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pradaksj · 4 years ago

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Safety Net || part two (final). (m.)

↳do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

❧ summary ⟶ on new year’s eve, you and jungkook reflect on each other’s entire year together.

❧ pairing⟶ jungkook/reader

❧ genre⟶ enemies to friends, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, pining, smut, boxer!jungkook. two-part series.

❧ word count ⟶ 16,000+

❧ warnings ⟶ descriptions of an anxiety/panic attack, character death (non-major), smut which includes ... passionate to rough sex, oral (female receiving), penetration, fingering, unprotected sex (please have sex responsibly lol).

❧ music⟶ safety net, selfish, stuck on you, exile, +more

❧ a/n ⟶ I am still fairly new to writing smut so sorry if it doesn’t meet your expectations 😭 also to all my people who don’t like smut “*” signals where you can stop reading as the smut is really just a bonus scene at the end. and remember dark purple = entering/still in the past, light purple = present

01 | 02 (final)

“God were we dramatic,” you laugh, glad that the recollection of your big fight with Jungkook was something that could by now be laughed at rather than seen as something you’d dearly regret, “Don’t you think?” you ask Jungkook, concern immediately washing over you once you see the sad look on his face, “Jungkook?”

Jungkook stares blankly at the lake in front of him, surprised at the resurgence of the same heavy feeling in chest he had felt several months before, “Did I—Did I say something wrong?” you worry that you’ve hurt his feelings, that being one of, if not the, last thing you wanted to do tonight.

Quietly he nods his head no, “I just—” he struggles to voice his thoughts, “I was—” he shakes his head and you grab his hand in comfort, giving him a small smile.

“Hey,” you giggle, “what happened is in the past,” you reassure.

“I know but—” he sighs, pushing his hair back with his other hand, “I just still feel bad, you know? I mean we went a whole month without talking…. practically hating one another…”

August 2019.

It had been about a month since your explosive argument with Jungkook, and despite living together... the two of you had never been so far apart. Not only were you not on speaking terms, but it was as if neither of you existed in each other's proper world, completely avoiding each other at all costs.

One would think that because you two lived with one another, you’d be bound to have some kind of awkward bump ins from time to time, but somehow the two of you managed to steer clear of each other. From eating breakfast and dinner at separate times, to talking to Hobi at your own respective times, and of course the first thing Jungkook did the next day after your fight was move his things out of your restroom and into Hobi’s. You weren’t going to lie, it did sting just a little , but you were quick to get over it. The part that made Hobi roll his eyes even further back than they already did, was how quickly you two scrambled around each other whenever you did happen to coincidentally be in the same place such as the kitchen.

Originally Hobi tried any and every method possible to get you two to make up, knocking on doors and trying to trick you two into talking, faking handwriting, stealing personal belongings, and of course begging. Hell, he even tried confronting you two in one of the rare times you guys were in the kitchen at the same time, but all you two did was remain silent and go back into your respective rooms. Not bothering to even spare a glance at one another.

He had given up about two weeks in of trying, deciding that it was up to you two to figure out how you guys would make up. But it wasn’t until this Friday morning when he saw a certain letter stick out of the mail that he found himself loudly sighing.

“Oh Jungkook…” he whispers to himself, shaking his head as he read the letter in front of him. What was he going to do now?

It didn’t take long for Jungkook to get used to being the lone wolf in the apartment again, in fact it was easy for him to completely ignore your existence. It was easy to watch you struggle opening a jar full of kimchi. It was easy to catch a glimpse of you and Hobi watching One Piece on the couch whenever he was making his way out of the apartment to go and party. It was easy to hear you sing along to some new girl group song and not join along whenever he passed by your room. And it was very easy to hate you. Very easy indeed.

Gosh, who was he kidding? It was the hardest freaking thing in the world to do. Especially because he didn’t hate you at all. Pretending to? Yes. Actually? Fuck no.

If he was being honest, any hatred he had felt in the moment of the big argument had been rapidly washed away the moment he slammed his door shut. Instead it had been quickly replaced by the feeling of hurt and sadness. He even found himself sneaking into the kitchen that night to grab an extra pint of ice cream from the freezer and watch some stupid K-drama from his laptop back in his room. Even shedding a small tear when the male and female lead had to break up due to unforeseen circumstances. But of course if you asked him if it was true, he’d deny it in a heartbeat.

He’d often find himself zoning out and replaying the fight in his head. God, was he an idiot. What was he thinking destroying your painting like that? Did he really think you weren’t going to react the way you did? Sadly, the answer was a mixture of both yes and no. Yes, he wanted you to feel as hurt as he did, but he didn’t expect you to go fully ballistic on him. Did he blame you for it? No, of course not. You had every right to be mad at him as he had acted out in completely blind rage. Not bothering to stop for one moment and ask himself, am I okay with the possible outcome of what I’m about to do? Had he known it was going to be this, and well … he would’ve never done it.

It just happened so quick. One moment he was staring at the floor covered with broken pieces of glass and the next he had his fist going through the canvas of your painting, destroying the very thing he convinced you to work on. No wonder you hated him…

You hated him and you had every right to. He just wasn’t sure how long he was going to be able to take it anymore. Having to only catch glimpses of you from time to time and not being able to say anything because he was too ashamed to even look at you was truly killing him. And he could only imagine how you felt having to see him every day and night. Knowing the person you hated most was living under the same roof as you. Hell, if the roles were reversed he probably wouldn’t want you around at all.

Which is why as Jungkook currently stares aimlessly at the ceiling of his room, he knows he’s made the right decision.

The night of the fight between you and Jungkook, you had felt a range of emotions that honestly were quite overwhelming. Whenever you’d stare off into space you’d find yourself feeling very sad and reflective, but whenever you even caught a glimpse of your then destroyed painting on the floor you’d feel the rush of anger return all at once. It was like that the whole night, not even an episode of One Piece could cheer you up. If anything it made you feel even more confused because you were on the episode where (spoiler alert) *** dies, and well not only were you mad at how it happened, but sad because it was happening. Hell, that was probably the best way to describe how you felt about the whole argument.

The first couple of days had been hard to say the least, the dynamic between all three of you drastically changing in the matter of a couple days. No longer were there grocery shopping trips together, nor were there laundry days where you and Jungkook would compete to see who could fold the fastest, and of course there were no longer Netflix movie nights where Hobi would complain because you and Jungkook kept cracking too many jokes during the most intense scenes. Your laughs always echoing across the living room walls thus ruining the buildup of the scene.

You were good at pretending you didn’t care, in fact you were great at it. Maybe because a part of you actually didn’t care. You had long been fed up with Jungkook’s moody antics, and him destroying that painting was the final straw. Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have gone into his room after he specifically told you not to, but you only did because you were worried about him and actually cared about him. Couldn’t he have seen that before he went full on rampage mode and destroyed your painting? He was wrong for what he did, and at the end of the day he had no right to hate you. Right?

These days you found yourself doubting it. It wasn’t like you were in the entire right, you mean you had invaded his privacy … you shake your head, begrudgingly getting out of bed before dwelling on your thoughts for any longer. The re-do of your painting, which currently sat on its easel, serving as reminder that you weren’t planning on talking to him anytime soon.

“Good Morning to you,” Hobi greets, watching you stomp your way into the kitchen, clearly running on an empty stomach. Jungkook was currently out, either working out or …. Hobi sighs recalling what he saw in the letter this morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, the grouchy mood that Hobi found himself a little too used to making its morning return. In all the years he’s known you, to see you always this …. down …. was very unlike of you to say the least.

Whether you liked it or not, your fight with Jungkook had definitely changed some aspects of your personality, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself yet. Because no matter how good you were good at faking it, and trust him you were good (a professional indeed), behind that tough wall you had put up in the last month was a person who was hurt. A person who had their heart crushed right in front of them.

Grabbing two slices of bread, you place them in the toaster, preparing to make yourself some avocado toast. You sigh when you hear Hobi’s footsteps getting closer, not wanting to hear the whole “You need to talk to Jungkook” speech this early on a Saturday morning.

Turning around to face him, you’re prepared to protest against his usual lecture, “Hobi I don’t—” the sound of an envelope hitting the counter catching you off guard, stopping you from continuing any further. Furrowing your brows, your eyes glint with confusion. Hobi stares at you with a stoic expression, waiting for you to grab the letter from the island’s counter.

Slowly you grab the white envelope, extremely confused as to what this had to do with. The name on the recipient line reads, “Jeon Jungkook” and for a small second you feel your heart stop, but you’re quick to shake it off.

“This isn’t mine, if you can’t tell,” you scoff, preparing to hand the envelope back to Hobi.

Pushing your hand away, he says, “Read it,” his tone telling you that it wasn’t exactly an option.

Rolling your eyes, you pull out the single piece of paper that’s inside, unfolding the tri-folded letter. Your eyes quickly gaze over the subject line which reads, “Application Approval,” catching your attention. From there you continue to read…

Dear Jeon Jungkook,

We are pleased to notify you that we have received and accepted your application for the lease property of **** Jangsin-Ro, Apartment 32. Your lease will begin on September 28, 2019 and your rent amount is ₩**** for every 1st of the month. Any cancellations will result in a ₩*** fee. I want to thank you for your application and anticipate that you will have an enjoyable living experience in your new home.

If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me.

Sincerely,

Bang Si-Hyuk.

Wait what? Your eyes reread the letter that’s in front of you because clearly you were reading something wrong. Your eyes must’ve been deceiving you because there was just no way…. Looking up at Hobi, you hope this was another of his attempts to get you to talk to Jungkook, but there he stood, straight faced as ever.

“He’s—” your voice whimpers like a little kid, “He’s moving out?”

“Ow!” Jungkook squirms, the feeling of your fingers pinching his arm hurting him, “What was that for?!” he yelps.

“For trying to move out without telling us! And don’t you dare ever pull something like that again,” you scold him, tempted to pinch him again.

Garnering a laugh out of him, you cross your arms like a kid and huff a loud breath of air, “Ah I won’t, I won’t,” he giggles, “Maybe…” he mumbles, but he’s quick to raise his arms in defense once he sees you ready to pinch him once again, “I’m just kidding,” he sings and you roll your eyes.

“Serves you right,” you mutter, letting out the hurt you felt that day to him because honestly, you had never gotten the opportunity to do so…

September 2019.

“Jungkook is moving out. Jungkook is moving out. Jungkook is moving out,” you think to yourself, having to come to terms with the fact that in exactly 48 hours from now Jungkook was officially going to be out of your life … for good.

You were shocked to say the least, when you saw the application letter, not exactly sure about what you felt. You mean, yeah you were definitely mad at Jungkook, but enough to the point where you wanted him officially out of your life? Hell no.

So then where the hell did he even get the idea to move out? It wasn’t like you two were being mean to each other, nor was there blatant hatred being shown on your part. All you two were doing were ignoring each other like two little kids. That should not be cause for someone to move out. Not at all!

A knock on the door catches your attention, “You ready?” Hobi asks, dressed in business like attire. His all black suit made him seem almost intimidating, that was until your eyes landed on his newly dyed cherry-red hair only causing you to stifle a small laugh.

Nodding your head, you look at yourself in the mirror one last time. Tonight was the night of the art exhibition, and you were very very nervous. You had turned in your piece a couple of days prior, but to have to later unveil it in front of everyone along with giving a small speech was nerve wracking. Especially considering you hadn’t involved yourself in the world of the arts for several years now, if anything you were used to constantly talking about accounting numbers and different business statistics.

“It��s either now or never,” you whisper to yourself, not knowing what awaited you.

“I just don’t get it Hobi,” you rant in the car, on your way to the galleria’s location, “he didn’t see me trying to move out when he was being nothing but a complete dick to me those first couple of months!” you pout, still not having accepted that Jungkook was moving out, despite constantly reminding yourself that he was.

Hobi sighs, feeling as if he’s heard you rant about this since you’ve found out … oh wait … you have! “Y/N—” he begins.

“No listen to me Hobi!” you interrupt, “Can he really not stand the sight of me that he feels the need to move out?? Was me going into his room really that big of an issue,” your voice wavers a bit, but you continue nonetheless, “And the fact that he hasn’t even bothered to tell you! So what? He was just planning on disappearing this coming Monday! Thinking no questions were going to be raised? I mean imagine you hadn’t seen that letter, he would’ve left thinking I hate him!” And to that Hobi lets out a scoff.

“What do you mean?” he scrunches his face, “He still is!” Hobi raises his finger before you could talk, “My turn,” he firmly states, only causing you to drop your defensive shoulders and roll your eyes.

“You two have not talked at all since your stupid little argument where clearly both of you were in the wrong!” he rants, repeating what he’s been saying for the last two months, the topic becoming tiresome, “And now one of you is leaving because neither of you can get over yourselves and just initiate some kind of freaking conversation! Just one conversation and I am one hundred percent sure everything will get cleared up and we can all go back to our daily lives, but nooooo both of you think we’re in some freaking K-drama, actually no, even K-dramas make up faster than the two of you!” he ends his rant on an insult, and you’re left there momentarily speechless.

“You are so—”

“I’m what?” Hobi glares at you, and you only narrow your eyes at him in return.

“You are so wrong,” you state, refusing to now look at him, instead looking out the window.

“I’m right and you know it,” you mumble something under your breath in response, “You invaded his privacy after he repeatedly told you not to, but for some reason you just felt the impulsive need to go into his room and find out what he was hiding. You know, I’m sorry Y/N but if Jungkook’s the biggest dickhead in existence then you my friend are the pushiest one,” he complains, finding his grip on the steering wheel becoming tighter. God, did the two of you get his blood pressure boiling up.

“You don’t get it, I had to go into his room,” you mutter, not exactly happy with the fact that Hobi is reading you for filth.

“No you didn't,” the two of you begin to go back and forth, voice raising with every sentence.

“Yes, I did.”

“No you did not.”

“Um yes—”

“Um n—”

“Yes, how else was I going to be able to find out what was hurting him?” you interrupt, turning to face Hobi, feeling the migraine in your head about to pop.

“And why would you need to know that?”

“Because I lo—” you quickly catch yourself before you could complete the sentence, crossing your arms and pouting. Like hell you’d confess in front of Hobi.

Hobi looks at you knowingly, “Because you what,” he taunts, knowing exactly what you were going to say,

“Just drive,” you mumble, your attention back to the window beside you, focusing on the view of the city streets.

“Ah Y/N, there you are!” Jimin greets you and Hobi, having barely walked in from your argumentative car ride, “You’re on in like ten minutes,” he nervously chuckles, worrying only minutes ago that you were going to be a no-show.

“That quick?” you ask in complete shock, barely having taken off your dress-coat. The churns in your stomach begin to make you feel physically sick and there’s now a certain dryness to your throat that you could only accredit to the tension you were now feeling. Your palms were even beginning to get a little sweaty. Why were you doing this again? Oh yeah … Jungkook.

“Come on let’s go and get you set up,” Jimin tugs at your hand, pulling you to follow him. With your other hand, you attempt to look for your flash cards, wanting to remind yourself of the specific points you needed to cover.

“What the—” your heart drops, unable to feel the flimsy piece of paper anywhere near the coat that hung against your arm, “Oh no,” you murmur to yourself, not wanting to panic Jimin, “No, no, no,” you repeat to yourself.

“Okay here we are,” he stops you two in front of your draped-covered painting, pulling out a lapel mic from his pocket, clipping it onto the collar of your outfit. Now that you weren’t moving, you were now barely taking note of just how many people filled the galleria, and it was a lot. There had to be at least 200 people, minimum. Each and every one of them slowly looking around at the already unveiled art pieces, their eyes doing the judging for them.

“Jimin I don’t know—”

“Hey, you’re gonna do just fine, it’s just a bit of stage fright I’m sure,” he reassures, and though you appreciate the gesture, coming from him it just didn’t mean much. You see, Jimin has always been what's called an optimistic person, similar to you in a way. Always trying to find the good in the bad. But in order for his words to really have some effect, it would’ve been better if he was a pessimist, someone who always saw the negative in everything because then to hear that you would do just fine would come more as a shock rather than as something expected, someone like—

You shake your head,“I’m just,” your outfit suddenly begins to feel as if it's squeezing the life out of you, “I’m really nervous,” you whisper to him out of breath, watching as people begin to crowd around your area. Were the walls closing in or was it just you?

He begins to test the mic, “Jimin—” you repeat his name, a cry for help, “I can’t—” but it’s too late.

“Hello everyone,” he speaks into his own microphone, and you scan the audience to see if you can spot Hobi. When you do, you notice the look of panic he has on his own face, probably aware of your distressed state, knowing that there was nothing he could do about it, “This artist I’m introducing to you, has been a personal friend of mine for years. I’ve known her since my first year in college, and I can vouch for just how talented she is,” Jimin glances at you, unaware of just how truly panicked you were, “So without further ado, y/n take it away,” he steps away, leaving you under the sole spotlight.

Remaining silent for a moment, you stare at the several pairs of eyes that had their gaze solely focused on you. “H-Hello,” you stutter into the mic, glad that it wasn’t a handheld one as you were sure that you would’ve been a jittering mess, “Um my name is y/n l/n,” you nervously smile, trying to find something to focus your attention on. Originally you planned on staring at Hobi the whole time, only to find out it made you even more of a stuttering mess. God, was it getting hot in here.

“So um I think we should um reveal the painting first,” you sputter out, signalling to Jimin that it was time. Slowly he removes the drape, the sound of clapping providing you a bit of a soothing effect. People liked it. People freaking liked it. It felt as if a brick or two had been dropped from your shoulders.

You gulp continuing with your speech, “So I um—” breathe y/n, “I call this piece safety net,” you turn sideways towards the painting, ready to explain, “I call it that because as y-you can see in the painting,” you mindlessly point to it as if the audience couldn’t see it themselves, “There’s the um the figure falling into what I call a safety net of flowers and—” you stare at the painting along with them, finding yourself getting lost in your own work, “well I painted this after—” you pause, the room completely silent, “after finding myself wanting to be someone’s safety net,” you mumble to yourself, a certain person coming to mind.

There’s an awkwardness to the room, the kind of stiffness you only find in tense moments. You weren’t sure if it was because the audience was trying to be respectful or you were just making a complete mess out of yourself, but either way Jimin awkwardly coughs, “So um we will now take questions from the audience,” Jimin hesitantly says, by now noticing the extremely panicked state you were in, but unsure of what to do.

A woman raises her hand, a volunteer for the galleria handing her a mic, “Hello,” she politely greets, giving you a warm smile, “So I was curious as to why you chose two colors that don’t conventionally go well together, I was wondering if you did that on purpose or…” and though you know her question means no harm, the voice in your head was convincing you that this was some kind of an attack.

“I um—” your breathing becomes heavier, “I—” Just speak, you keep telling yourself. Tell her that you chose two colors because they represented two different personalities. Say something you freaking idiot. “I um c-chose—” you begin to hear the sound of people murmuring all around you, their voices echoing loudly through your head. What were they saying? Did they hate your painting? Did they think it made absolutely no sense? Was it really that bad? What were you thinking when agreeing to do all this? How could you have been convinced to do this? You didn’t paint anymore for this exact reason.

With every thought that races through your mind, the sudden sense of impending doom only becomes stronger and your rapid breathing becomes louder. You had to be sweating because God did it feel like a fucking sauna in here. The tightness in your throat wasn’t helping at all as well only making the feeling of nausea further overwhelming. You needed to get out of here. Now.

And so without thinking… you run.

You yank out the mic and begin to run to God knows where, ignoring the shouts of your name along with the small number of gasps that could be heard.You needed to breathe again, and you desperately needed this feeling of danger to be gone.

Trying not to bump into too many people walking the dark city streets of Seoul, focusing on the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement, tuning out everything around you. “Just run,” you tell yourself, “Run until no one can find you.”

Soon the sound of your heels clacking against the pavement becoming the sound of your heels crunching against leaves. The pitch blackness of your surroundings causes tears to begin to well up, the trembling of your fingers along with the chills running down your spine making you feel as if you were running in an endless loop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You come to sudden halt, pushing your arm against a nearby tree, desperately trying to catch your breath. You were alone now, isn’t this what you wanted? So then why did you still feel as if the world was crashing down on you. Why couldn’t you breathe? Why were hot tears spilling from your eyes? What the hell was wrong with you?

By now your sobs are in full force, your heaving chest only adding to its force. Because of your crying, you fail to hear a voice, “There you are!” Jungkook catches his breath, surprised at how fast you could run in heels. For a small second he thought he had lost you in the chase, with the way you maneuvered around everyone, he was thankful he hadn’t.

“Y/N,” he calls out, expecting you to turn, but he’s met with silence. You were having a panic attack, a bad one at that. Making his way closer to you, he’s careful in how he approaches you, grabbing your hand before you could run any further, “Y/N,” he repeats, this time turning you to face him, but you continue to cry in hysteria, your vision blurred by just how fast tears were falling from your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me y/n,” he cups your face with his hands, a worrisome but firm look on his face, “I need you to breathe with me, okay?” your chest continues to heave, the rapid breaths of air coming from your mouth at an alarming rate, “Y/N!” he shouts, causing you to go silent, “Y/N…” he softly repeats, knowing he’s gotten your attention. You stare at him in silence, “One,” he inhales a big breath of air, “Two,” he exhales out, “Inhale,” he repeats his actions again, “Exhale,” he breathes out.

Slowly you begin to follow. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

In no time, your heartbeat begins to slow down, your mind focused enough on the task at hand that you begin to forget why you were ever panicked to begin with. “Hey,” Jungkook whispers, caressing your cheek with his hand, “You’re doing great,” he reassures you, providing you the words of comfort you so desperately needed to hear right now.

It had been so long since you’d gone through having a panic attack, almost forgetting just how bad they could sometimes get. But for now staring into Jungkook’s eyes and practicing some breathing exercises was enough to remember that no matter how bad they got, you’d get through them.

His fingers gently graze your cheeks, continuing to mumble small phrases of reassurance while you were getting control of yourself. “Has anyone ever told you,” you place a finger to the corner of his eye, quietly breathing your words out, “you have very round eyes,” you say and Jungkook lets a huffed laugh out in response.

He scrunches his nose and smiles, “Yeah, a lot of people have actually,” he laughs, a toothy grin spreading across his face while he uncups your cheeks, feeling a sense of tranquility wash over him as he knew you were going to be just fine, “I’ve been told they look like a doe’s eyes,” you quietly nod your head yes, agreeing with his statement, a warm smile on your face.

“Come on,” he intertwines your fingers, gently pulling you to follow him and leading you to a park bench that was near. But the thing was, it wasn’t just any park bench, it was the park bench from the night Jungkook was drunk and the two of you had gotten into the fight with that drunk man. What were the odds? You hadn’t even noticed that you ran this far till now...

He exhales a large breath of air once you two sit, allowing a neither comfortable nor awkward silence fill the air. Despite the heartwarming moment that happened only minutes ago, there were still things that needed to be talked about. Things that simply couldn’t be forgotten. It was the sole reason he had gone to the art exhibition because he wanted, no, he needed to talk to you.

He just hadn’t expected to see you running out in complete panic right as he walked in. The tears that were slowly rolling down from your eyes, causing him to feel a sudden sense of heartbreak. For the only reason you’d ever cry would be if your hard work were to be destroyed, whether physically or emotionally. It was the same despaired look you had given him that fateful day he decided to throw everything good that was becoming of his life out the window.

And so to see the scene in front of him play out had definitely caused both a mix of anger and sadness to boil within him. His urge to defend and protect you, almost overcoming his need to go out and make sure you were okay. That was until he found himself running out the door, signalling to Hobi that he’d handle it.

And so now here the two of you were, quietly sitting on a park bench with your hands being the only things physically touching, a comfort of its own for the both of you. It didn’t feel weird nor did it feel wrong because if anything it just felt right.

A part of you thinks and hopes it could remain like this forever, scared that if it didn't, you’d have to return back to the world where you and Jungkook were nothing more than strangers who were once friends. The world where acting as if one or the other didn’t exist was completely normal. The one where you’d find your heart selfishly longing for him despite stubbornly not wanting to. And so whether it be for a small second, a minute, or an hour, for now at least you just wanted to savor the moment because who knew what would possibly happen if he decided to leave and never come back.

“Y/N…” he begins.

“Shh,” you whisper, your puffy eyes softly gazing at the view of the trees in front of you, the silhouettes of trees as well sound of the wind softly pushing against the branches, a view you were once so scared of, not so scary anymore, “Just one more second,” you close your eyes, taking in one final breath of air. Jungkook feels his heart swell at the sight, remembering the scene from only months ago where it had been you doing all the staring. You pull his hand when you’re ready, your soft gaze now directed towards him.

“I just—” he begins to stutter, “I wanted to—” he feels his eyes get watery, the rush of emotion he was beginning to feel almost overwhelming him, “I wanted to say I’m sorry,” his voice slightly cracks, “for everything,” he whispers, allowing a tear to fall from his eye, feeling the weight he had been holding onto his shoulders now falling. The small leaks of vulnerability that you had occasionally seen now completely flooding through his walls of defense, that single tear becoming several, until soon you hear a sob emit from his mouth, but by then you have him wrapped in a hug, the sound of his sobs being muffled by your shoulder. Slowly you caress his hair, gently stroking and twirling the locks of his wavy hair in between your fingers, deciding that this time around silence was the best way to go.

“I’m so sorry,” he hysterically cries, holding onto you tighter, as if you’d go anywhere. He begins to shake his head, struggling to find the words that’d best describe how he felt at this current moment, “I’m—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” it’s your turn to say the words, gently pushing him off you so he could meet your gaze, “I know,” you reassure, “and I forgive you. The same way I’m sure you’ve forgiven me for snooping around your room like that,” you jokingly assume, and he smiles despite having red bloodshot eyes, “We were angry, and we said and did things that we shouldn't had but that doesn’t mean we have to hold them over our own heads for the rest of our lives,” you grip his hand tighter, “you made a mistake, and I made one as well. And rather than explode on one another and ignore each other, we should’ve talked about where we went wrong, and yeah,” you repeat your words from months ago, “maybe we didn’t get to do this as early as we hoped, in fact we’re quite late,” you giggle, “but we’re here nonetheless. And so let’s talk,” you say, ready to listen to the boy you had fallen in love with.

Jungkook stares at you in silence, a million thoughts racing through his mind, wondering how you always knew exactly what to say at the exact moment, “I,” he hesitates before continuing, “I need to start from the beginning,” he says, wiping any residue from the tears in his eyes, ready to open up the book he had kept closed for so long.

You nod to him, signalling that you were listening, “When I was a kid, I um,” he gulps, “I guess you could say I had a knack for boxing. Originally, my dad had taught me as a way to protect myself if I ever came across a situation that’d require me to defend myself,” his fingers begin to fidget within yours, a sign that he was nervous. Quick to soothe him, you rub small circles on the palms of his hands, his gaze occasionally avoiding eye contact.

“But I also think it was because my dad, who once wanted to be a boxer himself, saw me a way to vicariously live out his dream. Because soon he noticed that the knack I had for it was more of a talent,” a small smile appears on his lips, “and well by then he had begun to seriously train me… I remember always coming back after school and dulging right into practice, waking up on weekends and running laps at the park with my dad in order to gain stamina, and just,” he exhales a breath, “and just thinking to myself how proud I wanted to make him,” uncontrollably a tear falls from his face once again, and he tries to gain his composure before continuing, not wanting to begin the sob fest too early, “Once he thought I was ready, my dad had begun to sign me up for amatuer competitions, and well I did amazing,” Jungkook laughs.

“And soon boxing would become the sport I’d find myself building my life upon, but one day—“ he sighs, knowing the conclusion to his own story and well this was only the beginning, “one day during high school we had this um career day I guess you could call it, and well long story short after going around and listening to how passionate some of spokespersons were of their careers, I remember thinking, is boxing something I was doing for myself or for my father?”

A sad smile appears on his face, “I think the most confusing part for me was that I wasn't exactly passionate about anything else but I also just knew deep down in my heart that boxing wasn’t for me, you know? To this day I don’t know what exactly it is I'm passionate for,” he laughs, “and I certainly don’t see myself making coffee and flipping pancakes for the rest of my life,” he jokes around, an attempt the make the atmosphere a little lighter, “but I think with the help of someone I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s okay to be a bit of a late bloomer,” he winks at you, “one day I’ll wake up and just know…”

You give him a small reassuring smile, happy to know that he’s learned his own lessons along the way, even if it required a bit of pushing.

”But back to my story,” he awkwardly laughs, the small feign of happiness gone, “Though I had realized it already… maybe it was because I was scared, or maybe it was just—” he shakes his head, unable to find the words, “I just,” he sighs, “I just couldn’t tell my dad because for me telling my dad would feel as if I was telling him that all the years of hard work were going down the drain. That the endless nights of working out and exhausting ourselves to sleep were all for nothing. And so when my dad told me that managed to get me a spot at some training camp in the states, I took it. I mean it wasn’t like I had anything going for me here in Korea, and well I needed to guarantee my own future,” he shifts uncomfortably, remembering everything a little too vividly.

“I did pretty well for a couple years, slowly began climbing the ranks, and the natural talent I had for the sport was beginning to really shape itself, even catching the attention of prominent sport reporters. Long story short, I’d find myself surrounded with nothing but yes men and leeches who wanted nothing more than a piece of my so called success,” he gazes off to the distance, ashamed of the ego that had been built as a result of such people, “and well when you get told that you’re the best, that no one can stop you, that you’re untouchable, you truly begin to believe it,” he lets out a chuckle, “so when Brandon Star, a man who was nearly out of my weight class, began to provoke me for a fight on television after winning some match and I kept hearing from my so called friends that it’d be an easy match or that it was a guaranteed win, how could I say no? Of course at the time I didn’t know that they would be betting against me… so I said yes.”

A momentary silence fills the air as Jungkook had never told this whole story to anyone, the revealing of everything somewhat freeing for him, “A part of me knew I was way in over my head, it was like a gut feeling, you know? But I needed someone, anyone, to tell me the truth and to confirm what I was thinking. I needed someone who was going to criticize me instead of nodding their head yes and pretending that everything was going to be just fine. I think that’s why when I first met you, you reminded me so much of the people who were around me in the states, faking a smile in order to spare my feelings.” Sadness clouds his features, ashamed of how he took everything out on you when all you were doing was simply being the person you always were... kind. For that, he was truly sorry.

“Anyways,” he continues, ��that night of the fight, the feeling I had in my stomach was overwhelming. I told my dad, who was helping prep me backstage like he always did, that I felt nervous. That I was scared,” his voice cracks and he closes his eyes, remembering the scene as if it was yesterday, “and my dad well...he’s always struggled with separating being a father and being a trainer,” Jungkook tries to contain the sob that’s begging to come out, “but at that moment I just needed my dad. I needed him to tell me that win or lose everything was going to be fine. That he’d be proud of me no matter what,” he finally cries, and as you’re about to pull him into another hug, he vigorously shakes his head, stopping you from doing so.

“No, I need to finish thi—”

“Jungkook,” you softly interrupt because it wasn’t that you didn’t want to hear anymore, you just weren’t sure if you could hear anymore without at some point sobbing yourself, “you don’t need to, especially if you’re not ready,” you stare at him with a sad look on your face.

“No, you deserve to know,” he firmly states, “you deserve to know,” he quietly repeats to himself. You nod your head in understanding, waiting for him to continue as he wipes away his tears with the sleeve of his shirt, composing himself.

“He told me that I’d do just fine, that the son he’s trained so long for wouldn’t fail him now,” he mumbles, the words of his father still echoing in his mind, “When you go and box, you’re supposed to enter that ring with no concerns of the real world, you’re supposed to put any negative or anxious thoughts you had outside the ring to rest. Because the moment you let just one of those thoughts seep through, you might as well hang up your gloves right then and there,” his expression hardens, “I went into that ring knowing I was going to lose…”

“From there I don’t remember too much,” he bitterly lets out a laugh, “I just remember being on a gurney and feeling the heaviness of Star’s punches beginning to weigh down on my chest, clearly having done some damage to my ribs,” he sighs, “but the moment I remember so clearly is my parents trying to make their way to me, doing their best to push their way in an effort to see me. I don’t know if it was because I was just so mad at myself,” his voice shakes, “or because I confused the look of sadness on my dad’s face with disappointment, but at the time—“ his voice falters again, “At the time I thought how ashamed he must’ve been of me,” he fights through his tears, trudging through the story, “And so as I was being lifted into the truck, I kept yelling how this was his fault, that it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be in this position,” Jungkook lifts his head up, combing a hand through his hair.

“When I got to the hospital, I refused to let my parents see me, I was just too—“ God, did he sometimes wish he could go back in time and change everything, “I was too stubborn, too ashamed with myself to even look at them. So I ran,” he says, catching you by surprise, “I needed time alone so I ran,” he repeats, “I ran before they could find me, I just got up and ran,” there’s a haunting emptiness that lingers in his voice, one that brings chills down your spine.

“I called Hobi, and I told him that I needed to redeem a favor,” your mind flashes back to the night Hobi told you what he knew, “And I thought this is what I needed. That I’d be okay with starting anew, and that if I could firmly plant my feet in Seoul then I could visit my parents in Busan, and tell them how sorry I was without them having to worry too much about what the future would hold for me… and explain to them what happened, what I felt, and why I ran. That was my plan,” his voice cracks, “I was reaching a point in my life where I felt so content, so happy. I’d wake up to see you and Hobi making breakfast while imitating some random girl group dance and think to myself how things had managed to turn out so well for me despite my failure in the states. Or when we binged on One Piece episodes that whole night while stuffing our faces in tubed ice cream and I just felt like a little kid again without a worry in the world. But then …”

Jungkook feels the heavy feeling in his chest grow, “He passed away,” and just like that Jungkook feels as if the air has come out of his lungs, the same way it did the night he found out.

You feel your heart break at his words, recognition dawning over your face as everything was beginning to make sense. “My mom had managed to find my number in order to tell me there’d been an accident, and I just couldn’t believe it at first,” he attempts to hide his grief by stifling a sob, “I didn’t want to get up from bed at first because getting up would mean facing reality, it’d mean accepting that it wasn’t some kind of twisted fucked up nightmare but that it was real. That the last sight my dad saw of me was on some gurney,” his face twists, “that the last words I ever said to him were so—“ he breaks down, sobbing once again and this time you feel your own hot salty tears fall from your eyes, wrapping in such a tight hug that you weren’t sure if it was for his or your own sake.

He cries a sound so raw that it was almost as if the wound was still freshly cut, his hand clasping tightly onto your clothing for support. Any last defensive wall he had up was washed away by his salty tears, finally facing the final waves of grief, loss, and devastation in the arms of the person he had taken everything out on. The person he didn’t deserve at all, but had stayed nonetheless. You whisper sweet comforting words to his ear, wanting more than his grief to subside so that you could see the smile you loved so much appear on his face again.

