that mattered. He shakes his head against the pillow, golden-dark seeping through his closed eyelids. "In the morning, Sammy."

A huff. "Sure," Dean hears, and then there's press of lips against his forehead. Barely there, brief and light as air, but it sinks down, anyway, right down into the too-full chamber of his chest. Could've been too much, but it turns out that for Sam there's always another inch.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

#5yrsago Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century

Thomas Piketty's Capital in the 21st Century is a bestselling economics tome whose combination of deep, careful presentation of centuries' worth of data, along with an equally careful analysis of where capitalism is headed has ignited a global conversation about inequality, tax, and policy. Cory Doctorow summarizes the conversation without making you read 696 pages (though you should).

To sum up: modern growth, which is based on the growth of productivity and the diffusion of knowledge, has made it possible to avoid the apocalypse predicted by Marx and to balance the process of capital accumulation. But it has not altered the deep structures of capital -- or at any rate has not truly reduced the macroeconomic importance of capital relative to labor. I must now examine whether the same is true for inequality in the distribution of income and wealth. How much has the structure of inequality with respect to both labor and capital actually changed since the nineteenth century?

I've been writing about Piketty's work for more than a year, as the first inklings of his French-language publications began to trickle into the Anglosphere. With the explosive publication of the English edition of Capital in the 21st Century last March, the trickle's turned into a flood of Piketty commentary, which I've followed as I made my way through the text, a process that took a lot longer than I expected.

Piketty has come in for a lot of praise for the clarity of his writing, and I think it's deserved. There's very little math in this book, and it assumes very little prior knowledge of economics. In part, this is because Piketty is offering something fresh in the discourse: an unimaginably massive data-set that traces the ebb and flow of wealth and productivity around the globe for three centuries. Piketty's been very transparent about the assumptions he and his team made in pulling together the data, offering more than 100 pages of endnotes that explain the logic behind each assumption (the data itself is online, too).

If there was one word I'd use to sum up the structure of Capital, it's "careful." Piketty is offering up an inflammatory thesis (more on that in a minute), but his presentation is almost plodding. He retraces and reiterates his arguments again and again, which is helpful for those of us who don't trade in economics in our daily lives, and also is set to head off lazy critics who want to dismiss him out of hand. Indeed, one of the most entertaining episodes in the debate so far has been The Financial Times affair, where the FT's Chris Giles pointed out a bunch of "errors" in Piketty's work, only to have the normally even-keeled Piketty come back with a long, detailed rebuttal that boiled down to "Hey, asshole, if you'd bothered to look, you'd see that I documented every one of the decisions you're characterizing as an error, and if you want to disagree with me, then argue with my explicit, detailed assumptions instead of sloppily assuming I didn't even realize I was making them."

Piketty's thesis has been shorthanded as r > g: that the rate of return on capital today -- and through most of history -- has been higher than general economic growth. This means that simply having money is the best way to get more money. Piketty uses examples from English and French literature (Austen, James and Balzac) to illustrate just how unimaginably weird this situation is by modern standards. The literature of the pre-modern era is full of people who understand that the being rich is a hereditary condition, and no matter what you create, or where you work, or how important you are, or how great you are, the only way to get rich is to be rich or marry someone rich.

The most striking fact is that the United States has become noticeably more inegalitarian than France (and Europe as a whole) from the turn of the twentieth century until now, even though the United States was more egalitarian at the beginning of this period. What makes the US case complex is that the end of the process did not simply mark a return to the situation that had existed at the beginning: US inequality in 2010 is quantitatively as extreme as in old Europe in the first decade of the twentieth century, but the structure of that inequality is rather clearly different.

In the US (and Canada), this is a more remote memory, because the European colonists who came to the "New World" generally arrived without much capital, and notwithstanding the occasional land-baron or rail tycoon, have not had the opportunity to set up the kind of enduring, centuries-long dynasties that characterized the world they'd left. But for Piketty, this extreme wealth disparity is a central fact of history, and it is supposed to be the thing that modernity -- and capitalism -- conquered, through a "meritocratic" system that rewards people who do amazing things with amazing fortunes, and that recognizes that merely being the kid of someone who did something amazing is not, in itself, amazing, and should not entitle you to the exalted heights that your storied forebears attained.

The estate tax became progressive in France in 1901, but the highest rate on direct-line bequests was no more than 5 percent (and applied to at most a few dozen bequests a year). A rate of this magnitude, assessed once a generation, cannot have much effect on the concentration of wealth, no matter what wealthy individuals thought at the time. Quite different in their effect were the rates of 20–30 percent or higher that were imposed in most wealthy countries in the wake of the military, economic, and political shocks of 1914–1945. The upshot of such taxes was that each successive generation had to reduce its expenditures and save more (or else make particularly profitable investments) if the family fortune was to grow as rapidly as average income. Hence it became more and more difficult to maintain one's rank. Conversely, it became easier for those who started at the bottom to make their way, for instance by buying businesses or shares sold when estates went to probate.

Piketty challenges the idea that modernity somehow led to "merit" asserting itself as the new determinant of wealth. Instead, he makes a very convincing case that the increasing size of the capital class -- which expanded comfortably during the period of colonial expansion -- created a hunger for wealth that turned the aristocracy on itself in a squabble over who got to loot the colonies, which was World War I. This war was incredibly destructive of capital, and left many of the aristocracy holding onto potentially worthless government bonds issued by states that had nearly bankrupted themselves during the Great War. These states were so beholden to the rich that they couldn't contemplate inflating or taxing or defaulting their way out of debt, and so they took heroic and improbable measures to keep bondholders whole, which led to the economic chaos of of which WWII was born.

