#not pictured: the fucking struggle i was facing drawing with actual pen earlier

[cold-open]

trying to figure out how to draw this dude in a way i'm happy with. think i'm getting closer to it. also i haven't drawn in literally months but the pizza energy overcame me hi. feels good to open mspaint again.

play pizza tower, ok?

[yoon-kooks]

Love Note | jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Fluff, College!AU, a touch of mystery

Summary: When a stray pink notebook falls into your possession, you’re mildly disturbed to find the pages filled with a long list of popular students, their significant others, and how they got together. You can’t imagine what kind of twisted person would keep track of other people’s love affairs to the point of obsession, but you have one clue. The only person listed without a significant other is the campus heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. It isn’t until after an unlikely conversation is initiated that you begin to piece together the truth behind the boy and the notebook.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: none

A/N: this is loosely based off the manga, death note 🤪

-

Love.

Sometimes you wonder what it takes to catch someone’s attention, to capture the fluttering hearts of those around you, to be loved without trying. You don’t understand. Why is it that average folks like you struggle to have even a single classmate ask for your number while the popular kids have a whole flock of fans vying for their attention? The divide between the popular crowd and everyone else almost feels unfair. The only logical explanation you’ve come to is that some people are blessed and others are cursed.

Cursed. That’s exactly how you feel after picking up an ominous stray notebook in the hallway outside of your psych classroom.

You had found it funny how everyone seemed to step over the notebook as not to trip, but no one thought to pick it up and return it to the owner. So after the rush of students emptied out of the halls, you scooped it up and examined the pink cover for the name of the owner. Instead of a name, you found the phrase “Love Note” written across the cover in black sharpie. You didn’t think anything of it until you flipped the notebook open and saw what you saw.

You should’ve never opened the book. Because now you’re stuck with it.

Your jaw falls until it’s dragging on the floor as you flip through the pages. The pages are all practically fill with the same thing, and it has nothing to do with the lecture you just came out of. In fact, it has nothing to do with school aside from the names of students listed in it.

Kim Seokjin & Park Jiyeon – a serenade with a guitar and cheesy lyrics

Im Nayeon & Kim Taehyung – bonded while failing chem together

Lee Hyeri & Kim Namjoon – partnered up during a marine biology seminar on crustaceans

Jung Hoseok & Min Yoongi – opposites attract

Written in messy columns and rows, you recognize a majority of the names as the popular faces on campus, some of which are in your class. You assume the name paired next to theirs is their significant other because the column after that alludes to how they got together.

You get the feeling you’ve picked up the belonging of some creep and seen something you shouldn’t have seen. Because who the hell would bother keeping tabs on other people’s love affairs. It’s none of their business and it’s certainly none of yours.

Just as you’re about to head toward the lost-and-found, the name at the very bottom of the list catches your eye. Jeon Jungkook. You wouldn’t have even spotted his name amongst the hundreds of others if it weren’t for the blank space next to his. In fact, his name is the only one written without another name next to it. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it.

You’ve never spoken to the boy personally, but everyone seems to know him. Many of your classmates signed up for your psych class just to be in the same vicinity as him. He’s handsome, funny, smart, and even quite kind from what you’ve heard. He’s the total package that everyone aspires to get a piece of. Even you are a tad curious to know what kind of witchcraft he uses to draw people in so effortlessly.

At the same time, you know your place. He’s popular, and you’re average at best. You’re not the type to approach him like all the other girls begging for his affection. And you know he’d never approach you either. That’s the curse that was bestowed upon you.

If you knew the boy or at least had the guts to talk to him, you’d surely bring the notebook to his attention. Because if your name were written and singled-out in someone’s creepy notebook, you’d want to know, too. You’d want someone to have your back.

That’s the only reason why you’re still holding onto the notebook and not freeing yourself of the burden. If you were to leave it lying around or at the lost-and-found, who’s to say someone else would be willing to do the deed in your stead. From what you witnessed earlier, no one was even willing to pick the notebook up.

So you’ve decided what you’ll do. At the next lecture, you’ll find Jungkook and slip the notebook into his bag without him noticing. In that way, you can rid yourself of the notebook once and for all while also giving the boy a subtle heads-up with what’s being written about him and his popular crowd.

The plan is fool-proof.

-

The next morning, you feel it in your stomach. The feeling of stressing way too much over something so stupid. But you can’t help but fear the thought of getting caught. You’d hate for Jungkook or any classmate to catch you sticking something so suspicious in his bag. What if they get the wrong idea and think you’re the creepy owner of the notebook? You can’t have that.

Still, you do have a sense of duty to uphold. Clutching the notebook in your arms, you walk into the lecture hall with the intention of going through with the plan. You’ll still try to sit behind him or somewhere in his vicinity, and if it seems to risky, you can always do what you do best: chicken out.

Glancing around the lecture hall, you realize you’ve made one fatal mistake. You arrived before Jungkook. Feeling like a goof, you slump into a random aisle seat and toss the pink notebook on the desk. You can’t believe you were worrying so much about getting caught when you couldn’t even execute the first part of the plan.

“Is this seat taken?”

You glance up at a finger pointing to the seat next to yours. The one pointing is none other than the boy you’ve been stressing over for the past 24 hours. How fucking convenient. But you know something’s up. There are plenty of other seats still up for grabs, and yet, he chose to sit right next to you? Unheard of. You figure it must be some sort of joke or bet, but you’ll take it. “No.”

“Cool,” he says, sliding his thighs through the walkway that’s always been too narrow for your liking. His duffle bag surely would have smacked you in the face if you hadn’t leaned back. When he finally settles into his seat, he deadass looks at your desk. “Cute notebook.”

Oh, you suppose that’s code for when a popular guy wants to take a picture of your lecture notes. But that’s too bad for him. “Thanks, but it’s not actually my notebook. I found it in the hallway yesterday and I’m looking for the owner.”

“Why not just bring it to the lost-and-found?” he chuckles. Now that you think about it, it does sound pretty weird, considering you don’t have the slightest clue as to who the notebook belongs to. “Do you at least know who the name of the person you’re looking for?”

“Not exactly,” you shrug. “But I figure it must belong to someone in this class.”

He gestures for you to hand it to him. So you do. All according to plan.

You watch as the boy’s eyes widen at the long list of names in the notebook. It’s only a matter of time before he sees a pattern and finds his own name written there.

“Is your name here too?” He continues to scan the list, page by page.

You shake your head.

“Does that mean you’re available?” The boy pulls out a pen from his backpack and clicks it.

“How’d you come to that conclusion?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Isn’t this like a list of all the couples at our school?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Right, right,” he nods, twirling his pen. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“If I tell you, you’re going to write my name in there, aren’t you…?”

“Not necessarily.” He sets the pen down and chuckles at you with a smile. “Sometimes it’s just nice to get acquainted with the people around you. You might be surprised with the kinds of people you’ll meet in that way.”

Ah, there it is. There’s the charm that has everyone swooned.

“It’s Y/N,” you say softly. Half a second later, the boy picks up his pen and starts jotting shit down. “Hey, I thought you weren’t going to write my name down.”

You watch as Jungkook writes your name out next to his along with the description, “had a cute conversation during psych lecture.”

“I’m testing a theory,” he says.

“What theory?”

“What if this isn’t a just a weird kid’s record of couples at our school?”

“What is it then…?”

“A matchmaking machine? Like, if we write down the names of two people and an explanation of how they got together, maybe they’ll suddenly become a couple? Like magic,” he nods. You nod along, though you’re starting to think the boy has a screw loose. “I saw something like this in an anime once.”

“You mean… Death Note…?” Aka the anime where a smartass finds a death god’s notebook that can give people a death sentence just by writing their name down.

“Oh, so you’ve seen it too?”

You nod.

“I guess I’ll let you in on a little secret then.” He gestures for you to come closer. He whispers into your ear, “I’m the one who started the Love Note.”

“You’re the creep who wrote all of this?” you whisper-shout in his ear.

“No, no, no.” He waves his hands in defense. “I just helped get the ball rolling.”

“Please elaborate.” Because you don’t believe him yet.