“I just wish there was something I could’ve done differently,” he shakes his head, “so that he could know just how much his son loved and appreciated him,” he lifts his head up from your shoulder, wiping his tears away, and practicing his breathing as his chest had been heaving so bad because of his sobs, “And so that was why I completely changed that June and became cold. That was why I got so mad when I saw you in my room with the broken trophy I had gotten when I was a kid because I was just so reminded of everything,” he frowns, “and it had hit me like a freaking truck. To see my current world and the past one collide was just—“ he pauses, “overwhelming to say the least,” he concludes everything and you’re left there completely speechless.

You could’ve never in your wildest dreams even guessed that this was why Jungkook had come back to Seoul and why he had acted so cold for so long. His grievances had happened in such a short period of time, that all it took was one wrong move to set him completely off. No wonder he had kept himself so isolated … he knew he was ticking time bomb waiting to finally explode at any given moment.

The two of you stare at each other in silence, his words processing in both of your minds. You want to say the words that are currently repeating themselves in your mind, I love you. Three simple words that could make him forget his past, even if it was for a small moment in time. “Jungkook—” he looks up at you, “I—” you stutter, the words clinging onto the tip of your tongue, “I um,” you feel your chest become heavy as he stares at you in curiosity, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” you force out instead. He furrows his eyebrows, ready to protest against your apology, but you’re quick to interrupt before he gets the chance to.

“Since you’re being so honest with me, I feel like it’s only right I’m honest with you,” you bite your lip, disappointed with your cowardice, “So that like that we get a better understanding of one another,” you feign a smile.

“There’s a reason why I got so um…” you pause, “anxious before and during the galleria,” you narrow your eyes, it was now your turn to open a book that’d long been left incomplete. “I told you right? That I was an art student at Busan’s Art college but that I ended up transferring after an incident occurred…” He quietly nods, allowing you to continue, “and well I think I’m ready to talk about it,” you let out a breathy chuckle.

He stares at you in silence, ready to listen as well. “Growing up, I really liked painting,” you laugh, recalling the memory of you painting on the walls as a kid, “for some reason it was something I found myself falling further in love with every calendar year, but my parents, well they were on the more skeptical side of making a career out of it. I mean I don’t really blame them,” you sound unsure, “I mean I know that it’s hard these days to find success in the world of arts, or at least the level of success most people want to obtain but originally for me it didn’t matter,” you chuckle, remembering how naive you had been.

“Before entering college, I’d sell my little paintings and merchandise on those small-business centric websites like Etsy and stuff,” you say for example, “and you’re right, when you get told that you’re good at something, you really begin to believe it…”

Jungkook wants to interrupt and tell you that whatever your situation was, was much more different than his. That you were actually good at what you did, no, you were amazing at it. He wasn’t sure if he could listen to you talk down on yourself, but nonetheless he continues to listen.

“My first year of college I met people like Jimin who were so passionate about what they do that it really cemented the idea I had in wanting to turn my water painting into a career,” you sigh, “but in the back of my mind I always did have tiny doubts that lingered, and I always made sure not to feed them too much, but when you’re surrounded by people who are just as talented or even better than you, it gets hard not to.”

Jungkook completely understands where you’re coming from, having been in a similar position himself before. “And it didn’t help that my parents were constantly breathing down my neck about finding a different career to focus on,” you shrug “anyways,” you continue, shaking your head, “In Busan’s Art College, like many other colleges there are departments, like STEM and Business for example, but in this case things are separated by like dance, art, film, et cetera. And well if you can’t tell I’m a bit of a … pushy … person,” you laugh and Jungkook softly smiles, neither agreeing or disagreeing, “I think it’s due to me always feeling a need to overcompensate my insecurities, I guess. Like when you first moved in, in order to reassure myself that you didn’t hate me, the pushy side of me came out,” you explain, and the same way you began to understand Jungkook as he was explaining his story, Jungkook was beginning to understand you as a person.

“Well back to the focal point, I was a part of a committee club for painters within the art department, thinking that if I took charge of something, it’d increase my chances in succeeding in my career once I graduated. But the thing is, is when you join those committees I guess you could say there’s like a hierarchy of some sort, a cliché come to life,” you try your best to keep the conversation as lighthearted as you can, wanting the energy in the air to become one that was positive, a reflection of just how much you two had grown, “and well during my second year we were all assigned a project for some city poster in which we’d present to the committee’s leader, Nari, and where she and a couple of others would then choose which one was going to be used. And let me tell you, this was a career making project. The people who were going to be at the unveiling were names like Ji Hye Yeom, Haegue Yang, and more,” you sigh knowing you were coming to the rough part of the story.

“Nari had specifically told us that we were to only use materials she had chosen for us, and limited us to certain color schemes that in my opinion were the ugliest schemes I’d ever seen,” you scoff, “So me being the pushy person I am, I went ahead and continued with my original plan, which was making a watercolor painting because at the end of the day if my painting did happen to get chosen, I wanted it to be a genuine work of mine, not something that was limited by someone who was no more superior than me all because of some flimsy title,” you softly shake your head, “And so I poured my heart into it, working on it every chance I got during that school year in order to make sure that the committee would be so amazed , they’d have no choice but to choose it even if it didn’t exactly follow Nari’s regulations.”

A feigned smile graces onto your lips, refusing to cry at a situation from years ago, “I was so nervous that day to present it, but I was also so excited. Excited because I knew I created a piece that was so beautiful I—,” for a quick second your voice falters, but you’re quick to catch yourself, “I was just so sure they’d choose it,” you whisper, voice sounding frail and defeated.

“That day I presented it, I thought the silence that filled the room was because they were amazed,” you close your eyes for a moment, trying your best to push back any tears that wanted to make their way out, “God I still remember the extra specks of white and gold I added to it the night before, thinking those extra touches were really going to tip the scale in my favor,” you mumble, the embarrassment you felt that day coming back.

Jungkook feels his jaw harden, at this point an automatic response to the thought of your feelings being hurt. He didn’t know why, but to see someone as kind as you act out of character whether it be because you were mad or sad, always caused a heavy feeling in his chest. The only thing you deserved to feel was happiness and comfort, and though he wasn’t sure it was something, he, himself, could guarantee you … he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try.

“After what felt like 20 minutes, of complete silence she slowly got up in front of everyone,” you blankly stare at the trees in front of you, “I remember my heart beating out of my freaking chest for some reason, and the sweat beginning to form at my palms. And the moment she started speaking, I just went blank—” you turn to face Jungkook, who had a worrisome look on his face, “She started to berate me in front of everyone, insulting my hard work and telling me that even despite me breaking her guidelines, the painting still wasn’t any good,” you gulp, “But in fact, her words didn’t bother me at all,” you pause, “it was the comments from my supposed peers that really twisted the knife for me,” you scoff, “and then she did the unthinkable...”

Jungkook feels the heavy weight in his chest drop because he knows what you’re about to say. He knows what that woman did. And he knows why you were so hurt when he destroyed your painting, “She grabbed the canvas from the display board, and she ripped it,” you say, managing to muster up the smallest of smiles, but Jungkook knows that it's nothing more than a facade. An illusion so that he could think that you were no longer hurt by the actions of that woman.

“Once she did that, it just triggered everything else that followed after,” you furrow your brows, refusing to look at Jungkook, “I was being laughed at while having a panic attack,” you scoff, “I felt like I was in a scene from a high school movie,” you attempt to mask your hurt by making a joke.

“I ended up running out of the building, feeling as if my heart was going to explode from how fast it was pounding, and the compression in my throat was almost unbearable,” your voice cracks, “in just 20 minutes she took away any confidence I had in my artistic abilities, In just 20 minutes she made me question everything I knew about myself,” a tear finally falls from your eye, speaking the words you’d never said out loud before into the world.

“I attempted to stay at the school for a couple more weeks after that, but every time I picked up a paint brush, I just kept hearing her words along with the rest of my peers’ as well, second guessing every stroke I made on canvas. I had lost my spark,” you stifle a sob, “After that, I decided to transfer out and follow the plans’ my parents had always set out for me… and well, you know the rest,” you laugh in between your tears, wondering just how pitiful you must’ve looked. But soon enough you feel Jungkook's arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug so tight, you never wanted him to let go.

“Don’t leave,” you mumble into his chest.

Jungkook reassures you by cooing a small, “I won’t”, but gently you pull away once he does, holding onto his hand instead. A look of confusion washes over his face.

“No—” you shake your head, realizing he’s misunderstood, “I mean don’t leave our apartment,” you sniffle, giving him a small warm smile, leftover tears still brimming the corners of your eyes. His mouth gapes slightly open, taken back by your statement. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to be moving out by Monday.

“We—” you shake your head, deciding that “we” wasn’t the right word in this case, “I need you,” you state, nothing but sincerity behind your words. Jungkook feels his heart skip a beat, the close-eyed soft smile that covers your face only making him smile in return.

He doesn’t need to say anything because you know … you know that he needs you just as much as you need him. You know that he’ll never leave your side from this day on because tonight was the start of a new chapter in your lives, one that included each other. Gently he pulls you into another hug, the warm fuzzy feeling in his chest being a feeling he could get used to.

“How did you even know where the venue was, or what the time the whole thing was?” you ask Jungkook, questions that hadn’t crossed your mind that day now forming.

“Hobi sent me a text that same night, very um … straightforward?” Jungkook chuckles, “It read, Art Exhibition. **** Namgang-Ro. 7:30 PM. Formal attire. You either go or you don’t. Up to you. Just don’t go crying later on that you regret not going. And well I had debated for several hours, originally chickening out and deciding to use me not having any formal suits as an excuse. That was until I walked into my room to find that Hobi had ironed one of his own for me to use,” Jungkook explains, “And well luckily I grew some balls and went and well now we’re here,” he smiles at you.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t cut off too much of the story. We still have to remember all the good that came afterward,” you giggle, and he only flashes you an even bigger smile.

“Ah you’re right, you’re right. How could I forget?”

October 2019.

“Happy Halloween!” you and Jungkook wave to the kid dressed as Iron Man, glancing at the clock which currently read 10:00PM. Mm you’d give it one more hour before permanently closing your doors and calling it a day even if Jungkook protested for more time.

You see, tonight was Halloween, and for the first time since you and Hobi moved to your guys’ apartment, you were giving out candy to the little kids of your apartment complex who usually went floor to floor trick or treating and it was all thanks to Jungkook. You were surprised really, you would’ve never taken Jungkook as being someone who was such a kid at heart.

After weeks of begging, he’d finally managed to convince you and Hobi to not only dress, but distribute candy. Usually you and Hobi would turn off all the lights and ignore the knocks you’d receive on the door, choosing to have a movie night than to participate in Halloween festivities.

Realistically speaking, you sorta expected Jungkook to go out and party tonight which is why when he notified you weeks prior that all of you were going to be participating in giving out candy, you couldn’t find it in you to say no. Hobi on the other hand required a lot of convincing and though he wasn’t exactly helping with the distribution of candy, watching him dressed as Batman while lazily sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand was a gift in its own.

Jungkook, who desperately wanted to be a male version of Harley Quinn, had made you help him with cinching his crop top, exposing his toned lower abdomen every time he even stretched the slightest bit. It was…. quite a site … even causing several moms with their kids to “accidentally” stumble on your apartment floor again after only being there 10 minutes prior, your own little green monster finally making its appearance ….

But besides that, your favorite part of his whole costume was definitely the face/eye makeup he had done. The smoky blue and red along with the fake tatted heart under his left eye truly acting as the selling point of his costume. It just made him look very hot, more than usual. Hobi had even caught you staring at the boy on several occasions, teasingly nudging you whenever he did.

With Hobi dressed as Batman and Jungkook dressed as Harley Quinn, that of course only left you, who was currently dressed as none other than a female version of the Joker from Suicide Squad because despite how shitty the movie was, the style in which they made the Joker was still indeed very cool. Jungkook had even lent you his own natural artistic abilities to draw the tattoos where your dominant hand couldn’t firmly paint, laughing at the “twinsies” jokes you made in reference to his own tattoos. It had even given you the opportunity to ask him what each one of his own real tattoos meant to him.

Most of his tattoos, he explained, were done out of impulse. A majority of them being done in the states on a complete whim, but a couple of them held significant meaning to him. For example, his tattoo of a bandaged hand clearly represented his history with boxing. He explained that rather than get the overused boxing gloves as a tattoo, he’d get a simple bandaged hand done, deciding that it looked cooler and that you agreed with. Another example was the tattoo that translated to “Life Goes On” which was pretty self-explanatory, but meaningful nonetheless. Jungkook explained that it was one his favorite mottos growing up, and well recently it seemed to weave perfectly into his life.

But your favorite tattoo? The small One Piece manga strip he had across his left forearm. The story behind it almost caused you to shed a tear, had it not been for your white powdered makeup, you probably would've cried. You see, when Jungkook was a young boy he’d always watch One Piece as a distraction from boxing, falling in love with the story and its characters.

His dad, who’d always scold him whenever he caught him late at night watching the anime, never understood why Jungkook liked the show so much. It wasn’t until one night he somehow managed to convince his dad to watch the episode he was on, and despite not knowing anything about what was going on nor the characters’ names, his dad ended up loving the show just as much as him. The show had acted as a new bond between the two, from buying the latest manga volumes to staying up late at night to watch the newest episode. And well the strip on Jungkook’s arm was from the exact episode he had managed to convince his dad to watch with him that night. The tattoo serves as a representation of a memory he holds dearest to him, a memory of his dad.

“Ah I think that’s the last of it,” Jungkook looks into the last bag of candy he had bought, absolutely nothing left inside, “Wasn’t this fu—”

“Let’s go get a tattoo,” you interrupt, the idea coming to you out of nowhere. Jungkook tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. A tattoo? You? Ms. I do not even have a dot of ink on my skin?

“A tattoo!?” Hobi turns from the TV, now having got his attention.

Both men stare at you in silence, thinking this was all some big joke until you begin to nod, reaffirming your choice, “Yes! All three of us! Matching roommate tattoos,” you smile, not exactly sure what had gotten into you, but surprisingly... completely okay with it.

Jungkook, noticing just how serious you were about this, begins to feel a smile form on his face. It wasn’t like he minded, he just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to regret it the next morning, “Y/N, you sure you one? I mean … you’re not someone I picture getting a tattoo, I mean think of your job,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, think of your job!” Hobi butts in, clearly not in favor of getting a tattoo.

Vigorously, you nod your head, “I’m one hundred percent sure,” you laugh, “I promise you, I won’t regret it,” you stick out your pinky finger, and Jungkook is quick to hug it with his own.

“W-What the?” Hobi stutters, unsure if it was the alcohol or shock in his system causing it. Probably both.

You turn to Hobi, “If you really don’t want it, then you don’t have to get it,” you shrug, “But at least come with us,” you smile, hoping that once you were there at the parlor shop you’d be able to convince him.

Sitting on the leather stool with your forearm displayed, the tattooist begins to prep your skin placing rubbing alcohol on the area in which you had chosen to get your tattoo. Now that you are here, you couldn’t lie, you were a bit nervous. But mostly because you were skeptical of the pain the needle would give you.

Jungkook had described it as “a cat repeatedly scratching a sunburn”... as if you were supposed to know what that means. He also said that depending on your pain tolerance you’d either like the feeling, get used to it, or absolutely hate it. It just varied from person to person as well as the placement where you were choosing to get it.

Supposedly the inner wrist didn’t hurt, but with the sudden stinging sensation you were feeling, you were a bit unsure of that now.

“So is that your boyfriend out there?” the woman tattooing you suddenly asks, catching you completely by surprise. If she didn’t have a pricking needle against your skin , you probably would’ve jumped at the accusation.

Trying your best to keep your cool, you respond, “Oh um—” you shake your head, “No,” you awkwardly laugh, “I wish”, you think to yourself.

“Hmm,” she hums, the same smirk Jimin once gave you appearing on her face, “Sorta seemed like it out there, I mean I’m sure if he had the option he would’ve chosen to sit here right next to you and hold your hand,” she teases, and a blush appears on your cheeks.

“Oh that’s just how he is with everyone,” you reason, not wanting to feed into the delusions that Jungkook could possibly return any feelings for you, “He’s a very protective person, sometimes a little too much, but it has its benefits,” you joke around.

She shrugs, continuing to work on the small tattoo, “”Mm I don’t know, I mean the way with the way he looks at youuuu,” she sings, “because you clearly like him,” she laughs.

“No I don’t!” you pout, “We’re just close friends, that’s all….”

“Close friends don’t look at each other like that, and they’re certainly not as touchy as you two are,” she says, only causing you to scoff.

“You don’t know what you’re ta—”

“All done!” she smiles, wiping over the fresh new ink on your skin one last time, “Look how easy it was for me to get you to stop wincing so much,” she winks at you, and suddenly everything begins to make sense. She was trying to get you to relax. Was the topic she chose really the best one? No. But it worked didn’t it?

She places the plastic wrap over it, “So what do you think?” you stare at the new permanent piece of work on your skin, a small smile gracing your lips.

“Ah I—”

“Love it so much!” you flash Jungkook the two-month old ink on your skin, the digital numbers “00:00” acting as a permanent reminder of the day all three of you officially became roommates. It was small, yes, but to you it meant so much.

Jungkook pulls his own sleeve, showing you his own matching ink, “Zero o’ clock,” he hums, recalling a song he heard not too long ago on the radio.

“Ah too bad we couldn’t convince Hobi to get one,” you sigh, remembering how firm he was that night, “but we’ll get him next time,” you laugh.

Jungkook quirks his brow, “Next time?”

You nod your head, “I can see why people get addicted to these things,” you joke, “they’re like their own pieces of art,” you smile.

“Design mine next time,” he suddenly says, his statement coming off more as a command than a question. Turning to face him, you look for any small sign that he was joking.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’, “I think a watercolor style painting would look amazing rightttt,” he points to the side of his ribcage, “here.”

Eyes widening in shock, you’re in complete disbelief, “You—you’re crazy!” you laugh, refusing to take him seriously.

“Ah I’m being serious Y/N,” he pouts, “Come on you know you want toooo,” he sings, softly nudging you.

You stare at him for a moment, “Are you sure?” you ask, skeptical about his seriousness.

He nods, “As sure as you were about getting that tattoo that night,” he teases, and you only roll your eyes in return.

“Mmm,” you hum, “I’ll think about it.”

“Think?! I’m your roommate!” he dramatically complains, throwing his head against your shoulder, suddenly in a clingy mood. Maybe the tattooist was right… maybe you two were a little too touchy….

You mean, just last month during friendsgiving, Hobi just had to complain in front of everyone claiming, “If you two don’t get your own room—”

“Then I think at some point this turkey is going to come back alive just to tell you two himself,” he slurs his words, wine glass in hand.

Drunk Yoongi tags in, “How do you know it’s a he?” he squints his eyes, gearing up for a debate.

Hobi rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive motion with his hand, “Not now Yoongi,” he says, causing everyone sitting at the table to laugh, and he turns his attention back to you and Jungkook, currently sitting next to each other, “Are you two going to continue playing footsies or are you finally going to—”

Seokjin interrupts by awkwardly coughing and tapping his champagne glass with his fork, getting up from his seat in the process, “I think it’s the perfect time to do our annual “What am I thankful for” toast, so I’ll begin,” he laughs, all eyes on him, “So um this year I am thankful for all of my friends who continuously stick by side throughout the years, and for the wonderful woman I’ve grown to love more and more every day,” he warmly smiles at his girlfriend, the two already seeming like a married couple despite having only met this year. Seokjin turns his attention to Yoongi, signalling that it was his turn.

He groans before getting up, peeved as to why Seokjin always insisted on doing these things, “Okay okay—”

“This is gonna take a while,” you whisper to Jungkook, Yoongi’s speech now fading into the background.

Jungkook quietly chuckles in response, “You think? How long do you think it’ll take before he starts with his “back in my day” speech?” he jokes around.

Suddenly Yoongi’s voice becomes more audible, “Back in my day we didn’t use—”

You and Jungkook snortle a laugh, “Not long,” you respond, the two of you trying your best to keep your snickering at a low.

“So … got anything prepared?” he asks, this being his first year and all doing this kind of thing, he was a bit nervous as to what to say.

You shake your head, “Mm no, you just sorta say what’s on your mind? I guess?” you awkwardly laugh, “Trust me, as long as they have their bottles of soju next to them, whatever you say will go in one ear and out the other,” you reassure, remembering the first year you did this and gave a heartwarming speech, just for it to be ignored because Namjoon could’ve sworn he’d seen the “turkey move”. From there it led to an hour debate on whether a dead freaking turkey could still possibly be alive after having it in the oven for several hours.

He nods his head, noting what you’ve said.

After going around it was now the last toast of the night,“Ah and lastly onto our newest member in this friend group,” Namjoon, who had just finished his own speech, turns to Jungkook and pats his shoulder, “take it away,” he gives him a dimpled smile before sitting back in his seat.

Jungkook awkwardly blinks at him for a moment, not getting up until you nudge him to do so. “Oh yeah…” he forces a laugh, “Um so where do I begin,” you almost feel second hand embarrassment, if you thought you weren’t any good under pressure, Jungkook might take the crown.

“So… The first thing I want to say I’m thankful for are the new friends I’ve made since coming to Seoul,” he spares a glance to the boys, “um..” he bites his lip, “The second thing or person may I say, that I want to thank is Hobi…” he smiles at the drunk man, “well for giving me a second chance per say,” he chuckles, “I know I don’t say it often, but I’m truly grateful for you picking up my call that night,” Hobi gives a small warm smile, “And well the last person I want really want to mention that I’m thankful for is … you,” Jungkook suddenly turns his attention down to you, catching you by surprise.

Raising your eyebrows, you wonder where this is coming from, “I um—” he feighs a small laugh, “I know I wasn’t exactly the nicest person when I first moved in, but—” he exhales a breath, “But you gave continuously gave me a chance to prove otherwise every single time until I finally got it right,” he smiles, “and well last year I had a pretty rough year,” he jokes around, “and honestly I thought coming in 2019 it’d be just bad, but you single handedly proved me wrong and made sure this was going to be a year for me to remember and well for that I’m forever grateful,” you silently blink away any tears, not wanting to get teased at for crying after this his speech was done. He breaks away the gaze he held on you in order to finish his speech off, “So with that I say … cheers everyone!”

Everyone raises their glasses of whatever it was they chose to drink, clinking it all in the middle and repeating “Cheers!” before gulping down whatever was left of their drinks. The rest of the night is filled with nothing but laughs and joy, as well as the remainder of the month, every single day creating a new memory for the three of you, until you were left with nothing but...

“The present day,” you whisper to yourself, unable to believe that the year had gone by so fast.

“What a year it’s been huh…” Jungkook softly smiles, glancing at the time on his phone which reads 11:50. 10 more minutes until the new year. 10 more minutes until zero’o clock.

“Yeah…” a comfortable silence fills the air around you, how had the hour gone by in the blink of an eye? You wonder if it’s the effect Jungkook just naturally has on people because never did you find time going by so fast unless you were with him.

“I—”

“So—”

Your cheeks become a tinge of pink , “Oh you go first—” he shakes his head.

“No, no, go ahead,” he laughs, insisting that you go instead.

This was the perfect chance, the chance to tell him about the feelings you’d grown to have for him in the past year. You just needed to grow the courage to say those three letter words that were itching to be said. It was either now or never.

“I um, I just wanted to say thank you,” you chicken out once again, “I didn’t get the chance to say it on friendsgiving, but,” you gulp, “your speech it um meant a lot to me, and well I’m just as grateful for you,” you chuckle, “I think maybe even more.”

Had you noticed, you would’ve seen the slightly disappointed look on Jungkook’s face, “Oh..” he says, a small pout appearing on his face.

“What were you going to say?” you ask, faking the pep in your voice, ready to eternally scold yourself for being a chicken once you got back to the cabin.

He sighs, “It’s nothing really,” he shrugs, but you nudge his shoulder before he could divert the conversation elsewhere.

“Come on, just say it,” you tease, “because you either speak now or forever hold your piece,” you look at the time, “5 minutes till midnight.”

He stays silent for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should say what had been on his mind for quite some time, “I um—” fuck it, it was either now or never, “You know how I told you that I couldn’t sleep right? That it’s why I came out here…” you innocently nod your head as he continues, “well it’s cause I had already sorta been thinking about everything that’s happened this year…” he lets out a small chuckle.

“I mean isn’t it crazy?” he pushes his hair back with his hand, “Someone who was nothing more than a stranger before the clock hit twelve that night is now someone I can’t picture not being in my life,” you feel your heart flutter at his words, “And I mean to think we didn’t get along at first,” he lets out a breath of disbelief, “All because I was a person who was—” he pauses, unsure of how to describe himself from that time, “angry,” he decides to say, “I was an angry person who mad at the world,” he bites his lip in retribution for his attitude back then.

“No,” you laugh, shaking your head, “you were just someone who was… hurt. That’s all it was,” you say.

“You think?” you nod your head yes, “I never really thought about it like that,” he mumbles, “Would you do it all over again?” he suddenly asks, and you find yourself quirking your brow at his question, “Like if you had the chance would you do it all over again…” he further explains.

Without a second thought you say, “Yeah I would,” you giggle, “And you?”

He remains silent for a moment, pondering on his own question before nodding his head as well, “I wouldn’t mind doing it all over again because then I’d get to relive the process of falling in love with you all over again,” he finally says, “I’d get to pinpoint the exact moment this year that I fell in love with you.”

“In ten, nine, eight…” the families around you begin to shout the countdown, and all you can do is stare at Jungkook in disbelief of what you just heard come out of his mouth.

“Y-You love me?” you manage to stutter out, a smile now forming on your lips.

“Seven, six, five…..”

Silently, he nods his head, a loving smile on his face as he leans towards you, the flutter in your stomach only intensifying.

“Four, three, two, one….”

And as if time had stopped, his lips finally meet yours and the only thing you could feel were the placement of warm lips against yours, giving you a New Year’s kiss that would be remembered for years to come.

“Happy New Year!” the sound of fireworks popping are echoed in the background because the only thing you could focus on were the soft lips that were moving with yours. His fingers curl around yours, creating such an intimacy that you were sure you had to be dreaming. It wasn’t until you found yourself kissing him back that the reality of everything finally set in. Jungkook loved you.

Slowly he pulls away, savoring the kiss till its very last moment, “Happy New Years Y/N,” he whispers, a grin plastered on his face.

Laughing in return, you smile, “Happy New Years Jungkook.”

Once you and Jungkook returned to the cabin, you were met with several complaints from Hobi, “Finally! We’ve been freezing all night!” Hobi exclaimed the moment you two walked in, harshly grabbing the firewood from Jungkook’s hands. It wasn’t until he peeped your linked arms that everything began to make sense, “Ahhh,” he gives you two a toothy grin, “You guys, look who’ve finally confessed to one another,” he yells, catching the attention of everyone in the living room.

Suddenly the room is filled with several “finally’s” causing both of your mouths to slightly agape open. “What do you mean “finally” ?” you furrow your eyebrows, looking at Hobi for an explanation.

He scoffs, “Don’t act dense you two!” he laughs, “It was so obvious you two liked one another, you two were just too blind to see it yourselves,” he scolds both you and Jungkook by flicking your foreheads, “You just didn’t have to go confessing while all of us were freezing in here!”

Both you and Jungkook awkwardly laugh, a guilty look on one another’s face. “Well choo you two before I make you two clean everything up and babysit our friends!” Hobi makes a motion with his hands, and the two of you are quick to make your way upstairs into Jungkook’s room. Thankful that he didn’t punish the two of you.

Jungkook is quick to take off his puffy jacket, plopping himself onto the bed like a little kid, a loud breathy sigh following after. You stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to do, that is until you see him open his arms wide with a pout appearing on his face, “Come onnn,” he sings, “Let’s cuddle,” he shoots you a smile.

Playfully you roll your eyes before taking off your own jacket, plopping onto the spot next to him. Small feverish giggles escape your lips once he begins to give you tiny kisses all over, enveloping you in a hug so tight, it would’ve been impossible to ever doubt his feelings for you.

“Jungkook stop,” you laugh, the tickles he was now giving you making the sides of your stomach hurt, “Jung—” you attempt to push his hand away, face becoming red at just how much you were laughing, his own high-pitched laugh echoing across the walls of the room with you. From there he does a mixture of both tickling and kissing you, the two of you truly in your own world.

Soon though, your little game of tickles becomes a full on makeout session, not that you were complaining. Currently you lay under him with Jungkook leaning against you, using his arm that rested on the bed as support.

Slowly he slips his tongue into your mouth, gentle but demanding, nothing less than pure love behind the kiss. “Jungkooook,” you quietly whine once he begins to move onto your neck, every suckle lasting a little longer than the last. His hand interlocks with yours as he continues, you’re hand subconsciously playing with his hair from behind, making small twirls with the brown wavy locks of hair.

“I love youuu,” he cooes, a certain gleam to his eyes. Soon enough, his fingers were teasingly playing with the waistband of your leggings. And God, were you dripping. “Can I?” he innocently looks at you, licking his lips in the process. You’d be crazy to say no.

Nodding your head yes, he nudges your legs apart and begins to pull off the cotton fabric from your legs. You help him along the way, desperate to receive your own pleasure.

Teasingly, he swipes his index finger over the fabric of your underwear, continuing to pepper you with warm kisses on the underside of your jaw. The grip you had on his hair became tighter with every swipe, “Aren’t you wet?” he slyly chuckles, rubbing small circles with his placed finger.

“Stop teasing,” you whine, only causing him to muffle a laugh against your shoulder.

“I just wanna take my timeeeee,” he hums, placing a kiss to your cheek, “Can I take my time?” he pouts, only causing you to roll your eyes, agreeing nonetheless, “That’s my girl,” he whispers, pecking you on the lips before continuing, cupping your cheek with his … unoccupied … hand.

“God you’re beautiful,” he says staring at your pleasured expression, a result of the friction between his finger and your underwear becoming more intense.

“Jungkook,” your voice shakes, wanting needing him to do something before the muscles in your leg spasm any more.

“Shh shh not too loud,” he softly mumbles, because considering how drunk the boys’ were, any loud noise and you’d have someone idiotically stumbling into the room in order to find out whatever the noise was. Not wanting you to complain any more, he slips his finger under your underwear, pressing both his middle and index finger to the centerfold of your sex, “Look how wet you are,” he smirks, coaxing another moan from your lips.

Jungkook couldn’t lie, he’d envisioned this moment a couple of times before, but to have it becoming a reality was completely different than what he imagined. It was indeed better.

“I bet you’d love for me to take these off,” he teasingly pretends to pull down your panties, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“Please Jungkook,” you cry, how was it possible to already be on the verge of releasing when he hadn’t even done anything explicit yet? He begins to move his fingers up and down your clit, coating his fingers with your wetness, preparing to insert his fingers in your aching hole, “Please—” you attempt to whimper his name again, but his lips passionately kiss you before you get the chance to. It’s once he does that, that the energy in the room shifts, becoming one of playful teasingness to one of passion and love. It’s while he kisses you that he finally sinks his single finger into your pussy, your wetness helping him in gradually picking up the pace until soon enough he’s able to slip in another. Your moan being suppressed by the pressing of his lips against yours, softly nibbling on your lower lip.

“So fucking tight,” he mutters, the squelching sounds coming from your pussy bringing him a sense of pleasure, “Can’t wait to make love to you,” he whispers watching as your eyes lazily roll back, the sight being one he’d remember for a very long time.

“J—Just like that Jungkook,” you manage to stutter out, your arousal dripping in and out of your pussy as he continues with his motions. By now you feel his hardened member kneading against panties, his self-restraint holding on by a string. God, did he wanna fuck your brains out already. Had you been some kind of one night stand and he probably would already be doing so, but you, well you were different. You were his. And he was going to make sure you knew it to.

With his other hand he begins to slide his way under your shirt, caressing your breasts while fingering you, “Take off the shirt,” he mumbles while planting kisses on your neck, and you’re quick to obey, pulling the shirt over your head and uncaringly throwing it onto the floor.

By now you were dressed in only your underwear and bra, which to you seemed a bit unfair and so purposely you begin to play with the hem of his shirt, in hopes that he’d get the message. When he doesn’t, you momentarily stop him from kissing you any further, mumbling a tiny, “Mm take off your shirt,” causing him to let out a breathy laugh. He does as told, exposing the toned torso you’d find yourself frequently gawking over for in the past year. Because truly, his body proportions were insane.

Gently pulling him from his hair, you deepen the kiss by running your other hand across his bare back, the warm skin to skin touch providing another level of intimacy. “Let me eat you out,” he murmurs against your lips, waiting for a simple three letter word so that he can finally pull off your panties.

Instead you give him a small “MmHm,” with a small nod which in this case would suffice as he was sure you were too lost in your own world of pleasure to properly respond. Delicately he removes your underwear, parting your legs in between before lowering his head.

Without saying a word, he runs his finger against your slit, licking and sucking on the fluid that dripped from his finger. What. A. Fucking. Tease. “Jungkooook,” you whine like a brat, the heat you felt below almost unbearable at this point.

“What a pretty pussy,” he rasps, gives your clit a gentle kiss before suckling against it, his saliva mixing with your fluids. Immediately you feel a wave of pure bliss, your fingers slightly trembling at just how good the sudden sensation felt.

“Oh God Jungkook,” you needily whisper once he slips his finger back inside, pushing it deep into your core all while eating you out. Your breathy moans along with the sound of your wet pussy being toyed around with, fill the room. With your eyes half-open, you manage to look down at the sight of Jungkook licking through your folds, his messy hair covering most of his face until you use your hand to push it back, wanting to savor the view in front of you.

“Just look at you,” he groans, admiring the view of your back arched along with your thighs which slightly quivered at the flicks of his tongue, “All fucking mine, you got that?” he asks.

When you don’t respond, he inserts a second finger, catching your attention.

“Yes!” you cry at the sudden jolt of pleasure, his fingers scissoring inside of you, “I’m all yours,” you answer and to that he smirks, curling his fingers inside you. His ego at a level unthinkable. From there he continues to suck and slurp any remnants of your wetness, ignoring your warnings that you were about to orgasm.

It isn’t until he feels a quick rougher than usual tug to the hair followed with a gentle release that he knows you’ve came. Only then does he stop, quickly making his way to sweetly kiss you as you ride through your orgasm. You barely manage to kiss him back, too overwhelmed by orgasm he just brought down on you.