WWII destroyed so much accumulated wealth that in its aftermath, a raft of previously unimaginable policies became the norm. Trade unionism, progressive taxation, tenants' rights and other rules that spread out access to economic privilege and mobility became the norm, and the growth of fortunes was dramatically slowed all over the world. But by the 1980s, there was a big and important enough class of very rich people that they were able to exert serious political pressure, and the neoliberal era began, with Reagan and Thatcher. From then on, the return on capital has mounted even as growth has slowed, and the gap between the rich and poor has widened to the point where we are teetering on the brink of a society with such entrenched hereditary inequality that it can make no claim to "meritocratic" virtue.

In my view, there is absolutely no doubt that the increase of inequality in the United States contributed to the nation's financial instability. The reason is simple: one consequence of increasing inequality was virtual stagnation of the purchasing power of the lower and middle classes in the United States, which inevitably made it more likely that modest households would take on debt, especially since unscrupulous banks and financial intermediaries, freed from regulation and eager to earn good yields on the enormous savings injected into the system by the well-to-do, offered credit on increasingly generous terms.

This is a crisis. The reason for capitalism is that it is supposed to allocate reward based on "merit" -- it is supposed to move capital into the hands of the people who can do the most with it -- and if all our policy decisions are made in service to a class of supermanagers whose wealth comes from squatting on a fortune managed by some green-eyeshade quants who grow it without its owner ever doing a notable thing apart from being born to dynasty, there is no more reason for capitalism. Piketty darkly hints that the last time this happened, the world tore itself to pieces, twice, in an orgy of destruction that left millions dead and whole nations in ruin.

The main purpose of the health sector is not to provide other sectors with workers in good health. By the same token, the main purpose of the educational sector is not to prepare students to take up an occupation in some other sector of the economy. In all human societies, health and education have an intrinsic value: the ability to enjoy years of good health, like the ability to acquire knowledge and culture, is one of the fundamental purposes of civilization.

Piketty's controversial prescription for this is to impose a global wealth tax. Not a very big one, mind -- he talks at length about how a couple of percentage points per year would be more than enough. But just enough that every squillionaire would have to account for his wealth, disclosing its particulars and its disposition (laying bare the world's tax-havens), and that there would be enough redistributive pressure in the system to keep dynastic fortunes from growing, thus allowing for a middle-class to flourish (Piketty convincingly shows that even at the peak of "meritocratic" redistribution, the poor's share of the world's wealth has not changed appreciably -- rather, that the loosened control of the rich has made room for a middle-class).

A global tax on capital is a utopian idea. It is hard to imagine the nations of the world agreeing on any such thing anytime soon. To achieve this goal, they would have to establish a tax schedule applicable to all wealth around the world and then decide how to apportion the revenues. But if the idea is utopian, it is nevertheless useful, for several reasons. First, even if nothing resembling this ideal is put into practice in the foreseeable future, it can serve as a worthwhile reference point, a standard against which alternative proposals can be measured. Admittedly, a global tax on capital would require a very high and no doubt unrealistic level of international cooperation. But countries wishing to move in this direction could very well do so incrementally, starting at the regional level (in Europe, for instance). Unless something like this happens, a defensive reaction of a nationalist stripe would very likely occur. For example, one might see a return to various forms of protectionism coupled with imposition of capital controls. Because such policies are seldom effective, however, they would very likely lead to frustration and increase international tensions.

There are lots of reasons for this to be controversial. First, as Piketty admits, it's impractical. Getting all the countries of the world to agree to this scheme is implausible. But, he says, we don't need everyone to cooperate to realize some immediate benefit:

To reject the global tax on capital out of hand would be all the more regrettable because it is perfectly possible to move toward this ideal solution step by step, first at the continental or regional level and then by arranging for closer cooperation among regions. One can see a model for this sort of approach in the recent discussions on automatic sharing of bank data between the United States and the European Union. Furthermore, various forms of capital taxation already exist in most countries, especially in North America and Europe, and these could obviously serve as starting points.

There's something ineluctably European and scholarly in Piketty's willingness to treat redistribution as legitimate. "Redistribution" is political poison in the USA, though it wasn't always thus:

In 1919, Irving Fisher, then president of the American Economic Association, went even further. He chose to devote his presidential address to the question of US inequality and in no uncertain terms told his colleagues that the increasing concentration of wealth was the nation's foremost economic problem. Fisher found King's estimates alarming. The fact that "2 percent of the population owns more than 50 percent of the wealth" and that "two-thirds of the population owns almost nothing" struck him as "an undemocratic distribution of wealth," which threatened the very foundations of US society. Rather than restrict the share of profits or the return on capital arbitrarily -- possibilities Fisher mentioned only to reject them -- he argued that the best solution was to impose a heavy tax on the largest estates (he mentioned a tax rate of two-thirds the size of the estate, rising to 100 percent if the estate was more than three generations old).

Indeed, an unwillingness to tax creates all kinds of evils. For starters, if a state can't fund its core programs out of tax, it has to borrow. And when it borrows, it borrows from the rich. So instead of taxation -- which weakens the fortunes and political influence of the wealthy -- we get bonds, through which the wealthy are paid interest out of the funds extracted from those who lack the political clout to escape taxation. The wealthy get more wealthy, and exert more political pressure. Piketty illustrates this beautifully with a couple of well-chosen examples -- for example, take the sky-high CEO salary. Why weren't the CEOs of the post-war period paid tens of millions, while their financialized descendants bring home the makings of a hereditary dynasty? It's all down to an unwillingness to have real progressive taxation:

...Lower top income tax rates, especially in the United States and Britain, where top rates fell dramatically, totally transformed the way executive salaries are determined. It is always difficult for an executive to convince other parties involved in the firm (direct subordinates, workers lower down in the hierarchy, stockholders, and members of the compensation committee) that a large pay raise -- say of a million dollars -- is truly justified. In the 1950s and 1960s, executives in British and US firms had little reason to fight for such raises, and other interested parties were less inclined to accept them, because 80–90 percent of the increase would in any case go directly to the government. After 1980, the game was utterly transformed, however, and the evidence suggests that executives went to considerable lengths to persuade other interested parties to grant them substantial raises. Because it is objectively difficult to measure individual contributions to a firm's output, top managers found it relatively easy to persuade boards and stockholders that they were worth the money, especially since the members of compensation committees were often chosen in a rather incestuous manner.