“A few years back, my friend wanted to get back into dating after a tough breakup. But he didn’t know what kind of a girl he was looking for.” Jungkook flips back to the first page and points to Kim Seokjin’s name right at the very top. “So I took a notebook, wrote Love Note on the cover, wrote Seokjin’s name inside it, hid it somewhere around campus, and left the rest up to fate.”

“Are you saying the girl, Jiyeon, was the one who found the notebook and brought it back to Seokjin?”

“The same way you returned it to me, Y/N,” he nods. “After they got together, they filled out their section of the notebook, tagged another friend, and hid it again for someone else to find. The tradition continued amongst my friends, friends of friends, people I didn’t even know, until it finally found its way back to me.”

You get it now. It isn’t one creepy person’s notebook. It’s not witchcraft or a curse. It’s a curious object passed from person to person to spark a conversation and a potential relationship.

“So who wrote your name in it? And why?” You’d like to think someone like Jungkook doesn’t need a silly notebook to help him find a lover.

“My pal, Jung Hoseok. He said I’ve been looking lonely lately,” the boy says, glancing back at the list of presumably happy couples.

“Lonely despite always being surround by people who adore you?” Sounds ironic, but you think you know what he means.

“They don’t adore me. Just my face,” he sighs. Damn, what a struggle it must be to have a face as handsome as his. “I was hoping whoever found the notebook might adore more than what they see.”

“Sorry, can’t say that I do at the moment.” You use a teasing tone, but you aren’t lying either. What do you know about Jungkook other than the fact that he’s popular with a pretty face? That’s all you’ve ever judged him by. “I’m probably not the person you were hoping for.”

“You are who I was hoping for, Y/N,” he tilts his head when he speaks. “Adoring me is a bonus, but more importantly, I just wanted to meet someone I wouldn’t have otherwise met.”

Someone he wouldn’t have otherwise met? It’s true. The two of you probably wouldn’t be talking if it weren’t for the notebook. “I guess I fit that part of the criteria,” you say.

“Exactly.” He smiles at you as the lecture begins. You suppose only time will tell if you’ll come to also adore the boy as he so hopes.

-

As days, weeks, and even a month pass, you still have the Love Note in your possession. Recently, however, you get the feeling as though that’s about to change.

“Hey, Y/N,” says a familiar voice as a duffle bag claims the seat two spaces down from yours. The owner of the duffle bag follows, stepping into the seat right next to you from the row behind.

“Hello, Mr. I’m-too-cool-to-squeeze-through-the-aisle-like-a-normal-person,” you snicker at your psych buddy. Ever since you discovered Jungkook’s association to the Love Note, he’s made it a point to come find you during lecture. A month ago, you’d been sitting alone, and you’d still be sitting alone if you hadn’t stumbled upon the boy’s pink notebook. So you can’t say you aren’t enraptured by the gesture.

He chuckles at your fancy nickname for him before throwing an arm around your seat. You feel his eyes on you as you casually open the Love Note and scan the list.

“How many of these couples do you think are still together?” you ask, looking up and accidentally catching him staring at your lips. The new lip gloss you bought must be working.

“I’m sure not all of them are,” Jungkook strokes his wise man beard. “But all the people I personally know from the list are still going strong.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“It’s the fate of the Love Note, duh Y/N,” he gives you a cute little pinch on your cheek. “Our names are written there, and we’re still together, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but we’re not together together… yet.” You try your best to get the boy to take a hint.

“Well, if anything, the Love Note has the power to bring two people together who wouldn’t otherwise be together, right?” he says. “Because of it, I learned I like being around someone who’s honest, open-minded, and adores me for more than just my face.”

You can’t help but smile at his compliment. He’s too sweet for you to handle. “How can you be so sure that I adore more than just your face?”

“Because you’ve put up with me for a whole month,” he chuckles. “And because you sent me a drunk text the other night, confessing your heart out to me.”

“I did what?” You fumble to get your phone out of your bag and check your messages. Was it possible to get so drunk that you don’t even remember getting drunk in the first place?

“I’m kidding, Y/N.” If there’s one thing you learned in the past month, it’s that Jungkook loves to tease you. But if it gets him to smile like that all the time, you don’t mind being a little gullible. “I’m still waiting for a proper confession.”

You look into the boy’s big eyes and then back at the bottom of the list where both of your names are written. “Should we make it official then?”

“I’m already ahead of you.” Clicking his pen, Jungkook adds a tiny little heart to the end of the foreshadowing he had written a month ago. He then writes the name of his single friend Park Jimin on the line below, shuts the notebook, and hands it back to you.

After lecture, Jungkook pulls you by the hand and leads you to the building where Jimin’s class should be ending. As the two of you wait for him to walk out, you feel yourself gravitating more and more to the boy until both of your arms are latched around his. You never realized how much you love the feeling of having someone so close to you.

“Is this the one you’ve been smitten over?” The boy you assume to be Jimin points in your direction. You look to Jungkook for an answer.

“Yes, this is the one,” he says, giving your hand a good squeeze. “Now we just need to find someone special for you.”

“Like who?” Jimin asks. “I can’t seem to keep a relationship for over a week.”

“We might have a solution for you,” Jungkook says as you show the other boy the Love Note. And despite his initial hesitance, Jimin eventually agrees to partake in the tradition after seeing the effect it had on you and his pal.

“Should we leave it here?” you ask Jungkook after saying farewell to Jimin and finding a cozy bench to sit on.

“Are you sure you’re ready to let it go?” He smirks at how you’ve held onto what you had initially thought of as a creepy ass notebook. You nod. “Okay, we’ll leave it here.”

He helps you set it down off to the side, leaning in for what you anticipate to be the first of many kisses between you and him. Just before giving you a taste, however, he stops to examine the sheen over your lips. “Is that new lip gloss?”

You nod, prompting the boy to lean back. “It’s cute,” he says.

For a second, you just blink at him and he blinks back as though he wasn’t about to kiss you. Oh, you get it. He’s teasing you again.

Taking the boy’s hand, you make the bold move yourself, pressing your lips ever so softly against his. Just enough to give him a taste of the gloss you’d picked out with him in mind.

After teasing you some more for being so bold, Jungkook helps you up from the bench as the two of you head home. Leaving the Love Note behind, you understand now that the divide between popular boys like him and average folks like you was never a curse bestowed upon you by fate. Rather, it was up to you to take fate into your own hands and spin it in your favor.

That all began the moment you picked up that pink notebook.

[bottleofspilledink]

God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter IX

“So…” Eve began, staring at the various stands and stalls and tables with all sorts of different agendas, occasionally shifting her gaze to the people who would weave between it all.

In every sense of the word, today was, for lack of a better word, eventful.

This was most likely why, when they were gathered in the gymnasium for club sign-ups, the pair simply stood amidst the somewhat organized chaos, clueless.

“What now?” Eve pulled out the club sign-up form from her skirt pocket, thankful she hadn’t lost it in all the ruckus. “My offer still stands, I really don’t mind letting you pick the club we join.”

“I mean. I already told you earlier that I don’t really care what club we go to either way.” Lilith shrugged. She wasn’t trying to sound apathetic, but she couldn’t really remember the last time she enjoyed club time solely for it’s activities and not the friends she would do them with. “You pick.”

“Alright, we’re not gonna get anywhere with this, so how about a compromise?”

“I’m listening,” Lilith chuckled. Of course Eve would be the type to suggest something like that.

The girl in question blushed at the sound, but fought to gather her thoughts and continue.

“You can tell me the clubs you don’t like and I’ll do the same. After we narrow down the list, we can settle on a club that we both like, or at least a club that on of us can tolerate.”

“Okay, but let me tell you now, there are a lot of clubs I don’t like.”

It was Eve’s turn to laugh, her hand automatically coming to cover her mouth as she grinned and giggled.

“Tell me anyway.”

“No music club,” Lilith said, right off the bat. “I’m a mediocre singer and I don’t want to spend two or three hours a week singing hymns.”

“Reasonable enough.” Eve recalled being given a small flier when they entered, the colourful paper listing all available clubs and emptied her pockets once more in search of it before crossing out the words “music club” with a pen she had found while looking for the paper. “Anything else?”

“No home economics. You know why.”