He cups your face once again, making out with you once again even if you were lazily kissing him back, “Jungkook,” you croak out, “Make love to me,” you dazedly whisper, recalling his words from earlier, and without a single word he begins to kiss you again, this time even more passionately (if that was possible) your words triggering a certain fire within him. And despite being in a post-orgasm state, you kiss him with just as much passion as he is doing to you.

By now the two of your hands’ were entangled with each others’ hair, Jungkook roughly pressing his clothed erection against the barity of your pussy. Releasing one of his hands from his hair, he smoothly travels down your back, removing the clasp of your bra with his hand. Deciding not to question his skills, you help further remove it until you’re only left completely nude. Your tits now on full display for him.

He soon begins to tenderly suck on your hardened nipples, one hand caressing the opposing tit whenever he was sucking on one, providing equal attention to both. You begin to play with the button of his black pants, desperately ready to have Jungkook completely inside you. Jungkook notices your lack of patience, deciding that just this time he’d give you what you want.

Pushing himself off you, he begins to unbutton his pants, your heart now beating out of excitement once you see the band of his black boxers. This was really happening. And though you’d seen Jungkook’s cock before, specifically with a woman having it wrapped inside her mouth, to see it this time around was definitely much more shocking than the first…. Was he always this big? The veins that run along his fair-colored cock only add to it’s intimidating appearance.

Pushing himself back on you, he sloppily kisses you all over, from your mouth to the side of your neck, slowly making his way downard. His cock teases the slit of your entrance, coaxing along the delicate folds of your pussy. Intertwining his hand with yours, he looks at you one last time, “You ready?” he breathes out.

Biting your lip, you slowly nod your head yes, his head then slowly pushing into your tight entrance, a groan coming from both of your lips, “God I fucking love you,” he breathily moans beside your ear.

“I love you too,” you whisper in return, his gaze never leaving yours as his cock tortuously enters you inch by inch, the grip you have on his hand tightening with every passing second, “Oh my god,” you whimper, his pre-cum along with your prior wetness making the push inside more bearable.

It isn’t until you’re completely filled up by his cock that he slowly begins to move. Each and every deep thrust garnerning both whines and mewls from you, “Fuck,” he moans, his voice raspy from pleasurable sensation he was feeling. Somehow he manages to continue to plaster kisses all over you, his hands tightly wrapped around your waist as he continues to grind his hips against yours, making nothing but love to you.

Your hot walls now take him with ease, the small pressure you had originally felt having slowly faded away. He keeps his thrusts at a moderate pace, wanting to savor the moment.

“J—Jungkook,” you cry out, feeling your second orgasm coming as you wrap your legs around his waist. He begins to pick up his pace, “Faster,” you moan, remembering that he was definitely okay with having rough sex, considering how many times you’d have to hear other woman moan just how harder they wanted back in the beginning of last year. Who said he couldn’t do the same for you?

“Faster?” he questions, a certain spark now in his eye, “You sure?” eagerly you nod your head yes, too lost in the idea of your possible orgasm to think of the repercussions of your answer. Because soon you find yourself getting completely fucked out, the pace of his thrust becoming almost uncomparable to the pace he was going before, this time not caring at all for rhythm. By now you're sure that your different number of cries and moans could be heard from downstairs, but honestly you could give less of a fuck.

The sound of your skin slapping with his echo against the wooden walls, your eyes screwing shut as you felt your high come. His rapid thrust continuing as he fucks you into oblivion, “Just look at you, creaming on my fucking cock,” he groans, by now sweat was forming on the creases of his forehead, “and to think I get to have you like this all to myself, every single day,” he chuckles, the tight feeling in his abdomen signalling to him that his own release was coming.

“Cum in me Jungkook,” you whine, and with that he does, his white milky cum coating your walls from the inside and out. He admires the view in front of him, the sight of you completely fucked out with his cum dripping from the entrance of your pussy, wondering how he got so lucky.

Out of breath, the two of you cuddle with one another, your eyes half closed, ready to knock out at any moment. But before you do, Jungkook peppers one last kiss onto your cheek, mumbling a final “I love you,” ready for the new memories this year would bring for the two of you.

a/n : ahhhhhh! finally finished with my finals so i was able to finally get this done! for some reason i sorta got attached to this couple, i think it’s because we got to see literally every month of their forming relationship so i just ended up really loving the dynamic between the two lmao. butttt all stories must come to an end :( and i’m very happy with how this story came out, but who knows maybe we’ll this couple again in the future. anywayssss like, reblog, comment, message me an anon or even directly! anything is appreciated (I swear im not a mean person) and ill see yall next time! 💞

mini taglist: @ggukkieland @unicornbabylover

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tabikuntz · 4 years ago

Text

I’m a Preggo Wannabe !

I’m a girl who fantasizes about being pregnant. I fantasize about it all the time. I can’t wait to see my belly swell with child. I look at other pregnant women and gets a little jealous.... and a little turned on.

I’m a girl who rubs her flat tummy and dreams of when she will be huge and heavy with a baby. A girl who wants to be taken and bred full. And I’ve totally put a pillow under my shirt to give myself a sexy bump, then daydreamed how I would spend my days as a baby baker, with a bun in my oven....

I’m a girl with such a fertile imagination, and in my mind I can feel how it would feel to be her. That girl I see in the mirror, slowly caressing her bump. A girl who is in love with her pregnancy body, despite the fact that her ankles hurt, and she has to pee all the time, and omigawd the pregnancy brain ? So unreal. A girl who spends too much time in front of the mirror gazing off at her own look as the months pass. For as long as I could stand it. For as long as I could.

I would stare, enchanted by every little change in my body. I would love them. I would love all of them. I would gaze at my own knocked-up body for as long as I could stand, loving all the ways being pregnant has changed me, accepting and embracing my fate...

which I love. I love how my breasts are now swollen and full, how I can now see the veins leading to my huge, dark areolae. As I stare. And am aroused. I eagerly await the day when my engorged, thickened nipples begin to ache and bead with warm milk. Looking into the mirror, the future, as I start to flash hot...

I run my hands over my sides and love how wide my hips have become. I enjoy how shapely they are now, and how they are doing exactly what they were meant to do— cradle and birth. I don’t bemoan the extra weight I gain; secretly I love how much softer I am. I love being heavy and broad. I love being lush. And I feel proud. Proud of my new love handles, my new thicker thighs, and my plumper dumpster ass that’s started to jiggle. I love that. I love how smooth and supple my skin feels now, how thick my hair has gotten, how I feel so full of life. Because I am ! My body has become a fully functioning baby factory, and production is in full swing.

Maybe even overtime ! Stretching to capacity, and hmm, is it twins ? Triplets ? I’m so big, so heavy. I do lotion myself but truly I don’t mind the stretch marks that appear. I look down at my tiger stripes with pride. I want to remember this whenever I look at myself naked again. I can’t see my feet but I know my toes are pudgy cuties. You know ? It’s all so awesome ! I love the cravings too, both for food and sex, and I even secretly get off how swollen and thick my sex has become. Horny and eating the weirdest stuff. Feeling myself when I can, and enjoying each new sensitive sensation this gravid female body has to offer.

But most of all I’m bewitched by my belly, watching it swell and expand as the months go on. Obsessed with the sensation of babies growing and moving inside my womb. Excited for when my belly button pops and my Linea Nigra can be seen. When I go from an innie to an outie. Time bends and I am hungry all the time and I’m so forgetful I put my purse in the freezer and my keys in a pickle jar and omg...

I’ve been down this road before, and I love that. And I remember being so excited and surprised the first time like it was yesterday ??? But it hasn’t happened yet ! “Oh my gosh ! Really ? I’m pregnant ?!” I giggle madly. I love being told and finding that out. When I pee in the stick and it turns pink; when I feel the signs or even a bit of morning sickness; when the doctor or nurse with the clipboard comes in with a smile to say it’s going be a happy event...

I love the sign of another life growing inside me. I love to be growing a child in there. I love the weight of my belly, how dense and full it becomes. Anticipating the time when I will be so tremendous I’ll need to support my swollen womb with my hands underneath as I slowly waddle around. About to pop at any second, it feels like, and it feels so good. I see myself at my biggest and my heart is full of joy. My body has never been so womanly. I am the proudest woman on the planet right now !

I want to be that girl. Massive and made to be a mother. I think I would never be any sexier than as her. That I’ve never been sexier than when I’m expecting, with child, in the family way. Making a baby. I want to be that girl and to be proud of being her. As I would be so proud, feeling lucky and blessed, to be doing all these pregnant girl things. I can just see myself in the maternity clothes, shopping for cribs, having a baby shower and a gender reveal party, getting slathered with gel for the ultrasound...

Yep, that’s me. A girl who loves this. I love to show off that belly and every new curve. I send filthy texts about breeding and dirty photos of my hugely pregnant body to my man, my sperm donor, the father, to get him to come home sooner, and maybe give me another shot, a booster, a touchup. A head start on the next set of triplets. I can just imagine how I would do it. I could playfully tease and use my pregnancy to seduce. That baby daddy. And others...

I’m that kind of a girl. A girl who thinks being told I’m “as big as a house” is the sexiest thing I could ever hear. A girl who wants to feel heavy and full during sex. Enjoying the weight of my babies and swollen body as I slowly move from one position to the next, sensual and sexy. A girl who likes to ride on top so I can have my belly rubbed and adored as I grind down. And when you do it for me ? When I orgasm ? My huge preggo belly rocks and my whole ample body quivers.

Please make me your fertility idol goddess, the mother of your children. Completely voluptuous and in no way virginal. I want to be loved and used. Cherished and destroyed. Giving from deep inside myself, letting you change my whole body around. Worship me. Wreck me. Render me in your hands. I want to be treated like a shapely pregnancy goddess and a huge pregnant slut. Oversexed and bearing angels.

And even if it’s never happened that way, or never does, I’m still that kind of girl. I’m a girl who wants all of that, and in the end, also just wants to cuddle with the father of the baby’s large hands all over my belly. There is nothing more attractive. I want you to want me, to want me to be pregnant, to want a pregnant partner. I want not just a birthing partner, but a partner in all things. And I’m so excited to experience pregnancy with someone as enthralled by it as I am. Lover, I want to be heavily pregnant with your baby… and I’m already daydreaming about the other babies I’ll soon be carrying...

Taking a picture of the girl in the mirror so I become her one day.

🤰🏼💖

(Via @heavywithmybabies)

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

One Night🌙4

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (to be warned later in series)

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: One night changes your entire life.

for @kittykatlow‘s 200 Follower Celebration

Note: Well, at long last you get another chapter of Andy Barber and I’m just as impatient all y’all!

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Masterlist

Andy's perfect suburban neighbourhood was enough to make you feel out of place. His house only added to that boiling insecurity as he pulled into the wide driveway. He kept his calm but taunting silence up as classic rock continued to blare from the radio, interrupted by jarring jingles and ridiculous radio jockey banter.

As he killed the engine, the sudden silence hit you like a wall. You opened the car door but found it hard to go much further. The door shut and you planted your hand against it.

Andy startled you as he came up beside you, your suitcase rolling behind him as your large tote was slung over his shoulder. You made to grab the bag and he waved you away.

"Come on," He nodded to the house, "You said you were tired. I'll get you settled and you can rest."

You frowned but said nothing. You walked ahead of him around the front of his car and up the mosaic path that led to his front door. He fished around in his pocket and brushed against you as he reached to unlock the front door. He pushed it open and waited for you to enter.

The place looked straight out of a catalogue. White furniture!? Who in their right mind lived like this. It would be like living in a museum. You inched inside and stopped short in front of Andy as a photo of his wife and kid met you on the small side table just beside the couch. He barely kept from colliding with you.

He dropped your bag against the wall and let your suitcase go. He reached around you and took the picture. He cleared his throat and stepped away. You watched him through the wide archway that opened up on the other side of the staircase. You could barely see him as he went to the kitchen and shoved the frame in a drawer.

He returned, his eyes avoiding you and gathered up your bags. He edged past you, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to look back at you.

"Well, you coming?" He asked and started up the staircase.

You followed a few feet back as his footfalls echoed around you. He led you down the hallway and pulled closed a door as he passed. You glanced the posters on the wall and a seemingly interrupted scene still set up within. The snap of the clasp kept you going.

He turned back at the next doorway and sighed. He shrugged and nodded to it.

"I'm just across the hall," He said. "And you'll have... space."

His tone was sour and you didn't miss the tic in his jaw. He waited until you stepped ahead of him and opened the door yourself. He pushed your suitcase just inside and set your bag on the bed. A floral quilt was pulled across the top as similar flowers hung in oval frame along the wall.

"Never really had many guests," He said as he pushed back his jacket and gripped his hips. "Don't even know if anyone but me ever slept in here. You know, had a beer too many and... well, you take a nap and we'll talk when you get up."

"I can find somewhere else," You said.

"You won't," He insisted. "Not now. Talk later." He went to the door and grabbed the handle, pausing before he could pull it shut behind him. "I've got some work to finish up. I'll be in my office. Downstairs, just off the front room. Just by the Sox banner."

"Sure," You turned away in resignation. "I guess I'll find you."

A long exale came from him just before he slowly pulled the door closed. You listened for the click then hung your head. How did this man expect to start a new family when his old one still lived here? It didn't matter how many pictures he hid, he couldn't just push them out.

🌙

Once you laid down, it wasn't hard to fall asleep. The days had piled atop your eyelids and dragged you down into a heavy doze. You awoke on your side, your arm trapped beneath you and tingling. You groaned and sat up, your head ached with each move.

You yawned and looked out the window. It was dark. You rubbed your eyes and did your best to rouse yourself. The house was silent. You inched the door open and listened. You crept out and headed down the hall to the stairs. Again, you listened and heard nothing.

You descended and went to the kitchen. You found a tall glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap. As you turned around, the rim just before your lips, you jumped at the shadow that appeared in the archway.

Andy flicked the light on. He leaned on the wooden frame and crossed his arms. His button up was rolled up past his elbows and his hair was mussed as if he'd been running his fingers through it over and over. You choked on the water and steadied yourself.

"Hey," You coughed. "What's, uh, I was just... thirsty."

"It's fine. By all means," He uncrossed his arms and stood straight.

He neared the end of the island that stood parallel to the sink. You set your glass down on it nervously.

"I... just woke up. I thought maybe you were already... sleeping." You said. You were hoping, actually.

"No, not yet. You hungry?" He asked.

"Not really," You replied. "Thanks."

"You should eat. What did you have today?"

"I... um," You tried to think. You'd had half a club sandwich at the diner. "I had a sandwich and um, a cookie on the way home."

"That's hardly enough for two," He neared the corner of the island. "I'm not a bad cook. I could make you something. Or order something?"

"Really, it's fine--"

"It's not--" He raised his hand to calm himself. "It's not fine. You're carrying my child. You starve myself, you starve them. So... eat." He turned and opened the fridge. "I've got some hummus and veggies you can munch on and uh, thin crust pizza I can toss in."

He turned and set down a tupperware of celery, carrots, and cauliflower along with a container of hummus. He closed the fridge and opened the freezer with a puff of cool air. He took out a thin crust cheese and spinach pizza.

He went to the stove and held down the temperature button. He turned back and opened the box as he waited for the over to preheat. He took out the pizza and peeled away the plastic. He left it on the counter and came closer again. He pulled the lid off the tupperware and the smaller container.

"Eat," He said. "Is everything gonna be this difficult?"

You scowled and grabbed a carrot stick. You scooped up a glob of hummus and bit into with zeal, all the while staring him down. You smiled at him with mouth full and chewed.

"So, can we talk or are you going to continue to act like a child?" He asked.

"I don't know, are you going to keep acting like my dad," You huffed.

He blinked and shook his head.

"I'm open to compromise but if you're gonna be like this, I won't be so understanding," He hissed. "So sit," He pushed a tall stool towards you. "And eat."

"Yes, father," You climbed up on the stool and grabbed some celery.

"I always thought it was 'daddy'," He raised his brow. You scoffed at his bad joke.

The oven dinged and he shoved the pizza inside. He set the time and stood across the island from you. He put one hand on his hip as his other gripped the edge of the marble.

"Tomorrow, you make an appointment." He said.

"Sure," You picked out a piece of cauliflower.

"And you can't keep working two jobs. You gotta drop one." He stated. "It's not good for you or the baby."

"You can't just make me give up my livelihood." You argued.

"Livelihood? How much do you think you make in a year? Probably no where close to twenty grand. I make at least five times. We can afford for you not to kill yourself--"

"'We'?!" You exclaimed. "Andy, there is no we."

He slapped the countertop suddenly and swore.

"Fuck's sake. You know for someone so damn helpless you sure do hate help!" He snarled. "It's like you want... you want this to go wrong. Everything has to go wrong so you can keep being the innocent little victim of your own life."

You recoiled and swallowed your mouthful. You threw the carrot stick in your hand at him. He batted it away easily.

"You don't fucking know me," You spat. "So don't you judge me."

"I know you fucked me in the toilet after about twenty minutes," He snickered.

You took the hummus and wipped it at him too. It splattered across his front and the container bounced across the counter.

"After three drinks, on top of several before," You snapped. "I don't have to explain myself to you." You got off the stool. "I don't want your fucking pity or whatever you're doing. I'm not going to be your little project."

You swept around the island but he caught your arm and pulled you back. The garlic from the hummus filled your nostrils and woke your hormonal hunger.

"Where are you going to go? You think I want you sleeping with my baby on the street?" He squeezed, hard. "And whatever you want to call it, my pity is better than the alternative."

"Let go," You wriggled in his grasp.

"You really wanna be a little bitch over a cafe gig?" He lowered his voice. "You walk out, I'll find you. I will not stop," He sneered. "You got it?"

"You're hurting me," You gritted through your teeth.

"Tomorrow you tender your resignation," He growled as his other hand came up to frame your chin. "Right?"

"Stop--"

"To-mor-row," He said decisively.

"Tomorrow," You uttered softly. "Okay?"

He smiled and nodded, slowly releasing you. He pulled loose his tie and slipped it over his head and unbuttoned his short. He slid it back down his shoulders and bared his chest. He approached the broad archway as he shed the shirt entirely. He stopped and turned to glance over his shoulder.

"I gotta clean myself up," He said. "I expect you to clean up the rest."

He left you and you squinted at the doorway. What an asshole. You took several deep breaths then took several sheets of papertowel from above the sink. You wiped the hummus from the counter and the floor and tossed the towel. You picked up the errant carrot stick as well and the oven beeped.

Everything about this kitchen was idyllic. It was the perfect suburban haven. The oven mitts, printed with an image of cheese and grapes, hung from the cupboard just beside the stacked ovens. You took them and pulled out the rack. You eased the pizza onto a plate and set it on the counter. You snapped the oven shut and turned it off after a brief struggle with the buttons.

Andy reappeared as you turned back, he wore a grey tee a some plaid pajama pants. Even in the bar, having done what you'd done, you'd never seen him without his suit. He was always the staunch lawyer man, even with a belly full of whiskey. Now he just looked like some guy.

"Two bulletpoints down," He said as he went to the drawer and searched for the pizza cutter. "I'd like to sort this out tonight. I have a long day tomorrow."

"Fine," You took the cutter from him and sliced the pizza into triangles. "What else can I do to appease you, your majesty?"

"For one, you will not be working beyond six months," He stated. "Can't risk it. Especially with those heavy trays."

"Six months? You know, they would accomodate me--"

"I'm a lawyer. You know how many workplaces are dragged into court for not accomodating employees?" He interjected.

"I'm a lawyer," You mimicked. "I get it. Six months."

"House rules," He raised his index, "Home before nine when you're not closing, but I'd prefer it if you stuck to day shifts," He instructed, "I'm pretty good about housework." He went tot he fridge and took down a notepad that had been pre-printed with a roster of chores. "We can switch off with dishes. I do laundry on Sundays but I take my dry-cleaning in on Friday. Sweeping and mopping, about once a week. I can take care of that if you can do a bit of dusting and tidying in the living room."

You stared at him. Was everything about his life so ordained? Well, surely not fucking a stranger ins a bar.

"I think I can clean up after myself," You sniffed. "Curfew, cleaning, good, got it."

"Right," He said gruffly, "And in regards to your care, you will inform me of all your appointments and medical concerns."

"Okay."

"And, I don't mind if you have friends over but let me know ahead of time," He continued. "No guys."

"What?" You chuckled dryly. "What are they gonna do? Knock me up again?"

"No guys," He snarled. "I mean it." You stared at him. You shook your head and he shoved the plate at you. "Eat."

You took a piece, the cheese stringy as it clung to the next. You bit into it and swallowed before you found your voice.

"Andy, this isn't-- we fucked in a bathroom," You muttered. "You can't think--"

"My house, my rules," He warned. "Now, you have your own room and freedom to anything inside this house. That's it. Fair trade. This isn't a negotiation."

"Fucking lawyer," You rolled your eyes. "You know, we get you in the diner all the time. You complain about the fucking food yet you're barely paying pocket change for a damn omelet then you don't even leave a tip. Write something on the receipt like 'resilience is more valuable than any bill'."

He laughed and ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

"Well, with an attitude like that, I can't imagine you ever getting stiffed..." He said. "...on a tip."

"Alright, I play by your stupid rules until this damn thing is out of me," You sneered. "That's it."

"Good girl," He smiled. "Now have a few more slices and you're free for the night."

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #dark andy barber x reader #dark!andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #defending jacob #fic #one night #series #dark fic #dark!fic

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notcaring99 · 4 years ago

Text

Never The One (Clint x Female!Reader)

Warnings: Death, Voilence, Angst

Request: "Heyy, if you take requests could you possibly do something with Clint's Barton x reader? I haven't seen a lot of stuff with him🥺💜

Thank you and have a nice day!" - @dreamerinthesun

Summary: Clint and you have been friends for years even longer than him and Nat. You have always been in love with him. Then the snap happened, and Clint went dark. Nat sent you to keep eyes on him, and when the time comes to pull him out.

A/N: Thank you for the request! I am sorry for the late reply, things have been a bit hectic. I have been spending my free time watching FTWS which is amazing! I have been feeling inspired lately. This was a bit harder for me to write as I usually read other imagines or scenarios about the character I am about to write about, but there is truly not much out there for Clint. So I hope this is okay. I am sorry in advance as apparently all I know how to write is sadness and angst. Thank you for taking the time to read it and please let me know what you think!

Clint, you loved him more than a friend ever since you met him. He saw your potential and believed in you more than anyone had before. You were his partner in almost every mission. Nat always said she felt like a third wheel between you two, but she loved working with both of you.

Then Clint met Laura who he fell in love with instantly. They were perfect together, but it broke your heart to see the one you love so dearly and for so long be with another. You tried to be happy for your best friend as he lived his perfect life with his family. You just wished he was with you.

The snap, it was something that changed all of our lives. Clint went off-grid and went on a vigilante spree. Nat put you in charge of looking after Clint while she looked after the world. Clint was hard to follow, but you could track his bread crumbs that fell every once in a while.

You found him in Asia to meet these mobsters that have stirred a lot more trouble recently since the snap. You arrived just as Clint is taking out the last mobster. "I was wondering when you were going to show up," Clint states as he kicks the mobster to the ground. You sigh as you approach him from the shadows.

"Clint," You speak as you look at the man that you love turn into someone that hurt you even more. "What are you doing?" you ask as he removes the knives from the 18 men that are laying lifeless on the ground.

"I am cleaning the streets from the people who didn't deserve to be here." Clint tells you as you watch him pull another knife out. You take a breath walking up the last guy with two knives in his chest.

"This isn't exactly how it should be done." You pull them out with ease and wipe them on the leg of your catsuit you wore. You look up to see Clint in front of you with a look that you didn't recognize.

"Well it is how I do it now," He reached for the knives in your hands, but you move them out of his reach. "You shouldn't be here," You scoff as he reaches again, but you do a backflip avoiding him. The fury in his eyes hurts your soul.

"Actually I am exactly where I need to be. You on the other hand shouldn't be here." You state as he comes at your legs, but you quickly move. "You've lost your touch," you mumble to him. He goes in for another attack, but you kick him to the ground. He sits holding his jaw as he looks at you.

"Whatever," He states standing up and grabbing his sword from the ground. "I don't need them anyway. Hope you get home alright," You scoff as he walks away from you. You throw the knife perfectly to cut his hand to drop his sword. You run up to him, but he already knew what you were doing. He quickly grabs your waist and flips you to the ground. He has your wrists pinned under his knee as he holds the last knife you had in your hand to your throat.

"I wasn't done talking to you," you groan out.

"I don't want to talk." He states before hooking your leg around his thigh and using your body weight to flip the two of you. You quickly grab the knife out of his hand as you have him pinned with your hands and your legs. You use the knife to pin the hood of his jacket to the ground.

"Well, I do," you state as your face is close to his. His eyes are still the stormy grey but a bit lighter than when you first arrived. Your eyes drifted to his lips before going back to his eyes. "Clint, I understand you miss your family. I know that these men," you gesture to the lifeless bodies on the ground. "Didn't deserve to stay, but you need to do good by your family not bad." You whisper before standing up letting him struggle to get the knife out of his hood.

"You know nothing!" Clint yells out as you turn away from him picking up the sword he dropped that is full of blood. Suddenly you are being pressed against his chest, his hot breath against your ear as the cold knife is held to your throat. "My family was everything to me," he states and you scoff taking the sword and jabbing the handle into his side. You quickly point the sword at him as he holds his side.

"And now they are gone. I know how it feels to have something you love with all your heart taken away." You state just as he goes to attack you, but you block the attack with the sword making a cut on his arm.

"How would you know? You have no family! No husband!" he yells at you as he holds his arm with tears falling steadily down his face. "There is no way you know what love truly is," he states going to attack you again, but you simply step to the side before grabbing him so you two would be chest to chest with the sword pointed right at his neck and the knife is at your side.

"I know a lot more than you," you say through your teeth. "I watched the man I love for years fall in love with a beautiful woman, who he married and had 3 kids. I saw him live out a life I only dreamed to have with him many times in my life." You tell him making realization set in his eyes. You smack the knife out of his hand before kicking him in the stomach making him fall to the ground.

"Y/N, how long?" Clint asks looking at you in pity. You roll your eyes before throwing the knife and sword beside him.

"Way too long." You turn around as the sirens of the police are heard. "By the way, the others might've found a way to bring back your family. I just came by to tell you that, but it seems you are perfectly content with destroying your moral compass." You walk away into the rain as the sirens grow closer.

Two days after you arrived at the compound, Clint showed up. You were in the kitchen taking out the groceries that were delivered as the others were all around getting ready for the day. "I don't think the domestic look looks good on you," you turn to see Clint leaning on the doorway. You roll your eyes as you went back to perishables away.

"What do you want Barton?" You ask not looking at him. You hear him sigh before his footsteps getting closer. You went to grab the last milk, but Clint is right behind you. He has his arm on the freezer side of the fridge while is other holds the door open. He is close to you, close enough your breaths intermingle as he looks down at you.

"I want to understand," he states pushing a of piece of your hair behind your ears. You gulp as he looks from your lips to your eyes. "I want to understand why you never told me."

"I-I was going to." you cut yourself off before ducking under his arm. "I was going to tell you the night you proposed to Laura." You state taking the things out of the bag. You hear the fridge door close as you focus on the task at hand. "I came to your house that night. I was going to tell you everything, but then I saw you look at Laura with eyes that I wanted you to look at me with."

"I wish you would've told me maybe things-" you cut Clint off by slamming the jar of pickles on the table making the jar shatter. Clint stops talking as you turn around glaring at him with tears in your eyes.

"Clint you don't get it. If I would've told you, you would have your beautiful children. You wouldn't be the man you are today, the man who I love." You state before wiping the tears from your eyes.

"What the hell happened here?" Tony's voice is near the doorway. You turn around to see Tony, Steve, Nat, and Rocket standing there looking between you and Clint.

"You are bleeding," Steve states walking over. You sigh as he takes your hand in his. "Let's get it cleaned up. Barton," Steve looks past you at Clint.

"I got this. Go get that cleaned up." Clint states. Steve leads you to the doorway with Natasha behind you both.

Today was the day you were all going back in time. Nat, Clint and you were going to Vormir. The red skull has brought you all to the cliff where it looked over pointed rocks. "What you seek lies in front of you, it's just what you fear." the red skull tells you three as you were looking off the edge.

"The stone is down there," Nat more states then asks looking at you.

"For two of you, but the other..." the red skull trails off. You feel your heart break as you know what must be done. "In order to take the stone, you must lose what you love most. An everlasting exchange, a soul for a soul."

Nat, Clint, and I all were discussing if this is real and who will go. Nat and Clint are verbally fighting over who is going to go, not even giving you a second glance. You know who has to do it. You take a breath before taking your staff and slamming it between the two making it stand between the two buried in the ground. "Y/N-" you cut Nat off as you quickly take cuffs out of the utility belt of your suit. You latch both their wrists to the staff.

"Y/N. No!" Clint yells out as Nat and his fight against the cuffs. You smile sadly at the two before putting your hand on Nat's cheek.

"You know I am the only one who can do this. Clint and you love me more," you whisper to her and she shakes her head. You walk over to Clint who is crying and fighting against the handcuffs.

"Don't do this! I should be the on-" you shush him before placing your hands on either side of his face.

"Larua. Cooper. Lila. Nathaniel. They all need you." you whisper as you lean your forehead against his.

"No please-" Clint begs but doesn't move his head.

"I love you Clint more than you'll ever know." You kiss his cheek before moving away from him. He screams as he fights against the restraints. You turn around looking at Natasha and Clint who are screaming at you two stop as they fight against the restraints. You quickly turn around running ahead before throwing yourself off the cliff. You turn around to look at the top of it, you see Nat and Clint looking at you with tears streaming down their face. You smile at your friend knowing they will live happily now that they will have their loved ones back.

#clint barton #hawkeye #marvel #end game #avengers imagines #clint barton imagine #hawkeye imagine #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #mcu imagine

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impaladolan · 4 years ago

Text

Capture - Grayson Dolan [8/-]

summary: y/n is quick to plot revenge.. but does she get away with it..?

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, and smut :)

a/n: i seriously love you

Anonymous said:

Ooohoohohoh I’m excited for her to steal his Rolex haha omg maybe she wears it and doesn’t give him it back when he asks for it OMG u know what would be cute!! if one day she goes snooping in his bedroom and tries on his chain necklace n rings and he walks out the shower n he’s like ummmm ok ily

Anonymous said:

i want y/n to ride gray’s thigh in his office, like he’s just got in still fully in his suite w his gun on his belt and she just walks in and strips 👀👀

Anonymous said:

I have an idea hehe!! WhYi f y/n gets drunk like she f inds alcohol in graysons office or kitchen or something and shes being really bratty but it’s so cute and she’s giving him nose kissies and hugging up and telling him stuff and he’s just listening and loving her

Relaxation.

That's how you'd explain the certain state of euphoria I'm embezzled within. Young love is a treacherous trap that can either end in favor, or be torn to shreds in only mere moments. To feel so passionate and fervently invested in someone you've only ever known and loved is such a thrill, and you could never forget those memories embedded in your mind.

Like right now, laying in bed while the sun's first shine leaks through the window and gleams down upon the two of us, nuzzled under the covers. His leg was wrapped over mine and his arms hung loosely around my hips, sheltering me from ever possibly leaving his grasp. I was the first to wake, but I dared not to move an inch.

The world around me was motionless, so peaceful and calm. Nothing could bother or disrupt the atmosphere around me. Everything felt so perfect, embraced by the one I love and the man I admire. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever unsettle me in this moment.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself...

A darkness warped over my newly sunken eyes, shielding the world around me. I called out his name, but nothing came out. The warmth I once felt upon my body, vanished into the air and seemed like it'd never return. The world became cold and useless, all the positivity and tranquility that once surrounded me was blown away and now, I sit in darkness;

All by myself.

Him.

It seemed too early in the morning to be awake at such an hour, but you had crashed shortly after making it back to your room last night. You were so mortified and embarrassed, for all those men to see you so vulnerable and being punished. Though, the crazy inside you kind of liked it, but still, it pushed boundaries.

Initially, you had wanted to sleep in all day, and hopefully never leave your room ever again. Although, today's forecast decided otherwise. A ground shaking rumble of thunder made you awaken and the shoestring lighting bolts strung across the darkened sky had drawn you in. Since you essentially have no concept of time, whatsoever, you had to believe it was early in the morning, unless you really had slept in all day...

It's been presumably an hour or so since you first fluttered your eyes open. By now, you had plotted a sickening revenge to his outrageous acts he had committed only a day ago. Of course, you had created horribly ill plans that even you could never pull off. Such as vandalizing his expensive vehicles or even trashing the entire house. You had even gone as far as to planning an "accidental" fire in the kitchen.

But something inside you had put a halt to those thoughts.

Other than not wanting to be known as a malicious arsonist, you had some sort of pull towards him— but what that pull was, you couldn't figure out. The phrase; " Darling, I may be a stranger to you, but you're no stranger to me," has been left in your mind ever since the words first left his mouth. You couldn't possibly help but wonder what that even meant. You felt like you've known him from a past life somehow, and that could potentially explain the affection you have towards him. All of that aside, you have to remember that he isn't who your brain morphs him in to be. He's a felon who's abducted you and has pulled you away from society and everything you've ever been a part of.

For some reason, that's hard for you to mentally consider.

Aside from criminalizing yourself too by creating a fire or becoming a vandalizer, the best option is to state your assertiveness and trespass the "laws" that he has forbidden you ro break. Unlike yesterday's escapades of you ruining the dining room table, today you were up for higher anticipated endeavours. You had it all planned out and you knew what you'd do in order to complete your vengeances.

And he's not going to be very happy...

The atmosphere above and around you still rumbles with the loud, crackling thunder and the strikes of lightning flooding certain increments of light through the surrounding windows pave your path to the daunting door. You were still dressed in the white shirt that could barely pass as acceptable in the public eye, and your feet were frozen at the first touch of the wooden floor. You kept on like you have done in the previous times you have left your room for mischievous reasons. You silently open the door, leaving it wide open as you crept out of your assigned room and into the hallway. You knew that the very first place you would go would be the kitchen. No, you aren't creating a fire or any of the sort, but you were going to raid the fridge and have your fill with what it has to offer.

You walk straight past the opening and right into the glorious establishment of cookware, like it was your very own home and you were just up for a midnight snack. In all honesty, you could get used to living here.

If only it weren't forced onto you, that is.

Your fingertips soon collide with the long, frigid handle of the refrigerator door and pull it wide open, marveling at the large display of different beverages and foods strategically set up. Of course, it was mainly veggies and several healthy-looking meal options. Which didn't surprise you whatsoever.

He has a nice physique for a reason...