It's a rare thing to see economists, especially pro-capitalist economists, praising taxation itself, but Piketty -- careful, unemotional Piketty -- dares:

Without taxes, society has no common destiny, and collective action is impossible. This has always been true. At the heart of every major political upheaval lies a fiscal revolution. The Ancien Régime was swept away when the revolutionary assemblies voted to abolish the fiscal privileges of the nobility and clergy and establish a modern system of universal taxation. The American Revolution was born when subjects of the British colonies decided to take their destiny in hand and set their own taxes. ("No taxation without representation"). Two centuries later the context is different, but the heart of the issue remains the same. How can sovereign citizens democratically decide how much of their resources they wish to devote to common goals such as education, health, retirement, inequality reduction, employment, sustainable development, and so on?

Picketty has little patience for economic doctrine in general, and gets some serious digs in:

Among the members of these upper income groups are US academic economists, many of whom believe that the economy of the United States is working fairly well and, in particular, that it rewards talent and merit accurately and precisely...Some economists have an unfortunate tendency to defend their private interest while implausibly claiming to champion the general interest.

Besides, he says, the thing every red-blooded entrepreneur wants to see is people getting rich by their wits and deeds, not by the birthright of kings. Consider the heiress to the L'oreal fortune and Bill Gates:

All large fortunes, whether inherited or entrepreneurial in origin, grow at extremely high rates, regardless of whether the owner of the fortune works or not. To be sure, one should be careful not to overestimate the precision of the conclusions one can draw from these data, which are based on a small number of observations and collected in a somewhat careless and piecemeal fashion. The fact is nevertheless interesting.

Take a particularly clear example at the very top of the global wealth hierarchy. Between 1990 and 2010, the fortune of Bill Gates -- the founder of Microsoft, the world leader in operating systems, and the very incarnation of entrepreneurial wealth and number one in the Forbes rankings for more than ten years -- increased from $4 billion to $50 billion. At the same time, the fortune of Liliane Bettencourt -- the heiress of L'Oréal, the world leader in cosmetics, founded by her father Eugène Schueller, who in 1907 invented a range of hair dyes that were destined to do well in a way reminiscent of César Birotteau's success with perfume a century earlier -- increased from $2 billion to $25 billion, again according to Forbes.

In other words, Liliane Bettencourt, who never worked a day in her life, saw her fortune grow exactly as fast as that of Bill Gates, the high-tech pioneer, whose wealth has incidentally continued to grow just as rapidly since he stopped working. Once a fortune is established, the capital grows according to a dynamic of its own, and it can continue to grow at a rapid pace for decades simply because of its size. Note, in particular, that once a fortune passes a certain threshold, size effects due to economies of scale in the management of the portfolio and opportunities for risk are reinforced by the fact that nearly all the income on this capital can be plowed back into investment. An individual with this level of wealth can easily live magnificently on an amount equivalent to only a few tenths of percent of his capital each year, and he can therefore reinvest nearly all of his income. This is a basic but important economic mechanism, with dramatic consequences for the long-term dynamics of accumulation and distribution of wealth. Money tends to reproduce itself.

(A dry postscript on those who say that feckless descendants correct this problem on their own: "It would in any case be rather imprudent to rely solely on the eternal but arbitrary force of family degeneration to limit the future proliferation of billionaires.")

But how does money increase itself? It turns out that if you have a lot of money to invest, you get a lot more in return, as Piketty demonstrates by picking apart the investment returns of the Ivy League university endowments, which are the only privately invested fortunes whose investment strategies are subject to public scrutiny:

If we look at the investment strategies of different universities, we find highly diversified portfolios at all levels, with a clear preference for US and foreign stocks and private sector bonds (government bonds, especially US Treasuries, which do not pay well, account for less than 10 percent of all these portfolios and are almost totally absent from the largest endowments). The higher we go in the endowment hierarchy, the more often we find "alternative investment strategies," that is, very high yield investments such as shares in private equity funds and unlisted foreign stocks (which require great expertise), hedge funds, derivatives, real estate, and raw materials, including energy, natural resources, and related products (these, too, require specialized expertise and offer very high potential yields). If we consider the importance in these various portfolios of "alternative investments," whose only common feature is that they abandon the usual strategies of investing in stocks and bonds accessible to all, we find that they represent only 10 percent of the portfolios of institutions with endowments of less than 50 million euros, 25 percent of those with endowments between 50 and 100 million euros, 35 percent of those between 100 and 500 million euros, 45 percent of those between 500 million and 1 billion euros, and ultimately more than 60 percent of those above 1 billion euros. The available data, which are both public and extremely detailed, show unambiguously that it is these alternative investment strategies that enable the very largest endowments to obtain real returns of close to 10 percent a year, while smaller endowments must make do with 5 percent.

In other words, if you're a normal person with a 401(k), you'd be lucky to clear inflation with your nest egg. If you're a gazillionaire, you can hire financial talent who'll get you 10 points even in the worst market, and you can pay them hundreds of millions out of chump change.