Eve just nodded an drew a line across it.

She was doing this to make up for what she did, not draw attention to it.

“And lastly,” Lilith said, voice tinted with humor as she tried to lighten the mood, somewhat guilty when she saw Eve’s face fall when she mentioned home economics, “no math club. ‘Cause I’m not a nerd.”

The girl succeeded, getting a tiny, genuine laugh from Eve that made her heart flutter like a hummingbird’s wing whenever it graced her ears.

“It’s fine, I’m bad at math too.”

Lilith visibly perked up at the words, the teasing grin Eve had so missed making a comeback at long last, “I never said I was bad at math. I’m pretty good at it, actually. I just don’t like doing it more than I have to.”

“Really?” Eve joked, displaying a mock-disbelief. Lilith was no idiot, though judging by her work ethic when it came to CLE, Eve couldn’t help but make a few assumptions. “What score did you get on the practice test a few days ago then?”

“Ninety-four percent.”

At that Eve’s eyes grew wide as saucers. That was better than she had gotten, and, more surprisingly, it was better than what Mary had gotten, ninety percent, an A minus that paled in comparison to Lilith’s A.

“Oh. That’s neat.” What could she say in response to that?

Fortunately, she didn’t have to struggle to say more, as Lilith returned the question to her.

“What did you get on the test.” Lilith wasn’t the type to gloat, at least not to a person she liked, but the thought of Eve thinking her a fool or a failure wasn’t the kind of image she wanted to project either.

“Eighty-seven…” She stared at the floor in shame, suddenly enamored in the scuff marks a muddy sneaker had left on the floor, shame flooding her face in the form of blood, her cheeks taking on a soft pink for different reasons now. Who could have left this here? A student who had forgotten to clean the soles of her shoes? A janitor, maybe?

Lilith couldn’t help but melt at the sight, immediately speaking to comfort the girl.

“Hey, come on. There’s no need to be embarrassed, that’s a pretty good grade, especially coming from someone who says they’re bad at math!” She clasped Eve’s shoulder and gave a gentle, encouraging squeeze, trying to get her to look up from the floor. “That’s like, what, a solid B? A B plus even?”

When that didn’t work, she slid her hand down to Eve’s and ran the pad of her thumb over the soft skin before giving another, more tender squeeze. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you when I asked that. If you want, I can help you review for the next test?” She put on a smile and tried to sound optimistic, mind running a mile a minute as she tried to figure out what to say next.

“There’s always room for improvement!” Lilith said, stealing one of Paula’s lines in the rare occasion that Joan flubbed a test or lost a game. She’d have to thank her for that later.

Meanwhile, Eve hoped that Lilith wouldn’t be able to feel her pulse through her wrist, the pink hue her face took on having faded, only to return with a vengeance when Lilith opted to hold her hand, the way the girl soothed her thumb over her knuckles nearly sending her into cardiac arrest, the momentary squeeze stealing the air from her lungs and running for the hills, if only for an instant before she mustered up enough breath to speak.

“You’d really do that? Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Are you kidding me?” Lilith grinned, incredulous. “Of course I’d help! With a score like that, there isn’t even all that much to do.”

The way Eve looked at her when she said those words, amber eyes adoring and brimming with marvel as it were, Lilith couldn’t bring herself to look away, it was like she was lost and slowly, willingly sinking into the entrancing, honeyed hue that was Eve’s eyes.

She could hardly handle being the subject of the girl’s gratitude-filled gaze, her heart clenching tenderly when Eve smiled at her, because of her, soft and sweet, dimples appearing on her rosy cheeks, unaware of the near-painful longing that welled up in Lilith’s chest.

In the split second silence, Lilith wondered whether it was for better or worse that Eve didn’t know how her heart ached whenever she made her smile, knowing that Eve, kind person she was, would never want to hurt her, even in the most gentle way, the soft tightening of her chest Lilith herself would sometimes even long for.

“Anyway,” Eve said, breaking the quiet that had settled over them, “I really can’t join the art club, so that’s out of the question. My drawing skills are literally non-existent.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! The best I can do are stick figures, bee doodles, and really loopy flowers.”

They scratched that off the list and began roaming around, Eve unsure of what clubs were a hard no for her but wanting to narrow down the list further.

“Oh, definitely no debate club.” She said out the moment she saw their stand, stopwatch, hardwood podium and all.

“Okay, but why?” Lilith took the list from her and crossed it out, skimming over it in search of clubs the both of them could enjoy.

“They’re sca-“

“Lilith!”

A girl with shoulder-length black hair swishing slightly with every step came up from behind them and hugged Lilith with a fierce grip, nearly making the both of them fall to the ground in the process, her long-suffering partner, local gossip girl, Margaret, merely trailing a few paces behind her, not wanting to be associated with the girl who managed to make at least eleven heads turn towards them.

“Joan told me everything this morning. Where is she?” The girl let go, swinging her head around frantically and craning her neck in an exaggerated search. “I’m gonna beat this chick’s ass if it’s the last thing I do!”

Finally, Margaret came closer and tried to put a stop to whatever was unfolding. “Swearing is against the rules, Julia. I can report you for that.”

The girl, Julia, apparently, turned to look at her partner, joyful demeanor fading in an instant.

“So is make-up and cheating, but you don’t see me yapping about it, do you?”

That shut Margaret up effectively, cheeks probably red with indignance under her foundation.

“Anyway, where is the bitch? I’ll-“

“Okay, before you finish that sentence, I think you should know that the girl you’re calling a bitch is right beside me. Right now.” Lilith said, grabbing her by the shoulders and making her face Eve.

Julia looked at her.

She looked at Julia.

“Hi.”

“Oh shit. Hey…” They stared at each other, a split second of tension filled silence passing between them. “I’m not taking back what I said though, you’re a bitch. I mean seriously, I get not being gay but did you have to- OW!”

Lilith’s elbow met Julia’s rib, harshly.

“When did Joan say all this?” She sighed. The last thing she needed right now was someone making Eve feel worse after everything that happened today, especially now that they were just starting to patch things up and talk free of any awkwardness.

“I already told you, she said all that this morning. We sat next to each other in CLE and passed notes while Sister Jane wasn’t looking.”

“Julia, you’re fucking nuts and I love you for that,” Lilith sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, “but now is really not the time. Go ask Joan or Paula to catch you up on things, they should be around here somewhere. We’re busy looking for a club. Until they tell you what happened earlier, you can not call Eve anything except Eve.”

“Oh wow, okay. I must have missed something big if you’re defending the girl who made you sob so hard, you almost-”

“The details aren’t important! Besides, you weren’t there, so you don’t know what happened.”

Julia raised a brow at the girl, shutting up to help her save face, but going in for one last tease before she went looking for Paula to see the whole picture, “I literally just said that Joan told me everything, but okay.” She put her hands up in a sort of surrender. “Say what you want, babe! I’ll get the truth out of you the next time we get wasted anyways, so yeah!” And with that she turned to leave before, rather impulsively, Eve called out to her.

“What club did you join?”

“You’re really gonna look at me and not immediately assume I’m in the softball club? You offend me, Eve. I mean really! You know what they say about softball. It’s the sport of my people!”

The blonde merely stood in silence, absolutely dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a fish yet not a syllable leaving her lips.

Julia cackled, tossing her head back and ruffling her soft curls. “Oh God, she doesn’t know?” She asked Lilith, her eyebrows raised so far up that no one watching would be surprised if they receded even further back to join the hair on her head. “You really know how to pick ‘em, sweetheart!”

She walked away, giggling and giving them – well, more Lilith than Eve – finger guns all the while.

“Okay, I’m just going to ask. What was that whole thing about softball about?”

At this, Lilith herself couldn’t help but laugh. “Basically, it’s kinda a stereotype that, and this isn’t a thing we made up, lesbians play softball.”

Eve’s look of confusion turned to bafflement turned to a somewhat exasperated and incredulous amusement. “That makes no sense, but I’m going with it anyway. How did that even start?”

“I actually don’t know, but we went along with it too, cause why the fuck not? You know?” Lilith shrugged and they continued walking again. “There’s probably a bit of truth in there somewhere. It’s how Joan and Paula got together, so there’s that! And Julia has an ex that used to be a member.”