You couldn't find anything that made your stomach growl with hunger, until you opened up the freezer drawer and spotted a nice looking ice cream container. Still, it looked healthy and it'd make you all the more frozen, but it would manage to subside your aching sweet tooth for now. You pop open the lid and fish around the drawers for a utensil. With a content sigh, you plunge a huge spoonful of the solid liquid and empty it into your mouth, savoring every last flavor like it would be the last time you'd ever eat the sugary treat again. It was delicious, the absolute best ice cream you've ever devoured in the entirety of your life.

You almost ate half the jar until you decided you were parched and needed a nice drink to soothe your throat. Luckily this time you were familiar with where the glasses were kept and already had your hand wrapped around a large wine glass that was a little bit higher up than the rest of the glassware. You set it down quietly, trailing your eyes upon the clean and prim counter.

A tall, fancy upscale bottle of what looked to be whiskey was settled in the corner, nicely organized with the other alcoholic beverages that were of the same importance.

Now, you weren't exactly a "drink-whiskey-out-of-a-wine-glass" type of gal, but as they say; desperate times call for desperate measures— and you were on the search of something to loosen you up a bit, and that was that.

You brought the glass over to where you had stationed your cup, not even flinching when you uncork the liquor and pour its contents out. With improper proportioning of the said liquid, you put the whiskey back how it was.

"Fuck, here we go." You inaudibly groan to yourself, just knowing that you'll regret every decision you've made in the near future. Raising up the plum-full glass, you tip it back into your mouth and down a whole gulp.

Nasty.

It's definitely an acquired taste, but the barely detectable taste of vanilla made it hardly feasible. You dared to not put the glass down until you were finished with it and had that sour taste submitted through your fiery throat.

The least you could say was that it's pretty smooth, but not something you'd drink in your free time.

In your head, you knew you'd feel a bit wonky, considering your nearly empty stomach and your abstinence from alcohol for the last month or so. It'd be easy to feel the side effects and overall feel much better, like you were aiming for.

Once you drained the glass of every last drop, you held your breath and rushed to the sink. The overwhelming want to just regurgitate what you ingested had drawn upon you, but you refrained from doing so. Waiting out the sickly feeling, you run a bit of cold water over your hand and press it against your forehead for a moment. Everything became hot, even with the freezing temperatures, you felt like breaking a sweat.

All just the side effects of alcohol, I'm sure.

Within the passing minutes, the faintness flew away and the sounds of the thunderstorm filled your ears. A large banging of the clouds above frightened you and you knocked over the glass you had just rested your lips on.

You didn't even feel bad about all the shattered pieces on the floor, it actually brought a smile to your face and you were ready to begin the fully planned extravaganza.

First stop; his room.

You skipped back the hallway, still quiet but not as careful as before. You weren't afraid of any consequences and whatever he was going to do to you wouldn't be too harsh. It's not like he's embarrassed you enough already anyway.

You easily find his door, pushing the handle down as slow as possible, just in case he was asleep in his room. His door didn't creak as you opened it, and nor did his floorboards as you walked straight into his marvelous bedroom. It was extravagant, but yet it still felt homely. You check the bed, no sign of him or anyone for the matter. He probably at a meeting, or something.

Not that you care..

You continue your stroll, glancing around his room for anything that could spark your immediate attention, considerably his desk. It held a lot of his more—fashionably inclined belongings. Such as his masculine jewelry and expensive watches. There was even a small, purple ring that reminded you of something you had worn a long time ago. You brush that off, it brings up sore wounds from a time where you were a lot happier and everything was simpler.

I wish I could say that now..

You began to pick up the neatly placed objects, slipping a couple of heavy necklaces around your neck and the large rings upon your fingers. You laugh at the size difference of your hand and how they barely stay on your fingers.

The stationary mirror attached to the desk caught your eyes, and you begin to make funny faces at it. Which sends you into a hushed giggle fest that makes you double over in your seat. Still caught up in your laughter, you take off all of the rings, just leaving a couple on the desk and tossing a few over to his bed. You do the same with the necklaces, except for the two that you threw into one of the drawers.

That’s when your eyes caught the nice watches, stuffed in clear pouches with the brand labeled across them. Rolex is the first you saw, and the first one you picked up. You weren’t thinking clearly. Hence the reason you tore it out of it’s protective packaging and brought it up above your head, throwing it down to the ground and watching the tiny glass fragments splatter everywhere.

It’s not like he can’t buy a new one, right?

Feeling content and a little less frustrated, you left the messy scene and followed your footsteps back into the hallway. He didn't seem to hear you, so the determination to find out his name came across your mind and you became dead set on finding it, so you basically sprinted into his ominous office and delved into his comfy chair without care.

Your motor skills were altered and it seemed to take for ever to lift yourself out of the chair and tap on the computer keyboard for it to wake up. While it began its process of turning on, you led your hand down to the drawers and pulled at them. And that’s when you found the very first locked up thing in this house.

“Care to tell me what you’re doing in here darling?” His alluring voice blasted through your ears and made you leap upward. “It’s not been a day and you’re already back to being a brat?” You couldn’t see what he looked like, but his silhouette looked suited and enticing.

Very enticing, actually...

“M’trying to find out your name, Daddy.” You spoke before you could think, crossing your arms over your chest while your lips form a pout. His body leaves from the doorway, and you’re barely able to see him as he strides over towards you. Suddenly, a light flips on and you’re met with his beautiful frame, a smile daunting his face as he looks down at your innocence.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He moves closer, wrapping his hand under your chin while his other has his blazer hung on his finger and thrown towards his back. He looks cute in a smile, until it forms into a confused frown.

“Have you been drinking, Y/N?” Your eyes widen and you quickly nod. You knew you’d be in trouble with him anyway, so might as well be honest now. “I c-couldn’t sleep and I- I just wanted a sip of somethin’.” You shrug, looking downward as you give him an okayish explanation.

“You know what helps me sleep?” He lets your chin go, dropping his jacket and beginning to roll up his dress-shirt’s sleeves. You shake your head, chewing your bottom lip as you take in his appearance. “A nice cocksucking does.” Thunder crackles loudly outside as his husky voice deepens and makes a cool wind run down your spine.

“Then let me help you..” You wrap your arms around his neck, twisting him around and forcefully pushing him down in the chair you were once sitting in. You were about to fall to your knees to “help” him, but he pulls your hips towards him and sets you on his lap. You replace your hands around his neck, sinking your fingertips into his hair and massaging the silky softness of it. He sweetly sighs, readjusting the leg you were sat upon.

And that’s when you feel the sensation you’ve been craving for however long you’ve been here.. you think..

“M’hm, do that again..” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. He actually obliges, his brows furrowed as he watches your face contort. “Like riding my thigh, huh?” He asks as he placed his large hands around your waist. You nod, moving your hips in the same direction. You eyes shut, your head falling back a little as you smoothly move against his muscled thigh.

It felt so good, everything felt so good actually. He somehow looked so much more attractive, the beard dotting his face and his hair styled nicely. Even what he was wearing had you wanting more.

You open your eyes for a moment, watching his pleased expression as he watches you needingly thrust yourself upon his warm, clothed thigh. He even steadily lifted his knee in the correct places, aiding in the pleasure that him alone could bring you. Your eyesight seemed foggy but visible enough to see the gun at his waist side, and you almost froze when you saw it. Even in your intoxicated state of mind, you knew that just the weapon could possibly help you escape and make it back to your own home.

You didn't think it through thoroughly..

You lean in, your lips next to his ear as you practically collapse upon him, though your movements to further yourself towards releasing didn't halt. You slipped your left hand down to his waist band, sensually gliding it over his tented groin. He shutters under your touch, clearing his throat as his heads falls back slightly. As quick as your body would let you, you grab for the handle of the gun and raise it up towards his forehead, stopping all your movements and gaining his attention.

"Y/N—" He starts, gliding his hands up your bare thighs.

"Don't fucking move, or I'll— I'll shoot you." You sounded clear as day in your head, but your words became slurred as they left your mouth, and he smirked at your innocence. Just as quickly as you pulled the gun, he took it away.

He grabbed the barrel and snatched it from your grip, placing it back into its holster at his side. You yelp as he grabs your wrists, twisting them around your back and slamming you into the table with an evil chuckle. "Better keep those hands pretty little hands to yourself, princess. You're too innocent to commit murder anyway." He continues his hoarse chuckles, licking a stripe up his hand before striking your slick pussy. "D-Ahh!" You hiccup, pressing your legs as close together as you can.

“Better fuckin’ pray that you can walk tomorrow, darling...”

to be continued...

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suckmysupernatural · 4 years ago

Text

Meal Plan

Word Count: 2k, one shot

Pairing: Jensen x Reader (Platonic-ish)

Warnings: talk of meal plan (obvi), eating disorder tendencies, vomitting, unhealthy relationship, body insecurity, manipulation

Summary: You are so happy to return to the set of Supernatural and film with your best friends, Jared and Jensen. You feel and look great, although your boyfriend Jeff begs to differ. Jensen soon finds out about the unhealthy ways you have been losing weight.

A/N: Hey, y’all! This is my first Jensen fic, let me know what you think!!

You couldn’t help that you had a bounce in your step as you made your way onto the lot. The hiatus was finally over, and it was time to start filming. You had been on Supernatural for a little over three seasons now, playing a badass hunter that had teamed up with the Winchesters. It was the job you had always dreamed about.

Your first day on set, you knew that you were a part of something special. Right away the cast and crew welcomed you with open arms, especially your new co-stars. Jared and Jensen had become two of your best friends, ones you had missed a lot over the break. You lived in Austin like the boys, but your busy schedules always seemed to conflict. You had only one dinner with them over the summer at Jared’s house. Seeing Gen and the kids was a blast... if only you could do it more often.

“Y/N!” a deep voice cried out. You spotted the boys almost immediately, jogging up to them. Jared wasted no time picking you up into a tight hug.

“Jar… I can’t breathe,” you whined before he set you down.

“Sorry, Y/N. It has just been forever since I’ve seen you!” Jared gushed. You turned over to Jensen, who hugged you as well. Luckily, this one wasn’t bone-crushing.

“We missed you,” Jensen said, holding onto you. Backing up, you looked at your two friends.

“I know, I know. I was just so busy with Jeff…” both of the men rolled their eyes at the mention of your current boyfriend’s name. “Okay, I know you guys don’t love him, but we wanted to spend as much time together as possible before shooting started up again.”

“Saying we don’t love him is an understatement, Y/N. I don’t get what you see in him,” Jared said. Jared and Jensen had only met Jeff a few times, all of which only made them worry more.

“He cares about me. He takes really good care of me!” you tried to push your point but got nowhere. Both of the men didn’t seem to budge from their opinions. Changing the conversation, the three of you headed over to hair and makeup to get ready for the day.

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

After a week of filming, you were exhausted. The days were all long, and you couldn’t wait to get home and sleep all weekend. Walking into your apartment, you made your way over to the freezer to grab some ice cream. You wanted some of your favorite feel-good food. Almost as soon as you had settled down, your phone began to ring. Jeff wanted to Facetime. Answering the call, you let a bright smile fall onto your face.

“Hey, baby!” you said as your boyfriend’s face popped onto the screen.

“Hey. How are you?” Jeff asked.

“Tired. This week has been pretty brutal,” you responded as you began to dig into your ice cream.

“Are you sure you should be eating that?” Jeff asked, his head tilting to one side.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… you did put on some weight this summer. I know that you were relaxing and all. But now that you are back at work, I thought you were gonna take better care of yourself. I’m just worried about you is all. I know that looking good for the camera is a big part of your job,” Jeff explained. You put the spoon back into the ice cream and pushed it away from you. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad! I just care about you; I want you to be healthy and happy with the way you look on screen.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I have a scene this week where I wear a tight dress. Should’ve thought about it,” you mumbled. You had wondered if you gained weight, Jeff made it clear that you had.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. That’s why you have me. I’ll be here to remind you when you need it. I fell for one hot piece of ass that I don’t intend to lose to Tom and Jerry anytime soon,” Jeff laughed. You nodded and attempted to laugh along.

“I guess I just have terrible eating habits now,” you shrugged.

“Well, why don’t I make you a meal plan? Then you won’t need to worry about that. It’ll make each day easier, let you focus on your job,” Jeff offered.

“Um… yeah, sure. That would be great,” you forced a smile. The two of you talked on the phone for a few more minutes before hanging up. You got off of the couch and tossed the ice cream into the trash. You wouldn’t be eating it. Going into your bedroom, you stripped down to your panties and bra before looking into the mirror. Jeff was right; you were looking bigger than usual. Laying on the floor, you began to do sit-ups and crunches until your core was on fire. Only then did you let yourself shower off the day and go to bed.

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

Two weeks into Jeff’s meal plan and you were already looking better. Jeff had been praising you, telling you how hot you looked now. It was hard to keep up, the meals always leaving you wanting more. A few times you almost slipped up but managed to avoid it. Walking onto the set, you smiled and waved at your friends before approaching them.

“Hey, guys!” you smiled at Jared and Jensen. The two seemed glued at the hip.

“Hey. So, we were thinking about pizza and beer at my place tonight?” Jensen offered. This was a regular occurrence for the three of you, having done so since you started the role on the show.

“Oh, I’m actually on a diet. No pizza or beer for me,” you shrugged, “maybe we can have a movie night one day this week?” Both Jared and Jensen looked confused.

“Diet? Since when have you been on a diet?” Jared asked.

“For a few weeks now. I noticed that over the summer, I kinda let myself go. Jeff has been super helpful about it. He even made me a meal plan so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Isn’t that sweet?” you smiled.

“Let yourself go? Y/N, you look good! Like you always have,” Jensen’s voice was laced with frustration.

“It’s fine, J, you don’t need to try and make me feel better. The meal plan is working great. I mean, I look a lot better now,” you told them before leaving to go to your trailer. Jared and Jensen both gave each other a look. They were worried about you.

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

A few days later, you were in line for craft services when you realized none of the options would go along with Jeff’s plan. You poured yourself some tomato soup and grabbed a grilled cheese before heading back to your trailer. Digging in, you knew that you would have to work out extra hard to make up for the calories. Pulling out your phone, you shot a text over to your boyfriend.

Y/N: Hey, babe. Craft services didn’t have anything that I could eat from the plan. Grabbed tomato soup and grilled cheese instead. Hope that’s okay.

Within a few minutes, you got your response.

Jeff: No, that’s not okay. Setbacks will only make things harder for you. You can’t let all those carbs and calories just sit in your stomach…

Y/N: Well, what am I supposed to do.

Jeff: You have to get rid of it. This is what happens when you go off your meal plan. Go to the bathroom and put your fingers down your throat. You don’t want fans to see you as fat, right?

Looking at your phone, you took a few deep breaths. Your heart was racing as you looked up at your now empty plate. He was right. You didn’t want people to think of you as the fat actress. What if people spread rumors that you were pregnant? You knew what you had to do.

Getting up, you made your way into the trailer’s small bathroom. Kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, you stuck your fingers down your throat.

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

Another week went by and you were messing up your meal plan left and right. At least now you knew what you could do to fix it. You had lost even more weight but knew that you still had a long way to go before you looked like the other actresses on set.

Today was one of those days where craft services didn’t have anything that Jeff would deem appropriate, so you grabbed whatever you felt like. In your trailer, you ate until you were full before making your way to the bathroom. After being there for a few minutes, the door to your trailer swung open. Before you could do anything, there Jensen was, standing in the doorway of your bathroom.

“Y/N, are you oka - wait, what are you doing?” Jensen’s eyes widened in shock at the sight before him. You quickly got up, flushing the toilet, and wiping your mouth.

“I think I have food poisoning or something. It made me puke, it’s no big deal,” you shrugged before trying to get passed him. He stood still, his broad shoulders keeping you from leaving.

“No, that’s not what happened. What I just saw was you with your fingers down your throat. Why would you do that?” Jensen’s voice was laced with pain. You looked down at the ground, unable to meet your best friend’s eye.

“I needed to…” you whispered.

“What?”

“I...um… I went off my diet,” you shrugged your shoulders, “I needed to fix it.”

“Y/N….” Jensen pulled you into a hug, not letting go. “You don’t need to do any of that. You are perfect just the way you are.”

“But Jeff…”

“Jeff?” Jensen leaned back to look you in the eye, his hands on your shoulder, “did Jeff tell you that you need to lose weight?”

“He just wants what’s best for me! He wants me to look good. Jeff keeps me on track.”

“Wait… did he tell you to make yourself throw up,” Jensen asked. His eyes were full of worry and you couldn’t look at them without feeling shame.

“He suggested it when I fucked up the first time… it wasn’t supposed to be more than once. I just kept messing up,” you could feel the tears start to gather in your eyes. Jensen pulled you into the hug again, one hand on the back of your head to stroke your hair. It didn’t take long before you were crying, Jensen holding you as you sobbed.

“Y/N, you are worth so much more than this. You deserve someone who treats you better, who loves you exactly as you are. You are beautiful, talented, smart. Please, believe me when I say that.”

“I want to J, I do. It’s just… I don’t,” you looked up to meet his gaze. Jensen used his thumbs to wipe the tears from your eyes and held your face.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll tell you every day until you do. Y/N… you need to leave Jeff. He is hurting you.”

“O-okay. You’re right. Can you stay with me while I call him?” you hoped that Jensen would say yes. It felt too hard to do on your own, after everything.

“Sweetheart, I will always be there for you,” Jensen tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

That night you called Jeff, breaking things off. Before he even had the chance to insult you, Jensen was taking the phone from you. He told Jeff off before hanging up the phone and repeating all the kind words he had said earlier in the day.

Jensen had told you the truth. Every day he made sure to remind you how amazing you were. He supported you through it all, helping you throughout your recovery. It wasn’t easy, undoing the damage that Jeff had done, but you weren’t in it alone.

#jensen #jensen one shot #jensen x reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles one shot #spn #supernatural #spn fic #jensen fic #rpf #supernatural rpf #supernatural fanfic #supernatural one shot #spn one shot #one shot #supernatural reader insert #reader insert fic #spn reader insert

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darter-blue · 4 years ago

Note

bec, darling, would you do body worship from your prompt list for lil ol' me? 🥺😂😈

Hey there dearest. Well, Ali. I must apologise because this turned from Kinktober to whumptober. And to start its a bit more body horror? But it will work it’s way to Body worship I promise.

So here is part one of your Fic - Resurrection

Warning for Bucky Barnes recovering type anxiety and hurt/comfort

Bucky wakes to the sound of water running. The smell of wet earth and dead leaves permeate his senses as they slowly open to his surroundings.

He aches. From head to toe, his body aches. He needs to get his eyes open to properly assess the damage. But it sure feels like he's been hit by a tank.

Or he'd fallen from some ridiculous height… had he fallen?

Bucky's last memory is of the cold… of… fear.

Of Steve.

Steve

His memories are fleeting but he has something, an image, caught in his hand, and he curls his fingers around it to hold on.

Steve was in the train, they both were. Zola's train. And Hydra… and that fucking Canon of a gun, some Hydra tech, blasting a hole in the side of the train… and Bucky…

He fell… didn't he?

His eyes snap open.

He looks down to find himself lying on a damp, soft surface, definitely not the snow he's expecting.

He blinks into the mid-morning brightness, shaded by the structure above him, a jetty. The sound he's hearing is a river, a rocky shore line at his feet, dead leaves beneath him, trees behind him.

And he's… he's definitely not in Austria. Glancing around him it's all lush vegetation and rocky shorelines but there's something oddly familiar about it all and yet so, so wrong.

And as he looks down to check the ground he's woken up on (is there a bed roll, did he collapse here?) he catches sight of his outfit and then, by extension, his left arm, his left hand, and his brain freezes.

He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at but what he sees is… well it’s not good. It’s… his hand is... he wants it to be encased in some kind of metal glove. He wants this to be some elaborate costume. Steve gets to have an elaborate costume, maybe Bucky has one too. Maybe this is just the boys’ idea of a joke.

It doesn’t feel like a joke. Bucky tries to wiggle his fingers but something is wrong. They wiggle, but it’s not… it's like there’s a lag or… they’re broken, or he’s had some nerve damage maybe. And they’re not… they're stiff and twisted and they won’t do what he wants them to do and it feels stilted. It doesn’t feel right.

And he knows. Bucky knows. This is not a costume. This is his arm. Or…

This is what has been attached to him. In place of his arm. It’s not his… it's a machine.

And he’s waking up with it. In pain. In a strange place. With no idea how or why he’s here.

He needs to find Steve.

First things first, he needs to get up off the ground, but fuck. It hurts. His whole body feels like it’s been crushed by something. His chest aches, his head aches, his legs feel like garbage. His shoulder, his fucking shoulder is on fire. But focussing on any of this is not going to help him right now. He needs to get up. So he does.

He puts that pain in a box in the back of his mind. He uses a pillar of the jetty for support and he lifts himself up. And it's too much, for a second, it’s too much, and he vomits.

God, okay, he tells himself to just breathe. He breathes. And when he gets it together he walks. Carefully, gingerly, he walks to the trees and makes his way through them, using trunks to lean on as he passes. Letting the smell of the earth and the bark overpower the blood and the bile and whatever else it is on him he can smell.

He doesn’t know where his army uniform is. He doesn't know why he’s dressed in these strange pants with what look like black catchers pads on his knees. Covered in knives. No gun. There’s a belt and straps that don't attach to anything and no food. No rations. Nothing useful in any of the thousand pockets.

He tries not to speculate as he walks. It won’t do him any good to panic. He needs to figure out where he is. He needs to keep as quiet as possible (though he’s not doing a great job, with the limp and the dizziness) in case he comes upon Hydra or Nazis out here. Though… it all feels so wrong.

And he realises why as he gets closer to civilisation. It looks like farm land, but it’s not european farmland. The first building he sees is a business of some kind, the sign is in English and what looks like Native American, though the name doesn’t sound familiar (he notes with some positivity that both his vision and hearing seem to be as good as ever). It looks like some kind of national park. And no one is around. He doesn’t see or hear anyone. And necessity being what it is, Bucky moves closer.

Piscataway Park, the Accokeek foundation, appears to be a national park owned and operated by the US Department of the Interior. The US. The US of A. He’s in fucking America? He sits down for that information to sink in. And then gets back up to get closer to the visitor’s centre.

Which is empty. And pretty easy to break into with one of his handy knives, inside is food and water and so much… everything looks wrong. Bucky has seen some crazy shit fighting Hydra but this is all just… different and yet somehow the same as the America that he left behind for the war. Everything is so bright and clean and expensive. The prices on the food, on the signs over the freezer, it’s way too much. And the food itself, the packaging is so colourful. There’s so much writing… it’s all just… too much…

There’s a phone but it’s… there’s buttons where the dial should be. The handset is not even connected by a wire… and Bucky can’t use the damn thing anyway - he has no idea who to call… There’s no switch operator, just a dial tone.

He does find some less conspicuous clothes to wear. A t-shirt and some kind of hooded sweater to cover up his monstrosity.

He finds bathrooms, full of fancy looking equipment nailed into the walls, but there’s a sink, and paper towels, and a mirror, and fucking hell.

What happened to him?

His reflection is… jarring. His hair is long and rancid. He has a bruise under his eye and one on his temple. He has stubble. He didn’t have this much stubble when Steve pulled him out of Azzano. And he looks… bigger. His shoulders and his arms. Arm. His one arm.

But mostly he looks…haunted.

Well. he has just woken up in the wrong country, in what seems like the wrong year. With no idea what has happened to get him here. So that really makes sense.

He takes a good minute to remove the leather contraption he’s wearing as a jacket and stares at his chest in the mirror. It takes him a minute of staring to catch his breath because what he’s looking at, the reflection of his own body, it’s… horrific. It’s… a nightmare.

The skin around where the metal of the arm is fused to him is red and raw and painful. Covered in scar tissue. And it feels so heavy. It’s pulling at him, from the inside. Like someone has a hand inside him and is just twisting and yanking at chords of muscle, cutting into his bones.

His chest is bruised, but nothing seems damaged. It feels like broken ribs that have been healing for weeks. Though he knows he heals fast now. Faster than before the war for sure. Gabe was always questioning him about it. Never happy to just let it go.

And wow, okay, the muscle there is so much bigger that he remembers. Sort of like Steve’s, what he’d seen of it (tried not to look too hard, too much) the few times they’d been thrown into the same tent, or woken up from having rolled into each other camping out with the boys and washing what they could reach with freezing cold water from their canteens.

Bucky never mentioned it, because it made Steve uncomfortable, when people talked about him the way they did. About the size of him, the look of him, the strength of him. So Bucky let the changes fly over his head and he paid attention to the important stuff instead. Was Steve eating enough for his twice as big body now? Was he sleeping enough? He seemed plenty warm, Bucky could never quite get over all that nice new warmth (Bucky’s Steve, brooklyn Steve, had always been so cold, Bucky had had to force blood into that kid’s toes with his own hands too many times to count), but was he breathing good, did his back hurt, was he getting everything he needed?

Turned out Bucky didn’t need to worry about that stuff too much after Azzano (didn’t stop him, he just learned to hide it better).

Turns out Bucky has bigger things to worry about now.

He throws up most of what he eats. He keeps some of the water down, refills the bottle from the tap. He washes himself as best he can with what he has and dresses in the shirt and sweater from the visitors store, drags himself back out of the bathroom, and passes a stand of pamphlets on the way to the door.

And one of them catches his eye. It has dates on it. Tour dates, it says, for March. March of 2014.

2014.

Bucky has woken up in the future. Seventy years in the future.

He gets behind the store counter and finds more papers with the date on them. Everything he can find is dated up to december 2013. So maybe that’s when it is. Although it seems like the place has been closed for a while - so maybe it’s later than that.

Bucky sinks down to the floor and rests his head against the counter. He closes his eyes. Maybe if he sleeps again he can wake up back in 1945. And this is something that he and Stevie can laugh about. Maybe he can tell Stark about it.

Maybe he’ll find a flying car.

He can’t sleep anyhow. Everything hurts. He feels so sick. And hot. And cold.

After a while he gets up again and finds a map of where he is. Maryland. He’s not far from Washington actually, he could probably walk the distance in a few hours (maybe more than that - in his current state) and in the city he’d have access to more information. He could find out… anything. Anything that might help him figure out how he got here. Why he might be here, How he can get back.

So he has a plan. And that’s what his brain needs to push that pain away again. He can do this. He can stay on task. He can get information.

And that’s what he does. He sticks close to the road, but far enough away to avoid suspicion, or cars. (The cars! They don’t fly, but fuck are they fast, and big! And colourful!)

It takes him much longer than it should. But he gets there. He avoids the smaller towns because he won’t be able to blend in there, he avoids the smell of the food from the roadside restaurants which has him bringing up more bile. Sipping more water. He follows the not great map and makes the best decisions he can make in the moment to get himself across the bridge. And then another bridge. And then finally he’s in Washington.

It’s more than his senses can take. It’s huge. The buildings are huge. The roads are crazy. The people are everywhere.

It’s not that different from what he remembers, but just more somehow. He has the hood of his sweater up to cover his mess of hair, as much of his face as he can. And it's a very good thing. Because the first image that accosts him, from screens that cover a back wall of the first busy bar he walks into, screens with colour pictures, brilliant pictures, is his own haunted face.

It’s Bucky, this new terrifying version. And he’s reeking havoc. Shooting up a crowded street. He’s watching the pictures and it has him ready to vomit again, though there’s truly nothing left in his stomach, and he’s on his way to find a bathroom or a dumpster to do just that, when the image on the screen changes and it's Steve.

It’s Steve.

He looks dead.

He’s being lifted onto a stretcher, he’s being placed into an ambulance. Bucky uses his hearing, hones in on the newscasters voice to hear her say he’s being taken to a hospital. She doesn’t say which one.

So that leaves Bucky to figure out how many hospitals there are and just go to them all until he finds him.

And then the footage changes again and it’s Bucky again… and he’s… he’s shooting at Steve in the street.

Oh god, no. That’s not right. That’s not him. He wouldn’t do that. Maybe Hydra cloned him. Maybe the pictures aren’t real…

But he can feel in his gut that something is so very wrong

Oh god.

He needs to find Steve, he needs to get out of here, he needs to breathe. To breathe. People are starting to stare and he has to get out. He bursts onto the street and runs. To anywhere, he doesn’t know. His legs give out soon enough and he ducks behind a building to collapse.

He breathes. He keeps breathing until he starts to calm down. The nausea passes somewhat. The image of Steve lifted into an ambulance, being shot at in the street, is enough to shut the panic down. There is important work to be done, he has no time to fall apart. He needs to find Steve.

It takes him a few small thefts here and there, the minor break in of an unoccupied newsstand, to find a page of hospital listings and directions to follow.

It takes him even longer to find the right hospital.

But when he comes upon Medstar Georgetown University Hospital, the extra hustle and bustle, the armed men at the main entrance, he figures this has to be the place. Bucky pulls his hood low, (he’s had his metal hand kept securely slotted into one of his many pockets all night) and finds the easiest and least noticeable way to get inside through a huge concreted underground parking garage where the staff entrance is sitting completely empty of armed men.

Once inside he sticks to the crowded areas, watches the movements of the people looking the most military, they’re milling mostly around the third floor. At least they're looking after Steve better here than at the entrance. But Bucky will have to be more careful because of it. A hooded sweater and an indifferent attitude probably won't get him to Steve unnoticed.

He takes note of the people looking the most harried, the most like hospital staff. It's hard to tell the doctors from the nurses from the orderlies, they all seem to be wearing different versions of the same uniform. Almost like pyjamas. And this could work in Bucky’s favour. He takes his time to wander back down to the floor below and finds a tall silver trolley full of folded linens and clothing, he requisitions some of the pyjama like pants and a matching shirt and then from an unoccupied utility closet, finds a hair net to hide his mess of hair up into and blue gloves to pull over his hands. He squeezes his way to getting changed inside the closet, leaving the long sleeve t-shirt under the uniform to cover his metal arm and straightens it all out as best he can. He grabs a folder from a nearby desk, just like the ones he sees other hospital staff walking around with, no one is paying him any mind, and then makes his way back upstairs.

And from there it's a snipers game. At least an hour of watching and waiting, breathing through pain and nausea, until he finds his opportunity to get into Steve’s room. A man he recognises from the footage at the bar, footage of Bucky shooting at Steve, a man who had been wearing wings and flying, actually flying through the sky, exits the room and speaks to the guards before leaving for parts unknown.

And Bucky, who has passed the guards now a few times looking busy, passes by them now into Steve's room with a nod and one of his most casually trustworthy smiles (Bucky knows just how to use his face to get out of trouble - even as sallow and pale as he is looking right now). And he stops short at what he finds inside.

Bucky is all too aware of how much damage Steve can take in his new body. But this is…

This is terrifying.

His face is black and blue, bloody, swollen. Bucky might say unrecognisable, but it would be a lie. Bucky doesn't need to see Steve's face to recognise him. Bucky could recognise Steve by the sound of his breathing, by the smell of him. By the essence of his presence alone. Bucky would know Steve anywhere.

Did he do this?

Did Bucky do this to Steve?

His moment of indecision doesn't last. He's propelled forward by the movement of Steve's chest rising. By the flutter of his ridiculous lashes. He presses close to Steve, leaning over from his bedside, touching him gently with his flesh and blood hand, his own hand, to feel the warmth of him through the bedclothes, through the gloves.

A sigh of relief runs through Bucky at that familiar warmth under his fingertips.

And it's as Bucky stands by Steve's side, hand flat against his chest, face just inches from Steve’s, that those bright summer blue eyes Bucky knows so well blink slowly open. His head turns just a little to look up at Bucky and his cracked, bruised, bleeding lips spread into a smile.

'Steve?' Bucky whispers, 'Oh thank god, Stevie.'

But something in his tone hits wrong. Some kind of desperation maybe, because Steve’s smile is waning. A hardness is flooding his expression. The more conscious he becomes, the angrier he looks.

He pulls back from Bucky, just a fraction. An inch at most. But it's a chasm to Bucky, that distance. And Bucky pulls back too, instinctively, removing hishand from Steve’s chest.

Steve looks at him, at as much of Bucky as he can see from the position he's in, and then to the room around them. 'What is this?'

‘Steve?’

‘Who are you?’ His eyes are flicking around the room like he’s looking for clues. He’s panicking.

'It's me, Stevie, it's Bucky.' Bucky uses the calm voice he always needed to bring Steve back from an episode. ‘It’s me.’

'No.'

And that hurts. That cuts into Bucky like a blade. This is his Steve, he knows it. But maybe… maybe in the future Steve doesn't know him? Doesn't remember him?

He steps back a little and takes the net from his hair. 'I look different, I know,' he says, working to keep his breathing even, to keep the stress out of his voice, 'Something… something happened to me.'

And Steve is looking at him. Watching him. Bucky lifts his chin, tries to let Steve see him. Looks him in the eye and hopes, prays, that Steve can see him in there. 'Bucky?' Steve finally whispers, reaching towards Bucky with an aborted movement, 'Buck?' He says louder, slipping as he tries to sit himself up in bed.

‘It’s me, it is me,’ Bucky says, placing his hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to discourage him from moving and dislodging the cacophony of tubes that seem to be connected to him and a million pieces of flashing, beeping equipment.

Steve looks down at the hand on his shoulder, the metal hand, not really Bucky’s, and Bucky reaches down to slip his real hand, his right hand, over Steve’s where it rests on the bed. ‘It’s really you?’

And Bucky wants to cry at the relief in Steve's tone. But it scares him too. 'Oh god, Stevie' - his breath hitches on Steve’s name - 'oh god, what happened to us?'

'Its okay, Bucky, it's okay,' Steve is shushing him, has reached his other hand over to cover Bucky’s where it covers Steve’s, 'It's not your fault, it wasn't your fault.'

'Wasn't my fault?' Bucky asks, not understanding.

'Hydra, any of it. What they did to you. What you did. It wasn't you.'

(Hydra. It's always Hydra, isn't it? Whenever he closes his eyes he can feel them waiting there in his nightmares. Of course they would be torturing him still. All the way into the future).

‘What they did?’ Bucky asks again, and then hears Steve’s words, remembers the film stock from the screens at the bar, ‘What I did?’

‘You don’t remember?’

'I don’t really remember much,’ he says, shaking his head like he can jog something loose, find something hidden, ‘How did we get to the future, Steve?'

And Steve is looking at him. His eyes wide. He's working himself up the bed, up to a sitting position - despite how painful it must be. 'What do you remember, Bucky?'

‘I…’ Bucky looks at Steve, at the raised eyebrows, at the clenched jaw, the tight fisted grip he has on the sheets under Bucky’s hand, ‘I remember the train,’ he says, swallowing, trying to fit his horror into a small, sealable box, ‘I remember falling,’ he looks aways from Steve for the first time since he entered the room, ‘I remember your face, getting further and further away.’