<1>

The low point was attained in the 1970s: after several decades of small inheritances and accumulation of new wealth, inherited capital accounted for just over 40 percent of total private capital. For the first time in history (except in new countries), wealth accumulated in the lifetime of the living constituted the majority of all wealth: nearly 60 percent. It is important to realize two things: first, the nature of capital effectively changed in the postwar period, and second, we are just emerging from this exceptional period. Nevertheless, we are now clearly out of it: the share of inherited wealth in total wealth has grown steadily since the 1970s. Inherited wealth once again accounted for the majority of wealth in the 1980s, and according to the latest available figures it represents roughly two-thirds of private capital in France in 2010, compared with barely one-third of capital accumulated from savings. In view of today's very high inheritance flows, it is quite likely, if current trends continue, that the share of inherited wealth will continue to grow in the decades to come, surpassing 70 percent by 2020 and approaching 80 percent in the 2030s.

Piketty says that the "normal" state of affairs in which anyone has a crack at fame and fortune is a blip in the long run of human history that has been largely characterized by a self-serving, greedy hereditary aristocracy whose comfort was only possible because of the enmiseration of nearly everyone else. Absent some kind of extraordinary intervention, hereditary wealth will reassert itself as the primary political mover in our world. The people at the top have always convinced themselves that they live in a meritocracy, because hey, they're the best people they know, and they're at the top of the pyramid. QED. But this story is impossible to square with the data:

The fact that income inequality in the United States in 2000–2010 attained a level higher than that observed in the poor and emerging countries at various times in the past -- for example, higher than in India or South Africa in 1920–1930, 1960–1970, and 2000–2010 -- also casts doubt on any explanation based solely on objective inequalities of productivity. Is it really the case that inequality of individual skills and productivities is greater in the United States today than in the half-illiterate India of the recent past (or even today) or in apartheid (or postapartheid) South Africa? If that were the case, it would be bad news for US educational institutions, which surely need to be improved and made more accessible but probably do not deserve such extravagant blame...

...Since it is impossible to give a precise estimate of each manager's contribution to the firm's output, it is inevitable that this process yields decisions that are largely arbitrary and dependent on hierarchical relationships and on the relative bargaining power of the individuals involved. It is only reasonable to assume that people in a position to set their own salaries have a natural incentive to treat themselves generously, or at the very least to be rather optimistic in gauging their marginal productivity. To behave in this way is only human, especially since the necessary information is, in objective terms, highly imperfect. It may be excessive to accuse senior executives of having their "hands in the till," but the metaphor is probably more apt than Adam Smith's metaphor of the market's "invisible hand." In practice, the invisible hand does not exist, any more than "pure and perfect" competition does, and the market is always embodied in specific institutions such as corporate hierarchies and compensation committees.

...Regardless of whether the wealth a person holds at age fifty or sixty is inherited or earned, the fact remains that beyond a certain threshold, capital tends to reproduce itself and accumulates exponentially. The logic of r > g implies that the entrepreneur always tends to turn into a rentier. Even if this happens later in life, the phenomenon becomes important as life expectancy increases. The fact that a person has good ideas at age thirty or forty does not imply that she will still be having them at seventy or eighty, yet her wealth will continue to increase by itself. Or it can be passed on to the next generation and continue to increase there. Nineteenth-century French economic elites were creative and dynamic entrepreneurs, but the crucial fact remains that their efforts ultimately -- and largely unwittingly -- reinforced and perpetuated a society of rentiers owing to the logic of r > g.

This inequality of access also seems to exist at the top of the economic hierarchy, not only because of the high cost of attending the most prestigious private universities (high even in relation to the income of upper-middle-class parents) but also because admissions decisions clearly depend in significant ways on the parents' financial capacity to make donations to the universities. For example, one study has shown that gifts by graduates to their former universities are strangely concentrated in the period when the children are of college age. By comparing various sources of data, moreover, it is possible to estimate that the average income of the parents of Harvard students is currently about $450,000, which corresponds to the average income of the top 2 percent of the US income hierarchy. Such a finding does not seem entirely compatible with the idea of selection based solely on merit. The contrast between the official meritocratic discourse and the reality seems particularly extreme in this case. The total absence of transparency regarding selection procedures should also be noted.

Remember, hereditary wealth isn't just unfair, it's also an invitation to laziness. Just as competition disciplines firms, so to does taxation discipline dynasties:

A classic argument in favor of a capital tax should not be neglected. It relies on a logic of incentives. The basic idea is that a tax on capital is an incentive to seek the best possible return on one's capital stock. Concretely, a tax of 1 or 2 percent on wealth is relatively light for an entrepreneur who manages to earn 10 percent a year on her capital. By contrast, it is quite heavy for a person who is content to park her wealth in investments returning at most 2 or 3 percent a year. According to this logic, the purpose of the tax on capital is thus to force people who use their wealth inefficiently to sell assets in order to pay their taxes, thus ensuring that those assets wind up in the hands of more dynamic investors.

There have been a number of critcisms leveled at Piketty since the English translation of Capital, and, like the Financial Times broadside, most of these have been unserious -- coming from people who clearly haven't read the book carefully enough. But there's one criticism I have a lot of time for: Suresh Naidu's critique of the politics of Piketty's analysis. Piketty treats the rate of return on capital as largely financial, while Naidu argues (convincingly) that it's political. The rules of property and the willingness of the state to support those rules through everything from guard labor to anti-default/anti-inflationary policies are political decisions, not laws of nature, and they are the crux of the rate of return. And since the relative positions of the rate of return versus the rate of growth (r > g) is at the crux of his theory, this is a significant challenge to his analysis.

Piketty, in Naidu's view, is limited by his unwillingness to challenge capitalism itself. As Naidu says:

This is where Piketty’s Walrasian conventions dampen his contribution: he discusses the first, but not the second. It’s like saying slavery is an inequality of assets between slaves and slaveholders without describing the plantation.