Eve took the list back from her while she was distracted, eyes quickly scanning over it to see if Lilith had crossed anything out while it was in her possession. “I’m assuming there’s a story behind that?”

“Yup!” She snatched the flier away from Eve once more, holding it high above her head when the girl tried to get it again. “But not one you get to hear. Not yet.”

She huffed at that. Eve, despite already standing on her toes, the four inch height difference between them made it so she couldn’t get the list back from Lilith.

“Okay then. But one last question.”

“Yeah?”

“Sweetheart? Babe?” Eve asked, a twinge of jealousy in her. Granted, she had no right to be, at least in her own mind she didn’t. She wasn’t even supposed to be feeling anything for Lilith other than disdain, but what could she do? Her only consolation was the fact she’d yet to act on said emotions.

Technically.

Eve tried to justify what she could, mind jumping from hoop to hoop, connecting loose strings, drawing lines between dots that were barely there. Earlier wasn’t anything akin to love. It was just a friend taking care of a friend.

Yes.

“Oh, that? Yeah, Julia calls everyone that, really. It’s nothing personal.” Lilith felt delusional. Were her feeling for Eve so strong as to warp her mind and affect her hearing, going so far as to imagine Eve’s voice with a pang of envy. “If you get on her good side, she’ll probably call you something too. Not what she called you earlier, though.”

A wave of relief washed over the blonde… followed immediately by guilt for feeling said relief.

It was nothing another round of mental gymnastics couldn’t fix.

The only reason she was relieved was because Lilith not being in a relationship meant that she wasn’t beyond saving.

Of course.

“I hope so, too.” Eve said. They turned to walk down a different aisle, about forty-five minutes left for them to find and join a club.

The pair strolled between stalls leisurely, narrowing down the list bit by bit, encircling the ones they had taken a particular liking to, chatting about clubs.

“The gardening club seems cool.” Lilith suggested, looking at their small stall decorated with small, origami flowers, the girls who ran it not having the heart to pluck what they had grown just yet. “It’s outside so I get some fresh air and it’s no sport, so you won’t have to strain yourself like you did in gym. Whaddya think of it?”

She looked over at Eve, only to see her frowning, a mix of disappointment and contempt in her eyes.

“I’d love to join, but I’m not allowed. My mom doesn’t like me gardening.” Her frown turned into a pout, eyes growing glassy with frustrated tears that had been building up for nearly a decade now. “She made me stop when I was eight because my hands were getting rough…”

“Use me.”

“What?”

“Use me as an excuse. Tell her I made you join it.”

Her words were temptation, the apple offered to Eve by the serpent.

Lilith held the sign-up slip and the red pen out to her, the folded paper an open invitation to rebellion. She wouldn’t force Eve, however, wanting this decision, this sin, to be hers and hers alone, the girl refusing to even write her own name on the paper.

Eve could feel the fifth commandment ringing in her ears, as the Eve before her knew she was defying god.

“Honour thy father and thy mother.”

And yet, Eve could also feel the dirt between her fingers and under her nails, the weight of a trowel in her hands, the sun beating on her back through the gaps in the leaves of their oak tree, the scent of the earth and the flowers carried by the breeze.

The nagging voice in her ears faded and morphed to the gentle buzzing of the bees and the high-pitched chirping of the birds.

Eve took the form and filled it up.

Eve took the apple and ate of it.

______________________________

Taglist: @anon-nom-nom95 @melpomenismask @littlemisscalamity @i-wanna-be-a-rock @extrabitterbrain @gaypeaches @phillyinthebathroom @leahstypewriter @madame-ree @pirateofblood

[hvlfwygod]

reoccurrence | patrick

It was the same, every single time. At least, that was what his mom said when she explained it to his brother, his dad, his doctor. She was wrong, though. They didn’t always start the same, they actually could be very different. Sometimes Patrick was at the store, sometimes in the family minivan, sometimes walking through some endless foggy forest. What was always the same was the ending. Always.

“What are you making?”

Patrick glanced up from his drawing as Dr. Wilson sat down beside him. He’d been coming to her office for weeks now, answering all kinds of pointless questions and drawing all kinds of pictures. She listened to him explain what each crayon-rendered monster meant, how often they showed up in his dreams, and his ranking on who were the scariest. Today was a new beast, some cross between a scorpion and an endless black hole; Patrick leaned back to show it off.

Dr. Wilson— she insisted he call her Samara— was patient, she listened, she suggested drawings he could revisit. He listened, too, though only halfway, usually too invested in his drawings. If she wanted him to give her all of his attention, he reasoned, she shouldn’t have put so many papers and supplies in front of him.

"This guy is cool,” Samara said, squinting at the monster. “Can I keep him?”

“It’s not done,” Patrick said, pulling the paper back to him and continuing to color in the shadows. “But later, sure.”

“Cool! Thank you. So where does he show up?”

“In... the desert,” Patrick replied.

“Mhm, and what does he do?”

Patrick hadn’t decided, yet, but he screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember. Samara shifted beside him and he heard a faint scribble of her pen. Then, she sighed and pulled out another drawing, one from two weeks ago.

“He kind of looks like this guy. Are you sure he’s a new monster?”

Slowly, Patrick lowered his crayon. “That looks different.”

“Or, Patrick, are you making up stories instead of telling me about your bad dreams?”

It was quiet for a long time, but for once, Patrick didn’t immediately resume his coloring. He sat there, stony and silent, waiting for the rest of the accusation to come.

“Patrick, you’re seven, you know better than to lie like this,” Samara said, her voice stern yet gentle. “I don’t mind you telling me... Whatever you need to, if it helps. I’d love to hear about all these creatures. But I’m starting to think you’re avoiding talking about the dreams that are giving you trouble.”

Patrick shrugged, not looking at her. “It’s dumb,” he pouted. “Nothing helps. You can’t change a dream.”

Samara sighed. “Not if you don’t try, kiddo. But I promise you don’t have to keep having this nightmare. I know you’re super tired, but we can figure this out. I love your creativity, I really do. But I need you to tell me what you’re actually dreaming, so we can get to the bottom of it. Okay?”

After another long silence, Patrick sighed and flipped his paper over to the blank side. He started drawing anew: pairs of eyes staring out through the darkness, and himself, staring back. “Okay.”

———

He was still pissed off. Patrick, just not high enough to not be frustrated, mentally cursed himself as sat before his latest painting. The oily darkness was finally starting to take on a certain depth, turning slowly back into the base he’d painted weeks earlier. If he closed his eyes, he could visualize the old image: a dilapidated house, the twinkling black lake, the almost perfect way he’d captured the radiating moonlight. But when he stared at what was in front of him, all he could think about was that this was technically his second time reaching this stage. All he could see was a hand-sized smear wreaking a diagonal ruin across the canvas.

It’d been a while since his confrontation with Koda, but the time had done nothing to dull the pangs of regret. Not for fighting with her, but for the collateral damage. Patrick couldn’t even bring himself to recreate his painting until now, and still he could barely get through it without feeling inordinately annoyed. Swallowing pills before this had done practically nothing. Reno’s words from Halloween rang in his head: your shit mood is sobering you up.

A sudden urge to chuck the frame across the room came over him. Idiot, he thought. Fucking moron. Before he fucked up his work yet again, though, Patrick stepped back from his paints and walked away. He stormed past strangers in the studio, eliciting a few complaints and sideways glances as his hand slammed against the door and stepped outside.

The afternoon sunlight was too harsh, still. Perhaps the only indication that he was actually high at all, he mused bitterly as he lit a cigarette. He inhaled, held it, and let it go, forcing himself to calm down. For a few minutes, it worked. His brain was quiet, just a low hum of empty thoughts and the rhythmic exhale of smoke.

But even out here, even high (though, he reminded himself, not quite enough), regret seeped back in.

It had been such a nice painting. Fuck. Why did Koda have to piss him off? He couldn’t believe he’d left it with her, too, or let himself think that she’d take his side. The fight started to replay in his mind, like a bad movie to which he already knew the ending, but couldn’t stop watching. The worst part was that no matter how angry he was at his sister, the world, even Tai (because this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t jumped Patrick in the first place) he was much more pissed at himself.