Steve’s breathing has ticked up. He’s doing that thing he does to hide his short sharp breaths from Bucky, but this is not an asthma attack, this is anxiety. This is worry. For Bucky. ‘Buck, it’s okay.’

‘I woke up on the side of a river, in a national park, not in Austria, in America, Steve, and it’s twenty goddam fourteen,’ he’s whispering and it’s painful, he’s got no control over the words, they just come right out of his mouth, like more bile, ‘I woke up in the future Steve, the future! What happened, why was I shooting at you? Why was I shooting at everybody? What did they do to me?’

Steve is reaching up one of his giant hands to cup it around the back of Bucky’s neck, squeezes it, kneads his thumb into the pressure point below Bucky’s ear. Bucky just leans into it, leans into Steve’s fingers, their weight around his neck. Leans into that comfort. ‘Bucky look at me, listen to me,’ Steve turns his laser focus to Bucky’s eyes and holds him firm, ‘You weren’t you, when you were shooting at me, you were compromised-’

Bucky dreads to think what compromised means, especially the way it sticks to Steve’s tongue, like he can barely get the word out.

‘-But, Buck, we need to get you out of here,’ Steve looks around at the rest of the room, at the door, at where he’s probably sure the guards will be standing, ‘Sam and Nat will be around somewhere, hopefully, and I can probably get them to help us, but nobody else can see you, okay?’

Bucky is nodding, he figured as much anyway, but he doesn't want to interrupt Steve, not when he’s so spooked. And Bucky can hear the flying guy on his way back, can hear him talking to the guards outside, and quickly adjusts the net back over his hair, tucking it away. Steve must be able to hear him too, because he’s moving his hand down from Bucky’s neck and back to the bed.

Bucky feels the absence of it like a blow.

And when the door opens Steve holds out a hand to the man who freezes at the sight of Bucky. Looks to Steve and puts his hands up. Lets the door close behind him and doesn’t take his eyes of Steve and Bucky.

‘Steve?’ the man asks, doesn’t elaborate.

‘It’s okay, he’s friendly, he won't hurt us,’ Steve is saying, calm and even, like he’s talking to a skittish animal, ‘Sam, don’t do anything, just hear me out.’

Bucky wants to shrink into himself. Wants to disappear for putting that look on the man, Sam’s, face. ‘Okay,’ Sam says, his voice low and rich, his arms loose and by his sides, ‘You have ten seconds.’

Bucky is pretty sure that won’t be enough.

#stucky fic #bucky barnes recovering #hurt/comfort #angst #4k words #my fics #my writing #whumptober

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thebestworstidea · 4 years ago

Text

The Green Knight’s Lady

Sequel fic to “The Witch and the Green Knight” (on Ao3)

Chapter 1: In which Rowan has Unexpected House Guests

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

Chapter 2: In Which They Try to Figure Out What the Hell is Going On

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

Remus was familiar enough with the Baker’s house that he brought a chair so the smaller fae could sit in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room and watch Rowan suspiciously.

“So what do you like to eat?”

“Meat.”

“...” Rowan pinched the bridge of her nose, stopping herself from being exceptionally sarcastic. If she let herself get much more catty she’d have to sit down and eat mice with him. “Raw or cooked?”

“What?”

“It’s just that if you want it raw, it will probably be cold. I could get it warm-ish, but it would probably be a little cooked by that point.” she had her head in the fridge. “We’ve got some chicken, and some beef. We might have venison or mutton in the freezer in the basement, but you know, freezer. Basement.” She closed the door. “How hungry are you?”

“I’m really hungry, little tree.” Remus said making eyes at her. “I’d like that beef.”

“You’d like that entire roast.” she retorted. “It’s something we have in common.” Rowan sneezed, and rubbed her nose on the back of her hand, before heading to the sink and washing her hands thoroughly, throwing occasional looks over her shoulder. Wiping her heads she hit the button on the kettle. “Let’s start with tea.” Standing in front of her jars, she ran her fingers back and forth over them, plucking a few, and setting them on the counter where they could be seen, a square of white cloth laid out on a far-too fancy saucer next to a plain teapot. “Something simple.” Rowan hummed under her breath, and measured out pale tea leaves, lemon peel and the barest pinch of lavender, knotting the cloth up, and pouring the water into the pot, swirling it a moment before dropping the bundle in. She put the jars away, and picked out a pretty teacup with yellow roses on it and a matching saucer, then two mugs, one with a stylized face made out of leaves on it, and the other a gradient rainbow.

“This is awkward…” she realized. “I’m not going to try to get you into the kitchen, but I’m sure you’re going to want to watch me cook; so I can’t get you to sit in the dining room.” She flapped this thought away with a hand, actual blood pact aside, ‘Danger Noodle’ had no reason to trust her, so the lack of it could hardly hurt her. Well, her feelings at least. “Hey, stinkbug, you know what a tv tray looks like?”

“No.”

“Little folding table, I think there’s one in the corner of the dining room, can you grab it?” As he stepped off to look for it, she adjusted her shawl and sighed. “No food offered to you in this house carries obligation.”

“You can’t make that claim for the other mortals here.”

“I sure as sugar honey iced tea can. At least for my family. Don’t you have things in common with your family?”

He frowned, brow furrowing slightly. It would have been more intimidating on an adult’s face.

“Nothing significant comes to mind.”

“It’s like a tea tray on stilts!” Remus said brightly, returning through the other door into the kitchen. He set it down in reach of the young fae, and Rowan brought over the tea cup and one of the mugs, pouring them full, before returning to fill the last one.

“Somehow I think you could use a great deal of sweetening.” she said cheekily.

“I want honey.” Clearly he could see it, though if he wanted to get it himself he’d have to step into the cast-iron filled kitchen.

“Well you’re not getting it.” her nerves were buzzing. She was just going to spend the next however long she lived in a state of repressed hysteria. This entire situation was ridiculous but she pushed forward, putting the sugar bowl on the tv tray along with a silver spoon.“The compost heap doesn’t even get honey, and you’ve been alive for like, less than twenty four hours by my count.” she didn’t mention his physical state. “Oh wait…”

There was a cake stand on the counter, and she lifted it up, and pulled out a cupcake, setting it on a napkin and putting it in front of him. “Happy birthday, Danger Noodle.”

The expression of warring confusion, annoyance and ‘oh gosh a cupcake’ was well worth it, in her opinion.

“Can I have one?”

“Yes- no wait.” She walked towards Remus with intent. “I am not letting you be a biohazard in my eating area.”

“It’s perfectly clean mess.” Remus held up his hands wardingly.

“Yeah, well, no.” She grabbed him by the back of the collar and hauled him away.

“What am I supposed to do?” demanded ‘Danger Noodle’

“Drink your tea and don’t hurt anything.”

“No promises.”

>-<>-<

The laundry room was next to the downstairs bathroom, and Rowan pulled Remus in, digging in a basket in the corner.

“Is this weird for you at all? I mean him being a kid.” she asked quietly.

“Nah, not really.” Remus shrugged. “It’s not going to last. It’s not like he’s a baby or anything. Besides, I’ve always been older than him.”

“What?”

“Yeah, not a lot but-” he made measuring gestures with his hands. “Ten years? Something like that? That kind of gap isn’t even really weird for mortals, right? I mean, it looked different, I started out smaller.”

“It’s a little creepy.”

“Is it?” He stopped. “Oh shade and sorrow, where did you get those dirty thoughts?” Giggling, Remus tweaked her ear and she swatted at him. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Oh thank you for that visual, that’s great.”

“I may go back down a bit, anyway.”

It took Rowan a moment to parse out what that meant.

“You’d better stay a certain amount big, he’s going to need protection.”

“Probably just a few years. Getting smaller is harder than getting bigger.” he scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t want to be creepy accidentally. Let me know if I stray closer?”

“Sure.” She rested against the wall for a moment. “I’d feel weird if you were like… a kid or a teenager too. Not creepy-weird, just weird. Humans only age in one direction.”

“Boring!”

“Yep, that’s us.” Rowan shook out a t-shirt, then tossed it on top of the pants she’d picked out. “Here, these are my longest jeans, they should fit you okay.” She handed him the pile, and shoved him towards the bathroom. “I think you’ll feel better clean. I mean, it’s not your thing, but still. You can use my soap and shampoo, I think you’ll know which ones they are.”

“Do I gotta?”

“You absolutely gotta. Things will be fine for ten minutes while you shower.” As much as she loved him, she wanted to reduce how much clean up she was going to have to do. There was a beat of silence and she listened to the house. Upstairs she could hear the rattle of her younger brother’s snore, but no footsteps. Downstairs, nothing but her breathing, no- she could hear Remus and the faint sound of the water heater beneath them.

“I can hear him. It’s fine.” Remus murmured.

“It is so far from fine I don’t think I’d be able to see it on a clear day.” Rowan retorted, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands over them. “I just… I told him he needed sweetening and told him he couldn’t have honey like he was a child and gave him a cupcake, and he’s- he was-” swallowing she grimaced. “I called him ‘Danger Noodle’. To his face.”

Remus laughed at her, but gently, and bonked their foreheads together again.

“I think it’s cute.”

“You would.” she mumbled sourly. “He really trusts you.”

“It’s not polite to talk about it.” he was smiling.

“When has that ever bothered you?”

“I know what manners are for.” he retorted, not sounding offended at all. “You know, when I told you my name, it was so you could call me by it.” He dragged his fingers through her bangs. She relaxed, just a little bit. “It’s what people call me. Not that I don’t like your nicknames.”

“Am I gonna stop being a little tree?” she asked, steering him towards the shower.

“Maybe if you get bigger.” He kissed her forehead again and started to get naked. Rowan left the room, shutting the bathroom door behind herself and taking a few more deep breaths.

Then she headed back to the kitchen, her tea would be cool enough to drink.

She caught ‘Danger Noodle’ with fingers in his mouth, apparently licking off frosting, since the cupcake was gone completely.

They stared at each other. Rowan did her best not to get into a staring contest, or fall back asleep.

“So … ‘Danger Noodle’ is that really what you’re sticking with?” he asked

“You going to give me something better?” She challenged. “It is kind of a mouthful, though. Nope Rope? Spicy Spaghetti? Caution Ramen? Murder Spugurder? Tube Dude? Scale Puppy?”

He looked quietly appalled.

“I’ll take the first one.”

“I thought you might.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“I’m nicer when I’ve had enough sleep. I think.”

“I’m not.”

She couldn’t help it, she gave a snort of laughter, which didn’t make him look any happier.

“D.N. then,.” Rowan said thoughtfully. He narrowed his eyes at her. And she’d so carefully not said ‘for short’

“Well, that’s an improvement.”

She took a sip from her mug and pulled the roast out of the fridge. Her hand automatically went to the knife block, then pulled back. Treating it like an allergy, she should reduce contact with steel. Rowan began rummaging in the kitchen drawers.

“Is it weird for you?” she asked, not looking at him “I may be small again after I die, but I won’t remember being an adult.”

“I am just barely sure that this is not a nightmare.”

Her search produced a ceramic knife her mother had gotten after Remus had started visiting.

“I am right there with you.” she sighed expressively. “No salt, no steel.” Rowan sang under her breath as she sliced the meat into thin strips, and moved on to an onion, tossing it into a copper pan with a large pat of butter. “I’m going to have to learn to cook again-” she continued in singsong “As my green friend is not a good judge of what is safe to feed a fae…”

“I see his eating habits haven’t changed.”

“I’ll be fair, I’ve never seen him eating roadkill.” She offered.

“He’d much rather kill something himself.”

“He’s blood thirsty like that.” There was a pause, and she sipped her tea without turning around, as the idea that her back was to an unfamiliar person, in the middle of the night itched at the back of her mind. “You’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Do you really want to have a conversation with me?”

Rowan’s shoulders went up then down, and she kept stirring the onions.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t try.”

“Pretending won’t make me any better.”

“No, that’s all on you. Would you like more tea?”

>-<>-<

Fortunately for their awkward conversation, Remus came back into the kitchen then, a silver chain disappearing under the collar of the t-shirt, hair wet, and moisture sticking to his skin. Rowan was not completely sure that he wasn’t a lighter shade- but she had seen him wash before, so that was probably in her head.

“I feel naked and not in a fun way.” he pouted. “Do I get a cupcake now?”

“But you smell better, and I’d be willing to lend you a blanket.” She tweaked his nose and did give him a cupcake. “I’ll put the meat in and you’ll have food in a minute.”

The sound of frying meat covered up the quiet conversation they had behind her, and she focused on it.

“Real table time.” She interrupted. “Dining room’s right behind you.”

It was too late for a midnight snack, and too early for breakfast, but she filled three bowls with the meat and vegetable mix, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that insisted she should make rice, or at least some noodles to go with it, she set the bowls out in a row, and let her guests pick whichever they pleased, only sitting down and taking the last one one they had. The meat was more rare than she’d prefer in a fryup, but compromise. She’d refilled her cup twice and Remus’s once as well before she spoke again.

“How is this even possible?”

“Now you ask.” scoffed the young fae.

“Do you know?”

He didn’t answer, eyes flicking to the side to avoid meeting her gaze, but it looked more like a ‘no’ than a ‘not telling’. She poked Remus with her foot under the table, getting his attention, and after a moment, sliding the rest of her serving over to him.

“Okay, I need you to walk me through what happened.”

“Uh…” He looked lost.

‘Danger Noodle’ sat back a bit in his chair so he could see them both better.

“Just, some idea. We found his bones, and then...”

“Not a creepy conversation to be sitting in on at all.” the young fae hissed between his teeth, cleaning his nails.

“Shut up, Danger Noodle.” He made a very teenagerish face at her. She sneered back.“And then?”

“I uh… don’t remember much for a while?” Remus admitted “So I don’t know how long I was there. But eventually, I..” his eyes flashed over to the other fae, then returned to Rowan. “I picked them up and gathered them into the bag you made me. And then I wormed my way out of the grove and I left.” He looked over at the young fae and took a deep breath. “So, legend is they were made straight out of shadows in the darkest part of the forest. So I went there. I’m not sure what I was thinking, that if they were born there, that would be the best place to rest. I just knew I didn’t want to leave the bones where we found ‘em, because it did feel… bad. Angry. And keeping the bones in my home would be a little weird even for me.”

“Just a little.” Rowan agreed.

“But that’s not much by way of directions.”

“The forest is a fae.” Interjected ‘Danger Noodle’ They both looked at him. “My brother calls it ‘mother’.”

“And you?” Rowan asked.

He gave a surprisingly honest looking shrug and rubbed the back of his neck, then his temples. “Something is there.”

“And I found a nice hollow tree to put them in.” Remus offered.

“Which I’m sure sounds cozy to a summer.”

“It does! Not that one though.” Remus blinked, slowly and rocked back and forth. “Then, I sat down, I was only going to sit down for a minute, only it was dark, and like… like finding the first patch of horfrost. So I just stayed sat.”

“Did you say anything? Think anything?”

“I don’t think I said anything. I thought about dying of exposure, and that elk skeleton I saw last summer.” He looked away from Rowan and smiled at the little fae “Thought about you.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t respond.

“Then… I dunno. I think I fell asleep. I don’t remember anything. But then I woke up and heard swearing.” he gestured at ‘Danger Noodle’. “The bones were gone, and he was there instead.”

“And you just knew who he was?”

“I will always know.” Remus said with enough feeling he embarrassed both Rowan and the fae child.

“So nothing we did on purpose.”

“I was brought back to life by accident?” he sounded almost offended by the concept.

“Oh somebody did it.” Rowan retorted. “It just wasn’t us.” It didn’t taste true, there was like a rattle of thought in the back of her mind. “It wasn’t just us.” she added, and shivered. “I remember when we were looking I’d get these strange feelings; nudges. Just different enough from how I normally find things that they didn’t seem like the same thing. I usually find things by seeing something, or feeling a tug in the right direction, and it was like that but it was like… someone pulling on a string that was tied to something that pulled me, the pictures I saw looked like words feel.”

“Witch magic.”

“I always thought of it more as psychic phenomenon, but-” She laced her fingers together. “I don’t know how to separate them.” Rowan pulled her shawl around herself more tightly. “Somehow… I feel I should apologize.” Rowan said honestly.

“What for?”

“My admittedly small part in your resurrection.”

“Don’t.” He folded his hands and frowned. “I was… present. In the bones. I couldn’t leave.” He looked at his hands and scowled again. “A poetic punishment for past misdeeds, I suppose. And I can feel magic. I would not be here, even in this form, if it weren’t for you. I hate it, but I owe you a debt, Rowan.”

“That’s why you agreed.” She said quietly.

“Whatever I owe you doesn’t preclude me killing you if you push it.” his eyes widened suddenly as if noticing something. “... you didn’t include yourself in your bargain. You said ‘my family or guests in my home’.”

Rowan just smiled at him.

“That took even less time than I thought it would.”

“Nothing is keeping me from killing you.” he sounded almost confused.

“Well. You are a guest in my home.” she offered. “And you owe me. So there’s that for now.”

“You’re very trusting.”

Rowan laughed.

“That’s not a new observation.” Her head felt split in two by a sudden yawn. “I feel like I’m out of thinking for now.” Rowan squinted at her guests. “Let me offer you a bed; I mean, you could sleep in mine, but I’m not giving it up, so the mess gets the middle.” she nodded at Remus. “So there’s the guest rooooo-okay not the guest room, that’s got an iron bedframe. So the loft, which is at least private.”

>-<>-<

The house only technically had three floors, the third being more of a half floor that was mostly one large room with storage closets lining the eves. Lazy storage left a handful of boxes not actually getting where they belonged, boxes stacked on the made up king bed, which Rowan hurriedly moved. The wind could be heard through the roof, but there were only two windows, round ones, one that faced the road, the other facing the forest. Both had small iron bells hung on the upper frame, and fans sitting beneath them. Bookshelves in various states of dilapidation were filled with books haphazardly, and there was a large stack of white comic book boxes. A standing rack was full of coats and old costumes, only some of which were in garment bags. A space heater stood at the foot of the bed.

“If you want to stay here, it will be mostly private,” Rowan offered. “If you need more blankets, there’s a blanket chest outside the upstairs bathroom.”

“Thanks little tree.” Remus nodded. “I shouldn’t be tired, since I just woke up but… winter I guess.”

“One last request?” Rowan asked nervously, standing at the head of the stairs. “I’d like to broach the subject with my family myself? So uhm. Could you wait until I come get you tomorrow?”

“Are you trying to lock me in a tower?”

Remus seemed to think that was a joke, so Rowan took it as one.

“Don’t be silly. There aren’t any towers available. Or big enough locks.”

#the witch and the green knight #willow is writing #AU AU

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solarpunkcryptid · 5 years ago

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Yeast Info

In a previous post about bread and bread recipes (here), I spoke about yeast and mentioned making a post with yeast information (as well as other baking info posts). This is the yeast post!

Thread below the read more because it’s long!

1. Refrigerate your yeast Yeast must be refrigerated. While this is not essential before the jar (or packets) is open, it is very beneficial afterwards. Nothing horribly awful will come from not doing so for a very short time, so don’t panic; the issue with prolonged cabinet storage is that it reduces the effectiveness of yeast over time, kind of like a half-life breakdown. I learned this the hard way. Using a jar of instant yeast that had been in a cupboard for a year (before I realized it said refrigerate after opening), I was only able to get one good rest and a partial rise out of it for dinner rolls (link in the post linked in the intro to this one); they only rose about 3/4 of the way. Part of this was also my trial and error with moisture content, but it consistently under-rose when I had nailed the right proportions of things with experience. When I got new yeast, the dinner rolls rose way higher than they had before, even after resting. I also had an orange roll recipe that double-rose effectively, something the old yeast never would have even attempted. Refrigerate your yeast, but if it’s old or you haven’t, it isn’t forever ruined, just a little less effective than it used to be!

Some people also recommend sticking the yeast in the freezer in an airtight container. I don’t do this personally because I use my yeast too often, but if you buy, say, three jars of yeast and you only use it maybe once per week, I could see freezing the yeast being great, because it’ll keep it fresh when you finally get around to using that third bottle!

2. There is a difference between instant and active dry yeast The big difference between instant yeast and active dry is how you need to “wake it up”.

Instant yeast is simple; the grains are very small, meaning it takes much less time for the warm water/liquid ingredient mixture/what have you to activate it and get it producing all that necessary carbon dioxide for your baked goods. This means that you can literally just toss your instant yeast in with the dry ingredients if the recipe calls for it*, and the short contact time with the moisture when you mix everything up will be good enough to dissolve all the yeast.

Active dry yeast, on the other hand, is slightly different. The granules of yeast are larger, meaning that it takes more effort to dissolve it. Active dry yeast is added to the liquid ingredients instead of to the dry, This allows you to make sure all the yeast dissolves, and warming up your liquid ingredients a bit for it is preferable to yeast grains in your finished products.

*Instant yeast and active dry can be used interchangeably in recipes. If a recipe directs you to add your yeast to the liquid mix and all you have is instant, go ahead, it will behave fine. If a recipe is written for instant yeast, and all you have is active dry, make sure to warm up your liquid ingredients and dissolve it in there instead. At the end of the dissolving dilemma, yeast is yeast!

3. Proofing Not sure if your yeast is still good? Heat up some water, add in some sugar, then whisk in your yeast. The warm water activates the yeast, and the sugar (glucose) provides it food (yeast is a living thing, kind of like yogurt cultures). This should result in the top surface of the mix getting bubbly; the more bubbles, the fresher the yeast. The only problem is when you don’t see any bubbling happening, and that can mean your yeast is either completely dead, or not very effective. The best way to tell that difference is to proof it in a water bottle and put a balloon on top. If the balloon inflates a little, your yeast is almost gone, but is still doing its best; if it does nothing, your yeast is dead. If your yeast is barely kicking, reduce waste and mix it in with new yeast (often yeast like this is the last dregs of yeast in a jar. If it’s a full jar, maybe just dump out the yeast and keep the jar; mixing it 50/50 with new will only mess up your yeast effectiveness).

4. Yeast is heat sensitive Yeast loves heat. Think of it like a lizard; the warmer it is, the better it runs, and cold makes it sluggish. Warm water activates yeast and gives it a kickstart. When you let your dough rise, keep it in a warm place. Some people recommend setting the oven to 200 degrees Fahrenheit and putting the bowl with rising dough inside. I personally turn on my oven to preheat before I start anything--I have a glass stovetop, not the wire burner type, so the stove surface gets nice and toasty, and the dough works out really well in response to the constant warmth--and when I am ready to let it rise, I will put the bowl/tray of rolls/etc under the oven vent on the back of the stovetop with a cotton tea towel over it, and it works just as well. Plus, the oven is already at the right temperature when the rising time ends, no extra preheating needed! Be careful, however, because things can be too hot for yeast sometimes.

Also, yeast will still technically work at cold temperatures. Pastry-like things, like cinnamon rolls, can be made in the evening, refrigerated overnight, and allowed to finish risinig at warm temperatures in the morning before they bake. It just takes much, much longer for the dough to rise.

5. Know the heat limits Yeast likes it hot, but not too hot. In my experience, the recommended upper limit for yeast temperature seems to be 129 degrees F. 125 is usually peak temperature for the dinner rolls I make, and the yeast likes it just fine. However, i have seen guidelines that put the perfect yeast range at 105-115 degrees. Essentially, it seems like it comes down to what kind of yeast is used; instant (what I always use) takes the hotter, 125 degree end due to it being added right into the dough, whereas active dry likes to hang out closer to the lower 100s because it only needs the warmth to kickstart in the liquid, like a car ignition.

If water gets too hot--130F or above- it will kill the yeast instead of activating it. The best rule of thumb to use if you don’t have a thermometer is to drop a bit of the liquid mixture onto the back of your wrist, like moms do when checking milk temp for their baby. If the liquid is comfortably warm, but doesn’t feel hot to the touch, the yeast will be safe.

6. Other ingredients affect yeast Last but not least, other ingredients influence how fast yeast rises. Things like butter, flour, eggs, things that literally make up the dough, will all slow the yeast down. The more of these there are, the slower the dough will rise. Bread dough will always rise faster than a pastry dough, for example, because pastry doughs (what you need for cinnamon rolls) take things like eggs, whereas most breads don’t. Therefore, always make sure to give yourself a lot of extra time if you are making anything with a lot of ingredients in the dough, as it will take forever to rise. Overnighting such doughs in the fridge is very popular, because you don’t need to worry about waiting until 2 in the afternoon for the rolls you started at 10 to finish their second rise (I wish I was joking but that happened to me yesterday). The more ingredients, the slower the rise, so plan accordingly.

That’s all I have on this subject for now! If you have something to contribute, please feel free to drop an ask or submit it!

#yeast #baking #yeast info #dough #self sufficient living #self-sufficiency #breadmaking #cottagecore #how to use yeast

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stevemoffett · 5 years ago

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Pandemics Don’t Get a Cute Pun

Being Afraid

It’s been twenty-one days since I’ve spoken to another person in the flesh. Before that, I had gone for seventeen days. And before that, a week.

The first week of no contact began when I said goodbye-for-now to my co-workers. I decided to wait to go to the grocery store until that first wave of people had passed before I tried going. On my last grocery trip, I had decided to “stock up” in case I had to isolate for a little while, and so, having no idea how disruptive the situation would become, I bought a whopping three boxes of spaghetti and one big jar of sauce.

My all-spaghetti diet ran out by Monday, March 23rd, and I had nothing else edible in the apartment. So, even though it wasn’t cold, I put on my jacket (to limit my skin-to-air exposure), a baseball cap (to stop myself from scratching my head, a nervous habit), and my glasses (I stopped wearing contacts to avoid touching my eyes). By March 23rd, the CDC and WHO had not yet recommended wearing gloves or masks in public. But I already had gloves at home (you never know when you’ll need nitrile gloves), and I had two masks that I had to wear when I was around someone who was immunocompromised earlier this year, so I put one of the masks and a pair of gloves on. Then I drove to the store.

The local store was letting about twenty people in at a time. There was already a line forming, just five minutes past opening. I walked to the end and we all stood waiting about six or so feet apart from one another.

Nobody made conversation. In people-watching moments like these, I associate whatever behavior I see with the general attitude of wherever I am, even if there is no such stereotype: Ah yes, that reserved Texas stoicism I’ve heard so much about.

When I got into the store I pulled out a cart and walked stiffly. The night before, I had gone on the store’s website and written a list of the items I needed, grouping them by what aisle they were in. I was going to snake my way through the store one time, get in line, and leave.

A complicating factor of doing it live was that there were lots of people to avoid. During an ordinary cold season, I usually watch out for people near me who might be sick. If they look like they may possibly be sniffling or flushed, I take a breath, hold it, and let it out through my nose slowly as I pass them. Here in the grocery store, I did this every time I walked past people in the aisles, and for extra protection, I scrunched my eyes shut.

There were signs posted limiting the amount of each product you could buy. No more than four boxes of pasta at once, for example. The pasta shelf was totally cleared out except for whole wheat pasta, so I took four boxes of that. I bought three eight-pound bags of dried pinto beans, a couple of bags of rice (I’d heard that beans and rice together make some kind of magical combination where you can avoid protein deficiencies even if you don’t have any meat), a big bottle of canola oil, butter, four big jars of spaghetti sauce, a bunch of hot sauce, ketchup, tofu, and frozen vegetables. The meat aisle was almost completely picked over—I managed to get two pounds of ground turkey from there, though. I didn’t get any eggs because I enjoy them too much; I knew that it would be better to make a clean break from them until after things got back to normal than to agonize over eating the last of them.

In line, I had an extremely full cart. By contrast, an old man in shorts behind me had about four things in his, and he wasn’t wearing gloves or a mask.

I heard him say, in a very low voice, “Stupid motherfucker.” Maybe he said, “Stupid motherfuckers,” plural, but I felt like it had to be at least be partially directed at me.

The teenager who rang me up seemed relaxed. I felt demographically exposed. Now that I am middle-aged, I am very aware of my interactions with teenagers. If movies are any lesson, there are about six million ways that I can make an encounter with one of them a) awkward, b) creepy, or c) both.

“Have you seen many other insane people dressed like me?” I asked, cringing behind the mask since I had already failed point a).

“Not many,” she replied.

“Well, thanks for being here,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem! I’m getting paid a lot to be here!” She said.

When I got home, I decided to take everything up to my place in multiple trips. Climbing up and down the stairs for each trip, though, I started to sweat. When I came in with the last of the bags, I set them on the floor and took my gloves off. I could feel a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead. If it got past my eyebrow and went into my eye, then maybe some of the virus that had landed on me from contaminated grocery store air would be carried into my eye, and that would be Game Over.

I hurried to the sink, tossing the gloves into the trash and ripping a paper towel off the roll. I crumpled it and pressed the part of the wadded-up towel that hadn’t touched either hand over my closed eye.

As the sweat was wicked away from my eyebrow, I felt my fingers moisten and I thought, Could any germs from my hand travel back through this sweat bridge and into my eye? It was true that I had been wearing gloves, but maybe I hadn’t taken them off carefully enough and I’d touched my wrist, or the outside of one of the gloves, and not noticed. I had also grasped the side of the roll to rip the paper towel off. Had I contaminated the edges of a bunch of sheets farther into the roll, too? Could I even be sure I’d properly bunched the paper towel I was holding to my eye without having touched the eye-facing part?

I decided to text all of this uncertainty in a big run-on paragraph to my brother. He responded, “I think you’re fine.”

After blotting the sweat, I got the bright idea to sanitize the frozen vegetable bags I’d bought before putting them in the freezer by spraying them with bleach. I brought them out to my balcony so that I could spray everything down indiscriminately. I sprayed all the bags, waited a couple of minutes, then started wiping them off with a fresh paper towel.

As I wiped the bags, I noticed that they were not airtight; there was a series of little pinholes all over the bags in what seemed like regular intervals. I assume that this was a design feature of the bags. But I could see that the bleach spray was disappearing into the holes, which meant the cauliflower and broccoli inside were absorbing it.

I realized then that I had inadvertently poisoned all of my vegetables. I tossed them in the garbage and thought again of what the old man behind me in line had said.

Now I had no source of vitamin C. I’d thought that there might be vitamin C in meat, but there is not. You get it mostly from leafy greens, a few fortified foods, and citrus fruits. I checked online and found that if I got zero vitamin C, I had at least four weeks until I got scurvy. This meant that I couldn’t go longer than four weeks before my next grocery trip. It was a relief to know that I had a date where re-stocking was mandatory, because if there wasn’t one, I might have felt overly cautious, enough to start rationing my food so that it lasted as long as humanly possible, and I’d lose an unhealthy amount of weight by cutting my calorie intake down to the minimum 1200 a day.

But without a vitamin C source, that wasn’t necessary. I certainly had enough food to last me for four weeks, as long as I was strict. I wouldn’t be able to have any cheat nights, but I also wouldn’t go hungry.

I sprayed the bleach on the faucet handle and the soap dispenser, and left the non-perishable food—Sriracha sauce, ketchup bottles, mustard, oatmeal, spaghetti sauce, and boxes of spaghetti, all standing upright—out on the floor between my refrigerator and the front door. I’d wait another 72 hours before handling them, and even after that, I would wash them with soap before use (except for the cardboard spaghetti package).

Those first few days were extra paranoid because I knew that it was possible I had already been infected. A few nights, I woke up around 3 to use the bathroom, and as I passed my upward-pointing non-perishables there on the floor, they looked less like food items and more like a bed of nails, or like stalagmites deep in a cave: hostile, and waiting for me to trip.

If I cleared my throat several times within a couple of minutes during the day, I got worried. If I sneezed or felt congestion when I woke up, the anxiety would percolate in the background until the symptom went away. I began sniffing my toothpaste to make sure I could still detect mint, since the news had come that smell loss was a common symptom.

But all of this was a distraction from the real sources of my dread: my parents and sister. My parents are old and my younger sister is frail. Each of them has at least one comorbidity waiting to gang up on them if they were infected. They all live together, and my sister requires enough close monitoring that if one of them gets it, they will all get it.

My father has had a particularly distressing habit that he likes to trot out from time to time over the last decade, but since his stroke, he’s doubled his efforts. What he does is personify the small voice in my mind that prevents me from getting back to sleep at 3 AM.

He called me the other day, just to talk. And mostly, the conversation went as normal: I tore my hair out at his and my mother’s relative (to me) disregard for proper exposure limiting, and he gave me his latest movie or TV show recommendations.

After I tut-tutted over another unnecessary trip somewhere both he and my mother had taken recently, he responded, “Yeah, that’s true, it is a risk. Well, you know, if one of us gets this, then all of us will. And we might all die.”

He let the words hang there until I responded, with as little emotion as possible to show him that he wasn’t winding me up, “Sounds like it’s a good idea to be even more careful, then.”

As I said, he’s made a habit of nihilistic portending for the last ten years. The problem is that I am always trying to banish those thoughts when they’re still merely thoughts, but then he just blurts them out, which makes them real. Does he not understand after almost forty years that no matter how irrational, uninformed, or biased a father’s words can be, they are still taken to heart by the son?

And he says these things, but then he doesn’t change his actions in kind. If he believed that the situation were that serious, wouldn’t he be battening down the hatches instead of making flimsy excuses to go to the grocery store? Does he really need to get that steak because he has a coupon? Does he really have to go there for Kandy Kakes because they’re buy two, get one free? Is it really worth rolling the dice each time?

I did ask him this directly, and he replied, “Well, we have to live.”

He meant “live” figuratively—I knew that they had enough bland food there to last them a long time. I asked him, “So the difference between ‘living’ and ‘not living’ is going to the grocery store?”

The frustrating contradiction is that for a generation so insistent on austerity being the “tough love” that the world requires, my parents sure don’t want to be austere. When I had trouble getting a job just out of undergrad, I was told to “pound the pavement,” carrying my resume with a suit on and applying to places in person, because it would be “more impressive” than applying online. The most frequent criticism of theirs was that people my age are lazy softies who can’t do anything for themselves. My dad, who had been a mechanic in his adolescence, liked to repeat a joke about my and my brother’s lack of mechanical knowledge: “If Steve had a nut, and [my brother] had a bolt, the two of ‘em wouldn’t be able to figure out how to get them together.”

Yet, if anything ever has been, this is the time for austerity: you shouldn’t make any unnecessary trips for indulgent foods. Instead, stick with the bland, nutritious diet that will last a long time, and stay away from public places. You can truly turn the risk almost down to zero that way, by being austere.