Even Adam Smith suggested measuring a person’s income by the “quantity of that labor which he can command.” This has normally been taken to mean income of the rich relative to the wage. But it also means looking at “command”: what privileges and obligations can one demand from the soul purchased (or rented)?

An economy that allows indentured labor means that wealth can purchase more power over people; an economy with robust union contracts means that capital is trammeled in its control over the shop floor. From sexual harassment on the job to the indignities of gentrification and nonprofit funding, a world of massive inequality is a world where rich people get to shape environments that everybody else has to accept.

Piketty repeatedly announces that politics plays a large role in the distribution of income. But he neglects that the distribution of income and wealth also generates inequalities of larger privileges and prerogatives; wealth inequality together with a thoroughly commodified society enables a million mini-dictatorships, wherein the political power of the rich is exercised through the market itself.

Piketty is locked in a curious dance with Marx -- there is a spectre haunting Capital in the 21st Century and it is Kapital -- the Marxist critique of power-dynamics themselves. Piketty wants desperately to salvage capitalism, even if that means proposing something that every capitalist will hate: a global wealth tax.

(Image: Piketty in Cambridge, Sue Gardner, CC-BY-SA)

-Cory Doctorow

https://boingboing.net/2014/06/24/thomas-pikettys-capital-in-t.html

[peters-starks]

Lost

Peter Parker x Reader 

Word Count: 2k+

Summary: some angsty shit based on Lost On You by Lewis Capaldi

Masterlist 

Peter sighed as his alarm blared, forcing his blood shot eyes to open from another restless night. Thoughts of you drowned him every night but not in the way they used to. The previous comfort of you used to wrap him up and lull him at night, a soft smile would fall upon his features as he would drift to sleep but lately he found it wound too tight, suffocating him. He was haunted by image after image of you lying there, hurt because of him, someone who wanted to hurt him or because of you being typical stubborn you and getting in the way.

Peter felt like he was fighting himself every single second he was around you, he still adored everything about you but loving you was different now. He still loved you but he knew you were so in love with him you’d do anything for him and that scared him so much he felt himself back away, could he lose someone else? Your love was weighing so heavily on him because he was being so selfish by being with you, he couldn’t hurt you because he wasn’t sure he was still fully in it anymore. And it was his fault. He managed to panic himself into not being completely and utterly devoted to you anymore.

You could tell, you weren’t stupid, especially when it came to Peter. Your Peter. Late nights where the spandex covered vigilante would knock on your bedroom window in need of patching up, or just a hug, slowly came to a stop. Your dates were often canceled for “spider-man business” and Peter stopped having as many study sessions with you claiming to be too tired. His touches no longer lingered until he barely touched you, feeling foreign to each other’s bodies. Holding hands as you walked to your next class or bumping shoulders, and placing each other’s fingers around the other’s under the lunch table was distant. He was slipping between your grip and there was nothing you could do but love him endlessly and watch him fade away from you.

You and Peter both had what MJ referred to as “shit eating grins” on your faces, and you walked hand in hand down the corridor towards the cafeteria, both Ned and MJ on either side of you.

“You know, you two are actually disgusting” MJ commented and tore your eyes away from Peter who was currently laughing at a joke you just told him and rolled your eyes smiling at her.

“You’re just jealous” Ned stated and quickly ducked his head as MJ shot him a famous glare making you and Peter laugh.

“Yea, I really wish I could hold some boy’s hand in the corridor of this damn high school on the way to eat the bland cafeteria food, height of my wish list” MJ muttered but you could hear the smile in her voice as she joked along with you guys, you nudged her shoulder lightly to which she turned and grinned at you.

When you sat down with your lunch in your usual spot opposite MJ and next to Peter his hand casually drew shapes into your thigh as you leant your shoulder against his listening to MJ talk about her recent History essay with Betty who was next to her.

“You still coming round to help me study for chem tonight?” Peter said quietly as he turned to you creating a small bubble around you both.

“You and I both know you don’t need help with chemistry Peter” you said placing your hand on top of his that was still on your thigh and he smiled at you.

“I know, but I may or may not want an excuse for you to come round and May is getting Chinese food tonight” you smiled back at him at that and bit your lip.

“Like you need an excuse for me to come round” and at that Peter hummed in agreement and leant forward to give you a kiss which was met by a ‘PEOPLE ARE EATING HERE’ by MJ.

It ate you away to see Peters glow falter around you, your friends could see it, MJ would often comment “you look like shit” as you threw yourself into your seat next to her in bio. You were paler and shadows under your eyes had become your latest accessory because sleeping was a lot harder without Peter Parker lying next to you.

You opened your locker for your last class of the day, the day was longer than usual, dragging more although that was probably due to your exhaustion picking at your skeleton until you could hear your bones ache and groan for the urge to sleep for longer than 4 hours for just one night. You leaned against your locker after closing it to catch your breath when Peter walked past you, Ned at his side as they smiled and laughed over something one of them had said. Peter looked as much as a wreck as you recently and you wanted nothing more to confront him but you knew if you did that would be it. You were in a ghost of a relationship with Peter Parker but at least you could still call him yours and as selfish as you were being you weren’t strong enough to let that go yet. So you simple rotted away for now. Peter saw you stare at him and gave you a small smile, he gave you a look of ‘talk to you later’ still managing to have a conversation with just your eyes because you still knew each other better than you knew yourselves. You sighed and felt your mouth become dry as the realization that this might be it came upon you.

Walking out of school was usually a relief but today it felt like you were walking into a trap. Dread filled your body with every step and your shoulders tensed when you saw Peter waiting at the gate for you, his hand playing with the bottom of his sweater showing you he was just as nervous. He smiled upon seeing you and gestured got you to lead the way as you approached him. You returned the smile trying to be as natural as possible but even people who barely knew you could see the anxiety and dread behind it.