Newly aggravated, Patrick killed his cigarette and then dropped it to the ground as he walked back inside. He was ready to give up, write today off, come back to this cursed project another day. But as soon as he saw his unfinished painting again, as if to spite himself, he felt compelled to keep going.

Slowly, he sat down in front of the easel and started to paint. Slowly, the house rematerialized, the shores of the lake took shape once again. Slowly, the image he’d lost crept back into existence.

Patrick worked straight through the sunset, only stopping when fatigue started to weigh his hand and caused his brush to droop between his fingers. He sat back and studied the picture, feeling strangely tilted and dizzy, then checked his phone. Patrick blinked at the hour on the screen, much later than he expected. “Damn,” he mumbled; it was the first word he’d said in hours.

Patrick looked once again at the painting. He had to admit that he was pleased, if only a little. It wasn’t the original, but he’d managed to get close. Except, peeking out from the edge of a small cluster of sinister looking trees, Patrick noticed something new. A pocket of negative space was there, glaring and distracting.  Acting on another whim, he picked up his brush again started filling in the details.

When he sat up after a few long minutes, two eyes stared back at him from the emptiness. A snout was just beginning to take shape, as if the dog was walking out from an engulfing darkness.

———

He woke up with a start, but this time, it wasn’t out of fear. No, Patrick was excited, triumphant. He threw his covers off and scrambled out of bed, disregarding that the sun had just barely started to break over the horizon.

“Mom!” he shouted, pushing her door aside as he walked into her room. She stirred in her sleep but didn’t immediately wake up, so Patrick grabbed her arm and shook. “Mooooom!”

“Patrick, shh, it’s...” she lifted her head and blinked as she checked the time, “not even six, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I did it. I changed the—”

“What’s going on?” his dad asked, pushing himself up in the bed beside his mom.

“I changed the dream,” Patrick said, looking to him. “I made it stop, I changed it. They looked completely different.”

“Oh.” His mother’s eyes widened. “That’s great, sweetie."

Patrick preened. “All the wolves got scared of me and started running. All the things started to...” He struggled to remember all the details. “They went away.”

“That’s awesome, kid,” his dad added in. “I’ll make breakfast to celebrate.”

Patrick nodded vigorously, never one to turn down his dad’s pancakes. Before he could follow him out of the room, though, his mom took his hand.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me more about this dream?” she asked.

“It was the same as always,” he told her with a shrug. “But I changed it. It was like I was awake and in charge of everything.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “And what did it change to? Did you notice anything? Anyone?”

Patrick frowned as he thought about it. “... Maybe?” If he thought too hard about it more of the dream started to turn into fog. “I think maybe someone was standing next to me.” His mother pressed her lips together, and he wasn’t sure what for. Patrick tilted his head. “Why?”

After a pause, she squeezed his hand. “I’m sure Dr. Wilson will want to know whatever you can remember. But I’m really proud of you, Patrick. Do you think you can do it again?”

“Yes,” he said automatically. He couldn’t explain it, but this felt huge. Like he jumped over some insurmountable hurdle and didn’t have to look back. “It was so cool, Mom. I’ll never have a nightmare again.”

———

As soon as he fell asleep, Patrick started to wander. He left his own dream behind and went looking for his target for the night. It had been long enough since his strange, bitter standoff with Graves, and he figured by now the element of surprise would be on his side. All that was left for him to do was find the son of Hermes.

He was struggling, though. Which was odd. It wasn’t because of who he was going after, though. The more familiar he became with New Athens the faster he could locate anyone, even someone he’d never interacted with in dreams before. The problem he was having was not with seeking Graves out, but the strange, stilted quality to his dreaming. It was like he was tripping in his sleep.

Maybe he’d taken too much after all. Reno hadn’t warned him to slow down, but Patrick had noticed the slightly prolonged looks before they went to bed.

After leaving the studio, he went straight to his friend’s apartment, which always was followed by some sort of mind altering substance. Combined with his earlier indulgences it was, perhaps, a bit overboard. He was honestly surprised he’d managed to sleep at all. But the fact that he had drifted off was proof enough that he wasn’t too fucked up to do this. He wasn’t going to put this off another night. Patrick felt almost sluggish, but he pushed through, and eventually, found Graves.

He stepped into the man’s dream, sliding through a brief fog and appearing outside a small shop. Peeking through the window revealed a room filled with weird oddities and trinkets. Candles covered nearly every surface, the spaces in between filled with crystals, figures, all assortment of magical items. Graves was sitting at a table, sitting over a spread of cards. It reminded him of the kind of place Cleo would like to visit. Patrick was hit with a sudden, angry flare of jealousy. He wanted to tear this stupid building apart.

Patrick reached for the door handle, but his arm was slow to react. It was like he was moving through molasses, or something was weighing down his limbs.

Sneering, he decided to stay where he was, stay hidden. From a distance, he willed the cards to flip over on the table, the candles to go out, the twinkling items to all clatter to the floor.

But nothing happened.

And then, a sharp pain exploded in Patrick’s skull.

The entire dream seemed to go dark for a moment, and it felt like he was falling. Then, he was back, landing as if he’d just entered the dream for the first time.

“What the fuck?” He felt as though he were about to pass out, in a strange, dream-logic sort of manner. Darkness crept in a little closer around the edges. But if anything happened, Graves hadn’t seemed to notice. This needled Patrick more than anything else. With effort, he pressed his hands against the side of the building and imagined the floorboards underneath Graves trembling.

Again, nothing happened and again, his head seemed to split open. “Come on,” he mumbled through his teeth. Nothing, nothing, more nothing, then clouds he didn’t conjure rolled in, and rain soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds, and Patrick could do nothing to change it. He stared angrily at the ground, buzzing with confusion. Did Graves know he was here? Were one of his siblings fighting him back? Patrick banged on the window and his target didn’t even look up.

He blinked, and then Graves was gone, and then the building was gone, and Patrick’s stomach flipped as he fell painfully out of the dream and back into his own. It was still raining, as if the storm had followed him.

Patrick was standing all alone. It was how it always ended, with everything going sideways and a countless array of eyes glaring through the darkness, right at him.

“No,” Patrick almost laughed, shaking his head. “No fucking way.” He waved his hand, pushed the nightmare aside. But again, again, nothing happened.

Fear rolled down his spine like a cold sweat. He willed the dream to change again, and again, and again, but it was useless. All he had was the low hum of growls, a unspoken promise of everything going wrong, wrong, wrong. And the stares, glowing and malicious. Impossibly twisted canine features inching closer and closer. Patrick whirled around, refusing to accept that he couldn’t escape, but they were behind him, too, and up above, and the ground wouldn’t let him move, and they were all about to jump—

He woke up with such a jolt that his head banged against the wall behind him. Patrick cursed and curled in on himself. Pain pounded through his skull, in time with his racing heart. He’d been loud enough to wake Reno, who leapt out of sleep beside him and was halfway to standing in a matter of seconds.

“What happened?”

It was like he was a kid all over again. When was the last time he hadn’t been able to just brush that shit aside? Patrick looked over to his friend and flinched. Reno’s eyes glowed in the dark. Ice cold panic gripped Patrick’s stomach before he remembered that it was normal, Reno’s eyes were just like that and he was awake. 

Patrick pressed his palms to his head. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “Bad dream.”

“Hm.” The tone of this response was almost enough to tip Patrick into a rage, but he was too shaken to commit to the emotion. Instead, embarrassment rolled over him. It was such a stupid, simple, not-at-all scary dream. But he was sucking in each breath as if he’d genuinely been in danger. When he closed his eyes, Patrick saw the wolf in his painting. A little invader in his waking world.

“Water?” Reno asked. Patrick didn’t respond, but he nodded once. He waited until he heard his steps retreating before lowering himself onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His vision swam, a combination of fear and the drugs still wandering through his system. What had happened? It was like his abilities had completely turned off. A part of Patrick wanted to stubbornly throw himself back into sleep, but a much bigger part was worried that his powers wouldn’t work again. That he’d stare down those endless eyes again.