I think that my parents (I can’t speak for their entire generation, just them) have two aversions to properly responding to the virus. The first is that hiding inside one’s house is not what courage looks like. Courage is going out and showing the virus that they won’t be cowed so easily! Staying in, by contrast, is living in fear and surrendering. But it’s not true. The virus can’t be “shown” anything because it is a cell-invading machine. It isn’t trying to cow them, or “try” anything at all, for that matter. It is only spreading. It’s also confusing because the other great fear of our time is terrorism, and in cases of terrorism, that is the right attitude to react with.

To explain their second aversion to responding prudently to the virus, I believe that at a certain age, you just feel entitled. If you’ve had a life like most people’s then you’ve had your share of happy times, but you’ve also had your share of awful ones. And at this point, almost seventy years in, you probably think, the painful parts ought to be mostly over. You don’t deserve to be cooped up in the house right when retirement, really the only good part of senior citizenship, is beginning. Therefore, you deserve to be able to go out and do things. Unlike the timid young, you simply don’t have the time to waste inside.

While I can understand both aversions (as well as a younger person is able to, that is), I can still disagree with them. And I can still get extremely angry when my parents show this behavior.

For that reason, I am not without my own nastiness. I’m sure my mother didn’t appreciate the time I said to her on the phone, “I want you to remember you said that when they’re hooking you up to a ventilator,” after she told me she’d gone to the Starbucks drive-thru that morning. I mean, yes, what I said was truly ghoulish, but I said it out of love. And, desperation.

Because the 3 AM nightmare that I have lately is the one where I send my usual text to my mom asking how they’re all doing, and she texts me back, “Well, [my younger sister] woke up with a little fever, but she’s fine, she’s fine…”

I hear the horror stories. Funerals that have to be attended via the Zoom app. Final goodbyes said over Skype or FaceTime. People dying at the hospital, all alone. I know that it is naive to hope for this, but I still want to be one of those families that just dodges it entirely, you know? Just completely lucks out.

Even though I know those horror stories I keep reading are a textbook case of selection bias (you don’t hear about the vast majority of cases, where a person gets kind of sick but then recovers and is fine), if I want to do some simple panic math, here are the numbers.

-A reasonable infection rate over the whole US population, based on the R0 value: 50%.

-The chances that if one of the three vulnerable people in my family gets it, all three will end up infected: nearly 100%.

-The chances of them dying, given their ages/comorbidities (I’ll be more optimistic with this statistic): 15%, for each person.

Here are the likelihoods for the optimistic scenarios:

-None of them get it. That’s 50% x 50% x 50%, which equals 12.5%.

-They all get it, but they all survive: ~87.5% x 85% x 85% x 85%, which equals about 53%.

That doesn’t represent complete coverage of the probability space, since there are minor variations in what could happen, like each of them could theoretically be infected from an outside source and then give it to only one of the others. But as an estimation, it covers the most major scenarios decently.

So then, to get the probability of the “bad scenarios,” in which at least one person dies, you take the complementary percentage: 100% - (53% + 12.5%) = 34.5%.

Am I really looking at about a one in three chance that one of my immediate family members will die, to say nothing of my grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew? Hopefully not. The more time that goes by with them not getting infected, the more information healthcare workers and scientists can get about proper treatment courses and possible new medications. And if we go long enough (over a year) without getting infected, we might be able to be vaccinated.

In addition to the nasty pictures I paint for them over the phone if they don’t properly isolate themselves, I have also tried to exploit the older generation’s defensiveness. With a relish that was all part of the act, I told them that there was an alternate name for the disease floating around online, “The Boomer Remover.”

The other term I’d heard, The Boomer Doomer, I refrained from telling them about. My reasoning was this: while The Boomer Doomer is flippant and insensitive, the word “doom” is still scary. So, the phrase “Boomer Doomer” admits some of the disease’s weight and suggests a small amount of seriousness in the mentality of millennial-and-younger generations. That wasn’t good enough.

No, The Boomer Remover was the one I told them about because in addition to being disrespectful, it is downright adversarial. “The Boomer Remover” sounds like a cleaning product. It casts the virus as part of the young’s artillery in the culture war. And it casts the boomer generation as vermin. The name brings to mind fears that older generations must all share since the beginning of time: you will soon be gone, and your absence will be celebrated. Maybe, I thought, their defensive attitudes could be redirected to something more constructive, like making the effort to keep themselves healthy.

It seemed to do the trick. They were more conscious of avoiding exposure to infection after I said it. I don’t know if they really were persuaded by The Boomer Remover—it’s possible that they just got more information from the news around the same time—but they did cut out more unnecessary trips, which relieved me. Not down to zero, but fewer than before. I still don’t accept the unnecessary trips they take, though, and I spare no opportunity to remind them of that.

Coping, Sub-Optimally

I am lucky in my personal situation. To some extent, I can work from home. I have joined the legions of Zoom users. Keeping rigidly to a telework schedule, I have made sure that my sleep schedule hasn’t changed by more than a half hour, and I still look forward to the weekend, even though I don’t go anywhere Saturday or Sunday. The library is closed, and most of my attendees don’t have the Internet, so I can’t run my book club. I can exercise, but after hearing my downstairs neighbors furiously pound on their ceiling during one of my workouts, I’ve had to figure out how to do silent cardio so I don’t have to run through the neighborhood every other day.

One thing that I’m experiencing seems to be something that a lot of others are, too: an unfortunate confrontation with my previous excuse-making. If I had an hour extra in the day, I used to say, I would cultivate a new skill and get really good at it.

After a reliable isolation routine had been set here in my apartment, I found that I did have an extra hour each day, since I didn’t have to commute. I could wake up a half hour later because I didn’t have to drive to work, and when I stopped working for the day, all I had to do was sign out. I could still exercise, still make dinner, and still unwind before bed, so my post-work day was similar, but I gained one more hour I could use as I pleased. What have I done with it?

I am not a gamer. After about six years of not playing any games at all, I bought myself a Nintendo Switch and the newest Zelda game when I graduated in 2018 as a self-gift. I played Zelda over eighteen months. It’s a long game, but the average time you’d have to spend per day to finish the game with only moderate quest completion over that many months is low.

Playing Zelda was like a being able to eat a filling meal whenever I happened to crave it. In-game, I found the environment to be so pleasant that when people in real life asked me if I’d done any hiking lately, I’d almost respond, “Well, no, but I have done a fair bit of hiking and mountain climbing in Zelda.” If I went a couple of weeks without playing, it would take only a minute or two to remember what I’d been doing when I turned it on again. Overall, it might be the best game I have ever played. And it seems like it would be the perfect game for these times, if I were playing it anew.

But lately, the game-playing I’ve been doing over the past few weeks shows a much different mindset—one I haven’t really experienced since I was an undergrad student.

When I was in college, the adjustment to living away from home took a long time, and as a result, freshman year was sort of a wash. I didn’t do well in my classes, my suitemates were all upperclassmen I couldn’t really relate to, and it was hard to make friends in the huge introductory lectures with no assigned seating. I spent nearly the whole year playing video games in my room every evening, ordering pizza after pizza after pizza.

The game I remember playing most was a first-person shooter called Quake 2. I had tried the original Quake when it came out in 1996, but at that time it was too graphics-intensive for the family computer to run. Now, though, Quake 2 was the cooler-looking game, and my new laptop could have run either one easily, so I got Quake 2.

If I could sum up the highlight of freshman year, 2003, it would be: It is 10 PM. It is Friday night. There is a pizza on my desk, only two slices eaten so far. There is me, twenty-five pounds heavier than I am now. I am listening to Zwan, the short-lived Smashing Pumpkins-led supergroup. Quake 2 is blasting on my laptop. Somewhere far away, my future wife shivers for seemingly no reason.

After freshman year, I made a bunch of friends, and some of them became my closest friends, and from that happy vantage point, freshman year looked even more bleak. I resolved that I wouldn’t play Quake 2 ever again. In fact, I decided that from then on, I would think of the intense urge to game, especially first-person shooter games, as a kind of emotional canary in the coal mine.

But now in 2020, stuck in the relative comfort of my nice apartment and isolated from my family, and with the extra time that isolation was granting me, I started looking online for a new game to play.

My computer is fine but is also nothing impressive, processor-wise, so I can’t run a modern game on it. I felt too intimidated to play one anyway, having been out of the loop for so long. So, I searched for “retro FPS games,” and found a game called Dusk. Dusk, the game’s description said, was made in 2018, but was “meant to look like a shooter from 1996.”

I bought it and did nothing else outside of work except eat, squeeze in workouts, and play the game. It only took four evenings, but I finished it. And after that, the gaming urge from freshman year was fully back.

Similar circumstances, similar results. If I didn’t dig up Quake 2, it was only out of a pitiful sense of pride; re-downloading it would mean that symbolically, I hadn’t changed at all since freshman year. So instead, I bought Quake 1, and I’ve been playing that ever since I finished Dusk.

It turns out that since 1996, there has been an online Quake 1 fan community that regularly cranks out game modifications, so there are literally thousands of user-made levels to play in addition to the original game. And the mod levels are all free, as long as you’ve paid for the original game, which costs only five dollars. As a result, nearly every night after work, exercise, and dinner, I turn on a 24-year-old video game (with a fan-made mod that sleekens those chunky graphics up a little bit) and play it until bedtime.

First, I played through the game at normal difficulty, saving after every tough set of enemies (this practice is called “save scumming,” and is frowned upon in the Quake community). Not wanting to be bogus, after I finished it that way, I immediately started replaying the game, this time on Hard difficulty and only saving one time per level. I haven’t made it through the entire game again this way yet, but I’ve also played a bunch of fan-made levels to see what the tinkerers have come up with in the last couple of decades.

Have you ever been so completely uninterested while listening to someone explain their hobby to you that you felt a little bit guilty, but you also felt bad for the person, for being so lame? That’s how I feel right now, re-reading what I’ve just written. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t one of those I-am-quitting-my-addiction-through-the-healing-power-of-writing entries—in fact, I stopped writing this several times to play Quake, even looking up strategy videos on YouTube when I got stuck—but I acknowledge that this is not a good use of my time.

Right now, I could finally be getting those guitar skill fundamentals I’ve always wanted. I could be (getting closer to) finishing all songs I’ve written, or writing new ones. I could be working on an actual short story, or a novel, or something, to point to as a positive thing that came out of this whole crisis, and yet, all of those roads end up in the same place: worry town.

In another way, my laser-focus on playing a game like Quake makes perfect sense. It is similar to a game I already know how to play—it’s not one of the new shooters my computer couldn’t run and I probably couldn’t understand. And it lacks any need for deep thinking. Your goal in Quake is to get to the other end of the level, and if you could try to kill everything you see on your way there, that would be cool too.

If I were playing Zelda, I’d be all the way inside my head thinking about my family as my character’s horse galloped past waterfalls, sunsets, and windblown grassy fields. But in Quake, I don’t have to keep track of my inventory, my life meter, my resources, experience points, magic spells, stamina, side-quests—anything. If I’m still shooting and moving, I can still win. There’s no time for my mind to wander because there are monsters around every corner. And at the end of the level, nothing needs to be committed to memory.

Is it weird that I can’t remember anything about the actual game Quake 2, which I spent months playing as a freshman, except for how it felt to play it? Well, that, and the sparse game dialogue: some enemies would call you “trespasser” or “intruder” just before they tried to stab or shoot you, and there’s a level about midway into the game where you make your way through an elaborate torture factory and you see your comrades all being sawed to pieces, but the only thing they cry out is “It hurts,” “Let me out,” “Make it stop,” or “Kill me now.”

The time I spent playing Quake 2 and the time I’m now spending playing Quake 1 almost seem like one of those cheesy explanations of wormholes you see in science fiction movies. What’s the shortest way between these two points on this piece of paper? someone asks. A straight line, someone answers, and the person who asked the question shakes their head and folds the paper so the two points meet.

Life at thirty-five still feels young—I don’t have that fear of replacement yet. But I do have a new awareness of how dangerous it is to get stuck in a rut. Talking with my family over the phone in the past few weeks, I said that I was afraid that I had become “complacent enough that I could wake up one day and realize that I’m forty-five, with nothing new to show for it.” There are plenty of things I know I’m now too old for, ways of acting, ways of dressing. And my life so far is starting to have a true feeling of accumulation to it. Thinking back on it is like looking down a mountain hiking trail, with confusing turns, switchbacks, and even blind offshoots. Some of it is obscured by the trees, lost from memory. It all seems impressively far. Looking forward again, the mountaintop is still in the distance, but now it looms.

In between the previous paragraph and the one before it, I found out that my high school film teacher, Mr. Truitt, passed away. I had mentioned him in my entry about starting a book club, and in it I’d said that I’d modeled my method of discussion on the one from his film class. I now seriously regret that after all of this time since high school, I never used the very small amount of time it would have taken to tell him how much his class and influence meant to me. And, it is an embarrassing kind of regret—an obnoxious feeling, having taken him so much for granted. I’d always meant to contact him some day, but ordinary life took the foreground, and if I spent twenty minutes thinking of what I would write in a letter to him, I’d forget about it twenty minutes after that.

Just as indecent is my poring over his obituary with the obvious question on my mind that anyone has about any death in the past two months.

If something can be drawn from this entry, I hope it would be this: don’t forget to let people know how much you appreciate them. Life is long, but it never feels long enough. And the absoluteness of death is one of the scariest things about it.

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scrapbookofsketches-blog · 6 years ago

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I am blood hungry. Hear me hide.

This is a one shot about the sides being vampires and Virgil finding himself alone and afraid of hurting others.

Warnings for thinking about death (mentioned like twice but not described in detail), blood (of animals not humans), and purposeful isolation.

Eventual Prinxiety mah dudes.

Virgil had been a vampire for exactly seven hundred and forty two days, about two years. He spent the first year and a half alone in a camp in the woods hiding, far from civilization. The abandoned camp that still had heat and running water for some reason.

He often wondered who was paying the electric bill those days.

After quickly finding out how useless real food was to keeping him functional shape, he eventually went out to kill wild animals. Rabbits were a meal. Bears were a handful of feasts.

He vowed to never in his life harm a human for their blood. He hadn't wanted to become a vampire, someone's impulsive and stupid actions caused it. He would never put that on someone else.

He was also very unstable the first few months. He was afraid he'd lose control. Virgil could use a lot of colorful descriptors for himself, even to this day. Killer will never be one of them.

Away he hid for one and a half years. He has a weird mix of very vivid memories to huge gaps that stretched on for weeks or a couple months. He remembers sitting on the floor of the cabin putting blood into jars. He killed something big, probably a deer, and the blood was threatening to go bad after a bit. He stuck the jars into the snow so they would keep. He didn't know if that was how you kept blood, but that was the best think he could think of. Freezing things were supposed to keep them from going bad, right?

Virgil stared at the jars wondering if this is how he was going to live out the rest of eternity. He knew nothing about being a vampire.

Childishly, he wondered if maybe it was a myth that he would live forever. The burning in the light thing wasn't entirely true. He could go outside in the sunlight for a bit. It just hurt like a bitch.

Sitting alone some nights, he secretly hoped he was right; he hoped something would grant him death from this imitation of living. He could feel himself going mad from solitude sometimes.

It was days like that where he wondered where the other vampires were. There was at least one out there, roaming, turning innocent people, killing others. Virgil had almost dry after all. If he hadn't got away when he did he would have been sucked dry he was sure.

One night, when the moon was reaching the end of it's journey across the sky, Virgil heard a light humming. He dismissed it as it faded away, ‘a bird’ he thought, but it came back in a matter of minutes. Closer and closer louder and louder until Virgil couldn't deny the existence of a potential human nearing his cabin.

What if the owners had come back. Around three in the morning? Unlikely but possible nonetheless.

Virgil couldn't bear to give this place up and be without a home again. Plus, a human would probably have some questions about the jars of blood in their fridge.

So Virgil grabbed a frying pan.

Agonizingly slowly he opened the big oak door that lead to the ground of the cabin. Instantly a smell hit him that scared him so much he loved the door shut again.

It wasn't a human smell. It didn't make him hungry. And it was strong. Like the smell of clean laundry shoved up to your nose.

Virgil didn't know if he liked it or not.

“Hello?” A soft voice. With so much care it made Virgil want to curl up and take a nap in this stranger's arms.

Which left of his rational mind rang the alarm bells.

Virgil had to come out. They saw him.

Virgil crept out of his house, frying pan at the ready. He tried to say something along the lines of 'Don’t come any closer’ but no sound came out of his mouth. Apparently not using your voice box for a while did that.

Another wonderful thing rushed through his mind at that moment. If this person wanted to take him down, he could not scream, not that anyone would hear him anyway. He was in the middle of nowhere for a reason, but his plans to never be discovered may backfire spectacularly at any instant.

His breath quickened. He was going to die at the hands of this stranger. Probably because he was a vampire. He hadn't even done anything! He tried to protect everyone and look where it lead him. At the mercy of this honey sweet man with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

Blue eyes was saying something. “Hey. It's alright, I promise. I'm not gonna hurt you. Do you think you could breathe for me?”

Oh. Virgil wasn't breathing anymore. He was also shaking so hard he couldn't properly hold the pan above his head anymore.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Virgil was standing in front of the only safe haven he'd ever known in front of a person who made it not so safe anymore. He couldn't go inside and hide. He couldn't attack because he was too weak (in every sense of the word). He was stuck gasping for air and shaking in front of this man who was not human. He could not be human.

After a while, the man convinced him to come with him. Looking back, Virgil knew why he went with him so willingly. He charmed him into trusting him.

Blue eyes, who he found out was named Patton, took him through the woods to a clearing about an hour's walk from his cabin. When Patton ushered him into a grey car and they began to drive away from, Virgil somehow knew he would never see his old home ever again.

They drove for a very long time. Virgil distinctly remembers falling asleep and waking up sometime during the day.

It was light out. He had every reason to panic like he did.

After silently freezing out and trying to shift with the shadows of passing trees and stray buildings, he was made aware of the fact that the light did not hurt him like it should have. Patton, noticing his distress and confusion, chirped, “Don’t worry. The windows are ray-proof. The sun won't hurt you in here.”

Which lead to a prompt part two of his freak-out because this stranger knew he was a vampire. Later, he found out that all vampires smelt differently than humans to other vampires. But that car ride was agony.

Patton could have taken him anywhere he pleased. Maybe sent him to be killed for being what he was. Despite Virgil not wanting to be immortal, he didn't want to die quite yet. In human years, he was only twenty three.

Whenever he think back to when he got to what he now considers his home, he will admit he can not remember a thing.

“No wonder,” Logan said one day Virgil brought it up. “Patton had you so under the influence of his charm, I'm surprised you remember anything from that day.”

Patton put in quickly, “He was scared! If I just let him do whatever he would have run away and something bad would have happened! I had no choice.”

“Oh, I'm sure.” Logan rolled his eyes. Logan didn't believe in charm. He thought it was a violation to a person's freedom of choice, which was true. But Virgil never got around to resenting Patton for charming him that day. It was too true that he never would have followed him if left to his own devices. He wouldn't have had any of the amazing experiences or people that came with his new home.

And he certainly would have gone insane. It took him three weeks to properly talk to anyone in the household as it was.

There were three people that Virgil met in the span of his first week at that house. Not including Patton, who he met already.

There was Logan, the sort of head of the house. He dealt with the taxes and most responsibilities, and kept everyone in check. He was the most reliable and where Virgil learned most about vampires after he got comfortable. Logan had strict routines that he followed to the minute for many things, but not all. For instance, he always gets up and eats breakfast at 8:00, but he leaves a stretch of forty five minutes or so to make conversation or take some time for himself before he tends to his daily duties. Logan had tried to plan his entire life out to the second, but such strict routines were “a combination of stress and boredom that Lo just couldn't handle!” As Patton so eloquently put it.

And then there was Roman. He showed up the day after Virgil arrived, smelling a lot more like a human than Logan and Patton had. He wasn't a human and he hadn't smelled like blood. He never said what he did on the nights he went out, but everyone knew. At first, Virgil absolutely despised Roman. He was full of himself and was often wreckless, jumping from delusion to delusion like a Disney character with an ensured happy ending. But Roman's quick wit and snappy comebacks engaged Virgil after a while. It was nice to have someone to have non-serious and silly conversations once in awhile. Patton was fun, but talked about real issues too often while Logan wasn't fun. He was an infinitely interesting person to engage with when you want an intellectual conversation, but not the laughing, silly type.

Roman provided an exciting break from the world. When he was with him, Virgil could forget why they were all alone on a back road, miles and miles away from another person. Why they weren't outside taking a nice stroll in the warm daylight. Why they had preserved blood in their fridge and freezer alike.

Just as Virgil was starting to get the hang of this whole 'vampire living with other vampires’ thing, Dee stepped in. Dee was quiet as he was loud; big as he was small. Dee could hide in the smallest of spaces, tower over the tallest of men. Dee scared Virgil. And yet he was drawn to him every time he came around.

So was Roman.

Logan said that Dee affected humans the most with his tricky powers, but he also affected young vampires. Newly turned.

“You and Roman are naturally weaker vampires than, say, Patton or me. We have had much more to develop our abilities and counter powers against vampires like Dee,” Logan stated when Virgil asked about his state. Virgil asked Logan a lot of questions. He has yet to fail to answer with the utmost confidence and sincerity.

Virgil hated the way Dee made him feel. Enticed but cowardly, wanted but hated. Confused.

“Why does he come here? Why do you want him here?”

Logan sighed and put down his pen from his current calculation of some sort. “Dee…” he chose his words carefully. “Dee is not a safe one to be around, as you have experienced. He does not control his powers even though they have grown too large to let run lose like he does. Dee does this because he enjoys the effect he has on people. He basks in the power he oozes. As you can probably imagine, he is a menace in neighborhoods. So, a long time ago, Patton and I struck a deal when he was at his weakest. He can reside here whenever he wishes so long as he stays out of human affairs. It gave Dee a safe place (something he hadn't thought to have until he was in dire need of one) and food if he so desires it. He has avoided humans for twenty years now.”

Virgil didn't like it, but as he found himself doing more and more these days, he put the humans above his comfort.

After living with Patton, Logan, and Roman (and glimpses of Dee) for a year, Virgil began to believe that he might enjoy eternity with these people. Not Dee of course. But the others.

He smiled so much more these days.

It was a strange thing to live with other people. Even as a human, Virgil booked it from his family at seventeen and had been on his own ever since. An apartment here. A park bench there. Virgil found that it wasn't so weird to live with other people now. In fact, he much preferred it to living alone. Go figure.

It was these thoughts, his life story, that ran through his head like a record while he lay on the floor with Roman, both plastered.

“Hey, Roman?”

Roman stared at the ceiling for a moment before he processed Virgil's words. “Yeah?”

“How long have you been a vampire?” Virgil was surprised that he hadn't asked him before.

Roman rubbed his face. “No clue. Not super long, like five years? I don't count that stuff. It's sort of sad.”

“Oh.” Virgil paused, then, “Do you like being a vampire?”

“What kind of question is that?!” Roman looked angry. Or hurt. Whatever he was feeling didn't seem to directed at Virgil however.

Virgil knew a defensive person when he saw one, though. “You don't have to tell me.” Sigh. “But I kinda want to talk about with someone. Can I just say something dumb quick?”

Roman reached around on the floor for a discarded bottle of wine. He half sat up, took a swig straight from the bottom and fell back onto the ground. “Hit me.”

Virgil, for the first time, wanted to talk about being a vampire. Maybe it was the alcohol talking or… No. It was definitely the alcohol. Liquid courage and all that.

“Well, I've been a vampire for seven hundred and forty two days. And I wish I wasn't a vampire a lot. It wasn't my choice or anything, someone just planned to suck my dry and I got away before I died. And I used to really regret not just letting him finish the job.”

Roman shot up and whispered a quick “No!” then held his head, groaning.

“Not anymore, dumbass. Living alone for a year just sucked.”

“Oh.” Roman sunk back down to the floor.

“Anyway, when Patton found me and brought me here I realised that being a vampire wasn't all the suffering I made it out to be. I still wish I was human sometimes, but what the hell. Life’s pretty good for now. I've got less complaints than I did before, you know?”

Roman nodded. “Yeah. I miss quite a bit about being a human.”He paused, obviously looking for a prompt. Sarcastically Virgil replied “What do you miss about being a human, Roman?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” He said grinning, but it slowly slipped into a pressed line. “I miss being around people all the time. I used to be around people for my job, my hobby, my home life. My world revolved around people. Removing myself from that was the hardest thing, I think. Except… no. That was the hardest.”

“What do you mean, 'except’? Except what?” Virgil prodded a little. Roman didn't open up often and Virgil was pretty sure that this alcohol was the thing that was going to help him with that.

“It's so stupid. You'll laugh.”

“I promise nothing. Now tell me!”

Roman made an offended face to go along with his squeaking. “What? No! You have to promise not to laugh or I'm not telling.”

“Fine. I promise not to laugh.”

“Okay.” Roman exaggeratedly breathed in and out. “I miss seeing myself in mirrors.” Virgil burst into the cutest giggles. “Oh my god. You are really the most egotistical person I've ever met.”

Roman huffed and crossed his arms. “You promised.”

“I lied.” Virgil said. “Really though. You really miss that the most?”

“Look. You know I'm very concerned with my appearance. I used to wear beautiful makeup and do my hair for hours!” ��Why don't I find that hard to believe?”

“Shut it. I know it doesn't seem like a big deal to you because you don't really love the way you look, but I liked it. I liked to transform myself into something that people loved to see. And I can't do that anymore.” Roman sighed. “I don't even remember what my face looks like anymore.”

Virgil sat up and gestured for Roman to do the same.

“What are you-?”

“Shh. Just listen to me. Okay.” Virgil touched a freckle on the side of his nose. “You have a freckle right there. A very cute one, at that. And another one right here.” He tapped a point on his cheek. “And you have very clear skin. I know you use moisturizer because it's so soft.” He caressed his jawline. “And you have a beautiful jawline. It could cut silver.” He brought up his other hand and gently pulled Roman's face to gaze into his eyes. “And you have the most interesting eyes. They look hazel now, but I swear yesterday they were blueish-grey. And they have little gold flecks in them.” Virgil leaned in closer. Into those hazel eyes had the key to so much more than a self-absorbed joker. They had a nervous wonder that dared to leap into the unknown every day despite every consequence that could follow them. They were reckless and bold and afraid all at the same time.

Virgil leaned in a little more. And Roman leaned a little too. Then they were touching lips. Like two middle school girls having their first kiss. Awkward and quick. But it was more than either of them ever dreamed it would be.

"I think I'm in love you." "I think I love you too."

What? Something with a fluffy ending? It's true. I'm back with the fluff. I'm not continuing this, but tell me what you think! Y'all like vampires or nah?

Tag list: General-> @kameraishere @punsterterry @jemthebookworm @sympathetic-deceit-trash @moist-astronaut

#sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #vampire au #patton sanders #logan sanders #deceit sanders #evil deceit #sry about that #tw deceit

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vampwrrrmistresslist · 6 years ago

Text

Riding the Red 4

A/N: This is chapter 4 of an in progress fic, the links for which can be found on my mistresslist.

You opened your eyes, and panicked when you didn’t recognize where you were. After a moment however, all that had happened the previous evening flooded your memory. Throwing back the covers, you looked around the room. Padding gently to the door, you tried the knob. It was open. Okay, another tick in the “not a serial killer” box. Moving back into the room, you noticed an armoire. Inside were several pairs of jeans, some skirts, plain white cotton panties, dresses, stockings, socks, and various tops, all in natural fabrics. All of it was in your size, and most of it was to your taste. Hm. Half a check in the “possible serial killer box”. Shrugging, you pulled out a low V-necked, emerald wool sweater, a burgundy button-down with French cuffs, and a pair of low-rise, boot-cut jeans. You searched the rest of the drawers and the room’s three dressers, but couldn’t find any bras. You could wear your corset again, but you had done quite of bit of running in it, and you wanted it washed before you put it back on your skin. Ah well. You would just go braless; Chanyeol probably wouldn’t even notice.

As you were about to leave the room, you noticed another door. Crossing your fingers in the hope that it led to a closet, you found instead, a private bathroom. A porcelain claw foot tub dominated the room, which also boasted a bidet, and a corner dedicated to a shower. Looking longingly at the tub, you walked to the shower and turned on the water. Three shower heads came on, all centred in the middle of the stall. Hm. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. You rummaged in the closet for soap and a washcloth while waiting for the water to warm. Expecting something like Dial, or perhaps Caress if you were lucky, you instead found triple-milled soaps and whipped soaps, thick bath and shower gels, pure essential oils, bath bombs and bubble bars, sugar scrubs, body butters, and clear glass jars of bath salts. You even found various oils, and expensive conditioners for your hair. Tearing up a bit at your bounty, you entertained the thought that maybe this forced exile would be less “not so bad” and more ‘mini-vacation’. After taking your shower (40 minutes without running out of hot water!), you found various dental implements and freshened up, so as not to fry your host with your dragon breath. You checked your face in the mirror, and grimaced to find a veritable rainbow that ran from the middle of your forehead, and around your right temple to rest on your cheekbone. You opened the bathroom cabinet to discover cotton pads, alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and more witch hazel and tea tree oil. You gingerly dabbed the livid bruising with witch hazel, cleaned the small wound, and applied some oil. Fortunately, the wound had already closed enough to no longer require butterfly bandages. Leaving the bathroom, you picked up a comb from the dresser and began the long, arduous process of combing your thick hair. Fifteen minutes (and two very tired arms) later, you braided it into pigtails and tied some red ribbons around the ends that you had found in the dresser. Emerging from your room in a warm cloud of honeysuckle you stood still, closed your eyes, and listened. You heard a rhythmic noise coming from another part of the house, so you followed it. As you grew closer, you realized that it was the sound of someone running on a treadmill. Entering the room, you saw Chanyeol’s back as he ran—flat out ran–with an even, measured tread. He was wearing nothing but gym shorts and footwear–and for that, you were immensely grateful. You looked admiringly at the physique that his clothes had only hinted lay beneath their confines. He had brawny forearms and his hairless back was strong, with well-defined muscles sleekly rippling under his skin. Slowing down, he jogged for a while, then stopped the machine and dismounted. As he turned, he noticed you and grinned, removing ear-buds from his ears. His chest and abs were heaving like a bellows, doing interesting things to his musculature. “How long have you been standing there?” She blushed. “Not long. How far do you run?” “Eleven miles, every day.” You tried not to, but you couldn’t help but notice just how precariously his shorts clung to his hips. You could almost just make out the line where his happy trail ended and the real fun began. “That’s pretty intense,” you murmured. He leaned against the treadmill. “I’m a pretty intense sort.” Looking up at him, you felt your lip and chin wobble, so you bit them. After valiantly fighting for a few moments, you burst out laughing at the same time that he did. “That was rather cheesy, wasn’t it?” he said, ruefully shaking his head. “It’s alright. I’ll allow it,” you responded. “A beneficent beauty. What kind of creature have I allowed into my home?” Chuckling nervously, you said, “Oh, stop, or I’ll have to lock up your tongue with the rest of the silver.” Winking at you, Chanyeol started to saunter by, then turned to examine your face. Taking you gently by the chin, he looked at your face, gave a satisfied nod, and said, “That’s healing well. You did a good job tending to it.” “Well, I may not be a medic, but I do have some paltry skills,” you riposted. Chanyeol laughed, and started walking backwards, saying, “I’m going to go take a shower. You can have whatever you can find for breakfast.” “Oh, you’ve already eaten?” “No, but I figured that you’re hungry, now.” “I’ll wait for you,” you said, shyly. Pausing, he gave you an intensely approving look. “Give me a half hour.” ***

After Chanyeol completed his ablutions, he dressed in black jeans and an oversized black, cable knit cashmere sweater, over a black button-down. Meeting you in the kitchen, he asked. “Have you done any exploring?” “A bit,” you admitted. “Mostly around your amazing kitchen and pantry, though. You have enough food to feed an army!” “I like to eat and I like to eat well.” “Well, I like to cook. Since I’m imposing on your hospitality and, since you don’t cook, why don’t I do it for you while we’re here?” “You want to cook for me?” he asked, slanting a look at you. Shrugging, you said, “We have to eat. I can cook. It’s only logical.” “Seeing as how I was going to make us a couple of nice, big bowls of cereal for breakfast, your way is probably better.” “Speaking of which,” you paused nervously, but then forged ahead, “You’re a bachelor, yet you have a fully appointed kitchen full of herbs and spices, and your guest room is full of women’s clothes. I’m a little confused.” “Well, I have a fully appointed kitchen because that’s how I bought it, appliances and all, and I have herbs and spices, and a room full of women’s clothing because I have sisters who like to visit often.” “Oh,” you whispered quietly, drawing imaginary circles on the green marble counter-top with your finger. He sighed deeply. “I’m not a serial killer, you know. I’m not going to, I don’t know, rape you, salt you, and put you in my freezer for hard times.” You nodded. “Now, if that’s settled, make me something delicious, or I just may be tempted to eat you all up.” She grinned. “How do you feel about an omelet and some baked oatmeal?” “Less chattery, more cookery.” You laughed and began to prepare breakfast. First, you prepared the oatmeal with raisins, honey, bananas, and cinnamon. Then you put in into a loaf pan and popped it into the oven. When that had almost finished baking, you fried some bacon, set it aside then, in the same pan, you cracked eggs, along with fresh chives, mushrooms, and the cooked bacon. While that cooked, you warmed some cream with vanilla bean, and a shot of whiskey. You grated fontina on the omelet, and folded it over. After plating the omelets, you took out the baked oatmeal, scooped some into bowls and poured the warm vanilla cream over the top. After having set the table, Chanyeol watched you in awe, occasionally asking questions about why you were doing something. After you sat down, he inhaled deeply. “Woman, I may just have to kidnap you.” “Save your criminal debut until you taste it. It may not be as good as it looks or smells.” He took a bite, and his face stilled. Looking at you, he said, “You’re right,” Your face fell. “It is so much better.” Giving him a face and a shoulder punch, you thanked him. It always gave you a thrill when someone enjoyed your cooking, and it didn’t hurt that it was currently being enjoyed by the type of guy who gave you wet dreams. You ate in companionable silence and when you were done, Chanyeol washed the dishes. While he was doing that, you made a mirepoix and put it, as well as a trimmed leg of mutton studded with garlic cloves, a bouquet garni of rosemary, bay and sage, and an entire bottle of merlot, into his crock-pot to braise for your dinner. “Come on, he said. I’ll give you the tour.” Leading you from room to room, he bypassed all of the places that he knew you had seen, to show you the rest of his one story. It didn’t take long, as it wasn’t that big. The rest of the tour just consisted of his bedroom and bathroom, another bathroom off the living room, a breakfast nook, and a room that captured your heart. A library. He watched indulgently as you flitted from shelf to shelf, pressing your clasped hands to your chest and fawning over his collections of first editions, modern nonfiction, and literature in Korean, Japanese, English, French, Gaelic, and Mandarin. “Do you speak all of these languages?” He nodded. “I’m something of a polyglot,” he said, carelessly. You tilted your head. “I, also. I speak French, of course, English, Hebrew, Latin, and I’m learning Arabic.” You grinned, and then said, “Say something in…Gaelic!” Reaching out to tug one of your braids, he said, "Tá tú go h-álainn.” You giggled. “What does that mean?” He shrugged. “It means, 'You’re beautiful’.” You smiled, shyly. Quickly leaning forward, you kissed him on the cheek, and then flitted to the other side of the library. Unbeknownst to you, he had noticed that you weren’t wearing a bra when you first found him on the treadmill, and now that you were no longer paying attention to him, he hungrily watched your breasts bounce as you practically skipped around his library with a look of pure bliss on your face. The motion of your breasts against the fabric of your shirt caused your nipples to harden until they were prominent enough to make him want to pant. He steeled himself, and smiled, when you came over to him, holding out a few books. “May I read them? Please?” “You can read anything here that you want,” he said, magnanimously. “What are you going to do?” He blew a rueful breath. “Well, not work, what with the downed Internet. I guess that I’ll read, as well. You both took your chosen books, and moved to the living room. Sinking into the couch, you read for a few hours. After some time, the two of you returned to the kitchen for a lunch of seared tuna, freshly baked beer bread, and wilted spinach salad. While you ate, you discussed the books that you were reading, which led to a discussion regarding your favourite authors. After lunch, Chanyeol put a hand to his belly, and groaned. "You’ve impregnated me with your food baby.” You laughed, delightedly. “Mmm, yes, bear my seed!” After he finished the washing up, and you put beans to soak so that they would be ready, if needed, for an upcoming meal, you retired back to the living room to read. After a while however, Chanyeol noticed your head drifting toward the back of the couch. He gently maneuvered you both until he was half reclining against the arm of the sofa, and you were lying against his chest. He watched you sleep until his eyelids, too, began to fall. Soon, you were both napping peacefully. ***