You and Peter began the walk back to your apartment, knowing it would be empty as your parents were at work until the evening. The walk wasn’t as awkward as you assumed it, gently conversation about your day's happened and your hands brushed as you walked, however neither of you reached to grab the others.

Once inside Peter turned to you as you sat on your couch and patted the space next to you, he sat down but left considerate space between you which made you laugh internally. Talk about a physical manifest of the situation.

“We um we need to talk” you nodded slowly at Peters words, his voice shook slightly but his mouth was in a hard line of determination. “We-we haven’t been as close lately and I know you’ve noticed it’s been off, we’ve been off” Peter swallowed gauging your reaction and you simply nodded, wide eyes staring into his brown ones.

“Well it’s my fault and I just I don’t know how to say it you know? I’ve been tossing and turning at night, and I still can’t find the words and it’s been so distracting because I don’t want to leave you lonely like the other day I brushed a building because I was so distracted and scraped all up my face and usually my first thought would be to go to you? But it wasn't, I just came home and got May’s usual lecture of watch where I swing” a forced chuckle came from him as he was obviously nervous but you couldn’t bring yourself to smile at the image of May ranting to Peter whilst wiping the poor boys brick burns. The words “leave you lonely” simple repeated within your head. This really was it and there’s nothing you could do to stop it because in reality hadn’t it already ended?

Your palms were sweating and your breath was hitched. If your heart started beating any harder you were sure you’d physically start vibrating along with it and you knew Peter could hear it, he could always hear your heartbeat, he used to love listening to it.

---

Peter climbed into your bedroom window, you had left it slightly open in anticipation for his arrival as you knew school was rough today, a bio and a math quiz, and on top of patrols you knew he would need some comfort.

He lay down next you as you were snuggled under your duvet trying to hide from the winter chill that surrounded New York. Ripping his mask off Peter smiled softly at your relaxed expression as you dozed, your lips were parted and soft breathing left them. You were far too adorable to be allowed to exist.

Slipping under your duvet with you, you shifted slightly and peeked your eyes open to be met with the soft brown ones of your spidey. “Hey” you whispered, and he lazily smiled at you and brushed his cold nose against you making you sigh.

“Rough day?” Your voice was still husky with sleep and it made Peters heart flutter. He hummed back, and simply snuggled into you closer, wrapping his arms around your smaller frame, and burying his head into the crook of his neck. The gentle thud thud thud thud of your heart soothed his racing mind and helped his muscles release some of their tension. He swears he could tell your heart beat out of a crowd.

“Mmm love listening to you” your eyebrows scrunched and you let out a gentle giggle at his comment.

“What?” You laughed lightly moving your hand up to tangle into his soft hair and he let out another mumble of content.

“Your heart, your breathing, swear I can even hear your thoughts sometimes” Peter spoke softly into your neck where his face was still buried which made your cheeks dust pink. Who knew something so simple as your heartbeat could bring one boy so much comfort.

“Oh you’re cute spidey” you teased and he lifted his head to meet your eyes, softly rolling them before pulling you towards him and meeting his lips with yours.

---

“Right so um I still, I still care about you so much but Spider-Man is just he keeps pulling us apart and I think it’s almost for good? I can’t be here for you whilst fighting around the city it’s dangerous and it’s not fair” he gulped again but your face remained still the only sign you were still functioning was the hammering of your heart beat in Peters ears.

“You’re right” your voice made Peters eyes widen, taking him by surprise as you spoke. “It’s not fair, you, you used to be here and now you’re not and you can’t use Spider-Man as an excuse Peter, if you don’t love me anymore just say it, I don’t want to be lied to, not anymore” the quiver in your voice was noticeable but you tried your best to sound strong because you didn’t want him to know just how badly you were crumbling. The idea that you were still head over heels for the curly brown haired boy in front of you actually snapped you in half because he was so far away, you couldn’t even reach out and touch him anymore because you didn’t have the right to. He was no longer your Peter Parker and he hadn’t been for a long time. You just wished he had been so vigorously that you convinced yourself he was still there.

“It’s not like that I still love you I adore you, I just, I don’t know if I’m still in love with you” Peter breathed because god this was hurting him too, he knew he still loved you but it wasn’t good enough anymore. He didn’t love you like he knew someone else could. His fear and anxiety had driven him crazy since he found out someone almost came after you because of him. You almost got hurt because some New York Brute found out Spider-Man’s connection to you and wanted to hurt you. And since then his mind was doing loops and he found himself so distant from you he no longer felt he belonged next to you, which he subconsciously did on purpose. If you were no longer his then you were no longer a target. You were safe.

Peter sighed and stood up running his hand through his hair. “I still care about you but this” he moved his fingers between you two “isn’t going to work anymore” and with that you finally let the tears fall. Peter screwed his eyes shut and looked up to the sky cursing whoever he could at the fact he had to do this. God, why did he have to do this.

“I think you should leave P-Peter” your voice was mangled and broken, a sob escaped and you finally completely shattered. Like glass that a toddler had thrown around completely tearing your world apart and Peter seemed to do it like it was nothing new to him. Like he could do it again, as he stood there and looked at you. He nodded and moved to your front door, his hand gripped the handle and he looked back at you one last time before closing the door behind him. That was it. He hoped you were safe in whoever’s arms were lucky enough to hold you next because he was stupid enough to lose you.

--------------

Hope this was good, wrote this at 4am whilst listening to my sad song playlist feedback would be good aaaand maybe a part 2 has already been written but im gonna wait and see if its worth posting or just leave it as a one shot 

Add yourself to my Taglist here! 

Taglist: @aesthetic-png @liac2299 @animegirlgeeky @sexysamsungl @mikariell95 @evolutionofkatep @orowit

Strikethrough means tumblr won’t let me tag you

[katewillaert]

My Secret Origin (Part 1): How To Fail At Comics

[Above: Art from 20 years ago, when I was in High School.]