In the end, he couldn’t do it. Reno returned with water, said he was going to stay up, then wandered off. Patrick followed suit, though he didn’t Reno to some other part of the apartment. Instead, he moved to sit by the nearest window and, like the endless pre-dawn mornings of his childhood, waited for the sun to rise, to banish all his fear.

[marvelmadam08]

The Captain & The Culprit (6)

After escaping from a Hydra lab you’ve been running and hiding since. Afraid of your abilities and your forgotten past, you keep away from people until The Avengers come and find you.

Summary: You see a different side of Steve during your visit with Dr. Banner, and new information about the lab where you were kept brings up unpleasant memories.

Warnings: Bratty behavior, slight daddy kink (Steve), repressed memories.

You knew you would have to be here at some point and time, but you didn't expect it to be this soon. Your heart pounds against your rib cage and you can't help but think of the number of ways you can make your escape. 

You sat in a medical examination room waiting for Dr. Banner to give you your check up. Steve had to throw you over his shoulder, kicking and protesting, to get you here. His grip on you tightens.

"Everything's gonna be fine." He assures you "Dr. Banner has done this procedure plenty of times."

"That doesn't help me, I’ve never done this."

"It'll be over soon, I promise." Steve kisses your hands reassuringly

The door opens, you move further away when Dr. Banner walks in. He was a quiet man, kind of short, with graying curls on his head, he smiles at you over his glasses. You nod to yourself, confident you can take him down if needed.

"(Y/N) nice to see you again." He greets you then nods to Steve "Morning Cap."

"Dr. Banner."

"I take it you'll be staying for the exam?"

"You'll find it's easier that way."

"Then let's get started." Dr. Banner begins looking over the thin medical file in his hands.

You glance over and see multiple lines blocked out with black marker on the papers in his hands. And one with a huge 'restricted' stamped on in red ink. Dr. Banner lets out an annoyed sigh.

"Okay that gives me nothing to work with. We'll just have to start from the beginning." He takes out a pen "Birth date?"

"I don't know."

"Blood type?"

You shrug again.

"Age?"

"Steve thinks I could be in my early-twenties."

Dr. Banner shared a concerned look with Steve and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay we'll have to delve further into these test then. Let's start by drawing some blood."

"What?" You tense up again when you see him reach for a small kit, pulling out a needle in the process "Oh fuck this."

You jump up from your seat and make a run for the door, Steve grabs you from behind and turns you away from the exit.

"(Y/N) you have to calm down." He tells you

"No, I don't like doctors and I fucking hate needles. Steve get me out of here." You fight against his hold, the lights in the room flash on and off, random machines clicked on, beeping erratically. “Steve, don’t make me do this.”

"You'll barely even feel it." Dr. Banner assured, looking around the room at the malfunctioning equipment 

"Bite me, you short son of a bitch." You growl and attempt to kick the needle out of his hand

"Hey." Steve's assertive tone silences you "That's enough, Dr. Banner give us a moment."

He nods and leaves the room. Steve sits you back on the exam table keeping his arms on either side of you and gets in your face. There was a bit of anger in his eyes when he locked his gaze with yours.

"You need to trust me, and Dr. Banner. He's only trying to help and do his job."

"But-"

"Don't talk back." He demands in a low voice, you squirm a bit "You wanted me to be strict with you, now you got it. I know you're scared, but I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you. When I call Dr. Banner back in here and you're going to apologize and get your blood work done. Got it?"

You nod and bite your lip.

"Use your words (Y/N)." He pulled your bottom lip from your teeth

"Yes sir." Let out a shaky breath, the lights dim in response and the equipment around you settled down 

"And we'll have a discussion about that mouth of yours later."

Steve pulls away, you immediately miss the heat from his body being so close to yours. While a different, infuriating heat builds up in your core. You don't realize Dr. Banner was back in the room until Steve cleared his throat. You jump at the sound, and do your best not to pounce on Steve when you see the dominating look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry for my behavior Dr. Banner, I'm ready when you are."

"Okay, let's get started." He reaches for your arm

"Wait." You sit Steve next to you and secure yourself in his lap, his arms instinctively wrap around your waist. You hold out your arm and duck your head in crook of Steve's neck "Okay I'm ready."

You whimper a bit when the needle digs into your skin. Steve rubs small circles on your thigh and kisses your forehead, while you dig your nails into his side and silently let tears run down your cheek.

"And you're done." Dr. Banner cleans your arm and puts a band-aid over where he stuck you. You don't bother to look at it you just cuddle closer to Steve. "I'm gonna get this examined and next week we'll do the physical. There won't be any shots with that one."

"Thank you Dr. Banner."

"It's my job Cap."

Steven pats you on your butt, you finally look up at Dr. Banner. "I'll be better next week."

"Looking forward to it." Bruce smiles before leaving the room, Steve wipes away stray tears from your face.

"That wasn't so bad now was it?"

"I guess not." You move off his lap, and avoid looking him in the eye, embarrassed by feeling the way you did

"What's wrong? Talk to me." he moved to stand in front of you at the edge of the examination table

"Just... When you shouted at me. It made me feel..." you struggled to find words for how your body reacted to Steve's sudden dominance over you, when the feeling washed over you again "Kind of tingly?"

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow

"Yeah, you’ve never yell at me. I kind of liked it." You drop your attention to your hands "You mentioned something about my mouth earlier."

His hands settle on your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table, his lips lightly brush against yours before claiming you. His hands opens your legs wider giving him room to stand between them, and press his hips to yours. You moan feeling a bulge against your inner thigh. Steve kept one hand on your hip while the other tangled in your hair, without warning he pulled you away, you whimper.

"The next time you use that pretty little mouth of yours like that, I'm gonna take you over my knee and spank you. Understand?"

You try to nod but his hand keeps you from doing so.

"Yes."

"Yes what?" Steve watches you with dark lust filled eyes that make your whole body, and a few objects in the room, tremble with delight

"Yes Sir."

"Good girl." He pulled you forward for a deeper intoxicating kiss, forcing his tongue into your mouth. You grab fistfuls of his shirt, with half a mind to rip it off him.

"I'm not interrupting am I?" Tony stood in the doorway, you almost fall off the table but Steve catches you and sets you on your feet.

"Stark." Steve straightens up his shirt, you hide behind him

"Banner told me I might find you in here, he didn't say you were- 'fonduing'." A sly smirk flashes across his face. "There's a briefing in the conference room."

"I'll be right there."

"Actually Fury asked for both of you in attendance." Tony points two fingers at you and Steve

"Both?" You finally speak up "Why do you need me?"

"Come to the briefing and you'll find out." Tony simply says "But by all means take your time."

"I was just making sure (Y/N) was-"

"Being a good girl?" Tony failed at hiding his amusement, your cheeks heat up in the process "I'll tell everyone you'll need a minute."

Halfway out the room Tony locks the door behind him before closing it completely. Steve turns to you, eyes still wild as before, but a light blush on his cheeks.

"We should get to that meeting." You quickly suggest 

"No, I'm really gonna need a minute." He signed heavily glancing down at his pants. You look and see the very visible bulge in his pants

"Oh." You blush and bite your lip

"Don't do that." He pulls your lip from your teeth again

*

*

You and Steve make your way to the conference room in time for the meeting to start. The first person you make eye contact with is Natasha, who still had some discoloration and bruising around her nose. You keep your eyes down until you reach your seat between Sam and Steve. You hear Tony quietly laugh to himself and you sink into the chair further.

A hologram of Fury appears at the head of the table and he waste no time, jumping right into what's was going on. A projector following along, showing pictures and short clips of what Fury was describing.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is what's on the agenda for the next mission. Our sources tell us that there's some sort of underground trading going on the edge of Moscow, Russia.”

“What's the product?” Natasha asked 

“An illegal super soldier serum."

Your eyes flicker to the projector and a syringe filled with a bright blue liquid next to dirty medical tools. You subconsciously shift in your seat and reach for Steve's hand under the table. Even Bucky averted his eyes to the patterns in the wood on the table.

"Now, we have the time and place, and one of our own posing as a the host for this deal. And one of the possible buyers is this man-" the picture changes again to a mugshot of an older man with dark brown hair and seriously scarred face and dark eyes "Dr. Lewis Smith, a former Hydra agent known highly for illegal experimentation."