You awoke a few hours later, lying on top of Chanyeol, your arms wrapped around his neck, and your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. You felt slightly awkward, but not as bad as you usually would have, given the circumstances. Scrambling off of him, while trying to seem unhurried, you said, “Time to start dinner.” He just gave you a slow, sleepy, seductive smile, and followed you back into the kitchen, where you made baked sweet potatoes with Dubliner cheese, sour cream and garlic chives, and roasted cauliflower to go along with the braised mutton. After plating and sitting down, you asked, “May I use your exercise room? As you can see, my metabolism isn’t that good and if we keep eating like this, I won’t be able to fit into any clothes.” Chanyeol stopped eating, leaned back, and leisurely perused your body. While it was true that you weren’t fashionably thin, he found you to be delectable. He swallowed hard as he imagined your soft thighs wrapped around his hips, or, even better, pressed against the fronts of his thighs. “The issue of you not wearing any clothes doesn’t seem that bad,” he said. “However, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear earlier. My home, as well everything,” here he smiled, “and everyone in it, are available for your use and pleasure.” You, ducked your head to hide the flushing of your face. “Duly noted,” you said, biting your lower lip to keep from smiling outright. “What are you doing?” he queried. “I have a tendency to smile when I’m nervous, so I bite my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot during inappropriate situations,” you said, shyly. A slow, lopsided grin melted across his face. “I like watching you smile.” You looked away, smiling as you toyed with one of your braids. “Like that,” he rumbled, “See, that’s beautiful.” He waited until you met his eyes, then smiled outright and tucked back into his food. After you had been eating for a while, he said, “I’m going to have to shovel a path to the shed, so that I can split more wood for the fireplace. I usually stock it in the lean-to, but I didn’t know that we were going to get this freak snowstorm.” Since the previous evening, it had been snowing on and off and you had gone from being half buried in snow to only being able to see over the top third of the window. “May I help?” you asked. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I need the exercise.” You stared at him. “You run eleven miles a day.” “I know, but lately I seem to find myself with extraneous energy,” he drawled. You cocked your head, impertinently. “What if I find myself with extraneous energy?” His eyes locked onto yours. “Then, I have some excellent suggestions on how we might burn through it.” You held his eyes for a moment, and then dropped yours to your food. He chuckled and said, “I’ll start shoveling tomorrow morning, after my run.” “All right,” you conceded. “I’ll join you in the morning for exercise, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll make breakfast while you shovel.” He nodded. “That sounds like a plan.” You both finished your food, and you moved to clear the dishes, but Chanyeol stopped you, saying, “No, Lady. You cook, I clean, alright?” You leaned against the table and said, “A girl could become accustomed to that.” “A guy could become accustomed to three star meals every day,” he countered. Watching him wash the dishes, you asked him if he wanted something sweet the next day. Looking you up and down he said, “Why, are you offering?” “You’re incorrigible!” you teased. “I’m a lot of things,” he agreed, evenly. “I could give a demonstration, if you like.” Shaking your head in mock dismay, you enunciated, “What sweet thing would you like to eat tomorrow?” “My question stands.” You threw up your hands in simulated defeat. “I’m just going to make a cake.” “I could go for cheesecake,” he said. She nodded. “I can make that. Would you like it with strawberries?”

“I’m far more interested in one with a cherry.” He said it so meaningfully that you paused before you answered. Then your face flamed. “That,” you said, tartly, “is not on the menu.” He sighed deeply. “Well,” he said with noble long-suffering, “then I suppose that I could go for regular cake.” She crossed your arms. “You had better be glad that I like you—” “Ah, you do like me? I won’t have to write a note that includes 'check yes or no’?” You tried to frown, but gave up, threw back your head, and laughed. After the dishes were finished, you moved back to the living room. Chanyeol put on some soft Liszt, and you sat and chatted for the rest of the evening. After a while, your eyes started to grow heavy, and Chanyeol looked at his watch. “It’s gone midnight. Time for all good little girls to be in bed.” You nodded. “Would you like me to tuck you in?” he queried. You cocked your head and blinked sleepily. Before you could answer, he said, “Too late,” scooped you into his arms, and carried you to the guest room. Standing you in front of the bed, he knelt in front of you, opened your jeans and peeled them down your legs. As you lifted each leg to step out of them, he turned his head and gave the side of your knee a brief kiss. The bristly sensation of his stubble against your delicate skin made you feel languorous and heavy. You sat back down, and he pulled your sweater over your head. He licked his lips and reached for your top button, but you stopped him. She shook your head. “I’m not…I mean, I didn’t have—I couldn’t find—” “It’s alright,” he whispered. He turned around and listened to the rustle of you divesting yourself of your shirt. When he turned back, you were lying down, with the sheet pulled over your chest. He pulled the rest of the blankets up to your chin, then leaned over and kissed you just on the corner of your mouth. His eyes glittered as he stepped back and surveyed you. Swallowing hard, he wished you a good night, then turned and walked decisively from the room. You snuggled further under the covers, enjoying the feel of the warm flannel against your bare skin. You curled up to go to sleep, but something just wasn’t right. After a while, you took a few of the pillows and tucked them behind your body, almost as if someone else were there. Curling up against the pillows, you fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of shoes hitting the treadmill. *** Eiric exited the plane, with Julien close behind. A mere day had passed since Aurelie Blanchard called her son and his wife to let them know that her granddaughter had never made it to her house. Sighting the driver with their names emblazoned on his placard, they whispered intensely as they neared the town car. After entering, Julien turned toward his wife and said, “Maman has been consulting the cards since the night that she disappeared. Something is blocking her though, so she’s hoping that tapping into your power will help her break through the barrier.” Eiric just shook her head, looking miserable. Julien clasped her hand, and brought it to his mouth. “We’ll find her, Cherie.” He pulled her to himself, laid her head against his breast, and wrapped his arms around her. “I know it. We’ll find notre bebe.”

A/N: If you would like the latest updates, then please follow @vampwrrr, as I post everything there, first, and everything is linked for ease of reading.

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forduary · 6 years ago

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Forduary 2019 Week 1 - Recovery, Praise

AO3 link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957654

Summary:

Science owl is bullied. Crusty mackerel saves the day. Much angst, many comfort.

SLIDING INTO THE END OF FORDUARY LIKE MABEL ON A MAPLE-SYRUP SLIP-’N’-SLIDE

So I’ma do two things this year. One: All four stories are linked, like chapters in a book! Two: I. Brought. ANGST.

Trigger warning: Bullying

“Hah, he’s really squirming now!”

“Quit thrashin’ and get in there!”

“Whoa, check it out, he’s gonna fit!”

“Get off me – get off!”

Ford struggled as hard as he could, but Crampelter dragged him toward the supply closet of the science lab. His two neanderthal accomplices stood on either side of it, grinning. The closet was barely bigger than a full-length locker, its shelves stocked with microscopes and jarred mutant frogs.

Crampelter shoved him in. Ford braced a foot against a bottom shelf and pushed, but Crampelter grabbed the back of his head and slammed Ford’s skull against a shelf. Before Ford could recover, one of the troglodytes kicked at his legs. As he started to fall the closet door swung shut, hard, hitting his back and pinning him in with his legs half-collapsed beneath him. He felt an ankle give and gasped with pain.

The troglodyte laughed. “Teach him for tryin’ a build a satellite for aliens! He already is one!”

“Where’s your bodyguard now, huh, Pines?” Crampelter banged on the door. Ford was crammed in so tight he could barely breathe, and every hit on the door threatened to crack his ribs against the shelves. “You hear me, Freak? If you want out you better beg for it!”

“My thoughts exactly, unless you want me to pound your face in.”

Stan! Shouldn’t he still be at his boxing match?

Crampelter growled. “Back off, Meathead, or I’ll make that shiner the least of your problems. Although with your looks, it might actually be an improvement.”

“Where’s my brother?”

Ford didn’t have enough breath to yell. He banged his elbow against the door.

“Just a little cleanup,” Crampelter sneered. “Putting the freak with the other mutants where he belongs.”

“THAT’S IT!”

Stan yelled and there was a massive crash, like the entire stand of glass beakers had been overturned. Crampelter, Thug 1, and Thug 2 grunted and cursed, punctuating insults with loud bangs and the muffled thud of fists. Something huge and heavy fell against the side of the cabinet, jarring the door. Several frog jars toppled and a couple of them crashed over his head. Formalin and frog juice spurted over his his hair and soaked his shoulders. More jars hit his bent leg. Pain flared and Ford broke out in a cold sweat.

There was an especially nasty crack and a horrible yelp, then Stan was bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“YEAH YOU BETTER RUN, CRAMPY! I SEE YOU NEAR MY BROTHER AGAIN YOUR FACE IS GONNA GET REUNITED WITH MY FIST REAL QUICK!”

There was a second of silence, then something scraped in the door. Stan was picking the lock.

“Sixer? You ok?”

“I can’t breathe,” he whispered hoarsely. His chest was really starting to hurt. He couldn’t inflate his lungs.

“Gimme a second, almost got it.”

Ford closed his eyes and started calculating pi in his head. He’d only gotten to the sixtieth digit when the door swung open and he started to fall back. Stan caught his shoulders, but Ford tried to catch himself with his bad ankle and cried out.

“What? What? Sixer?!”

He took a shaky breath and glanced back. “Don’t worry, I – Stanley, your face!”

Stan’s face looked like someone had repeatedly bashed it with a hammer. He had shiners on both eyes, a cut on one cheek, and the other cheek was already swelling to twice its size.

Stan grinned. Which, all things considered, looked rather horrible. “You think this is bad, you should’ve seen Crampelter’ face, he looks like mincemeat! ‘Sides, mosta this is from the fight. Guess what? I won!”

“Good, that’s good,” Ford said, leaning on the closet. His ankle throbbed and his ribs ached.

Stan grabbed Ford’s arm and looped it over his shoulder. “C'mon, we gotta get you fixed up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

They had to move very carefully out of the classroom. Stan had turned it into a warzone: the beakers really had been knocked over, ceramic displays of neurons and plant cells lay shattered over the lab tables, and a few of the tables had been overturned themselves – one of them was even lodged in the ceiling.

Normally the sight of desecrated science equipment would have been deeply disturbing. Today Ford didn’t give it more than a passing glance. He just wanted to get home.

The two of them moved quietly out of the room and down the hall. At least the janitor was nowhere in sight. In unspoken agreement they bypassed the nurse’s office and headed out of the building for the side gate. They could always get ice at home, and it was just better if they could get to their rooms before Pa closed the shop for the day. The last thing Ford wanted right now was another lecture on being “a real Pines man”.

They were only a few blocks from home when Stanley finally spoke.

“Want to hang out in the Stan O’ War?”

“Maybe later, Stan.”

“I could bring you your nerd stuff. You know Ma ‘n’ Pa don’t care as long as we make it home by eight.”

“Not right now.”

Ford concentrated on moving his feet, concentrating on mathematical proofs as they went. He was pretty close to practicing Fermat’s Last Theorem, anyway.

“Uh, Sixer? What’s that gunk in your hair?”

“Formalin.”

“Like baby stuff?”

“Not formula, formalin. A solution of formaldehyde and water. From the frogs.”

“Oh. Uh, well…you make it work! Right?”

Ford looked at him.

“Yeah, okay, that was pretty bad. Listen, you know Crampelter is full of dog turd, pardon my French. Heck, the whole school is full of morons.”

“I just need some ice for my ankle.”

They’d reached their back door. Stan reached up with his free hand, got the spare key from the gutter, and let them in. Ford let go of Stan and hobbled toward the freezer.

Stan stopped him. “I’ll get it, okay? Just go upstairs and do nerd stuff.”

Ford wasn’t really in the mood to argue. He braced himself against the wall and limped into the hallway, sort of step-hopping up the stairs. He grabbed a cleanish set of clothes from the hamper on his way to the bathroom, cleaned himself off, and then made it to his room, where he collapsed on Stan’s bed. He knew Stan wouldn’t mind. He just wasn’t up to climbing the ladder at the moment. His ankle felt hot and nausea rose in his gut. He closed his eyes.

The Theorem. Just focus on the Theorem.

Something cold slapped him in the face and he yelped.

“Stan!” Ford pulled off the ice pack. “Are you trying to break my nose?”

“Tryin’ ta get your attention, sure. Move over.”

Stan shoved his way onto his bed and Ford quickly made room. Stan lay stretched out, his head on his pillow, and Ford rested his back against the wall with his legs over Stan’s stomach. Ford leaned over and put the bag of ice on his propped-up ankle.

“This too,” Stan said, tossing another ice pack at him. “For your face. You look almost as bad as me.”

“Gee, thanks. Where’s your ice pack?”

“It popped. Besides, people see me looking like this, they know not to mess with Stan Pines, Master of Punches!”

“You really need a different title.”

“Hey, I won my sixth boxing match in a row! I got all the titles!”

Ford made a sound of agreement and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. His head ached. He’d forgotten where he’d left off with the Theorem.

He felt Stan shift under him. “Look, Sixer, you’re smart enough to know they’re just pickin’ on you because they can. It’s how idiots like them get their kicks.”

“It’s how you get your kicks with Roger Morris.”

“He started that rumor about you, he was asking for it. Why don’t you just read a nerd book or something? Want me to get you one?” He gestured to the bookcase in the corner of the room, so laden with texts the shelves were sagging.

“No, no. I’m – I’m fine.”

Stan sat up, dumping Ford’s legs onto his lap. “You don’t want to read? Did you get body-snatched or something?”

“Would you just leave me alone?” Ford snapped. He struggled to get up, but the angle was too awkward to manage.

“Hey – ow!” Stan caught Ford’s wrist and he couldn’t squirm away. “Geez, Ford, what’s gotten into you?”

“What do you think?!” Ford burst out. “You keep telling me I’m smart, but that’s the whole problem! That’s exactly why I’m getting picked on! Because I stick out like – like my stupid sixth fingers! If I’m so smart, why haven’t I figured out a way to keep Crampelter off my back? Thanks to him I got beaten up and you look like someone stuck you in a meat grinder face-first!”

“Yeah, and I still look handsome! Eh? Eh?”

Ford jerked his hand away. “This isn’t a joke, Stanley! Being a freak is bad enough. Being a smart freak just draws a massive target on my back.”

“C’mon, Sixer, I love that you’re smart!”

He snorted. “Sure, because you get great grades sitting next to me.”

“That too! But look, you’re not the only one with a target on their back. You’ve seen how Pa looks at me. Plus Crampy and the Goon Patrol liked beating me up all the time before I got good at boxing, and I only had the regular number of fingers.”

Ford stared down at his hands. “If I could just - just hide my intellect the way I try hide my hands…”

“Then I would be the smart twin, and we both know I’d get us into way more trouble than I already do.” Stan punched Ford lightly on the arm. “Bein’ smart is part of what makes you you, Sixer. If you weren’t so smart, you wouldn’t be my nerdy book-lovin’ poindexter of a brother.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ford said drily.

“Point is, I wouldn’t change anything about you, ever. You don’t have to change just to make some morons happy, at least not around me. And I don’t feel like I hafta change myself when I’m around you, either. So what if they call us a freak or the bad twin? You’re a genius, and I’m a six-time boxing champion, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

A lump rose in Ford’s throat. “I…don’t feel like I have to change, either, around you.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” He grinned and laid back. “You just wait. One more year a this stupid town and then we’ll be out on the open ocean. Beaches, babes, smooth sailin’, maybe a kraken or two for you and a smokin’-hot mermaid for me!”

“Stan, mermaids are reported to drown sailors.”

“Plus you’ll come up with the best treasure-hunting equipment on the planet!” He swiped a magazine off his nightstand and shoved it at Ford. “Speaking of which, I saw this amazing picture of a doohickey that can detect mermaids underwater!”

“It’s called 'sonar’, Stanley,” Ford said. He tried to sound annoyed, but a smile was tugging at his lips.

“It's called the awesomest of awesome! We’re gonna be out on the ocean for months at a time, Ford. I’ma need some hot dates. You think you can make one a those puppies?”

“Yes,” Ford said immediately. He opened the magazine, but he knew already he could make decent sonar equipment. He’d already read the entire selection on naval technology at their local library, actually, not to mention doing a good deal of extrapolation on how to use advance the current sonar capabilities. He opened the magazine.

“I knew it, I could practically build this in my sleep. But we’ll need supplies.”

Stan sat up eagerly. “Done! What supplies?”

“A sheet of metal, a blowtorch, wires, an ultrasonic sensor…”

#submission #week 1 #extra prompt: recovery #long post

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beastofeasto-blog · 6 years ago

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Medlar and Quince Jam

There’s a special pleasure in making your own jam. It’s not just another thing to brag about: ohh look at me I made a strawberry-Chablais-black pepper abomination, I’m better than you.

The point, I think, in making your own, is to scratch an itch that isn’t widely commercially available: don’t bother with berry jams. It’s just going to be a whole lot of effort on your part resulting in something you could’ve popped down to the shops for.

Now, where I’m at, in soggy old England, tis the season for two excellent fruits.

This is a quince. It looks like an especially large, yellow, tumourous pear. When you poach it (cue eyerolling from the zoomers in the audience, derisive snorts and rhetorical questions as to which century it is), it takes on an implacable, exotic fragrance, and a taste somewhere between roses, apples and pears, and a texture that’s both grainy and soft. I know that’s not to everybody’s taste, sometimes, not even to mine. If you have a quince at home and don’t know what to do with it, the best I can advise is to cut it into chunks, put it into a pot, cover with water, add maybe three tablespoons of sugar and a few well chosen spices: a stick of cinnamon, a couple star anise, maybe some cardamom. Subtlety is the name of the game here, so don’t be excessive. Then let it bubble away until the white flesh has blushed to magenta and it will yield to the pressure of the back of a fork. You can serve this as is, or with double cream or even custard. It’s the perfect thing to cheer you up on a wet November afternoon.

The other fruit is something that some of you probably haven’t tasted or even seen. English poets of yore charmingly nicknamed it “cat’s arse” or “open arse” due to its suggestive, rectal shape. Medlars are doubly strange because they’re inedible raw, and it’s standard procedure to allow them to blet: soften, darken, their interior flesh changing from cream to an applesauce-brown to something somehow even less appetising. Yeah, bletting is a more appealing way of saying rotting. So why am I telling you about them? Not just due to centuries of jokers making allusions to them, but also because they’re delicious. I mentioned applesauce because that’s an approximation of what they taste like. Applesauce, or medjool dates. They also have the quality of being absolutely packed to the gills with pectin. This is another reason why I want to tell you about this recipe: unlike many other jams, it doesn’t require pectin. It’s strictly a jelly: silky as the jar of Welch’s, but at least a dozen times better tasting.

Now, in absolute brevity, pectin is a polysaccharide, like starch or cellulose. It’s different from something like fructose, glucose or sucrose, because they’re all monosaccharides; just one "unit” of sugar. Pectin, on the other hand, is a polymer chain of many monosaccharides, all bonded together. The gel forms because when heated, the different pectin chains form hydrogen bonds with one another. For those who’ve neglected their chemistry, hydrogen bonds are comparatively weak interactions, that occur between a hydrogen and a pair of free electrons on most usually an oxygen, nitrogen for fluorine. Despite their weakness, they’re still significant, because they can affect the 3D structure and behaviour of molecules. They allow DNA to have its double-helical shape. Pectin is another great example. The pectins (remember, they’re chains of sugars) interact via hydrogen bonding, and form a net-like structure. In real terms, this means a gel forms.

However, what this recipe does need is a pot, a wooden spoon or spatula, something to strain with like a relatively fine-grained sieve, and a cooking thermometer, ideally a candy thermometer.

I’ve modified a Nigel Slater recipe here. Nigel Slater is my favourite food writer, and he probably should be yours also, not just because of his evocative prose but because he doesn’t give a shit what’s going on at El Bulli or Noma or God knows where else. He cares about good, tasty, unpretentious cooking. He’s one of the reasons why I’m so interested in food today.

You’re going to need for about two jars.

about a pound of medlars, 2/3 of which are soft and squashy, and 1/3 of which are still quite hard.

one big quince

an apple

a lemon

water

caster sugar

and some spices of your choice

First, cut your fruit into pieces so that they’re all roughly the same size. I’d suggest that you go for “half a medlar” as your size, but it’s entirely up to you.

Then put them into a big old deep pot, cover them with water, and then about a thumb’s depth extra.

Bring the pot to a boil, and then turn it on low and let the thing bubble away for an hour. Poke at the fruit a little with your spoon, but don’t stir because the jelly will cloud, thereby partially ruining it. While you’re boiling, you could skim the foam off the top if you want to. I did it, but you don’t have to.

Then, pour all of it into the sieve, which you’ve sat over a bowl that’s at least 2L in volume, and let the liquid pass through. You can help the juice on its way, but generally let nature take its course, until all that remains in the sieve is a dark mess, and the bowl is full of a pretty, deep coloured liquid. You could, of course, use a jelly bag or cheesecloth, but you probably don’t have one and they’re the very devil to clean. While a sieve isn’t as fine, it’s good enough.

Now, measure out how much liquid you’ve got, make a note of it, and return it to the pot. Boil for a few minutes, not just to deepen flavour and colour, but also to bring it up to heat. Here, you can add some spices. I chose cardamom and hibiscus: about four cardamom pods and a small handful of dried hibiscus flowers. The cardamom because I think that it works beautifully with stewed fruit, and the hibiscus to amp up the gorgeous colour. Add the same volume of sugar as you did liquid. Stir to combine and bring it up to to 108C/220F. This is the gelling temperature, and if you don’t do this the jelly won’t set. Cook at that temperature for a few minutes. Dip a cold metal spoon into your jam and remove it. If two drops coalesce to form a “sheet”, it’s ready. Another way to test for doneness is to put a teaspoon of jam onto a saucer and put that into the freezer for a few minutes. If it furrows like a brow when you run your finger through it, it’s also done.

Now, once you’ve done that, pour it into sterilized jars. Hot jam likes hot jars, cold jam likes cold jars. I’m not sure how long this keeps, but it’s probably weeks-to-months.

The first thing I ate it with was some baguette and brie. It was excellent. I’m no sommeilier, but let’s see if I can evoke the flavour. It was sweet, even for me, fragrant, intensely tasting of quince, with that subtle bitter/sourness from the hibiscus flowers, and with a distinct almost creamy flavour which I suppose comes from the medlars. Very rich stuff. The texture was jelly-like, but subtly crumbly.

So here we are. Medlar and Quince Jelly. My first post. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did cooking it. Next time, maybe something about Japan.

All images were taken by me except for the quince illustration, which is by Ann Swan, and is called “Champion Quince”.

#food #quince #jam #medlar #recipe #science

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just-come-baek · 7 years ago

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Wedding Fever 1

Pairing: Baekhyun x Reader

Word count: 9.3k

Summary: Baekhyun is the best man, and I am the maid of honor at our friends’ wedding. Although should we be excited about our friends getting married, we seem to complain a lot more every time we meet for another preparation. Maybe it’s a bit fanciful of me to think that, but I hope, somewhere between choosing flowers and venting about the reception prep, he’ll like me just as I like him.

A/N it was supposed to be a long ass one-shot but then I decided to split it into two (or three) chapters. The smut will be in the last part. 29/05/18 - edited!

Masterlist | next part

“Hi, are you busy next weekend?” My friend, Jiwoo, asked as soon as I answered the call. She had always been like this when she wanted something; always straight to the point, no beating around the bush. But of course, when it was the other way around, no man could convince her to squeeze something into her schedule.

“What is it?” I voiced in boredom. When it came to her, I had to know first what she wanted, and then consider. I had made that mistake way too many times before, and now, I knew better not to agree without hearing her first. “If it’s another blind date, I’m gonna pass.”

“You won’t let that go, will you?” she stated, and I didn’t even have to reply for her to know the answer. This guy that she had set me up with had been terrible. And I’m not exaggerating; his hand, instead of accepting my handshake, went straight down to my butt in a poor attempt to slide his sausage fingers into my trousers. He was handsome, true, and I was desperate for an orgasm, also true, but not with someone who had absolutely no manners.

“So, what is it? Be quick, I don’t have all day,” I lied, but she didn’t have to know that. I just finished my work early, and I didn’t have anything to do. However, I let her think I was awfully busy because she wouldn’t ask me of as much as she probably wanted me to.

“Why are you so grumpy today?” she inquired, but I only rolled my eyes at her, dismissing her remark. Being her friend was difficult, and I had to stand my ground, even though she could think I was mean and peevish. “Anyway, Hongbin and I are throwing a party for our closest friends; do you think you can stop by?”

“It depends on what you want me to make,” I stated truthfully; it wouldn’t be the first time when a friend invited me to a party and asked me to cook something. Actually, now when I think about it, my culinary skills were the sole reason why I appeared on certain parties…

“Just a few goodies,” she spoke in a higher tone as if it was supposed to convince me. It wasn’t in her style to try to butter me up, in such circumstances it usually would be Hongbin the one calling me, but I shrugged that disquieting feeling. Something fishy was up, yet I wasn’t going to question it now. In case I’m right, they confirm my suspicion at the party anyway. “I’m in charge of dessert, so I thought that you could cover the main dish. You can pick whatever you want, I’m sure it’ll be delicious nonetheless.”

Trying to win me over with a compliment? I thought as I poked my cheek with my tongue. How much I wished it wasn’t that easy! She’s lucky because I’m a sucker for compliments. She had known me for years, and it’s obvious she used the flattery card on purpose, being perfectly aware that I wasn’t going to say no.

“Okay, let’s say I’m in. How many people are going to be there?” I said, pretending that I still had doubts about this friendly gathering. Actually, I did have doubts. Jiwoo’s definition of a small hangout was different than mine; not like day and night, but I would never consider a party for fifteen people as humble, yet she had proved me wrong.

“It won’t be anything outrageous this time. Only our most important friends are on the guest list, which roughly adds up to six people.” She explained, and in the meantime, I reached for a notebook to make notes. “So, can I count on you?”

“Of course, you can,” I replied casually, already thinking about the shopping list. “I’ll give you a receipt for the ingredients and my labor, so don’t be surprised,” I added matter-of-factly, and Jiwoo chuckled, expecting this kind of remark from me.

“I’ll pay you back in wine; is that okay with you?” Jiwoo spoke playfully, and I sighed in content; whatever we wanted from each other, we would pay our debts using wine as currency. It had always worked. “Okay, so see you on Saturday at seven.”

When Saturday finally arrived, I woke up at eleven, being tired as ever. Weekends should be time to catch up with sleep and recharge your batteries, but it had never worked for me. On Fridays, I always go out with my colleagues, and it’s a miracle if I come back home sober.

Groaning, I rolled off my bed.

It was going to be a long day, and I didn’t doubt it for a second. First off, I’d have to take a shower and eat something before I’d go outside to do the groceries. Then, I’d have to work my magic and prepare something delicious, so when finally everything’s ready, I could dress myself up. Jiwoo had sounded as if she had a secret to spill, and if she planned on inviting the most important people in her life, I knew I had to look extra fancy.

Oh my God, she hasn’t got knocked up, has she?

Shaking the thought off my mind, I picked a set of fresh clothes and walked under the stream of hot water. We were both young, barely twenty-three, yet in her case, pregnancy couldn’t be that bad. She had been in a stable relationship with Hongbin for over a year now, so it wouldn’t be that shocking. It’s natural for their bond to progress.

Whereas, my sex life’s seemed to be stuck in the same momentum since I had got dumped. And, if it’s any comforting, I’m pretty successful in other areas, work-wise, for example. So, ultimately, it isn’t as bad as it could be.

For today’s party, I decided to prepare a big bowl of enchiladas for those who don’t mind a little spice in their life, and a plate of lasagna for whom prefer mild meals. And though I’m famous for my pizza, I concluded it would be too much of a hassle since it requires much more effort to make when I’m catering for a group of six. Enchiladas and lasagna are greasy dishes, and people quickly get full, so it's an excellent choice for tonight's gathering.

And maybe, I could get some starters if I get inspired when doing shopping.

Having showered and dried my hair, I put on the previously chosen clothes and left my apartment. The nearest supermarket was about three blocks away, so I didn’t bother starting the engine nor catching the bus. My friends often complain that I don’t exercise enough, so the stroll to and back from the supermarket should suffice until gym passes get cheaper.

Professionally, I strolled, or rather skated between aisles, pushing myself with my right leg. I picked up the best ingredients for the upcoming supper. For fellow shoppers, I might've seemed a bit childish doing shopping like that, wearing a power pink T-shirt, shorts, and a pair of trainers. I didn’t care, though. Not when debating which wine to choose, not when lifting a few bags of potato chips and a jar of lollipops.

I arrived at home thirty minutes later, and the first thing I did was to turn on the TV, choosing TLC channel which was airing another episode of Say ‘Yes’ to the Dress, and opened the bottle of wine, as cooking has always brought much more joy when I had a glass of wine within the reach. Moreover, it usually helped me not to graze while preparing the meal.

When another bride complained about the brand dress that she wanted, but it didn’t fit her figure, I mixed all sauce ingredients. I listened to bride’s complaints and the shop assistant’s professional pointers, wishing for commercials to start. I watched programs like this one, quite compulsively at that, but at the same time, each scene was annoying me. It’s strange but when the episode ends and another starts, I can’t get myself to switch the channel.

Today must’ve been a marathon; the lasagna was already in the oven, the bowl of enchiladas waiting for its turn on the counter, and I could still hear another Atlanta bride bicker with her family about her choice. Sighing, I opened the freezer and grabbed the unfinished cup of mint ice cream. If I was going to watch it, I needed some sort of comfort food.

I sat comfortably on the couch, and I munched on the ice cream, my ringtone saving me from another round of whiny and indecisive women.

It was Jiwoo.

God bless her timing!

“Hi, what’s up?” I asked, popping a spoon of ice cream into my mouth.

“I just wanted to ask if you need a ride. Hongbin is going to be in your neighborhood, and he can pick you up. What do you think about it?” Jiwoo explained, and I sighed in relief. She saved me much trouble before I even realized I had it.

“Thanks,” I replied excitedly, counting how much money I would save if Hongbin could give me a lift. Considering the fact that I already had a glass of wine, driving there wasn’t an option. “What time can I expect him?”

“Hmm… I’m not sure; he’s meeting a client right now, and I have no idea how long it’s gonna take.” Jiwoo spoke honestly; she couldn’t be sure, Hongbin’s industry was quite unpredictable, and I understood that. “He has your number, though. He’ll call when he’s finished.” She concluded, and I hummed in acknowledgment since her offer was reasonable. “Okay, no problem. The goodies you asked me for are ready anyway,” I agreed, giving her an update on my mission.

“Oh, and what have you cooked? Is it pizza?”

“You’ll find out when I get there,” I dismissed her inquiry, leaving her with a cliffhanger. Either way, the food was delicious. Besides, I was certain that no one would complain. “I gotta go if you want me to be ready when Hongbin arrives. Is there a dress code that I should abide by?”

“No, but you could dress up. Baekhyun’s going to be here, and you won’t get into his pants, wearing a tracksuit.” Jiwoo spoke, and I wished she was within my reach so I could smack her across her face.

“And why should I care that he’s going to be there?” I asked nonchalantly, trying to act as indifferent as I could muster up. I might have fantasized about him a couple of times, but it didn’t mean I was planning on beginning anything with him. I had met him around the time when Jiwoo and Hongbin started dating, and if Baekhyun and I had a chance to become something more, it would have already happened.

“Oh puh-lease, you’ve been crushing on him since you met him! And don’t deny it!”

“I don’t see how’s that relevant,” I shrugged, ignoring her statement. At this point, denial was the best strategy. If only I could back up my defense with constructive arguments which had the power to shut her up once and for all, it would be perfect. “I’m over him. Whatever ‘crush’ you’re referring to is in the past. Really, I mean it. Besides, there’s this new guy at work, and he asked me out.” I lied blatantly, hoping she’d believe me.

Baekhyun isn’t a guy one can get over so easily. I suffered (and still do) from the worst form of infatuation. And though he’s not really my type, with each meeting I want him more. At first, I couldn’t stand his presence, but then it grew on me, and it stuck like this ever since. However, we had known each other for over two years now, and chances for romance between us oscillate around zero. It’s that simple, so it’s pointless to try any further.

“I hope you’re not bullshitting me right now,” she whispered, as she wanted to believe me. It didn’t mean she did, but at least she tried. “But for real, put on something nice, you can show him what he could've had. Show him what he’s missing out on.”

Of course, she wouldn’t let it go.

What was I thinking?