What do you want to be when you grow up?

When I was four I said “mad scientist.” It was 1987 and I was a big fan of The Real Ghostbusters and Doc Brown. My mom insisted “mad scientist” wasn’t a profession. And weren’t those characters are inventors? What did I want to invent?

Clearly I hadn’t thought this through.

My mom also informed me that all those cartoons I watch were made by people. Those were drawings, and there are people whose job it was to draw those.

This blew my mind. From that point on I decided I was going to be an animator.

Discovering Art

I don’t remember when I first started drawing. It seems like something I always did growing up. As far as my memory is concerned, I came out of the womb holding a pencil and began drawing before I said my first words.

In reality, I probably started in preschool when I was four, just before I discovered what an animator was. I remember my favorite subject to draw was the Ecto-1 from Ghostbusters. I must’ve drawn it something like 10 or 20 times.

My mom kept almost all of my childhood art, so in theory I could figure out when I started drawing from that...except the earliest drawings were ruined when the basement flooded.

After the flooding, my mom was condensing what was left, and I saw something surprising: a box filled with Ecto-1 drawings. I hadn’t drawn it 10 or 20 times, I’d drawn it 100 or 200 times. Repetitively, over and over, without consciously thinking about what I was doing.

It was practice without realizing I was practicing. I guess that’s how my art “leveled up” so quickly?

Later I discovered other details about my early development. There was a time around age 2 where I stopped talking. There were times when I liked to line up toys. My obsession before art was Legos, building complex shapes and stairs.

Today these might be recognized as possible indicators of autism, but this was the ‘80s.

Because I was shy and lacking in social skills, a teacher suggested to my parents that I might benefit from being held back a grade. I had a summer birthday, so holding me back would make me one of the oldest rather than the youngest.

Thankfully my parents didn’t take that advice. I would’ve been miserable. Despite being the youngest in my class, I surpassed everyone in terms of scores. A CAT test says I scored “higher than 99% of all 3rd grade student in the nation in total language.” 91% in reading. 90% in math. My reading comprehension was 98% in the nation, but was brought down by my reading vocabulary which was only 72%.

Yet this new information called into question a things about myself I’d never considered. Maybe certain things suddenly made more sense? In particular, the way I don’t have interests so much as obsessions. Any time I take an interest in a topic, it leads to an obsessive amount of research.

Discovering Comics

I think the first comic I ever saw was a Chick Tract some kid showed me in Sunday School. He was surprised I’d never seen one. It must’ve hadan impact on me, because I attempted to draw a tract-style comic starring C.O.P.S. (“Fighting Crime In A Future Time”).

I didn’t discover REAL comic books until a few years later. In 1991, Terminator 2: Judgement Day marketing was in full force and I thought it looked so cool. But it was Rated R, and I was only seven. My mom spotted a couple issues of a Marvel comic adaptation (drawn by Klaus Janson), and I guess that was the compromise until it was out on video.

I attempted to illustrate a comic imitating Janson’s cram-packed panel-per-page ratio. It was an epic crossover where Michael Keaton Batman encounters a Delorean driven by a T-1000, then the Ninja Turtles show up, and maybe the Ghostbusters? I knew how to introduce characters but not how to finish a story.

At this point I was still imagining becoming an animator, even though I barely knew anything about what it involved beyond some flip books I’d done. But all that changed when I discovered the X-Men.

X-Men and Batman: The Animated Series both debuted on FOX during the fall of 1992. I was a huge fan of the Tim Burton Batman movies and I’d seen every episode of the ‘60s show when it was revived in reruns, but I didn’t know the comics existed? I didn’t even know where to find comics.

My brother and I were both really into this new X-Men thing, and my brother was given a set of X-Men comics for his birthday. I borrowed them of course, and wanted to see how the story continued. My mom showed us a book store in the mall that had comics, and then we discovered the local comic store. That started my monthly addiction.

Now age 10, I decided I no longer wanted to be an animator. Comics were my true calling. And my dream was to break in at age 16.

Learning Comics

Age 11: I went from reading just Uncanny X-Men to buying the entire X-line, thanks to and event called Age Of Apocalypse.

Age 12: I started buying Wizard magazine. The first two issues I bought included life-changing information, like that you get hired by building a portfolio and showing it to editors. There was industry news, and art tutorials by Greg Capullo. I added the magazine to my monthly buy list. An X-Men 30th anniversary special gave me the entire history of the characters, and a run-down of the key artists and writers with examples of their work. It was like a Rosetta Stone before Wikipedia.

Age 13: I started buying most of Marvel’s output thanks to an event called Heroes Reborn. I never got into the Batbooks, I guess because the art didn’t look as cool? Comics contained ads for the Joe Kubert School, which became my backup plan if I didn’t break into comics on my own. I also discovered the internet around this time.

Age 14: My first year of high school. I spent every lunch hour in the library browsing the internet, since we didn’t have a computer at home yet. I discovered several comic art forums where pros and amateurs traded tips. During the summer I attended a week long art session taught at a local college by a professor who grew up on ‘60s Marvel. There I learned I’d been using paper that was much too thin to ink on, and I learned about the importance of Jack Kirby.

Age 15: I started buying Comic Book Artist magazine. I thought it’d be about drawing tips, but instead it was filled with fascinating comics history, which became an obsession of its own.

Age 16: A year of disappointment. I knew I wasn’t at the level I needed to be to get pro work, but wasn’t sure how to get to the next level. Nowadays there are all sorts of resources I could’ve used, but back then there was no Youtube, no social media, and few books about the craft of comics.

I was now certain the Joe Kubert School was the way to go.