"Dr. Smith was last seen somewhere in Nevada after the destruction of one of Hydra's bases." The picture changes to a building burned from the inside out, your breathing catches in your throat. "Approximately six months ago, he's been underground ever since."

A familiar wave of fear comes over you as you get a flash of being tied up and dragged from the trunk of a car, and getting dropped in front of the building. You have to look up at the man that approached. His face was covered with a surgical mask but his dark eyes remained the same.

Now you know the eyes are on you, mainly because the hologram and projector flicker in sync with your uneven heart beats.

"(Y/N)?" Steve squeezes your hand “What’s wrong?”

"I know that place, I remember it." You whispered so soft you weren't fully aware you said it "I remember him."

[taeminuet]

Heartbeat (12/?)

Title: Heartbeat Fandom: SHINee Pairings: Jongtae; Minkey; OnKai Chapter Wordcount: ~3k Overall Rating: R Chapter Warnings: discussions of mental illness, internalized ableism, physical injury Summary: In which not every problem needs to be fixed and not every person needs to be saved; sometimes you just need support.

–

1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 7.5 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11

Chapter 12: Key

Key knows he fucked up. He's known that since earlier, since Minho spoke to him and he perked up and did what he always did. He knows better than to try to get close to Minho, and yet he does, again and again and again.

It never works. He has breakdowns like the last cycle. Or he runs like this one. Or he gets fucked up in the head and actually thinks they might have a chance, they might be friends, they might be something, and then Minho goes to sleep.

He knows better than to try by now, and still, somehow, he does this to himself.

He should be done crying over Minho by now, but he isn't. He wonders if he'll ever be done crying. He is for now at least, he hopes, because he feels like he's out of tears. Mostly he's just exhausted, and he's managed to leverage himself awkwardly out of his chair and onto his bed, but now he's just... sitting.

Minho's words keep clattering around in his head, and he wants them to get out. He doesn't want this. Or he does. Or maybe he just doesn't want to want it this much.

Minho thinks he's beautiful. Minho thinks...

But it won't last. It's just a few days, and then Minho won't remember calling him that. Thinking that. Minho will just see a stranger again, some list of facts in his notebook. And Key... he shouldn't have read it. It's awful to know what Minho thinks of him. All those facts, those details. Little things that Key would never think to say or ask for.

And whatever the smudge had been. Key tries not to think about to too hard, because he's afraid of what's under there. Something Minho has decided he wants to forget. Key doesn't want to know what about him Minho has decided he wants to erase from his memory with a few strokes of a pen.

But not thinking about Minho's notebook leaves him with only Minho o think about and that doesn't work either. It's torture, and Key is so tired that he wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but he doesn't dare. He'll upset his sleep schedule and honestly, is it worse to be awake in the day, when he has things like group and therapy and other people around, or is it worse to be awake at night when all he'll have is Minho. And Taemin now, he guesses. But still, he's not ready for that. He needs that buffer.

So he forces himself to stay awake, forces himself not to think about it. Minho hasn't come after him, which is good. It's given him time to somewhat collect himself.

But now there's that twist of anxiety in his gut. He fucked up. Minho hates him now. And that's fair. In a few days that'll be gone too. But for now... for now it stings, and Key is done crying, but it doesn't keep him from shuffling backwards, manually reaching down and pulling the remnants of his legs – pins and screws and bone shards – up to his check in a mockery of what would be the fetal position if he had anything more than an mock-up approximation of kneecaps left. He huddles there, trying to take deep breaths, trying to see this logically.

Minho is too kind to come after him when he clearly wants to be left alone. That's true sometimes. It depends on how Minho waking up has gone, how comfortable he feels in his body and himself. Sometimes, he's too kind to leave people to struggle all by themselves.

But Minho's first day awake hasn't exactly been easy, and it's Key to blame for that. God, no wonder Minho isn't going to come after him. Key wouldn't. Key would leave himself to just suffer alone in the dark.

Maybe that's just him though. Key doesn't really have the emotional strength to help anyone else. Not when he's fucked like this. He can barely deal with Jonghyun's occasional breakdowns. He doesn't know how Jinki has the strength to deal with him.

He doesn't know how Minho has the strength to deal with Key being like this. No wonder. But... but Minho doesn't know better. He will soon. He'll stop thinking Key's beautiful. Or he'll forget. Either way.

Either way, Minho will stop caring about Key at all, and Key will just... start over. Again. He just... sometimes he wishes he could just have a head start. A world where Minho remembered him, if only as a name and a face. A world where Minho had known him before. Before he was this.

Key tugs his legs closer, wincing when the position makes one of the pins pinch awkwardly against one of the still functional nerve endings in the top half of his thigh. He doesn't move though. Sometimes it's nice to remember he can feel anything down there at all, even if it's uncomfortable.

He stays like that for a long time, but eventually he caves to the need to do something to distract himself from thinking about all of this. He stretches his legs back out, moving them with his hands until he's sitting on the edge of he bed, his lap a relatively flat surface in front of him. Then he grabs for his notebook and his pencil and starts sketching.

If he tries hard enough, he can get lost in it, he knows from experience. But his thoughts are still wound up, and even as he tries to just stop thinking, his hand begins sketching a familiar face. He draws everyone here fairly often, but Minho... well, Key tries to convince himself that it's just how handsome Minho is that makes him someone Key draws as often as he does.

It's not like Key likes to imagine that he's drawing a Minho who can retain his memories, one who could be normal and... and care about him. Key's not that pathetic. He's not.

But he gets lost in his picture anyways, lost in the line of Minho's jaw and the arch of his nose, the light in his wide eyes and the shading of his lips. Key is hopeless and he knows better, but it doesn't matter.

The knock on the door barely jars him, he's so focused, leaning closer to the sketchbook to try and capture the soft curls of Minho's hair. “Come in,” he murmurs, not looking up. It's one of the nurses, probably, come to check on him, see if he needs help with something he can't do well without he use of his legs. Or Onew, maybe, come to make sure he's okay.

But it's not a nurse or Onew. It's Minho, voice soft as he greets, “Key? I--”

And then he stops, and Key jerks his head up to see Minho staring at him, at his lap, at the sketchpad. His eyes are wide, almost alarmed, and Key sucks in a breath and curls the book up towards himself, trying to hide the picture.

“What?” he asked, the word coming out a little more snappishly than he meant to, his voice wavering. “What did you want?”

Minho jerks a little, but he looks up at Key, dead in the face, and whatever he sees there makes him push forward instead of pulling back, stepping close to Key. “I brought you your copy,” he says, holding up the photograph. “You said you wanted one.”

Key bites back the words that threaten to come out of him, the snarky comment that he'd said if he didn't look bad. Mostly, he's afraid of what Minho might say in response.

“Thanks,” he manages finally. “I... I didn't mean to leave so fast earlier. I just...”

Just what? He doesn't have an excuse. He just had to get out of there. Had to be able to freak out in private instead of in front of Minho. Had to stop thinking he had a chance.

“It's okay,” Minho says. “I meant to come after you but I was late for my therapy session, apparently.”

He says it so awkwardly, leaning towards self-deprecating, as if it's his fault at all that he din't remember to get there on time. Key's chest clenches unpleasantly. “How did it go?” he asks, feeling a little awkward. “Anything new?”

“I... it was good,” Minho says, and then, slightly more hesitantly, adds, “I wouldn't really know.”

Oh. Oh fuck. Of course he wouldn't. Key's such an fuck-up. God. “I mean, what did you talk about?” he rushes out, and then realizes that that's not any better. “If you want to tell me. You don't have to. I know they're rough sometimes.”

Minho fidgets. “No, it's... it's fine, I just...” He bites his lip, eyes flickering downwards and then back up. “Show me?”

“Show... oh,” Key says. And it's only fair. He'd looked at Minho's notebook this morning. His entire life. It's only fair he show Minho a few sketches. “Yeah. Sure. You have to come sit; can't exactly bring it to you.”