“Ugh…fine,” I gave in, even though I knew it wouldn’t work. Baekhyun and I weren’t meant for each other, and I realized it before my infatuation consumed me. Maybe for some women, it’s okay to be holding out for a hero, but I was completely done. Two years was more than enough, and I gave up with no regret. “I’m hanging up, see you later.”

Hongbin texted me around six o’clock and arrived about thirty minutes later. Thankfully, by the time he knocked on my doors, I was already dolled up.

Despite Jiwoo’s persistent advice, I decided not to overdo myself. I didn’t want Baekhyun and the rest think that I tried too much. If anything, I opted for nonchalant and classy, so I straightened my hair and chose a black dress that reached down to my mid-thigh. It wasn’t slutty, though. It was long-sleeved and showed no cleavage. My make-up wasn’t excessive, either. My lips were painted red, my eyes highlighted with black mascara and brownish eyeshadow. A little bit of blush on my cheeks, and I was ready to go.

“What’s that smell?” Hongbin asked when I opened the doors and let him in. “Mm…it must be delicious,” he admitted, roaming around the kitchen looking for the food. “How much time do you need?”

“Actually, we can leave right now,” I replied as I walked across the room. Hongbin straightened up, smiling at me. If he hoped I had cooked something extra for him, he was wrong. He has Jiwoo, and it’s her task to coddle him. “I just have to put foil over them, and we’re all set,” I added, pushing Hongbin away with my hip since he was blocking the oven.

Skillfully, I packed the food, whereas Hongbin whistled and played with his car keys.

The drive to their apartment was quick, but when we arrived, we were the last to join. Apparently, the only guests besides me and Baekhyun were Hongbin’s parents, and although I put one of my best dresses, I still felt a bit underdressed. Even Baekhyun wore a suit shirt and a bow tie. I should have known better.

When Hongbin’s parents kissed my cheeks, I excused myself to help Jiwoo in the kitchen. It’s not that I didn’t trust her, I did. I just didn’t want to stay alone with Baekhyun when Hongbin would be too engrossed in the conversation with his parents.

“You should’ve worn high heels,” Jiwoo mused when I entered the kitchen. “Your skinny legs would’ve seemed even longer. Baekhyun would start drooling on the spot!”

“And you should’ve told me you’re planning to parent-trip us!” I fought back aggressively. I didn’t appreciate what she was trying to do, and she ought to have known that! “I can’t believe you’ve done that! How could you?”

“I’m trying to help you. For how long have you been lusting over him?” I folded my arms across my chest, too stubborn to admit the facts. “Just give it a try, okay? Give him one last chance?”

“Whatever,” I barked in response.

Unwillingly, I returned to the table. Smooth jazz melody was playing in the background, while the guests were comfortably chatting. Smiling at them, I took a seat next to Baekhyun.

“I can’t believe that you’re all still hanging out together,” Hongbin’s mother said, as she clapped her hands in joy. Apparently, Baekhyun and Hongbin had been friends since middle school. And then two years ago, Jiwoo and I joined the group, making the old lady incredibly happy. Shame that Baekhyun and I never hang out alone!

“Why is it so surprising?” Baekhyun asked loudly, pretending to be offended.

“I don’t know, you and Hongbin are so different,” she replied, and I nodded my head. She was right; Baekhyun and Hongbin were like day and night. It’s really shocking how they remained friends for so many years.

The moment we exhausted the topic, Jiwoo joined us with the meals that I had prepared. It was steaming deliciously, and it smelled even better. Everyone licked lips in appetite, observing her every move.

“Dig in,” Jiwoo said, as she sat down in the only free chair. Listening to her command, Baekhyun stood up and started distributing Enchiladas, whereas Hongbin did the same with the lasagna. And when everyone had food on their plates, the round of compliments erupted, feeling the urge to extol the dish and the person who had cooked it.

As I predicted, the half of the food was enough for everyone to be full. However, Jiwoo had baked red velvet cake for the dessert, and though I had never been a fan of sweets, I couldn’t refuse a piece.

“It’s so nice to hang out like this. The whole family together,” Hongbin’s father stated, as he gave his wife a peck. The scene playing in front of my eyes was adorable, and I wished I could be the same in their age. They’re obviously soulmates, and everyone should envy them.

“Actually, we have something we’d like to share with you all,” Hongbin started, smiling like an idiot at Jiwoo who was sitting across the table.

No fucking way!

Was I right? Is she pregnant? And she didn’t even tell me anything! What a bitch!

But wait a second; she’s on her fourth glass of wine! If it’s not pregnancy, then it must be…

“We’re getting married!” Jiwoo exclaimed, and everyone started to cheer for them. So, it was that news that she wanted to deliver. “We’re having the ring resized, but it is official.”

When I downed my wine, the rest of the guests stood up to congratulate the pair. I would gladly wait for my turn. The moment Jiwoo was released from her future mother-in-law; she smiled at me and sat in Baekhyun’s seat right beside me.

I couldn’t voice how much happy I was for her. I was also kind of envious, but mostly happy. They deserved each other, and I really supported their relationship. They had gone through a few rough patches, and it was about time they formalize their bond. So instead of stuttering throughout my spontaneous speech, I simply wrapped my hands around her, squealing.

Roughly twenty minutes later, when the shock died down a bit, everyone grabbed one’s wine glass, and we all moved to the couch, where Jiwoo and Hongbin shared all details about their future wedding.

To put it simply, it won’t be a simple reception but an all night long extravaganza.

Jiwoo wants an enormous, white, sleeveless princess gown with ten layers of tulle and a heart-shaped cleavage, while Hongbin will wear a simple black tuxedo paired with a back tie. Although nothing is booked yet, they want the reception to be held in June in a garden in outskirts of the city. Around two hundred guests. Moreover, they’re going to have a three-tier vanilla wedding cake and about a hectoliter of alcohol.

I almost got a headache when I estimated how much it’s going to cost them. It’s their wedding, though. Go big or go home. It’s the beginning of their life together, and they shouldn’t skimp on it.

Around ten o’clock, Hongbin’s parents called it a night and phoned for a cab, and we decided to carry on the celebration. It was still early, and I didn’t even get drunk yet.

“I’ll clean this up,” Jiwoo spoke, as she stood up. “Be here right back.”

“Wait, I’ll help you,” Hongbin offered, as he followed behind her, collecting the dirty plates after the supper. I was sitting on the couch with Baekhyun leaning against it, as he was sprawled on the floor.

In complete silence we watched their interaction; Hongbin with his sleeves rolled up was washing the dishes and Jiwoo was wiping them and placing them on the counter. They were giggling and bumping hips playfully, happiness just emitting from them.

“They’re disgusting,” Baekhyun commented, as he shook his head and took a gulp of beer. He was driven by envy, and I couldn’t blame him since I felt the same.

“That’s why I always try to meet them separately,” I remarked, and Baekhyun chuckled. “Unfortunately, it rarely works,” I added absentmindedly, as I was focused on another romantic scene in the kitchen; Jiwoo smacked Hongbin’s butt with the cloth, and Hongbin blew the bubbles at her in revenge.

“Yeah, the lovebirds are inseparable,” Baekhyun admitted with a sigh, and I leaned forward and clinked my glass against his beer bottle, saluting to that.

“Someday, you’re going to be like that, too,” I teased, and he almost choked on his drink. “All smitten and corny,” I added, making him look at me as if I just offended his mother.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, I want to throw up when I look at them, then how would I live with myself if I was like that too? It’s impossible,” he defended himself, and I only giggled in response. Baekhyun was a great guy, and if I didn’t make him feel like Jiwoo affected Hongbin, someone else could.

“On the second thought, I bet you’d be even more whipped,” I concluded before I started laughing at my suspicion. “Baekhyun, the henpecked husband.”

“Take that back!” Baekhyun whined, obtaining the lovebirds’ attention.

“What’s going on?” Hongbin yelled from the kitchen, interested in whatever was happening between us. He wasn’t helping Jiwoo set us up, right? “Please, tell me you aren’t fighting.”

“No, of course not,” Baekhyun denied the charges, as he chugged down his beer. He was probably too sober to deal with the lovebirds, and I’d feel the same if I wasn’t such a lightweight. “We’re just excited about the wedding, that’s all.”

“That’s amazing because there’s one more thing we’d like to request of you,” Hongbin started, and looked over his shoulder, waiting for Jiwoo to join him by his side. “You two should stand with us at the altar.”

“What do you say? Do you want to be my maid of honor?” Jiwoo asked me, and everyone waited for my reply. Baekhyun already agreed to be Hongbin’s best man, but I had doubts about it since I didn’t think I was suitable for that position. I had no idea how to help them organize the perfect wedding. But then, Baekhyun was just as clueless, so it should be fine.

“Of course, I’d be honored!”

After that long, eventful night everything went to hell. Baekhyun and I had no doubts it was the very beginning of the end, the epitome of apogee, or as I liked to call it—the wedding fever. Whenever I hung out with Jiwoo or Hongbin or them both the conversation would change to wedding discussion. (At one point, I even bet with Baekhyun, as we tried to confirm that hypothesis. It’s not important but we were right.)

When lovebirds were excited about planning, Baekhyun and I grew tired of it quite quickly.

Not even a month later after the engagement reception, they invited us over for a casual hangout. I wouldn’t have attended if they told me it was an ambush. Baekhyun fell for that deceit, too. (The look on his face when he saw a dozen of different invites was utterly priceless.)

“I don’t think I can do it any longer,” Baekhyun whispered into my ear when Jiwoo went to the kitchen for another bottle of wine. “It’s overwhelming,” he added, this time louder a notch, since he wasn’t afraid that they could hear it. Hongbin was talking on the phone in another room, whereas Jiwoo was fighting with the corkscrew.

“Well…in that case…brace yourself because it’s only gonna get worse,” I mused, chuckling as I downed my glass of wine. The wedding planning was only going to intensify, and though I was as fucked as Baekhyun, it still brought lots of joy when I thought about it. We were both stuck in that crappy situation, and humor based on our misery seemed suitable. There’s always a silver lining, even in these circumstances. We had each other’s backs whenever we wanted to vent about the wedding, and it actually helped us blow off some steam, though we were still quite grumpy when they invited us over for some unforeseen reception preparation.

“The wedding is in June for fuck’s sake!” Baekhyun spat bitterly, slowing losing all his patience. It was still a surprise that he managed to last this long without snapping. “It’s in twelve months for crying out loud!” He yelled, and I rolled my eyes at him.

“Take it easy,” I advised him before a vein could pop out on his forehead. “And do you want to know a secret?” I asked, and Baekhyun leaned slightly, curious about what solution I had for his problem. “Just avoid them. Do you have any idea how many times I had to stay late at work this week? None, but Jiwoo thinks I worked overtime every day.”

Baekhyun stared at me in awe, his mouth open as if he was perplexed that I was able to lie to my best friend’s face in so cruel way. I understood her excitement about the most important day in her life, but I was already overwhelmed by the groundwork we had been doing for the past three weeks.

“You’re so mean,” Baekhyun whispered after a while, although I knew he was planning to do the same whenever Hongbin or Jiwoo would ask him for something. What a hypocrite!

“I’d rather be mean than deal with them every free moment I have,” I admitted, and Baekhyun smiled brightly, not expecting me to be so frank about that matter.

“True,” he agreed with me.

“Don’t use that excuse too often, though. They may suss us out if we blow them off too many times, okay?” I warned him, and Baekhyun nodded, realizing that our strategy wasn’t entirely faultless.

“Okay, who wants a refill?” Jiwoo asked when she came back to the living room with the opened bottle of wine. Having exchanged a meaningful gaze, Baekhyun tore his eyes away, as he cracked a faint smile toward Jiwoo, raising his empty glass, and I waited for my turn, needing another dose of alcohol in my system if I wanted to survive the night.

“Which invitation do you like the best?” I inquired, trying to fake my interest. I didn’t give a shit since all of them were very fancy and beautiful, but I knew that Jiwoo would go easy on me if I seemed indulged in the topic. In her eyes, Baekhyun would be the ‘silent’ one whom she had to force to join the discussion. “The one with the beige ribbon kicks ass.”

“Hmm…you sure?” Jiwoo contemplated, and I took a sip of my wine, knowing she’d reject my proposition; I wasn’t the person she trusted when it came to style, and even if I managed to choose the best option among all, she still would rebuff my suggestion. No hard feelings, though. It was a two-way street; I had been dismissing all her advice about hitting it off with Baekhyun, so overall, we’re even. “I think the powder pink ones would be better, you know, they will go better with the general wedding theme. And what do you think?” she asked, focusing her attention on Baekhyun. Just like in my prediction, she’d involve Baekhyun in the discussion, allowing me to enjoy my wine in silence.

“I think you’re right,” Baekhyun answered quickly, and I cocked my eyebrow, suspecting he hadn’t even listened to our conversation, agreeing with whatever. And he had dared to say he would have never been whipped. He was, and Jiwoo’s only his friend.

Pathetic.

“Okay, so right now, we have to choose one among ten pink ones,” Jiwoo stated ecstatically, sitting beside Baekhyun with a wide palette of invitations. “Which one’s your favorite?” she asked him, but Baekhyun looked at me as if I ought to have told him a correct answer. Too bad I couldn’t help him.

“Maybe you should discuss it with Hongbin; it’s your wedding, not mine,” Baekhyun made a point, but Jiwoo still wanted to know his opinion. She wouldn’t be herself if she didn’t ask for suggestion only to prove to you that you have none sense of fashion.

“You two are worth each other,” Jiwoo spoke a bit angrily, and Baekhyun and I exchanged glances, having no clue what she was implying. Almost as if she didn’t know I was pining for Baekhyun for quite a long time to no avail. “Both useless; why have I even invited you over?” she asked, and I wished I knew the answer to that.

When neither of us replied to her rhetorical question, Jiwoo rolled her eyes, and raised from her seat, flying off to Hongbin, knowing he’d take her seriously. Baekhyun and I weren’t much of a help, especially when we were slowly getting tipsy. It was difficult to pretend to care when being so lightheaded as I felt right now.

“When this hell will be over?” Baekhyun asked as he leaned against the backrest, tilting his head backward. He was looking at me with his sparkling eyes, and I was enchanted, unable to answer him when I started into the stars in his eyes. And when I did the impossible–tore my gaze away–I looked at his sharp jaw, losing my shit again. At this rate, I’d never get over him. If anything; I’d fall for him even more.

“Probably later than you think,” I snickered, and Baekhyun beamed at my response. Yeah, we were both awful people, and we were paying the price.

By midnight, Baekhyun and I were drunk, sprawled on the couch, yawning, whereas Jiwoo and Hongbin were sitting together in an armchair, hugging each other, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. Thankfully, I was shitfaced; otherwise, I’d have already thrown up at the sight in front of me.

“I should get going,” Baekhyun announced, as he tried to stand up, but failed to do so, falling back on the couch beside me.

“Nonsense, you two should stay the night,” Hongbin announced, not even allowing us to decline. Yeah, we had had a couple of glasses of wine, but we were still capable of getting to our homes safely. “The end of the discussion,” he added before either of us managed to argue.

Without any further commotion, Jiwoo went to their bedroom for some clothes so we could change, whereas Hongbin ran off, looking for some extra blankets and pillows.

Within fifteen minutes, Baekhyun and I were lying under the sheets in the living room. Needless to say, it was awkward and uncomfortable. The lights were off, Jiwoo and Hongbin were gone in their bedroom, and I was stiffened, afraid to move.

“Do you think they’re doing it?” Baekhyun asked, and I instantly turned to look at him. What the hell was that? Why was he thinking about it?

“I hope not,” I spoke uncertainly, “but they’ve just got engaged, they’re probably like rabbits,” I added matter-of-factly. Jiwoo knew I had been under the dry spell for way too long, and no matter how selfish she could get, she would never do that to me. For the sake of our friendship, she could sacrifice one night of sex.

“They better be quiet,” Baekhyun threatened, and I felt the urge to ask ‘or what you’re gonna do’, but I bit my tongue before the words left my mouth. “I don’t want to get reminded that I am not getting some every time I look at them,” he added, and I rolled my eyes, slowly becoming too tired to be having this conversation with him.

“Then maybe you should fall asleep before their moans get out of hand,” I proposed, and Baekhyun turned to me, giving me ‘a bitch please’ face. “What?”

“Are you seriously okay with that?”

“No, but if it bothers you so much, we could hit it off, muffling their sex sounds with ours. You know…like horny college students.” I spoke, catching Baekhyun off guard. Surely, he didn’t expect me to put it that way since he probably thought I was a prude. However, alcohol which was circulating in my blood made me bolder and more brazen.

“You’re drunk,” Baekhyun said in a reprimanding tone, making me regret I had even touched wine. I had a crush on him, and I wanted to be perfect in his eyes, and when he was telling me something like that, I sensed I disappointed him, and it made me feel terrible. “You better go to sleep, you’re saying nonsense,” he added, as placed his forefinger on my forehead, gently pushing my head on the pillow.

I couldn’t argue with him. I’d probably embarrass myself further.

“Goodnight, Baekhyun.”

“Goodnight.”

Baekhyun and I are just acquaintances who follow each other on many social media but never exchange any messages. We have no trouble talking when we meet, but neither of us had ever tried to reach out; I because I had always been too shy to make the first move, and Baekhyun, well…he must have had his reasons.

On Friday, though, he messaged me, and it was enough of a reason to freak out.

Him | 18:59 | got stood up by the lovebirds

Him | 18:59 | I could use a drink

Him | 19:00 | want to come with?

Why did he have such a bad timing? I already had plans, and I couldn’t (didn’t want to) cancel them. I was meeting my friends whom I hadn’t seen in a while, and I was dying to catch up with them. And when we finally set the date after weeks of organizing, I couldn’t ditch them.

Me | 19:04 | sorry

Me | 19:04 | already have plans

Me | 19:07 | how the hell did you get stood up???

Me | 19:07 | loser

I typed back quickly, as I threw the phone on the bed. I had twenty minutes till my bus, and I wasn’t done applying my make up yet.

I was meeting my friends at the club, and though I wasn’t planning on hooking up with anybody, I wanted to doll myself up, and at least, I could use the night to stroke my ego a bit. The feeling of being desired by many yet beyond the reach of all of them could do wonders to my self-esteem, and after the uneventful meetings with Baekhyun, I needed it more than ever.

Him | 19:08 | they’d choose sex over you too

Him | 19:09 | so you’re standing me up too

Him | 19:09 | you mean

Him | 19:09 | I’d never do that to you

It didn’t take him long to reply. He must’ve been really hurt by Jiwoo and Hongbin. And normally, I’d do everything to make him feel better. Today, unfortunately, I couldn’t. My attempts in consolation would have to be limited to texts.

Me | 19:23 | you’ll be fine

Me | 19:24 | it won’t be a first time

Me | 19:24 | you better get used to it

Quickly, I studied my reflection, grabbed the purse, and walked out of my apartment. I couldn’t be late; the girls would skin me alive.

On my way to the club, I kept texting Baekhyun. When he was done with venting about the lovebirds, we swiftly moved from one topic to another. Probably, people on the bus thought I was a lunatic smiling at my phone like this, but I didn’t care. He had reached out to me first, and though I didn’t have a lot of expectations, I was going to cherish whatever he was to give to me even if it was just a piece of conversation. I’d gladly take it.

Texting with him was so much fun that I almost missed my stop. Without waiting for his another reply, I threw my phone into my purse before I hopped off the bus, energetically walking down the pavement, choosing the shortest route to the club. I was wearing high heels which I rarely do, and I didn’t want my feet to start hurting before I even got there.

When I got inside, my friends, Miyoung and Namjoo, were already sitting at the bar, sipping on their cocktails. They didn’t notice me at first, but I couldn’t blame them; the music was blasting, and they were in the middle of a conversation.

“Hi,” I shouted when I approached them, and they instantly turned to look at me, both of them smiling. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and it was nice to meet up. I needed the girls’ night, especially after all the wedding preparations I had gone through.

Shortly after, Miyoung’s boyfriend joined us, and we moved to the booth where it was only a bit quieter. Over sweet drinks, we talked about the current affairs and our plans for future, and though Miyoung was unaware, I could sense that their wedding would be next.

Slowly, I was getting intoxicated, and when the silence engulfed us between topics, I’d sneak a peek at my phone, exchanging texts with Baekhyun. The whole time we had known each other, I had no idea that texting him would be so fun, but now, when we hit it off via messages, I couldn’t force myself to stop.

And that’s exactly why I texted him the club’s address; Miyoung and her boyfriend were having the time of their lives on the dance floor and Namjoo was flirting with the guy who approached our table. There was nothing wrong with an additional company–the more the merrier, especially with Baekhyun cracking up one joke after another.

By the time Baekhyun arrived, I was sitting by the bar, talking with the bartender, listening to his recommendations. I wanted to try something new, and he was listing me the ingredients the cocktails were made with, and I rejected them whenever it consisted of something I didn’t like. I wasn’t picky–he was just keen on adding pineapple to every drink, so I had no choice.

“Hi there,” Baekhyun said, as he sat on the stool beside me, startling me at first. I was staring at the bartender’s show, and hearing Baekhyun’s voice so suddenly, I almost got a heart attack. “Whoa, you’re looking fancy, I feel so underdressed,” he commented, as he gawked at me in admiration. His eyes glistened with something, and I hope it wasn’t the club’s lighting. “What are you doing here all by yourself? Where are your friends?” Baekhyun asked, and I swiveled in the chair, scrutinizing the people on the dance floor in an attempt to find my friends.

“The couple dancing like forty-year-olds on a wedding - it's Miyoung and her boyfriend. And there’s Namjoo, making out with that guy over there,” I explained, briefly introducing them. Baekhyun nodded his head, comprehending the information. “Surprised I have other friends than Jiwoo?” I teased, and Baekhyun just smiled at me warmly.

“I’m actually relieved,” Baekhyun replied, and I hit his shoulder. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I will,” I answered simply, but then I added, “when I feel the rhythm.”

“And when that’ll be?”

“The crowd isn’t ready for my sweet moves, you know,” I said, the cocktails I had drunk prior his arrival boosting my confidence. “Like seriously, they are no joke. The last time I went clubbing, one guy came up to me and asked if I wanted to dance in his music video.”

“And you rejected? Why would you do that?”

“Are you for real?” I asked, cocking up my eyebrow. “The guy acted so suspiciously I thought he’d pull me into his van the second we had left the club.”

“Oh, shit,” Baekhyun cursed, and I turned, trying to spot the factor behind his profanity.

“What is it?” I asked, clueless.

“That’s my ex, and we didn’t break up on good terms,” Baekhyun explained briefly, and I put my straw between my lips, not knowing how to reply to that, so instead I focused on my drink, trying not to think how stiff Baekhyun seemed. It’d be for the better if he faced the music by himself. “Fuck, she’s just seen me,” once again, he cursed, ducking his head down, as if it was to make him invisible, protecting him from his ex.

“Baekhyun, is that you?” a sweet voice asked, and I turned my head away, not wanting to see the woman’s face. I’d rather star in that guy’s MV than see what type of women Baekhyun was into. The last thing I wanted to do was to find out that Baekhyun was into sex bombs.

“Oh, hi, what a small world,” Baekhyun greeted her with a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same question!” she spoke excitedly, and I rolled my eyes. Fuck!, she seemed nice, and if she was as attractive as her voice, I was screwed. “We’re having an office party, but I think I’m the first one to show up. I should’ve seen it coming, they’re always late. And what about you; what brings you here?”

“You know…just having a drink with my girl,” Baekhyun spoke, and I almost choked on my drink when his hand landed on my thigh, turning me around, so I could properly meet his ex. “Today’s our monthiversary,” Baekhyun added, and I politely nodded my head, confirming his words. It was weird, and regardless of my crush on him, it was unacceptable. He’d pay for it.

“Oh, then I won’t be interrupting,” she said kindly, wishing us an auspicious date.

“Sorry, I didn’t think this through,” Baekhyun apologized when his ex walked away. “And thanks for keeping up with the act.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I answered nonchalantly before I swept his hand off my tight. “Hands off the merchandise, Byun.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he apologized once again, flashing a sheepish smile. “I owe you a drink.”

“Oh my God, you’re such a cheapskate!” I teased him playfully, and Baekhyun smiled at me, shaking his head in disbelief. “Anyway...I’m gonna hit the dance floor, and when I come back, there better be a drink waiting for me,” I said, and Baekhyun nodded his head, watching me head toward the crowd.

Having drunk a few drinks and cringed in front of his ex-girlfriend, I was more than ready to flee his presence, letting the rhythm take control over me. Keeping my distance from lone wolves scattered among the people, I swung my hips from side to side. I didn’t need a partner to rock my body, showing off my moves.

“We should go,” Miyoung screamed into my ear, explaining that her boyfriend had one drink too many that night and they had already called for a cab. “Are you coming with?” she inquired, and I shook my head; I had Baekhyun to keep me company. “Are you sure? Namjoo’s going, too,” Miyoung added but she couldn’t convince me to abandon Baekhyun.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I replied, and she nodded. “And don’t worry, I met my friend, you’re not leaving me alone. I’ll be safe.”

“Okay, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she teased, and I grinned at her before I gave her a hug. “Text me when you get home safely.”

“Okay mom,” I answered her with a roll of my eyes. When she was about five meters away she mouthed something which I read ‘don’t have too much fun’, but I could always get it wrong. Though, it was unlikely since she had used to use that line pretty often.

The next song played by the DJ wasn’t as good as the previous one, so having lost my interest I came back to the counter, sitting down beside Baekhyun.

“Whoa, you weren’t lying,” he commented, and I just shrugged, looking at the drink which he had got me. “You know how to move.”

“That’s creepy. You were staring, weren’t you?” I asked him, but Baekhyun just shot me a glance which was saying ‘are you kidding me?’ Of course, he had stared at my killer moves!

“I was, just like every guy in the club,” he admitted shamelessly, making me blush. I didn’t care, though. I had been drinking and dancing, my face had to be red despite the make-up I had put on. “You can’t blame me, I’m a simple man.”

Oh, so Baekhyun wasn’t completely indifferent.

He could be swayed.

Even by me.

When we finished our drinks, Baekhyun insisted on walking me home, and though, it was a shame he didn’t have an ulterior motive to do so, I couldn’t bring myself to reject his proposal. It was fun to be around him alone, and I’d talk to him until he’d want to stop.

“I’m hungry, should we get some pizza?” I asked when I felt a twist in my stomach. I had drunk all these drinks, and now I was craving something greasy, so my hangover wouldn’t be so severe in the morning.

“You’re reading in my mind,” Baekhyun admitted, and I pulled out my phone, scrolling down my contact list, searching the number of the pizza place near my house.

“With a lot of meat, some pepperoni peppers, and some extra cheese?” I asked Baekhyun, and he instantly agreed. At least pizza topping-wise we were a match.

“Marry me,” Baekhyun said, yet I couldn’t treat him seriously.

Trying to refrain myself from grinning, I cleared my throat when someone answered my call with a generic greeting. Quickly, I recited our order, hoping I didn’t sound too drunk from them to assume it was a prank of some sort.

“Great! Thank you,” I said as I hung up. “Our delivery should be done within thirty minutes, so we better speed up if we want to make it before the delivery guy,” I added, and without any further questioning, Baekhyun picked up his pace.

“Should we stop by the liquor store? You know that beer and pizza make the most iconic duo, right?” Baekhyun questioned excitedly, and I laughed so hard, I forgot about my feet which hurt like hell because of the heels I was wearing.

“I should have some in the fridge,” I remembered, and Baekhyun smiled in relief. “But if I’m mistaken, we would have to settle for coke or tequila. Choose your fighter,” I added, and it was Baekhyun’s turn to chuckle.

“Okay, so I guess the problem is solved,” he said, looking at me, noticing my weird walking. “Are you alright? Do you want me to carry you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; I’m a big girl,” I declined his offer, though I was very tempted to agree since it would be a perfect excuse to touch him. With a glint in his eyes, Baekhyun took a step towards me, as if attempting to lift me up, but then I mirrored his actions, stepping away from him. Talking to him was addicting, and I wasn’t ready to find out how being held by him would feel. At this point, I’d never get over him.

“Ah…the bitter taste of rejection,” Baekhyun mused playfully, inhaling the night’s air. “So that’s what it feels like…utterly terrible,” he added, as we started walking.

“You seem you’ve got over it rather quickly,” I remarked, and Baekhyun just smiled.

“What’s the point of dwelling on so much?” He asked, but I didn’t know the answer. Baekhyun was right, and if everybody had his mindset, break-ups would be much easier to deal with. “I tried. It didn’t work, and I have no regrets.” Why did it sound so simple?

“Are you a life coach? You definitely sound like one,” I teased, but Baekhyun didn’t even bother to comment on that. “You’re not charging me for this session now, are you?”

“The first session is free, but when you come for an advice again, you better take some cash. I ain’t cheap.” Baekhyun carried on with the charade, and I started laughing. “But then again, you gave me a tip how to deal with Jiwoo and Hongbin, so I may give you a discount.”

“How much? Fifty percent off?”I asked excitedly, clapping my hands vigorously.

“It’s a total rip-off! I thought of giving you like…I don’t know…five percent?”

“Hypothetical discount of a hypothetical session…” I wondered as if trying to calculate how much this friendship with Baekhyun would hypothetically cost me. “I think I hypothetically can’t afford your companion. Sorry, but I have to save up for the lovebirds’ wedding gift. And speaking of which; what are you getting them?”

“What? Do I have to give them a gift? I thought the torture I was going through was enough to make up for the gift. It isn’t, is it?” he asked, but I firmly shook my head. “Damn, I don’t know, they already have everything.”

“Right?” I asked, being glad that finally, someone agreed with me. Jiwoo and Hongbin were a terrible couple; they possessed everything, so buying them something new verged on a miracle. “I don’t know, either. We could have a whip-round, so we could club together for their honeymoon. As far as I recall, they haven’t decided on the destination yet.”

“Right now, the only trip I can afford is a bus ride,” Baekhyun retorted, and at this point, my stomach started to hurt due to excessive laughing. It’s his fault, though I wasn’t mad.

“It’s okay; they have expensive taste, anyway,” I answered with a shrug. Jiwoo and Hongbin would probably like a trip to Hawaii or any other fancy island, and that kind of entertainment was way over our budget. “Then, we have to get them something handmade, something that cannot be purchased at the regular store.”

“This wedding is so problematic,” Baekhyun commented, and I nodded, agreeing with him. “Why have I even agreed to participate in the preparations? It’s too much of a hassle.”

“Pretend it’s a practice before your wedding,” I advised, but Baekhyun just rolled his eyes at me. “What?” I creased my eyebrows, as I realized he shot me a glare as if I was an idiot.

“I won’t be having my wedding, not when it’s so much work.”

“You don’t mean that,” I started, uncertain how to defend my stance. On one hand, I realized how much preparation the wedding needed, but then when you’re going it with the person you love, it’s worth the effort. He just didn’t meet his soul mate yet.

“Of course, I do! Do you think I’m kidding?” I bit the inside of my cheek, as I rolled my eyes. I didn’t want to have an argument with him about it, and thankfully, fate was on my side tonight, since we already reached my apartment.

“We’re here,” I announced excitedly, showing Baekhyun the way upstairs. By the time we climbed the third floor, I was panting. Baekhyun was probably too, but he was better at faking. “One more and we’re there,” I spoke, guiding him to my modest flat.

Clumsily, I fought with the lock, but Baekhyun was checking something on the phone, not realizing how much time it took me to open the door.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said, once I swung the doors open and threw the keys on the counter. Quickly, I kicked off my shoes, and while Baekhyun was busy with studying my apartment, I made a beeline to the kitchen for two glasses and the unfinished bottle of wine.

“It’s cute,” Baekhyun commented, as he sat down on the couch, his eyes still roaming around the interior. “You’re reading in my mind, I was slowly getting sober.” He said casually, reaching for the glasses, setting them on the coffee table in front of him.

“Do you mind if I change?” I mentioned, pointing at my outfit. He thought I looked amazing wearing it, but I wasn’t going to suffer in that dress, just because he enjoyed the view. I’d rather sit in a simple T-shirt and pajama pants; my chances with getting into his pants were lost a long time ago. It was just a friendly hangout, and I wanted to be comfortable.

“Yeah, sure,” Baekhyun answered, beaming at me with one of his bright smiles. “You go change, and I’ll pour us wine,” he added, and I ran off to the bedroom, pulling the dress over my head. Baekhyun was sitting in my living room, and I wasn’t going to waste time being away from him. I had done a lot of stupid things, but this one wasn’t to be another one.

Swiftly, I searched for the set of clothes which now was my pajamas and changed into it. It took me three minutes tops, but when I returned to Baekhyun, he already paid for our delivery, setting the pizza box on the coffee table.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked, taking a seat beside him, reaching for the biggest slice of pizza with the pieces of meat.

“Don’t mention it, you’ll pay the next time,” he answered casually, and I almost choked, given the fact that Baekhyun hinted he’d not be entirely grossed out by the idea of meeting me again. It was comforting, but then I didn’t want to read too much into it. One nice word from him, and I’d seriously start to plan our wedding which was obviously ridiculous.

“Obviously,” I said, trying to sound casual. It was such a simple gesture on his side, but then, it gave something to look forward to. He had better mean it.

Munching on the food, I quickly reached for a remote to turn on the TV. Of course, I had left it on TLC, and right now, my guilty pleasure was being aired. Fucking Say ‘Yes’ to the Dress! What else could it be?

“You seriously watch that crap?” Baekhyun asked in hopes I’d deny. Instead of firmly shaking my head, I shrugged, flashing him a sheepish smile. “Whoa, you’re really something.” He added, and I quickly took a gulp of wine, buying myself to come up with a convincing lie. How could I vent about wedding preparations when I was watching shows like this in my free time? I couldn’t let him think I’m a hypocrite.

“You know…I’m a chick, and it’s a chick channel. You can’t blame me.” I defended myself, but Baekhyun didn’t seem too convinced. “It’s like I’d judge you for watching Top Gear. That would be weird, wouldn’t it?” Baekhyun nodded, chewing on his food. “That’s what I thought,” I spoke confidently, returning to the greasy slice of pizza.

“Do you think you have more of that?” Baekhyun asked, tilting his head in the wine’s direction. After he had poured us drinks, the bottle was empty and judging by the look on his face, he wished to have a refill. “Another glass would help me erase this terrible scene from my mind,” he added, mentioning the argument the bride had with her bridesmaids. “I hope Jiwoo will be just as picky as that chick. You deserve it for making me watch.”

Rolling my eyes, I set the uneaten pizza slice back in its box, as I stood up, “let me check, I think we’ve run out of wine, but I should have some whiskey on the stock, is that okay?”

“I just want to forget, really, a bottle of bleach would do.”

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