Changing Plans

My family took a trip to Dover, NJ to visit the Joe Kubert School campus, and it was pretty disappointing. The town didn’t feel super friendly, and the school wasn’t accredited, which raised issues in regards to getting student aid. Plus the idea of spending so much money on a non-degree.

The guy showing me around tried to sell me by pointing out that comic companies don’t care about whether you went to college, they just want to see the portfolio.

I took this to heart and decided not to go to college. I was pretty crushed at first, because I’d had this dream plan for so long, and now I was plan-less. But eventually a new plan began to form.

It was time to start doing conventions.

A startup called CrossGen had a sample script and were taking submissions at SDCC 2000, so I went there. I still felt like my work wasn’t quite ready for prime time, but i was worth a shot.

And nothing came of it, other than a cool Crossgen rejection letter in a box somewhere. None of the other publishers could be bothered to even send that.

In hindsight, I was trying to enter at maybe the worst possible time in comics history. When I first started reading comics, they were at their peak during a boom period. When the bubble burst, the industry experienced year-over-year plummeting sales with no bottom in sight. No one was hiring.

But I kept at it, hoping for a lucky break. Top Cow was impressed that I did backgrounds (lol), and suggested I send in “background samples,” but I didn’t want to go down that route. But maybe that’s what a lucky break looks like? (On the other hand, many aspiring pencillers who start as inkers or colorists get stuck there.)

The next summer I went to Chicago with a Marvel sample script. I’d just graduated from high school, so I was really hoping. This time I got a critique from an editor who had actual advice to offer, and I learned a few things. But still no one was hiring.

I thought if I just stayed home and worked on art for a year, I’d eventually come up with pages so impressive that they’d HAVE to hire me. And if it didn’t work out after a year, I’d start looking for a college.

But now I was struggling with a new problem. I suddenly hated my art. I’d heard about a few professional artists who didn’t like looking at their own art, but I was certain this was different. After all, they’re actually good.

The year passed and I accomplished nothing. Based on things I’d heard, I was nervous that college might actually price me out of comics entirely. But I didn’t know that for sure, and I was super inexperienced when it came to money, since I’d never lived on my own before.

But I kept hearing how so many people have gone to college and they all turned out okay (this was before social media and before student debt became a crisis). I was clearly having trouble moving forward on my own, and Youtube still didn’t exist, so what choice did I have?

Choosing Schools

There were only a few colleges with comic art programs back then (maybe three total?), but one of them just happened to be over here in Minnesota. Art school appealed to me because all the classes were art-focused, so I wouldn’t have to waste my time with math and other BS.

And as I humble-bragged earlier, I’m good at math. But I hated it. At one point some kids from Math League asked if I’d join the team. “‘MATH LEAGUE?’ You mean you do math for FUN??”

I hated math so much, I took harder, accelerated math courses via a local college, just so I could finish math early and spend my last years of high school wonderfully mathless. If there’d been a similar way to graduate from high school earlier, I would’ve taken it. When I realized we were all graduating regardless of how much work we put in, I stopped caring so much about grades and let an occasional B+ slip in.

When I would see classmates busy studying for their SATs or ACTs, I was so glad I didn’t have to bother with that.

But the joke was on me. Because this art school didn’t just require a portfolio review (which I was more than ready for). It also wanted ACT test results.

I remember wondering if I should study before I take it, since everyone took it so seriously in high school. But I didn’t even know how to study. It’s not a skill I’d learned, because I never needed to. So I decided to wing it.

You’ll hate me, but without studying I scored in the top 96% for English, the top 94% for Reading, the top 96% for Science...but only top 87% for Math, because I hadn’t taken a math class in three years. That brought my total down 90%..

(Later, I had to learn to study in order to pass some horrifically-taught art history classes. That teacher made me hate art history, which is ironic given how much of my own writing is focused on history.)

So I got into the school, only to discover that even structured teaching wasn’t going to solve my new art problem. During my first year I told my mom that I don’t enjoy art anymore, and she thought it might be depression. I mean, that’s plausible, losing interest in your passions?

In hindsight, I now have enough experience with real depression that I can definitively say it wasn’t that. I mean, I was occasionally depressed back then, but hating my art was unrelated. It took me years to figure out the actual problem.

Dunning Kruger

The Dunning-Kruger Effect is named after a study which found that:

1) People who aren’t knowledgeable about a skill tend to think they’re better at it than they are, because they don’t know enough to know what they don’t know.

2) Conversely, people who ARE knowledgeable about a skill tend to think they’re worse at it than they are.

My problem went one level deeper. I’d learned a shit ton about every skill related to comic art, but I hadn’t put in as much time actually practicing. And now practicing was tough, because I was hyper-aware of how bad every line was as I laid it down.

In other words, the exact reverse of when I was four and drew repetitively on auto-pilot. Back then I was oblivious that I was practicing anything at all. Now I had the benefit and detriment of a critical mind.

But this realization came later. At the time I was just miserable and didn’t know what was wrong with me.

Halfway through art school, I realized I’d likely already priced myself out of comics, and I needed a real degree that would function back-up plan. So I switched majors. Instead of a Comics major filling my electives with design classes, I became a Design major filling my electives with comics classes.

In order to change my major, I had to explain it to the head of the school. This was awkward because it partly involved explaining how the comics industry worked, and he didn’t want to believe it. He told me I was being cynical.

I tried doing comic samples one last time after college, for a convention in 2006, but couldn’t even finish a page. Then sometime around 2008, I gave up drawing entirely.

How I got started again is another story.

You can also find me on:

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/katewillaert/?hl=en

Twitter -  https://twitter.com/katewillaert

Art Patreon - https://www.patreon.com/katewillaert

History Patreon - https://www.patreon.com/acriticalhit