Minho blinks and then seems to realize that Key's chair is slightly pushed away, where Key can reach it if he really wants, but it's out of the way. He looks at it for a moment and then back at Key on the bed, and then comes and sits, perching carefully on Key's bed. “Sorry if this is-- I figured it's even ruder to sit in your chair, right?”

And Key can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him. “It's fine. Too much furniture clutters my room. Makes it hard to get around. And I don't usually need a chair, so...” He shrugs. This isn't... this is better than he thought. Back to the ease of earlier. As long as Minho doesn't say anything dumb, because Key can't run this time.

“This is good,” Minho says, touching the corner of the page reverently, and Key flushes pink. Damn it. “I mean, I knew you were. When I saw the picture you drew of... Taemin?”

“Yeah, Taemin,” Key says, because Minho looks frustrated by the pause before the name. “And thank you. It's not... I mean, I've had some time to practice. I don't do much else these days.”

It's probably a little self-deprecating too, but mostly it's just true. Key really does devote a lot of his time to this nowadays.

“Can I look?” Minho says, fingers poised to turn a page.

Key is struck dumb for a moment, because he wasn't really expecting Minho to ask permission, but of course. Soft, gentle Minho who has all these facts written down about him that probably boil down to the fact that Key is easily annoyed. Of course Minho would be careful around him. It would almost be annoying if it weren't so touching.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. They're just sketches. A lot of them aren't even finished.”

But Minho is already flipping through, fingers gentle on the pages, like he's touching something delicate and infinitely precious. And Key doesn't know what else to say, because he'd known that Minho was a favorite subject, but he doesn't know how to explain that for each picture of Onew or Jinki or Jonghyun there were easily two or three of Minho, all in various stages of his sleep cycle, sometimes with heavy bag under his eyes, sometimes right after he'd slept and looking bright and aware and more than slightly confused.

He doesn't have an answer for that, for the question in Minho's eyes when he looks up or the way he says Key's name like he's begging for some kind of explanation.

“What did you talk about with Dr. Park?” Key asks again, desperate to change the subject.

Minho swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. Key knows that somewhere in there is a half dozen sketches where he spent hours trying to get that right.

“I don't know,” Minho admits quietly. “About the accident. About the car crash, and me... waking up here. About... about the way I feel like I'm dreaming. Or maybe everything before this was a dream and I just don't...”

He makes a tight, frustrated noise, and Key reaches out without thinking, hand landing on Minho's shoulder. “Minho, it's okay.”

“It's not,” Minho says, shaking his head. “I...”

He looks down at the sketchbook in his lap, and for a moment, there's quiet, and then a soft plip as a single drop of water splashes against a white corner of the page. Minho makes a noise and rubs at it almost frantically. And oh god, he's crying. Key made him cry. He's the fucking worst.

“Minho,” he breathes, and Minho pulls away, pushing the sketchbook at Key. Key's heart drops, he rejecting making him feel almost nauseous. But Minho just starts pacing, walking back and forth in the small space, the way he does sometimes.

“I don't get it,” Minho says, voice shaking. “Why me? Why do you draw all those pictures of me?”

And Key still doesn't have an answer, so he's not sure why he reaches out, why he catches Minho's hand on a pass and pulls at him, pulls Minho to face him. He reaches out the other hand too, catching Minho's other, until Minho is in front of him, facing him, both hands in Key's and wide eyes damp with tears.

“Why?” Minho asks again, and his voice is cracking, desperate. Key hates this. It’s only the first day of Minho's cycle and already he’s so sad. And Key has no idea how to fix it.

“Because,” he says finally, without knowing what’s going to follow until he opens his mouth again. “Because, Minho, you're... you're perfect, and I just--”

He stops abruptly because Minho is jerking his hands away, face crumpling. Key cringes back. He fucked up. Minho is frowning, eyebrows furrowed, and Key exhales shakily and starts to say his name, but Minho is looking through him almost, fingers of his right hand tracing an invisible line in the air, back and forth, like he's feeling out something invisible in the air.

“You...” he starts, and his voice is so afraid, so confused and scared that Key feels like crying again. He's terrified, and every word is a breathless question as it comes out of his mouth. “You've... called me that? Before?”

And holy... holy shit. Holy shit. “Minho? Yeah. Yeah, I've... do you remember? Minho, you remembered something. You remembered me.”

He's grinning, helplessly, waves of excitement building in him like a wildfire, and god. God, Minho could be getting better. Minho could remember him. They could have something. A friendship, at least.

But Minho's face is shuttering, and he looks even more terrified now, shaking his head back and forth and jerking his hands out of Key's hold.

“No,” he says, voice cracking. He sucks in air like a drowning man, looking like he's on the verge of going under. “No, no, no. I don't. I don't remember, I just... I'm sorry, I can't.”

“Minho,” Key says, but Minho is pulling back, shaking his head even more sharply. “Minho, don't go.”

“I'm sorry,” Minho says again, backing away from Key. “I didn't-- it wasn't a memory, it was j-”

Minho's legs catches awkwardly, the back of his foot bumping against the chair, and he loses his balance. For a moment, the world seems to slow, and Key gasps, reaching out, lurching forward in a motion that's useless because his legs are useless.

Minho's head cracks almost sickeningly, a thud against the edge of the desk, and he crumples like a rag doll.

“Minho!” Key shouts, and lurches again, pushing himself forward with enough force now that he tumbles off the bed, landing in a heap of limbs. He drags himself towards Minho, pulling his lower half across the floor, and it takes so long, a couple of feet that feel like forever.

He clutches at him as best he can when he gets to him, palming his face with one hand while he tries to stay upright with the other, leg lolling uselessly behind him. Key's voice is a sob. “Minho! Minho, answer me!”

Minho's head lolls a little, and Key sucks in a terrified breath, but Minho's breath puffs hot against his head and god, god. Okay. He's alive. He's just passed out. Just... just asleep. Just...

“Fuck,” Key sobs. He fists a trembling hands in Minho's shirt, breath hitching with tears he had thought he was out of. “God damn it, Minho.”

But he can't even blame Minho. This is all Key's fault. He'd wanted Minho so badly to remember when it wasn't... when it was... god, he didn't know, but he shouldn't have reacted like that, shouldn't have frightened Minho.

He caused this, and now Minho won't remember a bit about today. Won't remember the picture or calling him beautiful, won't Key’s sketchbook. Key should be relieved, but it just hurts. It's too much. For all he wants Minho to forget when Key fucks up, he also wants Minho to not forget at all.

But now that's all gone, all of today, and Key sobs, burying his face in Minho's chest hopelessly.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that before he hears a voice behind him, one of the nurses. She says his name, her voice tempered like she's talking to a child who's gotten ahold of something he shouldn't, and Key jerks at the murmur of, “Kibum, what happened?”

And maybe he's not thinking straight but all he can say in his own defense is, “It's not... I wouldn't. Please.”

That doesn't matter though. What he would or wouldn't do. All she knows is what she sees, and Key sees her press the call button before he can even defend himself properly.

The orderlies show up quickly, and they move towards him with a purpose that scares him, Key's breath hitching in his throat. “No!” he shouts, not thinking. He latches onto Minho like a lifeline. “Just get the hell out! This doesn't concern you!”

And Key's not stupid, for all his faults. He knows what it looks like, knows he's lashing out. And that, along with the situation they found him in and the clearly volatile state he's in, Key also knows damn well what he just brought on himself.

And he can't even fight properly when orderlies instead come for him, grabbing him by the arms and round the middle by the arms and practically dragging him back onto his bed. He writhes, spiting curses and struggling and doing all the wrong things, but he can't help it.

Minho is lying there, hurt, and they're more concerned with what they think Key did or didn't do. Minho is hurt, and they're taking him away, and they don't know what happened. They'll blame Key, tell Minho that Key hurt him.

And the worst part is, it's true. Just not in the way they think.

Key feels the nausea return, doubling over and letting out another sob. He can't even say anything as the orderlies pick Minho up to move him. As the other takes Key's chair and moves it, because why drag someone away to isolation when they can just take away his way to leave.

And isolation is possibly the worst thing he can imagine right now, but it's probably for the best, Key thinks. Minho won't remember him come tomorrow, but even if he could, he isn't going to want to see someone like Key anyway.

--

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